#this makes me cackle every time without fail

[mckaycassie]

CRIME SHOW MEME (CSI EDITION) ☆ [1/3] Scenes

[themushroomgoesyeet]

Goldfish eyeball lookin' ass

??

[tedmustache]

Married Name

Pairing: Michael "Robbie" Robinavitch x reader

Warnings: jealous!Robbie

Summary: Robbie decides to casually reveal their marriage in the most dramatic way possible.

a/n: I had this idea and NEEDED to stop everything and write it.

Requests are open | Main Masterlist

[...]

There were a few constants in Robbie’s life.

One: shift change was never on time.

Two: someone always stole the last cup of coffee.

And three: he’d never get tired of watching Whitaker try (and fail) to flirt with his wife.

Not that anyone knew she was his wife. Not officially. It was a quiet, mutual decision. She didn’t want special treatment. Wanted to build her own reputation, not ride his coattails. And Robbie, proud bastard that he was, respected the hell out of that.

Didn’t mean he didn’t get a little twitchy every time some poor idiot looked at her like she’d hung the moon.

Especially Whitaker.

The kid had it bad. Could barely string a sentence together when she was in the room. Red-faced. Tongue-tied. Dropping things like it was a nervous tic.

It would’ve been funny, if it didn’t happen every single day.

Tonight, they were finishing rounds, both bone-tired and running on fumes. Robbie’s back was aching. He arched it slightly, trying to shake out the stiffness.

“You drink anything at all during this shift?” she asked, brow furrowed with that soft concern she reserved only for him.

God, he loved her.

He didn’t respond. Just gave her a smirk and one raised brow.

She huffed. Reached into her bag at the nurses station and handed him a bottle of water.

And there it was again: Whitaker, standing just a few feet away with a gaggle of residents, eyes all wide and stupid like a puppy who just witnessed someone else catch the stick.

Robbie took the water, unscrewed the cap, and took a long drink

And the look on Whitaker’s face?

Even better

He swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and, because he could, leaned just a bit closer to her and said, loud enough for Whitaker to hear:

“I don’t know what I’d do without you. Good thing I’m married to you.”

Then he took another sip and strolled away like he hadn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb in the middle of the emergency department.

He didn’t have to look back to know what was happening. He could feel the silence. The stunned, heavy stillness. Could practically hear Whitaker’s jaw hitting the floor.

Collins’ cackle echoed from somewhere behind him.

Robbie didn’t stop until he hit the supply closet. Waited exactly ten seconds.

Then the door creaked open.

There she was.

“You’re insufferable,” she said, but she was smiling, arms crossed, trying not to laugh.

“You love me,” he said easily.

She rolled her eyes, stepped in, and shut the door behind her. “You couldn’t have waited until we got home for the PDA?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Robbie tilted his head. “Let the kid down easy. He was getting his hopes up.”

She stepped closer, poked a finger into his chest. “You’re jealous.”

He caught her hand and grinned. “Delighted, actually. Whitaker’s expression might be the best thing I’ve seen all week.”

“Mm.” She leaned in, just enough to make his heart pick up a beat.

And then, instead of kissing him on the mouth like he’d hoped, she pressed a soft, warm kiss to his cheek. “You’re lucky I like you.”

His grin widened. “I’m married to you. That’s more than luck.”

And she was still smiling when she walked out first, leaving him in the supply closet with a bottle of water and a satisfied smirk that lasted the rest of his shift.

[personapeters]

✰ 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐣𝐣 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

— kook or pogue; doesn’t matter, simply your sweet boyfriend, jj

rating: sfw — cw: slightly suggestive

— boyfriend jj who… insists on physically lifting you into and out of the boat every time, or at the very least holding your hands. the one time you leapt out when his back was turned, you lost your footing and almost tumbled into the water, to which jj was very displeased: “alright, nope, see, that’s why we don’t do that.”

— boyfriend jj who… thinks you’re the funniest person on the planet — the way he cackles at every joke you tell makes you question if it’s forced, or exaggerated at the least, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. your humor matches his so perfectly that everything you say or do he only wishes he would have thought of first. the two of you are constantly a nonstop giggling mess full of silly inside jokes and plain stupidity.

— boyfriend jj who… thrives off of long hugs with you; specifically when it feels more like you’re just holding him. hiding his face in your neck and breathing you in calms his nerves in a way that smoking weed never could.

— boyfriend jj who… is absolutely mesmerized by everything you do; whether that be your makeup (he thinks you’re the artist and the art), or simply steering the boat (the way the wind blows in your hair and the sun highlights each and every shade is unreal). he often finds himself completely zoned out of reality with soft blue eyes as he marvels in awe at everything that is you. he's often chewing the inside of his lip as he stares, quickly averting his gaze to his hands when you look his way, though it’s always so obvious.

— boyfriend jj who… loves when you come to watch him surf, though it’s stressful watching him disappear under the waves for what feels like minutes at a time. but, without fail, he always ends up running to you with a big, toothy smile as he wraps a cold, muscular arm around your waist, pressing wet, salty lips to yours as he beams with excitement: “babe, did you fuckin’ see that?!”

— boyfriend jj who… isn’t too good at saying ‘i love you’ but shows it in everything he does: plucking you random flowers (and weeds, though he doesn’t know that), fixing your top as you chat amongst friends, keeping a hair tie on his wrist because he just knows you’re going to need one, always keeping physical touch with you in some way (absentmindedly twirling your hair, resting your legs on his lap, holding your hand, leaning on your shoulder).

— boyfriend jj who… tries to contain his himself but is more than willing to get in a fight when it comes to you; whether it be one too many comments made about you in order to taunt him or another man’s hand lingering on yours for way too long, jj is quick to set things straight no matter who it puts him up against.

— boyfriend jj who… gets jealous very easily but tries his hardest to control it. before you started dating, he would simply avert his attention or walk away from any situation involving you and a guy, knowing he shouldn’t be jealous but he couldn’t help it. now that you’re officially his, his emotion is worn clearly on his face.

— boyfriend jj who… falls asleep virtually anywhere, as long as you were around. he hates it, obviously wanting to be awake when he’s with you, but the feeling of genuine comfort and safety you give him is nothing like he’d ever felt at home, or anywhere, so he often finds his head on your lap or shoulder, fighting a slumber.

— boyfriend jj who… likes to take off his cap and place it backwards on your head whenever you’re making out, always laughing into the kiss whenever it inevitably falls over your eyes.

— boyfriend jj who… noticed your awestruck reaction to once finding the ‘perfect’ seashell in the sand and now brings you the prettiest, shiniest, most perfect seashells he can find — no matter who it inconveniences: “dude, it’s been, like, twenty minutes! can’t we just buy one somewhere?” pope groaned. “yeah, let me get a fake i.d. and forge a check, too, since we’re frauds now,” jj scoffed.

— boyfriend jj who… has absolutely no filter so he often just says things that you then have to somehow answer for: “is your hair supposed to look like that?” he’d wonder aloud innocently. “jj!” you’d whisper before clearing your throat, “he just means did you have to use any product or-or anything or is it naturally so pretty?”

— boyfriend jj who… remembers all the little things about you, despite his forgetful and oblivious nature, often taking you by surprise when he mentions them: “nah, you won’t like that, s’got peanut butter in it.” or "wait, the same girl who kicked down your sandcastle in third grade? i hate that bitch. sorry, sorry, continue.”

— boyfriend jj who… let’s you fiddle with the numerous rings and bracelets adorning his hands whenever you want, knowing it’s a calming distraction whenever you’re anxious. often times, you’ll be sitting with his large hand on your lap, twisting and pulling at the metal around his fingers as he chatted amongst his friends, completely unfazed by your fidgeting — he’s used to (and loves) it.

— boyfriend jj who… carves the both of your initials into the trunks of numerous tree’s across the island, whether it’s one on the side of a busy street or in the depths of a secluded wood — he likes knowing that you’re etched permanently everywhere.

 personapeters 2025 — all rights reserved • masterlist

[cuteandhughesy]

You Were Right There All Along ╰┈➤ MB13

summary: you've been harbouring an embarrassing crush on your best friends brother since the moment you laid eyes on him in the 8th grade. during a drunken game of truth or dare with all your friends, mat finds out your secret. but when things start changing between you and mat, you're unsure how to navigate the new dynamic.

[word count] 4.8k

warnings: best friends older brother! mat | oblivious idiots | drinking | kissing | fluff | generally awkward situations | mature themes and dialogue

a/n: the end of 2024, I put out a poll asking which players you wanted to see my write for (that I haven’t done yet) and mat barzal was a clear winner! it took me a hot minute to figure out what I wanted to do for him, but as soon as I settled on this it was a done deal. hope yall love it 🤭

🎵 stargazing by myles smith, messy by renee rapp, wait for you by jake miller, + sparks fly by taylor swift

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you absentmindedly trace a droplet of condensation, following it's dewy trail as it slowly trickles down your glass bottle of beer.

your friends loud conversation and even louder laughter is all but faded to the background as you fiddle with the bottle in your hands—lost in the smell of the beach still lingering in your air dried hair, and the heat of the bonfire warming your legs from a few feet away.

summer is and always will be your favourite time of year. not necessarily for the overwhelming canadian heat—although, that is a bonus—but rather than for the fact that it's the time of year when everyone gets to be together again.

your friends, who seem to now live all over the place, all come back to toronto for the majority of the summer months every year, without fail. so instead of battling through time changes, uni classes and hockey games, you all rent a place up in muskoka and just be with one another.

the days always consisting of too much sunshine—which inevitably leads to mat getting sunburnt and whining until you're rubbing aloe into his red, crispy skin—sandy toes and the overwhelming smell of chlorine and tanning oil, and nights consisting of s'mores, seltzers and stupid horror movies the guys insist are masterpieces.

it's perfect—and tiring, which means this is the time of night were, combined with three or four beers after a delicious dinner, your vision starts to get a little blurry and you begin curling in on yourself—campfire chair almost buckling in protest.

not that the creaking noises stop you from trying to ball up further though, half tucked under one of the designated bonfire blankets mat keeps in the back seat of his truck.

"truth or dare, y/n?"

liana's half slurred voice pulls you away from your condensation coated beer, and across the fire where your best friend sits, mirroring you position—minus the throw and double the drinks.

she's got an excited glint in her gaze, letting you know that she's enjoying the party game way too much for almost 1 in the morning. but she's not the only one, because most of your friend group is in the same boat.

you take a sharp breath, a playful look of contemplation pulling at your features. shifting slightly in your chair, you wince. "truth?"

liana snorts, "you sound unsure."

"yeah, well after danielle dared austin to chug hot sauce i've been unsure about everything." you physically shiver at the memory of your good friend, and upmost dare devil, turning beat red as the franks red hot coated his throat.

it took him 20 minutes and four glasses of milk to even begin returning to a normal state.

danielle, your other good friend, snickers from behind the rim of her beer next to liana. "okay, dramatic—it was a half a shot." she corrects, shooting you a teasing side eye.

"all the same." you chime, waving dismissively in their direction—lightheartedly and gently, making the two drunk cackle queens almost loose it. and obviously the sound of them laughing gets the group going, because you're all seagulls, truly.

after a giggly beat, liana shushes you between small giggles. "okay, shut up everyone. i'm trying to think."

"god this could take awhile," mat's cheeky remark doesn't go unnoticed by you, half because he's sitting beside you and the other half because he's so far from a whisper that it's almost embarrassing.

but considering one of mat barzal's favourite things in the entire world is annoying his sister, you think his volume level is completely intentional.

"fuck you, mathew." liana spits, her eyes closed and fingers to her temples like she's a physic rather than your best friend trying to conjure up a silly truth or dare question.

the sound of mat's familiar and joyful chuckle has your stomach swirling, your gaze naturally flickering over until you're looking at a sunburnt, eye crinkled smiling mat.

he catches your gaze, and like the cheeky bastard he's always been, mat winks. it's so quick and natural that you almost don't catch it—but who are you kidding? of course you catch it.

because for as long as you can remember, anything your best friends older brother does catches your attention. whether he's simply just walking past you in the barzal childhood house while you're coming back from the bathroom, or throwing popcorn at you from the other end of the couch while liana and his parents aren't looking during movie nights—mat barzal has always been in your head.

it started the day you came home after school with liana—both of you young faced and frizzy hair—and mat was sitting at the kitchen table, homework sprawled out all around him. you remember freezing in the archway, feet stuck to the ground as you stared at a sophomore mat, long grown out hair and braces adorning his face.

you don't remember how long you were caught in the embarrassing, lovey dovey stare, but you do remember the polite smile he sent you, and the elbow liana dug into your ribs to get your attention.

years past and the initial crush you blossomed for mat never dimmed—no, if anything it exploded. for the longest time you couldn't even be close to him without getting flustered, which really wasn't ideal. so with lots of time and practice, you learned to mask it.

which thank god, because otherwise that hot, casually wink would've sent you to an early burial.

your response is lame, because you're just a girl who, although may seem casual about it on the outside, is still freaking out on the inside—you roll your eyes playfully.

it only makes matters worse because mat smirks.

your body flashes with heat. pulling your legs away from your chest, you attempt at crossing your legs underneath the throw blanket, which only gets you tangled in the islanders branded material, before it completely falls to the ground.

before you can even blink, mat is picking up the blanket and covering your legs again. "don't go throwing my precious blanket into the fire now, tater tot." he teases, big hands tucking the blanket between your thigh and the seat. fucking hell.

oh yeah, and of course the torture doesn't just stop there because he's also the only one who calls you tater tot.

tater tot because the very first breakfast you had after a sleepover at the barzal house in 8th grade, you half choked on a tater tot. liana had been too busy snickering and recording your coughing, red face, leaving mat to pat your back until you calmed down.

the most humbling experience of your life, quite possibly.

"thinking about me choking again?" you prompt with a quirked eyebrow, flicking an imaginary piece of lint of the blanket in an attempt to look casual. you look back at mat, "such a perv."

mat takes his bottom lip between his teeth, laughing breathily through the hold. just as he goes to respond, danielle's loud voice echos over the casual conversation of austin and your other friend mark, and the cracking fire.

"oh!" she looks like there's a floating light bulb over her head. "how about..." danielle trails off devilishly, leaning across her navy camp fire chair to cup a hand around lianas ear.

"what?" marcus wheezes, "I feel like that's not allowed."

"technically it is," austin shrugs lazily before taking a slow gulp of his beer, foam sticking to his moustache before he licks it away.

"whatever."

liana gasps loudly, "oh my god, yes!" your best friend, clearly pleased with whatever question danielle has conjured up, sits forward in her chair—looking as if she's trying to bewitch you through the glow of the flames.

you give a half curious, half anxious look as you wait for liana to continue—because of course she paused for dramatic affect.

you already know mat is rolling his eyes at his sisters antics.

"okay, y/n...who did you have a crush on in high school."

the question seems innocent enough to the majority of the group—harmless, even—but you feel like you've just been hit in the head with a damn baseball.

because obviously danielle and liana know about your crush on mat. you can barley keep secrets to save your life, and if you didn't tell someone about the feelings you'd been—still are—harbouring for the eldest barzal sibling, you surely would've imploded.

you're kind of just stuck right now. mouth opening and closing like a fish while your two best friends smirk and laugh across the fire pit.

beside you, mat steals a glance at your side profile, and at the sight of your blank expression, his posture goes ridged. "liana," mat says her name in a warning—in a way that only an older sibling could.

"don't liana me! come on it's a good question." she giggles, a small hiccup following as she falls back into her camping chair, her loose crop top shifting and giving everyone a view of her sparkly belly button piercing.

you can't be mad at her or danielle—or the stupid question, for that matter. you know they're drunk, and they're filter is gone, and they're is no ill intent behind the stupid game. but your heart still pounds and your hands are clamming up like crazy.

finally, after what feels like an eternity, you manage to find your words. "it's really not," you half mumble, trying to make your tone as light hearted as possible, as you can feel all your friends curious eyes on you.

mat's eyes on you.

but liana, who is unable to catch the edge to your tone, continues to dig your grave—and this time, coldly shooting you in the process. "y/n, trust me when I say that nobody here cares that you're totally down bad for my brother! just say it."

her words are half slurred and barley audible but it feels like they were screamed from a roof top.

"what did you just say?" mat asks, seeking confirmation to the words that, he too, heard just fine.

but of course he's asking his half way gone sister to repeat herself, because the bomb she just dropped quite literally turned everything on its head.

you don't dare look over at mat. you can't see his face right now, not when you're sure he's in a state of horror while he digests the new elephant in the room—the elephant being your deepest secret, lingering in the air between you all like a pest.

it takes liana one look at your frozen face and tense shoulders for her breath to hitch, falling back into her rickety camp chair again as she realizes what she just blurted out to the entire group.

"wait, fuck my tongue isn't working right," she swallows, guilt lacing her eyes as she blinks hopelessly. "I didn't mean to say that."

the tension lingers in the air, sitting heavy and weaving through the dwindling flames. nobody really knows what to say, especially liana—her sobriety slowly creeping back in as she wallows in further guilt.

you nod in her direction, quick but soft, to let her know that you know you're not mad. fucking mortified and embarrassed, but not mad. you couldn't be. not when it's been the other way around between you both many times—like the time you blurted out that liana had snuck out to meet up with her boyfriend in highschool in front of mat and their mom.

a beat passes before somebody clears their throat awkwardly—austin probably—and then mentions something about roasting spider dogs. it seems to momentarily do the trick, and your friends easily fall back into their usual banter, stabbing raw hot dogs on their wooden sticks to cook.

"i'm gunna grab another drink." you push the throw off your legs, not sparing a glance towards mat as you get off your chair, making the short walk to the sliding back door of the air bnb.

as soon as the door closes behind you, and your left in the silence of the dim kitchen, you cover your face with trembling hands.

"shit," you curse hopelessly, skin burning with embarrassment, "shit, shit, shit."

dragging your hands down your cheeks, you resemble a decaying zombie—hell, you feel like one too. a combination of despair and fear and everything in between sits hot and heavy in your chest, while your best friends playful said words echo through your head.

you didn't look at mat after she practically told him that you're in love with him, for obvious reasons, but you could feel him.

feel the way his spine straightened and his shoulders rolled back in a tense pause. you only picture the way his gaze would’ve narrowed in his sisters direction, plump lips parting in shock as he listened.

he has to be angry, right? or worse, he's not angry but instead he's pitiful. god, the thought of that is somehow worse, and another curse passes through your lips.

you've got use to living in mat's shadows—or so you thought—keeping your feelings for him buried deep down to not upset the steady stream between you, your best friend, and her older brother.

so much hard work from the time you were 13 to now...all for what? for your embarrassing crush to get revealed in a drunken game of truth or dare. a secret that is surely to disrepute the calm of your friendship with mat.

you never wanted messy. and now, here you are.

the door slides open behind you, the sound making you spin on your heels just to see mat enter the kitchen. unfortunately for your already racing heart, mat barzal looks glorious.

his dark hair is at the perfect length to tuck behind his ears, but always falls away because it's not quite long enough. and although he's sunburnt, the colour on his face makes him look beautiful.

he's wearing a pair of board shorts and one of those earth rag sweaters you can buy at carnivals, one that he's given you many times over the years when you're shivering on board walks or sitting on boats without a second thought.

your eyes meet, and you groan, hands falling to your sides in defeat. "oh no, you followed me."

mat walks right up to you, bare feet padding on the tiles because he insists that in the summer he doesn't need shoes—tell that to him everytime you're pulling thorns from the bottom of his foot, which inevitably happens at least once a summer.

his brows draw down towards his nose, like he can't believe the words that came out of your mouth—as if those are the words he can't believe out of everything he's heard tonight.

"of course I followed you," mat says, tone his usual mixture of firm but also toeing the line of playful.

confusion bubbles in your veins, eyes narrowing on his seemingly calm and carefree expression as he looks at you. looking at you how he always does—like your friendship just didn't get pushed off the deep end.

"are you mad?"

mat's furrow deepens, but the faintest ghost of a smile graces his mouth. "why would I be mad?"

your lips part, close, and part again as you attempt to collect your scrambled thoughts. you quickly cross you arms—some kind of defensive attempt that only feels silly, because hello? it's mat—and just as fast they're back at your sides.

and then, the scrambled word vomit ensues in the form of a run on, stuttering sentence, if you can even call the words you're hyperventilating out a scentence. "well—because—did you not hear—I used to—"

mat, ever the steady stone in your life, gently cuts you off, big and warm hands squeezing the meat of your biceps. "slow down," he commands gently, "take a breath."

and like a trained puppy, you do—inhaling sharply through your nose and letting it all out in a shaky exhale through your lips, mat's hands on your body for the entirety of it, which you're chalking up to him just being too kind for his own good.

he nods approvingly, "okay good. now, one thing at a time y/n. my minds kind of all over the place here." mat admits with a breezy chuckle, knees bent just enough so he's peering into your eyes.

it makes your knees feel weak.

"your minds all over the place?" you repeat incredulously, "my deepest secret was just spewed out—a secret that very much involves you, by the way—and now i'm totally freaking out."

despite mat's firm grip on your arms, you manage to drag a hand down your face again, a high pitched whine muffled beneath your palm as you do so. after a pause, you look back into his gentle gaze, "i've definitely creeped you out, haven't I? I mean, god this is just the worst."

he shakes his head, "you could never creep me out ."

"well you should be creeped out," you breathe lightly, "hell, you should be scared, mat. seriously this is like stalker level type shit."

"it's not," he laughs.

you gnaw the inside of your cheek, "this is the part were you let me down, right?"

mat takes a deep breath, "y/n."

"oh god...just say it. I've had enough drinks for the guy i've had a crush on since the 8th grade to reject me so I don’t not curl up in a ball and die." you pause, "actually, that may still happen I haven't decided yet-"

"y/n."

the way he says your name has you pausing.

you swallow, throat bobbing anxiously. "mat."

"just....stop rambling and hear me out for a second, okay?"

you groan, fully ready to get rejected and spend the rest of your life pretending it never happened. you can already picture it—mat, happy on his wedding day with some model blonde, while you sit in a meaningless row. watching. single. and very much still in love with your best friends older brother.

regardless, you nod. "okay."

mat's eyes dart all over your face, assessing every single part of your expression. you barley notice the way he's looking at you, not when you can feel his fingers pulsing on your arms.

he licks onto his bottom lip, a hushed curse following suit as mat pulls his arms off your skin.

you want to frown, but you refrain, focusing your attention on mat as he grips the back of his burnt, thick neck. he looks almost distressed? or maybe nervous? and it makes you want to comfort him. god, even on the brink of rejection you still want to coddle the man.

after a beat, mat's hands falls back to his sides, eyes meeting yours once again. he doesn't look anxious for himself, but rather for you—and that only makes you want to spiral.

but then—

"If I was to tell you that i’m in love with you, would that freak you out or could we talk about it?"

you blink.

and blink again.

"I—what—you? are you kidding? I—don't know—mat."

"this feels a lot like you freaking out."

"no! i'm as cool as a cucumber," the way your voice cracks says otherwise.

mat snickers, because he doesn't need your voice to crack for him to know that you're most definitely freaking out. "yeah, okay cause that's so you."

he takes a step impossibly closer to you, toes almost touching yours.

your breath catches, head tilting back so you're able to keep eye contact. "mat..." it's a warning from you, one that says if he's not serious about this, he needs to stop.

but mat doesn't stop. he doubles down.

"I love you, y/n."

you shiver and press a shaky hand to the center of your forehead, attempting to at least ground yourself. "what the actual hell is going on right now?" you mutter to yourself.

