#wait was it? maybe i liked something and forgot

[lascvitae]

❀ ༉ ‧ ₊ ˚ LIKE A FEVER

♯┆ you’re the coach’s daughter & karina is the skater who falls for you anyway. you were never hers to keep, but she loves you.

pairing. ice skater!karina x coach’s daughter!reader genre. friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending (thank faith bc yall almost didn’t get it), slow burn (kinda), mutual pining, forbidden love warning(s). cursing, cheating, kissing (making out), reader is in a failing relationship, this is a yearnfest man, coach is mean af, brief argument, suppressed emotions (karina my shayla 😔)

word count: 11k (this seems to be my limit chat)

“the more i hurt, the more i want you.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ katty ᥫ᭡: guysss when i tell you i sobbed while writing this like three times... (is an easy crier) but thanks for 600!!! (also i made a spotify playlist if you would like to listen while you read)

masterlist.

three weeks before regionals. 

the rink is quiet this late at night.

you never even really plan to check on her. not really. you just happen to walk by the glass doors on most nights. most of the lights are off except for the spotlights above the center, casting shadows over the ice.

and there she was.

karina. 

she was alone. as always.

the two of you weren’t very close, but you had conversations here and there. she was the type of person that focused on her passion more than anything else. it was admirable, really. 

her movements were so sharp and precise. she was so clean it looked effortless. but you knew better. you knew the amount of hours she’s poured into every jump and every spin. you’ve heard the way your dad talks about her. 

“she’s got the skill. but i need her to stop feeling so much.” he said once. 

but you like it. the way she skates like there’s something breaking inside of her. that’s where the real beauty is.

you don’t reveal yourself at first. you just stand by the edge of the rink and pulled your coat tighter around your shoulders. the cold seeped in fast but you didn’t mind. not when you were watching her.

karina doesn’t notice you. or maybe she does and chooses not to look. she was always like that, distant but aware.

you wait until she finishes her routine, skates slowing to a stop in the center of the rink. she bends at the waist, catching her breath with hands on her knees.

that’s when you call out in a soft voice. 

“your landing on the last combo was perfect.”

she was startled, head whipping toward the sound with wide eyes. her mouth parted like she was gonna say something, but then she just straightens and skates toward you quietly.

“i didn’t know anyone was here.” she says.

you hold up the water bottle in your hand. “i didn’t think you would still be here. but… i figured you forgot to bring this. again.”

she slows to a stop right in front of you, carving tiny shapes in the ice with her blades. you hand her the water bottle, fingertips brushing yours for a second.

“you always bring me water.” she mumbled.

“you never ask me not to.”

karina looks at you. there’s a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead. she stares quietly, face never leaving yours.

“i guess i like when you worry about me.” she says after a moment. and then she smiles.

you don’t say anything back. you can’t.

you end up sitting beside her on the bench near the edge of the rink. she unlaced her skates slowly, water bottle sitting between you.

“i didn’t mean to interrupt. you looked… kinda lost in it.” you say after a while.

karina glances up at you and tugs one skate off with a small grunt. “i always get like that when i’m alone. it’s easier to pretend that no one’s watching.”

“but someone always is.”

she freezes for a second and then her lips curl into a smile, an almost amused one. “yeah. like you.”

i’m not— i didn’t mean—”

“i don’t mind. i like when it’s you.” she cut in while shrugging.

you don’t know what to say to that, so you pretend to focus on something else. her shoulder was just barely brushing yours.

karina sighs. “coach is gonna kill me for staying this late.”

“he doesn’t have to know.” you laughed.

“is that the coach’s daughter helping me break the rules?” she turns to you with one brow raised.

“i won’t tell if you don’t.” you reply. 

then there’s a pause. a long one.

then she speaks. “you’re always here.”

“so are you.”

“i have to be.”

“you don’t. not at this hour.” you argue.

karina looks down at her hands. “he says that i need more reps on my loop. and i can’t land it clean if i don’t fix my axis. so…”

she doesn’t finish the sentence. and you feel as if she doesn’t need to.

the silence returns. then, you carefully pull a pair of hand warmers out of your coat pocket.

you hold them out without saying a word.

“you… brought these?”

“i figured you would forget those too.”

she doesn’t take them right away. she stares at them then back at you. and when she finally reaches out, her fingers brush yours again. except slower this time.

“thanks. for thinking of me.” she says softly. 

“someone has to.” you shrug, trying to play it off.

she gives you a quiet laugh. then she leans back on the bench, shoulder still pressed to yours with her hand warmers resting in her lap.

neither of you say much after that.

the silence is comfortable. she hasn’t moved for a while now. her legs were stretched out and her fingers were curled around the hand warmers you gave her. you think maybe she’s falling asleep sitting up. or just enjoying your presence. 

either way, you don’t say anything. 

but then your phone buzzes.

twice. three times.

karina jumps before you even check it, like the sound snapped something inside of her. she doesn’t say anything, but her body moves away from yours. 

you glance down. a name lights up your screen.

your boyfriend.

you forgot he said that he would call. you forgot about him entirely for a second. 

that realization makes your stomach turn.

“sorry. didn’t mean to—“ you mumble, silencing it.

“it’s fine.” she was back to the cold version of her you know from practice days.

she stands before you can stop her, pulling her skates back on. the laces are uneven and she doesn’t even fix them.

“you don’t have to go.” you say stupidly, as if it’ll make her stay.

but she’s already halfway to the ice again.

“i should run the routine again. i’m still shaky on the loop.” she calls out from over her shoulder.

you stay on the bench and watch as she glides back toward the center of the rink, phone buzzing again in your hand. the music doesn’t play. she doesn’t need it.

she jumps before she’s ready. the landing is clean but you can tell.

she wasn’t skating to practice.  she was skating to forget you.

───────────────────────

the next day, somehow the rink feels colder.

maybe it’s the hour. or the way that karina doesn’t look at you when you walk in with your father. or it’s the silence that feels too heavy in between your steps.

she’s already on the ice when you arrive, pacing through her warm up jumps with clean movements. it was like last night never happened.

you sit off to the side as your dad steps onto the ice with his clipboard in hand. 

“all right. start from the top. don’t drop your left arm on the entry again.” he calls, already stern. karina doesn’t reply. just nods once, jaw set. she adjusts her gloves and glides into position without a word.

the music starts.

you watch as she moves like she’s made for this. every jump makes her look as if she’s gliding. she doesn’t miss a beat.

but you see it. the way her chest rises too fast in between movements and the way way she hides the pain in her arm.

your father doesn’t.

“again. you were two seconds late on the last transition. don’t let the emotion get ahead of your technique.” he says the moment the final note fades.

she doesn’t argue. she just bows her head and skates back to the start.

you don’t say anything.

another run through. another correction. another sentence with barely contained frustration in your father’s voice as karina pushes herself harder, and faster. her blade slipped slightly on a landing and she hits the ice with a thud.

you flinch. but he doesn’t move.

“get up. you’re fine.” he says calmly.

karina pushes herself up slowly, lips pressed into a thin line. she doesn’t look at him or at you. you can see her hands shaking.

“i understand.” she says softly. and then she says it again in a quieter tone.  “i understand.”

and she tries again.

it breaks something in you.

she finishes the third run perfectly. doesn’t collapse this time, but her breaths are harsh now. your dad claps his hands together once.

“better. you can take a break.”

he walks off the ice like it’s another day, already reaching for his phone. the door slams behind him.

only then karina sits down, curling slightly forward with her gloves gripping her knees. you don’t even realize you’ve moved until you’re walking down the bleachers and stepping quietly onto the mats just off the ice.

“i’ve been here the whole time.” you say.

her head snaps up.

“i saw all of it. how hard you’re trying.” you continue.

karina doesn’t say anything at first. just looks at you with her eyes wide.

then she whispers. “did it look like i was good enough?”

you walk closer and kneel next to her.

“it looked like you were breaking yourself to be.”

she wasn’t used to being seen like this.

“i don’t want you to skate like that. like you’re trying to prove something to him.” you mumble.

“i’m not.” she lies.

you don’t say anything for a moment. just reach into your bag quietly and pull out the same bottle you brought yesterday. it’s refilled and a little colder this time.

you hold it out to her without saying a word.

she stares at it like it’s a peace offering from another being.

“you need to hydrate. even perfectionists have to drink water.” you say softly with a small shrug. 

karina laughs breathily. her fingers graze against yours as she takes it and she doesn’t let go right away.

“i’m not perfect.” she mumbles.

“you kind of are.” you reply before you can stop yourself.

she looks at you, then down at the bottle in her hands. then back up.

you don’t have to be perfect all the time. not around me, at least.

is what you wanted to say. but instead you just stay silent.

karina swallows like she’s trying not to say anything.

“hey. i brought this.” you say in a slightly playful tone. 

her eyes flicker to it and her lips twitch barely. you catch it.

“you brought snacks?”

“maybe.”

“i love chocolate.” karina mumbles as she takes it slowly and unwraps it with careful fingers. she breaks it in half and holds one piece out to you.

your chest squeezes.

you take it.

she eats her half like it’s one of the first real things she’s had in hours.

“thanks. for not leaving.” she says finally. 

“i wouldn’t.”

“i know. i think i needed someone to stay anyway.” she glances down at the bottle. 

“then i’ll stay.” you nod.

and you do.

you sit side by side on the cold bench. karina’s finished the chocolate, skates finally unlaced and resting beside her. her legs are pulled up onto the bench as if she’s disappearing into her hoodie.

her phone buzzes once between you.

“my ride’s late.” she mutters, her thumb tapping the screen before she sets it face down.

you nod with your hands in your jacket pockets. “i can wait with you.”

“you don’t have to.”

“i want to.”

karina doesn’t argue. she just looks at you with an unreadable expression. 

for a while, it’s quiet again.

“you were always watching me.”

you look over at her with a startled expression. “what?”

she smiles a little. “yesterday. at practice. today too. i can feel it.”

you look away. “you’re kinda hard to miss.”

“i noticed you before that.” she says. almost too quietly.

your heart skips a beat. 

she leans against the bench with her head tilted up. “you came to one of my meets last year. sat way in the back and didn’t talk to anyone.”

you froze.

“i didn’t think you saw me.” you admit.

“i always see you.” she says and the words land with a softness that makes your heart race.

you open your mouth, searching for something to say.

“my dad expects a lot from you.”

she just stays quiet.

“the way you don’t fight back. it’s the same way i used to be.”

“do you ever wish you could quit?” you ask.

karina turns her head, looking at you. “every day.”

you look down at your hands. “but you don’t.”

“no. because i still love it. even when it hurts.”

you nod quietly.

“does anyone know you feel like that?” you ask.

she shakes her head. “no. i don’t tell them.”

“but i tell let you.”

it comes out as a whisper. you’re too surprised to say anything.

then the sound of a car pulling into the lot breaks the moment.

karina doesn’t move right away, she just watches you like she’s still thinking about saying something else. but she doesn’t.

she stands, slowly grabbing her things.

“i’ll see you tomorrow?” she says. 

“yeah. tomorrow.”

and as she walks away, you feel that feeling in your chest. the feeling of someone slipping through your fingers even while they promise they’ll stay.

───────────────────────

it’s past nine the next day when you find her again.

the rink is empty and the lights are dimmed to half their usual level. her bag is forgotten on the bench and there’s a single light glowing from her phone screen. it was probably another missed call or her ride running late again. 

she was alone in the center. there was no music this time, just her blades breaking the silence.

you don’t call out.

you sit on the same bench as before and unzip your jacket. you pull out a small paper bag and inside is a chocolate croissant you picked up earlier. 

she doesn’t notice you until she slows down. she does one last spin and then she slides to the edge of the rink, brushing the hair from her face. that’s when she sees you. 

her eyes widen and her chest heaves from the effort.

“you came back.” she said breathlessly. 

“you’re not hard to find.” you tease gently. 

karina steps off the ice carefully, taking off her gloves as she comes over. her cheeks are pink from the cold.

“what is it this time?”

“guess.”

she sits next to you again, closer than before. your knees almost touch.

she peeks into the bag and smiles slightly.

“you remembered i like chocolate.”

“i remember everything.” you say before you can stop yourself.

she looks at you and there’s something soft in her expression. maybe grateful or just stunned.

she slowly takes a bite and you watch her shoulders relax with the first chew.

neither of you one talk for a bit.

“you don’t owe me this, you know. the snacks, waiting, or the way you look at me.” she mumbled. 

“i’m not doing it because i owe you anything.” you shrug. 

“then why?”

“because i want you to feel like someone’s always there for you. no matter what.”

karina looks down at the half eaten pastry in her hands with an unreadable expression. no one’s ever done that for her, you realize.

just stayed. showed up. believed in her even when she wasn’t performing.

she swallows hard.

“thank you.” she whispers.

you could tell her it’s nothing. that’s it’s easy. that you would do it a hundred times over.

but you don’t.

she leans just a little closer this time and her shoulder almost brushes yours. you pretend not to notice.

she was slowly letting you in. it was pieces of her that she hopes you’ll handle carefully.

and you will. every time. 

───────────────────────

the next day, you return to the rink again.

you were going to give her space but something in your chest pulled you back.

when you walk inside, karina’s already on the ice.

alone again. no music or audience.

you don’t even have a chance to say anything before it happens.

she goes into a spin too fast, and the blade of her skate catches wrong.

you hear the crack of impact before you see it.

karina hits the ice hard.

you froze with your breath caught in your throat.

she doesn’t get up right away. she just lies there, chest rising and falling.

then she slowly pushes herself to sit.

and you see it.

it wasn’t pain.

it was frustration.

she rips off one of her gloves and throws it to the side. her other hand slams against the ice. the sound echoes like a gunshot in the empty rink. 

“stupid, i’m so stupid. why can’t i just—“ she mutters before choking on the words. her other glove comes off and her hands clench into fists.

you’re moving before you can think. sliding open the door to the rink and stepping out toward her.

“karina.”

she tensed.

you see the way her back straightens and her breathing stalls. she turns her head with wide eyes, like she didn’t know that anyone was watching.

you kneel beside her carefully.

she doesn’t look at you.

“i’m fine. i was doing fine. i’ve done this a hundred times.” she says quietly.

“i know.”

“i can’t afford to mess up right now. not when regionals are in three weeks. not when— not when everyone’s already waiting for me to fall.” her voice cracks. 

your heart twists.

“i’m not.” you respond. 

she finally looks at you.

this time, you see it all. the exhaustion just behind her eyes.

“i’m not waiting for you to fall. but i’ll be here to catch you if you do.” you say without thinking. 

something breaks in her expression.

“i hate crying.” she says. 

“you’re not.”

“it feels like i am.”

you pull down the sleeve of your jacket down and gently press the fabric to her cheek, wiping away a tear.

“you’re allowed to be human, karina.”

she closes her eyes.

and for the first time, she leans into your hand. not all the way, but enough to let you know she’s tired of being strong alone.

she doesn’t say anything for a bit after you wipe her tear.

she just sits there with her fists clenched and jaw tight.

but then she shifts, and you know she’s trying to get up.

you offer your hand without saying anything.

she hesitates.

for a second, you think she might not take it.

but then almost reluctantly, her fingers slip into yours.

her hand is cold and her grip is too gentle for someone who just punched the ice a minute ago.

you pull her to her feet and settle her when she wobbles.

she doesn’t let go right away. and neither do you.

you’re closer than you’ve ever been. her face is still flushed from skating and her lips part just slightly when she looks at you.

“thank you.” she whispers.

you almost respond, saying something too honest, but that’s when your phone buzzes. 

you both look down at the same time.

it’s your boyfriend.

you freeze. and karina notices.

she drops your hand before you can even react and steps back like she wasn’t just unraveling in your arms seconds ago.

“i should… i should get back to it.” she mutters, brushing her hands off on her

“karina—”

“it’s fine. you should take that.” her voice returns back to neutral. it’s not angry, but it’s distant. 

you glance down at your phone again. 

when you look up, karina’s already lacing her gloves back on.

you don’t stop her.

and somehow, that hurts more than the distance that she just put between you.

because now you know what it looks like when she almost lets someone in. 

and what it feels like when she slams the door shut just as fast.

───────────────────────

the rink is even colder tonight.

you’re not here just to watch this time. you’re here because you couldn’t stay away.

karina hasn’t looked at you once since yesterday.

you came in quietly, settling into the middle row with a blanket around your shoulders and a box of fruits in your lap. you didn’t expect her to notice you.

but you still hoped.

she steps onto the ice like nothing ever happened.

she’s different today. you can see it.

she’s trying harder. like she’s trying to prove something.

you watch her routine in silence. it’s the same one she’s been perfecting for weeks. there’s no music, but you know it by heart now. you could probably hum the entire song if she asked.

she doesn’t fall this time.

but her landing is shaky and her spin is off center. her arms falter for half a second in the last sequence.

she finishes with what would be flawless from anyone else’s eyes.

but when she stops and lets out a heavy exhale, you can tell she’s not satisfied.

you wait until she comes off the ice and tug her sweatshirt back over her training top.

then you call out.

“that was beautiful.”

karina looks up so fast you wonder if she ever knew that you were here.

you hold up the water bottle and the fruits you packed earlier. strawberry and banana slices with two small chocolates tucked into the corner.

she walks over slowly. almost cautiously.

“i didn’t know that you were coming.”

“didn’t want to miss your performance.” you shrug. 

she sits next to you on the bleachers. you hand her the box and she takes it wordlessly, taking the top off of the container. 

“you’re really good, karina.” you say softly. maybe a little too soft.

 “like... i don’t even know anything about skating but i can feel it when i watch you. that’s gotta mean something.”

karina froze mid bite.

you glance at her but she’s not looking at you. just staring down at her fruits.

“…what?” you ask.

“no one’s ever said that to me. not like that.”

“really? you’re one of the best.”

“your dad is always too focused on what needs to be fixed. where my lines are off and where i’m not centered. he says praise makes you soft.”

you feel something in your chest. then you nudge her with your shoulder. 

