#this was like a soft blanket on a cold day

[shroompette]

Maine Coon Cat!König living alone in his den, generally unbothered until Bunny!Reader shows up during a storm, seeking shelter under the overhang of his home. Wet, cold and with an injured leg, König takes pity on her and brings her inside.

MCCat!König who doesn't really have many veggies lying around, but he does have some fruit. He watches Bunny!Reader's cheeks grow chubby as she stuffs them with bananas and canned nectarines. Poor thing, she must have been starved. He gives her a can of strawberries as well, which she neatly tucks away in her raincoat. He does not question her about it.

MCCat!König who, after he feeds Bunny!Reader, carefully rolls up the fabric of her pants to inspect and disinfect the nasty cut on her calf, taking the opportunity to give a closer look to her as a whole. He finds himself enchanted with the long, fluffy ears that droop around the sides of her head. Even wet, they still look enticing, cotton-soft and he wants to brush them, rub his cheeks against them, kiss them, pull them, bite them-

MCCat!König who manages to make Bunny!Reader a little nest to sleep in out of spare pillows and blankets, the crackle of the flames dancing in the fireplace lulling her to sleep. He watches her for a while and nearly purrs with delight when she rolls over in her sleep and reveals the round little scut that he'd like to use as a stress ball.

MCCat!König whose big ears twitch as he hears the sound of his front door opening in the morning, knowing Bunny!Reader must have slipped out into the woods again and it makes his heart pang just a little before he resumes his everyday life.

MCCat!König who is absolutely flabbergasted when a week passes and there's a knock on his door behind which stands Bunny!Reader and her three little buns. Without a word, she ushers them inside before disappearing into the woods. He isn't sure what to do. He has half a mind to run after her, but he fears leaving the buns alone would give them an opportunity to cause mischief and he'd rather not come back and find his den on fire. He stays, letting them sit in his big lap and play with his tail that sometimes tickles them on their twitchy little noses, so similar to their mother's. They're very messy eaters too - they seem to love strawberries, little fingers and cheeks sticky with their juice.

MCCat!König who is equally relieved and enraged when Bunny!Reader finally shows up hours later with a satchel of herbs and veggies for her babies who are currently bundled up in the nest he reassembled. He is about to tell her off, inform her that he isn't a babysitter when she stands on her tiptoes and nuzzles his nose ever so gently, difusing his anger completely. He barely blinks before she's off to check on her buns, satisfied with the state she finds them in - alive, with full bellies and sleeping.

MCCat!König who slowly gets used to Bunny!Reader dropping off her kids at his doorstep and watching them for a day or two before she comes back and expresses her gratitude via soft gesture such as nuzzle or a cheek kiss.

MCCat!König who sometimes makes Bunny!Reader stay in the den with the buns to go on a veggie/herb hunt himself, just so she can spend some quality time with them. He can not pinpoint the exact moment he became so whipped for her.

MCCat!König who starts leaving the nest out permanently because he knows Bunny!Reader won't stop coming around and neither will her buns anytime soon (he'd miss them greatly if they did).

MCCat!König who lets Bunny!Reader sleep in the spare cot (that he built just for her) in his room until she decides one night that sleeping beside him would be more comfortable. He does not try to object this in the slightest, not when he can finally feel her fluffy ears against his face.

MCCat!König who regularly grooms the buns' hair and furry ears and Bunny!Reader's as well with his coarse tongue, thinking he's displaying dominance over her. He has no idea she thinks she is the one in charge by letting him groom her.

MCCat!König who's suddenly not alone anymore. The quiet days of his den are over as it's now filled with laughter and chattering of the three little buns who have began to call him "Papa". He never knew two simple syllables could bring him so much joy...and then there's Bunny!Reader, with her genius manipulative tactics that involve licks, kisses and adorable tiny stomps of her feet when she wants something done her way. He would not trade her for anything in the world.

MCCat!König who slowly starts thinking his den is too big for just the five of them...and that perhaps he and Bunny!Reader should start working on some kitten siblings for the buns.

[innorality]

could you do satoru coming home with a huge scar on his stomach after not contacting his gf for weeks and then reassuring her with intimacy please?

HEAVEN CAN WAIT — G. SATORU

cw : sad in the beginning, afab reader, unprotected, p in v, honestly very cute sex nothing too kinky

a/n : tysm nonnie you gave me the opportunity to use this song as a title finally 🥹 also this idea is so cute like yes pls soft vanilla "I missed you sex" with satoru #needthat !!! also #satoruisalive I believe in it 💔 oh and I'm so sorry this feels very rushed and is not proofread :(

wc : 1335 words 😼

empty. cold. that’s how his side of the bed felt at the moment. it had been weeks since you last saw him, and days since his last message. your eyes stayed glued to your screen, rereading his final words over and over again.

"i luv youuu"

cold tears slipped down your cheeks. you weren’t even sure if they were from grief or from your irritated eyes after staring at the screen for so long without blinking. deep down, you knew the truth—you weren’t dumb. this was bound to happen one day. but you weren’t ready to accept it yet. you wanted to stay in denial just a little longer.

satoru was supposed to be the strongest. so why hadn’t he come home?

with a shaky breath, you shut your phone off and set it aside. hugging his pillow tightly, you buried your face into it—only to realize it didn’t even smell like him anymore.

silent sobs wracked your body as exhaustion finally overtook you.

but in the dead of night, a noise startled you awake.

footsteps.

first near the front door. then in the living room. the kitchen.

and now… heading toward your bedroom.

afraid, you hid under your blanket like a child. you didn’t know if it was reflex or true fear—because honestly, after losing the man you loved, life had lost all meaning.

the door slid open, and you held your breath.

then, a voice.

"baby?"

satoru.

your heart stopped, then raced. it was him. the way he said your name, the way his voice carried through the room—you had missed it more than words could express. before you could think, you jumped out of bed and ran straight into his arms, clutching him as if he might disappear again.

he hugged you back just as tightly.

"where… where the hell were you?! you don’t know how worried i was, how much i cried! i thought you were—"

his lips met yours, silencing your frantic words with a soft peck.

"now, now," he murmured against you, his tone laced with that familiar teasing warmth. "i’m here, and that’s all that matters, pretty."

you pouted, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks as you buried your face into his chest, holding him closer. but then your fingers brushed against something different—a rougher patch of skin around his stomach.

a scar.

your breath hitched. "how did you..."

he turned away slightly, avoiding your gaze. guilty. he didn’t want to talk about it.

so you didn’t push.

instead, he gently eased you back onto the bed, his lips finding yours again, slow and deliberate.

"i was this close to dying," he murmured between kisses, trailing from your lips to your jaw, down to your neck. "but i remembered you were waiting at home for me..." his words sent a shiver down your spine as his kisses grew deeper, needier.

"and i decided that heaven could wait."

you let out a breathless giggle, threading your fingers through his white locs."you think you’re going to heaven?" you teased, tugging playfully at his hair. "what a joke."

swiftly, he unbuttoned the blouse you had on and grabbed a handful of your breast, massaging it gently while sucking and nibbling on your neck to create a colorful bruise. sweet moans of his name slid out of between your lips against your will and he simply smirked at them.

"I know you cried, and I know you were cold," his eyes bored into yours, "but now that I'm here, I promise I won't ever leave again." and this time, you're the one that closed the space between your lips. you knew that his promise wasn't true at all, but you decided to ignore that fact and let yourself believe it for the span of a single night. in the heat of the moment, your hand slid down his chest and onto his pelvis, before sneaking its way into his pants, stroking his erection sensually.

satoru moaned into your mouth before taking this bold action of yours as a sign to give you pleasure aswell, his hand rubbing your pussy through your thin panties. "Oh shit- yeah, just like that, 'toru.." your head fell to the side as his hand slid into your panties, rubbing up and down your slit to collect some of your wetness before rubbing tight and quick circles onto your clit, making you needily clench around nothing.

meanwhile, your hand was still skillfully rubbing his cock, thumb rubbing on his tip making him jolt up from the sudden intense pleasure. satoru bit his lip before penetrating you with two of his digits, making you gasp in utter shock and awe. your breath followed the rhythm of his fingers that he pumped in and out of you, as you sped up the speed of your own hand.

as expected, you felt orgasm build up pretty quickly, and as you were of the edge of climaxing, you stopped him. "stop, stop! 'toru, stop it," and he quickly halted his movements, scanning your face for any signs of discomfort or pain. "I'm sorry baby, did I hurt you? I'm so fucking sorry, fuck-" you interrupted him, "no honey, I just..." you bit the inside of your cheek, "after all this time, I wanna cum on your dick, not your fingers..." and you felt his cock twitch at your words. he stared at you in shock before his expression turned into a lustful smile.

and before you even realized it, he had taken your hand out of his pants, before taking said pants off along with your panties in a span of a second. impressive.

"you know baby," he rubbed up and down your slit with the tip of his cock, "even though I won't go to heaven, I'll make sure you do," he aligned his tip with your entrance. "what do you mean?" he pressed a quick kiss against your lips. "I'll take you there myself." and with that, he bottomed out inside you in one swift motion.

your jaw dropped and you instinctively closed your eyes to embrace the familiar sensation of him inside you, but he tapped your cheek with his finger to get your attention. "eyes on me love." and so you obliged, opening your eyes to be met with an expression that seemed to be the results of a love and lust mix.

the sound of his hops meeting yours over and over again made you delirious along with the sensation of his cock claiming your insides and the intense eye contact you held with satoru. at some point, satoru can't hold in anymore—he whines and moans into your ear, whispering confessions such as "fuck– I love you too much, baby-" and "I missed this so bad... holy shit, yeah- I need this- oh fuck, yeah.." which did nothing but turn you on even more.

your hand went straight to your clit to rub it when you felt your orgasm building up again. satoru chased your high as much as you did, using his six eyes to hit all those gummy spots that made you see stars. "fuck- m'cumming, m'cumming!" you couldn't hold back your voice as your orgasm crashed over you without a warning. you struggled to keep your eyes on him as you twitched and shook with the intensity of the orgasm, as it had been weeks since you deemed yourself worthy enough to feel pleasure.

satoru's orgasm followed suit, shooting long ropes of cum into your womb, as your tight grip pulled strings of moans of your name out of his mouth.

as you both calmed down, satoru pulled his cock out and flopped on his back next to you.

a comfortable silence fell upon the both of you before you broke it, "you know," he hummed in acknowledgement, "you were right." his head whips to the side to look at you, who was already turned towards him. "what about?", you smiled, looking at the ceiling, "you did take me to heaven, after all."

you crawled on top of him to kiss his scar, making him feel a bit tingly. he patted your head, "and I'd do it all over again just for you, love."

[leighsartworks216]

With Bated Breath

Sylus x gn!Reader

Sometimes I think about their fucked up childhoods and have to cry in a corner about it

Based on this post

Warnings: fluff, light angst, sickfic, fever, cuddling, references to homelessness and death

Word Count: 829

Main Masterlist

The Raven Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Sylus stirs awake, shifting where he lay on his stomach to watch what appears to be a blanket-monster approaching the bed. Quilts, furs, throws - gathered into one pile and now dropped to be on the unoccupied half of the bed. The person carrying them is gone before he can ask. He settles back into a comfortable position, stretched out like a cat in the sun, and quickly drifts off again.

He’s woken up again who-knows-how-long later. His heavy eyelids crack open to watch you, sitting on your knees on the bed with your back to him, shifting the pile of blankets and a series of pillows around as quietly as you can. With a cursory glance, he also notices the hoard of snacks, juice bottles and water bottles at the foot of the bed.

“What’re you doing, sweetie…?” he murmurs. His voice is low and raspy.

If you’re startled, you don’t show it as you look at him over your shoulder. “You’re sick.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “So you’ve decided to build a pillow fort while I sleep?”

You huff, feigning annoyance, but there’s something else beneath it. A softness at the edges, betraying genuine concern. It’s so hidden - shoved deep down beneath your usual façade of neutrality and disinterest. He can’t help wondering why.

You shift around the pillows some more, adjust a blanket here and there. It’s like watching a bird build a nest. When you’re finally satisfied with your handiwork, you open the blankets and sit back against the pillows, propped up against the headboard. You continue to hold the blankets open expectantly, nodding your head to your lap.

With nothing being explained to him at all, what more can he do besides follow what you want?

Grunting, he lifts himself up and crosses the distance, slipping under the blankets with you. Your lap acts as his pillow. You cover him with the blankets, tucking him in in a way completely foreign to him, carefully ensuring that he’s covered up to his neck and that no air can get in.

“You’re really doing all this just because I’m sick?”

You run your fingers through his hair. His back tenses, then relaxes, giving in to the sensation. It’s so easy to let go; hugging your waist, tucked in and warm, comfortable - he’s never been safer.

His hair is damp from sweat. His skin burns with fever. Goosebumps raise on his arms. You don’t seem deterred by any of it. You press your cool hands to his forehead and the back of his neck. Your fingers nimbly massage at his tense muscles. It’s hard to believe you’re capable of something so soft after the things he’s witnessed you do.

“I was worried,” you admit quietly.

He chuckles. It’s not as rich as usual, but it rumbles through him just the same; like thunder rolling over distant hills. “It’s just a cold, sweetie. I’ll be fine in a couple days.”

You’re silent. You scratch gently at the base of his scalp, drawing a sigh from the man. “Get some sleep.”

It’s an easy order to follow. You’ve managed to provide him all the comforts he could ever wish for. Admittedly, it’s a bit unusual for Sylus. He’s never been doted on like this. His whole life, he’s never really had someone to hold him or take care of him before. It seemed like such a weakness. Something left behind closed and locked doors, where no one can find him. He can see the appeal now.

In mere minutes, he’s dozing off. His breaths are even. The quiet rasp of each inhale and exhale fills the air. His mind teeters on the precipice of unconsciousness. Dreams and reality converge in a haze. The only thing that keeps him from slipping under is a voice, so soft and so unfamiliar it registers with the same level of danger as a high-level Wanderer sneaking up on him in the dark. Fortunately, his reflexes are slowed by his fever, because half a second later, he recognizes who’s speaking.

It’s you.

“Please don’t die…”

You whisper it into his hair with a light kiss, before it’s brushed away by your fingers. But you sound so… scared. Like a child. Like you’ve done this exact thing before - created a nest of blankets and a hoard of food and drinks, held someone in your arms… and they died.