"breathe baby."

the pet name slips off mat's tongue so easily that his words have the opposite affect on you—you're so far past trying to breathe that you're on the brink of dying.

"oh my god, i'm going to pass out."

he laughs again, breezy and light. "you're not."

"I'm not sure about that."

mat gently takes ahold of your face, keeping your chin tilted upwards and in his direction. "hey...." he trails off, a playful edge to his tone and a boyish smile pulling at his lips.

you are so confused that you may just die. "hi?"

"I love you."

you swallow thickly, your mouth so dry that it feels like two sheets of sandpaper rubbing together. "yeah, I got that part," you croak.

"you going to say it back? or are you just going to keep babbling like a fish?"

"a fish?! i'm not a fish."

"it's okay," he shrugs, the slightly calloused pad of his thumb gently brushing over your cheekbone—just once, as if he's trying not to startle you. "you're a cute fish."

shuddering a breath and skin heating up under mat's touch, you gently shake your head—perhaps in disbelief, or perhaps obliviousness. regardless, you keep your wide, glassy eyes open, peering up at mat with a combination of doubt and optimism.

"I still can't tell if you're being serious or if this is some kind of weird dare they've put you up to."

"I would never joke about something like this." mat says quickly, voice hard and leaving no room for argument.

but being the worry wart you are, you can't help but to narrow your gaze, a sure look of skepticism crawling across your face. a look that mat clearly registers, because he's letting out a little sigh—one that's not irritated, but rather knowing.

because mat knows you, and he knows you need to hear him say that he loves you without actually saying those three words.

"okay," he starts hopefully, "what if I told you that i've loved you since you used to wear those above the knee plaid shorts when you were 13. and when your hair used to always be in tangles because you didn't like people brushing it. i've loved you since you asked me to peel your orange for you because the smell on your hands drove you up the wall—it still does."

your jaw goes slack, "oh."

"yeah," mat grins, "oh."

even if you didn't realize it back then, your best friends older brother was looking at you—paying attention to you, in a way most people don't. he remembers your clothes, and your hair and your distaste for the smell of citrus.

but it's more than that. it always has been.

it's mat keeping a blanket in the backseat of his truck because you are always cold, and it's him teaching you the perfect way to toast your marshmallow when you were 14 during a camping trip you took with the barzal family—his knee is touching yours and the fire not being the only reason you’re hot.

it's the first day of summer, swimming in the pool with mat while liana fills up a pitcher of lemonade inside when you were 16, and mat tugging on your wet hair playfully.

it's coming home from the bar on your 19th birthday and piling into a car full of your friends, and mat letting you sit on his lap once you noticed that all the seats are taken.

it’s mat always buying your ice cream, and walking on the part of the sidewalk closest to the road—without second thought—and it's him playing your favourite music anytime he's on aux so that he can hear you sing along.

"that long?" you ask tentatively, wringing out your fingers hopelessly in between your bodies  

mat hums, "mhmm hmph."

it's mat crashing your first date with a few of his buddies when you were 15, embarrassing you at the movie theatre until you started tearing up. then immediately feeling bad, and buying you almost one of every treat at the concession stand.

it's mat never approving of your crushes or boyfriends—turning his nose down at them and bumping their shoulders with his roughly on the way by.

it's him warding off every guy at school to stay away from you.

"oh god," you groan, "i'm so stupid."

“you're not stupid.” mat reassures you like it’s second nature. and perhaps it is.

it’s mat making sure that you know it’s your ex-boyfriends loss when they ghost you or leave you stranded at a stupid high school party.

it’s mat who ensures that your skirt isn’t too short, and if some sleaze makes a comment—‘he can fight.’

it’s your best friends older brother who has truly, unarguably loved you all along.

you let out a pathetic laugh, “I should've realized.”

he grins, all boyish and with all his teeth—the sight of that teasing look makes your heart flutter. “you were too infatuated with me to realize.”

“mat!”

he laughs, all loud and proud, head thrown back and exposing the thick column of his throat. “It was soooo obvious by the way,” mat continues to tease once he looks back at you, grin unwavering.

“please,” you beg loosely, eyes fluttering close as you head drops foreword, a lame attempt at hiding from him. “i'm already embarrassed as it is.”

but mat isn’t done—obviously. “always staring at me, and laughing at my shitty jokes. sitting beside me whenever you could.” naturally, he tilts your face back up, giving you a nice view of the admiration swimming in his gaze. “it was so fucking cute. made me wanna kiss you all the time.”

the admission has you feeling shy and flustered, but you don’t back down. not anymore. not when mat barzal is looking back at you like you’ve hung the moon and the stars—like you’re the most important thing in his life.

“yeah, well I did all that because I liked when you would tease me, and pinch my leg when you thought no one was looking.”

he nods, once. “I know.”

a beat passes with no words spoken between you. the only thing to be heard is the dull laughter and voices of your friends outside and the consistent humming of the refrigerator in the corner.

you’re still looking at one another, all timid, nervous smiles and loose limbs—glassy eyes for a different reason than tears.

it’s you who breaks the comfortable, belly swooping quiet with a breathy, excited sound. “you're holding my face in your hands! I can't believe this is happening right now.”

mat quirks an eyebrow in question, “this feels like the beginning of another freak out,” he states, “is it another freak out?”

“no.” you say all to quickly.

he grins, “yeah, I think it might be. don't freak out baby-“

“oh my god—baby!”

“it's just me and you,” mat ignores your babble, soothing you with his voice, “nothing has changed.”

“expect that you love me now,” you remind him.

“I told you that i've always loved you, so no, nothings changed—expect now you just know about it.”

it’s then, with those reaffirming words, you realize that you've never been uncomfortable around mat. or scared. or truly embarrassed—not even with this entire situation. because here you are, speaking freely regardless of the circumstances without a second thought. because he's still mat. your mat. never judging or dismissive, and always patient and a listener. and don’t tell liana, but mat barzal is your best friend.

and that, combined with all missed signals and signs from mat, going as far back as you can remember, that you know that he loves you.

and it may of taken you more than a decade to notice—and with a more than a nudge from him—but you’re here now.

“you love me.”

a slow, lazy smirk grows on mat’s face. “I do.”

“I love you.”

“you do.”

“oh my god.” you mutter with disbelief.

“okay, now take a deep breath for me.”

“what? why?”

“because i'm going to kiss you.”

you blink and open and close your mouth like a baby bird—completely taken back, in the best, hottest possible way. “fuck me,” you curse in shock.

“not right now baby.” mat’s sly remark comes instantly, already leaning in, in search of the lips he’s been thinking about kissing since he was 15.

“god, you're such a loser—“

his mouth is on yours before you can even finish your sentence, and you accept the interruption with open arms. your hands catch up before you mind does, moving on their own accord and sliding up mat’s strong chest, over his collarbones until your cupping his neck.

mat smiles against your lips at the feeling of your nails digging into his sunburnt neck, and your tongue easily gliding with his. one of mat’s hands makes home against the back of your head, scratching at your scalp absentmindedly while his other hand drags you closer.

it’s smooth, and easy and perfect.

it’s just you and mat, held together but the same thing that’s always had you drawn to one another.

undeniable love.

[sincerelyneo]

igloo | h.rj

“i make him lose his cool, yeah i make him go…”

💿now playing: igloo by kiss of life

❯ summary: No Nut November is stupid—so why is your boyfriend making a bet with Hyuck that he can last the longest? Surely he doesn’t want to actually deprive himself from sex with you for a month? Surely he’s not serious…? Oh, he is. That won’t do.

❯ pairings: renjun x fem!reader

❯ genre: established relationship, smut

❯ words: 4.1k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, swearing, petty stupid argument, slight angst, female masturbation, voyeurism, premature ejaculation, begging, slight sub!renjun, lots of teasing, reader uses she/her pronouns, basically just renjun agreeing to a stupid bet and y/n making him regret it

“Personally,” Hyuck says, throwing his hands up confidently, “I think I’d last the longest. Strong willpower and all that, you know?”

Renjun rolls his eyes, swatting him with a light smack on the back of the head. “No, you wouldn’t. You can’t go five minutes without emptying your balls, slut.”

Hyuck growls, winding up to smack him on the back, but he stops short as you stroll into the living room, a few cans of beer balanced in your hands. You drop them onto the coffee table with a loud thud, raising an eyebrow at the two of them.

“What are you idiots arguing about now?”

This was how every Friday night hangout went with your boyfriend and his friends. Laughter, drinks, and memories in the making—until Hyuck and Renjun would start bickering. Hyuck started it every time on purpose, and without fail, your boyfriend would take the bait, falling right into his trap.

And when you say fall right in, you mean it. They’re so wrapped up in each other’s throats that neither even acknowledge your question. You turn to Jisung, who shrugs and mutters something about No Nut November. Your mouth drops open in an “oh.”

“I’m just saying, I’d last the longest out of all you boys,” Hyuck insists, crossing his arms lazily.

“Bullshit!”

Hyuck’s brows knit together. “Oh, so you think you could last longer, Junnie?”

“Without question,” Renjun scoffs. “I’d last longer than you in every single way.”

Hyuck scowls. And perhaps it’s the double meaning in Renjun’s words that has him snapping, or just his overall general competitive streak, but all of a sudden he has no interest in dropping this argument or backing down. 

“Are you challenging me, Huang Renjun?”

Renjun grins, leaning forward. “I mean, if you’re asking…”

You can’t believe Renjun is even entertaining the idea. No Nut November is stupid on a good day, let alone when someone has a girlfriend, you think. But it’s downright laughable when that someone happens to be your boyfriend—and the two of you go at it like rabbits.

Hyuck smirks, his gaze flickering from you to your boyfriend with a glint of mischief. “Oh, I’m definitely asking. Let’s see,” he drawls, leaning back with an exaggerated grin. “Which one of us can last the longest this month, loser owes the other $1000?”

“Done.”

You stare at Renjun, your mouth slightly ajar. “Done?” you echo, your tone fuming. He doesn’t even flinch, too busy locking eyes with Hyuck like it’s some weird standoff: men and their egos. 

“Renjun,” you say, sharper now, catching his attention. His eyes flicker over to you, and for a split second, you think he might come to his senses. “You’re my boyfriend. My boyfriend,” you emphasise. “You just basically agreed to not have sex with me for an entire month.”

“Well technically, you can have sex but he just can’t cum—”

“Not now, Jisung!” You snap. 

Hyuck bursts out laughing, clapping his hands like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all year. “Oh, I sooo have this in the bag,” he cackles. “And Renjun, you can’t take it back now. We shook on it—well, metaphorically. I have witnesses.” 

Renjun pales slightly, glancing between you and Hyuck. “I—uh—” he stammers, but Hyuck cuts him off, wagging a finger mockingly. 

“Nope! Rules are rules, Junnie. You’re in this now…unless you wanna forfeit—”

“No!”

You cross your arms, fixing Renjun with a glare. “So, let me get this straight. You’re really going to prioritise this over your girlfriend?”

“It’s not like that!” Renjun says quickly, looking genuinely panicked now. “It’s just—Hyuck started it!”

“Hyuck started it?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “That’s your excuse? Are we in middle school?”

“No–baby–I–” Renjun stutters. “I just—You know what he’s like. He’d never let me hear the end of it if I said no.”

“Oh, I still won’t,” Hyuck chimes in, grinning ear to ear. “Because there’s no way you’re making it through this, Junnie. Not when your girl looks like that.” Hyuck gestures toward you with a smirk, clearly enjoying every second of this.

Renjun glares at him, a growl of anger leaving his lips, but you’re quick to interject. “So you’re risking $1,000 and pausing our entire sex life for a month—because you can’t handle Hyuck’s teasing?”

Renjun winces. “When you say it like that, it sounds bad.”

“That’s because it is bad,” you shoot back. “What are you even trying to prove? That you have more self-control than Hyuck? Congratulations, Renjun. Everyone already knows that.”

Hyuck gasps, feigning offence by clutching his fists to his chest. “Wow, Y/N. You wound me.”

“I’m sure you’ll live,” you retort dryly because he’s pissed you off just as much.

Renjun sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, it’s just a month. It’s not a big deal—”

“Not a big deal?” you cut him off. “You do realise this affects me too, right?” You throw your hands up, standing to your feet. “Fine. You know what? Do whatever you want. But if you even think about caving, just remember—you’ll owe Hyuck $1,000 and me an apology.”

With that, you grab your beer and stomp out of the living room, leaving Renjun to stew. Hyuck leans back, grinning smugly before turning to Jisung. “I give him three days.”

Jisung nods thoughtfully. “I’m thinking two.”

Renjun manages to last two weeks without cumming—a new record since the two of you started dating, though it’s hardly an accomplishment. When your girlfriend is mad at you, it’s easy not to cum—mainly because you weren’t offering.

You weren’t outright ignoring him, but your usual affection had taken a sharp nosedive. No lingering kisses, no teasing touches, no late-night “accidental” brushes under the covers. It was like you’d put him on lockdown—and, annoyingly, he was thankful for it.

That pissed you off even more.

Here you were, trying to make a point, and Renjun was treating it like some kind of twisted blessing. He wasn’t sulking, wasn’t apologising profusely like he usually would. Instead, he seemed…relieved, like your passive-aggressive cold shoulder was doing him a favour.

It especially pissed you off one night when Renjun came back from dance practice, his shirt clinging to his torso, sweat beading on his forehead, and his eyes glazed over in exhaustion. Usually, when he came home like that—when it wasn’t No Nut November—you’d order takeout, settle on the sofa, and have lazy couch sex, no effort, no stress.

But not tonight.

No, because it is No Nut November and he agreed to it. So instead of collapsing into your arms, he takes himself upstairs, barely sparing you a glance, getting straight in the shower and tossing on a pair of grey sweatpants—torture, you think—and sits himself down in front of his PC, clicking at the keyboard as he logs online

He. Pisses. You. Off.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” you snap, arms crossed, eyes fixed on him as he spins his chair around to face you on the bed.

He raises an eyebrow, pulling his headphones off and letting them hang loosely around his neck. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t miss me touching you, do you?” 

“Baby,” he starts, his voice low and soft, “That’s not true—”

“Really?” You tilt your head. “Because it sure feels true.”

Renjun runs a hand through his hair. “I do miss you. I miss you a lot, okay? But you’re mad at me, and I know I deserve it...so I wanted to give you space.”

You shake your head, “That feels oddly convenient.”

“I promise you it’s not,” he sighs, cautiously sliding closer. “How about this… is there anything I can do to at least try and make it up to you?”

You arched an eyebrow. “That depends. Are you planning on sticking to this ridiculous bet?”

He hesitates, and you can practically see the war waging in his head. “...Hyuck will never let me live it down if I back out,” he admits sheepishly.

You groan, sinking back against the headboard. “You’re actually unbelievable.”

Renjun doesn’t make a move to comfort you, doesn’t try to touch or reach for you. He knows you’re pissed, but for some reason, he can’t bring himself to drop this stupid fucking bet. His eyes flicker to you for a split second, and even though you're giving him nothing but cold, angry silence, he can’t help but think how fucking cute you look when you're this worked up.

You’re absolutely right to be mad. He’s an idiot. He misses you so much, misses your lips, your touch, your smile. 

Fuck, he feels his resolve starting to crack, and so he spins around in his chair, putting all his attention back on his game and not on your pretty little pout. His fingers hit the keyboard aggressively. And although his eyes stay glued to the screen, he can feel the heat of your stare drilling into the back of his head.

Unbelievable, you think.

He’s really doing this. Pretending like he doesn’t care that you're right there, seething and beautiful and willing. You can see the tension in his shoulders, how his jaw tightens whenever he thinks you’re not looking. He needs this, needs you but he won’t let himself because he’s been in a dick swinging competition with Lee Donghyuck since he met him. 

It pisses you off—at first. But then the anger twists into something darker, bolder. Maybe it’s the frustration of going a week without him, or maybe it’s just the pure, unfiltered horniness. Either way, your patience snaps. 

You didn’t agree to this no-orgasms-for-a-month bullshit. You had nothing to lose. You didn’t need to punish yourself. 

If Renjun won’t help you, fine. You’ll just have to take care of it yourself.

The thought is intoxicating, and once it’s in your head, there’s no shaking it. You shift against the headboard, eyes locked on his back. He’s been insufferable, sure, but the memory of him coming home sweaty and dishevelled—so fucking hot—has you pent up.

Your fingers brush your lips, and you can almost feel his again. Wet. Hungry. God, you’ve missed stumbling into bed together, tugging at his clothes and fighting for breath. You’ve missed the warmth of his body, and Renjun was always warm; the way he feels against you—scorching, consuming, addictive. He’s practically a fire hazard for your senses.

Your hand trails down, teasing over your chest, your fingers clutching at the fabric as you imagine it’s his touch. He could be doing this—should be doing this—but he won’t. Because you both know it wouldn’t stop there.

You let out a slow breath, the ache between your thighs growing more unbearable with every passing second. It’s the closest you’ve been to sex for the past two weeks and still, Renjun hasn’t looked at you once, his focus stubbornly locked on his stupid game. 

The memory of him murmuring “Look, it’s just a month,” as he ran a hand through his hair flashes through your mind, and it makes you want to scream. He had no idea how badly you’d need him, how badly you’d miss him, and how much it would hurt when he started pulling away. Or maybe he did and perhaps he was being selfish. 

But that’s okay, because you were about to do your own version of self-indulgence. 

Your hands drift to your thighs, nails raking lightly against your skin as you glare at his back. He hasn’t even flinched, acting like he can’t feel the fire you’re staring into his hair. 

You start slow—fingers brushing against the fabric of your panties, the warmth pooling low in your stomach making you shiver. You bite your lip as you press down harder, a sharp pang of pleasure hitting you as you add a small amount of pressure. The thought of him watching, of him finally snapping and turning around, sends a thrill straight through you. But he doesn’t move. 

You want him to move. 

You try parting your lips with a quiet sigh to get his attention—hands still teasing yourself, slipping under the waistband of your underwear. You know exactly how to touch yourself, how to work your body into a frenzy. But it’s not enough—it’s never enough—not when you know how much better it feels when it’s him.

When he still doesn’t look, your last ounce of patience snaps. Fine, if he wants to ignore you, you’ll make damn sure he can’t.

Your hand moves to the nightstand, yanking open the drawer with just enough force to make it rattle. You grab the vibrator—the vibrator, the one he’d bought you for your birthday with that smug little grin, saying he wanted to “make things interesting.” Well, you plan on making tonight very interesting.

This isn’t for fun. This is revenge, pure and simple.

You lean back against the headboard, spreading your legs just enough to get comfortable, the cool air hitting your heated skin. Your thumb presses the button, and the low buzz fills the room, cutting through the quiet. It’s barely louder than a whisper, but it’s enough to make Renjun’s fingers pause mid-keystroke, his entire body going still.

Good.

You don’t even look at him. Not yet. Instead, you drag the toy against your inner thigh, a soft moan slipping past your lips, breathy and deliberate, as you let your head fall back, eyes fluttering shut.

And then, just like you planned, he turns. And when he sees you—legs spread, vibrator in hand—his eyes go impossibly wide.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he stammers, his voice cracking slightly at the end.

You hum softly, dragging the toy up your thigh with evil slowness. Your lips part with a quiet gasp, and his breath hitches audibly. “I’m watering the plants. What does it look like I’m doing!?”

“Y/N,” he tries again, this time more forceful, his eyes shooting to the ceiling as he takes a long deep breath. His hand clenches the edge of the desk like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “I’m serious. Turn that off.”

You finally meet his gaze, expression dripping with mock innocence as you scoff. “Why? I never agreed to No Nut November. I can entertain myself all I like.”

His mouth opens, but no words come out. You can see the panic flickering in his eyes, the video game in the background long abandoned flashing with the ‘respawn’ screen as a flush creeps up his neck. You can tell he is desperately trying to hold onto whatever self-control he has left. So far, No Nut November had been surprisingly easy for him—mostly because you’d been at each other’s throats all week. But now? With you looking like this? He’s fucked.

“Y/N, I mean it,” he warns, his voice shaky. His gaze darts to the vibrator in your hand, then to the way your legs are spread, and then back to your face. You can tell he’s trying not to look, but his resolve is cracking with every passing second.

You shake your head, biting your lip as you trace the toy over your clothed clit. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. You don’t miss the way his hand twitches like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you as you whimper. 

“You know…you could always just look away,” you say with a shrug, your tone light, teasing. “Unless, of course, you like watching.”

His eyes snap to yours, panic flashing behind them, but there’s no hiding the way his chest is rising and falling faster now. The blush staining his cheeks deepens as he shifts again, and your eyes drop—just for a second—to the bulge straining against his pants.

Like you said, those grey sweatpants are torture and you can see everything. It only spurs you on to pull your panties to the side and run the buzzing toy between your slick wet folds. The first real contact has you gasping, your back arching slightly against the headboard, and Renjun visibly twitches in his chair.

“Y/N, I’m warning you,” he tries again, but his voice is shaky, almost pleading.

“Warning me?” You echo. “What are you gonna do, huh? It’s not like you can do anything. You’re just gonna sit there and play your game while I get myself off because of a stupid dumb bet.”

His hand flexes against the armrest, his breathing ragged now, and you know you’ve got him exactly where you want him.

“Go on,” you taunt, your voice dropping lower, dripping with mockery. “Prove how much self-control you have. Or…” You trail off, letting another soft moan spill from your lips, your eyes locked on his. “You can always give up that stupid bet and come help me.”

Renjun moves before he can stop himself, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as he stands. His body betrays his mind, the bulge in his sweats unmistakable as he strides toward you, breath shallow with desperation. 

Fuck the bet. Fuck Hyuck. He just wants to fuck you. 

“Alright, fine,” he growls, “You’ve made your point. Just—just stop, let me—”

But before he can close the distance, before he can even get a touch of what he’s been missing, you press your foot firmly against his chest, halting him mid-step. His eyes widen, lips parting as he gasps, completely caught off guard by the sudden force of it. For a long moment, he stands frozen, confused.

“Hmmm, I’ve changed my mind,” you say in a low voice. “You don’t get to make the rules and then break them the second you get hard. Sit. Back. Down.”

“Y/N,” he whines, the sound ragged and desperate. His hands hover around you like he doesn’t know whether to push forward or pull back. “I thought—”

You simply smirk, leaning back into the headboard with an air of defiance, your leg still pressed against his chest, keeping him in place and giving him a perfect view of your open-spread legs. The vibrator hums between your thighs, and you can feel his gaze searing into you, his eyes flicking down to where it rests beneath your wet soaked panties.

Fucking torture.

You drag the vibrator over yourself with steady, careful motions, breath hitching as you lean into the sensation (slightly making a show of it to tease him further). “You wanted to prove you could last, didn’t you? Prove it. Watch me.” You purr. 

He groans, his head tilting back as his hands curl into tight fists, helpless and frustrated. “You’re fucking cruel,” he mutters, his voice strained, barely keeping it together.

“Am I?” you tease, your words laced with finger-licking venom. “You’ve been avoiding me for days, Renjun. Ignoring me, turning your back, all for a stupid bet with Hyuck? Now you get to feel exactly how I’ve felt.”

His jaw clenches as his hips shift, the fabric of his sweats doing nothing to hide his need. His eyes lock on yours, pleading, his chest rising and falling with erratic breaths. “Y/N, please.”

“Please what?” you taunt. “Please stop? Please let you touch me?” You press the vibrator harder against yourself, letting out a loud, shaky moan, and his knees nearly buckle as you continue, your smirk growing as you watch him unravel. 