“then i’ll do it for him.”

that makes her look at you. her eyes are slightly wide and her expression is unreadable.

you smile. “i’ll be your fan. i’ll even be loud and annoying. if you want me to.”

karina looks away but you still catch the shade of red rising to her cheeks.

“you’d be my audience?”

“i am your audience. right now. front now.” you say. 

she hides her laugh behind a sip of water. then she asks.

“will you stay if i go again?”

you nod without a second thought. 

you stay in the same seat while she steps back onto the ice and it looks like her entire body is lighter. you didn’t know it was because of your praise. 

when she begins again you catch her stealing a glance at you during the first spin.

then she does it again during the glide.

you wave.

and she almost stumbles from smiling too hard.

karina finishes her routine again and this time, she nails it.

everything was flawless.

when she comes to a stop in front of you, she doesn’t say anything. she just looks at you like she’s searching for something in your expression.

you don’t hold back.

“that was perfect.”

“you think so?”

“i know so. you were scary good. i got chills.” you hug the blanket tighter around your shoulders. 

karina lets out a soft laugh and looks away, but she’s smiling. her shoulders lower like she’s allowing herself to feel proud for once.

she walks over to the edge of the rink and sits beside you again. this time she sits closer. her thigh brushes against yours and neither of you move away.

you offer her a chocolate from the snack box. she takes it.

“i’m serious. you skate like your entire heart is in it.” you say. 

her smile fades, but not in a bad way. it turns into something softer. 

“it is.”

you look at her. you’ve never seen someone work so hard for something that almost no one praises them for.

“you should be proud of yourself, karina.”

she doesn’t respond right away. she just eats the chocolate in silence.

maybe you lean a little closer than you should.

maybe she does too.

because you feel something change again.

she turns her head to look at you.

and the way she’s looking makes your stomach do a thing.

like she’s never had someone talk to her like this.

like no one’s ever stayed.

“i like it when you’re here. i skate better.” she says suddenly.

you smile and your heart does a weird skip. “then i’ll keep coming.”

karina’s eyes flick down to your mouth for a second too long.

and then, you see it happen. the moment she remembers.

your boyfriend.

your father.

everything that makes this too complicated.

she pulls away slightly. but it’s enough for you to notice.

you don’t know what you did wrong, but she’s straightening her spine again. putting space between you.

“you should probably head out soon. it’s getting late.” she says. her voice was too polite for you to like it. 

“karina—”

“your dad doesn’t like when you stay late, right?”

you pause, reading her face.

it’s completely changed. her composure. she’s still distant. 

the softness is still there, but it’s tucked away. 

still, you try.

“i don’t mind staying.”

she stands up anyway, avoiding your eyes.

“i’ll lock up after i’m done.”

then she’s skating away again.

but as she gets back into position, her gaze flicks to you. just once.

like maybe she wished you would stop her.

but you don’t.

not this time. 

───────────────────────

the next night, you show up again.

you don’t say anything. 

you just walk in with your tumbler of hot chocolate, blanket folded over your arm. 

karina’s already skating when you get there and her movements are sharp but you can tell that she’s tired. her routine looks less precise, like her mind is somewhere else.

you settle into your now usual seat and wait, wrapping yourself in the blanket. you don’t cheer or wave this time. you just watch.

when she finishes the routine and finally notices you, she doesn’t look surprised.

she just comes to a stop and lets her hands rest on her hips while panting softly.

“hey.” you say. 

she skates over slowly.

she doesn’t sit next to you this time. just leans against the railing while looking down at her skates.

“you didn’t have to come again.”

“i wanted to.”

karina doesn’t reply.

you hold out the tumbler. “it’s hot chocolate.”

she glances at it then at you. then, she reluctantly takes it. 

you watch her sip it slowly.

“you don’t have to be alone all the time, you know.”

karina’s shoulders tense.

but she doesn’t look at you. she just stares at the ice, jaw tight.

“it’s easier this ways.” she says after a long pause. 

you’re caught off guard by the honesty. “easier?”

“no one expects anything from me when i’m alone.”

there’s something about the way she says it. like she’s told herself that a thousand times before.

you want to reach for her. but you don’t.

“i expect something from you.”

she looks at you. almost defensively. but your gaze is soft.

“i expect you to take care of yourself. to eat. to rest. to let people care about you.”

karina swallows.

you think she might say something, but instead she just looks down. 

“you have a boyfriend.”

your stomach twists and you look down at your hands.

“i know.”

“you’re the coach’s daughter.”

“i know that too.”

silence stretches between you. and then she whispers.

“i can’t let myself like you.”

it’s the closest thing to a confession she’s ever given you. and you’re afraid that it’s the closest that she ever will. 

your heart breaks in two.

you don’t know what to say. you don’t even know if you’re allowed to say anything at all.

so you just sit there with your fingers trembling inside the blanket.

she takes one last sip of the hot chocolate then hands the tumbler back to you, fingers brushing yours like she doesn’t mean to. but maybe she does.

then she skates away again.

the sound of your heartbeat is louder than her blades cutting across the ice.

“karina.” you call out, voice echoing through the empty rink.

she doesn’t stop.

you stand up. “karina, wait—”

she’s still skating. even faster now.

it stings. the way she shuts down, like she’s trying to outskate the things you make her feel.

so you raise your voice.

“why do you keep doing this?”

that makes her stop abruptly. her skates carve into the ice, and send up a sharp spray of frost. she turns to you with an unreadable expression. 

“doing what?”

“this.” you gesture between you both. “one second you let me in and the next you’re skating away like you hate me.”

she exhaled hard, looking away. “i’m not doing anything.”

“yes you are. you talk to me, open up, and then remember i’m someone you shouldn’t like and you shut down again. every single time.”

karina’s jaw clenches.

you step closer. “i’m not trying to confuse you. i just want to be there for you. and i thought… i thought maybe you wanted that too.”

“i do. god, i do. but what do you want me to with that? you have a boyfriend and your dad hates me. this isn’t about just skating anymore.” she says, voice cracking slightly.

you pause.

“i never said it was about just skating.”

karina looks at you. her expression softens but you can see something else in her eyes. 

she shakes her head, scoffing slightly. “you don’t get it.”

“then make me get it.”

“i can’t! because if i say it out loud then it’s real, and if it’s real then i’ll want something that i can’t have.” she nearly yells, voice echoing off the walls.

the silence that follows is so loud that it hurts.

she blinks fast like she didn’t mean to say that.

and you just stand there, stunned.

“karina…”

her name comes out softer now. 

she looks down at her skates, biting her lip.

“i think you should go.”

your throat tightens. “do you really want me to?”

karina closes her eyes.

“no.”

but she turns away anyway.

and this time, you just let her skate.

because now you know. she’s not pushing you away because she doesn’t care. 

she’s pushing you away because she does.

───────────────────────

the rink feels colder again.

it’s not the weather. it’s the emptiness.

karina gets there late, hoodie pulled tight over her head with her headphones in. her water bottle is half full.

but when she steps onto the ice, the first thing she does is look at the stands.

you’re not there.

she pretends that it doesn’t bother her. pretends that she doesn’t notice.

she warms up and does her stretches, then she goes through the footwork section of her routine easily.

but when it’s time to start the real run through, she hesitates.

you’re still not there. 

there’s no voice cheering her on softly. 

no tumbler clutched in your hands.

no little smile whenever she glances over her shoulder.

she tries to push through it, starts the routine anyway. but halfway through the first turn, she tumbles. her balance slips and her hand scrapes the ice hard, making her curse under her breath.

she gets up and starts again.

falls again.

but it’s worse this time.

she sits on the ice for longer, breathing heavily. her eyes are unfocused and for the first time in weeks, she feels it creeping back in. that voice in her head that tells her she’s not enough. that she’ll never be enough.

she presses the tip of her palm against her forehead.

she doesn’t cry. but she’s close.

and then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone.

your name is right there, but she doesn’t call.

she just stares at the screen for a long, long time.

her thumb was hovering over the call button. 

just one tap. but she doesn’t do it. she locks the phone, puts it back into her pocket and stands up.

this time, she doesn’t try the routine again.

she just skates in slow, aimless circles.

alone.

two weeks before regionals. 

it’s been a week.

seven days.

karina counted them all. skated through every single one one of them like it meant nothing, but it did. she just got better at pretending it didn’t.

there was two weeks until regionals now.

everyone’s tense and the rink is busier than usual. there’s more skaters and more pressure but tonight, she’s the only one left. again.

she’s been pushing herself too hard. trying things she shouldn't be attempting this late. her left ankle’s bruised and her back aches. her music plays on loop but none of it feels right. nothing has felt right ever since you stopped showing up.

she doesn’t expect to see you again, which is why when she hears the door creak open mid routine she doesn’t stop right away.

it’s only when she glances toward the stands and sees you with your blanket, tumbler, and uncertain smile that she fumbles a landing.

not enough to fall. but just enough to feel it. just enough to feel everything again.

you stay quiet for a moment and just sit there. 

karina lets out a shaky breath and skates to the edge, stopping right in front of you. neither of you say anything right away.

you hold out the tumbler.

she hesitates but takes it and wraps her hands around it like she did before.

“you’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”

she looks at you.

“noticed that from your seat?” she says, trying to sound teasing but it comes out tired.

“i noticed from not being in it.” you reply and her chest twists.

she leans against the edge of the rink, back against the wall. you lean forward next to her, elbows on the railing. 

“i didn’t think that you would come back.” she admits.

“i wasn’t sure if i should.”

“why did you?”

“because you looked like you needed someone.” you shrug. 

she glances up at you, something vulnerable showing in her eyes.

“i always do.”

that breaks something in you.

yet, neither of you move.

she sips the hot chocolate and you rest your chin on your hands.

“i missed watching you skate.” you whisper. 

karina closes her eyes for a second, as if she’s allowing herself to believe you again.

“i skated better when you were here.”

you heart stutters.

it always does when she says that. 

karina doesn’t look at you when she says it. she just stares down at her hands, thumbs moving over the tumbler. she looks small like this. not because she is, but because she’s tired. tired in a way that you’ve never really seen her before.

“then i guess i should’ve never left.”

she looks up. your stomach makes you feel weird in the way it always does when she looks at you like that. and she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. 

“you skate like you don’t even need air.”

“i don’t. until you’re not here.” she says quietly. 

there’s silence after that. you’re not sure of what to say next. 

“i brought you chocolate.”

karina lets out a quiet laugh. 

“you remembered?”

“of course i did. you barely eat.” you say this time. 

“that’s scary.”

“what is?”

“being known.”

the way she says it makes it seem like it’s a luxury she doesn’t let herself have.

you don’t reply. you just pull out the bar and hand it to her.  

“then i’ll be careful with you.” you mumble.

and that is the moment she knows she’s completely fucked.

because you’re kind and careful. and also someone else’s. and her coach’s daughter.

and she’s still never wanted to kiss someone more in her entire life.

she doesn’t say anything after that.

just keeps her eyes on the bar of chocolate like if she looks at you again, then something might break.

you don’t move either. you just sit there.

you can hear her breathing. see the way her fingers tap against the tumbler, then stop, and then start again. she’s fidgeting and that alone is strange.

“were you okay? the days i didn’t come.” you ask softly, breaking the silence.

her eyes drop.

“no.”

the honesty stings.

but she doesn’t apologize for it.

she shrugs a little, like she’s trying to play it off. “it was just… harder.”

“i’m sorry.” you nod slowly. 

“i didn’t want you to feel like you had to come.”

“i didn’t. i wanted to.” you say, meeting her eyes.

her breath catches. you notice but you pretend not to.

“i used to wonder if i actually helped at all. or if i was just a distraction.”

“you weren’t.” she says immediately with no hesitation. “you aren’t. you’re…”

she trails off.

“i’m what?”

she looks back at you, but she looks scared.

“you’re part that makes it hurt less.”

and that does something to you.

you don’t say anything. you can’t, really. not when your throat feels tight and your chest is full of something you can’t name. or you’re too scared to. 

so you reach over slowly, placing your fingers over hers.

she doesn’t move. her hand stays beneath yours, still and warm and trembling.

and for a moment, neither of you breathe. 

then your phone buzzes on the bench behind you.

karina pulls her hand away before you could even blink.

you turn around, already knowing who it is.

karina stands and grabs her bag without saying anything.

you wish she would. you wish you could.

“thanks for the snack.”

and then she’s gone.

───────────────────────

the next day you show up earlier.

you don’t pretend it’s not for her anymore. you’re sitting in your usual seat with your blanket, tumbler, and snack beside you as you watch the skaters rotate through their drills.

but karina doesn’t come out right away.

you see her peek through the glass from the hall. you catch her gaze for a second, then she disappears.

she doesn’t return until everyone else is wrapping up.

and even then, she still doesn’t look at you.

she glides past the bench, focused with her headphones in. you try not to take it personal, but it’s hard. her eyes don’t meet yours once.

you wait until she finishes her routine. she lands the last jump perfectly. almost too perfectly. like it’s anger and not focus pushing her through it.

you stand when she skates off.

she walks past you like she didn’t see you at all.

so you follow.

“karina.”

she doesn’t turn around.

“hey— stop.”

she finally stops by the far end of the rink right by the locker hallway, but she doesn’t face you. she just stands there with her fists clenched at her sides.

you take a step closer. “are you avoiding me?”

she exhaled. “i’m not avoiding you.”

“you literally didn’t look at me all night.”

“that’s not avoidance.”

“then what is it?”

“It’s self preservation.” she snaps.

you froze.

her chest is rising and falling quickly, eyes glossy with something she’s trying hard to suppress.

“karina.”

“i can’t do this. not when i know you’re gonna leave again. not when i know who you go home to. i’m trying to stay focused. this—“ she gestures between you two. “— this messes with me.”

“so what, you’re just cutting me off?”

she looks at you like she wishes she could say no. but she says nothing.

you shake your head. “you don’t get to push me away just because you’re scared.”

“i’m not scared.” she says too fast.

“then what are you?”

silence.

she looks at you and it breaks something in both of you.

“falling.”

your heart drops.

“falling. and you’re not allowed to catch me.”

neither of you move.

everything feels louder now. her hands are shaking again and you want to grab them, tell her you're already falling too, even if you’re too much of a coward to admit it yet.

but your phone rings again.

and this time, she doesn’t wait for you to answer it.

she just walks away.

───────────────────────

the next day is cold. like always. 

you’re already in the stands when karina steps into the rink, tying her jacket tighter with her head down. she’s barely slept either, but she’s used to that.

then she sees you. and her heart stops.

you’re curled up on the bleachers in the same blanket, but you look different. 

you’re always soft and always quiet, but this time there’s something hollow behind your eyes.

they’re puffy. and red.

your smile is barely there. 

she sees the dark circles immediately. and the way you’re not waving or calling out to her like usual. you don’t even look like you’ve eaten anything.

karina slows to a stop in the middle of the walkway, just staring at you. 

she can tell that something’s wrong.

and then the sound of your father’s voice cuts through the silence.

“again!”

karina flinches.

he’s not yelling, but his tone is sharp, cutting in that way only coaches can be. 

disappointment wrapped in professionalism.

“you’re stiff. you’re late on your rotations. you want to fall in front of the judges? pick it up. again.”

she doesn’t respond. just nods. she’s good at taking hits and pushing through. 

but even from the bleachers, you’re watching every second like it physically hurts to witness.

karina’s eyes change to you between jumps, just once, for a second.

and you’re already looking at her.

your eyes crack in heartbreak. 

like it’s killing you to see her go through this after the night you just had.

she lands the jump. barely.

your father says nothing this time, just mutters something under his breath and walks off toward the office.

karina exhales and then she looks at you.

that’s when she realizes. you weren’t just tired. you were crying. 

all night.

and somehow, she knows it wasn’t just about him. it was about her, too. about everything you’re not allowed to say. about everything that she made worse by pushing you away.

her throat tightens and you try to smile at her.

you don’t even think before you stand. you just move, blanket slipping off your shoulders and your feet hitting the bleachers faster than they should. your heart was pounding in your throat like it wants to say something first.

by the time karina’s stepping off the ice, you’re already waiting by the edge with your arms crossed.

she sees you and it wrecks her.

you can tell by the way she hesitates just for a second. the way her eyes linger on your face then drop to your hands. they’re empty.

she unties her skates slowly, like she’s trying to draw out the seconds. maybe she’s hoping that you’ll leave.

you don’t.

you crouch down beside her instead and she still doesn’t look at you.

“i brought water. it’s in the stands.” you say quietly. 

she doesn’t respond.

“i couldn’t sleep.” you add. 

she exhales shakily. “why are you here?”

you swallow. “because i can’t not be.”

her fingers pause on her laces.

“i kept thinking about what you said. that you skated better when i was here. that this messed with you.” you continue, looking at her hands instead of her face.

she doesn’t say anything.

“do you think it doesn’t mess with me too? do you think that i don’t feel it? when you look at me like that? when you won’t look at me at all?” you whisper.

she finally looks up. and it’s all there.

the hurt. the want. the grief of something she hasn’t even let herself have yet. 

“i don’t know what i’m allowed to feel when it comes to you. you’re the coaches daughter. you have a boyfriend. and i’m just—“

“stop.” you interrupt. “don’t do that. don’t reduce yourself to that.”

karina flinches.

“last night we got into an argument. i told him that it wasn’t fair. that someone else— you— make me feel more in the ten minutes after practice than he has in months.” 

her lips part. she looks like she’s trying not to break.

“you’re the only person who sees me for me.”

karina swallows hard. “you can’t say things like that.”

“why not?”

“because i want to believe them.”

you both fall silent.

you don’t touch her. you don’t move. You just sit in the silence, watching the way her eyes glisten and dart to the ground like she can’t bear to look at you for too long.

“i kept waiting for it to go away. whatever this is.” she says finally.

“and?”

she looks up.

“it never did.”

your breath hitches.

neither of you say it. you don’t need to. it’s the distance neither of you dare to cross yet.

“i skated better when you were here.” she says again. like it’s a confession now.