You’d never admit it, if you did. That life is far behind, and you’d both promised that it will remain there. You’d never know his childhood and he’d never know yours. But he knows enough to guess.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t give away that he’s actually awake. Instead, under the pretense of stirring in his sleep, he holds you tighter, tucks himself closer, and stills with a sigh. He can only hope, as he finally falls into a world of dreams, that you do not anxiously wait with bated breath to make sure he makes it through.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08

[mi9yuz]

(( _ _ ))..zzzZZ MORNINGS W MYUNGHO

warnings. mentions of food!

late riser: Myungho moves at his own pace despite his schedules. While in bed, he’ll stare at the ceiling for a couple of minutes before getting up. If you’re still in bed, he’ll pull you closer and whisper, “Stay a little longer.”

loves when you play with his hair: If you absentmindedly run your fingers through his messy morning hair, he melts instantly. He might even close his eyes and drift back to sleep. “You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t stop you.

wakes up looking effortlessly gorgeous: It's almost unfair how good he looks with his messy hair, sleepy eyes, and slightly puffy lips. You tell him it’s not fair to be that handsome in the morning, and he just smirks.

steals your blanket: If you wake up cold, it’s probably because Minghao stole the blanket in his sleep. When you try to take it back, he groggily grumbles and pulls you under it with him instead.

quietly observes you: While you’re brushing your teeth or getting ready, Minghao will lean against the doorframe, watching you with a soft smile. If you ask why he’s staring, he just shrugs and says, “I like seeing you like this.”

breakfast preferences: He prefers a light breakfast—fruit, yogurt, or something simple. But if you want something heavier, he’ll cook for you without hesitation. If you ask him why he’s doing all the work, he’ll reply, “Because I like taking care of you.”

sometimes reads in the morning: If he wakes up before you, he’ll quietly read next to you in bed, careful not to wake you. The moment you stir, though, he sets the book down and gives you his full attention.

loves when you wear his clothes: If you walk into the kitchen wearing his oversized shirt, he’ll smirk and pull you into a hug. “You should just wear my clothes forever,” he teases, resting his chin on your head.

super soft in the mornings: He’s usually the composed, cool type during the day, but mornings bring out his affectionate side. He’s more touchy, more clingy, and less guarded. You’ll catch him pressing random kisses to your shoulder or intertwining your fingers under the table.

lingers before leaving: Even if he’s running late, he always takes a moment before heading out. A lingering kiss, a soft “Take care, okay?”, a final squeeze of your hand—he makes sure you know how much he loves you before walking out the door.

texts you random thoughts: Once he’s gone, you’ll get messages like “Did you eat yet?”, “I left my book on the couch. Don’t move it, I want to find it exactly where I left it.”, or “I’m already thinking about coming home to you.”

[pinkslipxox]

Warm Feelings:

Summary: you and Billie making love in a cabin 🫶

Warnings: smut 😊🙈💋

——————————————————————————

The snow falls softly outside, transforming the serene forest into a winter wonderland. Inside the warmth of the cabin, you’re nestled under the blankets in bed, wrapped tightly against the chill, but even in here, you still feel a shiver run through you. The howling wind is muffled, replaced by the gentle sound of your wife humming a tune to herself down the hall.

Billie enters the room, her presence comforting and gentle, with her raven black hair falling around her beautiful features and a sweet smile on her pink lips. Your heart swells at the sight of her, any lingering chill dissipating in an instant. She joins you in bed, her arms wrapping around you in a protective yet loving embrace. Her body emanates a warmth that envelops you completely, chasing away the remnants of the winter cold. A soft, contented sigh escapes your lips as you snuggle up against her, reveling in this moment.

“It’s still snowing out there,” Billie murmurs softly, pressing her lips to your forehead. “Are you still cold, baby?” Her voice is laced with genuine concern, making your heart flutter with affection.

“A little,” you admit, partially hiding your face in the blankets, feeling vulnerable but comforted by her presence. “It’s just… what if we get snowed in? What if we can’t get out until it melts?”

Billie chuckles softly, a light and melodious sound. “Don’t worry, Y/N. I won’t let anything happen to you,” she assures you, giving you a gentle squeeze.

“I know you won’t,” you murmur, snuggling deeply into her chest, finding solace in the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. You tilt your head up to meet her eyes. “But what if we can’t leave for days?”

“Then we make the best of it,” Billie responds, her voice steady and reassuring. “We’ll have each other.”

“But what if we run out of firewood?” you counter, the concern still evident in your voice. “How will we keep warm?”

“Like this,” Billie responds, her voice low and husky, as she presses her lips against yours in a sweet yet passionate kiss. That single kiss ignites a fire inside of you, awakening the goddess from deep within. Billie pulls you closer to her, her grip tight around your waist, and you can’t help but moan as your girlfriend’s tongue massages yours deliciously

Your clothes soon become discarded and forgotten, her body molding perfectly with yours, limbs tangled together in a beautiful yet erotic mess that is yours and Billie’s. She’s gentle yet firm as she maneuvers herself into a position that drives you crazy every time. Her hands roam your body with a mixture of urgency and reverence as she presses her lips against your soft flesh, coaxing the softest of moans to escape your own.

“Billie…” you sigh blissfully, tilting your head back to grant her more access, your eyes fluttering closed at the sensation.

“Mmm, such a pretty girl,” Billie praises, her vice low and husky, and at your nod of approval, she parts your thighs enough for her to adjust her hips with yours. She starts off slowly, as if to test the waters, and it doesn’t take you long to respond with a much more confident movement, making the both of you gasp at the sensation.

“Oh, my God…” you half-whine, half-moan as you buckle your hips, your clit nudging against your girlfriend’s. The friction is intoxicating, sending delightful shocks of electricity to course through your veins.

“Fuck,” Billie growls, holding your leg against her hip, and she grinds her hips harder down on your cunt, making you moan louder. She gropes one of your breasts with her hand, pinching and pulling on your nipple, and you toss your head back in pleasure as your movements become more urgent, frantic almost.

Billie’s moans and your cries of pleasure harmonize together in perfect harmony, filling the cozy atmosphere with your love and desire. The world fades away, each caress and touch cementing the passion and connection between the two of you, leaving the two of you in a haze of unadulterated bliss. You reach your high with a scream, back arching off the mattress as Billie releases with a satisfied grunt. Glistened in sweat, cheeks flushed, bodies molded together as one, the two of you wrap each other in a tight embrace as you and Billie catch your breaths.

"You’re my everything, Y/N," Billie finally confesses, her gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that leaves you as breathless like the passionate lovemaking you’ve both experienced.

“And you’re mine, Billie,” you murmur softly and press your lips against hers, reveling in the warmth of the love of your life amidst the coldness of the snow outside.

[gdinthehouseee]

Under the Weather: KWON JI-YONG x READER

summary: you wake up with a cold, so as soon as he notices, ji-yong wants to do nothing but take care of you.

word count: 900

tags: fluff: comfort, fever/general sickness

ao3 link

It’s early morning when you feel it—the sudden heavy weight of exhaustion pulling at you even though the day has just begun. Your head is pounding, and you feel a familiar tightness in your chest. You roll over, eyes still half-closed, not yet ready to face the day.

Ji-yong stirs beside you, shifting slightly as the morning light peeks through the curtains. He’s always the first one to rise, his energy almost always immediate, but today, he’s not quite as lively as usual. With a groan, he pushes himself up, stretching lazily before standing up and heading toward the bathroom.

You stay where you are, cocooned in the warmth of the blankets, but soon realize your body feels much too tired to do anything. As the minutes pass, you try to ignore the discomfort, willing yourself to fall back asleep—but it’s no use. You’re wide awake, but too tired to do anything about it.

He returns from the bathroom, towel hanging loosely from his waist as he moves around to get ready. The usual morning routine follows: brushing teeth, checking his phone, choosing an outfit. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, but when he glances over at the bed, he notices that you haven’t stirred since he got up. Something must be up.

He frowns, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “Aein..? Is everything okay?” His voice is soft, but there’s an undeniable note of concern.

You blink up at him, struggling to focus. “Huh?”

“You’re still in bed? You’re usually up by now.” He presses the back of his hand against your forehead. “You’re burning up.”

You blink slowly, groaning softly as you try to sit up. “I think I’m just tired,” you mutter, voice heavy. You try to smile, but the effort feels too much. “I’ll be fine in a bit…”

Ji-yong doesn’t believe you for a second. Without saying anything more, he gently presses you back into the pillows, covering you up again with the blankets. “Stay right here. I’m going to take care of you.”

You hear him moving around the apartment, but you can’t bring yourself to open your eyes just yet. You hear the kitchen faucet running, and the sound of something bubbling on the stove. You think he’s making something, maybe soup—you can’t tell. The air smells warm and comforting.

A few minutes later, he returns with a tray of warm tea and a bowl of soup, setting it down beside you on the bed. You look up at him through half-lidded eyes as he smiles softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’re still burning up,” he murmurs, the worry in his voice barely hidden.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you say, your voice thick with drowsiness. “I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay,” Ji-yong replies, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But I’ll make you feel better. Drink up.”

You let him feed you spoonfuls of soup, unable to protest. The warmth soothes you, but Ji-yong isn’t done yet. He presses a cool hand to your forehead before brushing some damp strands of hair away from your face.

“My poor girl,” he whispers softly, his voice laced with tenderness. “I hate seeing you like this.”

You close your eyes, grateful for his presence. The gentle rhythm of his movements is enough to make you feel cared for—protected. His care isn’t just physical; you feel it in the way he speaks to you, in the way he holds you.

After a while, he climbs into bed beside you, slipping under the covers and pulling you into his arms. You’re still too tired to say much, but you snuggle closer to him, resting your head against his chest. Ji-yong gently runs his fingers through your hair, occasionally pressing light kisses to your forehead.

“You’ll feel better soon,” he whispers, his voice soft and calming. “Just sleep, okay?”

“Mhm,” you respond faintly, too comfortable to argue. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, and it lulls you to sleep.

But just before you slip under completely, your delirium starts to take over. You mumble, barely aware of what you're saying. “You’re so pretty, you know that?”

Ji-yong chuckles softly, his fingers pausing in your hair as he smiles down at you. “Pretty? What else?” He teases, leaning in closer.

“You’re... always so nice to me,” you ramble, voice thick with exhaustion. “Taking care of me like this... I don’t deserve you. You’re perfect... just perfect... How do you always know what to do... always so sweet, I love you...” Your words blur together, but he listens, a soft smile never leaving his face.

“And you... you’re my man, my pretty boy.” You continue, eyes fluttering as you drift in and out of sleep. “I’m so lucky... you're too good to me... my favorite person...”

You let out a soft sigh, and your words trail off as your breath evens out, completely falling asleep mid-sentence.

Ji-yong finds it impossible not to smile at how adorable you are, even in your delirious state. He brushes a loose strand of hair from your face and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“You’re too cute when you’re like this,” he whispers, his heart swelling with affection. He pulls you closer, savoring the warmth of your body against his. “Sleep, my love. I’ve got you.”

taglist: @thanosscrossmain @maskedcrawford @mirahyun @riddlerloveb0t

[chiakeys]

rafayel drabble — first "i love you"

˚꩜˖°⋆🐚‧₊˚ ⋅🌊｡𖦹°‧

A lazy day at the beach was not all uncommon with Rafayel. They'd become more frequent lately, even, the longer the two of you spent your days together. At first there would be a plan— an incentive, always, behind Rafayel's invitations. I got two tickets to this event, or I need a fresh perspective on this painting, always something to demand your presence.

In the beginning, it was as if he felt he needed to lure you to come see him. You were grateful for the excuse, at least.

The soft peach streaks of the sky have long since faded into the dark blanket of the night surrounding you now.

"We've come a long way," you speak into the night. The blanket beneath you is cushioned by the sand, and your gaze stays lazily fixed onto the stars above. Rafayel is in your periphery, sitting up still, looking at the sea and you and not even bothering with the stars. His head turns your way now.

"A long way from what?" He asks, voice softer than usual. Maybe he doesn't want to speak over the crashing of the waves. "We're not that far from my house, cutie."

"A long way from you making up reasons for me to come hang out." You smile, gaze finally breaking away from the stars. "Now you can just demand I come see you, to spend my whole day doing nothing at the beach."

Rafayel gasps with flair. His pout kicks in immediately. "Hey now, it's not hanging out when we're dating. They're dates! Romantic dates!"

"Is this a romantic date?" You ask, trying hard to keep your smile from spreading too wide. You gesture around the empty beach with a lazy wave. "We've been here forever, Rafayel, I'm hungry and cold."

Now it's your turn to pout, so you gaze up at Rafayel with the most pathetic look you can muster.

"I— You—" Rafayel crosses his arms, sniffing slightly. "I give you a relaxing break for a whole day, and you just sit here and complain. That's so..."

He trails off, eyes narrowing at your arm. His hand darts out to grab at your wrist, lifting it straight up to the front of his eyes.

"What? You are cold. You have goosebumps! You should've told me earlier," Rafayel pouts. "Here, let me help."

He takes your hand in between his palms, and brings it up to his lips, breathing hot air onto your hand. The proximity, his direct stare, the heat of his breath directly on your skin— something there makes your stomach roll over, and you look away, towards the darkness.

"Hey now, don't look away."

The distribution of the sand beneath you shifts as Rafayel drops your wrist and moves closer. Arms appear on both sides of your head, caging you in, and your eyes drag over the shapes of his muscles before meeting his gaze above you.

The two of you stare at each other for a moment, before he brings his hand towards your face, gently cupping the side of your face, thumb brushing against your cheek. "Even your face is cold." He leans in now, gaze heavy. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"Well..." You speak quietly. "You were having a good time, weren't you?"

Rafayel sighs, and you can feel it slightly, when he's this close— or maybe you're just imagining it, desperate for more of him.

"I would have a good time with you anywhere. We could've gone back home hours ago, y'know." His thumb strokes against your cheek, back and forth.

You can't help the slight curl of your lips. "Yeah? You're saying if I had just jumped up and demanded to leave, you would've just gone? No complaints, nothing?"

Rafayel hums. "I don't know about nothing, but of course I would've left."

He continues, his thumb poking your cheek. "Of course I'd follow you— I love you."

You freeze, heart beating hard. Like a drum, or thunder. Your lips open to reply. You forget what to say. You forget how to speak. He hasn't said that before. You haven't, either. Not out loud. You didn't expect him to say it so easily.

He watches you with gentle patience. Until you can swallow and try to talk again. You can't help but ask, "You do?"

Rafayel's head tilts slightly, lips quirked. "Yeah. Wasn't it obvious?"

The waves crash against the shore right alongside your next inhale. In, and out. The light shines only slightly against the features of his face. A sudden raw affection envelops you. You reach up to smooth out the front of his shirt.

"I guess so." You finally say, soft.

Rafayel pinches your cheek, then, his brows furrowing. The small sting makes you jolt. "What, are you just gonna leave me hanging now? Don't you know you're supposed to say it back?"

You grin— "Do I have to? Isn't it obvious?"

Rafayel groans, head dropping to the curve of your neck, yet still careful not to drop all of his weight on you. You can't help the laugh that bubbles up and out of you.

Laughing still, you trail your hand around to the nape of his neck, scratching gently. "I love you too, Rafayel. Obviously."

You smile, warm and happy. "Obviously."

He starts to laugh too, directly against your skin, burrowing his own head even closer, until his response is muffled. "Obviously?"

[heartysworld]

Missing U // Ridoc Gamlyn x Reader

MASTERLIST

W.C: 2.3k

A/N: After reading Onyx Storm I keep getting random ideas and I couldn't pass on writing this one :)

Two weeks.

Two whole, agonizing weeks without Ridoc’s warmth beside you, without his ridiculous jokes at the worst possible moments, without his arms wrapped around you like a human furnace.

Your bed has never felt emptier.

Every night, you curl up beneath the covers, but it’s not the same. There’s no Ridoc grumbling about how you’re a blanket thief, no sleep-mumbled jokes about dragons snoring louder than Xaden, and no lazy morning kisses before the day drags you both into the chaos of Basgiath.

You miss the way he always, always found a way to touch you, even in sleep—an arm slung over your waist, his nose buried in your hair, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on your skin. Without him, the nights stretch unbearably long, and no amount of blankets can replace the warmth he brings.

So when Rhiannon and Violet tell you he’s back and has a surprise for you, you don’t think. You run.

The Vale is quiet, save for the occasional rustle of wings and the deep, rumbling breaths of resting dragons. The air is crisp, carrying the familiar scent of smoke and earth. Your heart pounds in your chest, anticipation thrumming through your veins as your eyes scan the open space.

Then, you see him.

Ridoc stands beside Aotrom, his brown hair messier than usual—probably from the wind, or from running his hands through it nervously. He’s shifting from foot to foot, the way he always does when he’s excited but trying and failing to play it cool.