His body trembles, a curse escaping him as he sinks back into the chair, defeated and desperate, fighting the urge to touch you, to do something, anything. Renjun’s never felt a tightness in his body like this before. His muscles are tense, every inch of him on fire, but it’s not the good kind of heat—it’s raw and painful, like his body’s been caught in a vice that won’t let go. His breath comes in sharp, ragged gasps, every shift only intensifying the ache. The throb is relentless. 

"Y/N, please," he whines desperately, the plea barely a whisper, but you hear it. He looks so broken, so beautiful, eyes fluttering closed as he tries to regain some shred of control. 

You smirk at his desperate pleas, the sound making your heart race faster. You’ve never seen him this far gone for you, and knowing you've been the one to drive him to the edge like this—it’s a rush.

You spread your legs even wider, the cool air of the room hitting you and you moan as you pull your panties down and toss them aside. He stares at you—eyes wide, face flushed, lips parted—as you slide your fingers between your slick folds. You’re so wet already, so hot, and all it takes is the combination of cool air and the vibrator on your clit to have you soaring. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, eyes fluttering as you arch against the toy in your hand. “God, I’m so close.”

He groans in response, hips shifting against the chair as he fights the urge to move, his body desperate for friction, for any kind of touch.

“Y/N, please,” he tries again, voice so thick with need. “Let me help. Please. Let me—”

You press harder, your entire body starting to tingle as you drive yourself closer to the edge. His own hips roll desperately, and you wonder how close he is too. He doesn’t even need a hand, it seems. His body’s already learning to react without stimulation—and it would be his own fault for blue balling himself for two weeks. The thought of it almost sends you over the edge, but you want to draw this out a bit longer.

“Nope,” you grunt, breathy moans escaping you as your hand speeds up. “No touching.”

His breath hitches. “Fuck, you’re so fucking cruel,” he pants, his body writhing in the chair. His face is flushed, eyes wild, and you can tell he's not far from losing it completely.

You smirk. “And you’re so fucking desperate,” you reply. “So close, aren’t you? And I haven’t even touched you.”

He nods, his hips rolling desperately as he clutches the edge of the chair, knuckles going white with tension. You can almost feel the ache in his body as he strains against himself, fighting against his own needs.

Your eyes flick to where his sweats are straining and you let out a small whimper at the sight. God, he’s so big, and you can practically imagine him thrusting against you, his cock sliding in deep with a rough, possessive motion. Fuck you’ve missed that. You gasp, your body clenching around nothing, and you swear you can feel his touch on you, all over, everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

“God,” you whisper, your hand moving the toy faster against your clit. “God, fuck—Renjun,” your voice breaks on his name, “Fuck, I’m close.”

His hips snap forward, his back bowing against the chair. “Oh fuck,” he moans, his eyes wide as they stare straight into yours. “Fuck, baby. So pretty—”

You cum with a sharp cry, your hand spasming against yourself as your body trembles through the orgasm. Renjun watches—desperate and hungry—for every second of it, just the sound of your orgasm sending his own body to the edge.

“God, yes,” he groans, eyes closing with a harsh curse. “Fuck, yes. Y/N, fuck, yes.”

You open your eyes to see him bucking in the chair, his body shaking as he stares at you—wide-eyed and panting. You watch his cum spill into his sweatpants, creating a dark, damp stain that makes your chest swell with satisfaction.

Your gaze stays locked on him—your body still twitching as your own orgasm fades—and a slow smile spreads across your face as you realise he came untouched, from just watching.

Your boyfriend sits frozen, completely caught off guard, his eyes staring blankly at his lap, cum stain splattered over his sweats. He blinks rapidly as he struggles to form coherent thoughts, his mind a mess. A long, long moment passes, and then he lets out an awkward cough, eyes darting around the room in search of an escape. There’s none. He’s just cum all over himself and can’t even blame it on someone else.

He looks mortified.

You bite your lip, a mischievous smile tugging on your face. “I’m sure Hyuck’s gonna love this.”

“Hyuck isn’t finding out,” he groans. 

You raise an eyebrow, teasing. “Oh, he will. You made a bet about not cumming for a month, and well…”

Renjun growls low in his throat, rising up and crawling onto the bed. “Exactly. I made a bet with him, and if I’m gonna lose $1,000, I might as well fuck my girlfriend properly, and cum inside her, and tell him that’s how I lost, since you wanna be such a fucking tease.”

You smile as he hovers over you, a challenging gleam in your eyes. “Oh yeah? Is that a threat?”

“No,” he murmurs. “It’s a promise.”

[skeltnwrites]

The Shape of Family ‧₊˚❀༉

As a single dad, Steve’s world revolves around school drop-offs, bedtime rituals, and tee-ball practices—and he's struggling to keep up. But you're always there, happily lending a hand when he needs it most. / masterlist

part three - you help steve and penelope look for cinderella 11k

a/n - this actually took me ages oh my god. but to those asking about cinderella here you go! CW lost pet (happy ending i promise)

── .✦

The clock hanging in the hall clicks annoyingly loud. Tick, tick, tick, like a bad song stuck in your head. You watch the minute hand cross another line. It hasn’t been adjusted since the time changed last week. Similarly, the calendar below it has yet to be flipped. 

It’s November now, but more importantly, it’s Friday. It’s quickly cementing itself as your favorite day of the week. Friday’s mean lunch in Steve’s office and trading weekend plans and hearing about the kind of mischief Penelope’s been up to at home. 

But it’s a quarter past eight and Steve hasn’t arrived yet. He’s never been late, or even absent since you started volunteering. It’s odd, but everyone has their days you suppose. Still, a dull twinge blooms in your chest. Working without him might as well be a form of punishment. 

Someone had shoved a vacuum in your hands while they try and figure out if he’s coming. It’s boring work, not the kind Steve would give you. And when he has to give you boring work, he at least makes it fun. Turns most things into games or competitions. Like last week, he bet you any candy from the vending machine that he could sort donations faster than you. You bought him a Reeses, of course, but if anyone asks, you let him win on purpose. 

You hear Steve before you see him. He’s not loud, but his voice is distinct against any others. By now, you could pick him from a crowd by voice alone. You find him in the threshold between his supervisor's office and the hall. He lingers halfway out, toying with the door handle like he can’t decide if he should go inside. 

“Ah, look who finally decided to show up,” you overhear. “Was about to send a search party for you, Harrington.” The man cackles at his own joke, tone devoid of any edge. 

Steve laughs strangely. A laugh you aren’t sure you’ve ever heard from him before. He spills a string of apologies for his tardiness, but his boss waves him off and sends him to work. 

When he backpedals out of the doorway, you chide, “Tsk. Tsk. You’re late, Harrington.” 

Steve spooks easily. He hates to admit it but it makes him an easy target for office pranks which you do take full advantage of now that you’re friends. But you aren’t even trying to scare him this time. 

He visibly tenses at your voice, eyes snapping to yours. They’re as intense as you’ve ever seen the lovely shade of brown, yet dulled with the toll of exhaustion. The next thing you notice is his hair. It’s combed back behind his ears and by the looks of it has no product. 

“Hey,” he tries, stopping halfway to clear his throat. 

As if his appearance isn’t alarming enough, the lack of a comeback is triple worrisome. You try– and fail– to contain your concern. “What happened?” 

He deflates in one big sigh. Any attempt at a facade vanished. It’s impossible to lie to you when you look so concerned. 

“I’m the worst dad ever,” he declares, skimming your arm as he sidesteps past you. 

You catch up to his long stride with practiced eloquence. “Uh-oh. What’d you do?” 

“Cinderella’s gone missing.” 

“Missing?” 

He nods.

“But she’s an outside cat, right? She’s probably, I dunno, chasing birds or slumped over a can of tuna at a neighbor's house.” 

Steve bites the inside of his cheek. “It’s been four days. Four. She’s usually around at least once a day, if not, every other. I can’t even remember the last time–”

“Wait, wait. This makes you the worst dad, how exactly?” 

He forces his key into the lock of his office door, jostling the handle in frustration. “Because Penelope’s begged me since forever to let her be an inside cat and I always say no. She wouldn’t have got lost if she was inside.” 

You flick on the light and hum, understanding more than agreeing. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Steve, but I think you’re exaggerating.” 

He plants his bag on the desk and unzips it. “This is serious. She loves that cat more than me, I swear.” 

“Okay, first of all, not true. Second of all, this is serious and it sucks but it doesn’t make you a bad dad. You know that right?” 

“Besides the point,” he passes you a heavy pile of paper. “Will you help me hang these up?”

You don’t answer because you don’t need to. He already knows you’ll say yes. 

Black ink across the top page reads, “MISSING CAT”. There are two patchy images of Cinderella, one of which you’ve never seen and the other underexposed beyond recognition. Steve’s name, phone number, and address are listed at the bottom too. You flick through the stack, finding each version of Cinderella has been coated in a thick layer of brown crayon. 

“Penelope insisted on coloring all of them so people know what color she is.” 

Steve doesn’t have time for the pity party of a look you show him. If you cry, he’ll cry. And he’s cried enough in the last few days. 

You accompany Steve to the bulletin board outside his office. Unspokenly, you accept the very important job of paper-passer while he’s in charge of the stapler. 

“Thanks,” he says flatly, thumb catching on yours as he takes the page you’re holding out. 

“Don’t worry, Steve. She’ll come home. Cats just like their space sometimes.” You aren’t totally sure if that’s true about cats, but it sounds like the right thing to say. 

He mutters something under his breath. Not mean, just doubtful. 

It’s unusual to be the one filling the conversation. Steve’s good at talking, a Chatty Cathy as he often calls Penelope. But you try your best to fill his shoes. 

“How’s Penelope dealing with it?” 

“Awfully.” He chuckles dryly. “She’s on strike for just about everything right now. Refused to go to sleep, refused to eat breakfast, refused to get in the car this morning.” 

You nod and hand him another sheet. 

“I’d bet by lunch I’ll have to go pick her up. She was hysterical at drop-off.” 

“I’m sorry, Steve.” You have a funny urge to tack on something other than his name. Dummy or boss are typical but ill-fitting. And honey or sweetheart would probably cross a line, though, they’re nice to consider. 

He sighs, kneading his eye sockets. “I’m sorry. I’m being… I know you’re trying to help.” 

“You’re allowed to feel frustrated you know.” 

“I know. You’re just– thanks.”

“I’m banning that word from our conversations. You say it too much,” you tease. 

He gives you a look, neither happy nor sad. “Cause you’re always helping me, dummy.” 

You grin, largely at the nickname. 

Every board in the building is covered with posters and every person is notified of Cinderella’s disappearance in half the time it would normally take you and Steve. He’s not in any rush, just in his head. And after that, you dissolve into separate work, never far but still apart. 

By noon Steve’s on his third cup of coffee. But no amount of caffeine or sugar will erase the heavy bags under his eyes. Finding Cinderella might be the only cure. 

So there’s no debate in your mind when you offer, “I can come over and help look tonight?” 

Steve holds a finger up, gaze trained on an address book with his phone clamped between his ear and shoulder. “Hi, Miss Crawford?” He pushes the bridge of his glasses further up his nose. It’s rare that he wears them in front of you. Cute, nonetheless. “Yes, it’s Steve,” he says. 

There’s high-pitched rambling on the other end, not clear enough to discern anything other than an old-timey affection for Steve. You aren’t sure of the nature of Steve’s relationship with the woman, but he appears equally fond, even through the somber hues of his story. 

She offers no valuable insight as to Cinderella’s whereabouts but promises to keep an eye out, making her… strike seven. Steve’s determined to phone every person he knows and then every local in the phone book in the span of his thirty-minute lunch break. You joked about stealing his office neighbor’s phone to help, but Steve insisted you didn’t. 

When he docks the receiver you repeat yourself. 

“Sorry. You really don’t have to.”

“I know, but I can… If you want. It’s up to you.” 

“I– okay,” he sighs. “Only if you really don’t mind. It would be really helpful honestly.” 

“After work then?”

“Uhh, sure. I just have to pick up Penelope when I get off.” 

“Sounds good.” You grin and stir your food idly with a fork. It eventually goes cold in your lap. You’re more preoccupied with what you’ll wear tonight and what to bring Penelope to cheer her up. Candy’s probably your best bet. You know she’s already run out of Skittles from Halloween. 

Steve’s lips twitch happily as he dials another number. 

That’s about the happiest you see him. The rest of the day is a blur, mostly busywork as Steve is consistently ushered away by someone for something not even in his job description. For the first time possibly ever, he leaves on time. And he doesn’t say goodbye. He’s clearly having an awful day so you pretend it doesn’t sting, but the walk to your car is painfully silent. 

At home, you change quickly, pop something frozen in the microwave, and retrace your steps back to the car in record time. The drive to Steve’s is unfortunately not very long. It doesn’t give you much time to mull over every possible scenario like your brain desires. But you’ll survive. 

It still feels unfamiliar, pulling into his driveway. Less so than the first time, but still. You notice things you hadn’t before. The long crack like lightning in the pavement, the tinkle of a wind chime against the breeze, and the stepping stone with a ‘P’ carved in it. Halloween was the last time you were here. A couple of weeks has never felt like such a lifetime. Steve’s been busy parenting and working late and all. You don’t blame him. Sometimes you wonder how he ever made time for you in the first place with his schedule. 

On the front steps, Penelope plucks a weed and adds it to her bouquet. Her cheek is squished against the top of her knee and she’s curled over herself like a pillbug. Brown eyes flick up as you near. One blink, then two. The epitome of indifference. 

“Hi, Penelope.” 

“Hi,” she says. She sounds uncharacteristically small. And she is small, but her voice is anything but. You know her to be bold, unapologetic. But not today. 

You squat, toe to toe with her little Mary Janes, and wave a pack of Skittles. “Look what I brought,” you sing. 

The slightest lift of her frown before she restores the pout for good. “For me?”

“All for you.” 

She takes the candy and tucks it under her arm. 

“Wanna help me look for your dad?” 

It’s not a bribe, though her presence does tend to balm your Steve-induced nerves. So you are a little disappointed when she shakes her head. But disappointment wanes into sympathy and sympathy to determination. Determination to help her find Cinderella as soon as possible. 

You palm her shoulder as you stand. The front door is ajar, the breeze eating any warmth in the foyer. It’s eerily quiet inside. 

“Steve?” 

“One second!” he calls back, muffled from upstairs. 

The entryway is messier than you remember it. Shoes in a jumbled heap behind the door, Steve’s unzipped backpack slumped against the baseboards, and winter gloves and hats knocked haphazardly onto the tile. You bend to pick up a knit beanie as Steve hurdles down the stairs. 

He struggles to squeeze into a raincoat over the thick sweater he wore to work. “Hey,” he smiles softly, gaze sweeping across your clothes. “Thanks for coming.” 

“Yeah, of course.” 

“Do you want a heavier coat? Radio said it’s supposed to storm tonight.” 

“Oh,” you peer down at your denim jacket. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” 

Steve tilts his head, passing you a bundle of crumpled pink cloth. “Give this to Penelope? I’ll grab you one.” He doesn’t allow you to argue before turning around, but he stops halfway up the stairs, leaning over the railing to say, “Tell her to grab her boots too.”

You find the boots in the pile by the door and bring them to Penelope outside. She stares at you helplessly with one shoe halfway on the wrong foot. 

“Need help?”

“Yes please.” 

You take her ankle and prop her foot against yours. It takes a few tries and lots of wiggling but you slide the boot on and lace the purple strings all the way up. The second round is easier but you still wonder whether kids shoes are supposed to be this difficult. 

The door groans behind you and a warm hand cups your shoulder. “Did you eat?” Steve asks. “I can make you something before we go.”  

You rise to face him. The sky’s overcast, muting his tan complexion, making him look even more spent than he had earlier. “I ate. But thank you,” you smile, hoping to encourage one back. 

He doesn’t but he unfolds the coat he’s carrying, shaking the arms free so it’s easier for you to slip on. “See if this fits.”

It’s not your typical size, but the extra weight is nice. Traces of pine and juniper linger, like it’s been taken on a hike recently. And you’re instantly warmer, a comfort that extends beyond the garment alone. 

“Nice,” he nods, taking it upon himself to even out the hood strings for you. His fingernail skips across the zipper teeth and for a second, you think he’ll zip it up too. 

“Daddy, are we going now?” 

Steve spins on his heel, shuffling for his keys at the door. “Yes, baby. What did we talk about?” 

Penelope kicks a load of gravel into the grass. “Ummm, I dunno.” 

“No running off. If I can’t see you, we go home. Capeesh?” 

When he jogs down the steps to her side, she sighs. “Capeesh.” 

“Ready?” He pats her head, “Got your detective hat on?” 

She peers up then, a flush of fresh purpose, and nods. 

“Alright, Detective. Let’s roll.” 

Steve’s yard is embraced by dense woods on every side but the road. He leads you to the tree line where a trail has been carved smooth with frequent use. Bark stretches tall and needle branches weave a canopy of orange above. 

“Katie said I need to think more like a cat.” Penelope cranes her head up, “Do you think Cinderella went in the trees?”

“Maybe,” Steve mumbles, focused on jamming his nail under the metal tab of a can of cat food. 

“So maybe I should climb up to check?”

“Not these ones, babe. Too tall.”

“But what if she’s in one? Like, a really, really tall one.” 

“I think she’d pick a shorter one so she could get down,” you supply. “It would probably hurt her nails going all the way up there too.” 

She hums. You drift into a steady rhythm of whistling and calling Cinderella’s name. Penelope waves a toy ball with a little bell inside while you rattle the jar of treats. 

Penelope orbits off course slowly and when she hops out of sight Steve calls, “What did I say Nell?” 

“No running away!” 

He shakes his head at you, “This kid’ll be the death of me, I swear.”

You grin, turning back to him when you spot Penelope. Steve has a lovely side profile. You try to memorize the shape without tripping over any twigs as you walk. “How was she at school?” 

“Sad, they said. She cried at nap. Refused to sleep at all.” 

You coo. 

“But she ate all her lunch, so that’s good.”

You hum in agreement. 

Penelope crouches to examine the inside of a log. Her pigtails flip as she tips her head upside down. 

“Did you find something?” you ask. 

Penelope pulls something dark out, a dopey smile rounding her cheeks. “A slug.” 

Steve scrunches his nose but quickly slackens it in a poor attempt to conceal his disgust. Thankfully, you don’t have to be a good actor to fool a four-year-old. “Nice, honey.” 

“I think he’s dead.”

“Why don’t you put him back? He’s probably hibernating.” 

“Hiding? Why?”

“No, hi-ber-nat-ing. It’s when the animals go to sleep during the winter.” 

She squints, “For the whole winter?” 

“Yeah, think so.”

“How do they do that?” 

“Umm, I don’t know.” Steve glances at you for help but you only shrug. “They just do.” 

One of the joys of parenthood you’ve discovered through Penelope is the plethora of questions that you have absolutely no idea how to answer. 

Penelope replants the slug in its home, making a point to clarify, “Cinderella wasn’t in there.” 

The trail dips steadily downward, covered with a mess of broken branches, scattered pinecones, and crunchy leaves that crackle beneath your feet. Steve’s leading the way, rambling about something or other and you’d swear you’re listening if he asked. But truthfully, your eyes trace the fit of his jeans shamelessly. He has a nice ass, it’s hard not to notice! 

Your foot snags on something hard– a root, a branch, you aren’t totally sure– and it all happens so fast. You yelp and pitch forward, knees and hands slamming into the dirt with the full force of your weight. 

Steve whirls around and assesses the damage, quickly determines there are no injuries severe enough to warrant a hospital visit, and then he fucking cackles. 

You scoff, burying your own amusement as Penelope mimics him. Some example Dad is setting. At least he offers to help you up, Penelope just watches your embarrassment unfold.  

“Don’t laugh!” You yank his hand, harsh enough that he stumbles forward onto your toe. “Ow– Steve!”

“That’s what you get!” He hauls you up, grip faltering with each peel of laughter. 

You twist around yourself, sweeping your backside. “Do I have leaves on my butt?” 

He looks for as long as he deems appropriate which is not very long at all. “Just dirt and a ton of bugs.” 

“Shut up,” you smack his bicep. 

Penelope points, “That is not nice!”

“Yeah, keep your hands to yourself,” Steve teases. 

You trap a retort behind clenched teeth and look to Penelope. “Sorry.” 

“Uhh. You’re supposed to apologize to me.” 

You skip past him to Penelope’s side. “I’m helping Penelope look right now. Maybe later.” 

Steve knows you won’t see it but he hopes you feel him sticking up his middle finger. 

Penelope trudges along, the corners of her mouth drawn tight in quiet sadness. She fills the silence before you find the words.

“Do you think she’ll come home?” she asks earnestly. 

“I do, Pen. I think she’s probably just hiding.” 

“Like hide and seek?”

“Yeah.” 

She considers your words carefully. “But why?”

“I dunno. Cats are just silly like that.” 

She smiles. “Like dinosaurs?” 

You smile back. “Exactly.” 

The trees taper off, merging with the cracked sidewalk lining a cul de sac. Penelope’s ponytails are swept off her shoulders as a car whizzes by.  

You cuff her smaller fingers in your own just as Steve tells her to hold someone’s hand. 

He stops at her other side, surveying the neighborhood. It’s the type you’d imagine families live in. Basketball hoops, sidewalk chalk, bikes thrown against the lawns. 

“I’m gonna go talk to some neighbors. Will you hang some posters?” Steve asks you. “We should hurry. I think it’s going to rain soon.” 

“Can I go?” 

Steve’s eyes trail from Penelope back up to you curiously. 

“Yeah, I’ve got her.” You squeeze her hand, reassuring yourself more than anyone. 

“Okay. Penelope, be a good listener. Don’t go on the road by yourself. I’ll be just over there.” He points to a house with yellow siding and starts across the road. 

You turn Penelope by the shoulders and unzip her bag, taking the stapler in one hand and the stack of paper in the other. 

“Can you carry these?” you ask, thrusting the posters toward her. 

You straighten out the stapler and pick a sheet off the top before she braces them against her chest. “You know, this reminds me of when we first met.” 

“Because I helped you hang up stuff?”

“Mhmm.” You line the page up against a tree, nailing each corner to be sure it sticks. 

Eventually, you're passed a different poster, a painting. It’s a charming tangle of shapes and a riot of brown and orange. At the top, "MISSING" is written with two backward S’s in a crooked slope.

“Did you paint this?”

“Yes, at school.” 

“Wow. Did you write this too?” 

“Yep. My teacher helped me.” 

“Very good!” You tack it to a telephone pole and pivot to face her, brimming with pride. 

She’s not nearly as happy as you are about it. Her lips thin as she stares at her work and she hesitates before asking,“Do you think we’re bad detectives?” 

Your chest aches so sudden and fierce like you’ve been punched. You crouch, rubbing the soft fleece at her elbow. “No. No, honey. We aren’t bad detectives. Detective work just takes time. We have a lot of ground to cover.” 

Her frown wobbles, lashes shining. “It’s taking so long,” she whines. 

“I know, Pen. Cinderella didn’t leave us many clues, huh?” You swipe a tear before it reaches her mouth. You want to promise her that Cinderella will come home but your gut won’t let you. You don’t know if she really will. “Let’s go check on your Dad. See if the neighbors have seen her. Hmm?” 

She nods and you give her your best loving squeeze. 

Steve’s halfway up the steps of someone’s porch, mid-conversation with a young woman. Her frown deepens as you and Penelope approach, unlike the baby on her hip who smiles at you. 

Steve glances over before continuing. “Well, please call, if you do happen to see her.” 