“and i broke when you weren’t.”

this time, you don’t look away. and neither does she.

she stands first.

you think she might reach for you, but her arms stay at her sides. her fingers twitch like they want to move but don’t know how to move without ruining everything.

“i should go.” she says quietly. 

“my ride’s waiting.”

you nod slowly. “okay.”

neither of you move. 

there’s a second where it feels like she might stay. like she might say screw it and finally do something reckless.

but she doesn’t.

she looks at you like she’s memorizing you in case this is the last time she gets to.

“you make things better. just by being here.” she says almost too softly to hear.

and then she turns.

no goodbye. no wave.

when you finally stand, your hands shake.

because you know it’s not over.

but it hasn’t started yet, either. 

it’s just waiting.

like you are.

one week before regionals. 

you’re curled up in your usual spot with a tumbler of tea between your hands. 

karina’s been skating for over an hour. and for once, she hasn’t looked your way.

you don’t blame her.

not really.

you told him the truth two days ago. you ended it.

but endings don’t mean freedom. not when guilt clings to you.

you’ve barely talked to her since.

not about it.

not about anything.

but you’re here. you’re always here, and she knows that.

when her routine finishes you stand without thinking, legs sore from sitting too long. you meet her by the edge of the rink. the way you always do.

you offer the water bottle without saying a word. she takes it with tired eyes, lips parted like she might say something.

but she doesn’t.

“you’re sharper today. your landings are cleaner.”

“thanks.”

just that. no warmth behind it. 

you swallow it down and try again. “do you want to run through it again with music? i can play it for you.”

she hesitates before shrugging. “if you want.”

it stings a little. but you press play anyway.

and as she skates, you watch her the way you always have. you’ve seen it a million times before, but it still knocks the wind out of you every time.

because she’s beautiful.

because she’s yours in all the ways that don’t count.

and it’s killing you.

when the music fades you’re already moving to meet her again. she unlaces her skates in silence.

you crouch beside her like you did the last time, and you’ll probably keep doing it until she tells you not to.

“you don’t have to keep showing up.”

“i want to.”

she glances at you quickly. 

“you’re going through stuff too.” she says.

“so are you.”

for a second, she just stares.

“does it hurt?”

“what?”

“the breakup.”

“yeah.” you don’t lie. 

she nods once. slowly.

then she says your name like it’s fragile. like if she speaks it too loud you might shatter.

“i hate that it hurts. but i don’t regret it.” she mumbles. 

you stare at her.

and you know. you know she’s not just talking about the breakup.

you know she means this. you. whatever’s going on between you two that neither of you fully touch yet.

“me neither.”

she doesn’t touch you.

you don’t ask her to stay.

you just sit side by side on the cold floor of the empty rink, hearts quietly breaking for each other in a way that feels like a promise. even if neither of you said the words. 

it happened four days before regionals. 

it was so fast that you barely registered it.

your dad’s voice was sharp as it echoed through the rink. words like focus, sloppy, and disappointment cut through the air with every frustrated step he took. 

karina stands perfectly still on the ice, arms stiff at her sides.

she doesn’t look at him.

she doesn’t look at you either.

“again. and this time, land the jump like someone who actually wants to qualify.” he barks.

you open your mouth like you were about to say something. but you don’t. you know better than to poke the fire when it’s this close to regionals. so you stay still and bite your tongue until it tastes like metal.

karina just nods quietly. 

like always.

like she’s learned to.

she runs the routine again.

it’s not bad.

but it’s not perfect. and he lets her know.

another critique and another sigh. then he walks away without even a good job to soften the blow.

you hear the door to the rink slam shut behind him.

and then it’s silent.

karina glides off the ice and sits on the bench without a word, untying her skates with trembling fingers.

you approach carefully.

she doesn’t look at you.

“i can’t do this.”

it’s so quiet you almost miss it.

her voice breaks on the last word, and she’s leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, hands gripping her hair like she’s trying to hold herself together.

your chest hurts.

you kneel in front of her without thinking. 

“karina—”

“i can’t breathe anymore. every time i mess up it’s like— he looks at me like i’m wasting everyone’s time. like i’m not worth it.” she chokes out. 

“hey. that’s not true.” you whisper, reaching up slowly but not touching her.

tears fall down her face, but she doesn’t wipe them. “i’ve done everything. i’ve pushed myself so hard i can’t even feel my legs anymore, and it’s still not enough.”

“you are enough.”

she shakes her head. “i’m so tired. and i don’t even know why i’m still trying. i keep thinking maybe… maybe if i do it perfectly, just once, someone will finally say i did good.” she whispers, voice trembling.

you feel your heart break. because you know that feeling.

so this time, you do reach for her.

you hand lands lightly on her knee. “i see you. i’ve seen you this whole time.”

karina finally looks up.

it looks like she’s been holding this in for years.

“you skate like it means something. i don’t care if you fall or if it’s messy. or if my dad doesn’t say anything. i’ll always think you’re perfect.”

she blinks and more tears slip down. then her lip quivers.

and then carefully and hesitantly, karina leans forward and rests her forehead on your shoulder. its not a hug but it’s close.

you don’t move.

you just stay there with her in the silence, letting her fall apart without asking her to stop.

because she’s always been the strong one. and maybe this once she needed someone to hold the weight.

───────────────────────

it’s late when your phone buzzes.

you’re still awake, staring at the ceiling. you’ve been replaying the moment in the rink all evening. the way her forehead pressed to your shoulder like she was scared to go any closer.

you reach for your phone.

karina are you still up?

you sit up instantly.

you yeah. are you okay?

there’s a pause. it’s long enough that you start to wonder if she’s fallen asleep.

karina can you come over? i don’t want to be alone tonight.

and in less than fifteen minutes later she opens the door in an oversized sweatshirt and leggings. her hair was pulled back messily.

you love her so much in that moment it actually hurts.

“hi.” you say softly.

karina steps aside to let you in.

“you didn’t have to come.”

“you asked.”

she doesn’t argue.

her skates are drying by the heater, and sits cross legged on her bed. you follow hesitantly, leaving just enough space between you to make her feel safe.

“thank you.” she mumbled.

“for what?”

“for being there today. i don’t think i could’ve kept it together if you weren’t.” she shrugged. 

“you don’t always have to keep it together.” 

“yeah. try telling my brain that.”

“he was hard on you today.” you say after a while. 

karina nods, looking down. “he’s always been that way. but i guess it hit harder today.”

you watch her for a moment.

“i already think the world of you.” you say without thinking. 

karina blinks, breath hitching.

and she leans in. just a little.

“if i ask you to stay… will you?”

you don’t hesitate.

“i’m already here.”

and you don’t know what time it is now.

only that the world has gone still.

karina hasn’t moved in a while. not since she adjusted the blanket over your legs. she’s barely said anything, really. but she hasn’t stopped looking at you.

and you haven’t stopped pretending you don’t notice.

you should go.

you tell yourself that again and again, but instead you turn your head and find her already watching you. her lips were parted like she was about to say something but changed her mind.

“what?” you whisper.

she shakes her head. “nothing.”

you hesitate. 

“you can say it.”

karina’s eyes search yours, and for a second it looks like she might. like she’ll confess something. or maybe let go of something she’s been holding in for so long.

instead, she mumbles. “i skate better when you’re here.” she says again. 

“i’ll be here. if you want me to.” you say.

“that’s the problem.”

your heart stutters.

she doesn’t explain. but she doesn’t have to.

you’re the coach’s daughter and she has a championship to win. and yet, you’re here.

and she wants you.

you’re both still sitting close, knees brushing under the blanket. close enough to kiss if you leaned in just a little.

and maybe she’s thinking the same thing. because she leans in.

barely.

barely enough that it could be a dream.

your breath catches.

your eyes flutter down to her mouth. and she hesitates.

she sits there, fingers twitching like she wants to reach for your hand.

but instead of kissing you, karina leans in further and folds herself into you.

her arms go around your waist, gentle and unsure.

her face buries into your neck.

and you hold her without saying a word. you let her heart beat against yours. your fingers find the edge of her sleeve and just stay there, gripping gently.

you don’t move after that. neither of you do. 

you’re half-asleep when you feel her exhale against your neck. 

her arms tightened slightly around you, and her forehead rests just beneath your jaw now. her warm breath fans your collarbone.

“i don’t know how to stop wanting you.”

you freeze. not all the way, but enough. enough that your breath stutters.

you don’t breathe for a full second after she says it.

you wonder if she even knows she said it or if it slipped through the cracks of exhaustion and everything else that she’s been holding in.

you feel her body relax against yours a moment later. her breathing slows. she’s asleep.

and you’re still wide awake, repeating her words in your head. 

you close your eyes and press your cheek lightly to the top of her head.

“i don’t want you to stop.”

she doesn’t stir. she doesn’t answer.

maybe she won’t remember the words she said. maybe she won’t remember yours. but you will. you always will.

───────────────────────

the rink is full of silence. when you arrive you just stand there and watch her for a moment.

karina is skating slow mindless loops, nothing like her usual precision. she’s moving like she’s trying to outrun invisible. you know what it is. because you heard it.

your father’s voice still rings in your ears, loud and relentless. it was another round of “you’re still not landing clean” and “if you’re gonna do that tomorrow, don’t even bother showing up.” it was another night where she nodded without speaking, biting her tongue hard enough to keep the tears from slipping out.

you didn’t interfere. you never do. but you watch. you always watch.

and maybe that’s why you’re here now, stepping through the gap in the railing and walking out onto the empty rink.

she doesn’t notice you right away. her eyes are focused elsewhere and her gaze is distant. you wonder if she even feels her skates gliding beneath her anymore, or if she’s somewhere else completely. a place where no one’s yelling.

you kneel at the edge of the rink. “karina?”

she slows instantly, head snapping toward your voice like muscle memory.

“hey.” you say softly. 

she looks at you for a moment.

“you— uh— your dad said that you left.” she says. her voice is quieter than usual.

“i came back.”

she skates closer, finally stepping off the ice. she doesn’t sit, she just stands in front of you while hugging herself.

“you saw.”

“i did.”

karina lets out a humorless laugh and looks away. “whatever. i’ve had worse. 

“that doesn’t make it okay.”

her eyes flicker back to yours. there’s a flash of something there but she looks down quickly, beginning to untie her boots.

“you were good today. better than good.”

“not good enough.”

“for him. but you don’t skate for him.”

her hands fall away from her laces. she straightens slowly and finally looks at you. there’s something about her expression, like she’s trying to figure out whether to let this moment happen or shut it down.

“and who do i skate for then?” she asks. your heart skips. “i don’t know. but when you skate, i can feel it. the emotion. it’s indescribable.” you mumble.

karina swallows.

you take a step forward, closing the space between you.

“but i can see it.”

“you always show up when i need you most. even when you don’t know it.” she whispered after a bit. 

“what, are you keeping track?” you laughed. 

she hums. “maybe.”

you don’t know that she cried last night. that her hands shook as she held the letter. she read the email from the coach six times before your dad finally admit that he recommended her. that she almost said no.

almost.

you also don’t know this might be the last time she skates in front of you.

not yet.

“you nervous about tomorrow?”

“you’re the one competing.”

“yeah, but… i skate better when you’re here.”

there it is again. the quiet truth that she keeps letting slip piece by piece.

you don’t know how to answer, so you just stay silent. karina’s blades click softly against the ice before she kicks them off and pulls on her sneakers.

then she’s looking at you again. the look that always makes your heart clench a little too tight.

“you ever think about what happens after regionals?” she asks suddenly.

“like nationals?” she hesitates. 

“no. i mean like… after us. after the season ends.”

you pause. “i haven’t. not really. why?”

but she’s already looking away, shoulders tense in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“you okay?”

“i just… it doesn’t matter.”

it does matter. you know it does, but you don’t push. instead, you laugh quietly. 

“you’ll win tomorrow.”

she laughs a little brokenly. “that’s not what i’m worried about.”

you don’t ask what it is. because maybe you’re scared to hear the answer.

karina fiddles with the edge of her sleeve with her eyes fixed on the rink, but her focus is elsewhere.

“you sure you’re okay?” you ask again, softer now.

she inhales. her throat bobs as she swallows.

“i got an offer. to train in america.” she says finally.

“america?”

“yeah.”

“for summer training?”

“no. like— move there. train full time. i’d be part of a national development program.”

your stomach drops. “oh.”

“it’s… huge. like, dream level. career changing.”

“wow. that’s amazing.”

and it is. it is. but you feel the words hurting in your throat like they’re glass.

karina’s fingers flex against her knee. “i leave monday.”

silence crashes over you.

“oh.” you say again, because it’s all you can say. your voice barely comes out. she finally turns to look at you. and this time, she looks right at you.

“i wasn’t going to tell you. i didn’t want to ruin tomorrow. but then you showed up and i… i needed tonight.” she says.

your heart twists.

“so this is goodbye?” you ask and you hate how small you sound. karina’s jaw clenches. “don’t say it like that.”

“how am i supposed to say it?”

you get ready to leave and she follows.

“i didn’t ask for this. i didn’t want to leave. but your dad— he pushed for it. he said it was the only way i’d make it.” she says.

your eyes sting. “and you didn’t tell me?”

“i didn’t want to make it harder.”

“it already is.”

she’s standing right behind you now. you can feel the warmth of her breath on your shoulder.

“i would stay. if i could. i almost did.” she whispers.

you turn to face her and she’s right there. closer than she’s ever been. her eyes flick to your lips once and that’s all it takes.

you kiss her.

it’s instinctual. you don’t even mean for it to happen. you just do it. a gentle kiss pressed to her lips. 

she goes very still.

you pull back the second you realize what you’ve done, already panicking.

“i— i’m sorry. that was— god, i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have—“

she grabs your wrist and pulls you in again.

she pulls you back in like she’s starved for you. your back hits the rink railing with a thud and the cold metal shocks you through your shirt, but you don’t even register it. not when she’s kissing you this messily, frantically, and desperately. 

her hands are everywhere. gripping into your hair, hugging the curve of your waist, keeping herself against your hips like she’s scared that you might disappear if she lets go. and maybe she is. maybe she knows.

“karina—” you gasp in between kisses, but she cuts you off with another kiss.

“i shouldn’t. you’re the coach’s daughter. i shouldn’t—“ she murmurs against your lips, but she doesn’t stop.

she pulls back long enough to look at you, eyes revealing that she’s trying to memorize this moment. and then she kisses you again. harder.

her hands slide under your jaw, cupping your face like it’s fragile, even though she kisses you like you aren’t.

the railing rattles under your grip as your body arches into hers, needing her closer before this all slips through your fingers.

because she’s leaving soon. because this ends soon. and you both feel it.

that’s why she kisses you like this. like she’s trying to carve the memory into her brain. like she’s terrified that this might the only time that she’ll ever get to touch you like this, and she needs to make it count.

“i’m so scared. i could win everything and i’m scared of what happens if i lose you after.” she whispers, forehead against yours.

you don’t answer.

you just hold her tighter.

you stay like that. pressed between her and the railing until the lights in the rink finally begin to dim for the night.

and she pulls back, with teary eyes.

“come tomorrow. please.”

you nod. 

three months after regionals. 

karina didn’t mean to come back to korea for long. it was just a short break so she could breathe again. she told everyone it was to reset. to clear her head before the next competition cycle. but no amount of sleep, early morning runs or phone calls with her mother, can ever fix the ache that settled in her chest three months ago.

not since she left you.

now she walks through familiar streets with a scarf tucked around her neck, hands in her coat pockets. she doesn’t tell anyone where she’s going. just says she’s going out for a bit and slips away before anyone can ask too many questions. her feet know the route before she does. every turn.

the closer she gets to the rink, the quieter her thoughts become. she pauses at the entrance for a long time, fingers stuck at the metal door handle. thr old banner hanging above the entrance has started to peel at the corners and a few letters faded. but it’s the same. everything is the same.

except her.

when she steps inside, it hits her all at once. the soft echo of her own footsteps against the floor reminds her of it all. this is where she became who she is.

and this is where she left the person who made her feel like herself.

she doesn't lace up her skates. doesn’t even sit down. she just walks the edge of the rink slowly, one hand following the railing. she can see her reflection staring back at her in the glass. she’s more tired and her eyes are flooded with something deeper than exhaustion.

she stops near the bench where she used to sit after practice. the same bench where you handed her water bottles, chocolates, and hand warmers. the same place where she started to let herself hope.

her chest tightens.

she doesn’t know what she was expecting. a sense of closure? a ghost of you?

but instead. you’re really there.

like no time has passed at all. like a prayer she didn’t know that she was still saying. and she can feel herself breathing again. 

at first, she thinks she’s imagining you.

you’re sitting on one of the benches, and your coat is pulled tight. your hands tucked into your sleeves and there's a water bottle resting beside you.

her heart stutters.

she blinks hard. more than once. and you’re still there.

she opens her mouth before she can stop herself, voice shaky and unsure for the first time in months. “…y/n?”

you look up. and that’s all it takes. karina swallows hard, taking a step forward. “is it really you?”

you nod slowly. like you can’t believe she’s real either.

“i didn’t think you’d be here.” you say quietly.

“i didn’t think you would.” she answers. “i was just just… I was passing by. I didn’t mean to—”

“you always pass by when you’re thinking too much.”

she huffs out a breath that was almost a laugh. her eyes are glassy now and she tries to blink it away but it clings.

“you look the same. but different.” she says.