Your breath catches, and before you can call out his name, Aotrom lifts his head, lets out a soft huff, and shifts to the side—revealing something burned into the ground.

You blink. Then take a step closer.

I LOVE YO

You tilt your head. Something’s… missing.

Ridoc turns, his face lighting up the moment he sees you. “Y/N!” His entire body practically vibrates with energy, and before you can say anything, he gestures toward the ground with both hands. “Ta-da!”

Your gaze flicks back to the message. The last letter is definitely missing.

Slowly, you lift an eyebrow. “Ridoc,” you say, voice thick with amusement, “where’s the ‘U’?”

Ridoc freezes. “Wait, what?” He whips around, eyes scanning the scorched words. The moment he notices, he groans dramatically and drags a hand down his face. “Oh, come on!”

Aotrom lets out a very unbothered-sounding snort.

Ridoc turns on his dragon, hands on his hips. “Dude. You had one job.”

Aotrom flicks his tail, the picture of innocence.

You cross your arms, biting back a grin. “Ridoc,” you repeat, “why is there no ‘U’?”

Ridoc sighs, shooting Aotrom another look before turning back to you. “Okay, so technically the ‘U’ was there… but right as Aotrom was finishing it, he saw a sheep on one of the lower fields and, uh… immediately took off.”

Your jaw drops. “You’re telling me your dragon abandoned your romantic gesture for a sheep?”

Ridoc throws his hands up. “He really likes sheep, Y/N! I can’t control his cravings!”

Aotrom rumbles contentedly, as if to confirm this fact.

You press a hand to your mouth, but the laughter breaks free anyway. “Only you, Ridoc.”

Ridoc grins, clearly relieved you’re laughing instead of being upset. Then, as if remembering something, he suddenly produces a bouquet from behind his back. “Okay, so the message is a little… incomplete, but this survived.” He steps closer, pressing the flowers into your hands. “Happy anniversary, Y/N.”

Your fingers tighten around the bouquet, your heart swelling. “Happy anniversary, Ridoc.”

His usual playful smirk softens into something more sincere. “Gods, I missed you.” His voice drops slightly, and his eyes roam over your face like he’s memorizing every detail. “Sleeping alone is the worst. Do you know how many times I woke up reaching for you, only to grab a pillow?”

Your chest tightens. “I know,” you admit. “I kept waking up cold.”

Ridoc groans dramatically, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you in. “That’s it, I’m never leaving again. Two weeks is way too long. I almost died, Y/N. Died.”

You snort, resting your head against his shoulder. “From what? Sheep deprivation?”

“Exactly!” he exclaims before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His voice drops to something softer, more serious. “I love you. Even if Aotrom forgot the ‘U.’”

You smile, reaching up to brush his messy hair from his face. “I got the message.”

Ridoc watches you for a beat, his expression shifting, turning softer, more intense. Then he cups your face, his palms warm and slightly rough from training. “Can I kiss you now?”

You laugh, but it comes out breathless. “I think you’re required to.”

He doesn’t waste a second.

Ridoc leans in, and the moment his lips press against yours, everything else fades away—the teasing, the missing letter, the two agonizing weeks apart. He kisses you slowly at first, like he’s savoring the

’s trying to make up for every second you spent apart. Then, as if he can’t help himself, he deepens it, tilting his head to fit his lips against yours more perfectly. His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

Your fingers tangle in his messy hair, and he lets out a quiet, contented sigh against your lips. The warmth of him, the way he tastes like fresh air and something undeniably Ridoc, makes your head spin.

When he finally pulls back, he keeps his forehead pressed against yours, his breath slightly uneven. “Yeah,” he murmurs, voice full of wonder, “definitely never leaving for that long again.”

You smile, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “You better not.”

Ridoc sighs dramatically, pulling you into his chest again. “I suffered, Y/N. Two weeks without you? Pure agony.”

You laugh softly, letting yourself sink into him. “Oh, the horror.”

Ridoc grins. “You joke, but do you know how many times I woke up thinking you were there? Only to grab a pillow?” He shudders. “It was tragic.”

“I do know,” you admit, voice quieter now. “Because it was the same for me.”

His arms tighten around you, and for a moment, he just holds you, warm and solid and here.

Then, as if unable to help himself, he presses another kiss to your temple. “You’re not sleeping alone tonight.”

The certainty in his voice sends warmth curling through you.

“Good,” you murmur. “Because I was not looking forward to another cold bed.”

Ridoc hums, tugging you toward Aotrom. “Then let’s get out of here. I already suffered through two weeks without you—I’m not wasting another second.”

Aotrom lets out an exaggerated sigh, as if deeply inconvenienced by his rider’s affection. But even as he huffs dramatically, his tail flicks in amusement, his green eyes twinkling.

You glance at the scorched I LOVE YO on the ground one last time, shaking your head fondly. “Still can’t believe Aotrom abandoned romance for a sheep.”

Ridoc groans. “Don’t remind me. I’m gonna have to do something even bigger next year to make up for it.”

You smirk. “Well, you could start by actually spelling out the whole thing next time.”

Ridoc laughs, scooping you up onto Aotrom’s back before climbing up behind you. As his arms wrap securely around your waist, he presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, voice warm against your skin.

“Next time, I’ll make sure the whole kingdom knows just how much I love you.”

And as Aotrom takes off into the sky, the wind whipping through your hair and Ridoc’s laughter ringing in your ears, you know that no matter where life takes you, as long as you have him, you’ll never feel cold again.

[torturedtypewritersdept]

blue eyes + bruises - part ten

✯ pairing:

doctor!rafe cameron x fem!reader

✯ summary:

a tragic car accident looks like it'll be the end for you, but dr. cameron is here to make sure that doesn't happen.

✯ warnings:

mature themes, mentions of anxiety, nostalgia, and fear, car accident, death of a spouse (not rafe or y/n), major surgery, injuries, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, etc.

✯ a/n:

nothing!! please don't engage if you have a hard time with any of these topics <3 this was origianlly posted on my old blog @/illicitfixations, @/lovelornanonymity back in 2021/2022 and i have rewritten + reshared it here :)

Rafe drove slowly, almost too slow, careful not to jostle your body anymore that he absolutely had to, though the potholes of New York were not helping his case. He looked in the rearview mirror as he switched lanes, watching as car after car zoomed past him, some even giving him the middle finger, frustrated at how slow he was driving. He didn’t care, though. If those people had cargo as precious as you, if they had been through what you had, they’d drive slow too. As he prepared to change lanes again, he flipped his turn signal on and looked into his mirrors once more, noting your sweet face as you slept and smiled to himself. He removed his right hand from the wheel and moved it, reaching around the seat and fumbling with his hand until he found yours, gently rubbing circles into it. For the first time in a long time, Rafe was at peace. You were mostly healthy again and you had agreed to be his, to live with him, to be in his presence every single day – he wasn’t sure that he could be more happy than he currently was as he thought about the fact that out of everyone, you chose to trust him.  He continued his pursuit, stopping only when he pulled into a handicapped parking space in his apartment complex. He turned the vehicle off, moving slowly but surely as he opened the backseat on the driver’s side and carefully pulled you into his arms, cradling you as completed the journey between his truck and the door of the apartment. He left your crutches in the car, telling himself he’d retrieve them tomorrow because tonight, he was going to carry you everywhere and he wasn’t concerned about your objections. You stirred only slightly as you felt the earth mix with the up and down movements of Rafe’s biceps as he took step after step until they stopped and started again as the air changed and suddenly, you were laying wrapped in blankets on a surface that was much more comfortable than the hospital mattress you had spent every night on for the last few months. You let out a soft grunt and he stood above you, kneeling down to make himself eye level with you as he brushed your hair out of your face. 

“Hey, sleepy girl. We’re home, baby. You can rest for a while and I'll make us dinner in a little while.” 

You hummed in response, slowly nodding and drifting back to sleep, the warmth of the blankets and the smell of Rafe lingering on the sheets helping aid in your slumber. 

-

The smell of pepperoni stirred you awake and you weren’t sure if your dream of living in an Italian villa had come true until you opened your eyes and took in the essence of Rafe’s room. You took in your surroundings; the black lamp that stood on the wooden bedside table, the blue curtains that seemed to line the entire wall, and the white record player that sat in a corner by the bookshelf. You were covered by what seemed to be one hundred different blankets and you smiled at that fact, knowing that Rafe wanted you to be warm and you had remained cold continuously for the months you were confined to the hospital. You liked that he paid attention to the little things. There was a soft mumbling and sounds of instruments breaking through the crack in the bedroom door and you sat up, straining to hear. You smiled as Rafe’s singing broke through the noise, the words of ‘she will be loved’ by maroon five escaping his lips. You scrambled to sit up further, but winced at the pain that ran up your leg and into your hip. Quickly realizing that you couldn’t move without pain, you laid back down and called for Rafe and before you knew it, his blue eyes were tracing your figure. 

“Hey. How're you feeling, baby?” 

He asked sweetly, leaning his palm down to brush over your hair. 

“It hurts a lot.” 

You whined, doing your best not to let your tear ducts pool water into your eyes. 

“I know, baby. I’m sorry. You can have some more medicine when you eat, okay? I’ll just go grab it and I'll be right back.” 

He went to turn away and head into the kitchen to plate your food, but you pulled his arm back before he could get out of your grasp. 

“Please, take me to the living room. Don’t make me eat here.” 

You pleaded with him and despite his objections, he caved, knowing that you had been lying in bed for months and you just wanted to feel normal again. 

“Okay, baby. Wrap your arms around the back of my neck.” 

He instructed and you obliged, interlocking your fingers around the back of his neck as he squatted, picking you up bridal style. You marveled at the way his muscles contracted underneath you; the back and forth of tightening and loosening could be felt against you as his chest and biceps contracted with each movement he made. He carries you down the hall to the living room, which is adorned with a wall of old records and family photos. He stopped in front of the couch, which had a chase connected to it and sat you down gently, moving to throw some blankets over you and placing your injured leg on two pillows. 

“How’s that, baby?” 

He questioned, searching your eyes for any signs of discomfort. 

“It’s good, Rafe. Thank you.” 

You responded with a soft smile and he made his way over to the kitchen which was only a few feet away with the open floor plan of the apartment. He quickly grabbed disposable plates and placed the homemade pepperoni pizza he made for the two of you onto them. He brought them to the living room, sitting them down on the coffee table before making his way back into the kitchen to grab two bottles of water and your medicine. You watched his stride as he came back to you, plopping next you on the gray couch cushions and reaching an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest. 

“How was your nap, baby? Did you sleep well? If not, we can get you some different meds. You just say the word, okay?” 

You giggled at his caring nature, always making sure you were taken care of before anything else. 

“I slept well, baby. Don’t worry, the meds have helped a lot.” 

He nodded slightly, leaning in and placing a kiss on your temple as he wrapped his palm around the back of your head. 

“Can I have my pizza now?” 

You asked and he giggled, reaching for the plate and grabbing it off the table before setting it in your lap. You picked up a slice and took a big whiff, the smell of homemade pizza was never something you thought you would’ve taken for granted before your accident, but now, the smell was intoxicating and you were grateful; tears pooling in your eyes at the domesticity of it all. 

“Eat up, pretty girl and I’ll give you some more medicine.” 

He said simply, placing a kiss on your temple once more and you nodded in response, taking bite after bite of the delicious food in front of you. Rafe moved to grab the remote once the both of you were finished conversing about you finally being home, turning on one of your favorites, Mama Mia and pulling you into his chest. You laid blissfully against him, your leg stretched out on pillows in between his legs. Once you had taken your medicine, it wasn’t long before your breaths evened out and you slept peacefully against Rafe’s core. He looked down smiling as he brushed stray pieces of hair away from your face and leaned down to place his lips on the top of your head. 

“Goodnight, pretty girl.” 

He whispered, the blissful sound of your soft snores grounding him enough that for the first time in years, Rafe felt peace. 

taglist:

as always, if you'd like to be added to or removed from the taglist, please shoot me an ask or comment on this post so i can keep track <3

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[navyiera]

TERRAPIN;

pairing: caitlyn kiramman x fem!reader

synopsis: what's a better day than cuddling up to your girlfriend and playing games while she reads?

VERY short. sorry. I have many completed drafts for cait and even ellie so ill be posting them very fast. But PLEASE feel free to share your ideas in my reqs. I'm more than happy to comply. smut might take a while bec I'm not very efficient when it comes to that. Still it's open for reqs!!

The evening settles around you like a soft blanket, the kind Caitlyn always drapes over your shoulders when she thinks you’re too cold. The warm glow of the bedside lamp paints the room in amber hues, contrasting with the cooler, bluish light of your phone screen. Caitlyn’s beside you, sitting up against the headboard, one hand holding a book open while the other absentmindedly strokes your hair.

You’re curled up against her side, legs tangled with hers, head resting against her shoulder as you tap away at your game. The soft rustle of pages turning blends with the faint, rhythmic sounds of your gameplay. It’s a comfortable quiet, the kind you’ve come to cherish with her.

"You're frowning," Caitlyn murmurs, her voice gentle, her lips barely brushing your forehead as she speaks.

You huff, still focused on the screen. "This boss is annoying."

She chuckles, low and affectionate. "Is it one of those fights where you’re being stubborn instead of playing smart?"

You lift your head to give her an exaggerated glare, and she meets it with an amused, knowing smile. "You don’t know that," you grumble.

"I do," she teases, shifting slightly so she can kiss the top of your head. "You get that look when you're too deep in your pride to back down."

You sigh dramatically but don’t argue. She’s right, after all. Instead, you let your phone drop onto your stomach and lean further into her warmth. "What’re you reading?"

Caitlyn tilts the book slightly so you can see. "It’s a reread," she says. "One of my comfort books."

You don’t recognize the title, but it doesn’t matter. You like the way she talks about books, the way she gets this quiet reverence when she loves a story. You press your cheek against her shoulder, letting your eyes drift over the words even if you aren’t really following.

"Read to me?" you ask softly.

She hesitates, just for a second. Then, with a slight smile, she shifts the book, her voice slipping into a low, soothing cadence as she begins. You close your eyes, letting her words wash over you, warm and familiar like waves against the shore.

Minutes pass, or maybe longer—you lose track of time in the steady rhythm of her voice and the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath you. When she pauses to turn the page, you take the opportunity to press a kiss against her collarbone.

She hums in approval, the sound vibrating against your lips. "Distracted already?"

"Mm, not my fault," you murmur, pressing another kiss, this time against her jaw. She tilts her head slightly, giving you more room, and you take full advantage, trailing kisses up to the corner of her mouth.

Caitlyn catches your chin between her fingers, tilting your face up to look at her. Her expression is soft, eyes half-lidded with quiet amusement and something deeper, something warm. "You're beautiful."

You grin. "So are you."

Caitlyn sighs, but it's a fond one, her thumb brushing over your lower lip before she finally leans down to kiss you properly. Her lips are soft, slow, unhurried—like she has all the time in the world to savor this. And maybe she does. Maybe you both do.

When she pulls away, she lets her forehead rest against yours for a moment before nudging you lightly. "I thought you were fighting an annoying boss."

You groan, flopping back against her side dramatically. "Ugh, don’t remind me."

She laughs, and you feel it in the way her chest moves against you, the way her fingers tighten slightly in your hair. "Come on," she says, reaching for your phone and placing it back in your hands. "I’ll hold you while you finish. No rage-quitting, though."

You grumble but settle back in, her arms wrapping around you as you refocus on the game. The warmth of her, the steady thrum of her heartbeat, the occasional soft kiss she presses against your temple—it all makes the fight a little easier, the loss a little less frustrating.