“Absolutely. I hope you find her.” 

“Thanks,” he waves, descending the stairs to stand beside you.  

“No luck?” you ask, peering up at the clouds. They’re getting moodier by the minute and it’s started to sprinkle. 

His hand settles around Penelope’s skull like a claw, he shakes her frown away but not easily. “Not yet. We’ll keep looking.” 

Penelope walks a few feet ahead of you and Steve. Every few mailboxes you and Steve stick another poster up. Penelope doesn’t stop to wait, but she’s thorough in her searching, checking under cars and in drain pipes. Enough to even out the distance that grows each turn. 

You’re faced away, unclogging the jam in the stapler when Penelope gasps. 

“Nell! Wait!” Steve shouts as you turn. By then she’s already halfway up someone’s lawn.  

Steve jogs after her and you jog after Steve. Penelope’s made it to the sideyard when you catch up, stretching onto tiptoes and squinting through a rotted hole in the fence. 

“Penelope,” Steve sighs.

“I saw her Daddy! She jumped over the fence!”

“Are you sure?” His hand curls over the top of the fence but his eyes can’t reach. 

“Yes, I promise! We have to go over!” 

He scrapes through his hair, judging the wood planks. They’re at least a head taller than Steve, but there’s a thin lip dividing each in half. If he angles his foot right, he could use it to boost himself over. 

He shakes his head. He might've hopped a fence or two as a teenager, but he's grown now. “We have to ask. It’s someone’s yard.” 

Penelope wails, yanking his arm repeatedly. “No! Daddy! What if she’s gone? We have to hurry!” 

“Just go,” you wave, already backing up toward the house. “I’ll go knock. See if they’re home.” 

Steve winces at himself for what he’s about to do. But one glance at Penelope’s worried little face is all the courage he needs. He tests his grip, the sole of a shoe scraping wood for a scary second before catching on the trim. With one leg on either side, he pauses to look at Penelope. “Stay there,” he says, before leaping into the grass. 

He scans the backyard. There’s a swing set, a raised garden bed, a kiddie pool, and lots and lots of toys. It reminds him of his own yard. Steve takes a handful of hesitant steps, gaze flicking across each window for any horrified faces. He’s thankful not to see any. 

Then, a meow—faint, but unmistakable. His heart lurches, his head whipping up to the nearest tree even faster. His eyes comb through branch after branch, then again when he comes up empty. But a second meow and he’s never been more sure. He wedges his heel into a groove, hugging the trunk for balance. His nails dig uncomfortably into the bark as he pulls himself up. 

And there! Right where he swears he looked, a strip of golden-orange fur, blending seamlessly with the leaves… Except, Cinderella isn’t orange, she’s brown. Steve’s shoe slips, sending his chin hard into a thick branch on his way to the ground. The cat hisses equally if not more upset than Steve about the situation. He groans, glaring at the tree as he picks himself up. 

“Did you find her? Was it her?” Penelope yells, still peeping through the hole in the fence. 

Steve waits until he vaults back over to answer. “No, princess. Not her.” 

“Your chin,” you point out, but your words are eaten by Penelope’s shouting. 

“It was her! I know it was! I saw!” 

“It wasn’t, Nell. Promise. That cat was orange.”

“But it was! I saw her!” Penelope crumbles into hysterics, batting her fists against Steve’s thighs like they’re punching bags.  

Steve scoops her up, clamping her arms between their chests. 

“Daddy, we have to go back! I saw her!” Several gasps slice through her sentence and tears pour down her face in even streams. 

Steve shushes her gently, fanning her hood across her head as it starts to rain. You follow him up to the road and then down the street. Penelope’s relentless, squirming and screaming in his ear. It’s the first of her temper tantrums you’ve seen in person, though you’ve heard plenty about them, and you caught the beginning of one once through the phone. Steve’s more composed than you thought possible, waiting patiently until her sobs have dwindled into teary hiccups to set her down. 

“It’s not nice to hit. Even when we’re mad, you know that.”

She glares at him, more serious than you’ve ever seen. 

“Are you ready to go home?” 

Penelope’s face starts to wilt. She nearly cries again. 

“It’s too rainy. We have to go home soon or we’ll get sick.”

“Five more minutes,” she begs. 

“Okay.” He buttons her coat up to her chin. “Are you tired?” 

She shakes her head, though her eyes say otherwise. 

“Do you want me to carry you?” 

Penelope thinks long and hard. It’s a trick question. Of course she wants to be carried but God forbid Steve finds out she’s tired. 

He picks her up anyway. “You can still look from up here.” 

Penelope hooks her chin over his shoulder, cheek tipping to kiss the pad of his jacket. So much worry and too many days of poor sleep etched into each flap of her lashes. She looks utterly exhausted. And she really tries to stay awake– she needs to find Cinderella– but she lost that battle before it even started. The hiss of rain and the warm swing of Steve’s embrace send her straight to dreamland. 

Steve feels her arms slacken and slide down his back. He chances a glimpse at you to ask what he already knows but can’t. Not when you’re already watching Penelope with a type of love he believed was his alone to give. 

Alarm pulses when he registers the weight of your stare has shifted to him. The same velvet endearment skips across every feature on your face. It’s lovely and adorable but it terrifies the hell out of Steve. 

His cheeks burn and he smiles like a madman. He can’t help it. It sticks long after his eyes dart away. 

You drift into a comfortable quiet. The spray of rain is like white noise, making even you drowsy. Maybe Steve could carry you back too. It’s an amusing idea, enough to make you grin to yourself. You’re glad he doesn’t notice. He couldn't torture that information out of you. 

Halfway home, you hit a particularly steep incline in the forest, slick with the beginning sludge of mud. 

“Here,” Steve calls, boosting Penelope higher up his chest before casting his arm at you. 

You accept his hand, grateful for more reasons than one, and trace the wet shoeprints he leaves behind with your own. It’s a slow journey. Steve strains with the added weight on his front, but he doesn’t let go of you until you reach the top of the hill. 

You cross the threshold back into Steve’s yard as a bout of thunder splits the sky above. Penelope shakes awake and peels herself off Steve. She blinks unhappily, cheeks stamped with red lines mirroring his coat folds. 

“It’s okay,” he soothes, fixing her hood after it falls. 

“Cinderella,” she whimpers. 

“We’ll look again tomorrow.” 

She sniffles, voice so frail, hollow with sleep. “No. I–” 

Another wave of thunder startles her to panicked tears. Steve picks up the pace to the front door, shuffling through his pocket for the keys. He’s well-versed in unlocking the door one-handed– between groceries, backpacks, Penelope– he always has something to carry. But he’s thankful when you take the keys and do it for him. 

You scoot inside last, joining the choir of shoe squealing on the tile. 

Steve sets Penelope on the floor and kneels to unlace her boots. She wrestles with her coat zipper until Steve intervenes with much gentler hands. 

“We looked really good while you were asleep,” you promise while shedding your own coat. 

Her miserable expression doesn’t falter. 

Steve smears her tear tracks one cheek at a time. “Stay for a bit? Until the storm passes.”

You bend to collect Penelope’s coat off the floor and hang it next to yours. “Okay,” you say when you realize his words were directed at you. 

“I’m gonna give her a quick bath. Do you need anything? Water? Towel?” 

“Oh, no. I’m good. Thanks.” 

“Okay. We’ll be upstairs. Please, help yourself to whatever. Seriously.” 

When Steve disappears from view, you mosey into the living room, searching for something to keep your hands busy. And it’s not hard to find. There’s a pile of laundry that looks like it’s been trampled through more than a few times. Clothes stretch from one end of the couch to the other. You push them into a pile and get comfortable, folding each item with more care than you would your own. 

Four neat stacks later and Steve spots you from the stairs. “Please don’t do that,” he says. 

You clear your smirk as he nears. “Do what?” 

“You know what,” he snatches a sock from your grasp. It’s one of his, longer and duller than the others. “Sorry, I know it’s a mess.” 

“You know I don’t care, Steve.” 

He gazes down at you in pretend petulance. “Well, I do.” With a dramatic flick of his finger, he sends the sock sailing back into the hamper on the floor.  

“If it makes you feel better, I have a pile of clothes covering half my bed right now.”

 “Mmm. It doesn’t,” he decides. “But I came down because Penelope’s very kindly requested that you come read to her before she goes to bed. If you want to.” 

“Of course I want to.” Your lips bend into a funny little line, happy and curious and doubtful all dressed in one. “She really asked for me?” 

“Yeah,” he says in the same cadence he would duh. He offers his palm, drags you up easily. “Why’s that so hard to believe?” 

“I dunno.” A toothy smile slips onto your face before you can stop it. But your lips close as soon as you stand, pressed closer to him than you expected to be. 

“Sorry,” he chuckles, breaking away. “Come on.” 

He seemed nervous– the way he laughed, how his hands retracted like he was burned– but maybe you’re overthinking it. You forget about the interaction by the time you reach Penelope’s room. 

Several books are fanned around Penelope where she stands, like fallen petals from the stem of a flower. Her shelf has been mostly stripped. What isn’t on the floor has been scooped into a flimsy stack in her arms. 

Steve knocks on the door frame, “Ready?” 

Penelope turns and two books slide off the top of her tower. You can’t see her mouth but you can tell by her eyes that there’s a smile behind that copy of Goodnight Moon. 

“You can pick three, missy,” he says. 

“Five?” 

“Four.” 

“Four and a half?”

“Three.”

“No,” she giggles, definitely delirious. “Four.”

“Okay.” He kneels at her feet, reshelving unchosen books two or three at a time. 

It’s not an easy decision, but Penelope decides on her four and promptly thrusts them into your hands. You follow her to bed where she packs herself against the wall, politely leaving the rest of the twin mattress for you. 

“Wait!” she shouts when you open the first book, “The lights!” 

“I’m working on it,” Steve grumbles, standing to flip the light switch by the door. The room is swallowed in black apart from the nightlight glowing to life across the room. 

Penelope stretches across you to snatch something off her nightstand. A flashlight, you realize, as she clicks the switch. She trains the light on the page and beams at you with equal vibrance. 

The first story is the shortest and the second not much longer, but the third takes time. Time you get to notice the heat of her breath as she yawns into your arm and time to appreciate the weight of her head limp against your shoulder. 

You don’t have to look up to know Steve is still tidying. Every second counts when you’re a single parent. But you steal a glance in between each page anyway. Find him chucking clothes in the hamper and dumping an armload of stuffed animals onto the foot of the bed. They’ll be kicked to the floor by morning and yet he straightens them up anyhow. 

He concludes his rounds by the final pages of the fourth book, taking a seat on the floor just in time to hear you whisper, “The end.” 

Penelope bats her dark eyes up at you. She knows you’ll say yes before she even asks. “One more?” 

“No,” Steve interjects. “No more tonight, babe.”

“Pleaseee!” 

“No, you already hustled me into four. We usually only read two.” 

“Pretty please!” she adds, puppy dog eyes bouncing from Steve to you. 

Oh the cruelty. To defy Steve or disappoint Penelope. Both are terrible choices but only one of the pair currently has a heartbreaking little pout. 

“I’ll read one more really really short book if you promise to go to sleep after?” 

Her head bobs eagerly as she kicks the blankets off, springing to her feet.

Steve’s head flops against the sheets, hair like satin ribbons shining from root to end. You consider if it’s as soft as you assume and if you’ll ever have the chance to find out. 

“Supposed to be on my side,” he whispers through a gooey grin. 

“Am I?” 

He tuts, craning up to find Penelope. “Don’t take all of those back out. I just cleaned them up.”

She exchanges the two in her hand for a thick chapter book. 

“No ma’am,” Steve says as she turns. “Short one, ‘member?”

Penelope huffs and lugs herself back to the bookcase. She plucks a thinner paperback and uses Steve’s calf as a stool to launch herself back in bed. He doesn’t complain but he pinches her side in revenge. 

The book mirrors the length of tonight’s first, yet it takes double the time for your own selfish reasons. You linger on each word, emphasize each sound, and savor every second. Penelope is nestled against your hip as you read the final sentence, sleepy and oblivious that you’ve turned the last page. 

Steve pulls himself up to perch on the edge of the bed, mindful not to sit on anyone’s legs. He runs the back of his hand across her face, giving her nose an extra tap. Enough times and it’ll put her to sleep. 

“Can you say thanks, Nell? And goodnight.” 

She squirms away from his touch, pushing into your thigh. “I don’t wanna go to sleep.”

“Pen, remember our deal.” You squeeze her shoulder gently. “You promised, hmm?”

You swallow the urge to smile when she juts her lip out and frowns. The drama never ends with this one but you love it. 

“Goodnight,” you whisper. Your hand glides over the shape of her arm beneath the blanket. “I had fun reading to you.” 

She avoids your gaze, picking a loose string from her blanket. If she sees you grinning, she’ll end up grinning too. She can’t have that, she’s protesting. “Night.” 

Steve shakes his head dismissively at you, grinning fondly himself. “I’ll be down in a second,” he explains. 

You stand, slotting the book back in its home on the shelf and steal one last glimpse of them on your way out. A trail of nightlights guides you to the stairs like beacons. You end up in the kitchen, hands braced on the sink, eyes drifting around the backyard through the window.

There’s a patio with chairs and string lights. In the grass, a trampoline, a sandbox, and a toddler-sized picnic bench, all draped in purple moonlight and sparkling with rain. It’s easy to imagine life here. Birthday parties and cookouts and lazy Sunday afternoons. 

The swish of sock against tile knocks you from the fantasy. You locate Steve’s reflection in the glass.

“You better not be doing my dishes.” 

Your lips flex instinctually at his voice. “I thought about it.” 

He leans back against the counter, hip a hand’s width from yours. Strips of hair sag across his forehead like a botched set of bangs. Your height difference and the angle only accentuate how silly he looks. 

“What?” Steve smiles. 

You huff through your own. “Nothin’.” 

“Why are you laughing then?” 

“I’m not. Just…” you reach for his face but the courage fades halfway. You wave obtusely instead. “This hair,” you finish. 

He flattens the piece down, then another, combing more and more over his face like a real pair of bangs until the ends graze the ball of his nose. “What? You don’t like it?”

“Oh, it’s awful, Steve. Put it back.” 

“I dunno. Thinking of changing it up anyway.”

You shake your head, peeling your eyes away from him. “Stupid.” 

Stupidly gorgeous, you decide. He’s a mess, no doubt; rumpled and sweaty, and still, stupidly, impossibly gorgeous. 

He rakes his hair back where it belongs, “You’re too good to me, you know.”

“You’re so dramatic.” Your gaze remains on the window but you watch Steve in your peripherals. “I’m the perfect amount of good to you.” 

“Well, agree to disagree. But, thank you for coming over to help look. Really I–”

You face him fully then. “Steve, you don’t have to thank me.” 

“No, I do. Really, you’re… you’re great and it’s been nice, you know, having help. Even just having company. It hasn't been easy making friends the last few years.”

Your brain stalls at his choice of words. You spout the first thing that comes to mind. “That’s what friends are for, right?” The words sting like acid on your tongue but you smile anyway. You’re pretty sure your heart just split itself in half on the way to the friend zone. 

He hums, pushing off the counter toward the fridge. “Let me return the favor, please. I’ll make you whatever you want. Spaghetti, PB ‘n J, uhh, pre-packaged salad?”

“I’m good, Steve. I ate earlier. And you don’t need to return the favor.” 

He sets a jar of jelly on the counter. “Your loss. Penelope says I make the best PB ‘n J’s.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you do.” 

You settle at the kitchen table and watch him work unapologetically. His focus is entirely on a one-sided debate about the perfect peanut butter-to-jelly ratio, leaving him oblivious to your ogling.

He plops down in the chair across from yours when he’s finished. “Sure you don’t want some? You can have half of mine.” 

“Steve.” 

“Okay,” he sings and takes a bite. 

You watch the slow drip of water from the eaves. The rain has subsided enough that you could go, but neither of you suggest it. Your mind is elsewhere. Stuck on friends. 

“Hello? Anybody home?” Steve chuckles when you blink back to reality. “Did you hear me? I was–”

The trill of the phone interrupts. 

“I’m holding my thought. Don’t go anywhere.” Steve abandons his sandwich and crosses the room, pulling the phone from the counter. “Hello?... Uh-huh… Yes, yes.”

The sudden shift in his tone catches your attention. He sounds borderline ecstatic. 

“Okay. I’ll be right over. Thank you!” 

“Who was it?” you ask.

He snaps the receiver back into place. “A neighbor saw her just now.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes! Well, they’re pretty sure it’s her. It sounded like her, how they described. Are you able to stay here while I go check? I don’t wanna wake Penelope up.” 

You don’t even think about it when you insist, “Of course. Go!” 

“I’ll be right back. Thank you!” He squeezes your shoulder and jogs out of the kitchen. The sound of jangling keys fades with the closing of the front door and before you’ve processed it, you’re alone in Steve’s house. 

It’s a strange thing, being in Steve’s house without Steve. You’re not technically alone, Penelope is still tucked in bed upstairs, of course. But the silence is thick, suffocating even. So you’re admittedly glad when you hear tiny footsteps from upstairs. 

On the bottom step, Penelope freezes and her hand tightens around the railing, not expecting you to be there. “Where’s Daddy?” she mewls at you, bottom lip quivering against her words. 

“It’s okay. He went out to look some more, that’s all.” 

“I want Daddy,” she whines, breath hitching in between words. 

“He’ll be right back, sweetheart. I promise.” 

A sob wracks her chest, tears escaping as she scrunches her eyes. Sniffles cut through a mush of sounds, woven between them, she pleads, “When?”

“Oh, honey. Come here.” You hoist her up against your chest instinctually. It feels like the right thing to do, and it must be– her arms wind underneath yours like puzzle pieces. “Real soon,” you reassure. 

You hope so anyway. Half for Penelope’s sake and half for yours. You’re afraid to overstep, to parent her in a way Steve wouldn’t approve of. You feel the echoes of his constant self-doubt in your own mind. But you’ll try your best until he returns. 

Penelope’s not heavy, but it is the first time you’ve carried another human down a set of stairs. It’s a slow descent with lots of maneuvering and readjusting limbs so you can see the steps ahead but she doesn’t seem to mind. By the time you make it to the sectional, your arms burn. Still, you’d do it ten times over just so she doesn’t have to walk herself.  

She sweeps her runny nose across your sleeve and her knee digs uncomfortably into your ribcage but you can’t find it in yourself to mind. She feels safe enough with you to do so. It’s a compliment more than anything. And the weight of her head against you is a type of soothing you don’t think you’ll ever get used to. 

Your fingertips trace the shape of her shoulder blades through her nightgown. “Did you have a bad dream?” you whisper. 

She draws similar lazy patterns on your arm, pausing to hum yes. 

You hum back. “‘M sorry, Pen. Wanna talk about it? Might help.”

She shakes her head, the slightest movement against your collar. 

“Okay, I got you. Don’t have to worry,” you whisper and pat her head. “I won’t let any more bad dreams get in here.” 

Steve’s gone long enough to fuel your nerves and keep your mind buzzing, though your eyes beg for the sweet release of sleep. Penelope’s not helping, like a warm, weighted blanket on your chest. She’s barely awake herself when he arrives, but you’re surprised she’s awake at all. You aren’t sure what time it is but it’s definitely late. 

Two clicks from the front door’s lock and a Steve-shaped shadow slides inside. He’s being particularly quiet, like when tries to sneak up on you at the rec center. Like a ninja, he always says. 

Penelope’s head shoots up to peer over the couch. “Daddy?”

Steve stops in his tracks, but his head snaps in your direction. When his eyes confirm his ears he starts toward the couch, waiting until he can sit to coo, “Hey, baby. Hey.” A hand scoops a piece of hair behind her ear. “What are you doing up sleepyhead?” 

Penelope splinters off of your chest but remains situated on your thighs. She offers several half-lidded blinks to Steve. “You didn’t find her?” 

He melts like her eyes are made of sunbeams, reaching up to thumb sleep from under her lashes. “No, baby. Someone thought they did but it wasn’t her. I went to make sure.” 

“Oh,” she says, not sad, just tired. Penelope slowly leans over to him like a bridge, wrapping her arms around his neck as he tows her into his lap. 

He looks at you then. A long look. An expression you're having a hard time untangling. His eyes flutter back down when Penelope yawns. “Have to go to bed, okay?” he whispers into her crown, planting a kiss while he’s there. 

“I wanna sleep in your room.”

“That’s fine but I’m not laying down yet. You still have to go to sleep.” 

She nods against his chin. 

“I’ll carry you up. Can you say goodnight?” 

Penelope turns so you can see one side of her face, the other glued to Steve’s sweater. 

“Goodnight,” you wave and smile softly. 

She only shudders out a sigh but manners aren’t on Steve’s mind, especially when he knows you wouldn’t care about that. His knees crack as he stands, hiking her up higher before he heads upstairs. 

You yank a blanket from the arm of the couch, missing the warmth Penelope lent you. It’s a risky move when you’re already fighting to keep your eyes open. 

But Steve’s back before you have time to fall asleep. He’s trampling down the steps with a confidence that Penelope’s out for good this time. And he flops onto the couch with the same heaviness, sighing like you’ve never heard. Pure frustration. It’s understandable. But odd off his lips. 

“You okay?” you ask, the same syrupy sweetness you’d used with Penelope.  

He turns to face you and he looks awfully sad. The rainwater clinging to the ends of his hair doesn’t help. But he nods anyway because he’s Steve. “It was a stupid raccoon.” 

“You’re kidding? They thought it was a cat?” 

“I should’ve known,” he scrubs his face. “Practically senile that lady.” 

“You’ll find her, Steve.” 

He takes a deep breath and swallows. “I don’t know anymore. I’m really starting to think worst-case scenarios.” 

You press your lips into a firm line. It’s a possibility you don’t want to consider. “Why don’t I go look a little longer? I’m off–”

“No, please,” he leans over to cradle the shell of your knee. “You’ve helped all night. I mean this in the nicest way possible, you look exhausted.”

“Way to treat a guest, Harrington,” you smirk, peeling his pointer finger off your leg to hook it under your own. 

He squeezes your finger like a trigger, shifting focus between your hands and face. “Go home, rest, please.” 

“You sure?”

“Hundred percent. Rain’s let up so the drive shouldn’t be too bad.” 

“Promise you’ll get some rest too?” 

He smiles despite the pang in his chest and the ache behind his eyes. You're the first to show him this kind of care in years. “I will. I promise.” He releases your finger, binding your pinky with his instead. 

There’s something unreal about the way you smile back at him. Like you’ve entranced him with a spell. Steve believes in a lot of things– superpowers, demogorgans, parallel dimensions– but this is the first time he’s ever believed in pinky promise magic. 

He shakes his head, “Come on.” 

You take his hand, groaning in sync as he helps you up. 

In the foyer, Steve unhooks the coat he’d lent you earlier. “Here.” And before you can contend, he adds, “Keep it. It’s an extra. I don’t need it.” 

You let him guide your arms into the sleeves. And the same deliriousness possesses you to spring in for a hug after. “It’ll be okay, Steve,” you murmur, lips skimming the embroidered design across his chest. 

He deflates for half a second before reciprocating. “I know,” he says. “Thank you.” 

You wait until he softens to pull away and open the door. 

The wind whips and howls blowing a wave of mist onto the other end of the porch. Steve scans the yard, then the road, both slick with rain. He asks himself if it’s a good enough reason to ask you to stay. But he decides it isn’t, not yet, at least. 

“Call me when you get home?” 