“so do you.”

she hesitates before asking. “can i… come closer?” you don’t answer right away. you just shift slightly to the side on the bench to make space for her. that’s all she needs.

she walks across the empty floor slowly, skates swinging from one hand. she sits beside you, like the months between now and the last time meant nothing. or maybe they meant everything.

she finally breaks the silence with a voice that was barely above a whisper. “i skate better when you’re here.”

you turn to her and she’s already looking at you. “i don’t know why i said that,” she adds, flustered now. 

but you do. you know exactly why.

you lean your shoulder against hers and she leans back, like muscle memory.

neither of you speak again for a long time. but the familiarity of the silence is inevitable. like no matter how far you run, this was always where you’d end up. 

sitting next to each other. 

taglist — @saysirhc @prologue-ae @yuyuy90

[cbeargyu]

fOoL fOr YoU

beomgyu’s been in love with you since you were kids — even when you had your heart set on someone else. but he's just a fool for you.

pairing: childhood friend(?)!beomgyu x fem!reader

genre: angst, fluff, childhood friends to lovers, one-sided love (but no really), high school au-uni au, unspoken feelings, first love energy, beomgyu simp, slow burn (slooow fr), second chances in soft light, beomgyu soft guy, fool for you by zayn = emotional backbone.

warnings: emotional angst, mention of unrequited love, a stolen kiss (consensual vibes unclear, followed by regret and confrontation), light jealousy, childhood heartbreak, healing arc included, soft cry-potential.

w/c: 7,2k

notes: hi!! thank you for reading this story, it means the world ♡ english isn’t my first language, so i hope you can forgive any grammar mistakes or weird phrasing — i’m still learning! i just wanted to share a soft, emotional story about loving someone for a long time… and being brave enough to tell them.

you met choi beomgyu when you were six.

he had braces and messy hair, and the loudest voice in the classroom. you were the quietest one in the back row, always too shy to speak, too nervous to raise your hand. but he found his way to you on the second day of school, sat beside you, and never left after that.

“you don’t have to talk,” he once whispered, sliding his lunch tray next to yours. “i’ll talk for both of us.”

and he did. for years.

you were always beside him—his little shadow. he dragged you into games, made excuses for your silences, defended you when someone called you weird. he was everything you weren’t: vibrant, chaotic, fearless. and in his whirlwind, you found a kind of safety. it was easier not to speak when someone was already speaking for you.

sometimes he even called you “my mini manager” because you always carried tissues, band-aids, or whatever he forgot to bring. and sometimes you called him “too much” when he danced in the rain or shouted your name across the hallway just to see you roll your eyes.

you didn't know when he fell in love with you.

maybe it was the day you held his hand after he scraped his knee, or the time you cried during a school play and he wiped your tears with his sleeve. maybe it was the time you laughed—really laughed—until your shoulders shook and your eyes disappeared into your cheeks, and he thought you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

he loved you in silence. he loved you in your quietest days, in your loudest ones. and he loved you when you started to pull away.

because that’s what happened, right?

somewhere between growing up and growing apart, you changed. you stopped waiting for him after class. you stopped answering his messages as quickly. you stopped sitting next to him during lunch.

you started focusing on your grades, on your future, on building a world where you didn’t need anyone to speak for you. not even him.

and beomgyu... he didn’t know how to follow you there.

you never told him why. you just slipped away—slowly, gently, but completely. and he didn’t stop you. he couldn’t.

he tried forgetting you. dated girls who laughed too loud, girls who wore your perfume, girls who were nothing like you and everything like you. he smiled in their selfies, whispered things in their ears, but none of it mattered.

because none of them were you.

"this love is tainted... but i need you..." he’d play that line on repeat in his room at night. headphones on. lights off. a lump in his throat he couldn’t swallow.

"i’d move the earth, but only if you’d promise me you’re mine..."

he would’ve given you everything. but you were already gone.

and you? maybe you felt it. that quiet ache between you. that tension in the hallway when your eyes met. maybe there was a flicker of something, once. or maybe you just never looked back.

but for beomgyu, you were still the same girl who once held his hand and promised to sit beside him forever.

and no matter how many girls kissed him, no matter how wide he smiled— you were the only one he saw.

you were sixteen now.

last year of high school.

supposedly the year to collect memories, make decisions, fall in love... but you had done none of those things.

not that you cared.

you sighed when you saw kang taehyun—he looked handsome even when he was lost staring out the window. his foot tapped nervously on the floor, and just then, your eyes met. blood rushed to your cheeks and you quickly bowed, but almost tripped forward in the process. taehyun blinked in surprise at the sudden movement but didn’t say a word. he didn’t even flinch.

behind you, you heard choi beomgyu’s distinct laugh. of course, he was laughing at you. you clenched your fists in irritation.

beomgyu smirked arrogantly and walked into the classroom where taehyun was. you muttered a few curses under your breath, just loud enough for beomgyu to catch them. he laughed even louder, clearly amused. nothing in the world seemed to bother him—sometimes you wondered how you’d managed to put up with him all these years. after all, you’d known him since elementary school.

you had always been close. then, halfway through your second year, kang taehyun transferred into your lives—a shy boy with a soft voice and eyes that avoided yours. beomgyu was the first to speak to him, naturally. but the first time you saw taehyun, something clicked. your heart stuttered. since that moment, he became your silent crush.

unfortunately, your quiet nature, paired with taehyun’s shy behavior around girls, meant you never had the chance to get close to him the way beomgyu did. you often wondered how beomgyu made friends so easily, how he seemed to shine in every room, while you barely had anyone in your own class.

“lee y/n, someone’s looking for you!” called na jaemin from the doorway, one of your classmates. you turned your head instinctively—and there stood your older brother, lee juyeon.

“you forgot your breakfast. again,” he scolded softly, handing you a paper bag. you scratched the back of your head and looked up at him.

“mom worries about you, you know that, right? don’t make her sad, okay?” you nodded, feeling a little embarrassed.

“yo, juyeon!” beomgyu’s voice—forever annoying to your ears—rang out. he slapped your shoulder and bumped fists with your brother. “did y/nnie forget her breakfast again?” he asked, pouting in mock concern. juyeon chuckled, but you rolled your eyes.

“hey, beomgyu. yeah, she did,” juyeon laughed, then waved goodbye to both of you and walked off. you harshly brushed beomgyu’s hand off your shoulder and walked down the hallway without a word.

“free period’s almost over,” he reminded you, still standing where you’d left him.

“fine,” you replied flatly, not even glancing at him.

“fine,” he repeated in a teasing tone, falling into step beside you.

“don’t follow me, choi. i’m going to the bathroom.” you shot him a cold look, but he only shrugged and kept walking beside you anyway.

once you reached the restroom, you didn’t ask him to wait or say anything—you just walked in and disappeared behind the door.

you sighed deeply, overwhelmed. how long were you going to keep lying to yourself? maybe... maybe it was time to ask beomgyu to help you get closer to taehyun. but you just didn’t have the courage. you were sure he knew about your feelings. and yet... he’d never said anything.

at least you were good at hiding them. nobody ever teased you about it.

“beomgyu! say hi to taehyun from jinri!” a girl’s voice rang out from outside the restroom, and you froze in place in front of the mirror.

“oh, i will!” beomgyu laughed.

“hyejong, don’t yell!” another girl’s high-pitched voice joined in.

“why not? aren’t you happy you’re finally dating him?” your heart sank. you barely whispered an ‘oh’ and felt a sudden hollowness in your stomach. a lump formed in your throat.

so this is what heartbreak felt like. but why hadn’t you noticed it before? since when had taehyun been seeing someone? and who was that girl?

“you two are so shy, it’s adorable,” one of them giggled as beomgyu pinched her cheeks. “i hope you guys last long, you look so cute together.” you heard their footsteps fade. and suddenly... you felt betrayed. was she really better for him than you?

you stepped out of the restroom at last, your expression unreadable. beomgyu had just put his phone away and looked like he was about to say something, but you cut him off with a low, shaky voice.

“since when has taehyun been dating that girl?”

beomgyu paused, caught off guard by your question. he stayed silent for a moment. he knew. he knew how you felt. but taehyun... he didn’t feel the same.

a week had passed since you found out about taehyun’s relationship with jinri. the confirmation hit harder than the whispers ever did. unlike you, jinri was everything soft and easy to love—pretty in that gentle, unthreatening way, always smiling, always speaking just enough. she was younger, too. of course she was.

you hadn’t said a word about it to anyone. not to your classmates, not to your brother, and definitely not to beomgyu. you just... let it settle. like a bitter taste at the back of your throat you couldn’t spit out.

across the schoolyard, beomgyu watched you from his classroom window.

you looked so small, sitting alone on that bench, arms crossed tightly, face blank. but he knew you. he knew that blank look meant you were swallowing too much. the same way you always had—quiet and distant, like your silence would protect you from the ache in your chest.

he clenched his jaw. maybe taehyun never noticed you. maybe jinri had the smile and the laugh and the shine. but beomgyu had been there since your scraped knees and clumsy braids. he had loved you through all your seasons. and it still wasn’t enough.

"i'd move across the world for you," he thought bitterly. "but you wouldn’t even look sideways for me."

he tried—he tried so hard to play it cool, to let you come to him, to make you laugh again. but he was growing tired of being invisible in your world. a fool for you. always had been.

and yet, the part of him that still hoped—that still remembered the way you clung to him when you were little, how you used to hide behind his back when you were scared—wanted to scream. wanted to shake you out of that self-imposed exile and say, i’m here. it’s me. it’s always been me.

he exhaled sharply, the sound sharp in the silence of the classroom. you hadn’t moved from that bench, hadn’t even looked at the time. he narrowed his eyes. if he didn’t say something, you were definitely going to miss class.

he opened the window, not caring that the hallway was full of students now.

“yah, lee y/n! class is starting! don’t even think about skipping, i’m not waiting outside detention with you again!”

heads turned. yours included. your eyes widened in horror, and your face lit up red with embarrassment. you stood up immediately, shooting him a murderous glare that only made him smirk wider.

“mind your own business, choi!” you hissed, storming off toward the building. of course. he always pushed the wrong buttons. always said the wrong thing. always, somehow, made it worse.

he winced when you disappeared from view.

smooth, idiot.

you, meanwhile, were fuming. he always did this. always found a way to tear into your fragile calm and leave you feeling raw and exposed. you were already trying so hard not to spiral after hearing about taehyun and jinri. and now, choi—no, beomgyu—had to go and humiliate you like that?

your steps were fast and sharp on the tile. you could still feel the sting of people’s stares, the heat of shame crawling up your neck.

he knew. he knew you had feelings for taehyun. and he never said a damn word. never warned you. never tried to protect you from the fall.

the ache settled back into your ribs, heavier now. you didn’t cry—but you wanted to.

by the time you stepped into the classroom, mr. lim was walking in too. and of course, beomgyu was already seated, watching you with that stupid half-smile like he hadn’t just ruined your morning.

you avoided his eyes. didn’t even look his way. but beomgyu’s smile faltered.

because even if you ignored him—he’d still only ever have eyes for you.

you glanced sideways at your companion and let out an irritated huff.

"i told you i was going to walk you home, whether you like it or not," he said, half-laughing, half-serious. his sarcasm only stirred your frustration.

"i never asked for your company, choi," you snapped, clenching your fists. but something in his eyes made you falter—dark, intense, unreadable. you looked away and mumbled, "you can turn around and go home."

you pulled the red scarf tighter around your neck, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your face.

beomgyu didn’t answer. he simply stepped closer, close enough that you had to look up.

“y/n,” he called.

“hmph,” you answered, dryly.

"do you still feel something for taehyun?"

your breath caught in your throat. what the hell was he saying? why now?

“w-why do you care?” you muttered, barely audible, your voice trembling.

your cheeks burned, and you tried to cover them with your sleeve, avoiding his gaze, but his eyes were too much—sharp, searching, like he could see straight through you.

“no…” you whispered. It was a lie, and a poor one. the truth was still tangled up inside of you. that flicker of hope hadn’t quite died out, and it made you feel pathetic.

beomgyu chuckled softly and lowered his head. you caught a glimpse of his smile, and for some reason, it made you uneasy.

“what’s so funny, idiot—?”

“that you still haven’t realized how i feel about you.”

the world went silent.

your heart felt like it stopped mid-beat. you blinked, trying to process what he had just said. no, it had to be your imagination.

he didn’t just—

“i’ve waited so long to say this. it hurts watching you break for someone else, when i’d give you everything,” he said, voice rising, hands trembling slightly as he placed them on your shoulders. “I wouldn’t hurt you, y/n. i’d hold all your broken pieces if you let me. i just don’t get it—why can’t you see me?”

your mouth opened, but nothing came out. he looked at you like he was falling apart in front of you. and you? you were frozen. paralyzed by fear, by shock, by the weight of what he just confessed.

and then—he kissed you.

his hands wrapped around your back, pulling you into him. his lips were warm, desperate, trembling like his heart had been waiting for this moment for years. you didn’t know what was happening until it was already happening. your stomach flipped violently. your skin crawled.

the contact was strange, as if the kiss wasn’t coming from the person you thought you knew. beomgyu, your friend, your companion for life, who had always been there… now he was kissing you without warning, without any preamble, as if everything you shared until that moment meant nothing more to him. without thinking, you tried to pull away. at first, it wasn’t just the physical struggle—there was confusion, disorientation. you wanted to reject it, but his hold on you felt too firm.

you shook your head, trying to push away, but he was stronger—too strong—and the kiss kept going, too long, too sudden. too much.

you slapped him.

hard.

it was the only way to get him off, to create a boundary that was never supposed to be crossed.

it echoed in the stillness.

he stumbled back slightly, one hand on his cheek, eyes wide—not from the pain, but from the heartbreak.

your own hands trembled. you looked at him with wet eyes, unsure when exactly the tears had started falling.

"why… why would you do that?" you whispered, your voice broken, fragile.

he stumbled back, his eyes wide, his breathing ragged as he stared at you. but the pain wasn’t just in his gaze; it was in your chest too. you were shaking, not sure what was worse: the fact that your body had reacted to him at all, or the betrayal that this moment felt like. he knew you were in love with taehyun, and yet, he kissed you anyway. you felt small. you felt exposed. it wasn’t just about the kiss—it was everything that came with it. the confusion. the vulnerability. the fear that your friendship had been nothing but a disguise for something much more painful and unspoken.

beomgyu didn’t respond right away. he just looked at you. his breathing was uneven, lips parted. then, in a voice that cracked in the middle:

"because i’m a fool for you. a damn fool for all the things you do.”

your chest tightened.

this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. you didn’t know what you felt, you couldn’t understand anything—not his words, not his kiss, not your own tears. the glass wall you’d built around your heart, the one you’d spent years reinforcing, was beginning to shatter—and that terrified you more than anything.

because maybe, just maybe… you weren’t as indifferent as you pretended to be.

but right now, all you could do was cry.

in the following days, you withdrew into yourself. it wasn’t just the kiss that haunted you—it was everything that came after it. the uncertainty, the disarray of emotions, and the feeling of being exposed in a way you never had before. you tried to bury yourself in your studies, bury yourself in any distraction that would keep your mind off what had happened. you couldn’t even look at beomgyu without feeling an uncomfortable twist in your stomach. it was as though the world had tilted in a direction you hadn’t been prepared for, and now you couldn’t figure out how to get back to where you were before.

beomgyu, on the other hand, seemed to be in a constant battle with himself. he tried to reach out to you, to apologize, but each time you saw him, the weight of what he had done was too much for you to bear. he wanted to explain himself, to tell you it wasn’t meant to hurt you, but the guilt was eating away at him. his usual confidence, the one that made him so easy to talk to, had been replaced with an anxious, almost desperate energy.

one afternoon, as you sat alone in the library, you felt the familiar presence of beomgyu standing behind you. you could tell he had been following you for a while, hoping to catch your attention. you didn’t look up immediately, not wanting to face the reality of his gaze on you.

“y/n…” his voice was quieter than usual, carrying a softness that you weren’t accustomed to. “i need to talk to you.”

you didn’t respond, pretending to focus on the book in front of you. the silence stretched between you, thick and uncomfortable.

“i’m sorry,” he continued, his voice laced with regret. “i don’t even know what i was thinking… i never meant to make you feel that way. i just—”

“stop.” you finally looked up, locking eyes with him. the expression on his face made your heart ache, but you couldn’t allow yourself to feel sorry for him. “why did you do it? why did you kiss me, knowing… knowing how I feel about taehyun?” your voice cracked slightly, betraying the vulnerability you had been trying so hard to suppress. “why did you make me feel like i don’t even know who you are anymore?”

beomgyu’s face contorted with pain. “i—” he sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “i’m so sorry, y/n. i’m a fool. i knew how you felt about taehyun, but… i just couldn’t help it. i’ve been carrying these feelings for so long, and when i saw you with him… i felt like i couldn’t hold back anymore. i thought… maybe, if i kissed you, things would change. that you’d finally see me. but now, i realize… i’ve only made everything worse.”

his words hit you like a punch to the stomach. the ache in your chest deepened, but it wasn’t just the pain of the kiss. it was the weight of everything that had been left unsaid, all the years of unspoken feelings, and now it was spilling out in a mess of confusion and regret.

you stood up abruptly, your chair scraping against the floor as you walked away from him. you couldn’t stay there any longer. his presence, so close, was making it harder to breathe.

“i don’t know what you want from me, beomgyu,” you said, your voice trembling. “but i don’t know if i can forgive you for this. not yet.”

beomgyu didn’t move. he watched you walk away, his face contorted in pain. but deep down, he knew that the kiss—no matter how much it had meant to him—had been a mistake. and now, the distance between you felt like an insurmountable wall. he had ruined it all, and there was nothing he could do to fix it.

as you disappeared from his sight, beomgyu slumped against the table, his heart heavy with guilt. “i’m such a fool,” he whispered to himself, knowing there was no easy way out of this mess he had created. the worst part wasn’t the rejection—it was realizing that he had lost you, and he couldn’t undo the damage. the realization that the kiss, that stolen moment, was the start of something he wasn’t sure he could repair.

and you, as you walked away, couldn’t escape the memory of the kiss either. it was your first kiss, yes, but it was so wrong, so stolen, that the idea of it left you reeling. you had never expected something like that from him—your friend, the one who had always been there, the one you had trusted more than anyone else. and yet, here he was, breaking that trust with something impulsive and unthoughtful.

but still, despite your confusion, your heart raced every time you thought about it, the warmth of the kiss still lingering on your lips. and that, more than anything, scared you.

you sat at your desk, half-focused on the homework spread out in front of you. the room was quiet except for the faint scratching of your pen and the occasional sound of cars passing outside your window. your mind kept drifting back to the kiss, to beomgyu’s face when you walked away, to the way his voice cracked when he said your name. no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t push it all out.

you didn’t even hear the door open.