And when you finally win, she praises you like you’ve just conquered something monumental, her voice full of pride, her hands cupping your face as she kisses you again.

"See?" she murmurs against your lips. "Told you you’d get it."

You sigh contentedly, letting your phone slip from your fingers as you curl into her once more. "You’re so smug."

"I’m always right," Caitlyn corrects playfully, pulling the blanket tighter around both of you.

You roll your eyes but don't argue. Instead, you nestle closer, pressing your face against the crook of her neck. "Read to me again?"

Caitlyn smiles against your hair, her voice softer this time, carrying you both into the kind of quiet that lingers, warm and safe and full of love.

[megapteraurelia]

bokuto koutarou’s hands were an angry red.

so were the tip of his nose and his ears, but at the very least, his jacket was pulled up high, hiding his mouth and chin. a couple of white crystals were sprinkled on his clothing, hanging from the tips of his lashes and hair, slowly melting at the warmth of his body. though there was no mistaking the wide smile on his face despite the cover, his eyes crinkling up, eyebrows pulled up high in excitement. 

“hey,” he grinned at you, “your most-favourite bestest boyfriend has come to bless your day.”

“kou, oh my god, it’s freezing outside!” you ushered him inside, and he kicked his shoes off, heavy body already draping over you, his familiar weight threatening to drag you down. he loved letting gravity take a hold of him, loved having you take the brunt of his compliableness, become putty in your hands. you were used to his antics, but that didn’t mean his engulfing you and dead weighing himself magically became any less heavy. 

(secretly, you loved it, too. couldn’t get enough of him trying to melt into you, athletic muscles turning mellow, broad shoulders towering over you, stuffing your face in his neck. god, you wouldn’t exchange this for anything in this world.)

“kou—” your muffled voice with a mouthful of his scarf turned from a soft inquiry to a screech when his icy hands sneaked underneath your sweater to touch your warm skin; a violent shudder befalling you at the contact, “wa-haaa-aait, you are so doing it on purpose! get your hands off!”

“but this is my body,” he mumbled next to your ear and his hands squeezed your flesh. his voice sounded light and self-assured but you knew if you denied him again, you would be able to feel his cheeks moving as his mouth would just his lip forward into an exaggerated pout and he’d cling onto you even more, “so i’m gonna warm my hands where they belong!”

for a second you contemplated pushing against him, because — “fine, fine, but let’s get under some blankets first. this is way too cold for me.”

his cheer was too cute, too loud, too strong of a squeeze around your heart. his eagerness manifested in him suddenly relieving you off his weight, his cold fingers gripping tighter to lift you up, legs shuffling across the floor to find their way to your bed.

“i’ve been thinking—”

“uh oh.”

“—hey, wait, baaaaaaby, you know i’m trying hard here to make use of my brain.”

you snickered in response to his little sulking, yet your hands scratched his hair gently, affectionate. his nose was pressed against your throat in a sensual way that only bokuto koutarou in his innocent desire to practically blend his existence together with yours could manage, legs tangled together though he had shrieked even louder than you when your cold toes managed to find their way between his calves.

“i’ve been thinking that i have a lot of thoughts about thinking. especially about you. you’re always on my mind, even when i try thinking about the match, or how to hit the ball to get past the blocks. then i think about how awesome you’d think i look, and then i can’t stop thinking about your face and how you smell,” he complained, cheeks puffed up in indignance, voice taking a notch of childlike annoyance and a little whine entered his deep baritone, “you have to fix it. omi already looked at me like i was a bug on the wall when i got distracted. but i wasn’t distracted! i was just thinking about you, so that’s not really a distraction. but i’m also not a bug either. so! make it go away!”

you hid your smile against his hair, and despite his words of making it go away, his hands had only pulled you closer against him, chest flushed against his, breathing in tandem. his grumbling and grouching continued, intent on keeping himself blame-free and using you as the scapegoat, yet his body kept pressing against you, his mouth stealing sly kisses that he gleefully thought you didn’t notice. 

though, naturally, he wasn’t as slick as he thought he was.

[f1daydreamer]

The Weight of a Broken Heart

Part 1 Part 2

___________________________________________

Lando’s POV

Lando had never felt this kind of emptiness before.

The moment you had walked out that door, the warmth had been sucked out of his world. He stood there, frozen, staring at the space where you had been just seconds before. The silence of the apartment was deafening now—no more soft laughter, no more quiet hum of your presence. Just an aching hollowness that settled deep in his chest.

He wanted to run after you. To grab your hand, to beg, to make you understand that the bet hadn’t mattered. That you were the only thing that ever had.

But he saw the look in your eyes before you left. The betrayal. The heartbreak.

And he knew that following you wouldn’t fix this. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Instead, he collapsed onto the couch, burying his face in his hands as the weight of it all came crashing down. He had done this. He had taken the most beautiful, genuine thing in his life and destroyed it with one stupid, reckless mistake.

The apartment that had once been filled with your scent, your laughter, your little touches—now felt cold and lifeless. His gaze landed on the blanket you’d insisted made his couch "cozier," and the sight of it made his stomach twist painfully. It still smelled like you, like vanilla and something uniquely yours.

Lando clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe past the ache in his chest.

You had been his everything. And now, he had nothing.

---

Reader’s POV

You barely remembered walking to your best friend’s apartment. Your feet had carried you on instinct, each step feeling heavier than the last.

The moment she opened the door and saw the tears in your eyes, she pulled you inside without hesitation.

“What happened?” she asked softly, concern etched into every feature.

You tried to speak, but your voice cracked, and suddenly, the dam broke. A sob ripped from your throat as you collapsed into her arms, shaking with the force of your emotions.

“He made me fall in love with him because of a bet,” you choked out.

The words felt foreign on your tongue, like they belonged to someone else’s story. But they were yours. Your heartbreak. Your betrayal.

Your best friend held you tighter, stroking your hair in soothing circles as she whispered, “I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

No, you didn’t.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

You spent the night curled up on her couch, replaying everything over and over again. The way Lando had smiled at you across the café, the way he had memorized your favorite book, the way he had made you feel so safe in his arms.

Had any of it been real?

You wanted to believe him. A small, fragile part of you needed to believe that the boy who held you at night, who traced soft patterns on your skin when he thought you were asleep, hadn’t just been playing a game.

But how could you?

How could you trust someone who had built something so beautiful on a lie?

---

Lando’s POV

The days after you left were unbearable.

Lando couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t eat. Everywhere he went, everything he did—it all reminded him of you.

The café where he had first approached you? He had gone back, hoping to find even a piece of you there. But you were gone, and the sight of the empty table by the window only made his chest ache more.

Your favorite blanket was still on his couch, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch it. Your toothbrush was still in his bathroom, your perfume still lingered in the air. Every little reminder of you was a knife in his gut, a painful echo of what he had lost.

He had never known silence could be so loud.

Every time his phone buzzed, he hoped—prayed—that it was you. But it never was.

He tried calling. Once, twice, a dozen times. Each call went unanswered, and each ignored message chipped away at what little hope he had left.

He missed you.

God, he missed you so much it felt like he was suffocating.

He would have given anything to go back in time, to stop himself from ever agreeing to that bet. To have met you the right way, the real way.

But he couldn’t change the past.

All he could do now was try to fix the future.

Even if it killed him, he was going to win you back.

---

Three Weeks Later

Reader’s POV

You told yourself you wouldn’t break.

You told yourself that you were stronger than this—that you wouldn’t let yourself fall apart over a boy.

But Lando wasn’t just any boy.

And three weeks without him felt like an eternity.

You had tried to distract yourself, filling your days with work, with friends, with anything that kept you busy. But it didn’t matter. Nothing felt the same without him.

Even the simplest things reminded you of him.

A rainy afternoon would make you think of the way he used to pull you close, wrapping you in his warmth as you both listened to the storm outside.

A funny joke would make you reach for your phone, instinctively wanting to share it with him—only to remember that you weren’t talking anymore.

And worst of all? The nights.

The nights were the hardest.

Because that was when you missed him the most.

His arms around you. His whispered "I love you"s. The way he always reached for you in his sleep, like even unconsciously, he couldn’t bear to be apart from you.

You hated that you still loved him.

But you did.

You loved him so much it hurt.

And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stop.

---

Lando’s POV

Lando knew one thing for certain: He wasn’t giving up.

He had hurt you, broken your trust, and he hated himself for it. But he wasn’t going to let that be the end of your story.

He spent days thinking of how to fix it, how to prove to you that his love was real.

And then, finally, he had a plan.

It started with small things.

A delivery of your favorite flowers—no note, just a silent reminder that he was thinking of you.

A first edition copy of the book you had been reading that day in the café, left at your doorstep.

A playlist sent to your phone—songs that meant something to the both of you.

Then came the grand gesture.

One evening, you came home to find your apartment filled with candles and fairy lights. And standing in the middle of it all was Lando, looking more nervous than you had ever seen him.

“I know I don’t deserve another chance,” he said before you could speak. “I know I hurt you. And I hate myself for it every single day.”

Your heart pounded. “Lando—”

“No, let me say this,” he interrupted, his voice raw with emotion. “I don’t care about the bet. I never did. Not really. Because you—you were never a game to me. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, and I was an idiot for ever risking that.”

Tears welled in your eyes.

“I love you,” he said, stepping closer. “I love you so much it scares me. And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it to you if you let me.”

You stared at him, every emotion crashing down on you at once.

And then, finally, you whispered, “You already have.”

And when he pulled you into his arms, holding you like you were his whole world, you realized something—

Maybe you had been meant to love him all along.

A/N

Hey, everyone!

First of all, I want to say a huge I’m sorry for being MIA for so long. I know I disappeared, and I owe you all an explanation.

School has been brutal—the stress, the endless assignments, and the constant pressure really took a toll on me. On top of that, I hit a major writing block, which only made everything worse. There was a phase where I just couldn’t bring myself to do anything... I wasn’t getting out of bed, I wasn’t eating properly, and I felt completely drained. It was tough, and I honestly didn’t know when I’d find the strength to get back to writing.

But—I’m back!

And what better way to return than with a celebration post? Because somehow, despite my absence, we hit 100 followers! I can’t even begin to express how grateful I am for each and every one of you. Your support, your patience, your kind messages—they mean the world to me. You guys are the reason I keep going, and I promise I won’t let you down again.

So, here’s to new stories, new emotions, and a fresh start. Thank you for being here. Thank you for believing in me. And most of all, thank you for staying.

Love you all! ❤️

[the-fyre-flie]

Dick dealing (poorly) with Bruce's death, and pretending to be his dad, a mini fic :)

-

It wasn't my fault.

Bruce had been dead for a week. That meant a whole week of every single villain in Gotham slowly ramping up their crazy schemes. Robberies, kidnappings, hostile takeovers of every single major business, all because Batman wasn't showing up to stop them. The Justice League wasn't going to show up either. They didn't even know that Batman was dead. They thought it was all a part of The Bats plan, or something. They didn't even think about question why Batman went missing for 3 days and showed up a whole 2 inches shorter than he used to be.

Pulling the cowl over his face, Dick hated how it smelled like his father. A familiar musk that got all over everything, infecting it with warm memories that immediately got snuffed out by cold reality. Bruce was dead. He was dead and gone, and it was all his fault. If Dick had just been there a few seconds sooner, if he had just responded to the distress call a minute faster, if he hadn't gotten held up by those goons - No. None of that mattered now. What mattered was making sure Batman was still alive. Making sure that Gotham still had someone protecting the city. The armor felt so much heavier tonight as Dick clambered into the batmobile. The weight of Kevlar not properly fitted to his body causing him to strain as he gripped the wheel. Under the thick black gloves, he knew his knuckles were white.

Each night got worse and worse. His body became more and more battered, soreness permanently settling into his muscles. Slumping into the chair in front of the batcomputer, Dick felt like crying. Every time he thought he had a moment of peace, a new alert would pop up, sending him across the city to deal with another stupid villian plot. Head in his hands, Dick could hear as soft footsteps approached.

"Master Grayson-" Alfreds voice was smooth, but an undercurrent of worry evident as he placed a gloved hand on Dicks shoulder. Yet... the gentle comfort was the straw that broke the bats back.

"DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!" Dick stood so fast the chair he was sat at fell backwards, clattering loudly against the caves floor. Immediately, Alfred stepped back, face unchanging as he watched Dick punch the batcomputers screen, fist leaving a dark crater. "DON'T YOU FUCKING ACT LIKE THIS IS OKAY OR NORMAL OR SOMETHING! YOU'RE FUCKING HEARTLESS, YOU KNOW THAT!?" He kept screaming as he threw the keyboard across the room, the keycaps scattering.

The outburst was destructive. Incredibly destructive. The cases for old suits were shattered, a few crates of weaponry were kicked over, and a plethora of the souvenirs were knocked over.

When it all ended, Dick was sat sobbing in the middle of the cave, his cries echoing through the cavern. He pulled his knees to his chest, the batsuits cape wrapped around his body like a thick blanket. Glass and baterangs and broken stone from the caves walls encircled him, proof of his anger and sarrow finally made visible. Alfred had stood still the entire time, watching with sad eyes as his grandson broke down.

"You lost your father, Master Grayson. I lost my son."

His voice was the calm that came after the storm, a quiet sadness that barely got past the very loud frustration that Dick had showcased.

"I'm sorry..."

Dick whimpered, his face pressed into his knees as Alfred stepped over the glass and stone. The young man sighed as Alfreds hand ran through his hair, memories of his childhood rushing back. Memories of when Bruce was still here...

"We must keep fighting. But you also must accept help. I recommend telling the Justice League."

"If they knew... if they found out Bruce was gone..." Dick stammered, unable to even come up with what they would do. Freak out? Scold him? The JL had known Bruce for so long, nearly as long as Dick had, and Dick knew first hand how close Bruce had been with most of them. They wouldn't just be finding out they lost a friend and coworker, but he had been lying to them for weeks. Would they hate him?

"They deserve to know."

"I know..."

[star-centric]

Pink Camellia (Longing for You) || Nanami

MEANING: “Pink camellias symbolize a longing for someone and is given to someone who is missed. Whether it's a friend who you haven't seen in a while or a romantic partner working away for a few days, pink camellias can be sent to both platonic and romantic relationships.”

A/N: I still love Nanami 💛 reader is gender neutral!

❀ FLOWER SPECIAL MASTERLIST ❀

“I’ll be back soon enough.”

Nanami held a soft smile, one that would seem out of place for where he was at currently. The mission he was sent on had him on the other side of the globe, hundreds and thousands of miles away from you. You would send selfies and pictures of mundane things that you were doing or would do together, and while it satiated him for a few moments, it made him miss you more.

It was funny, he was more worried about you being by yourself and feeling alone, yet here he was, counting down the days where he would be able to hold you again. It sounded like you were doing a lot better than he was at dealing with the circumstances.

“I know, get some rest okay? I love you Kento.”

His heart pulled at the sound of your voice, and he imagined you in your shared bed, saying those same words while cradling him, pressing a loving kiss to his lips. It gave Nanami all the push to hurry up and get this mission over with so he could hurry back to you.

“I love you too.”

——-

You missed Kento, so much.

You tried to put on a brave face when your husband first told you that he was leaving— you knew the type of job he had, and that he was risking his life every time he walked out of the front door. But it didn’t help knowing that he would be gone for so long.

All you could do was support him the best you could, even if it left you worrying every time he was gone. You tried to busy yourself and keep your mind off of the worst case scenario— even sending him photos to stay optimistic, even if he didn’t respond right away. No matter how many blankets you wrapped around yourself, the bed still felt cold without your husband. You found yourself hugging his pillow on the worst nights, his scent already fading as you dreamt of Ijichi at your door, a solemn look on his face.