A wild smile splits your lips. “Okay,” you blink stupidly, too tired to care. 

“Careful!” he shouts as you run to your car. Steve leans against the doorframe, loitering until your headlights flash his house and your car rolls out of the driveway. 

It’s only sprinkling but streetlights are scarce near Steve’s place so you turn your high beams on, highlighting lawns on either side of the road. You drive slowly, inspecting one yard, then the one opposite, hopeful that Cinderella’s still out there. 

There’s a stop sign at the end of Steve’s street. A landmark you know to make a left at. But you decide to go right. I wanted to take the scenic route, you’ll say if Steve asks. You drive that road and the one beside it and another beside that. 

And it’s only a few turns away when you spot something sort of cat-shaped laid at the end of a driveway. 

“Please do not be a raccoon,” you mumble, squinting as you inch the car closer. The longer you look the more it makes sense– two ears, a wavy tail, it’s definitely a cat. “No way.” 

You put the car in park across from the house and study it. It bats its tail against the concrete, staring lazily back at your car. There’s just no way, not after all that looking. You find her after what, ten minutes of driving? It just can’t be her. 

You push your door open gingerly, slipping onto the asphalt one foot at a time. The cat perks up, ears twitching with each crunch under your shoes. You slink over slowly, crouching into an uncomfortable crab walk when she stands. Brown coat, no collar, just as she’s been described to you. But it’s hard to say. You’ve only seen one picture of her and it was out of focus. There’s no way to really know it’s her. 

Honking a few streets away slices the silence and your focus in one go. You flinch back a step which spooks the cat. She scampers up the driveway, weaving underneath a car to the other end of the yard. 

You stick as low to the ground as you can while skipping after her. You’d guess you look ridiculous, but at least Steve isn’t here to see. The car blocks the view and you lose her by the time you reach the other side. But there’s a swirl of shrubbery, good for hiding probably. You blindly grapple for branches, blinking rapidly, slowly adjusting to the growing darkness the farther you move from your car’s headlights.

And then the porch light flickers on, spotlighting you digging through a random person’s bushes.  

“Shit.” You freeze, hand choking a wreath of leaves, embarrassment flaring hot and red through your entire body. A minute passes, then two. Everything’s still. No cat, no angry homeowners, no police cars. You decide it’s safe. Must’ve been an automatic light. You hope, anyway. 

Upon further inspection, the bushes are empty, and from what you can see the porch is too. There are a few trees but it’s difficult to make out any cats through the dark web of branches. A sudden gust of wind shakes a handful of leaves loose. Your eyes track them across the yard as they tumble back toward the driveway. And there’s the damn cat, sitting on the roof of the car like it was there the whole time. 

“You better not set that alarm off, dude,” you grumble. 

She narrows her eyes and growls as you draw closer. Cinderella is irritable– this makes sense. Or it’s a totally random feral cat who is about to claw your eyes out. 

You’re within touching distance when you realize you have no plan. She very likely could claw your eyes out or give you rabies or something else awful. But you're in it now. You’re gonna get Penelope her cat back. So you shrug Steve’s coat off cautiously, eyes never leaving the cats. It’s raining again, you realize as it starts pelting your neck, trickling like ice down your shirt. But that’s the least of your worries right now. 

“Nice kitty,” you whisper, unfolding the jacket. 

She hisses as you lean in but before she can pounce or swipe you throw the jacket over her and scoop her off her feet. She goes stiff and growls low and throaty. 

You speed walk to your car, toeing the cracked door open and maneuvering carefully into your seat. The jacket peels open as you shut the door. She sees an opportunity and takes it, nosing her way through the hole and under your elbow. There’s a shine of teeth as she bats your face, dragging a sharp set of claws against your cheek. 

“No, no– shit! I swear if you don’t,” you argue, cramming her arms back in the fabric one at a time, tucking and tightening until she’s secure. 

She huffs through her nose, glaring menacingly at you from her swaddle. 

“Cinderella– if you’re even Cinderella– which you better be! You’re being a real jerk right now.”

She growls in response. Steve wasn’t lying about her attitude. 

You shift the car into gear one-handed and forgo a seatbelt. It’s a short ride and you’ve maxed out your risk-taking meter for the night. While it really is a short drive, it goes dreadfully slow. You’re cold and wet and you feel like you are driving with a bomb strapped to your chest. 

Getting out of the car is just as easy, as in not easy at all, as getting in. But you make it to Steve’s porch, surging the cat further up your chest so there are no last-minute getaways. You tap gently on the door with your toe, hoping not to disturb Penelope. 

The instant the door opens, you squeeze by Steve and release the cat onto the floor. She scampers ahead a few feet before stopping to turn around. “Tell me this is the right cat and I didn’t just kidnap some other kid’s pet.” 

He shoves the door closed. “Oh my God! Where the hell did you find her?” 

You exhale with one big slump of your shoulders, all the worry bleeding away. “Like, five minutes down the road. Just hanging out in someone’s driveway.” 

Steve gawks, crouching and coaxing her closer with an open palm. 

She considers his invitation before striding into his touch. 

He strokes her from head to tail and back. “I can’t believe you. I was about to make funeral arrangements.” 

Cinderella chirps happily. 

Steve twists to look up at you. For a second you think he might cry. Or kiss you. 

He promptly stands and cups your jaw and your stomach tumbles because he might actually kiss you. But he aims your cheek against the light instead and whispers, “You’re bleeding.” 

“Oh,” you tap around your cheek blindly, “It’s just a scratch.” 

“Here. Come here.”

You follow him to the bathroom where he pulls a towel from the closet and drapes it around your shoulders like a shawl. 

“You’re wet,” he says like you don’t already know. 

You tug the fraying ends taut across your chest and watch him dig through the medicine cabinet. “If only someone let me borrow their coat.” 

“If only,” he snickers, dumping the contents of the first aid kit in the sink. “I’m sorry Cinderella beat you up. She really has no manners.” He strips the plastic cover off a Barbie-themed bandaid and lines it up with your scratch, pressing, and smoothing it over your skin gingerly. 

“How hideous do I look? Scale of one to ten.” 

He shakes his head, smiling at you like an idiot. You make him smile like it’s your only job. And it sends his heart flying every time. He feels out of control around you. He hates feeling that way but somehow you make it easy. 

“You could never be hideous.” Steve chuckles, still in disbelief. “You're amazing.”

Any cold lingering on your face evaporates. “Don’t go soft on me, Harrington,” you tease. 

Maybe it’s the adrenaline buzz of chasing Cinderella or the high of successfully catching her, but you feel like you could do anything. Like you could say anything to him. Your eyes trickle down to his lips. He’s close enough to kiss. Every nerve in your body dares you to do it. You don’t think he’d reject you. Maybe he’d even meet you halfway. 

A high-pitched scream severs the moment. 

Steve jerks away, alarmed and then quickly amused. “Penelope,” he grins. 

And right on cue, Penelope whizzes by the open door, squeals ricocheting down the hall. She chases Cinderella, who does not look happy to be chased, but Steve allows it. 

“Daddy! Cinderella’s back! Look!” She clips her shoulder on the stair post before disappearing into the kitchen 

He turns to you, beaming. He hopes you understand how amazing you are. He’d happily tell you again and again. 

Penelope races out, heaving through a smile with the jar of treats. She sprays the entire contents of it across the floor. Steve can’t even be mad. In fact, it’s the happiest he’s been all week. 

She lies down on her back, eyes skipping between you and Steve. “How did she get here?” 

“I saw her on my way home. She was just a few streets away.” 

“Wow. She’s really good at hide and seek,” Penelope decides. 

Cinderella prances over, using Penelope’s belly as a personal vault. Penelope splays her hand out, patting and petting to her heart's content as Cinderella munches on the treats. 

Steve squats, cupping a handful of them back into the jar. 

“No, Daddy! It’s her prize.”

“Her prize will make her sick if she eats it all.”

“Okay. I guess.” She giggles as Cinderella pushes a treat with her paw. 

Steve squeezes her knee where it wiggles, raising his eyebrows, “What do you say?”

Penelope turns to you with a wicked grin. She practically screams, “Thank you!”

“You're very welcome.”

Penelope pushes herself up and cocks her head. “Will you stay and play with us?” 

It’s entirely innocent and equally adorable. You appreciate Steve for being the bad guy. 

“Nuh-uh. You’re supposed to be in bed,” he reminds her. 

She whines and shoots him a mean look. But it doesn’t last. Cinderella is back. That’s all she really cares about right now. 

“You can play with Cinderella in the morning.” His eyes flicker between the two like they’re made of gold. “Maybe she’ll even sleep in your room.” 

Penelope’s eyes and mouth widen into three little O’s. “Really!” 

“Yes. She can stay inside from now on. But! You have to train her, be a good cat mom to her.” 

“I will, I will,” she nods so relentlessly her head might pop off. “I promise I’ll be the bestest cat mom ever in the whole entire world!” 

Steve chuckles, gaze dancing over to you. He looks at you like you’re made of gold too. That’s an intense realization. 

“I should head home,” you say. 

Steve nods, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. 

“Bye, Penelope! Bye, Cinderella!” 

Penelope shackles Cinderella’s arm and forces her into a rigid wave. “Bye-bye!” 

Steve follows you out to the front porch, snapping the door shut when Cinderella trots after him. 

“Good luck keeping her inside.”

“Yeah,” he shakes his head, hand dropping from the door handle. “I’m sure she’ll escape by morning.” 

Your gaze sweeps across the lawn. It’s only drizzling now, almost unnoticeably through the overcast veil of moonlight. 

“Oh, here,” you tug one end of the towel until it slides off your neck. 

Steve accepts it tentatively, “Maybe you should keep it. Case she gets out again.” 

“Yeah, guess I’d need something to catch her with, huh?”

His teeth seem to glow in the moonlight when he smiles. He slings the towel back over your head and smooths it across your shoulders. “I know I’ve said this like a million times today,” he trails off, rubbing the fabric up and down your arms. “But I’m gonna say it again.” He looks up, dreadfully serious. Your eyes lock like magnets, like he’s specially polarized yours to stay tethered to his. “First of all, thank you for everything, seriously.”

“It’s no problem, Steve, really.” 

“I know, I just,” his attention drifts away, tension seeping in through the silence. “I think you’re like the coolest person ever.” 

You shake your head and shift your weight from one foot to the other, desperately trying to shake out the scary feeling in your gut.

A warm hand clasps yours. “I mean it. You’re so amazing and are just a super genuine person and– and I care a lot about you.” 

Your pulse hammers so hard you wonder if he can hear it. The icy bite of rain clinging to your clothes turns hot. Hot enough to boil every drop of it off your skin. 

“I dunno, it’s just really hard to make friends as a single parent. You’ve been so kind. And I really appreciate that.” 

Your heart aches. Your eyes sting. That awful feeling triples. Friends, how could you forget? 

He drops your hand, knotting his own fingers together instead. Watching you, waiting for a response. 

You smile, brittle but convincing enough that he smiles back. “Well, that’s really sweet. I’m happy to help. And, for the record, I think you’re super cool too.” You punch his shoulder playfully. Because that’s what friends do. 

“Phew, that’s a relief. Was starting to think you were getting sick of us.”

You smile genuinely then. You don’t think it’s possible to ever get sick of them. “Ehh, I’m still warming up to Cinderella but Penelope’s my favorite, no offense.” 

“No, she’s pretty cool.” He nods, pausing to think. “You can come over tomorrow– if you aren’t busy. If you want to. We’ll probably go buy some cat stuff. I dunno, it’s cool if you can’t.”

“I’d love to, Steve.” 

He laughs in soft little layers. “Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

“See you then.”

“See ya.”

You spin on your heel, scurrying down the porch steps faster than you probably should. Forget the rain, Steve’s what you're running from. His laugh and his dopey smile and his overly kind words. You’re too young to die of a heart attack, but surely your heart won’t last much more of this. 

When you tug the handle of your car door, he yells, “Don’t forget to call me!” 

You bite your lip to stop yourself from smiling and flash him a thumbs-up before getting in. He’s such an idiot. Probably waking his neighbors up yelling like that. It’s probably unhealthy, the amount of emotions you’ve just experienced in the span of a few minutes. 

But already all you can think about is tomorrow. It seems like lightyears away, but you’d wait lightyears for Steve– even for just friends Steve– silly as it sounds.

[1982grapejuiceblues]

The Space Between

Official Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Stranger Lanes Part 5

Summary: The night after their grocery run, Harry and Y/N settle into a softer, slower rhythm—one that neither of them tries to define, but both of them feel. What begins as cozy banter over groceries stretches into something deeper as they fall asleep side-by-side and wake the next morning still wrapped in quiet closeness. As the house wakes and the group’s dynamics shift, the change between Harry and Y/N becomes noticeable—visible in the space they share, the glances they hold, and the ease with which they orbit one another. Through small moments and slow conversations, they begin to realize they’ve been noticing each other for far longer than they thought. And now? They don’t want to stop.

Warnings: Emotional intimacy and physical closeness, Subtle group tension / awkward dynamics with exes, Unspoken jealousy (not graphic), Long stretches of slow-burn tension and silence, Extended quiet/physical vulnerability between characters, Strong mutual awareness / noticing / emotional softness, Vibes: soft, domestic, loaded eye contact, blanket warmth, “we’re not saying it, but we’re saying it”

A/N: You guys. The amount of messages that I've received these past two weeks asking me to update Stranger Lanes is insane, I'm so glad you love it! Without further ado, here we go! As always, comment or reblog to be added to the taglist! Love ya! <3

Word Count: 9.8K

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By the time they got back to the lake house, her cheeks ached from smiling. Not the kind of smile you pull out for photos or to make small talk palatable—but the kind you forget you’re wearing, the kind that curls at the corners of your mouth because of something dumb someone said or the way someone looked at you across a narrow grocery aisle with too much toothpaste and too little judgment. Harry made her laugh. Not just polite, I-guess-that-was-funny laughter, but unfiltered, belly-deep laughter that left her leaning on the cart and pretending to scold him for making a scene when she was the one cackling in the cereal aisle.

It had been easy with him today. Maybe a little too easy. And now, as they unpacked bags of food in the warm yellow light of the kitchen, that same easy rhythm had followed them back like a soft hum beneath the surface.

He was beside her at the counter, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair a little tousled from running his hands through it all evening. He kept brushing against her, not in any overt way—just enough that their elbows collided when they both reached for the same bag of granola, just enough that his knee nudged hers when he stepped around her to grab a mixing bowl that wasn’t even in use yet. She should’ve minded. She didn’t.

The others were scattered throughout the house, drifting in and out of the kitchen to grab a snack or comment on something they’d forgotten. Ali had passed through twice just to eye the Doritos with suspicion, and Ben had made a barely veiled comment about “coordinated grocery store showmances” that Claire tried—and failed—to smooth over with a joke that landed with all the subtlety of a brick. But Y/N didn’t really care. Not in the way she used to.

Because Harry was leaning over the counter with a bag of apples tucked against his chest, humming some obscure tune under his breath, tossing her a look every time she opened a cabinet and couldn’t find what she needed. And every time, she found herself holding his gaze a little longer than necessary.

It had become a silent game, this exchange of glances. One she didn’t remember agreeing to play but now found herself reluctant to stop. He’d glance at her with those stupid green eyes and that crooked half-smile like he was in on some secret she hadn’t figured out yet, and it made her chest tighten in a way that felt suspiciously like wanting.

She reached for the bread and he reached for the peanut butter, and for a second, their hands brushed, fingers curling back reflexively. She felt it like static—quick, sudden, warm.

Harry looked at her. Not away. At her.

Y/N swallowed, but didn’t step back. “You gonna hoard the snacks or share with the class?”

His mouth twitched, amused. “You calling this a class?”

“I’m calling it a democracy. And I think I deserve equal access to the pretzels, at the very least.”

Harry leaned in just a fraction closer, his voice lower now. “Didn’t realize I’d been elected to office.”

“You haven’t,” she said, lips quirking. “You’re a temporary appointment at best.”

“Wow. Brutal.”

“Democracy’s ruthless.”

He looked at her for a beat longer, and then passed her the pretzels without breaking eye contact. “Here then. Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

She tried not to smile. Failed. “I’ll file it for future reference.”

It was nothing. It was everything. The quiet exchange. The ease. The small flickers of humor folded into something warmer.

And it didn’t stop there. Every time she moved, he was there—not in a suffocating way, but in that rare, magnetic kind of proximity that made her feel like they were orbiting the same sun. That sun, lately, was shaped suspiciously like a grocery list and the way Harry grinned at her like he knew she was about to say something sarcastic before she’d even opened her mouth.

And worse—she’d come to like it.

More than like it.

The hum of the refrigerator filled the space between them, layered beneath the soft shuffle of feet on tile and the occasional thump of a grocery bag being set down. The rest of the house had grown quieter now—Claire and Ben had retreated to the back porch with a couple of drinks and the unearned air of smugness that still made Y/N’s stomach twist, while Ali, ever the perceptive guardian angel, had claimed she was going upstairs to “sort out the towel situation,” which Y/N knew was code for I see what’s happening here and I’m giving you space. Everyone else had followed suit, either drifting to their rooms or settling into the den, and for the first time that evening, the kitchen belonged to just the two of them.

Y/N stood barefoot near the sink, sleeves pushed up, organizing the pantry with something that vaguely resembled purpose. But her brain had long stopped caring about where the almond butter went. All she could think about was the way Harry had started humming again—some bluesy guitar riff that didn’t quite belong to a real song but had enough shape and rhythm to stay stuck in her head. It matched the tempo of the evening: a little loose, a little unexpected, but easy to fall into.

He was crouched near the fridge now, rearranging produce with more care than anyone who had just launched a pineapple into the cart an hour earlier had any right to possess. And when he stood and glanced over at her, catching her mid-stare, his brows lifted as if to say you good? with nothing but the arch of his face.

She nodded, too quickly. “I was just—thinking about how weird it is that you’re good at this.”

“Organizing groceries?”

“Being useful. Functional. I feel like I need to recalibrate my entire impression of you.”

He grinned, slow and smug, and leaned a hip against the counter like he’d just won a bet. “See, this is why it’s fun to keep expectations low. Then when I’m actually helpful, it’s a revelation.”

Y/N scoffed, tossing a box of pasta into the pantry without looking. “You act like that was some kind of elaborate strategy.”

“Who says it wasn’t?”

She narrowed her eyes, but the amusement curled in her chest before she could try to stifle it. He made her feel off balance, but not in a way that felt dangerous. It was… disarming. Like he’d quietly invited her into a different version of the week than she thought she’d be having, and she’d somehow agreed without realizing.

And maybe she wasn’t mad about it.

-

“Why are you so chipper tonight?” she asked finally, watching him move toward the paper towels like they hadn’t shared the same exhaustion earlier in the car. “You were grumpy all day yesterday. Fully brooding. Brood-y. Broodman.”

Harry barked out a laugh as he tore into the plastic. “Broodman?”

“It was that or The Grumble Knight.”

He rolled his eyes. “Alright, Shakespeare. Let’s calm down.”

“You say that,” she said, leaning against the pantry doorway now, her shoulder brushing the frame. “But the Harry I drove here with would’ve had at least four sulky comebacks by now. And he wouldn’t have bought the marshmallows.”

“Those marshmallows were a peace offering,” he said, pointing at her with a dishtowel like it was a gavel. “I’m trying to be the bigger person.”

“Interesting choice of words coming from a man who tried to body-check me into the cereal aisle.”

“I guided you,” he said, nose crinkling as he tried not to laugh. “Gently.”

“With your hip. Like a hockey player.”

Harry grinned. “You stayed upright.”

“Barely.”

They paused again. A beat of stillness that felt a little too thick to be casual. Y/N’s eyes lingered on his face longer than they should’ve. She noticed the way his lashes caught the kitchen light, the faint trace of sun still warming his cheekbones, the softness of his mouth as he fought another smile. He was infuriating and charming and deeply annoying in the way people are when you’ve accidentally let them matter too much.

She wondered if he was thinking the same thing.

Then Harry broke the moment, eyes flicking toward the pantry. “You still gonna tell me where you want this stuff, or should I just start hiding peanut butter in weird places?”

“Try it,” she said, lifting an eyebrow. “I dare you.”

He smirked and stepped forward, closing the space between them just slightly—enough that she had to tilt her chin to keep her eyes on his.

“Don’t tempt me, Y/N,” he said quietly, playfully, but there was something behind it now. Something that felt just a little heavier. Just a little more loaded.

Y/N’s breath caught for half a second. Then, just as quickly, she broke eye contact and turned back to the shelf. “You’re exhausting,” she muttered, trying not to smile.

“Don’t pretend you’re not thriving off the chaos,” he said, stepping away, but his tone was lighter again, teasing, like he’d sensed the shift and knew just how far to push it. “You practically instigated a three-minute argument over oat milk. You like the chaos.”

“Chaos,” she said, pulling a snack bag from the bottom of the tote and turning it in her hand, “is the only way to survive in a house this full.”

And maybe, she thought, setting it down, it’s also the only way to fall into something new without realizing you’re falling.

-

He watched her for a second longer than he should have—watched the way her fingers curled loosely around the edge of the counter, how she leaned her weight into her hip like she was trying not to lean into him instead. The overhead light wasn’t particularly flattering, too yellow and dim in the way lake houses always were, but it caught on her skin in places that made him stare anyway. The curve of her jaw, the side of her neck, the slight tilt of her mouth as she sorted through bags of trail mix like it mattered.

He told himself he was just tired. That was why his chest felt a little warm. That was why he kept noticing the little things.

But that wasn’t it. Not really.

The truth—uncomfortable, clear, and increasingly undeniable—was that something between them had shifted. Somewhere between the grocery aisle detour into cereal warfare and the way she’d leaned into him, laughing too hard to stand straight, something had cracked open. And now that it was out in the open, he didn’t know how to tuck it back in.

It had been easy to keep things distant before. She was smart and quick and had a mouth that didn’t quit, and he liked that about her—liked sparring with her, testing the edge of her wit. But earlier today, when she’d thrown her head back laughing about his passionate Wheaties speech, something had tightened in his chest. And when she hadn’t looked away afterward—had just stood there, watching him like she was seeing past something—he hadn’t wanted her to.

That was the problem now. He liked being seen. Not the easy kind of attention. Not the casual glances or forced conversations. But this—this quiet, offhand familiarity she offered. Like he didn’t have to perform around her. Like he could just be.

And now, with the kitchen emptied out and the hum of the fridge giving way to soft, companionable silence, that realization pressed heavier on his ribs.

-

“Okay,” Y/N said finally, reaching up to adjust a shelf like she had any intention of organizing anything. “We’ve got a suspicious amount of granola, and I’m blaming you.”

He walked to the other side of the counter, resting his forearms against the surface as he watched her. “I stand by my granola choices.”

“Of course you do. They’re chaos.”

“They’re curated.”

“They’re evidence of a man who doesn’t know what he wants.”

Harry tilted his head, amused. “That supposed to be some sort of deep metaphor?”

“Maybe.”

She didn’t turn to look at him, but he could see the way her lips twitched as she spoke. And something in his chest flipped.

He wanted to say something about it—about the way she noticed him, about the way she kept giving him these small openings and trusting he wouldn’t take too much. But he didn’t want to say the wrong thing. Didn’t want to name it too early and watch it evaporate.

Instead, he opened a cabinet and started stacking cans, letting the moment breathe.

-

The quiet between them stretched again, long and comfortable, until Y/N broke it with a laugh that came out of nowhere.

He turned toward her. “What?”

She held up a small, crumpled receipt from one of the tote bags. “You bought a single kiwi.”