“yo,” juyeon said casually as he stepped inside, holding a small stack of old manga volumes in his hands. “found these in the garage. they’re yours, right?”

you blinked and looked up. “uh… yeah,” you said, recognizing the familiar covers. they were pastel-colored, all romance manga you’d devoured in middle school—full of blushing confessions, accidental kisses, and dramatic love triangles. you had forgotten they even existed.

he placed them on your desk, flipping one open as he sat on the edge of your bed. “beomgyu lent you these, didn’t he?”

you nodded slowly. “a long time ago…”

juyeon hummed, flipping through the pages with vague interest. something thin fluttered out from between the pages and drifted to the floor. both of you watched it land.

it was a folded piece of lined notebook paper, yellowed at the edges.

he picked it up before you could react. “what’s this?” he asked, already unfolding it.

“wait, juyeon—” you reached out, but he had already begun reading. his eyes scanned the page, then his eyebrows lifted. a low whistle left his mouth.

“wow. this punk really had it bad for you.”

you felt your heart stop. “what are you talking about?”

he grinned, holding up the letter dramatically. “this is the most cringe, over-the-top, middle-school love confession i’ve ever seen. do you want me to read it out loud or—”

“no!”

he chuckled and handed it to you. you hesitated before taking it, then looked down at the handwriting you immediately recognized.

dear y/n,

i know this is really lame but i wanted to write it down because i get nervous around you and my brain forgets words when you’re looking at me. i think i’ve liked you since the first grade. you never talked much, but i always noticed you. you’d sit alone during recess with your books, and i always wanted to sit next to you… i thought, “she’s the prettiest girl i’ve ever seen.”

i like everything about you. the way you tie your shoes weird, the way you always read manga under your desk during math, even when you get mad at me for not finishing group projects. i don’t know if you’ll ever like me back, maybe you’ll think i’m weird, or annoying. but it’s okay. i just wanted to tell you. you make my chest feel warm.

please don’t hate me.

sincerely, beomgyu

you stared at the letter, your fingers tightening slightly as you held it. something in your chest shifted. it wasn’t just what the letter said—it was the fact that he’d written it. that he’d felt that way for so long. and you never knew. or maybe you did, and you just never let yourself see it.

“he’s been following you around since you were like six” juyeon said with a shake of his head. “remember when he showed up to your piano recital with a bouquet of dandelions? or when he joined your library club even though he hates reading?”

you did remember. and more kept coming to you. the way beomgyu would wait for you after class, even when his friends left. how he’d always give you the last snack in his lunchbox. how he’d look away quickly when you caught him staring.

you looked down at the letter again, your heart beating unevenly.

“he’s always been like a little puppy, wagging his tail just to get a smile from you, always looking at you with that goofy grin like you hung the moon. i’m pretty sure this kid’s been in love with you for ages.” juyeon added, standing up and stretching. “anyway, you’re too young to have a boyfriend. so don’t get any ideas.”

the words hit you like a truck. your mind reeled. you thought back to all those moments with beomgyu—the small gestures, the times he’d gone out of his way just to make you laugh or cheer you up, the way his eyes would soften whenever he looked at you. you had always thought it was because he was your friend, because he cared. but now, seeing it all in this letter... hearing juyeon’s words... it made you realize that it was more than that. It had always been more.

you closed your eyes, trying to process the weight of what you were feeling. was it possible that beomgyu had been in love with you all this time? and if he had been, how could you have been so blind?

he left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

you sat there in silence, the letter still in your hands. it felt like something had cracked open inside you, a dam holding back years of memories you’d brushed aside.

you leaned back in your chair, staring at the ceiling, trying to sort through the whirlwind of emotions that were suddenly flooding your mind. beomgyu had liked you for years. he had kept this hidden, carried it in silence all this time. but now, everything had changed. the kiss... his confession... it was all so sudden. so overwhelming.

you thought about beomgyu's voice. the way he said your name. how he looked at you like you were his whole world—even when you were ignoring him, even when you were in love with someone else.

you thought about the kiss again. how wrong it was. how confusing. but also… how fast your heart had been beating afterward. how your lips had tingled. how you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he held your face so gently, like you were something delicate he couldn’t believe he was touching.

you pressed your fingers to your lips, your breath catching in your throat.

your heart pounded in your chest. beomgyu had been a part of your life for as long as you could remember, and now, the weight of his feelings was crashing down on you. you felt so... confused. part of you was angry that he hadn’t said anything sooner, that he had kept it all inside. another part of you, though, felt a strange pull toward him—one you didn’t know how to understand or accept.

you ran a hand through your hair, your mind spinning.

could you ever look at him the same way again? was there a chance, even a small one, that you could feel the same way about him? or would this change everything between you two?

your emotions were all over the place. you hadn’t even realized how much you had come to depend on beomgyu—his presence in your life, the way he made everything seem easier. the thought of him being in love with you, all these years... It made your stomach twist, your heart ache in a way that was difficult to explain.

for now, though, you needed time. time to process everything, time to figure out how you truly felt, and time to understand what this all meant. but for the first time, you couldn’t deny that there was something deeper between you and beomgyu, something that had always been there, hidden just beneath the surface.

the spring air was soft that afternoon. petals floated lazily from the cherry trees scattered across the school courtyard, painting the sky in shades of pink and white. under one of them, you sat alone, your notebook resting forgotten on your lap, eyes lost in the distance.

the gentle crunch of footsteps over grass made you turn your head.

“hey,” beomgyu said quietly, his voice hesitant but kind. “mind if i sit?”

you gave a small nod, heart skipping a beat the moment he lowered himself beside you. neither of you spoke for a few seconds, letting the silence settle like dust on your skin. the breeze swept between you, carrying a whisper of unspoken things.

the silence stretched between you, filled only by birdsong and the rustling of leaves. your heart wouldn’t calm down. It hadn’t, not since that moment — your first kiss. stolen. wrong. but... your chest still fluttered every time you remembered it. no one had ever looked at you the way he did in that moment. no one had ever felt like that.

“i… i found the letter,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. offering the old note with a small, unsure smile.

beomgyu froze slightly beside you.

“in the manga you lent me,” you clarified. “it fell out when my brother opened one.”

his cheeks flushed instantly, the tips of his ears turning red. he looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. “wow. that’s… old.”

you smiled softly, despite everything. “you were thirteen.”

he groaned into his hands. “oh god, i was so lame back then.”

“it was sweet,” you said honestly. “kind of cheesy. a lot dramatic. but sweet.”

his eyes met yours — full of that soft, scared, vulnerable look he always gave you when his guard was down.

“i'm sorry,” he said suddenly. “for the kiss. for not asking. i shouldn’t have done that.”

you looked away, biting your lip. “i was shocked. and confused. I still am. but i don’t… hate that it happened.”

he blinked. “you don’t?”

you shook your head. “it was wrong… but it made me realize how much i never saw. how long you’ve felt like this. how many times you tried to show me, and i just… i never noticed.”

beomgyu took a shaky breath. his voice was softer now, more vulnerable than you’d ever heard.

“i’ve been in love with you since I was six,” he said, eyes on his hands. “back when you beat me at every single math test and made fun of my hair. i thought, ‘she’s so annoying’... and then i just wanted to be around you all the time. so I became annoying too, just so you'd keep looking at me.”

you laughed — gently, quietly, your cheeks warming. he smiled too.

“i used to count how many times you laughed in a day,” he continued, his voice trembling. “i memorized your schedule just so i could pass you in the hallway. every group project, i fought to be with you. i learned your coffee order. i even started watching that boring drama you liked just to talk about it with you.”

he chuckled to himself, glancing at you with the fondest eyes you’d ever seen.

“do you remember that time in middle school when i stayed outside in the rain because you forgot your umbrella and I wanted to walk you home?”

you nodded slowly.

“you told me it was stupid.”

“it was,” you replied, a smile tugging at your lips. “you caught a cold the next day.”

“still worth it.”

the wind picked up again, swirling a few petals around the two of you. one landed gently on your hair, and beomgyu reached over instinctively to brush it away. his hand lingered for a second longer than it needed to. your cheeks deepened in color.

“i know you don’t feel the same,” he whispered, his voice more serious now. “or maybe not yet. and that’s okay. i don’t need anything from you. just… having this moment, sitting here with you, getting to say all of this out loud—it’s enough. you make me feel like the dumbest person alive, y/n. but in the best way.”

you blinked, your throat suddenly tight.

“i’ve waited a long time to tell you,” he added. “and i'd wait again, even if it takes forever.”

you didn’t know what to say.

there were still so many thoughts swirling inside you—confusion, memories, flickers of warmth you hadn’t let yourself fully feel until now. but somehow, sitting there under the tree, next to beomgyu and the scent of spring in the air, it didn’t feel so scary. it felt... safe.

he smiled faintly. “being around you, even if i was annoying you or just carrying your bag or letting you copy my notes… that was the best part of my days. i think i’ve always kind of lived around you.”

you looked at him then, truly looked. his hair danced slightly with the breeze, and there was that same gentle, vulnerable expression you’d seen a few times before—once when he waited outside your house for hours in the rain just to walk you to school, once when he defended you during a class presentation when someone laughed at your pronunciation, once when he silently passed you his scarf because he noticed your hands were shaking from the cold.

“i didn’t mean to ignore how you felt,” you murmured. “and i’m sorry for not noticing. the letter… it was really beautiful. it made me feel something. i’m still figuring out what that is.”

he looked down, his voice quiet but full of everything. “i don’t expect you to feel the same. not now, maybe not ever. but… just being able to say it out loud—to tell you that you’ve always been the person i looked for in every room, every morning, every second—it makes me feel like i’m not hiding anymore. even if i still feel like a fool when you smile at me.”

you smiled then, small but real, and maybe a little breathless. your heart beat just a little louder in your chest, not in panic, but in something unfamiliar and warm.

“you’re not a fool,” you said softly. “not even close.”

he turned to you, hopeful, and for a second, time stilled. no confessions, no promises—just two hearts, slowly inching closer under a cherry tree, learning how to speak the same language.

later that night, you lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling as the pale moonlight poured through your window, casting long shadows across your room. your chest felt heavy, like it was full of fluttering things—tiny, delicate, impossible to catch.

you hadn’t been able to focus on anything since you got home. not homework, not music, not even the manga you used to love reading before bed.

his words played on a loop in your mind.

“you’ve always been the person i looked for in every room.”

you hugged your pillow tightly.

why did it feel like your heart was trying to tell you something, and you just weren’t ready to listen?

you remembered his voice, the nervous laugh he let out when he brought up cherry, the way his eyes softened when he looked at you—like you were something he didn’t believe he deserved to hold.

you didn’t know how long you stayed like that, frozen in your thoughts, until a sudden knock on your door pulled you back to reality.

“y/n,” juyeon peeked in, a plate of fruit in one hand and that familiar annoying-smile-slash-big-brother look on his face. “you’ve been super quiet. thought maybe you got possessed.”

you rolled your eyes. “thanks for the concern.”

he walked in anyway, setting the plate down beside you and sitting at the edge of the bed. “so… you and lover boy talked, huh?”

you blinked. “what?”

“beomgyu. don’t act clueless.” he chuckled. “he looked like a kicked puppy when he came to class earlier, and now he looks like a puppy that got a pat on the head.”

“we talked,” you admitted, voice low.

juyeon just smirked knowingly. “did you kiss again?”

“juyeon!” you threw a pillow at him, cheeks flaming.

he dodged it effortlessly, laughing. “okay okay, sorry! i’m just saying—if i didn’t know better, i’d think you’re starting to fall for him.”

you didn’t reply.

because maybe, just maybe… he wasn’t wrong.

when juyeon finally left, muttering something about “teenage romance being a disease,” you sat up and pulled open your drawer. you reached for that letter—the one from years ago, folded unevenly, still smelling faintly of pencil and dust.

"dear y/n, i don’t really know how to say this, so i’m writing it instead. i think you’re the prettiest girl in the whole school, maybe in the whole world. even when you’re mad at me or call me annoying. i like you. i’ve liked you since the day you shared your umbrella with me in sixth grade. i didn’t know someone could make my heart beat that fast. even if you don’t like me back, i just wanted you to know."

your fingertips brushed over the words.

you were so young back then. so was he. but the way he felt—those words—felt so pure it almost hurt.

and now, all these years later, his feelings hadn’t changed.

your heart clenched.

you didn’t know what to call this thing blooming inside you, but it felt like spring.

slow and delicate.

a new beginning.

then, you were twenty-four.

the late afternoon sun filtered through the large windows of the campus café, casting soft golden hues over the small table where beomgyu sat, one leg crossed over the other, hands lazily wrapped around a warm cup of tea. soobin sat across from him, his brows lifted in curiosity, and yeonjun was leaning forward, utterly hooked.

“so you’re telling me,” yeonjun said, incredulous, “you were in love with her since middle school?”

“since i was six,” beomgyu said with a nostalgic grin, his gaze distant, lips curling faintly as if the memory still made his heart flutter. “i wrote her a letter once. stuck it inside one of my old romance mangas i’d lent her. never told her about it. i figured she’d never find it.”

“but she did,” soobin said, connecting the dots. “and then what happened?”

beomgyu let out a breathy chuckle, fingers tapping absentmindedly on his cup. “then everything changed. slowly. painfully. beautifully.” he paused for a moment, a soft smile playing on his lips. “i think that was the first time she really saw me.”

“damn,” yeonjun muttered, shaking his head. “and you stayed friends all that time? with all those feelings?”

“we weren’t just friends,” beomgyu said cryptically, his eyes twinkling. “but we weren’t anything else, either. not for a while.”

beomgyu gave a small laugh, fingers combing through his hair as he stared up at the sky, a smile creeping in despite himself. “there was a time,” he added, voice softening, “when she was in love with my best friend. taehyun. i hated it. not because taehyun was a bad guy — he wasn’t. he was kind, steady... everything i wasn’t. but watching her cry over him, watching her choose him over and over without even realizing it... it broke me. one day, when she was hurting the most, i kissed her. not because she asked, not because she was ready — but because some stupid part of me thought it would fix everything. that maybe, if she felt what i felt, she’d finally see me.” he paused, swallowing hard. “but all it did was push her further away.”

both soobin and yeonjun were quiet for a moment. the weight of the story settled between them like the end of a song. soobin looked over with a new kind of softness in his eyes. “but you’re still talking about her like she’s everything.” said soobin.

“she is,” beomgyu said, without missing a beat. “she always has been.”

“you’re killing me, man,” yeonjun laughed. “what happened next? did she ever feel the same?”

before beomgyu could answer, a soft voice called from behind.

“gyuya!”

the moment the nickname hit the air, his entire demeanor shifted. he straightened immediately, turning around with the most radiant expression either of his friends had ever seen. you stood there, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair tousled from the wind, a small, tired smile curving your lips.

“baby,” he said, voice drenched in affection as he rose to his feet and wrapped you in a quick, tight hug before kissing your cheek without hesitation. “you made it.”

you chuckled, squeezing his hand as you looked at the two boys staring at you, mouths half-open.

“guys, this is y/n,” beomgyu said, still not letting go of your hand. “she’s the one i was telling you about.”

“oh,” soobin said, eyes wide, trying to process what just happened. “oh.”

“wait— you— you’re together?” yeonjun asked, pointing between you and beomgyu like he was witnessing the plot twist of a k-drama.

you laughed, taking the seat next to beomgyu as he dropped down beside you, still holding your hand like it was something sacred. “we’ve been together for a while,” you said, resting your chin on your hand. “since before college, actually.”

“how do you survive the long-distance?” soobin asked, still stunned.

“it’s not easy,” beomgyu said, turning his gaze to you, eyes soft. “she’s studying economics at hanyang, i’m in the music program here… our schedules almost never match. but we make it work.”

“worth it,” you added quietly, glancing at him, your expression full of something deeper than words.

the boys watched in awe as beomgyu leaned into you, his fingers absentmindedly tracing yours.

“so... all those years,” yeonjun said slowly. “all that pining... paid off.”

beomgyu smiled, pressing a kiss to your temple. “every second of waiting. every stupid joke. every heartbreak.”

outside, the sky was shifting into twilight. the world felt slower, softer, suspended in something warm and right.

later, as you leaned against beomgyu’s shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut from exhaustion, he whispered into your hair, “i was such a fool for you.”

you smiled sleepily. “you still are.”

and god, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[hyunjincanraptoo]

Love you better- H.JS

So, LATAM Jisung did something to my heart and I had to write something for him 🫠 I was supposed to also post uno and chill part 2 today but I accidentally fell asleep during the afternoon and since it's already late, I won't be able to finish it. Good thing I have a long holiday and only come back to uni on Thursday so wait for a lot of updates during the following days (including an Easter special fic 🤭). Nari, if you see this, please don't freak out 😚

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: smut, bros code breaking

Alexa, play Friends With Your Ex by Landon Barker

It all started the night you left Chan.

Not in a dramatic, Hollywoodian explosion. No screaming, no shattered plates, just silence. A final, tired “okay”, and the soft click of a door that didn’t reopen.

You didn’t know where to go, so you walked. It didn’t take long for your phone to buzz.

Hannie: you okay?

That was all it took.

He met you at that 24 hour diner which served bad coffee and greasy bacon slices. Han slid the booth across from you like it wasn’t the middle of the night, like you hadn’t just broken up with his best friend.

He didn’t pry, didn’t ask you why it ended, or if you were okay. He just sat there, gave you his hoodie when you started shivering and let you cry into a plate of pancakes.

And since then, he kept showing up.

You’d text each other more. Stupid jokes bloomed into real conversations. He helped you move boxes out of Chan’s place without asking questions. He made you laugh when no one else could. He gave you rides home late at night because ‘it’s not safe for you to walk'. But he never pushed or crossed a line— he just was there for you, in case you needed it.