Those would be the hardest nights, waking up in a cold sweat with tears down your cheeks.

You would try to avoid those thoughts, but it only became more frequent the longer Kento was gone. The bags under your eyes began to match his, which didn’t go unnoticed— but you weren’t going to complain. You weren’t the one risking your life fighting curses, he was.

You would wait for your husband no matter how long it took.

You just wanted him to come home safe.

——-

You hadn’t heard from Kento in days.

You kept rereading his last message, finger shakily scrolling on the screen.

You were finally drifting into another dreamless sleep, phone loosely held when you heard a knock on the door.

Your stomach dropped, the sense of dread sinking down to your feet as you anxiously dragged yourself to the door. The blanket wrapped around you was suppose to act like comfort, but it only did in the sense of preparing for the inevitable. It was cold, sucking the warmth it did have from before out of it.

You cracked open the door, already wanting to cry out when you see flowers.

Peach petals filled your vision, their smell wafting into your nose. The blanket around your shoulders fell, tears already prickling in your eyes.

Kento stood tall, half of his face wrapped with bandages and his arm in a sling, a soft smile lining his face. He opened his mouth to say something but was cut off when you shot into his arms, already sobbing into his chest.

He held you just as tight, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, whispering just how much he missed you.

[nanasrkives]

Navigation : midnight records! the starlight EP! haikyuu EP!

── .✦ "A PLACE TO STAY" — Miya Osamu

a one shot ab my roman empire (there's not a day where i dont think ab this) content : fluff. angst. hurt to comfort. post graduation miya twins. 3500 words.

Osamu didn’t know when his legs started moving.

One second, he was standing outside his childhood home, his ears still ringing with Atsumu’s words, his heart pounding with something he couldn’t name. The next, he was walking—down familiar streets, past quiet houses, his breath coming uneven but steady.

The fight had been inevitable. He’d known it was coming, had been preparing for it since the first time he told Atsumu he wasn’t going pro. But knowing didn’t make it easier.

"You’re throwin’ it all away."

"You’re bein’ so fuckin’ selfish."

"You didn’t even try."

Osamu had taken it all in, let Atsumu yell, let the frustration spill out because that’s just how his twin was. But when the words “You’re just runnin’ away” left Atsumu’s mouth, something inside Osamu cracked.

The truth was, Atsumu was right about one thing: they both loved volleyball. But there was a world of difference between their love for the sport. Atsumu’s love was burning, uncontrollable, the kind of passion that drove him to pursue the pro leagues relentlessly. He was a beast on the court, the kind of player whose future seemed tied to the sport. To Atsumu, volleyball was life itself.

But Osamu? Osamu had always played because it was fun, because it was something he shared with his twin. He loved volleyball, but it wasn’t his whole world. It never had been.

And that’s where the difference lay.

He could see it now. Atsumu needed volleyball, the way a person needs air. It consumed him in a way Osamu couldn’t fully understand. It wasn’t like that for Osamu. Volleyball had always been a backdrop to something else, something quieter, something more grounded. His passion for food. The dream of his shop. He’d always known that this was where he would go, after volleyball. He just hadn’t expected the fallout to be so… painful.

“I can’t do this,” he muttered to himself as he walked. He was out in the cold now, the night wrapping around him like a blanket. It was almost as if he was walking to get away from everything—his fight with Atsumu, the weight of his own indecision, the fear of what his future might look like now. But where was he going?

Where would he go?

The answer came quietly, almost as if his legs knew before his mind did. He found himself standing outside your apartment building.

His heart sank. He hadn’t meant to end up here. He wasn’t even sure why he was here, except that maybe he needed to. He could’ve gone anywhere. He could’ve kept walking, kept running from everything, but somewhere deep inside him, he knew he needed someone. He needed you. The thought hit him so strongly that he didn't even think about it. He just moved.

He knocked on the door, the sound of it soft in the stillness of the night. Osamu wasn’t the type to just show up at someone’s house uninvited. But tonight felt different. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to talk—he just knew that he couldn’t be alone right now.

When you opened the door, Osamu stood there, his posture stiff, his face a mix of exhaustion and something else—something vulnerable that he almost never showed. He didn’t know what to say, so he said the first thing that came to mind, the truth he couldn’t even fully comprehend yet.

"Didn’t know where else to go."

You didn’t ask anything else. You didn’t press. You simply stepped aside to let him in, and he walked past you, suddenly feeling too big for the space, his movements sluggish, heavy with the burden of everything unsaid.

He made his way to the couch, sitting down heavily as if the weight of the day had caught up with him all at once. His hands gripped his knees, his eyes focused on the floor as if it might offer him some answers.

You sat beside him, close but not too close, giving him the space he didn’t seem to know he needed. The silence between you both was thick, full of the unspoken.

Finally, Osamu broke it.

“I had a fight with ‘Tsumu,” he muttered, voice rough, like the words were caught in his throat."Told him I wasn’t going pro. I told him… I’m done."

You didn’t interrupt. You just nodded, waiting for him to continue.

“I thought he’d understand," Osamu continued, his fingers running through his hair in frustration. "We’ve always been a team, y’know? Played together, went through everything together. And I thought… I thought he’d get it. That I was done chasing his dream. But he doesn’t." He looked up at you, his gaze raw. "He doesn’t get it. He thinks I’m just throwin' it all away. He thinks I’m runnin' away."

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you reached out, your hand brushing against his, gentle but firm, grounding him.

“You’re not running away,” you said softly, but with a confidence that surprised him. “You’re just… choosing a different path. And that’s okay.”

His shoulders slumped as the weight of his own thoughts caught up with him again. “It ain't that simple. Atsumu… he’s always been so damn sure of everything. But me? I don’t have that same fire. I can’t keep playin' for him.” He swallowed hard. "I can’t keep doing something just because he loves it more than I do."

You squeezed his hand, not in sympathy, but in understanding. “You don’t have to. You’re not him. And you never will be.”

Osamu exhaled, like he hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath until now. “I just…” He struggled to find the right words, as if saying them out loud would make it all feel more real. “I’ve spent so long doin' what he wanted. But this... I want this for me. Openin' an onigiri shop… It’s my dream, not his. And I’m scared, Y/N. Scared I’ll regret it. Scared that I’m making the wrong choice.”

You were quiet for a beat. Then, you spoke with a tenderness that he hadn’t expected.

“You’re not making the wrong choice, Osamu. You’re choosing yourself. And sometimes, that’s the hardest thing to do.” You paused, glancing down at your hand still holding his. “I’m proud of you for that. Even if it means letting go of something you’ve known your whole life.”

His gaze softened, his eyes lingering on your face as if he was seeing you for the first time in a new way. Then, slowly, he leaned back into the couch, resting his head against the cushion, the tension in his body easing just a fraction.

For a while, the two of you stayed there in silence, just breathing in the quiet of the night, letting everything settle around you.

“I don’t know what’s next,” Osamu murmured after a while. “But… I’m glad I came here. I didn’t even think about it. I just needed to. I don’t know why.”

You turned your hand, your fingers tracing the outline of his palm. “Maybe it’s because you trust me. Or maybe… it’s because you knew I’d understand.”

Osamu’s lips twitched slightly. There was something vulnerable in his smile, something almost fragile, like he was afraid of showing too much. But it was there, just for a moment—a glimpse of something deeper than his usual carefree exterior.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said softly. “Maybe I do trust you.”

The words hung in the air, but neither of you rushed to fill the silence. Instead, you both let the comfort of the moment settle, the quiet companionship that had always been present between you growing in its own subtle way.

Osamu shifted closer to you, his knee brushing against yours, his hand gently holding yours in return. For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t thinking about volleyball, about Atsumu, or about his own doubts. He was just here, with you, in this small, quiet space where he didn’t have to be anything other than himself.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he murmured again, his voice barely above a whisper.

And as you looked at him, at the weight of everything that had been pressing down on him, you smiled softly, squeezing his hand.

“You’re always welcome here, 'samu. No matter what.”

And this time, as the words left your mouth, you both knew they were more than just words. They were a promise—one that would hold through whatever came next, through whatever choices he made or paths he followed.

Osamu’s eyes softened, his thumb tracing the back of your hand in a slow, thoughtful rhythm. And in the quiet of the night, the two of you sat there together, finding comfort not just in silence, but in the unspoken understanding that somehow, everything would be okay.

2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.

TAGLIST (OPEN). / @cherrysurf @arwawawa2 @elmaa127

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part i)

summary: Joel Miller never expected much out of Jackson—just a quiet place to live out the days he had left. But when a baby’s cries lead him to a mother unravelling under the pressure of nursing her child she never asked for, he finds himself tangled in something he can’t walk away from—no matter how much he tells himself he should.

a/n: this is soft daddy Joel like you've never seen before. angst, angst, angst. just heart-wrenching, gut-clenching, bucket-full-of-tears kind of flow. but I promise, I swear to you, it's going to get good!

Joel had spent the past week trying to ignore it.

The sound was distant, muffled through the walls, but it was there—constant, sharp infant's cries cutting through the night like something wounded, something helpless. The baby never laughed, cooed, or made small, gurgling noises that kids were supposed to make. Just crying. Night after night, the same pitiful wails, like it was fighting sleep and didn’t know how to be comforted.

And the mother?

Leela. That was her name. Tommy and Maria had told him her family had been here before them, before all of this, that she’d grown up in Jackson, that the big house across from his had always been hers. He instantly believed it—her place didn’t look like the others. It was well-kept in a way that wasn’t just for show. The wood was aged but polished, the porch steps sturdy, and the windows wiped clean even in the dead of winter. A home, not just a shelter.

But it wasn’t warm.

Not with that sound in the night. Not when he never saw anyone else go inside.

No one knew who the kid’s father was, and Leela never said. She wouldn’t even let people help her—not Maria, not the older women in town who had tried, not even the ones who had kids of their own and knew what to do. And now, at the end of another long day, that fucking baby was crying again.

Joel had tried to let it be. Had forced himself to breathe calmly, stay in his house, shut the curtains, turn over in bed and pull the blanket over his head like some stubborn old bastard trying to pretend it wasn’t his problem.

But it was.

Because he could hear it. Because it sounded fucking miserable. Because he’d had enough.

When the cries began to get worse into the night, that was his last straw. With a frustrated sigh, he yanked on his jacket, shoved his arms through the sleeves, and stepped out into the cold, the door crashing shut behind him. The snow crunched beneath his boots as he crossed the road, hands tightening into fists, shoulders squared. The wind was sharp, biting at his skin, and when he reached her porch, he had half a mind to just bang on the damn door until she answered.

But then—he hesitated.

There was still a kid in there. The devilkin, probably. A baby nevertheless. And it's struggling mother.

He exhaled through his nose, loosened his fingers, and reached for the old metal knocker instead. Three firm, steady raps.

A pause. A paddle of footsteps down the staircase inside, light and hesitant. A sniffle. A sigh.

The curtains fluttered from nearby—just a fraction, just enough for him to catch the glint of an eye in the darkness, shedding a blade of light onto the frozen lawn. And then the door creaked open.

The poor mother looked like hell.

Her eyes—pretty, brown, red-rimmed, heavy-lidded—held the kind of exhaustion that settled deep, beyond sleep, beyond fixing. Her cheeks were hollowed, her lips chapped to brown, her hair falling loose from whatever attempt she’d made to pull it back.

And the baby—the cries hadn’t stopped. If anything, they were worse now. Closer. Desperate. The sound reached him in waves, piercing and thin, rattling against the walls of the house and clawing at something deep in his chest. A familiarity.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she murmured. Her voice was raw, barely holding together. “I just…”

She trailed off as if the words had run out, or maybe she didn’t have the strength to find them. Then the baby shrieked, and she flinched. A full-body recoil, like something had struck her. She turned away, pressing her wrist to her nose, shoulders curling inward, folding into herself as though she could disappear into the space she took up.

And Joel—well, he had been ready to lay into her. To tell her to do something, to figure it out, to stop letting that kid cry itself raw night after night. But looking at her now, standing there with her arms wrapped tight around herself, shaking from something that wasn’t just the cold…

He couldn’t do it.

Instead, against every instinct, every frustration, he surprised himself by saying—

“Let me try.”

X

Joel didn’t exactly wait for an answer.

Didn’t stop to think if he had the right. Didn’t question if she would let him in, because the noise was still there, splitting the air, working its way under his skin like a thorn that wouldn’t come out. His jaw tightened, his hands curled into fists, and the next thing he knew, he was pushing past her and her doorstep.

He wasn’t trying to be cruel. Well, he had been, just not anymore.

It was desperation. A need to stop that noise. That noise had been giving him sleepless nights for a week now. And with it, came the memories he’d spent years burying. He couldn't afford to let them resurface by the likes of this strange, terrible mother.

The house smelled faintly of old wood, dust, and something softer underneath—like linen, like the lingering scent of a person who lived there and never left. It was dark, too, save for the single glow spilling from a room upstairs. His boots were heavy against the worn floorboards, his breath tight in his chest as he took the stairs two at a time. Three doors on the second floor, but only one was open.

He stepped inside.

The first thing he saw was the cradle, right in the centre of the empty room, as if placed there on purpose, a little crib mobile fashioned into wooden horses, dangling mid-air.

Old. Hinges barely holding together. The wood had worn smooth from time, its edges dulled, like something that had been used for generations. The mattress inside was thin, its fabric stained with age, but the sheets were neatly tucked. Arranged properly. Everything was in its place.

This wasn’t neglect.

This was someone trying—someone failing.

And then the baby. No older than a month, wriggling in its white nappy, legs kicking in frantic little bursts, tiny fists curled so tight they trembled. Tears slicked its cheeks, its face blotchy and red, its mouth stretched wide in a scream so raw, so piercing, that it stole the breath straight from the lungs. It was exhausted. Starving.

But goddamn, if that wasn't one beautiful fucking baby.

Biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen, glassy with exhaustion, wet and searching. A head full of thick, dark hair, damp and curling at the ends. But it wasn’t chubby the way babies should be. Not soft enough. Too small, skin drawn tight, movements restless but weak. Malnourished.

His jaw clenched. He barely registered the sharp footsteps rushing up behind him until her voice cut through the noise.

“Hey, ‘scuse me, I didn’t let—”

He cut off her protest with an abrupt, “Boy or girl?”

She stopped short. Lips parting. Swallowing down whatever she’d been about to say.

“Girl.”

Joel’s gaze flicked back to the baby. He noticed the slight bloating around her belly, the way she arched and curled, restless, like she couldn’t find a position that didn’t hurt. That explained the shrieking. Colic, for sure.

“You fed her anything?”

There was a thoughtful pause, and then, quietly—

“I—I’ve been having trouble with…” She gestured vaguely to her chest, gaze dropping, almost ashamed. “I tried water... um... I don't know.”

Jesus Christ. Joel dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard through his nose. Too late at night or too early in the morning—he didn’t know which, and at this point, it didn’t matter. His head ached. His body ached. And this kid—this poor, starving little thing—had been too hapless to be born to this fucking clueless, stubborn mother.

“Need to call Maria,” he said under his breath.

Her eyes went wide. “I don’t need anybody’s help. I'm fine.”

He let out a sharp, humourless laugh, shaking his head. “You don't. Your girl sure does. And try saying that when this crib empties in the next week.”

She flinched, shoulders jerking.

He barely registered it. He was already moving, already slipping into old instinct, the one he thought had died a long time ago.