“I did,” he said, nodding solemnly. “It was calling to me.”

Y/N blinked at him. “You bought one kiwi.”

“Correct.”

“No other fruit. Just… the lone kiwi.”

“Don’t kiwi-shame me.”

She stared at him like she was trying to figure out if he was joking. “What were you going to do with it?”

Harry shrugged. “Bond with it. Maybe name it. Maybe slice it open dramatically at a key plot point later in the week.”

“You’re unwell.”

“I’m a man of simple needs.”

Her laugh was soft but full, her eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made his chest tighten again. She tossed the receipt at him without thinking, and he caught it midair, tucking it into his pocket with a grin that felt too easy for how tightly wound he actually was.

He didn’t say what he was thinking—that the grocery trip hadn’t really been about the food. That maybe the whole thing had just been an excuse to be near her longer. That he’d kept finding reasons to slow their pace, to prolong the wandering, to hold onto the moment before they had to come back to the house and face the rest of the world again.

But she knew. He could see it in the way her eyes softened when she looked at him again. In the way she let herself stay near him even after the last of the groceries were put away, even after the last bit of banter had faded. They were standing in the kitchen like neither of them had anywhere else to be, and maybe they didn’t. Maybe they didn’t want to.

He looked down at her hands, then back up at her face. “We did good.”

“With the groceries?”

“With… all of it.”

Her breath hitched just slightly—barely perceptible—but she nodded. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “We did.”

-

When they finally stepped out of the kitchen, the house felt different. Not silent, but settled. The low murmur of the others had dulled to a comforting hum in the background—faint music from someone’s speaker upstairs, a door clicking shut, the rhythmic tick of the ceiling fan in the front room. The kind of quiet that only comes after a day has been lived fully and completely. And somehow, she and Harry had outlasted it.

Y/N moved toward the living room without saying anything, brushing her hand over the worn wood of the banister as she passed. She half-expected Harry to head upstairs, maybe say goodnight with that lopsided smile and a parting joke, but when she turned slightly, he was still following her. Quiet. Calm. As if it was obvious he’d go wherever she went.

The moment settled into her like warmth. Like gravity.

She tucked herself into the corner of the wide, overstuffed couch, legs folding beneath her, a throw blanket tossed absently over the armrest as if someone had abandoned it mid-afternoon. The lake outside the window was completely dark now, just a shimmer of moonlight off the glassy surface visible through the trees. She felt it—the shift. The almost sacred hush of a summer night when you’ve laughed too hard earlier in the day and your body remembers it in the best possible way.

Harry dropped down beside her a second later, but not too close. Not the way Ben or someone like him would’ve—overconfident, presumptive. He stayed a few inches away, elbows resting on his thighs, head tilted slightly back against the cushion. His voice, when he spoke, was quieter now, something lazy and loose threaded into it.

“You tired?”

She shook her head. “You?”

Harry hummed in response—noncommittal. But he didn’t move to get up.

The lamp in the corner buzzed slightly, its golden light catching on the curve of his jaw and casting his eyelashes in long, soft shadows. Y/N leaned her cheek against the back of the couch and just… looked at him. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so comfortable doing nothing with someone. Not just silence for the sake of it, but silence that felt like it meant something.

He glanced over a beat later and caught her watching. And instead of looking away, he held her gaze.

“What?” he asked, his mouth teetering up at the corners.

She shrugged, but her lips parted into the beginnings of a smile. “Just surprised you haven’t tried to start another cereal debate.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, shifting slightly toward her now. “I still think your take was objectively wrong.”

Y/N let her smile widen. “You’re just mad I had better arguments.”

“Better marketing. Not better arguments.”

“Marketing is half the battle.”

“You’re exhausting.”

She gave a light shrug, the fabric of the blanket shifting against her arm. “Takes one to know one.”

Harry snorted softly and leaned back again, but this time, his knee bumped against hers. He didn’t move it.

The contact was small—barely noticeable in a room this quiet. But to her, it felt like a light being switched on. A soft there you are. And when he didn’t shift away, when he let the contact stay, something inside her responded with a kind of stillness that surprised her. Like her body knew something her mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

They stayed like that for a while. Not speaking. Not needing to.

-

The window let in just enough breeze to lift the edge of the curtain, and Y/N found her gaze drifting to it as her mind wandered. There had been so many ways this trip could’ve gone. And yet, here they were—her and Harry, of all people. Existing in the same corner of the world in a way that felt almost deliberate. Like they’d been steered here by a hundred tiny decisions neither of them had realized they were making.

And she didn’t want to waste it.

“You always this quiet at night?” she asked eventually, not because she minded the silence, but because she wanted more of his voice in the room.

Harry tilted his head toward her, mouth ticking up slightly. “Only when I’m trying not to ruin it.”

“Ruin what?”

“This.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to. And she didn’t press.

Instead, she turned a little more toward him, their knees still touching now. She let her head rest back against the couch, mirroring his posture, letting the moment stretch.

She didn’t want it to end.

-

He didn’t remember the last time silence had felt this good.

Usually it meant something was missing—words that needed saying, a thought waiting to be cleaned up and made less jagged, or worse, something unsaid hanging sharp between him and someone who didn’t know how to fill the gaps. But this wasn’t that.

This silence felt earned.

She was sitting a little closer now—still curled up in her corner, but angled toward him. Their knees pressed side by side, just barely, but firmly enough that he knew it was deliberate. A shared warmth, a quiet we’re here. And the room held it. Carried it gently, like it understood this was something new, something precious that hadn’t been named yet.

He could hear her breathing. Not loud. Just steady. Present. And it somehow made the space around them feel smaller in the best way.

Harry didn’t want to ruin it. He didn’t want to break it with the wrong comment or a joke that would land sideways. But more than that, he didn’t want to pretend anymore—not after the grocery store, not after the car ride, not after the way she’d laughed today like he’d said the most brilliant thing she’d ever heard even though he’d been talking about cereal mascots.

There were so many things about her he’d started to collect without meaning to.

Like how she always tied her hoodie strings in a double knot and never fixed them once they slipped uneven. Or how she picked up boxes in the grocery store and read the ingredients—not because she cared about health, but because she liked knowing what was inside something. Like how her voice got softer—not quieter, just rounder—when she was trying to figure out how to say something honest. Or how she never leaned away when someone moved closer. Only in.

And then there were the things he didn’t know how to name. The way she felt in a room. Like she steadied it. Even when she was teasing him. Especially when she was teasing him.

That was the part that got him. The steadiness.

-

Her head tilted slightly, like she was half-lost in thought, and Harry felt the urge to say something rise up in his chest. Not anything big. Just something. To bridge the space between what they were doing and what they both knew they were doing.

But before he could, Y/N moved. Slowly. Almost imperceptibly. Her foot slipped down from beneath her and stretched just enough that her ankle bumped against his.

Harry didn’t move.

Y/N didn’t either.

She just stayed like that—close, still, barely touching but definitely touching. And when she looked over at him, when her eyes met his without pretense, it felt like something broke open again.

“Sorry,” she murmured, though her voice wasn’t apologetic. It was more like an invitation to respond. To meet her there.

He didn’t look away. “Don’t be.”

They sat like that for a moment—watching each other, but not trying to figure anything out. Just… noticing. Letting it be what it was.

-

She didn’t know what made her move. Not exactly.

Maybe it was the stillness. Or the way his breathing was calm but not quite even. Or the way she’d been watching the way his fingers curled around the throw pillow like he didn’t realize he was doing it, like he needed something to hold onto.

But it felt natural, the way her leg had shifted, the way her foot had bumped his. It hadn’t been a mistake. Not really. She could’ve moved it. She could’ve leaned back into her corner and made the moment small again. Dismissible.

But she didn’t.

Because the moment wasn’t small.

She looked at him then, and the expression on his face wasn’t something she had words for. Open. A little vulnerable. Like he was already where she was, but had been waiting for her to catch up.

And the way he said don’t be—soft, low, steady—made her feel something deep in her chest unfurl slowly and completely.

She hadn’t felt that in a long time. Not in a way that mattered.

-

Her voice, when it came again, was quieter than before. “You’re not what I expected.”

Harry tilted his head slightly. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

He smiled then, but it wasn’t cocky or teasing. It was the kind of smile that happened when something felt real. And the sight of it—unguarded, a little tired, completely honest—made something twist in her chest again.

She didn’t want to sleep. Didn’t want to break whatever this was, whatever they were building in the spaces between eye contact and half-laughed jokes. Because this was the part she always missed. This part—the quiet, unspoken build—was the part no one ever paid attention to.

She wanted to remember this.

The way his voice sounded when he wasn’t trying to be funny. The way his breath hitched a little when she looked too long. The way his knee pressed into hers like he didn’t want to let her drift too far away.

She wanted to stay.

-

She didn’t pull away.

That’s what he noticed first. That after she shifted, after her ankle nudged against his and she looked at him like he was worth seeing, she didn’t take it back. She just… stayed. Let it happen. Let them happen.

He hadn’t realized how much of himself had been waiting for that—for the proof that this thing wasn’t one-sided. That the rhythm they’d found today wasn’t just a fluke of timing or convenience or boredom. That she felt it, too. The tension. The pull. The comfort and the edge and the way she never gave him the easy version of herself, and how he didn’t want it even if she did.

She shifted slightly now, just enough that her shoulder brushed his arm, and the contact was light—barely anything—but it traveled straight to his chest like it had weight.

He let out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold.

-

He didn’t move away. He couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to. Something about her presence made everything else quieter. And not in a muted way. In a way that made more sense. Like his brain had finally stopped doing the thing where it ran in a hundred directions at once.

She made things quieter.

Clearer.

And now she was here, pressed just barely against him, and the house had fallen away. The whole house. The trip. The people upstairs. The water outside. Everything had dimmed. All of it.

Except her.

-

He turned toward her just enough to catch her profile. The shape of her mouth in the soft lamp glow. The crease between her brows that deepened when she was thinking about something she didn’t want to say out loud. The slope of her neck where it met her shoulder, loose and relaxed now, like she didn’t feel the need to tense around him.

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to say anything stupid. He didn’t want to push it too far. But he also didn’t want to lose this—this sliver of time where she was here and real and his world had narrowed down to the warmth of her leaning toward him without hesitation.

So he shifted his arm. Slowly. Cautiously. Until his forearm was resting behind her on the back cushion of the couch. Not touching. Not yet. But close.

She looked over at him, just her eyes. They flicked toward his arm, then back to his face.

He didn’t smile.

She didn’t look away.

-

It felt like something might happen.

Not something dramatic. Not anything that needed music or speeches or the weight of big declarations. But something important. Something small and undeniable and impossible to forget.

She could feel the heat from his arm now, close behind her shoulders. Not touching. But there. Waiting.

She wanted to lean into it. Just a little. She wasn’t sure what would happen if she did—if he’d shift away, if the spell would break, if it would feel like too much. But her body wanted to close the gap, and her heart hadn’t argued once all evening.

Harry had been different tonight. Lighter, yes. Playful. But also present. The kind of present you couldn’t fake. And she’d been watching it happen in real time—his gaze on her when she smiled, the way he passed her things wordlessly, the way he hadn’t walked ahead of her once at the store. He let her be beside him. He wanted her beside him.

And now they were here, in the dim quiet of a worn summer living room, and he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t drifted off or shut down or offered some sarcastic remark to undo the softness between them. He was staying.

She didn’t want to pretend anymore either.

-

So she shifted again. Small. Just a fraction of space. Enough that her back met the warm line of his arm, and she let it rest there—light and certain and brave.

He froze for a second. Not tense. Just still. As if he didn’t want to ruin the way her weight felt against him.

Then, slowly, he relaxed into it. Let his arm settle behind her like it had always belonged there.

And it was everything.

-

Her heart beat slower now. Heavier, but not with anxiety. With knowing. With the kind of awareness you only get when you’ve been dancing around something for long enough to understand that it isn’t going away.

This wasn’t about fixing anything anymore. Not about making up for what they’d lost or comparing where they were to where they’d been. It was just this. Him. Her. The night. The shift that had started in a grocery aisle and hadn’t stopped since.

He leaned his head toward hers slightly, not resting against her, but close enough to make her breath catch.

She didn’t say a word.

Neither did he.

But in the stillness between them, in the warmth of the contact and the way neither of them felt the need to explain it, something settled.

A beginning.

-

There was something about the way she settled into him that made the whole day snap into focus.

Like all the noise and heat and tension that had woven itself through the morning—the posturing, the clipped conversations, the weight of unspoken things—had finally broken apart, leaving behind only this: the quiet rhythm of her breath beside him, the solid warmth of her against his side, the soft brush of her shoulder pressing against his chest.

He could’ve sat there forever.

No one had ever leaned into him like that without pulling away eventually. No one had ever stayed close without needing it to be a moment or a joke or something performative. But this wasn’t that. This wasn’t a moment being made—this was a moment becoming.

And he didn’t want to miss it.

He let his arm settle fully around her now, his hand resting lightly against her upper arm, careful but certain. Like he was learning the shape of what this could be. And when she didn’t flinch, didn’t tease, didn’t shift away, something in him unclenched. Something deep and quiet and tightly wound that had been waiting for her to decide if she wanted this, too.

She did.

And that truth pulsed through him like steady heat.

-

It wasn’t the contact that undid her. It wasn’t the way his arm fit around her or the strength of his presence or the subtle curve of his body pressing into hers like he meant to stay. It was the ease. The way it felt natural. Uncomplicated. Like they had always ended days like this, quietly and without urgency, tucked into the same corner of the couch and the same fold of breath.

There was no pressure here. Just closeness. Just stillness.

And somehow, that made it all feel more real.

She wanted to say something. Just a small thing. A word or a whisper to acknowledge what this was without cracking it open too wide. But everything she thought of felt either too much or not enough.

So instead, she let her head tip slightly, just enough that it brushed the side of his shoulder. Not quite a lean. Not quite an ask. Just a shared quiet.

Harry didn’t speak. He just shifted, his fingers curling slightly where they rested against her arm. Like a promise. Like yes, I feel it too.

And it was enough.

-

The room had dimmed even more now, the lamp flickering once and holding steady, the only light against the coolness of the lake air drifting in through the window. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked, and someone murmured a goodnight. But the house was drifting into its own hush, and they were drifting with it.

Y/N blinked slowly, her body finally catching up with the weight of the day, her eyes heavy but her thoughts still alive and buzzing beneath the quiet.

He smelled like the outdoors and coffee and something faintly citrusy she couldn’t place. She could feel the rise and fall of his breath against her shoulder, the calm rhythm of someone who wasn’t pretending to be okay—someone who was okay, in this moment, with her.

And it was disarming. And lovely. And more than she’d let herself want, until now.

-

She didn’t want to sleep.

Not because she was afraid of what morning would bring. Not because she was waiting for him to ruin it. But because she didn’t want it to stop.

This stillness. This closeness. The way he hadn’t made it a big thing. The way he’d let it grow slowly, carefully, without needing it to become something right away.

It made her trust him more than she expected.

Maybe more than she should.

But she wasn’t scared.

She was… here.

And when she felt the weight of his head dip slightly, the gentle pressure of him leaning just a bit more into her, she let herself breathe into the moment like it belonged to her.

Because maybe it did.

-

The last thing she remembered before sleep took hold was the warmth of his hand, slow and steady where it rested on her arm, and the certainty—clear, quiet, and undeniable—that she wasn’t alone in this anymore.

Not even close.

-

She woke slowly.

Not because she’d slept particularly well—she’d only half remembered drifting off, barely aware of when her limbs gave in to the pull of rest—but because she was afraid that moving too fast would shatter whatever quiet magic had wrapped itself around them the night before.

The first thing she registered was the soft pressure of something warm around her waist. Not heavy. Not restrictive. Just there. Steady. Familiar in a way that felt startling.

Harry.

He was still beside her. His body relaxed, breathing slow and even. One arm draped loosely around her middle, the other resting across his own chest. And she was tucked into him, head against the curve of his shoulder, like they’d been fitted together by some gentle, invisible hand while they slept.

She didn’t panic. She didn’t tense. That was the most surprising part of all.

She just stayed there. Eyes open, barely breathing, letting herself feel the moment before she had to move through it.

The room was awash in morning light now—faint and golden, slipping in through the narrow window over the couch. Dust motes floated in the quiet beams, suspended in the air like they were trying to hold onto the hush as long as they could. And outside, she could hear the lake birds beginning their slow, lazy chorus. The world was waking up. But the cocoon they’d created hadn’t cracked yet.

Her fingers curled slightly in the fabric of the throw blanket draped over them. She didn’t remember pulling it up. Maybe he had. Maybe it had just fallen that way. It didn’t matter.

All she knew was that she hadn’t slept like that in a long time. Not just beside someone. But with someone.

Safe. Easy. Warm.

She knew it should scare her. That if she thought about it too long, if she let her mind get too far ahead of her heart, she’d ruin it with questions and panic and doubts. But right now, lying in the soft hush of the early morning, she didn’t want to move at all.

-

A shift.

His breathing changed—just slightly, just enough.

And then his fingers twitched against her waist.

She stilled, breath catching.

A pause. A stretch of silence so heavy she could hear her own pulse.

Then, quietly, his voice—rough from sleep, soft at the edges.

“You’re still here.”

She turned her head slightly against him, enough to feel the faint rumble of his voice in his chest. “So are you.”

A beat passed. She could feel his cheek shift as he smiled.

“Wasn’t sure if you’d sneak away.”

“I thought about it,” she murmured. “Didn’t want to risk waking the human furnace.”

Harry chuckled, low and warm. His breath stirred the hair near her temple. “I am unreasonably warm. That’s fair.”

She smiled, but didn’t move.

Neither did he.

The morning felt like something suspended—like time had been stretched out a little, just for them. And for once, she didn’t want to rush into the next thing. She didn’t want to ruin the slowness.

-

It took him a minute to remember where he was.

Not the house—that was easy. The lake, the trip, the chaos of the friend group turned semi-hostage situation, the way Claire and Ben had imploded them all into the same orbit. That was background noise by now.

It was this—the body curled against his, the warmth of her breathing soft and even, the way she hadn’t moved when he woke—that made his brain catch up slower.

Y/N.

Still here.

Still in his arms.

And somehow, not weird.

Not wrong.

It felt natural in the kind of way that made him worry about how natural it felt. Like his body had already adjusted. Like it knew what to do with her pressed into his side, with her breath brushing his chest, with the silence that sat comfortably between them like it was supposed to be there.

He hadn’t expected to fall asleep. Not really. He’d meant to stay there until she shifted, until it got too warm or someone came downstairs and ruined it. But the longer she’d stayed close, the more his body had given in. The stillness had soothed him in a way he couldn’t explain.

And now—morning light and all—she was still here.

No rush. No excuses.

Just warmth. Just her.

-

“I’m sorry if I was—” he started, not even sure how he meant to finish that sentence.

“You weren’t,” she said before he could. “I wasn’t, either.”

That startled him a little. The honesty of it. The way she didn’t even let him apologize for something he hadn’t said yet.

And he realized, again, that she saw him. The version of him he didn’t always let people near. The one who second-guessed when things felt too easy.

His voice came quieter. “This isn’t weird, is it?”

Y/N turned just enough to glance up at him, her chin brushing his chest. “It’s not.”

He exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

And somehow, it really was.

-

They eventually moved, but only because they had to.

Not in a dramatic sense—no one came barging in, no phone call interrupted the silence. It was just the sun creeping a little higher, the house shifting around them, the collective rhythm of morning making itself known in soft creaks and a far-off shower running upstairs.

Still, it took time. Several long minutes of neither of them saying anything, of her just breathing into the warmth of his chest and him keeping his arm where it had settled naturally around her waist. She felt his thumb move once, tracing the fabric of her shirt absentmindedly. Not possessive. Just present.

But the stillness couldn’t last forever, and eventually her body started to stir with the weight of the day ahead.

She shifted slightly. Just enough that their legs uncrossed, their limbs uncurled, their shared warmth gave way to the cooler space between them again.

And even though it was small—just a few inches of air—she felt the ache of it.

Harry sat up with her, rubbing the heel of his hand over his face, blinking against the light. His curls were flattened in one spot and sticking up in another. She could see the faint red line of the couch seam pressed into his cheek. And still, somehow, he looked stupidly good.

She pulled the blanket from her lap and folded it out of habit. Something to do with her hands. Something to keep the air moving before it thickened again.

“So,” she said quietly, glancing sideways at him. “How long until someone walks in and ruins this completely?”

Harry snorted, leaning back against the couch, arms draped across his knees. “Ten minutes. Tops.”

She smiled, but it faded quickly—softly—not because anything was wrong, but because everything felt right, and she didn’t want to lose that by trying too hard to hold onto it.

He must’ve sensed it, too, because he looked at her for a long beat. Then, quieter, steadier, he said, “You okay?”

Y/N nodded once. “You?”

His smile was small. “I am.”

And for a moment, that was enough.

-

The morning air was cool against the back of his neck when he finally pushed off the couch and stretched. He let out a quiet groan, partly for dramatic effect, mostly because his spine wasn’t built to spend the night curled up on a lakeside sectional with only half a cushion under him.

Y/N stood too, rolling her shoulders, pulling her hoodie tighter around her as she moved toward the kitchen without a word. He followed her out of habit now, like he didn’t know how not to. It didn’t feel weird. It didn’t feel too much.

It just felt like them.

Something had changed, and it wasn’t just the proximity. It was the ease. They were moving around each other differently now. Calmer. Not waiting for the next sharp word or cold glance or clumsy silence. They existed in each other’s spaces like the sharp corners had been sanded down. Like they’d forgotten, for a few hours, how to be suspicious of one another.

The house was still mostly asleep. The floor creaked beneath them as they padded into the kitchen, but the lights were off, and the world hadn’t quite woken up yet. Just the rustle of trees outside, the soft lap of water against the dock, and the distant clink of someone—Ali, probably—mumbling about coffee filters upstairs.

Harry watched as Y/N stood by the sink, her back to him, and reached for a mug from the drying rack. The one she’d used yesterday. A small floral one with a chip in the handle. She held it in both hands for a second, then set it gently on the counter like it was fragile.

Maybe they both were.

He crossed the space between them slowly, stopping beside her, leaning against the counter the way he had yesterday when they’d bickered over peanut butter.

Except now, she didn’t look tired of him.

Now, she looked softened by him.

-

“I was thinking,” he said, voice quiet in the hush between them, “we could go on another walk today.”

She didn’t look at him, but her shoulder tilted in his direction like she wanted to. “Another scenic route?”

“Something like that.”

She glanced up at him then, and the look in her eyes wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t guarded.

It was open.

And it hit him like a stone dropped into still water.

“I’d like that,” she said.

And just like that, the day began with a promise neither of them had to say out loud.

-

Ali was the first to see it.

Of course she was. She wasn’t loud about it. Didn’t say anything. But the second she walked into the kitchen and found them already there—quiet, close, in sync in a way they hadn’t been before—her expression shifted for just a second. Something soft. Something aware.

Then she moved toward the coffee pot and started fussing with the filters like she hadn’t seen anything at all.

Y/N caught the flicker of a smile at the corner of her mouth anyway.

She kept her back mostly turned to Harry as she helped pull things from the fridge—fruit, eggs, the container of almond milk he’d made fun of yesterday. But it was different now. Every step she took near him came with the awareness that they’d slept beside each other. That they’d woken up warm and still touching, neither one in a rush to leave.

She could feel it in her fingertips. In her chest. In the way her voice softened when she asked him to hand her a fork.