Until the night everything changed.

You were sitting in his car parked in some random parking lot. Raindrops tapped against the windows, music playing low. You were wearing his hoodie again and this time, your knees were pulled up in the seat, chin resting on top of them.

“I don’t get it”, you murmured, staring at the blur of city lights outside, “How he just… stopped loving me”

Chan had always been a good man. A kind man. But he was never there. Always at the studio, always putting your relationship last. You didn’t break up with him because you stopped loving him— you did it because he forgot how to love you back.

Han exhaled softly, glancing at you from the driver’s seat, “I don’t think he stopped loving you”, he said quietly, “I think… he just didn’t know how to love you the way you needed”.

That made your chest tighten. You turned toward him, realizing there’s something heavy in his gaze— something he’d been trying not to say for weeks.

“Han…”

He leaned in just a little. Not enough to kiss you, just enough for you to feel the heat.

“I shouldn’t want this”, he said quietly, eyes flicking to your mouth.

“Yeah… you shouldn’t”

“But I do”

You don’t remember who leaned in first. Maybe it was him, maybe it was you. But suddenly, your mouths met like you’ve been starving, like every night he held back, rushed to the surface all at once. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb gently brushing your cheek and suddenly you were kissing him hard.

Messy. Desperate. The car windows started to fog with your breath, your bodies twisting in the cramped front seat. Your legs slid over his lap and his hands grabbed your waist as he tried to stop himself— but he couldn't.

“He never touched you like this, did he?”, he murmured against your neck, teeth grazing your sensitive skin.

“That’s so wrong”, you whispered, but you were already pulling his hoodie off.

“Then why does it feel this good? Why aren’t you stopping me, huh?”, he groaned, voice rough as his lips found your collarbone.

Because the truth was— you were not just kissing Han. You were kissing every stolen glance. Every accidental touch. Every night you wished someone saw you the way he always did.

It was messy, forbidden— everything you were not supposed to want.

But in that moment with Han’s hands under your shirt and his voice whispering your name like you owned him— you finally felt wanted again.

“You’re still not stopping me”, Han breathed, voice hoarse against your skin.

He was right, you weren’t. You should. But your fingers were already tangled in the hem of his shirt, already tugging it up, palms sliding over the warm lines of his stomach as you straddled him in the driver’s seat.

Your breath hitched when your hands traced over his inked skin— his tattoos, surprisingly familiar, mapped out across his muscles.

“God”, you whispered, brushing your fingertips over just under his ribs, “These always drove me crazy”.

Han let out a low groan, eyes closing as he leaned into your touch, “You’ve barely seen them” he said, voice rough.

“I saw enough”, you whispered, lips ghosting over his neck, “I just didn’t let myself want to. It had been three long weeks, you know”

His hands found your hips like instinct when you grinded down on his lap, head falling back against the headrest. “Fuck”, he groaned.

You kissed him again, your teeth clashing slightly. He moaned into your mouth like he didn’t care that this was sinful. Bros code? He barely remembered it existed.

His hands were everywhere— trailing up your thighs, gripping your hips, sliding under your shirt until he gripped your bare waist like he needed to hold on or he’d have lost himself completely.

“We can’t do this, Yn… Tell me to stop”, he said suddenly, breath shaking.

But your reply was a soft, “Don’t stop”, whispered into the curve of his neck. You didn’t want him to stop, not when he touched you like that.

You rolled your hips over his lap slowly and he let out the filthiest sound you’ve ever heard from him.

Han’s hands gripped you tighter, his jaw clenched. “Jesus”, he muttered, kissing down your jaw, “You’ve been in my head for weeks. Every time you looked at me like you needed me… I couldn’t think straight”

You whimpered as he slid his hand under your bra, gently, thumbs brushing over your nipples. He pulled your shirt up, just enough to kiss the curve of your chest, hot and desperate, leaving a purple stain there. Even though it was sloppy and frantic, it made you cry out his name.

“Hannie…”

That definitely did something to him. His eyes flicked up, then he pulled you back in for another kiss— this time deeper, filthier, full of tongue and need and everything he’d been holding back.

You could feel how hard he was beneath you, straining in his jeans, as you rocked down again, dragging a soft whine from his throat.

“You keep doing that and I’m not gonna last”, he growled.

“I don’t want you to last”, you whispered, “I just want you to”

He let out a harsh exhale, more like a curse, then leaned forward. “Backseat”, he muttered, eyes dark with lust, “Now”.

You crawled over, and he followed right behind, pulling the door shut with one hand and dragging your hips into his lap again. This time, it was faster, hungrier. He slid your panties down your thighs without fully undressing you, and the thrill of it made your pulse race.

His fingers slid between your legs, and he cursed under his breath. “Damn, you’re soaked”

You arched into his touch, head falling back. “This is so bad”, you pant, “So, so… ah… wrong”

“Then why…”, he murmured, kissing the corner of your lips as he sank two fingers inside you without any warnings, “Does it feel so fucking good?”

You gasped, grinding down against his hand, and he watched you unravel, like he was trying to memorize every twitch, every moan, every part of you.

He fucked you with his fingers slow at first, curling them just right, until your hips were jerking and your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Let me make you forget him”, he whispered.

And god, you did. You fell apart in his lap with his name on your lips, and when you came down, trembling and breathless, he already got his jeans undone, already guiding you on him with a look that said: ‘Please, just this once, let me have you’.

You took him teasingly slow. As you sank down on him, your fingers clutched the back of the seat, lips parted in shock at how good it felt— how right it felt even when it shouldn’t.

His hands held your hips, anchoring you as you started to move.

The car rocked, the windows fogged and the world outside disappeared.

All that was left was Han— his body, his voice, his mouth. The desperate gasps, and whispered curses.

“You feel so fucking good, sweetheart…. better than I ever imagined”, he groaned, head falling back.

That made you pause, “You… imagined this before?”

With eyes closed shut, he nodded, breath shaky, chest rising and falling fast. “Every time something went wrong”, he whispered, voice wrecked. “Every time he ignored your feelings cause he was at the studio. Every time you showed up glowing in a new dress and he barely looked at you before saying you looked pretty cause he had a deadline”

A choked sound escaped him— half groan, half confession— as he thrusted into you again. “Fuck… every time I thought, ‘I could be better for her. I could actually make her happy’ “.

Your eyes stung. From the overwhelming pleasure but also from him. From the way he was baring himself to you in a way no one else ever has.

You blinked, lashes heavy with tears, a lump forming in your throat. And then you kissed him. Hard. Deep. With everything— every buried feeling, every confused moment over the past few weeks.

You kissed him like he was the only thing that made sense in the middle of the wreckage you’d been walking through. And he kissed you back like he’d been waiting years. Like this was a secret he was finally allowed to speak.

His thrusts started to lose rhythm, stuttering, desperate, like he was chasing the edge just as hard as you were. The windows were completely fogged now, your skins slick with sweat, your hands gripping his shoulders like they’re the only solid thing left in the world.

You were so close it hurt, each grind sending heat spiraling low in your belly, pressure curling tight until you gasped, eyes wide and unfocused.

“Fuck, I’m…” you started, but he cut you off.

“I know, me too, just come with me”

And when he reached up to brush a strand of hair from your face, all while looking at you like you were the whole sky, that was what tipped you over. Your body tensed, then unraveled all at once— hot and shuddering, pleasure crashing over you in waves so strong you almost forgot to breathe.

He followed with a low moan of your name, hands gripping your hips as he came, pulling you down hard against him one last time.

Everything went silent, save for the sound of your panting breaths and the soft hum of the car engine.

You were still wrapped around him when he murmured, “I meant it, you know”

You blinked, heart still racing, “What?”

“All of it”, he said, voice low. “I know it is still soon, but I could be better for you. I want to be. I want to make you happy”

Your chest tightened. No one had ever said something like that after sex. Not to you, not like that.

You leaned forward, brushing your nose against his, and whispered, “You already are”

Han smiled, lazily and crooked, and then he added, “Also… you definitely ruined my backseat forever”

You laughed, breathless and full of something bright and warm and real. “Worth it, tho” you say.

“Guess we’ll just have to use the front seat next time”, he grinned.

You laughed harder this time, still tangled together, still flushed and bare and glowing. And then, you realized:

You might be completely fucked up

But maybe… you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

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[airybcby]

જ⁀♡⊹｡° guess second best is all i will know

( reo mikage x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — really wanted to write for reo again so enjoy!

♡ word count — 2.7k

♡ content — reo mikage x fem! reader, arranged marriage, loveless marriage, angst, kind of fluff towards the end, reader is a rich heiress, secret letters, switch of pov ( once it goes to reo's pov ), miscommunication, not proofread!

♡ synopsis — Being given away at your wedding was supposed to be joyous, something every little girl wished for at least once. But how were you supposed to be excited when Reo Mikage couldn't even write his own vows?

You didn't expect love.

Not when the marriage contract was signed before either of you had a chance to say no.

But you had hoped for kindness.

Maybe something gentle in the spaces between you. Maybe a hand held during dinner. Maybe someone who looked at you like they saw more than your family name.

But Reo Mikage never looked at you. Not really.

Not when you met him for the first time—his phone lighting up every thirty seconds, a small laugh under his breath as his thumbs flew across the screen. 

He’d nodded when you introduced yourself. Smiled, even. Said something like, “Nice to meet you,” with perfect manners and perfect teeth.

But his eyes were somewhere else.

You remember your father asking you afterward what you thought of him.

And you said, “He’s nice.”

Because it was easier than saying, “He didn’t really talk to me.”

On your wedding day, the gown fit perfectly.

It was made for you. Custom-stitched to flatter and shine.

Too bad it wasn’t meant to be admired by your husband.

You stood before hundreds of guests, a vision in silk and diamonds. He looked at you like you were a stranger.

He read his vows off a notecard.

Not his handwriting.

One of his father’s assistants had written it, because Reo had been “too busy.”

Training, press, a last-minute flight to Barcelona. You’d heard every excuse in the book.

You said “I do” anyway.

Because it was already done.

That night, when the guests were gone and the champagne had dried to sticky rings on glass tables, Reo leaned against the black car outside the venue and said,

“You can go back to your apartment. I won’t be offended.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I just figured you wouldn’t want to spend the night with someone you barely know,” he said, tone so casual it made your stomach twist. “And I’ve got practice early tomorrow, so…”

You nodded. What else was there to do?

So you went home.

You sat on your couch in a gown that took four months to design.

In shoes that made your ankles ache.

Mascara clinging to your lashes as the weight of it all finally cracked your spine.

And you cried.

Not the loud kind. The kind that sits behind your teeth, swallowing itself, curling in the pit of your stomach until it becomes something quiet and unbearable.

You didn’t see Reo again for a few days.

But your things arrived at his house. Not because he helped you move.

He’d hired a moving company. “The best and the fastest,” they’d said proudly at the door.

How kind.

The house was beautiful. Cold. Quiet.

Your name wasn’t anywhere on the mailbox, but it was in the contract.

You cooked that night. It was something stupidly domestic—a way to feel like maybe, maybe this could be something human if you just tried hard enough.

He walked in at 7:46PM.

Phone glued to his ear. “Yeah, no, I told him that—mm. Yeah. Nagi, you’re not listening—bro, listen—”

He breezed past you in his hoodie and soccer bag, smelling like turf and cologne, like a life you weren’t invited into.

Still, you tried.

You waited until he hung up.

You smiled. Weak, but there.

“I made dinner,” you said softly. “And, um… how was practice?”

He looked up like he forgot you were there. Eyes blank, like you’d grown another head.

“Fine,” he said. “I’m gonna eat in my office. Thanks.”

He took the plate.

He walked away.

And you sat back down at the table you’d set for two, with candles flickering, wine starting to taste like metal on your tongue.

You told yourself it didn’t matter.

You’d been alone your whole life. Raised by nannies who barely knew your middle name, in houses too big and too quiet.

You could survive this.

But you hadn’t wanted to survive your marriage.

You’d wanted to live in it. Grow into it.

Find something of your own in this world where everything had always been chosen for you.

Now, your name was on a ring. A contract. A marriage certificate.

But you weren’t sure if it was on his mind at all.

And maybe it was stupid. But part of you still wished he would look at you. Just once. Not like a stranger.

Not like a burden.

Just… like someone he might’ve chosen, if the world had let him choose at all.

You lost track of how many dinners you spent alone.

The days bled into one another—quiet mornings in a home that wasn’t yours, not really, and late nights where the only conversation was the low hum of Reo’s voice through the walls as he talked to someone who wasn’t you.

Always someone who wasn’t you.

Sometimes it was Nagi, like always.

Sometimes it was a teammate.

Sometimes you didn’t know.

You never asked.

You told yourself it was better this way. 

You wouldn’t fall apart over a man who’d never even taken off his shoes at the door you both supposedly shared. 

You wouldn’t crumble just because he didn’t notice the new books you lined on the empty shelves, or the way you started sleeping on the far edge of the bed—just in case he ever came to find you.

He didn’t.

Your presence was an afterthought in the story of his life.

Reo’s house was made of clean lines and expensive taste.

You decorated one room. Just one. 

A sunlit sitting area with cream curtains and deep green plants you watered every Tuesday.

It was the only room that felt like it belonged to someone who lived.

You started writing there—little letters you never sent.

Some to him.

Some to no one.

Letters like:

I wore the earrings my mother gave me today. You didn’t notice. No one ever does.

I think I’d love you if you’d let me.

I know I’m just the deal your father made to keep you in line.

I still made you dinner.

You kept them in a velvet box tucked in under the arm chair. 

Not because you wanted him to read them, but because writing them down helped you feel like less of a ghost in your own marriage.

The first real conversation you had came by accident.

You were in the kitchen late one night, padding across the tile floors in bare feet and his too-big hoodie—because everything else was in the laundry and you were cold.

You didn’t expect him to come home early.

He blinked when he saw you by the stove, pouring hot water into a teacup.

“…You’re up?” he asked, like it was strange. Like you weren’t someone who lived here.

You nodded, unsure of what to say, “uh…wanted to make sure you got home okay.” you mumbled, not looking at him.

You were pathetic, sitting here far too late into the night waiting for a man who didn’t love you to come home.

He looked like he wanted to say something else—but the words never came.

Instead, his gaze drifted to your clothes.

“That’s mine.”

You looked down at the hoodie. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry. I was just—”

“You can wear it. I don’t care.”

He said it so fast you nearly missed the small curl in his voice. Like maybe he did care. 

Like maybe something in his chest tugged at the sight of you in it.

Either that or he never wanted you to wear it again. You weren’t sure yet.

You sat in silence after that. He didn’t leave right away. 

He stayed—leaning against the doorframe like someone watching a stranger through glass.

The moment passed.

And then he said, “Night,” and disappeared into the hall.

It was a crack in the wall.

But a crack wasn’t enough to let the light in.

So the days went on.

He kept his distance.

You kept trying.

You made dinner every night. You never asked if he’d be there. But sometimes—sometimes—he ate what you left in the fridge.

That counted for something, didn’t it?

The house was quiet.

It’s the kind of silence that used to comfort Reo—back when it meant peace, stillness, something earned. But lately, it clings too tight. It echoes. Reo isn’t sure when the walls started feeling too wide, like the rooms were built for a version of him that no longer fits.

You’re not home. You left a note on the fridge, something about grabbing groceries and a coffee with your sister. 

He could have gone with you. 

You didn’t ask.

He wanders without meaning to. First to the kitchen, then to the hallway, and finally to the sitting room—the only room that still feels like it holds something real.

The afternoon sun filters through sheer curtains. It paints long shadows over the rug you picked out last spring. Reo crouches by the armchair. Something shifts beneath the hem of the fabric—a corner of a dark velvet box barely visible under the chair.

He pulls it out, curious.

It’s heavier than it looks.

The lid creaks when he opens it. Inside: envelopes. Dozens. All the same size. Some newer, some worn around the edges like they’ve been held more than once.

He pulls one out at random. There’s no date. Just his name on the front in your handwriting.

He hesitates.

And then he reads.

One day, he came home early.

So early it startled you.

You were in the sitting room, writing. Not one of your usual letters. Just thoughts. Scribbles in the margins of a notebook, where you were trying to remember what your voice sounded like when it wasn’t filtered through sadness and expectation.

You didn’t hear him walk in.

But you heard the door open. And then a pause.

And then: the sound of paper shifting.

Your heart dropped.

By the time you looked up, he was holding one of the letters.

Not one of the silly ones.

Not one of the harmless little diary pages.

No—this one was raw. This one hurt.

It was the one you wrote after your anniversary last week, when he didn’t come home until 2AM and never said a word about what day it was.

The one that said:

I sat in a dress for three hours waiting for someone who didn’t ask me to marry him and still doesn’t want to be here. 

Happy anniversary to me.

Reo’s eyes flicked over the page. His jaw clenched.

He didn’t look at you.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked, voice tight.

You blinked at him. “I tried. For months.”

“No—you wrote things and left them in a box.”

You stood. “You were never home. You never asked.”

“I didn’t think you cared.”

Your laugh cracked in the middle. “I didn’t have to care. I was given to you.”

He finally looked at you then.

Really looked. Like maybe—maybe—he was starting to see past the marble mask of this perfect life.

“…I didn’t want it to be like this,” he said, softer now. “I didn’t want to be that guy.”

You crossed your arms, every part of you aching. “Then why were you?”

Silence.

He ran a hand through his hair. Frustrated. Lost.

And then, almost too quiet:

“Because I didn’t know what to do with someone who might’ve actually… wanted to know me.”

“I don’t…want to know you. Not now. Not ever.” You were a bad liar, always had been. You bit on your thumb, not looking him in the eyes. You weren’t sure your heart could handle it if you did - that stupid traitorous organ.

Reo didn’t put up a fight, instead he put the note on the table and walked back to the room he’d all but taken over- the guest room.

While you retreated back to the room that was once his- that was meant for the both of you. The one you’d been sleeping alone in for these past few months. The one where you had to change the sheets weekly because of your tears.