Stepping closer, Joel reached into the cradle, hands slipping beneath the baby’s small, rigid body. Carefully, he eased her onto her stomach, a shush falling from his lips, settling her against his forearm, palm spanning nearly the length of her body. Christ, she was so fucking small. Too small. Probably premature. A frail little thing, light as air, fists still curled, breath coming out in tiny, shuddering gasps between cries.

Leela stood stiff beside him, her breath uneven, arms wrapped around herself like she wasn’t sure if she should step forward or pull away.

Joel didn’t look at her. His focus stayed on the baby. The way her tiny limbs jerked, how her cries wavered like she couldn’t decide if she had the energy to keep going.

He started rubbing slow, steady circles against her back, the calloused warmth of his palm pressing gently but firmly over her fragile bones. Something old stirred in him—something buried deep, something that twisted like a knife. He didn’t think about it. Didn’t let himself. Just kept rubbing. Kept murmuring something low, quiet, something he wasn’t even aware of.

“Thatta, girl. There you go.”

“'Sokay, ssh. Ssh.”

“I got you.”

The wails started to waver, breaking apart in the middle, turning into stuttering hiccups, then snivels, a laughable baby burp that even had him breaking into a small smile. Then—

Silence. Oh, sweet, splendid silence.

Joel exhaled, keeping his touch steady as she shuddered against him, her tiny fingers twitching against the sleeve of his jacket.

“See?” His voice was rough. “Just needed a little push.”

Leela didn’t respond. She was staring. Not at him, exactly, but at his hands, at the way he held the baby. Like she wasn’t sure what to make of it. Observing him, learning.

When he glanced down, she was blinking up at him, half-lidded, her breath slowing, her little body going limp with exhaustion. She made a wet, little noise, almost a soft coo.

“She got a name?”

When the silence lingered, he lifted his head, caught Leela’s stare, and cocked a brow when she didn’t answer. Then, she silently shook her head.

Joel frowned. “You didn’t name your kid?”

And just like that, something clicked into place. The way she stood there, arms locked tight around herself. The way she hadn’t called the baby anything. The way she hadn't moved a step close to protect her baby from this stranger. The hesitation in her voice, the way she held herself together like she was bracing for something.

“She ain’t yours?”

Her gaze flickered. “She is.”

Soft. Firm. After a beat, she lifted the hem of her shirt, revealing the crisscross of stretch marks across her stomach, just above the line of her pants.

Joel sighed through his nose. His fingers ghosted over the baby’s small back before he finally let go, letting her rest in her mother's arms. It felt wrong—leaving the baby there like that—but he slipped his hand away, albeit unwillingly, and stroked her fine, dark hair once. Twice. Then forced himself to stop.

He exhaled sharply, standing upright, rubbing a hand over his face. His patience was hanging by a thread. His chest ached with something raw, something angry. He had no business being here, no reason to care, but—

"Look," he muttered, voice tight, "you shouldn't have had a kid if you were just gonna sit around and do nothing. Jesus, at least get yourself some help."

Leela cringed. It was barely noticeable, just a flicker of movement, but he caught it. She turned her face away, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear, and bit at what little was left of her nail, worrying it between her teeth.

The sight of it—it wasn’t what he expected. He had been bracing for an argument, for defensiveness, for anger. But there was nothing like that. Just the quiet gnawing of her thumbnail, the restless shifting of her fingers.

Something settled uneasily in his chest.

He exhaled sharply. "Maria’s coming in tomorrow," he said, firm. Like he was setting it in stone. "Whether you like it or not. She'll know what to do."

That made her glance up. And for the first time, he really saw her.

Not just the exhaustion, the red-rimmed eyes, or the way she curled in on herself like she was trying to take up as little space as possible—but the fear. That deep, paralyzing kind of fear that settled into a person’s bones, made a home there.

Then his eyes flicked downward, back to the baby. She had her mother’s eyes. Big, dark, and brimming with something wild, something untamed. Something fragile, caught on the verge of bolting. And in that moment, they both looked the same.

Wet. Trembling. Exhausted. Confused. Helpless.

Leela swallowed thickly, lips parting like she wanted to speak. But when she did, her voice barely made it past her throat. “Take her.”

Joel blinked. For a second, he thought he must’ve misheard.

But she was looking at him—really looking at him now, eyes wide and wet, breath uneven like she’d just sprinted a mile. And the way she was standing, trembling, fists curled into the fabric of her sleeves—She meant it. She was serious.

"You're right," she whispered, voice barely there. "I might kill her. Just take her away, please."

A slow, sinking dread pooled in his stomach. His fingers curled at his sides, restless, itching for something to hold onto.

The baby stirred weakly against Leela’s chest, small fingers twitching up to her mother's neck, dark lashes fluttering against flushed skin. She had gone quiet, her body still in that way newborns only got when they were too damn exhausted to keep crying.

His hands twitched at his sides. He knew what he should do. He should take the kid. That was the right thing, wasn’t it? He should lift her into his arms, swaddle her in a blanket, turn on his heel, and walk out the door. Hand her off to Maria, and let someone who actually knew what they were doing step in. Hell, she’d been talking about trying to set up a proper nursery in town, get the kids what they needed—she’d figure it out.

But Joel didn't move; couldn't move.

Because now that he was looking at her, really looking, he saw it—saw the fear clinging to her like a second skin. Not fear of him. Not fear of what people might say. Fear of herself. Conviction was a luxury.

She stood there, arms wrapped tight around herself, her body drawn inward like she was trying to make herself small as if shrinking could somehow erase the truth. The baby rested against her chest, quiet now, as if sensing the shift in the air. Her fingers barely touched her child, hesitant, light, the way someone might hold a delicate piece of glass they weren’t sure they could be trusted with.

Joel’s stomach turned.

“I—I'm not—I can’t do this.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, frayed at the edges, raw like an old wound that had never properly healed.

He felt something sharp and hot twist inside him, something he didn’t want to name.

“You ain’t givin’ her up.” His voice came out rough, low, unwavering.

Leela let out a breathy, broken laugh, shaking her head. “Do you think I have a choice here?”

“Yeah.” His eyes stayed on hers, unrelenting. “I do.”

She sniffled, shaking her head again, but her fingers twitched against her sleeve, gripping the fabric like she needed something to hold onto.

And Joel—Joel had seen this before. Had known people like this. People who stood at the edge of something dark, looking down, unable to turn back. He’d been one of them once. It made something ugly rise in his chest. Made him angry in a way that didn’t make sense, and didn’t sit right.

Because this mother—this stupid, foolish, ignorant girl—had no business being like that. She didn't even know what kind of luck she'd struck with that baby girl. He would've killed to be where she was, even if it was for a moment.

"You're a fucking coward if you're thinking about giving your daughter up.” The words left him, sharp as a blade, before he could stop them. “You got plenty of choices, but you're too goddamn pigheaded to make the right one."

She flinched. Not just in surprise, but something deeper—like he’d struck her with all his might, like he’d confirmed every awful thing she’d ever thought about herself.

Joel’s jaw locked. It was too late to take it back.

He should’ve stopped. He should’ve taken a breath, let the words settle and left it at that. But something about her, the way she stood there like she was waiting to be knocked down, made his patience snap clean in half.

“Pull yourself together,” he bit out.

Then he turned and walked out the door.

The air outside was colder than before, or maybe it felt that way. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he stepped onto the road, his breath coming sharp, ragged in the quiet of the night. His fingers ached, curled into tight fists, his pulse still hammering.

He was halfway across the street when something in him shifted.

His anger thinned, the heat of it fading just enough for everything else to creep in—her voice, her hands trembling, the way her arms had tightened around that kid like she was afraid of herself more than anything else.

He slowed, stopping in his tracks. The house loomed behind him, dark except for that single upstairs window.

Joel looked up at the home.

The cries had started again. Thin, reedy wails carried through the cold, through the walls.

He stood there, staring at the lights flickering against the frost-covered glass.

This time, jaw tight, he turned away.

X

That being said, Joel hadn’t slept well.

Not that he ever did, but last night was worse than usual.

Every time he closed his eyes, it was the baby’s cries again. He saw Leela’s face, dark and hollow, eyes too big for her sunken frame. He heard her voice, raw and trembling, telling him to take the kid—like it was the only way. Like she didn’t trust herself to keep her alive, already grieving her.

Even now, as he tugged on his gloves and prepared for patrol, he kept seeing the way she had watched him with her baby. He remembered the way she desperately looked at him, waiting for him to take the baby from her, as if letting go was the only mercy she had left to offer.

Maria was there now. She had let herself in, just like that. Hadn’t knocked, hadn’t hesitated. And Leela had not met her at the door, hadn’t locked it after Joel had walked out last night.

He adjusted the rifle on his back and exhaled sharply.

Not his problem. He shouldn't be bothered with it. He’d done his part. More than his part. He had brought help in, and gotten someone else to deal with it—someone better suited for this kind of thing. Maria would figure it out. She always did.

Still, as he swung himself onto his horse and rode out for patrol, that damn house stayed in the back of his mind. The way it stood there, quiet and still, while something inside was coming apart at the seams. The way Leela had stood in that dim room, shoulders curled inward, looking more like a ghost than a person.

He shook it off and went through the motions. Focus on the day ahead.

Patrol was long, tedious, and more of the same—checking the perimeter, clearing out old trouble spots down his trail, making sure everything was as it should be, and scouring supplies. A welcome distraction. When he stopped by Ellie’s as usual, she narrowed her eyes at him from behind her sketchbook, muttering something about how he looked like shit.

“Didn’t sleep,” was all he said. And she didn’t bother to press. Ellie was another long, welcome, more pesky distraction.

By the time evening rolled around, he’d fallen back into his routine. Routine. That was what mattered. He groomed his horse, rubbing his hands along its mane just to keep them busy. He cleaned his rifle, making sure the gears weren't easy to jam and stopped to pick up some new gear at the store. He grabbed a whiskey—alone—just to take the edge off, slowing down for a bit.

He finished the evening like always, grabbing a boxed dinner from the mess hall, not bothering to make small talk. No one asked anything of him, and he didn’t offer anything in return. A night like any other. Something he repeated to himself, just to ground himself to reality besides the weight of his breaking boots.

Then he saw her. Maria was still at that house, waiting by the porch swing, face tense. She spotted him almost instantly and strode straight toward him.

Joel nodded at her in greeting, shifting the box under his arm. "You good?"

Maria didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Sure. Got a second?”

He tipped his chin toward Leela’s door. "All set over there?"

“Far from it.” Her voice was tight, laced with something he didn’t like. “I need your help.”

Joel scoffed. “What’s the punchline?”

But Maria didn’t laugh. Didn’t even crack a smirk. Instead, she followed him inside his house.

Joel's 'home' was nothing special—functional, practical. Just a space to exist in. A couch pushed against one wall which he used more than the bed upstairs, a table he used out of necessity, a kitchen stocked with the bare minimum. Not much to look at, or even stay for long. It wasn't home, but it was enough. Certainly nothing like Leela’s home, where history bled through the worn floorboards, through the walls, a place that had been lived in.

Joel didn’t let himself think about it too much. He dropped the box of food onto the table, turning to Maria with his arms crossed.

“Well?”

Maria sighed, staring out the window toward Leela’s house. The porch light flickered weakly, and the house itself looked darker than it had last night. Like it had collapsed in on itself a little more.

“She’s not okay, Joel.”

Joel huffed, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, pretending not to hear the implication behind those words. “Figured.”

“No,” Maria said, sharper this time. “I mean it.”

She turned back to him, her eyes shadowed with something heavier than just concern. She looked tired—worn—in a way that wasn’t just about the town or the thousand responsibilities on her shoulders. It was personal.

Joel exhaled through his nose, already feeling the walls closing in on this conversation.

Maria rubbed a hand over her face. “She’s disturbed. I don’t think she’s had a proper meal in days. She’s having trouble breastfeeding, let alone keeping herself together enough to care for that baby.” She shook her head. “I can’t be there all the time. I’ve got the whole town to run, a hundred things to look after. Tommy’s drowning in work. We're stretched thin as it is.” Her eyes met his, steady and pointed. “You’re my last resort.”

Joel frowned, jaw ticking. “And do what, exactly? Pretend like I've done this dance before?”

“Just be there,” Maria said so positively, like it wasn’t the worst fucking idea in the world. “Make sure she doesn’t slip up with the baby. Help where you can. Just a few days—until Tommy and I can step in.”

Joel dragged a hand down his beard, exhaling slowly. “You have got to be shitting me. You want me to play babysitter.”

Everything in him wanted to refuse. He’d done his part here. Hell, more than his part. He didn’t owe that woman anything. She had a nice home. Pretty face. She had her newborn. And if she didn’t know how to handle it, that was on her. He wasn’t looking to take on another burden. Christ, wasn’t he supposed to be done with this kind of thing? Wasn’t he past the point of taking in lost causes?

But Maria didn’t look like she was giving him a choice. Her voice softened, dropping to something quieter, edged with meaning. “I don’t think she had this baby with someone she knew, Joel.”

Joel stiffened. Maria’s expression didn’t change, but there was something unspoken there, something heavy, something that didn’t need to be stated outright. Still, it landed in his gut like a stone.

She let the silence stretch, let him fill in the gaps. And he did.

“I hope you understand what I'm getting at,” she continued. “I don’t think she wanted this at all.”

Joel clenched his jaw, staring at the floor, pretending like he didn’t hear them. He didn't ask how she knew, didn’t even ask what she’d seen in that house today that had led her to that conclusion.

Because he already knew. He’d seen it, too.

The way Leela couldn’t bring herself to name the baby. The way she looked at the child was like she was something fragile, something unfamiliar, something that didn’t belong to her. The way she had looked at him—not with resentment, not with anger, but with resignation.

Like she was handing over the baby because she genuinely believed it was the only way to save her. A fist of darkness curled in his stomach.

He knew what it was like to lose a child. He knew what it did to a person, how it tore through you, how it hollowed them out from the inside. But whatever this was, it wasn’t grief. This was something worse. He prayed he would never have to deal with this.

This was a woman standing on the edge of the deep and the dark, staring down into it, wondering how much further she could fall before there was no coming back. And there was a baby—a fucking baby—at her feet. Yet, she was ready to take that fall.

Joel exhaled, slow and heavy, rubbing the back of his neck.

But the truth was, he’d already stepped in. Already gotten himself involved. Whether out of desperation or some obstinate, buried need to fix things that were beyond saving, he wasn’t sure. And now, if he walked away, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with the consequences.

Suddenly, the room felt smaller, the walls a little tighter. A long silence stretched between them.

Finally, reluctantly, he sighed. “This is a big fucking mistake, Maria. I'm the last person who should be over there with her.”

Maria nodded, hearing what she needed to hear, relief flickering across her face. “You'll figure it out. I'll be around if you need anything. Thank you.”

Joel didn’t answer. He didn't know what the hell he’d just agreed to, but something in his gut told him it was going to end real bad.

X

Morning light washed over his neighbour's house, soft and cold, as Joel made his way up the steps. It must’ve been the perfect little home once, back when the world was still whole—white clapboard, modest porch with a swingset, somewhere that had been waiting too long for someone to come back home. A place built to last. And maybe, before seasons and silence collapsed, it had.

But time had sunk its teeth in. The paint had started peeling in the corners, the wood of the steps groaned under his boots, and though the windows were clean, there was something hollow about the way they sat in their frames as if no one had looked out of them in a long time. It didn’t have the neglect of a broken-down house, but rather the hush of a place that had lost something vital.

And the front door was open again.

Joel clenched his jaw.

Maria had been right—that girl really didn’t have a single clue.

He pushed the door wider and stepped inside, careful, slow, not wanting to seem intrusive but unable to stop himself from taking in the room. It wasn’t what he expected.