She didn’t think she’d be able to hide it. Not really.

She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

-

More footsteps. Laughter upstairs. The house was waking now.

And then—Ben and Claire.

They entered together, too casual to be natural, both holding mugs that didn’t quite match their expressions. Ben had that look he always wore when he knew he was walking into a room with too much history in it. And Claire was smiling too tightly, her gaze flicking once between Y/N and Harry before landing somewhere pointedly else.

Y/N said nothing.

Harry, to his credit, didn’t even look at them. Just kept slicing a banana in long, careful strokes, setting the pieces gently into a bowl.

The air got thicker.

Ali cleared her throat. “I think we’ve got stuff for pancakes if someone wants to take lead on that.”

Ben made a vague noise, but Claire stepped toward the counter instead. “I can do it.”

“Let me help,” Ben offered.

“No, it’s fine.”

Y/N kept her head down. Kept cutting strawberries, even though they didn’t need more fruit. Kept breathing evenly.

Harry bumped his elbow against hers once. A light touch. Intentional.

She glanced at him, and he gave her the smallest, most devastatingly calm look—like I’ve got you. Keep going.

She did.

-

He didn’t like the way Ben looked at her.

He never had, even before everything. There was something smug about it. Something that suggested he still thought he had a claim. And even if Harry couldn’t quite name what he was to Y/N right now, he knew what Ben wasn’t.

Still, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Because she was next to him.

Because she hadn’t moved.

Because when he bumped her elbow, she looked at him like she wasn’t sorry for last night. Like she wasn’t planning to take it back.

And that was more than enough.

-

Ali talked more now, filling the space with questions about breakfast and day plans and whether anyone wanted to help bring the cooler out of the garage. Y/N slipped out of the kitchen for a moment to grab her water bottle, and Harry found himself alone at the counter with Claire.

He didn’t look up at her. He didn’t speak.

But she did.

“You two seemed… close this morning.”

He didn’t stop slicing the banana. “Is that a problem?”

Claire’s smile was light, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Not for me.”

“Good.”

She lingered like she wanted to say more. But then she turned away.

Harry didn’t watch her go.

He didn’t need to.

Because Y/N came back into the room a second later, and without thinking, she stepped back to his side like she’d never left it.

-

It wasn’t that they were doing anything obvious.

No hands held. No whispered confessions. No sudden announcement over breakfast that she’d fallen asleep in Harry’s arms and woken up still tucked there, blinking into the soft light of morning like something in her chest had clicked into place overnight.

But everything had changed.

Because now, every time he walked past her, he didn’t brush against her accidentally. He drifted closer. Purposefully. Every time she looked up from chopping something or setting out plates, his gaze was already on her. Steady. Soft. Knowing. And when they moved around each other in the kitchen, they didn’t speak much—but their silences were whole conversations.

And people noticed.

Not loudly, not directly. But the shift was unmistakable.

The group, for all their oblivious chaos, picked up on the undercurrent. Ali clocked it instantly, her glances flickering like checkmarks—okay, okay, I see you two. Jules didn’t say anything, but her mouth twitched more than once when they reached for the same bowl of granola or started laughing at something no one else had heard. Even Eli, half-asleep and nursing his coffee like it owed him money, gave them a lingering second look as he passed them on his way to the table.

The only ones who seemed actively uncomfortable were Ben and Claire.

Which was a little too on the nose.

Ben kept making comments that didn’t land—backhanded jokes about “overcorrecting” and “people getting cozy all of a sudden.” Claire kept stirring the pancake batter too hard. And Y/N kept not looking at either of them.

She didn’t need to.

Because Harry was beside her. Solid. Quiet. Constant.

And when she felt the pressure of his hand at the small of her back as he passed behind her with a stack of mugs, it grounded her in a way she hadn’t expected.

She exhaled slowly. Picked up the jar of jam. Set it on the table like her hands weren’t still buzzing.

-

He wasn’t trying to make a scene. He wasn’t trying to do anything, really.

Except not hide it.

Whatever “it” was. Whatever last night had become. Whatever he and Y/N were doing now—if they were doing anything at all.

Because the truth was, they hadn’t defined it. Hadn’t drawn a line or written the story down or decided what any of this meant. But what he knew—what he felt—was that she’d stayed. That she’d leaned in. That when she looked at him now, she didn’t do it with the skepticism from before. She did it like she knew him. Like she chose him.

So he didn’t perform. He didn’t overdo it.

But he also didn’t shrink.

When she turned to ask him if they had more butter, he didn’t answer right away—just looked at her. Long enough for her to notice. Long enough that her breath hitched.

She said nothing.

Neither did he.

But the space between them got quieter.

And that said everything.

-

The table was loud once they sat down, but Harry barely heard it.

People talked over each other. Laughed about something someone said last night. Ben kept trying to direct the conversation, his voice louder than necessary, his eyes flicking toward Y/N like he was waiting for her to jump in.

She didn’t.

She was sitting next to Harry.

Close. Not pressed up against him. But close enough that their knees brushed. Close enough that she leaned toward him when she reached for the strawberries instead of across the table. Close enough that it meant something.

Ali raised an eyebrow once—just once—when Y/N said something under her breath and Harry laughed before anyone else had a chance to catch the joke. But she didn’t say anything. She just smirked into her orange juice.

It felt like a secret. One the whole table was almost in on, even if no one had the guts to say it out loud.

And Harry didn’t mind.

He liked it.

He liked the quiet between them. The comfort of her beside him. The weight of her presence when she wasn’t trying to hold it back. The way she’d looked at him that morning like something had been decided.

And maybe it had.

-

The meal started to wind down. People stood up to rinse plates, talk about who wanted to swim, what time the hike might be. Ben made another joke—something about “partners in crime” and “getting too close for comfort”—but it fell flat.

Harry didn’t even look up.

Y/N didn’t respond.

Instead, she leaned slightly toward him as she stood, brushing her hand against his arm on her way to the sink.

She didn’t say anything.

But the touch lingered.

And his chest ached in the best way.

-

She found him on the back deck twenty minutes later.

The house had scattered. Claire and Jules were arguing over sunscreen, Eli was trying to convince someone to help him test out the paddleboards, and Ben—blessedly—had wandered off somewhere, maybe finally catching on that his presence wasn’t wanted. The kitchen was mostly clean, the dining table half-abandoned, and Ali had quietly told Y/N to “go take five minutes or forty” with a pointed look before disappearing toward the driveway.

She didn’t need to be told twice.

And she knew exactly where she was going.

Harry was sitting in the shaded corner of the deck, barefoot, his long legs stretched out in front of him, mug balanced on one knee. His sunglasses were pushed up into his curls, his shirt soft and wrinkled from sleep, and he looked unfairly at ease with the world. Like nothing could rattle him here.

Except maybe her.

Because the moment he saw her step through the sliding door, his entire posture shifted. Just slightly. Not a dramatic straighten, not anything performative. Just enough to say there you are.

And that was enough to make her chest ache.

She didn’t say anything. She just sat down beside him—close again, like they were already used to being close. Her thigh brushing his, her shoulder leaning in just enough to tilt her toward him.

The silence between them stretched, but not because there was nothing to say. Because everything was already being said.

Harry passed her the mug without a word.

She took it. Sipped. And handed it back.

-

The lake glittered in front of them, impossibly bright in the mid-morning sun. Kids shouted somewhere across the water. A bird wheeled lazily overhead. Everything felt suspended—like the world was moving forward, but this moment wasn’t. Like this was the kind of stillness people wrote about and never quite got right.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet. “Feels different now.”

He looked at her. “Yeah.”

She didn’t ask what he meant. She didn’t need to.

Because she already knew.

-

She was so close.

And it wasn’t just physical. It was her being here, her showing up, her choosing to be near him again when she could’ve so easily blended into the chaos of the group and let the night before blur into memory.

But she didn’t.

She was here, beside him, her presence tucked against his like she was built to fit there.

He didn’t say anything for a long time. Just sat with her, letting the breeze move through the trees above them, letting the scent of the lake wrap around them like summer itself was trying to keep the air quiet.

It didn’t feel like a conversation anymore.

It felt like a knowing.

And it made him braver.

-

“I think I notice more than I let on,” he said finally, his voice low.

Y/N glanced at him, curious. “What do you mean?”

He swallowed once, glancing down at the mug in his hand. “About you.”

Her breath caught. But she didn’t speak.

“I know you always skip the fourth question in card games. Even when no one’s paying attention. You tuck your thumb under your palm when you’re uncomfortable. You hum to yourself when you walk away from an argument.” He smiled softly, still not looking at her. “And you put the blueberries at the back of the fridge so no one else finishes them.”

She laughed quietly. “Okay, that one’s fair.”

He looked up at her now, the smile still tugging at his mouth. “I notice things.”

She held his gaze. “So do I.”

That surprised him a little. He blinked.

“I know you don’t like the first sip of coffee—always wait a second before drinking it. You reread instructions, even if you know what they say. You look away when you’re trying not to laugh.” She paused. “And you always stand behind people when you talk to them. Just far enough that no one thinks you’re trying to get too close.”

His throat tightened.

She shifted closer, eyes soft. “You don’t do that with me.”

And he didn’t. He hadn’t thought about it until now, but she was right.

He wanted to be near her.

He was near her.

And it didn’t feel like a risk.

It felt like finally.

-

They didn’t speak after that.

They didn’t need to.

Not every connection was made through conversation. Not every moment needed explanation or context or anything more than this—two people sitting just close enough that their shoulders touched, breathing the same air, watching the same water glitter beneath the sun.

Harry shifted slightly so their knees aligned again. Their legs pressed from hip to ankle now. Steady. Solid. Warm.

And she let herself lean.

Not because she was tired. Not because it was comfortable.

But because she wanted to.

She didn’t want to be anywhere else.

-

The breeze lifted her hair gently, strands tickling her face. Harry reached over without hesitation, tucking one behind her ear.

His fingers lingered.

Her eyes met his.

And for a long, breathless moment, they didn’t move.

There was a question between them. Unspoken. Not ready to be asked, but undeniable in its presence.

And then he smiled.

Soft. Crooked. The kind that made her feel like the morning light had shifted just for her.

She smiled back.

And leaned her head against his shoulder.

-

She fit.

That’s what hit him most.

Not the heat of her beside him, or the way she leaned without asking, or the way her hair brushed his jaw as she settled into him.

It was how right it felt.

How easy.

How like he’d been carrying a weight he hadn’t noticed until it was gone.

He let his cheek rest gently against the top of her head. Just a little. Just enough to say I’m here.

And she didn’t flinch. Didn’t stiffen.

She just sighed, slow and full, and let her hand rest on his knee.

-

It was quiet like that for a long time.

Long enough that the world started to fade. The laughter from the dock became background noise. The creak of the screen door lost its edge. The wind and the trees and the water became a rhythm beneath them, something that moved with them instead of around them.

He didn’t want to move.

He didn’t want to speak.

He didn’t want to risk even one second of disrupting the way she was curled into him like she’d always known how.

So he didn’t.

He just stayed.

-

Eventually, she closed her eyes.

Not to sleep. Just to feel it better. To memorize the way the sun warmed her cheek, the way his arm wrapped lightly around her, the way her entire body exhaled when she let herself believe—for one slow, golden morning—that this didn’t have to be complicated.

That maybe, for the first time in a long time, she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

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Next Part

[inspectori]

PLEWSE OIKAWA ONESJOT I BEG OF YOU. Like he tries to impress you but in reality it comes off more as desperate and pathetic. (Pushing the loser oikawa agenda). LIKE HE TRIPS AND FALLS IN FRONT OF YOU WHEN HES TRYING TO BE SMOOTH AND RAGHHHHSISHFIWHWFFE

And you think he's some kind of playboy so you don't fall for it at first then warm up to him hehe...

(YESSS I LOVE THIS BRO 😈)

- LOSER AT HEART -

You’re halfway through taping Hanamaki’s fingers when you hear it—

“Y/N-chan~ You look absolutely radiant today.”

“Kill me now,” you mutter under your breath.

Without looking up, you deadpan, “I hope you realize I’m currently holding a roll of athletic tape and a grown man’s sweaty-ass fingers.”

“But you do it so gracefully,” Oikawa coos, leaning against the table like he thinks he’s on the cover of Vogue. He throws in a wink for good measure.

Matsukawa sighs loudly. Hanamaki grins, already bracing for impact.

“Three… two… one—”

THUD.

Oikawa’s body hits the floor.

And all you hear is Maki’s and Matsu’s loud ass cackles.

You finally glance up. “I’m sorry, what the hell was that? Did you seriously just eat shit?”

“No!” Oikawa groans, face still mashed into the floor. “I meant to sit. Gracefully. With style.”

Hanamaki chokes on air. “BYE. BITCH. YOU WERE STANDING.”

Tooru scrambles upright, trying to play it cool like he didn’t just get humbled by gravity. “It was a tactical flirtation maneuver.”

You narrow your eyes. “Get the hell out of my personal space, Tooru. Before I ‘tactically’ throw this tape at your damn head.”

And that’s the thing about Oikawa Tooru.

You know exactly who he is—Mr. Perfect Hair, Mr. ‘I flirt with anything that breathes.’ And as the team’s manager, you are not here for it. You’re already babysitting a whole squad of volleyball crashouts; the last thing you need is their dumbass captain trying to flirt like he’s in a shoujo anime.

But he doesn’t stop.

He brings you drinks from the vending machine—always with an exaggerated “For you, my love.”

He tries to offer you his jacket when it’s literally 75°F.

He once looked you dead in the eye and said, “Your handwriting could rival ancient scrolls of beauty.”

(You were writing stats. On a clipboard. With a chewed pen.)

Every time he tries to be cool, he fails spectacularly.

He once flipped his hair too hard and smacked himself in the face.

Another time, he tossed you a towel with a “Here, love”—only for it to flop into a puddle with a sad, wet slap.

You stared him down and said, “Wow. Great job Tooru.”

And yet… he keeps going.

At first, you’re convinced it’s just a game to him. A way to pass time. A new victim.

But then—one day—you forget your umbrella.

Everyone’s gone. The gym’s dark. Rain’s falling in sheets, drenching the pavement like some moody romance movie backdrop.

You’re two seconds from saying “screw it” and walking home soaked when you hear frantic footsteps.

Oikawa.

Soaked. Out of breath. Holding an umbrella.

You blink. “You’re already drenched, dumbass.”

He grins—tired, hair plastered to his forehead, shirt clinging to him. “Doesn’t matter. You weren’t gonna walk alone.”

You just… stare. “You ran back in that? For me?”

He shrugs, sheepish. “Might be an idiot, but I’m… serious, y’know?”

For once, he’s not smirking. Not winking. No theatrics. Just a soggy boy with the dumbest heart you’ve ever seen.

You sigh, grabbing the umbrella. “Fine. But if you get sick, I’m not making you tea.”

His grin is immediate. Genuine. Kinda dazzling, in a “wow I hate that you’re actually cute” way.

And you think—ugh. Maybe the loser act isn’t an act after all.

Maybe you do kinda like him.

Just a little.

Maybe.

(perchance gave the reader iwaizumi’s attitude 😭😭)

[pjomakesyourkidsgay]

. . . leo valdez

˖°𓇼 bf!leo absolutely ends up being an accidental romantic. bf!leo who doesn't really care that it's valentines day, specifically, but he just really likes to spend time with you and make you happy. bf!leo who cracks annoying jokes and calls you weird terms of endearment like "cute little chicken mcnugget" and "adorable miniscule metal scrap with eyes" and "special sparky mcdonald's sprite". bf!leo who drags you to a burger king at a ghastly eight in the morning to grab a burger because he was working late the night before. bf!leo who makes an effort to clean out bunker nine so that you can spend the day there comfortably. bf!leo who, out of nowhere, takes you out on a ride with festus to get groceries for a spontaneous private camping night. bf!leo who prepares his famous tofu tacos just for you. bf!leo who starts the bonfire but ends up getting his hair on fire. bf!leo who plays just dance with you on a switch he made. he definitely knows all the latest dances. bf!leo who tries to cheat in uno by making a machine but he fails because you can see every little thing he's doing. bf!leo who toasts the marshmallows just perfectly. bf!leo who tells festus to ward off every other camper that tries to get near your date site. bf!leo who makes you little custom gifts made out of the extra parts and pieces of his projects. bf!leo who warms you up at night by cuddling with you. bf!leo who lets you play with his unruly, curly mess of hair. bf!leo who's a total best friend kind of boyfriend. bf!leo who reserves the most emotional part of him for your eyes only because of the immense trust he has for you. bf!leo who can't go a full day without, at some point, holding your hand in his perpetually warm, calloused ones. bf!leo who falls asleep next to you, his face buried in your stomach as he snores, really loudly...

"bro, pay attention to me."

leo's head whips away from whatever he's tinkering with between his fingers, sending you a carefully practiced look, one eyebrow raised to his hairline. "bro?"

"i'm-"

"well, okay, dude," he shoots back. "what is it you want to tell me, buddy? are you alright, mate? perhaps this chap right o'here wanted a l'il ol' chat? well, buckaroo, did you want attention from your special bruzz?"

"leo!" you shove him by the shoulder, cackling at the offended look on his face (that had melted the moment you started laughing at his antics). if you hadn't called his name he might've named every name in the book of bro code, and you really didn't need that. even festus blew a column of smoke into the latino's face.

"i know we're comfy and all but a random bro? seriously? weren't we just kissing by the fire?"

"that's enough," you interrupt him, a hue of red flushing your features, but if anyone asked you'd swear it was the flame reflecting back on your face. "i'm sorry, my hyper little elf boyfriend. is that better?"

"infinitely so, my blushing fairy maiden of a girlfriend, though we should go easy on the 'little'."

"i'm not blushing!"

"of course not, it must be my eyes playing tricks on me."

you shove him, again, with your foot this time. your socks were matching with his, cute miniscule fire-breathing dragons in yellow and red. "hey, you're gonna make me drop this!"

you halt your attack and scoot on over closer to him, peeking over his shoulder, his dark curls poking your eye. "what's that?"

"woah, there, ms. nosy!" he yelps, tucking the item back into a clasped hand and throwing an arm around your waist, bringing you down. "not yet." he mutters incoherent things, muffled because of his face practically pressing up against your stomach.

you complain immediately in his hold. "you're too hot."

"yeah, i know i'm hot."

"you suck!" you try to wriggle out of his grasp but he pulls you closer, holding onto you as if you were a giant teddy bear. "leo, i'm going to start overheating!"

he looks up at you then, grinning. "then we'll overheat together."

you give his hair a slight (and loving) yank, plastering a serious face on. "bruh."

"that's so not sigma of you," he whines, sitting back up and pulling something out of his pocket. "alright, then, i'll give it to you now."

"are you gonna fight me? get ready to catch these hands, you absolue L rizz."

"i'm supposed to be the brainrot one!"

with a joking eyeroll, he finally opens his hands in the way one would do when proposing. in his palm was a little metal box, about two inches on all sides, tightly closed.

you watch it for a couple of seconds, finally realizing that it wasn't about to do anything. you look at the latino boy questioningly.

"put the pad of your thumb here," he points at the spot, "it has a fingerprint sensor. it opens only to you."

so you do as you're told, and the tiny box opens, transformers-style. a round, rotating platform rises from the middle, showing tiny statues of what could only be you and him mid-wrestle, faces contorted with mirth. your favorite song plays as mini-you-and-leo spin around to the music, a scene of pure love between the two of you captured with the perfect backtrack.

"oh my gods," you gasp out, lips parted. you reach out to push his hands safely out of the way before kissing him. lips on lips, full of passion and obvious gratitude.

you pull away, he's still wonderstruck, you're peppering kisses all over his cute face with a 'thank you' between each one.

"ladies, ladies!" he laughs, closing the music box and placing it gently into your hand. "calm down! take a few deep breaths."

you open the box again immediately after you receive it, singing the lyrics to the song softly until leo kisses your cheek and sings them louder, word for word.

eventually the night dissolves into song, into you and leo's song, and screw it if all the other campers can't sleep.

dividers by: @strangergraphics and @ianrkives

[mediumgayitalian]

Nico really fucking hates capture the flag.

Well, not always. Last week was fun. Last week was the annual Everyone Against The Stolls (to atone for their crimes), and Nico got to chase Connor around at top speeds, cackling, committing his shrieking and begs for mercy to memory. That was nice. That almost made him forgive the fucker for digging a trench under Nico’s unwelcome mat for him to fall into at seven thirty in the godsdamn morning.

But tonight’s game is boring.

He’s been standing, alone, at the base of the flag for the past forty bajillion hours. He’d raised a few dozens skeletons to spar with at first, since animating them to fight himself isn’t technically against the rules, but that got dull fast. (It isn’t much fun sparring with a partner who doesn’t have a brain. He already has to do that enough with Percy when he comes to visit camp.) He’d climbed the various trees around the clearing, or at least he tried until he got reamed by the dryads for climbing on a manner that was too annoying (?), and tried his hands at a few summoning spells. Nothing held his interest long.

And now he’s just standing, doing nothing, and he’s not allowed to leave. He has to stay in this stupid spot on the off chance that someone comes stumbling over to fight him for the flag.

“You’re our best swordsman, she said,” he says mockingly, beaming the nastiest vibes he can manage in Piper’s vague direction. “We need you on our defensive line, she said. Nyeh nyeh nyeh.”

His checks his watch. He groans. He looks critically over the grass, looking for a softer patch, and when he locates it he throws himself dramatically upon it, groaning louder.

“This sucks!” he yells, to no one.

“Will you shut up!” shouts back the dryad he pissed off earlier. “For the love of photosynthesis! Fuck!”

He bites his tongue hard to hold back laughter. (If he can avoid getting his entire cabin overgrown with prickle bushes again, that’d be great.) “Sorry,” he calls, trying with everything he has to sound contrite. Convincing his father to fight the Titan War was easier, actually. Acting is not his calling.

“Hmph!”

At least listening to see if she’ll come out and yell at him again provides something to ease his boredom. Yes, he’s going to regret bothering her, but in his defense, solo guarding is cruel and unusual punishment. He’d rather sit by an outlet with a fork and see if he can poke and let go fast enough to avoid dying. That at least would be interesting.

A rustling of leaves recaptures his attention, and he pauses.

“Holly?”

When no one answers, which is odd because she’s taken every opportunity in the last hour to either insult him or pelt him with stones, he lifts his head.

“You’re not going to scare me, dude. I had my fear glands surgically removed to become a better soldier.”

Not true. Obviously. But a fun bonus of being the camp weirdo is that no one doubts anything he says. He’s working on convincing everyone younger than him that he needs weekly tributes of chocolate delivered to his door every Friday or the dead are going to take over the world. So far, it’s working.

“Look, Holly, I’m sorry about the zombie, okay, I promise it didn’t mean to sneeze part of its brain on you —”

The rustling sounds again, only this time Nico can see that it’s not Holly’s tree, and in fact she is nowhere to be found. Alarmed, he jumps to his feet, shifting so he’s balanced on the balls of his feet, poised to attack. Is Piper’s plan failing? Has someone actually managed to make it all the way over here without getting (gently, probably, although they lost the last game and Piper gets cranky without dessert) maimed?

The rustling sounds for a third time. This time, an armoured someone stumbles out of the underbrush, tripping over their own foot and nearly landing flat on their face.

Nico has his sword at their throat in a millisecond.

“Wo-oah, Morbius. That’s probably my least favourite sword you could stab in me.”

Nico goes bright red. “I have never wanted to stab you more than right this second.”