The letter stayed on the kitchen table.

He didn’t put it back in the box.

Didn’t throw it away either.

He just left it there, like a wound in plain sight.

You avoided it for three days.

You didn’t talk to him. Not because you were angry—but because you didn’t know what else to say. There were no rules for this kind of marriage. There were only long silences, and carefully avoided glances, and the quiet weight of too many things unsaid.

You still made dinner.

You still watered the plants.

You still took off your jewelry at night and set it in the velvet-lined case your father gifted you as a wedding present.

“It’ll match your husband’s name,” he had said.

But what good was a name if the man behind it wouldn’t even sit across from you at the table?

The night it changed, the sky was gray and heavy. Rain smeared the windows, soft and constant like background noise to the ache in your chest.

You made pasta.

You weren’t expecting him to come home early again. You didn’t even hear the door. Just the sound of footsteps across hardwood, steady and real.

And then his voice—quiet, behind you.

“…That smells good.”

You turned. He was soaked through, jacket clinging to his frame like it was too tired to hang on anymore.

You grabbed a towel from the counter and handed it to him without thinking.

He took it, fingers brushing yours.

And for the first time since your wedding day, Reo looked at you like you were something real. Not a responsibility. Not a deal. Not a ghost in his hallway.

Just you.

He didn’t go to his office that night.

He sat at the table.

Ate the pasta.

Said thank you.

Not a lot. 

Not a flood of words or some grand apology. 

But his presence—the fact that he stayed—was louder than anything he could’ve said.

Halfway through the meal, you asked him again, “How was practice?”

You were prepared for a repeat of the last time you asked, him shutting you out and running away to his office. 

You’d be okay if it happened, after all, you’d grown used to the silence in this house.

He paused. Looked down. Took a breath like it was heavier than the air allowed.

“…Rough,” he admitted. “My legs felt like concrete.”

You smiled, just barely. “Then you’re human after all.”

That got a small laugh out of him. Soft. Surprised. Like he didn’t know he still had it in him.

“I guess so.”

He helped you clear the dishes. Put the leftovers away. Stood beside you at the sink like someone trying to remember what domesticity looked like.

The silence between you wasn’t cold anymore.

It was just quiet.

And maybe—maybe—hopeful.

He didn’t go to the guest room that night.

He sat at the edge of the bed, damp hair falling into his eyes, and asked you something that knocked the breath from your lungs.

“Do you hate me?”

You blinked. “What?”

Reo looked down at his hands. The same ones that held world-class trophies and training weights and the pressure of being perfect since he was a boy.

“…I didn’t know how to be a husband,” he said. “Didn’t want to be one, at first. Not like that. Not like a pawn in some game our dads made.”

You stayed silent.

He kept going, voice cracking just enough to feel real. 

“But then I saw that letter. And I realized—shit, I made you feel disposable. Like you were just…second best. And that’s not fair.”

You could barely breathe.

“I didn’t want to fall in love with someone just because I was supposed to,” he said, voice low now. “But that wasn’t your fault. And I’ve been an asshole. I know that.”

You swallowed the knot in your throat. “…And now?”

Reo turned toward you then, expression open in a way you’d never seen before. No charm. No smirk. No shield of distance.

Just him.

“Now I think I already did,” he said. “Fall in love with you.”

You didn’t kiss him that night.

But you let him hold your hand.

And when you fell asleep beside him, his heartbeat was steady against your back. Like he was trying, for the first time, to match your rhythm instead of walk ahead.

The next morning, there were flowers in the kitchen.

Real ones. Your favorite kind. A little handwritten note tucked between the stems.

Let me make it right. Dinner tonight?

You read it twice.

You smiled.

And then you made breakfast for two.

reader is far more forgiving than me but i didn't want this to get too long.

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[story-box]

STATIC ON THE LINE

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader | Eddie Munson x Y/N

Summary: Eddie ghosted you to “set you free”—so you came home to ruin his pity party and remind him you're nobody's damsel.

—

You should have set his trailer on fire.

Okay, maybe not literally — arson was still technically illegal — but metaphorically?

Oh, absolutely.

Because if Eddie Munson thought he could ghost you like some coward in a metal band who suddenly decided he was too emotionally fragile to answer a letter, then he clearly forgot who he was dating.

You had written twenty-one letters. Twenty-one. Plus, three postcards you thought were charming and a freaking cassette mix you made with actual effort and very questionable transitions. ("Careless Whisper" into Black Sabbath — sue you, you were emotional.)

And what did you get in return?

Silence.

Avoidance.

The occasional 'your letter was received' from Wayne when you called the Munson trailer, followed by an uncomfortable pause like the old man wanted to say more but wouldn’t.

You had tried to be patient. Really. You reminded yourself that Eddie wasn’t exactly known for healthy coping mechanisms.

But there’s only so much you can take before you start imagining exactly how hard youmee going to throw that shoebox full of unsent letters at his stupid, beautiful, stubborn head.

Because here’s the thing: You didn’t fall in love with him because he had perfect grades or a five-year plan. You fell in love with the idiot who played Dio songs like they were sacred texts, who gave voices to dungeon monsters and talked about fate like it was something he could fight.

And now? Now he was playing tragic martyr like it was some noble sacrifice.

You stared at your phone, hanging up on the wall. Again. Like it might magically spring to life with his voice on the other end.

It didn’t.

Instead, you whispered to no one, "If you think you're protecting me, Eddie Munson, you're dumber than that time you tried to climb my dorm window and got stuck halfway like a stray cat."

Maybe it was time to come home for a weekend.

And maybe it was time to make some noise…

. . .

The trailer looks smaller than you remember. Maybe it’s the winter light — flat and grey, like everything’s been dulled down without you here. Or maybe it’s just Eddie.

Because he’s standing in the doorway, sleep-creased and shoeless, hair a mess, looking like regret and cheap weed had a baby and named it "avoidant behavior."

You cross your arms and lean against your car, giving him the kind of look that says: Go ahead. Explain yourself. I’ll wait. Probably won’t believe you, but I’ll wait.

He blinks like he thinks you’re a hallucination. Which, fair. You did show up unannounced, in your Friday jeans and a pissed-off aura that could probably kill a small god.

“Holy shit,” he says.

“That’s all you’ve got?” you ask. “‘Holy shit’? After ignoring me for three months?”

He rubs the back of his neck. Classic. You’d almost missed that stupid nervous tic.

Almost.

“I thought you were… I don’t know. Gone.”

You laugh — sharp, not sweet. “Yeah. That tends to happen when someone stops answering your letters, calls, telepathic pleas—should I go on?”

His mouth opens like he wants to defend himself. Then closes again, like he realizes there is no defense. And honestly? Good. Let him stew. Let him feel the way your chest has felt every time you checked the mailbox and found nothing but silence.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he finally mutters.

You throw your hands up. “Try anything. ‘Hey, I suck at feelings, give me a minute’? ‘Sorry I’m an emotionally constipated disaster’? Even a postcard that just says ‘still alive’ would’ve been better than radio silence.”

He flinches. You almost feel bad.

Almost.

But then he says, voice low and stupidly sincere, “I thought if I let you go, you’d move on. Meet someone better. Someone who doesn’t live in a trailer and get held back and—”

“Oh my god, shut up,” you groan. “You don’t get to martyr yourself and act like you’re doing me a favor. I’m not some romcom character who blossoms without the sad boy weighing her down. I chose you, you idiot.”

He stares at you, like maybe he didn’t quite believe it until you said it out loud. Like he’s terrified hope might be real.

You step closer. Close enough that he can see the tear line in your eyeliner and the months of unsent anger burning just behind your eyes.

“If you ever ghost me again,” you whisper, “I will break into your room, steal your favorite guitar, and replace all your good vinyls with Barry Manilow."

He chokes on a laugh.

You almost kiss him right then. Almost. But he has to earn that.

So instead, you say, “Now let me in before I freeze out here. We’re not done talking.”

[fizzyapplecandy]

Ateez as Romance Tropes

The one with the one night stand

Other members

Seonghwa x Fem reader

Word count: 3.7k

Genres and warnings; accidental pregnancy, wrap it before you tap it!, minors dni, mild smut, mature language, fluff, humor, strangers to lovers

One night of passion brings you more than you can handle, but luckily Seognhwa is there to ease your jumbled mind.

"Oh God."

You stared at the two bright pink lines.

The lines that were about to change your whole life around.

"Oh my fucking God! Jongho!"

You rushed out of your bathroom and ran into the living room where your best friend was waiting, eyes wide with anticipation.

"So?" He asked, frozen in his spot when he noticed how frantic you were.

"It's... It's positive."

Both of your gazes dropped to your stomach, and you slowly lifted your hand to feel around it.

There was a tiny... Something inside of you. Something you never really thought about having, but weren't opposed to. But that something came too soon, too rushed.

"So... I don't mean to be that person, but... Is it, you know? Is it his?" Jongho questioned, being careful not to say the man's name out loud.

Your eyes widened, just now realizing what you have gotten yourself into.

"Oh no."

.

.

.

One month ago

"Woohoo!"

"Get down from the chair Wooyoung!"

You tried grabbing your friend's arm to pull him down, but he was too into the song to stay still. Luckily, his boyfriend knew how to handle him in situations like these.

"Come on now Woo, you're giving the poor girl a headache." San put his strong arms around his waist and lowered him to the ground.

"You guys don't know how to have fun!" A pouty Wooyoung shouted, placing kisses all over San's face. You just shook your head and went to the bar to get another drink.

It was a Saturday, and you always went out to your usual club with the boys. Jongho was deep into an arm wrestling contest with Yeosang, San and Wooyoung were now all lovey dovey in the corner, Mingi and Yunho were showing off their amazing dance moves, but Hongjoong was nowhere to be seen.

He usually stayed by your side, watching over the friend group, but he told you he was going to be late tonight. Hongjoong went on a business trip recently and met another aspiring designer along the way. You forgot his name, but you knew your friend was bringing him over tonight to meet you all.

You weren't in the mood, to be honest. Maybe it was because you had a tough week at work, trying not to strangle your new boss, or maybe because you were watching couples being all loved up. Honestly, you yearned for someone to hold onto at night, but it just wasn't meant to be yet.

"Why so sad, sugar?"

You turned around, surprised to hear his voice, even though you knew he was coming tonight.

"Hongjoong!"

He wrapped his arms around you, lifting you up and giggling along with you.

"Hey there! I missed you!"

"I missed you too! Gosh, I can't parent these kids no more!"

You laughed, but he understood how stressed you must have felt.

"No worries, daddy Hongjoong is back!"

"Joong, I'm glad, but please don't say it like that!"

You grimaced, and your friend only chuckled at your expression. It seemed like Hongjoong suddenly remembered something, because he turned around and waved someone over.

"Y/N, I want you to meet Park Seonghwa, the new friend I was telling you about."

"Hi there."

Goodness gracious. Park Seonghwa had to be the most handsome man on planet earth. His dark hair was cut short, but some of the longer strands fell over his eyes. He was dressed to the nines in something you probably couldn't afford to look at, and his stance was confident.

Almost borderline cocky, if you were being completely honest.

"O-Oh... Hello."

"You must be Y/N, right? Hongjoong has told me a lot about you, but I must say..."

He leaned over, whispering the next sentence in your ear.

"... I get why he calls you sugar, because you look like a real sweet treat."

Ah. There it is. You knew something must be wrong about such a handsome man. Of course he was a fuckboy.

"Yeah, thanks. I'm gonna go now, you two enjoy your night! Joong, come catch-up with us later!"

You blew a kiss to a confused Hongjoong, leaving him with Seonghwa and walking over to the rest of the group. They've settled down at the table in the meantime, and you were glad the chaos was over.

For now at least.

"Major fuckboy alert!"

Mingi gasped.

"Who's competing with me?"

You scoffed, pointing at the arm he had wrapped around Yunho.

"Please, be serious. You haven't left Yunho's side in how long now?"

Mingi pouted, leaning into his boyfriend's side.

"... Five years in August."

"That's right." You nodded, plating yourself beside Jongho.

The younger tapped you on the shoulder to make you look at him.

"What's up?"

You sighed, sipping on your vodka.

"Hongjoong's new friend is to die for, until he opens his mouth."

Jongho pointed his finger, making you follow along.

"You mean that one? They already said hi to us before going to the bar to find you, he was really cool."

"Yeah, maybe to you."

You wanted to continue your rant, but the very man you were gossiping about approached with Hongjoong.

"Finally! Come on people, make room. We're about to get this party started!"

Hongjoong sat opposite you, making the only free seat available the one next to you. Seonghwa planted himself there, throwing his arm around the back of your chair.

"So, what's your story sugar?" He whispered into your ear.

You jerked away from him, surprised he got so close to you. The other thing that surprised you was how nervous you got.

"I don't have a story. And don't call me that, we just met."

Seonghwa looked confused for a second. He wasn't used to the cold shoulder from girls, but he figured you weren't his usual type.

Not that he particularly had one, but being in the fashion industry only lets you meet a certain amount of people. Fake people, only interested in your connections.

However, you were someone real. Someone who wasn't about to give into his charms so easily. Seonghwa was hooked before he realised it.

The night went on like this - you running away and being rude, while a desperate Seonghwa tried to get a smidge of your attention. The other boys found it hilarious, and Seonghwa seemed to fit right into your little group.

The other thing that certainly progressed was your drink intake. Maybe you were frustrated with the fact that you were warming up to the handsome fellow, and you tried to drown it with vodka.

A hefty amount of it, too.

It seemed like everybody was on the same page, because two hours later, Seonghwa was a blushing mess who couldn't stop giggling at Yunho's bad jokes.

The smile on his face brought out a small one of your own. He didn't seem so bad when he was like this. Or was it just your mushy brain convincing you?

It didn't matter anyway, because before you knew it, you were hollered up in a corner, making out with him.

"You finally warmed up to me, huh?"

"Stop talking."

You grabbed his face and brought his lips to yours again, continuing the dance between your teeth, tongue and lips. Seonghwa's hands explored your body, staying respectful despite the fact you were literally pressed up against each other.

"Wanna get out of here?" He asked before putting his lips back onto yours.

"Hell yeah."

The ride to his new place was spent giggling into each other's mouths as you tried to continue kissing, the poor taxi driver having to listen to your antics.

The elevator ride was something else, because you managed to unbuckle his belt while he accidentally ripped one of your dress straps.

It was hot, heavy, and you couldn't wait to take his clothes off.

No time was wasted when your back finally hit his king sized bed. Your hands were all over each other, squeezing and caressing places that made you both moan out in pleasure.

Once he finally entered you, the look on his face changed. Seonghwa was taking it slow, trying to set a good pace because he knew he'd come too soon. You just felt that heavenly around him.

"I like you, Y/N. It's crazy how much, knowing we just met."

You wanted to respond, but his thrusts sped up and you could only sigh while wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders.

"I-I'm close. Harder, Seognhwa, please."

"Yes, yes... Anything you need, sugar."

You hit your climax before you even realised it, Seonghwa following soon after.

He slowly pulled out, laying on his side and wrapping you up in his arms.

"That was..."

"Yeah..." You said, exhausted, but incredibly satisfied.

The night went on like this after you both caught your breath for a moment.

When you were both finally spent, Seognhwa made sure to clean you up before settling back into his bed. For some reason, you couldn't fall asleep even after he drifted off.

So, you sneaked out of his place as the sun went up, feeling guiltier than you should. You only just met him, and he didn't really leave the best first impression, but the spark between you was undeniable.

You had no idea how badly you messed up until the next time he came to a friendly gathering at Hongjoong's place. Seonghwa acted as if nothing happened, and you were devastated.

It was your fault, honestly, but you were still a bit hurt about it. There was no point in ruining the fun for everyone, so you just went along with the situation.

You weren't aware just how much your lives would change in a month's time.

.

.

.

Present day

"Did you use protection?" Jongho asked, holding onto your hand as you sat next to each other on your couch.

"We... I think we did, I don't know? I was too drunk, and besides, I'm on the pill... I thought..."

"Hey, hey, I'm not judging you. I'm just asking, it's a valid question." He tried to calm you down, but it wasn't working. Tears were already falling down your cheeks, and the positive test on the coffee table was starting back at you like it was about to consume you.

"What... What am I going to do now? This is so messed up Jongho." You cried, placing your head into your hands.

"Oh baby... We'll figure something out, okay?"

That's when you heard your doorbell go off. You snapped your head up, looking at Jongho who seemed too calm about everything.

"Don't worry, I know who it is." He stood up, going over to let the person in.

"Y/N?" Hongjoong asked, coming to kneel in front of you. You glanced at Jongho who just shrugged.

"I had to call for back up. I know he can be of better help than me."

"Y/N, is it true?"

You looked at Hongjoong before throwing yourself into his arms. He only sneezed you tight, patting your back as you sobbed.

"Oh sweetie... It's okay, you know that? We'll figure something out."

"B-But Joong... You're going to hate me when I tell you who... You know." You cried, refusing to let go of him.

"Y/N, look at me. Come on, I know already."

You froze, slowly detaching yourself from him. He didn't look mad, or even disappointed. On the contrary, he had a small smile on his face.

"Hwa couldn't keep it to himself, but he made me promise not to tell you. The man has been devastated about fucking up his chance with you."

"He what?" You mumbled, not believing him.

He only nodded and continued.

"Yeah, he really likes you. Why did you run off on him?"

"I... Well... I don't know, okay! We had such an amazing night, and then we did what we did, and I don't know... I got scared."

"At least now you have a good enough reason to talk to him again." Both your and Hongjoong's head snapped towards Jongho, and the poor boy looked frightened.

"Sorry, I told you I'm not good at this."

You laughed, the tears slowly drying up.

"It's okay, thank you. I don't know what I would do if I didn't have you both."

You spent the rest of the evening sandwiched between the two men, considering all of your options.

"I take it you want to keep the baby?" Hongjoong asked while peeling an orange for you. You've told them how sick you've been feeling for the past week, and oranges were the only thing you could stomach easily.