Her home wasn’t cluttered, wasn’t in disarray, but there was something about it that felt… off. A mind too busy to bother with the details of living. Against one wall stood two large blackboards hung haphazardly over shelves, filled with complex math equations, numbers and symbols scrawled out in clean, sharp lines. A few pieces of chalk lay scattered at the base, alongside crumpled papers and a wastebasket that never quite caught them. Shelves held solved Rubik’s cubes, closed notebooks, and empty pens stuck upright in a pen stand. On the table, a coffee mug sat with dried stains at the bottom, an imprint of hands that had used it over and over, mindlessly, then set it aside without a thought.

Joel frowned, taking it all in.

A fucking scientist. That was the last thing he’d ever have guessed about her. Dr Leela last-name-something, the resident nerd mom.

He didn’t know what he expected when he climbed the stairs, only that something about the house still put him on edge. It wasn’t just the oddity of it—the blackboards filled with numbers, the pages of equations scattered like fallen leaves—it was the fact that none of it felt lived in. Clinical. Like the house had been built to serve a purpose, but never for a person.

He reached the top step just as he heard the baby girl’s soft fussing from down the hall. The sound made him hesitate. It wasn’t the sharp, desperate cries from the night before. This was softer, almost a coo, the kind of sound that made something in his chest tighten before he could push it down.

Carefully, he stepped forward, peering into the nursery.

Leela stood by the cradle, one hand rubbing slow, absentminded circles over the baby’s tiny stomach. It was almost an imitation of what he’d done the night before, but the difference was clear—where his movements had been firm, knowing, hers were unsure, like she was following a set of instructions she didn’t quite understand.

She looked different in the daylight. Dressed neatly in a long, thin nightgown that fell to her ankles, her black hair was left loose, unbrushed, hanging past her hips in uneven waves, obviously never seen the business end of a scissor. The exhaustion was still there—was part of her, woven into how she held herself—but her face was smoother, her shoulders less rigid, like she had settled into something.

The floorboard groaned beneath his boot. Leela looked up. She even tried for a small smile. A little, ghostly quirk of her lips.

“Hello, Joel.”

He didn’t respond. Something about how she looked at him, or maybe how she looked past him, unsettled him. He didn’t like feeling that way—not in someone else’s home, not when he was meant to be in control of the situation. Instead of answering, he stepped toward the cradle, glancing down at the baby.

The baby girl let out a high-pitched whine, stretching, her fingers curling and uncurling before she kicked her little legs. Then, as if noticing him, her mouth widened into a gummy, toothless grin, her round face alight, untouched by the world’s cruelty.

Joel couldn’t help himself. His lips twitched, just slightly, before he shook his head.

“Managed to—?” He gestured vaguely toward her chest before pulling his hand back, curling it into an embarrassed fist against the cradle.

Leela caught on. Her fingers twitched at the pearly buttons of her nightgown. Just a small, involuntary movement.

“Oh… Maria told me to hold her close to stimulate… you know.” She hesitated, shifting her weight. “I fed her one of the bottles she gave me, too.”

Joel nodded. “And?”

Leela looked down at the baby. “She stopped crying.”

He frowned. “That’s it?”

Leela’s fingers tightened against her arms. “I… don’t know how to hold her without making her cry.”

The words made something dark flicker through him, he didn’t have the energy to name it. It wasn’t quite anger, but it was close. Frustration. Exasperation. A sharp-edged bitterness he couldn’t swallow down fast enough.

Joel scoffed. “You can’t hold your own baby?”

Leela looked away, her heart breaking in her eyes before she managed to mask it.

Joel exhaled, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “It’s not all math,” he muttered.

He didn’t wait for her to answer. Instead, he reached into the cradle, slipping a hand beneath the baby’s head, cradling her against his arm, careful, practised. He eased her up, letting her body settle against his forearm, her head resting in the crook of his elbow.

The second she was in his arms, something inside him cracked.

She was tiny. So fucking tiny. Tinier than Sarah had been.

Joel swallowed thickly, feeling the light weight of her against his chest. He hadn’t held something this fragile in years—hadn’t let himself. But muscle memory took over before he could stop it before he could remind himself that this wasn’t the same. It was already clawing its way back to him. He rubbed a slow, steady hand over her back, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. She was warm and soft, her tiny fingers twitching against his shirt.

For a second—a half a second—he let himself sink into it.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispered.

The scent of her, like the faded remnants of old cotton, the delicate press of her body against his. A ghost of something long lost. A time when his arms had been full like this when his days had been nothing but cradling Sarah against him, balancing a baby bag on his shoulder, and pushing a stroller down the sidewalk, filled with groceries, with the Texas sun overhead.

A different life. A different world. One he had no business remembering.

Joel forced himself to blink out of it. He cleared his throat, shifting, pressing the feeling down before it could take hold.

“And that’s it,” he said gruffly. “Ain’t that hard.”

Leela was watching him. Not like she was waiting for him to say something—not like she even expected him to. She was watching the way he held the baby, the way she settled so easily against him. Studying him, the way she studied numbers and equations, looking for a formula, an answer.

He breathed out. “Here,” he muttered, shifting the baby carefully toward her. “You try.”

Leela didn’t reach for her baby immediately.

Her hands hovered, hesitant, fingers twitching like she wasn’t sure how to move them. Joel could see it—the tension coiling in her shoulders, the stiffness in her posture. Her breathing shallowed, her chest barely rising, as if even that movement might disturb the delicate balance between her and the tiny life in front of her.

But finally, she forced herself to move.

Her hands, unsteady, cupped beneath the baby’s body as if she were handling something breakable, something foreign. It was careful, but too careful—unnatural in a way that the baby could sense. And sure enough, the second Leela pulled her in, her arms locked tight, too rigid, too unsure, and the child stirred. A tiny whimper. Then a sharp, warning cry.

Leela stiffened, her grip faltering. The sound made her flinch, her breath catching, as though she’d been struck.

She barely lasted five seconds before her resolve cracked. She was already shifting forward, already pushing the baby back toward Joel, who took her without hesitation.

The crying stopped almost instantly.

Joel settled the baby against his chest, bouncing her gently, a practised movement. He didn’t have to think about it—his body just did what it knew, routine kicking in where hers faltered. The baby let out a soft, sighing coo, her tiny body relaxing, as if she knew she was back in capable hands.

Leela, however, looked shaken. Not in a dramatic way—she wasn’t crying, wasn’t breaking down—but her hands curled into fists, pressing against her stomach like she needed to hold herself together.

Then, she winced.

Joel’s attention snapped back to her, his gaze dropping to the way she clutched at her lower back, her body tilting forward ever so slightly like the pain had taken her by surprise.

“Hey.” His voice softened. “You wanna sit down?”

She nodded, barely. A tiny dip of her chin.

Joel glanced around. There wasn’t much in the nursery. Just the crib, a long wooden bureau, and a mattress on the floor pushed against the far wall. No chair, nothing to lower herself onto easily.

With a quiet sigh, he adjusted his hold on the baby and stepped closer, offering an arm. “C’mon.”

Leela hesitated. Not out of pride—he could tell—but maybe out of uncertainty like she wasn’t used to being helped. But when she tried to move on her own, another sharp grimace crossed her face, and that was enough.

She let him guide her.

Joel was careful, supporting her weight without making a big deal of it. The baby stayed nestled in the crook of his other arm, still resting peacefully, unaffected by the movement. It wasn’t easy—manoeuvring both of them at once—but it was instinctual.

He helped her lower onto the mattress, feeling the way her muscles tensed beneath his touch before finally giving in to the pull of exhaustion. Leela eased back against the wall and settled into the thin cushion. A long, quiet sigh left her lips, her posture unwinding slightly like she’d been holding herself taut for hours—maybe longer. But even then, she still didn’t entirely relax.

Joel watched as she lifted a hand to her face, brushing back loose strands of hair, her fingers pressing briefly into her temples.

"I'm sorry, Joel."

He frowned. “For what?”

She inhaled deeply. “It’s only been three... four weeks since I delivered. I’ve just been feeling out of it ever since.”

There was no shame in her tone, no self-pity. Just a quiet fatigue. A statement of fact.

Joel pressed his lips together.

Four weeks. Jesus. That explained a lot. The exhaustion, the stiffness in her movements, the way her body still seemed like it hadn’t recovered from what it had been through. Hell, no wonder she looked like a ghost of herself. The human body wasn’t meant to bounce back that fast—not without help. And from what he’d seen so far, she wasn’t the type to ask for it.

“She came too soon,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Leela shifted, tilting her head slightly toward him. "Eight months," she said, voice softer now. "That’s not normal, is it? It’s why she’s so tiny."

Joel didn’t answer immediately. Leela waited, like she wanted him to say more. When he didn’t, she tucked her knees up onto the couch, resting her chin against them.

She rubbed a tired hand into her eyes. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

There it was. Not frustration. Not helplessness. Just quiet, resigned truth.

Joel glanced down at the sleeping baby, still curled against his chest, her breathing soft and even. One tiny hand had fisted itself into his shirt, gripping instinctively—like she knew, on some level, that she had to hold on to something, someone, to stay safe. His grip on her tightened slightly.

Leela’s words sat heavy in his chest. I don’t know how to hold her without making her cry. And now this—I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. He’d heard new parents say those words before. Hell, he’d felt it himself, back then. But something about the way she said it—flat, detached, like she wasn’t even fighting it anymore—made something inside him go stiff.

Joel breathed out, shifting his arms so the baby settled more comfortably against him, and she felt so heavy all of a sudden.

Too much quiet, too many things unsaid pressing at the edges of his mind. He didn’t want to sit in it—didn’t want to acknowledge what it stirred in him. So, he broke the silence the only way he knew how.

"You could start by giving her a name," he said, glancing at Leela. "Not that 'baby girl' is a terrible name."

Leela blinked, then looked down at her daughter, studying her as if she were just now realizing that, yes, she still had to name the kid.

After a thoughtful moment, she lifted her gaze back to him. "Do you want to pick one for her?"

Joel snorted. "Me?"

She nodded, entirely serious.

He shook his head. "I think I'm gonna stick with 'baby girl.'"

Leela let out a small breath of laughter, barely there, but it softened something in her face. She bit her lip, thinking of a name, then murmured, "I always liked the name Maya."

"Maya?" He tested the name on his lips. "I like that. Maya. It’s pretty. Rhymes, too. Leela, Maya."

Leela’s lips twitched at that, and she shifted forward, moving closer without thinking, drawn in by something unspoken. She leaned down, head dipping toward the baby still curled up against Joel’s chest.

And for the first time since he stepped into this house, Joel saw it.

That fondness. It was small, but it was there—the quiet, aching kind of love that didn’t need words. The kind that made itself known in the way her fingers smoothed over the baby’s forehead, tracing delicate lines across her tiny features. In the way her body curled just slightly, instinctively, around her daughter, like even in her exhaustion, she was drawn to protect.

"Maya, Maya, Maya," she whispered, barely a sound, breathing the name into her daughter's ear as if speaking it into existence.

Joel watched her for a long moment, an unfamiliar phantom kick in his ribs. It was too much. Too close to something he didn’t want to touch, something that felt like the past reaching for him with cold fingers.

He should leave. He knew he should. Should’ve gotten up, handed the baby back, given some half-hearted promise to Maria that he’d check in, and then walked out that door.

But he didn’t. Instead, he settled in a little more, stretching his legs out, arms still loosely cradling the child.

He finally broke the silence with, “So, you’re some kind of scientist?”

Leela glanced up at him, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’m more towards math.”

Joel frowned. Math. In a world like this?

People didn’t survive with numbers. They survived with bullets and knives, knowing when to run and when to pull the trigger. You either killed or died. You either protected or raided. You didn’t see too many folks walking around trying to save themselves with goddamned math equations—unless they were Fireflies with delusions of rebuilding the world. That was the kind of thinking that got you shot.

His gaze flickered back to the crib. What the hell kind of life was she leading before all this?

He leaned back against the wall. “And just how long have you been here alone?”

“A long time.” She didn’t elaborate. Just glanced down at the baby, adjusting the folds of the swaddle with careful fingers. Then, softer, almost like an afterthought—“Not anymore.”

Joel didn’t know what to make of that.

His gaze flicked toward the stacks of books on the baby’s bureau, thick with dust on the edges but well-thumbed through. He hummed. “And you do… math?” He made it sound ridiculous because it was.

She only nodded, unbothered. “Analytic geometry and a bit of mechanics. My parents used to work at NASA. I took up their research once I was old enough to understand. They loved to teach me all about it.”

Joel blinked. NASA? Ellie would lose her little mind if she were here.

He studied her again, reassessing. She didn’t look like someone who used to be involved in something that big. Not now, anyway. Dressed in an old nightgown, her hair hanging in dark, tangled waves, bruised-looking eyes that made her seem older than she was.

He hesitated before asking, “And just how old are you?”

“I’m turning thirty soon.” She didn’t sound glad about it. Then again, no one ever did.

But there was something about that number that made his stomach turn. Maybe because of all her intelligence, all her sharp, clinical detachment, she looked young under the weight of everything she was carrying. Or maybe because twenty-nine didn’t seem old enough to have gone through the kind of hell that made a mother flinch at her own baby.

Joel wanted to press further. Wanted to ask why she was alone, how the hell she had made it this long without the baby’s father, how a girl who could do math for NASA ended up here—malnourished, exhausted, hunched over on a mattress like she was carrying the whole world on her back.

But before he could, Maya stirred.

A small, sleepy movement. Tiny fingers wriggled their way free from the swaddle, barely curled, stretching toward the air. The whimpering started softly, then built, that newborn cry that was both fragile and urgent all at once.

Leela straightened instinctively, her hands twitching toward her daughter. But this time, when she lifted Maya from Joel’s arms, she didn’t hesitate. She held her with a little more certainty, a little more care, cradling her close to her chest as if she were nestling something precious rather than foreign.

Joel let out a slow breath. Good. Progress.

Then, before he could so much as glance back up, Leela started unbuttoning her nightgown, the lapel falling open.

His eyes snapped away so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. “Christ.”

“Oh, god—! I’m so sorry, Maria said to try—”

“’Sall good,” he muttered, fixing his gaze firmly on the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but at her. “Just, uh—go for it.”

“I’ll cover up. Sorry.”

Joel nodded stiffly, still keeping his head turned. But in the silence that followed, his body didn’t quite relax.

He listened. Not just to her, but to everything. The rustle of fabric, the faint, uncertain exhale as she adjusted her hold, the wet, rhythmic sound of the baby nursing, the occasional tiny sigh. A noise so small it barely existed, but it filled the quiet all the same.

Joel let out a breath through his nose, sinking into himself, gaze flickering absently around the room. He took in the details he hadn’t paid much attention to before.

The crib—old, but sturdy. The mess of books stacked against the walls, as if she had been trying to build some kind of fortress out of paper and ink. The curtains were drawn too tight, like she didn’t want the outside world bleeding in. And the emptiness—the distinct lack of anything that made this place a nursery. No toys. No clutter. No warmth.

He knew that kind of space. Knew what it meant when a room felt temporary, even when someone had been in it for years.

“I’m decent now.” Her voice was quiet but certain.

Joel glanced over his shoulder. A blanket was draped over one of Leela’s shoulders, concealing both her and the baby beneath it. His eyes traced over her face, the way she was staring down at Maya—not with the ease of a mother who had done this a hundred times, but with the focus of someone trying to get it right. Like she was handling some delicate equation she couldn’t afford to miscalculate.

The baby suckled noisily, and Joel saw the way Leela’s fingers curled against the fabric, white-knuckled.