Will, chest plate skewed to the right, quiver completely empty, and black paint smeared under his eyes, snickers. He puts a finger on the tip of Nico’s sword and pushes it away from his neck.

“The opportunity was right there, babe. I couldn’t not.”

“You really, really could. In fact at all times, you should remember these words of wisdom: shut up.”

“…Damn. Inspiring.”

Nico rolls his eyes, but the effect is somewhat lessened by the smile on his face and the obvious pleasure in his expression. He’s even feeling merciful enough to accept Will’s kiss, although his sword keeps a good amount of distance between them. (Will’s on the blue team, after all. It would be unprofessional to be fraternizing with the enemy.

…Well, too much, anyway.)

“What’re you doing here? You’re supposed to be with the other archers, sitting in trees and causing havoc.”

Will shrugs, grinning lazily. “I quit. This game is senselessly violent and I’m Against It On Principle. I’m a pacifist, you know.”

“Uh huh.” Nico raises an eyebrow. “I assume this doesn’t count you choking Cecil out in a headlock, this morning.”

Will opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He closes it again.

“Cecil is my mortal enemy,” he grudges after a moment. “He doesn’t count.”

“‘Course not. Not like you cried for two hours when he went to visit his mom last weekend or anything.”

“Will you — stop saying I cried. I barely teared up, okay. Barely.”

Nico can’t quite force down the stupid grin that pulls across his face, matching Will’s, nor can he resist grabbing the leather straps of his boyfriend’s armour and hauling him close.

“You better not be here to distract me,” he mumbles, leaning close and pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw, the corner of his mouth. Will hums, settling his hands on Nico’s hips.

“Nope. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Drama queen.”

“Excuse — I am the least dramatic, I’ll have you know. I’m a pinnacle of solemnity. I am a shining beacon of stoicism. I am — mmfh,” He trails off. “Okay, doing this now, mhm.”

Nico smiles triumphantly into the kiss. Will, he has found, is very easy to shut up, despite his long-running nickname of Motormouth. It’s almost like he has an off button that can be accessed only by Nico sticking his tongue in his mouth. Nico is doing his civic duty, honestly. He should be compensated for his service.

(‘Course, doesn’t hurt that Will smells, like, really good, all the time, and his lips are soft as hell and he is actually quite the kisser, in fact. That is definitely a fun bonus.)

He smooths his hands over Will’s shoulders, travelling up the sides of his neck and settling in his hair. Will keens, slightly, when he wraps a finger around a frizzy golden curl and tugs, slightly, when he scratches his nails along his scalp. The rush of power at the feeling makes Nico dizzy, and his sword clatters to the ground as he busies himself with more interesting — and important — things.

Like pulling more of those sounds from his boyfriend’s throat. Or making his knees buckle, again, like he did the other night — gods, that was good, it made Will flush scarlet and Nico feel like he was fuckin’ floating, to have Will so needy and touchy and totally at his mercy —

“Free line to the flag! Go go go go!”

Nico startles, whirling towards the sudden cacophony of noises. To his horror, what looks like half the camp, helmets shining with plumes of blue, comes pouring into the clearing, weapons raised, voices mixing in one long, victorious shout. He lunges for his sword, but before he can grab it, two strong arms tighten around his torso, pinning his hands to his side.

Immediately, he knows he’s been set up.

“Oh, you �� fucker!”

He feels the curve of Will’s grin against his neck. “First shower privileges for a whole month, baby.” He noses along his jaw, pressing an apologetic kiss to his cheek. “Couldn’t resist.”

Nico struggles, aghast, watching the once-red flag shimmer in Lou Ellen's hold to a bright, shining blue. “I am breaking up with you, you traitor, you Iago, you vixen — ”

Will snorts. He ducks down and pecks Nico on the lips, again, and again, and then shifts to his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, his temples, his forehead, and all over his face, making louder and louder mwah sounds until Nico is laughing, punching his shoulder and shoving him away.

“Okay! Okay. Let me go, you villainous toad. We will discuss how much you’ll have to grovel for my forgiveness after Piper finishes yelling at me for getting distracted.”

Will presses one last kiss to his nose, smiling cheekily before stepping away, heading towards his boasting team. “Enjoy that lecture! Love you!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Nico rolls his eyes, resting his aching cheek in his hand. “Love you too, asshole.”

[zan0tix]

Forgot abt this doodle LOL

That art in the corner inspired this and its in like literally every dirkjake pmv on youtube it makes me cackle every time it windows movie maker pans in over 2010s breakup music without fail

[gay-dorito-dust]

I’m obsessed with Beetlejuice now, and the original film came out in ‘88, so that means Ford didn’t get to see it. So what if the reader, after he came back, asked him to the theaters to go see a rerun of it? And ofc he says yes, but it doesn’t click until a little bit later that he basically just agreed to go on a date with you

Halloween was a beloved holiday to the townsfolk of gravity falls, for you however your favourite part about this was that the local movie theatre would host reruns of beloved movies, but not more beloved to you then the movie Beetlejuice.

You’ve watched it countless times and countless times more when the theatre first started doing their re runs, so much so that every summerween and Halloween the employees had come to expect your arrival without fail. You were pretty certain you were single-handedly saving the theatre with your constant visits but you didn’t care, for as long as they kept the tradition of keeping Beetlejuice on their list of reruns, you would be there to throw your hard earned money at them.

So when you found out through Stanley that Ford hasn’t ever seen Beetlejuice due to…certain circumstances that he had just gotten out of, and finding it criminal before deciding to take matters into your own hands as you quickly ventured into Ford’s room; completely forgoing knocking as you found him sat on his bed reading a book…well was before you burst through his door, triggering him into reaching for his gun that he kept on the bedside table out of instinct.

‘Y/n you scared me my dear.’ Ford said in relief as he sets the gun back down on the bedside table.

‘Sorry Ford but I’ve got something really important to ask of you.’ You said as you rubbed the back of your head sheepishly.

Ford sets down his book to give you his full attention as his kind, wise eyes looked deep into your own. ‘Ask away my dear.’

‘So the theatre is playing some reruns of some movies for Halloween, and I was thinking if you’d like to come with me, tonight?’ You asked as you found yourself playing with the hem of your shirt out of nervousness, hoping that you weren’t bothering him by asking or preventing him from doing something important.

Ford on the other hand only smiled wider at your request, feeling a warm, fuzzy feeling within his chest that he wouldn’t acknowledge until after your minor interaction. ‘I don’t see why not, I would love to join you tonight my dear.’ He agrees and your eyes brightened as you exited his room, poorly concealing your excitement, as he heard your celebratory yell of ‘yes!!’ from inside his room. He was happy that you were happy, however you wasn’t the only visitor Ford has that day as soon after, Stanley was stood at his doorway with a smug look.

‘Heard you agreed to go on a date with y/n tonight.’ Stan said, Ford furrowed his brows.

‘A date? When did I-oh’ then it hit him, when you asked him to accompany you to the theatre. He assumed that you meant as a family outing with the kids and Stan, only to remember that you didn’t mention the kids or Stan but only yourself and him. Poor Ford must’ve looked red as a tomato as he buried his head into his book, much to Stanley’s amusement as he cackled, holding his sides while his face became beat red.

‘Have fun on your date! Make sure you give me all the details when you get back lover boy!’ Stan cooed as he left his flustered brother, who was now ripping apart his wardrobe in hopes of finding something nice to wear for your date tonight. ‘Y/n is going to eat him alive.’ Stanley added as he high-fived Mabel on his way towards the living room, the two of them having succeeded in masterfully pulled off the greatest match making of their lives.

[qu1cks1lversb1tch]

Sinstagram | L. Morningstar

Warnings: Lucifer being a slight menace to society, Reader is also a fallen angel, fem reader, bestie Angel Dust, mother reader, older sister Charlie, kinda wholesome, Lucifer being a good dad and an amazing husband, semi suggestive(?)

Word Count: 1.1K

A/N — sorry if it's kinda all over the place, I've been stuck in a horrendous bout of writers block and just barely had the motivation to sit down and write for Lucifer, my love 😭

"No fuckin way!" Angel Dust cackled from two rooms over and immediately you heard his footsteps coming towards you. It could be one of two things — Val posted something weird as fuck or he uncovered pictures of the two of you absolutely plastered from three months ago.

"What's up?" You asked, looking away from the paperwork Charlie had you doing for the hotel, while she took her younger siblings out. Some of the stuff she didn't understand, even with the help of Vaggie or Alastor, so you stepped in to help as you were a manager at a hotel when you were sent to earth for work — it was a way to blend in that unironically gave you experience.

Angel stopped before you, a smirk falling upon his face filled with glee and suggestive glances. "You check your phone in the last few minutes?"

Confused, you shook your head 'no' and set down the small stack of papers that had been stapled together so you could view them with ease. "I've been working for the last few hours to make up for being gone with Lucifer all weekend, so it's on silent. . . Angel, what's going on?"

He leaned across the counter and turned his phones screen to face you. It was Lucifer's most recent Sinstagram post. For a moment, you were confused until your eyes scanned the caption.

'She calls me apple the way I be in cider 😏🍎'

Immediately, you blushed and covered your blazing cheeks with your hands. "Oh my." You breathed out. That blush immediately became a flush of mortification when Angel clicked on the picture and it showed that he had tagged you. Your Sinstagram username stared back at you.

"So, you and the short king got down and dirty on your weekend retreat, huh?" Angel Dust smirked, turning his phone back to himself to scroll through the comments that were rolling in by the second.

"Well," you began, unsure of where your words were going to go. "I am his wife. . . It's a natural thing that married and apparently unmarried people do. . . Yes, it's only natural."

Angel snorted. "You ain't gonna hear any complainin' from me, [Y/N/N]. . . So long as there ain't anymore little Lucifer's running around anytime soon."

"About that. . ." You trailed off.

Angel Dust opened his mouth to reply.

As if on cue, the front doors of the hotel opened, Charlie and Vaggie entered, each holding one of your children — the former exorcist angel holding your sleeping daughter. She had your hair but Lucifer's eyes and rosy cheeks.

Your son was wide awake, bearing a striking resemblance to his father and older sister, but with your eyes.

It was clear just by the way he was buzzing that they had gone to LuLu World. He was always energetic coming home from such an exciting trip, whereas your daughter was out cold halfway through the ride back home every time without fail. It was likely a sugar crash.

"Looks like someone had fun." You removed your hands from your face and stood from your seat, rounding the desk.

"We all did. . . Thanks for letting us take them out, [Y/N]. I wish you and dad could've come with us and made it a family day." Charlie smiled brightly at you.

"We will soon, I promise. . . Thank you for taking them while I got some work in."

"It's no problem! I love them — they're just the cutest."

Your son practically jumped out of his sister's arms when you got close enough for him to wrap his arms around your neck. He went on and on about all the fun stuff the four of them had while you finished up working, until he fell asleep mid sentence.

You chuckled lightly and asked Angel to bring your daughter out to the limousine that was waiting out front of the hotel. He arrived a few minutes later and your daughter acted as if she was beginning to wake up, until she was strapped into her car seat and the driver started the vehicle.

"One more Morningstar, huh?" Angel questioned before you could close the door behind you.

You smiled, chuckling slightly. "Just one more. He convinced me this time."

A couple minutes later you were on your way, watching the buildings fly past your window. You decided to check your phone finally. The post had over a million likes and had just over six thousand comments. You liked the post, the blush creeping up once again. At some point you had to stop caring — you were in Hell and there were people doing worse things than being romantically involved with their partners.

It wasn't long before three of you arrived home and Lucifer threw the front door open before the vehicle could even stop. When the driver opened the door, Lucifer was there to see his children after a long day.

"Look at my babies!" He gushed quietly, tears springing to his eyes as he watched them sleep so peacefully.

You snickered and he turned to you.

"And my beautiful wife! Hi! I love you so much!" He kissed all over your face while placing one of his hands on your belly — you weren't showing yet, but would be in the next few weeks.

"I love you too, Luci. . . Let's get them inside. I want them to be in bed before you and I have a talk about what we do and don't say on Sinstagram when we'll be apart for hours." You whispered the last sentence, caressing his cheek.

His eyes widened and he gulped before chuckling nervously.  "You saw that, did you?"

"I sure did. . . Apple." You could've sworn he was gonna pass out from the tone of your voice, but he instead cleared his throat and unbuckled one child while you handled the other.

The two of you got inside and put the kids to bed, silently thanking Charlie for making sure they ate something other than sugar before they came home.

Then there was a lot of talking. Definitely just talking. . . Yeah. . . Talking. 👀

A few hours later, the two of you laid together, Lucifer laying his head on your lower abdomen. "I know I said one more. . . But what if we had more?"

You laughed lightly, raking your fingers through his hair. "How many more are we talking, Luci? I'd consider one more after this, but then we wouldn't have an even number. . . Charlie adores her siblings, but I think another after our littlest Morningstar would be pushing it."

"She always wanted a big family. . . Lots of brothers and sisters she could spend time with. She used to beg Lilith and I all the time for siblings, but I won't push you. I understand your concerns. I'll be happy regardless of what you decide." Lucifer declared, looking up at you with his pretty eyes.

"We'll see. . . I love you, Lucifer. You know that, right?"

"I know. I love you so so so so so so much." He replied. 

The post in question and the image that gave me the idea for this in the first place (the first pic expands more, fyi 🙂):

[thepersonnamedsam]

heyy🤍

I was wondering if u could kindly write a little something about period cuddles and comfort with lando, thank you in advanceee

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

summary: headcanons about period cuddles with lando

warnings: period pains, blood

note: i am so sorry it took me sooooo long to write your request!!! pls accept my apology, please!!!!

masterlist / taglist

it had started again, your period

what it meant for you was; pain, pain and more pain, it was unbearable

800mg of ibuprofen every 6 hours, warmth and curled up either in bed or on the couch was usually the solution for the week

when lando wasn’t around

if lando was there (which usually wasn’t the case), you cuddled - always

„baby, please let me help you, i can’t stand to see you in pain“

you smiled through your pain and just told him to go and buy your favourite snack

he called carlos - he for sure has some womanly advice for the youngster

c: „why did you not cuddle with her, cabrón?“

l: „she didn’t offer it, i didn’t want to overstep“

as he returned home with more than half the store, he slowly approached you

„baby? are you sleeping? do you want cuddles?“

you whined and nodded your head

„c‘mere baby“

his arms snaked around your abdomen, his warm hands rested on your lower belly, massaging lightly, trying to ease your pain

„does it feel good? am i doing something wrong?“

you told him he did everything right, which he let out a sigh

his body warmth made you feel sleepy

„just go to sleep, baby, i’ll be here when you wake up, promise“

his steady breath and light massaging let you fall asleep easily

your breath slowed and your eyes closed, lando knew you were finally asleep

he didn’t want to get up, but your hot water bottle had started to get cold

so he got up as slowly and as silently as he good, without waking you up

the hot water bottle was taken out of your grip and lando started to boil water in the kettle

he also tried to make you some sort of dessert, but he failed miserably

he put the now freshly hot water bottle in your grip again and turned on the tv

when you woke up, your favourite series was paused on the screen and lando was just scrolling through instagram

„good morning baby, how was your sleep, you in any pain?“

you nodded and he handed you a cold glass of water and the next batch of ibuprofen

„has it been 6 hours already“, you has asked him

„yeah, i got this period app where it lets you document your medication. now i always know when your next periods gonna be“

you were surprised about his engagement

actually you weren’t, he’s your boyfriend and a bloody good one at that

but it’s still lando

„press play already!“, you demanded

„alright“, he laughed and pressed play on the remote

he lightly started to caress your neck with soft kisses

a kiss there

a kiss here

it felt so good

„please don’t stop baby“

„never.“

you could never survive another period without lando

even if that meant travelling to grand prixs with him and sharing his time with racing

but it didn’t matter, because he was still as affectionate as ever and never stopped comforting you through your pain

even when you started crying over charles dsq in texas

he brought you to the ferrari garage to comfort charles - more for your comfort, but it didn’t matter

charles had to promise you, that he was fine and that he’s not gonna quit and accidentally end up on a ranch as a cowboy

lando thanked charles multiple times that day

or when you saw a little kid tumble and fall to the ground - you instantly started crying with the kid

lando hugged you and promised to help the little kid (even tho he was cackling up inside)

or when he had to get roscoe from lewis, because you needed cuddles but the race was about to start

you watched the race from his drivers room and cried when he drove into the points

you could get very emotional

but lando loved that about you

let’s be honest, that man loved everything about you

he still wasn’t sure how you were his girlfriend (lando norrizz)

but you loved him very much

°°°

@ironmaiden1313 , @topguncultleader , @biglittlesecret, @gulabjamooon , @lovelyy-moonlight , @peachyplumsss , @mistrose23 , @copper-boom , @love4lando , @champomiel , @serenityleah , @iloveyou3000morgan , @angelwithoutmywings , @elleeeee21 , @youkissedareaderinthedark , @mikauraur , @thybulleric , @lpab , @fdl305 , @mellowarcadefun , @teti-menchon0604 , @vildetry06 , @bibissparkles , @aurora-maria , @lunnnix , @sya-skies , @Buckywifeyy , @dakotali , @rechtrecht , @noncannonships , @1eclerc16 , @pitlanebabe , @sopheeg , @avengersheart , @thatsadsmallchild , @peachiicherries , @idkiwantchocolatee , @callsign-scully , @mehrmonga , @badbatch-simp24 , @lissyontour , @din0nugs , @elliegrey2803 , @gay-for-victoria-de-angelis , @10vely-yutazen , @daggersquadphantom , @azriel-the-shadowsinger , @i-love-scott-mccall , @darleneslane , @mikauraur , @heartmetaphor , @darleneslane , @ellswilliams , @thxtmarvelchick , @nataliambc , @dontjudgeabookbythecover , @hockeyboysarehot , @thehistoryone

[prettygirl-gabi]

Title: More Than a Joke

Rating: General

Pairing: Dominique Darius x Reader

Fandom: USC Women’s Basketball

Word Count: 2k+

Summary: is it fake or real, who knows

🏷️: @yailtsv

Transferring from the University of South Carolina to the University of Southern California was a leap of faith. I had built something solid with my old team, but USC called to me—a fresh start, new teammates, and a new challenge.

Walking into the practice gym for the first time, I inhaled deeply, the familiar scent of polished wood and faint sweat filling my lungs. I adjusted my practice jersey, scanning the court where my new teammates were already warming up.

Before I could take a step, something—or rather, someone—collided into me hard.

BAM!

I stumbled back, barely keeping my balance.

“Damn, my bad—”

Looking up, I found myself face-to-face with a tall, athletic woman with a mischievous smirk. Dominique Darius.

“No, that’s on me,” I said quickly, rubbing my shoulder.

“Nah, it’s definitely on you,” she shot back, nudging my arm. “Didn’t they tell you? I run this court.”

I let out a laugh, immediately feeling at ease. “Oh, word? Guess I gotta earn my spot then.”

Domi grinned. “Stick with me today. I’ll make sure you survive.”

And she did. Through every drill, every scrimmage, and even post-practice stretches, she stayed close, guiding me through USC’s systems and making sure I didn’t feel like an outsider.

By the time practice ended, I already felt like I belonged.

Domi and I clicked instantly. We spent so much time together that it became a running joke among the team. If one of us wasn’t in the gym, the other wasn’t far behind. If Domi had a late-night editing session for her vlog, I was sitting right next to her, tossing popcorn at her head.

Then the teasing started.

“Y’all together or something?” JuJu smirked as Domi and I walked into the locker room, side by side as usual.

“She’s literally my girlfriend,” Domi shot back effortlessly, throwing an arm over my shoulder.

The room erupted in laughter.

“Wait, is that official? Should we start shipping y’all?” Kiki asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Absolutely,” I deadpanned. “Domi’s been begging me to make it official.”

“BEGGING?” Domi gasped dramatically, pushing me away. “You are so delusional.”

AG, Viv, and Brook cackled from across the room, eating it all up.

At that moment, the inside joke was born.

From that day on, we leaned into it. Holding hands at team dinners? Done. Calling each other “babe” in front of coaches? Too easy. The fans quickly caught on, making compilations of every flirtatious moment caught in USC’s media coverage.

It was hilarious. And, if I was being honest, I kind of loved it.

Domi’s YouTube channel was thriving, and it wasn’t long before she roped me into it.

“Alright, [Y/N], you ready?” she asked one day, flipping the camera around to face me.

“Wait, wait—” I held up my hands, hesitant. “I don’t do cameras.”

“You do now,” she grinned, shoving it into my hands. “This is your segment.”

“My what?”

Before I could protest, she walked away, leaving me to stare at the lens.

“Uh… okay, hey guys,” I sighed, adjusting the angle. “It’s [Y/N], your favorite person on this channel. I’m here to tell you all the ways Domi is actually the worst girlfriend in history.”

From then on, Domi dedicated 10-15 minutes of every vlog to me. Whether I was messing with her, ranting about practice, or just sitting there eating snacks while side-eyeing her edits, it became a fan-favorite segment.

And, without fail, I ended every single one the same way:

“Alright, y’all, that’s all for my section. Love you, Domi. Best girlfriend ever.”

Domi always groaned, but I could tell she secretly loved it.

A full year of our “fake dating” passed in the blink of an eye.

The joke had gotten so big that fans made ship names. Our teammates still teased us relentlessly. We even had inside jokes that felt too real sometimes.

But nothing prepared me for what Domi had planned on the one-year anniversary of the joke.

“Come over tonight,” she said casually after practice. “I wanna show you something for my next vlog.”

I agreed, not thinking much of it.

Later that evening, I arrived at her place, sinking into the couch as she set up her laptop. The screen brightened, and a video file appeared.

The second she hit play, my own voice filled the room:

“Hey guys, it’s [Y/N], your favorite person on this channel…”

I frowned.

The video was a compilation.

Clips of my segments over the past year played in order, showing how the joke had evolved. My initial awkwardness, my growing confidence in front of the camera, the way I’d casually lean into Domi while talking…

Then, the pattern I hadn’t even noticed—

Every time I said, “Love you, Domi. Best girlfriend ever.”

The video cut to a reaction clip of Domi smiling, laughing, or secretly blushing.

My stomach flipped.

Then, the final clip.

A new one.

Domi, looking directly into the camera.

“One year ago, we started this as a joke. But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like one.” She exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck. “The truth is… you’ve been my favorite part of every vlog. And my favorite part of USC. And, if you’ll let me, I’d like you to be my favorite part of everything else too.”

The screen faded to black, and bold white words appeared:

“[Y/N], will you be my girlfriend for real?”

Silence filled the room.

My heart pounded.

Domi turned to me, biting her lip nervously. “So…?”

I stared at her, barely able to process it. “You—this—wait, you planned this?”

She nodded. “I wanted it to be special. Because you’re special.”

My chest ached in the best way possible.

Without thinking, I launched forward, wrapping my arms around her neck. “Yes, Domi. Yes.”

She grinned against my shoulder, holding me tightly. “Best girlfriend ever?”

I pulled back, laughing. “Best real girlfriend ever.”

Epilogue

The reaction from our teammates was obnoxious.

JuJu: “FINALLY.”

Kiki: “We BEEN knew.”

AG: “Wait, I thought y’all were already dating?”

Viv: “I was ready to start charging y’all rent for living in denial.”

Brook: “I literally won a bet because of this.”

CC: “Took y’all forever.”

As for the fans?

They lost their minds.

Domi’s video hit a million views within days, the comment section exploding with excitement.

And me?

I was too busy living the happiest days of my life with my new real girlfriend to care.

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                             -prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️