"Do you have many children, Joel?" she asked suddenly.

He stilled. The question—simple, almost offhanded—landed like a hammer.

His fingers curled against his knee, tightening. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked. Hell, it wasn’t even the first time he’d asked himself that. But coming from her—a woman he barely knew, holding a baby that wasn’t much more than a handful of weeks old—it hit differently.

Did he have many children? No.

But he had one. Had. That word sat on his tongue, sour and heavy, pressing against the backs of his teeth. He could say it. Could let it out, let it breathe. But if he did, it would only linger, thick and unwelcome, in the air between them.

He grunted out, “Not your concern.”

Leela nodded once, quiet and accepting. She didn’t pry, didn’t press—just dropped her gaze back to Maya, adjusting the blanket with slow, careful fingers.

“I understand,” she murmured.

Joel wasn’t sure why, but he believed her. Maybe it was the way she said it—flat, unbothered. Not some empty reassurance, not some half-hearted attempt at sympathy. Just a statement. Honest. And somehow, that made it worse.

Silence settled between them, thick but not uncomfortable.

Joel let out a slow breath and glanced toward the window, toward the faint light filtering through the edges of the curtain. The town was waking up. People were starting their day, going about their lives. Normal. Simple. This? Sitting here in this too-empty house with a woman he didn’t know and a baby who had seen too much of the world already? This wasn’t simple.

Then, her voice—quiet, hesitant.

"Did your baby ever feel like a stranger?"

He turned to look at her, watching as she nursed the baby beneath the blanket. Her head was slightly bowed, her fingers absentmindedly rubbing slow, rhythmic circles against the tiny foot poking free. It was such a small, natural gesture—one he’d seen a thousand times from mothers who loved their children without thought, without hesitation. And yet, coming from her, it felt… disconnected. As if she was mimicking something she wasn’t sure she believed in.

The question settled deep in his chest, pressing against something sore.

"Never." The answer came without thinking. Without doubt.

Sarah had never been a stranger. From the second she was in his arms, slick and tiny and furious at the world, she was his. He hadn’t known what the hell he was doing, but love—love had been instant, bone-deep. A gut punch. A freefall. A terrifying, irreversible thing. It had been impossible not to love his daughter.

That’s how it should feel. But Leela—she looked like she was still waiting to wake up from a dream. Or maybe a nightmare.

Leela exhaled softly, barely a sound, but Joel caught it. It hit him harder than it should have.

"I wish I felt that way," she muttered.

That did something to him.

It wasn’t pity, exactly—Leela didn’t seem like the kind of woman who wanted pity. No, it was a knowing. A recognition of something lost, something stolen before it ever had a chance to be hers. Joel had lost things, too. He understood that kind of grief, even if this one wasn’t his to carry.

Leela had slipped back into that blank, distant sadness, like she was stuck in it, unable to claw her way out. And Joel wasn’t the kind of man who offered words where they wouldn’t make a difference, but Maria had asked him to help, and he’d told her he would. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing. He never had been. Words were never easy for him. Feelings even less so. But he knew how to read people, how to see what they couldn’t bring themselves to say.

So, he did what he could.

"She looks like you," Joel mused, almost without thinking.

Leela hesitated, blinking at him like she wasn’t sure she’d heard right. "You really think so?"

He smirked, nodding toward Maya. "Look at that. The eyes, the nose, the hair. That’s all a mama’s girl."

She glanced down at the baby in her arms, her fingers stilling against Maya’s tiny foot. For a second, something in her expression wavered—like she was trying to see what he saw, trying to find herself in this child. "Mama’s girl," she murmured, testing the words on her tongue as if they didn’t quite belong to her yet.

Joel felt something shift in his chest, just a little.

It was something.

Still, his eyes drifted over the room, taking in the stark walls, the empty corners. The air in here was cold—not from the weather, but from the lack of anything. There was no sign of her in this space. No warmth, no comfort, no life. It felt temporary, like she hadn’t put down roots. Like she was waiting for something.

Or maybe like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to stay.

He exhaled, tipping his chin toward the crib. "Though, she’s gonna be real disappointed when she sees the state her mama’s kept her room in."

Leela’s brows knit together as she looked around as if really seeing it for the first time. "I tried my best. Is it that bad?"

Joel huffed, shaking his head. "It could use a little more work." He gestured toward the crib. "Fix another one of those." Then to the bare space near the window. "Somewhere to sit. Some shelves there." His gaze travelled to the walls. "Fresh coat of paint. Some new lights."

Leela studied him carefully, her lips pressing together. "I don’t want to impose."

He shrugged, leaning back on his palms. "You won't. I like to keep busy."

Leela gave him a look—one of those assessing, sceptical looks he was starting to recognize from her. The one that suggested she wasn’t sure if she could trust him yet. "Are you sure?"

Joel let out a short, dry chuckle. "I was a contractor before the world went to shit, sweetheart. This is a cushy job." Then he cocked a brow. "And I’m fifty-six, not dead."

Leela bit her lip to hide a teasing smile. "Could’ve fooled me."

Joel levelled her with a look, but there was no real heat behind it. "You want me to take that crib back down?"

That did it. She laughed—an actual laugh. Not the polite kind. Not the uncertain kind. A real, full sound, one that cracked through the quietness of the room like sunlight breaking through clouds.

The motion jostled Maya, making her let out a startled cry of protest.

Leela immediately sobered, her expression softening as she adjusted the nursing baby under her blanket, tucking her closer. She began to coo under her breath, "Oh, I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. Mama’s here."

Joel caught it. That shift again. That slight change in her voice when she said Mama. Like she wasn’t quite sure of it yet. But it wasn’t just an obligation or just guilt, or uncertainty.

This time, it sounded like she meant it.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. Just sat back and watched, letting her find her way.

X

Fifteen days.

That was how long he’d been here. How long he'd been wedging himself into a life that wasn’t his, in a house that wasn’t his, with a mother and child that weren’t his to take care of.

And yet, every night, when the baby cried, he found himself plodding up the stairs like it was instinct. He’d lean in the doorway, watching as Leela sleepily nursed Maya, her heavy arms curled around the tiny, wriggling body. Some nights, she fed her from the bottle, but as the days passed, that sipper gathered dust.

It was slow. Subtle. She was feeding her baby more.

And Joel—he was still fucking here. He didn’t think much about the why of it because he figured if he did, it would only lead to questions he wasn’t ready to answer. All he knew was that it felt natural, falling into this quiet rhythm with them. Like it had always been this way.

The couch downstairs became his bed. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it didn’t matter much. As long as he didn't throw his back out. It was easier than going back to an empty house. Leela, for her part, never asked him to stay, but she never told him to leave, either. Maybe that was her way of saying she wanted him around. Or maybe she just needed him to be.

"You don’t have to—" she had started one night, catching him setting up his makeshift bed.

"I know," he cut off before she could finish.

He kept his hands busy, too. That helped a lot.

The crib came first. A slow project, one he didn’t rush, because what else did he have to do? He sanded the edges and smoothed them down so there’d be no risk of splinters. He reinforced the frame, extended the width, and even managed to track down some pink paint to liven it up.

It was a stupid thing, but it made him feel like he was doing something. Like he was helping in a way that made sense.

Leela had caught him painting one afternoon, crouched over the crib with careful, measured strokes.

"Pink?" she’d said, standing in the doorway, one brow raised.

Joel had glanced up, brush still in hand. "What? You don’t like it?"

Leela had hummed, considering. Then, softer, "I think Maya will like it."

Something about the way she said it—like she was finally thinking about that, about what her daughter would like—made him grin to himself. He continued the long stroke of paint down the crib.

Then there was Leela. It had been easier, at first, to pretend he was only here for the kid. That his concern for her was secondary. But after the first week, it became clear—that wasn’t true.

She was unraveling.

Joel noticed it even when she thought he hadn’t. The unbearable insomnia. The way she startled awake like she was being wrenched from nightmares. The way her eyes stayed shadowed, dark-rimmed and tired, and how she never seemed to eat a full meal.

Just because he tried not to bother, didn’t mean he didn’t notice. She had once fallen asleep at the kitchen table, arms folded beneath her head. Joel had set a bowl of soup down in front of her, the sound making her jolt awake, eyes wide, gasping and panicked.

She blinked at him, disoriented, pushing her unruly hair out of her face. "I—I wasn’t sleeping."

"Alright," he said, pushing the plate closer. "Eat."

Leela wavered, nose scrunching. "I’m not—"

Joel shot her a look. "Eat."

She sighed. But she picked up the spoon.

He didn’t bother to push or pry any further. He stopped himself there. Because what the hell was he supposed to say? He wasn’t Tommy or Maria. He wasn’t the kind of person people confided in. It was better off this way.

So he willfully ignored it. Turned the other way when she wiped her eyes too hard when her shoulders shook just a little when those deep, muffled sobs filtered through the walls at night. Every part of him told him to cross that invisible line—to do something—but instead, he stepped outside, leaned against the stoop, stared at nothing.

One night, he heard it—soft at first, then breaking, like something deep inside her had finally snapped. Anyone reasonable would've gone up to comfort her. Fuck, it was already turning him inside out.

He stood at the bottom of the stairs for a long moment, jaw tight, staring up at the dark landing.

Then he turned around, walked outside, and sat on the porch steps, letting the cold bite into him. Good. He huffed out a wispy breath, quietly waiting for the sounds to pass. This wasn’t his problem.

One unlucky day, the second he stepped into the stables, Ellie gave him a knowing, annoying look. "Jesus, what's worse than shit? Because that's what you look like."

Joel huffed, adjusting his grip on the saddle he was carrying. "Thanks, kid."

Ellie narrowed her eyes, stepping closer and giving him a once-over. "Seriously, you look like hell. Where the fuck have you been?"

Joel grunted, busying himself with the straps, not looking at her. "Been around."

Ellie scoffed. "Been around? What the hell does that mean? You've been busy playing house with the lady at the big house?"

His jaw flexed and fingers tightened on the cords. And Ellie caught it. Her smirk sharpened.

"Oh my God. That’s exactly what you’ve been doing, huh?"

Joel shot her a look. "No."

"Yes," Ellie drawled, crossing her arms. "Dude. I knew something was up. You’ve been MIA. I thought maybe you finally croaked in your sleep, but nope—turns out, you’re off fixing pipes and babysitting."

"I ain’t babysitting," Joel muttered, too quick.

Ellie smirked harder and drawled out, "Riiiight."

Joel let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, shaking his head. "She needed help. That’s all."

Ellie clicked her tongue, rocking back on her heels. "Hmm. Right. Just help. No attachment, no paternal instincts kicking in. Oh, definitely not. Not Joel Hardass Miller. He’s just the neighbourhood handyman now."

He cut her a sharp look. "Ellie."

She grinned, enjoying this way too much. "What? Just saying. It’s kind of adorable. Old man Joel, all domesticated. It's nice."

Joel muttered something under his breath and turned away, ignoring her. Oh, but she was far from done.

"So, uh…" she cleared her throat. "How’s the baby?"

He hesitated.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d started watching that kid. Listening to her. He knew Maya’s different cries now—hungry, fussy, lonely. He knew the way she liked to be held, the way she calmed when he rubbed her tiny back. And he knew, without a doubt, that he would hear her tonight, whether he was there or not.

"She’s uh, good," he said finally. Kept his voice level, unaffected. "Stronger. Sleeps better."

Ellie studied him. "Bet she likes you."

Joel shrugged, trying to play it off. "Babies like warm bodies, Ellie. Ain’t that deep."

Ellie snorted. "Sure. And you're a warm bundle of joy." And then, just when he thought she was about to let it go—"You’re gonna miss her, huh?"

Joel's hands dropped to his sides. Ellie wasn’t teasing anymore. Her voice had gone softer, something knowing creeping in.

And he didn’t answer. Because he wasn’t about to start thinking about that. About leaving. About hearing those cries and knowing he wasn’t supposed to be the one answering them anymore.

Joel slowly adjusted the saddle and grunted. "You gonna stand there all day, or you gonna help me get this horse ready?"

Ellie sighed, shaking her head, but didn’t push. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Dad."

"Ellie."

But she was already cackling her goddamned head off. "This is rich. Daddy Joel."

Still, Joel stayed in that big house. Just a few more days. And the more he stayed, the harder it became to keep his distance.

It had started small—fixing things around the house, making little adjustments to help Leela care for the baby, and bringing her food. He fashioned a sling for her out of an old scarf and showed her how to wear it. At first, she’d been rigid, reluctant. But Maya—baby girl took to it immediately, curling into her mother’s chest, small fingers grasping at the fabric.

Joel wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, but something about that moment had stuck with him.

Because for the first time, he saw Leela hold her. Not just carry her.

And then there was Maya herself. The little ray of sunshine was growing, filling out. No longer that fragile, underfed thing he’d first seen in the cradle. Her limbs weren’t so thin anymore, her eyes brighter, more alert. She’d started watching things with intent—fixating on his hands when he worked, tracking his movement around the room, making little fists and clumsily bringing them to her mouth.

She smiled more, too. And it did something to him. It shouldn’t have.

He shouldn’t have felt that warm pull in his chest every time her tiny mouth curled into something resembling a grin. Shouldn’t have liked the way her whole body wriggled when she was excited. Shouldn’t have let himself get used to the small weight of her when Leela, in her exhaustion, wordlessly passed her to him, and he found himself rocking her without thinking.

But it had happened, slowly and without permission. And now, when he held her, it felt natural.

Maya knew him. Trusted him.

That realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

And then, on what must’ve been the third week, Tommy and Maria showed up at the door. Joel knew it the second he opened it—that this was an extraction.

Tommy stood there with that damn smirk, the same one he used to wear when Joel got him out of trouble—except this time, it wasn't his brother who had been looking for a way out.

"You're officially relieved of duty, big brother."

Joel grunted, letting his brother pull him into a quick hug. He clapped him on the back, but his grip was just a little too firm. A little too final. "Didn’t know I was on duty."

Maria stepped in next, squeezing his shoulder, her eyes warm with something Joel didn’t want to name. "Thank you, Joel."

He didn’t say you’re welcome. Didn’t say anything at all. Just gave a small nod, because that was easier than acknowledging the importance of what he’d done. No need to attach importance to what he was walking away from.

He felt Leela before he saw her.

She stood behind them by the front door, her arms loose at her sides, watching but not interfering. She was dressed in a warm sweater and pants this time, although he liked seeing her in that long nightdress of hers, the one with the pearl buttons.

She didn’t say anything. And neither did he. Because there was no point in goodbyes.

Instead, he gave her a nod—brief, almost impersonal—and then he turned, stepping off the porch, his boots heavier than they should’ve been.

Maria’s voice, quiet but clear, carried behind him as she spoke to Leela like she was approaching a wounded deer. "You feeling okay, baby? Come on, let’s talk."

Joel kept on walking. Crossed the street.

And for the first time in fifteen days, he realized—he didn’t want to go home. Because home meant silence. Home meant absence.

Home meant walking into a house where there was no tiny, fussy cry in the middle of the night. No bleary-eyed woman fumbling with a bottle, no soft, small weight curled against his chest when exhaustion finally won out.

For fifteen days, he had fallen into something. A rhythm. A purpose. A role. And now, as he stepped through his own front door, into the empty space that used to feel normal, Joel realized he’d done something reckless. Something he never should’ve allowed.

He’d let himself care.

X

[I really like this one, so much! I love how sweet it turned out, how JOEL of him it is, and how Leela is just that sweet, confused mother. I think I'm going to really love building on this one! ]

[ taglist : @cuntstiel , @bubblegumpeeeach , @evispunk ]