"Yeah... I think I do. I don't know, I've always wanted to have a family, and this baby is here for a reason. I just don't know how I'm going to manage being a single mom."

"A single mom? What about Seonghwa?" Jongho asked, continuing to run his fingers through your hair.

"Oh come one, he's a designer for god sakes. He's traveling all the time, and he's not about to drop all of that to become a dad. Be for real."

"You haven't even talked to him yet, how can you know?"

"Jongho... I can't get my hopes up in any way, so please, let's not talk about this anymore."

Hongjoong stayed silent throughout your debate with Jongho, itching to tell you how wrong you were.

Seonghwa was constantly pestering his friend about you, day and night. He was so into you it hurt, but he wasn't sure how to approach you after the night you shared. The one where you left him without a word, and never mentioned anything again.

"Okay, here's your orange. I'm going to run you a bath, and then we can watch a movie. We'll think of a plan along the way. You're not alone in this, that baby already has seven amazing people out here who will gladly be of help whenever you need."

You looked at Hongjoong, thankful to have such an amazing friend by your side.

"Let's... Let's not tell anyone else before I talk to Seonghwa, okay? I don't want him finding out because Mingi couldn't keep his big mouth shut."

The two men laughed, agreeing it was for the best. The rest of the evening was spent on the couch, in the comforting arms of your two friends as your brain went haywire.

Your life was about to become much more complicated, and you still had to do the toughest thing of them all - Tell Seonghwa.

.

.

"Y/N? Hey there... Where's Hongjoong?"

A confused Seonghwa stood by your table as you gestured for him to sit on the chair opposite you. Your tea was cold, hands wrapped around the mug only there to keep you grounded.

"Hi. Hongjoong won't be joining us today. I have to... I have to talk to you about something, so I asked Joong to call you. I wasn't sure if you'd show up otherwise."

"Oh..." Seognhwa was confused. Why would you all of the sudden want to talk to him? It's been a month since you two shared a wonderful night together, but you made it clear it was just that. One night.

The waitress came and took his order, and you took the chance to rummage through your bag for the little black and white photo. You hid it under the table, waiting for him to settle in.

"So, what's this about? I know we aren't exactly on speaking terms..." He wandered off, his eyes never meeting yours as he spoke.

"Listen, there is no easy way to say this, so I'm just going to... Well..."

You placed the little photo at the center of the table, pushing it slightly towards him.

"This right here is... Our little blip. I know it's yours because I haven't been with anybody for a while, and after our night as well. So... Yeah."

It took a while for him to react. His eyes were still glued on the tiny sonogram photo you took, not even sure where exactly he should be looking.

"You're... You're pregnant?" He whispered, slowly moving his fingers over the edges of the photo.

"I am. I'm sorry, truly. We were kind of... Careless that night. I'm keeping the baby, it's something I want to do, but you won't be obligated to do anything you don't want. I'm fully prepared to tackle this by myself. I just wanted you to know."

He seemed... Angry all of the sudden.

"Obligated? What are you talking about? This is my blip too! I'm not letting you do this by yourself. We'll... Work something out."

You sighed, finally looking straight into his eyes. You couldn't quite decipher his feelings about everything, but there was a strong determination behind his intense gaze.

"Are you sure? Seonghwa, this is something life changing, you know? We don't exactly... Know each other the best. You don't have to decide this instant."

"I am absolutely positive. I won't let you go through this alone. I'm as much responsible as you are, so we're in this together. Besides, this way you won't run off on me, again."

Silence enveloped you after he said that. He was right, you had to give him that. You sighed, giving him a shy smile afterwards.

"I guess you're right."

"How do we... How do we do this? Do we move in together? What should we do?"

You noticed how flustered he suddenly got, probably realizing what you'd have to figure out in the span of nine months.

"Relax, Seonghwa, it's still early to think about that. Besides, I have a room in my apartment that can be transformed into a nursery, and I really don't want to move right now. So, we'll go from there and, I don't know, see how things progress?"

You shrugged, while he only nodded along.

"Okay, fair enough. When's your next appointment? I assume you have weekly or monthly check ups?"

"Oh, you don't have to-"

"I want to. I think I made it clear by now that I really want to be a part of this. So, when is it?"

The way he looked at you suddenly made you blush, but you blamed the hormones for your reaction.

"Next Thursday."

"Great, I'll be there."

The two of you spent another half hour discussing your predicament before you started feeling too tired to speak. Seonghwa noticed your change in mood quickly.

"Want me to take you home?"

"I really want to be polite and decline but I'm too exhausted to do so."

Seonghwa chuckled, gesturing for you to go ahead. You exited the cafe and made your way towards his car. For some reason, he was staring at you intensely while you walked.

Once the two of you settled into his car, you turned towards him.

"Okay, spill. You're being really weird."

"Well..."

He sighed, glancing where your hands laid out on your stomach.

"I... I just can't believe I'm going to be a dad soon. I mean, I've always wanted a family, I just didn't think it would be so soon."

He noticed how you frowned and quickly corrected himself.

"Not that I mind! Don't get me wrong, please. I can't wait to meet our little blip, I just have a bad way with words. And... You make me kind of nervous."

Your eyes widened.

"Me? Make you nervous? Why is that?"

"Well..."

He kept silent after that, building up the courage to finally get his feelings off his chest. Almost a month has passed since your night together, and he tried pretending like it never happened for his own sake.

"Seonghwa? You're kind of leaving me hanging over here." You chuckled, lightly pushing his shoulder to make him snap out of his trance. He shook his head and started the car.

"Listen, I know this is not the moment, but we have to talk about that night. I need to know if... If you felt the same about it as I did."

His eyes were focused on the road, but you could tell it was easier for him not to look at you right now.

"And how would that be?" You asked, subconsciously putting your hands over your stomach.

"I... Something clicked, Y/N. Something in my mind, and my heart, telling me you're the one. Is that crazy? I know it probably sounds like it, but I just... I can't stop thinking about you, sugar."

"Is that why you're so calm about the baby?"

Seognhwa smiled lightly, glancing at how you cuddled into yourself.

"Maybe. I've always wanted to be a dad, and knowing you're going to be the mother of my child... I can't be mad about that. I can only feel... Excited."

"Oh, Seonghwa... We'll make this thing work, I promise." You reached over the console and placed your outstretched palm for him to grasp. He did so without thinking twice, happy to finally clear the air with you.

The rest of the ride went by smoothly, and you were in front of your building before you knew it.

"Here you go guys, you're home." Seonghwa said, looking at your belly before bringing his eyes to yours. You smiled, amused by the way he addressed both of you.

"Thank you, daddy."

His face made you burst out into laughter.

"Oh, lighten up! It's a sweet thing to say!"

Seonghwa shook his head, chuckling along with you.

"You're going to be the death of me. Go rest, our blip needs it."

"Seonghwa..." You said, cautious about the way you should approach him.

"Do you want to come with us? I mean, that's what blip's asking, you know."

He stayed silent for a moment, watching as a rosy hue printed your cheeks. Using your child was definitely a way of avoiding showing your true feelings for now, but he understood you needed more time to open up. However, he was not about to decline such a nice invite.

"You know what? Tell blip I'd love to hang out some more. But..." He stalled, looking into your eyes, the smile on his face mirroring yours. He leaned over, close to your ear. Your cheeks brushed against each other, his lips grazing your ear lightly.

"You can also tell our blip I'd like to spend some time with mommy as well."

Oh yes, this would truly be the most interesting and exciting experience of your life.

You could only be thankful someone like Seonghwa would be a part of it.

.

.

[elysianstarfall]

falling asleep on his shoulder (w/ sakura haruka)

summary: you've been super tired for the past few days... tired enough to accidentally pass out on your boyfriend's shoulder. oops!

sakura notices something's strange when your words start blending together and your speech slows considerably.

"'n' then... then... i was like..." you slowly blink as your eyes fall to the ground in front of you. your brain feels like it's fighting to keep working, and it's losing, bad. "...i forgot."

you asked sakura to meet you in the park, where you're now sharing a bench, because you were having trouble sleeping, but now you feel exhaustion slowly start to creep in. it's been rough for the past few days, with schoolwork and everything else you have to deal with making it difficult to get enough shut-eye to continue functioning.

sakura shrugs, muttering a "s'okay. whatever." he's not fooling anyone, though, with the way he was hanging onto every one of your words like they were the threads keeping him together. he hasn't realized it yet, but it's a typical thing he does—giving you his full attention the second you open your mouth, acting like everyone else in the world has disappeared, looking at you like he's never seen a being so incredible. it usually flusters you, which you consider payback for making him blush every time you so much as slightly brush against his fingers, but right now, your mind can focus on nothing but trying to stay awake.

and... it's failed at that, too.

"h-hey, not funny!"

your shoulders slump as your body lurches forward and you almost fall off the bench, but sakura grabs your waist just in time. as your eyes fly open, you're met with the sight of your boyfriend's signature scarlet cheeks and avoidant mismatched eyes.

sakura immediately lets go of you as excuses start pouring out of his mouth. "ugh, i wasn't trying to—to hold you there, i just didn't want you to fall on your face, obviously! s-stop looking at me like that... no joke, i'll—i'll beat you up..."

unfazed, you manage a sleepy nod and a quiet "thanks," before you slip back into unconsciousness, though this time you land on sakura's shoulder. he stiffens, considering pushing you off, but your peaceful (and okay, kind of cute) face immediately shuts that thought down.

"you... you're so annoying," sakura whispers, a vibrant pink dusting the tips of his ears. "i'm only letting you do this 'cause it's the safest way, okay?" naturally, his words are moreso directed at himself, a feeble attempt to justify allowing such a thing to happen. at the very least, no one's around, so he's spared the embarrassment of his worst enemy, pda. it's not that sakura minds you touching him—he can get so clingy when you're alone, but other people seeing his softer side sends him into a total panic.

right now, in truth, he'd have it no other way. sakura's listened to you talk about the steadily decreasing amount of sleep you've been getting, and if it takes coming to see you every night at such an hour to get you some rest, sakura would gladly start living in the park if he could.

there's just one burning problem.

sakura's face is totally on fire. his blushing habit is already very noticeable, but right now, he can feel heat radiating off of him. this might be even worse than when you kissed him for the first time. maybe it's the proximity, the intimacy of the moment, exacerbated by the way you mumble his name—wait, you're mumbling his name in your sleep?

it might be nighttime, but a certain boy's face might as well be a second sun.

[wendyyyyyyyy]

“Only Mine”

Pairing : Lee Know x fem! reader (established relationship)

Synopsis : Minho promised to pick you up for a glamorous fundraiser, only that he sent you a driver instead. While waiting for him there, a charming gentleman approached you, and just when you started getting a little too comfortable, Minho appeared. He made sure to play nice in public—but once the car doors closed, the mask dropped.

Warning : Possessive dom Minho, Suggestive words, Playful remarks and Profanity.

Enjoy!

_______

You stood beneath the shimmering chandelier, elegance wrapped around your frame like a second skin. The dress hugged every curve of your body, teasing with its slit and plunging neckline—but it wasn’t for anyone. It was for him.

Minho had promised he’d pick you up, even if he had to drag himself out of a schedule to do it. But when the sleek black car arrived without him, just a driver with a polite nod and a message—“I’ll meet you there, kitten. I promise.”—you bit your lip and swallowed the sigh. He was busy. You knew that. Still, it stung.

Now here you were, alone at the fundraiser. Mingling. Smiling. Playing the perfect picture of poise while scanning the crowd for that one smug face you wanted to strangle and kiss.

But Minho was still nowhere to be seen.

Then came a certain high-class gentleman.

Perfectly dressed. Impeccable manners. His smile warm, his eyes soft. He offered you a drink, complimented your dress, asked about your interests like he actually wanted to know them. He wasn’t like Lee Know. He didn’t tease, didn’t flirt with that wicked glint in his eye. He was kind. Charming. Safe.

And may be that’s why you let your guard down a little. You laughed. You leaned in. You forgot—just for a moment—that your boyfriend had claws.

Until a hand slid firmly around your waist, pulling you back into a chest you knew too well.

“What are you talking about… with my girlfriend?”

His voice was low. Dangerous. Lee Know stood beside you, his jaw tight, eyes narrowed at the stranger like he’d already mentally buried him six feet under. That jaw could cut marble. That suit? Black. Fitted. Expensive. And the look in his eyes?

Pure, unfiltered territorial rage.

The gentleman stammered something about business and gracefully excused himself—smart man.

Minho didn’t say anything at first. He just dragged you by the waist into a quieter, dimly lit corner, his fingers gripping you like he thought you’d disappear. You were about to speak, maybe ask why he was so damn late, but then—he shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around your waist.

“Your dress,” he muttered, tightening the jacket. “Looks fucking incredible. But not for them. That’s for me, Y/N. You’re for me.”

You scoffed, still pissed. “Oh, now you care about who sees me? You didn’t seem too bothered when you sent a driver instead of coming yourself.”

Big. Mistake.

Minho’s eyes flicked up to yours slowly, like a predator who’d just spotted his prey trying to run.

He leaned in, so close his breath kissed your skin. “You’ve got a mouth on you tonight, kitten. Brave. Talking to other men behind my back?” He tilted his head. “Are you trying to make me lose it?”

You held his gaze, refusing to back down. “Maybe if you showed up on time, I wouldn’t need to keep myself entertained.”

Oh yeah. Huge mistake.

The rest of the night? He played it cool. Hand on your back. Smile sharp and practiced. Whispering little things in your ear that only made your thighs press together. But the tension? Unbearable.

It wasn’t until the fundraiser ended and you were in the backseat of the car that the storm truly broke.

He shut the door behind him, and silence hung thick in the air—until he turned to you, eyes dark, lips curling into something dangerously close to a snarl.

“You looked too fucking good tonight,” he said, voice low. “And every single man there knew it. They were eye-fucking you like they didn’t know whose girl you were.”

You swallowed hard, pulse racing.

“Don’t they know you’re mine, Y/N?”

He reached over, gripping your jaw—not harshly, but firmly, like he wanted your full attention. Like he owned it.

“I’m going to remind you tonight,” he said, gaze locked to yours. “Remind you who you belong to. And by morning? The only name you’ll remember is mine.”

Your breath hitched. He leaned closer, lips brushing your ear.

“You think I didn’t notice how comfortable you were with him?” A soft, dark chuckle. “Don’t worry. I’ll fix that.”

He pulled back, eyes lingering on your mouth like he was already imagining how he’d kiss the attitude out of you.

And God… you knew you were in trouble.

The kind you didn’t want to escape from.

[akira-dulbar]

The life you left behind

5/3: Building a New Beginning

Part1 Part2 Part3 Part4

Okay, this story was supposed to be in three parts, and now we're on to part five. What happened? Anyway.

Summary: You received a letter from Bruce Wayne himself. Apparently, he barely read your letters.

I don't think there's any warning. But I want to clarify something: I've never read Little Women. I prefer other types of books. So, why did I choose Little Women? Easy. I read a theory somewhere that Jason's favorite book would be Little Women, and I liked the idea, that's all.

Sorry for the translation errors, please let me know if there is anything.

-------

Jason had no idea how to talk to you. It wasn't like he could just stand on your doorstep and tell you everything. You'd be scared, too scared to be specific.

Then he thought of a more concrete idea: Bruce could send you a letter saying he was sorry for not responding sooner and if they could meet up to talk. It's perfect, right?

Nothing can go wrong.

-------

Everything was going wrong for you.

Let's take a few steps back. First, a project you'd finished ended up with errors you had to correct since the deadline was in a few minutes. Then, you were late picking up Peter. Then, you forgot the damn shopping for tomorrow.

That's why, when you finally got home with Peter and a pile of groceries in hand, all you could think about was dinner, then maybe a movie and then heading off to dreamland.

But you were pleasantly surprised to find a letter on your doorstep from Bruce Wayne himself, complete with his seal and everything. Very traditional, if you ask me.

You were panicking about the letter's contents. You'd never spoken to him before and had no idea what he'd say, so you thought it was a bad joke. That's why, when you searched the internet for the Wayne family seal, you almost cried when you saw the same seal on the letter. In any case, what he wanted from you was disconcerting.

You've never spoken, nor have you seen each other. Well, you've seen him, but he hasn't seen you, so it didn't make sense, especially a letter. Why not an email? An email was better than a letter, but you have to say a letter can work too…

Wait…

letter…

You looked over at the kitchen counter to see Peter watching a cartoon while waiting for dinner.

Oh…

Right, the letter…

The letter you sent him to talk about Peter…

"You've got to be joking…" you couldn't help but think as you looked sadly at Peter, then at the letter. You could feel your stomach churning and the sweat on your forehead, your hands slightly warming as you clutched the letter.

But what could you possibly think? At this point, he's answering you? After what? Six years? Please, this was frustrating, and all for what? To take Peter away? To see if what you were saying was true? What was he thinking?

"Mom…" You came out of your inner panic when you looked at Peter in the kitchen doorway. His blue eyes, just like his father's, stared at you. Sometimes you couldn't help but remember Jason in him, with his hair, eyes, and facial shape. It was hard not to see the resemblance, and sometimes, just sometimes, it hurt.

"What's wrong, honey?" You placed the letter on the counter as you knelt down to your son's level, then grabbed his torso and lifted him up with you.

"I'm already bored… read me a story," you snorted, typical, you thought with amusement. Just like Jason and his love of reading, that boy hadn't gotten anything from you. You couldn't help but think about your time at school when Jason was always bored with something or wasn't interested in something, always going off and reading a book. You remembered how sometimes you didn't like to read, that's why he would sometimes read to you while you sat by his side listening. It was only in those moments that you found an incomparable peace, how you had loved that boy.

"What would you like me to read to you?" You watched as your son frowned in concentration while you thought, really, why did he get everything from Jason and nothing from you? It was unfair.

"Daddy's book, Little Women."

"That'll be it, then." You carried Peter to the living room bookshelf to pick out a slightly worn book, obviously because you'd taken good care of it. You sat down with Peter on the couch to start reading.

-----------

You sat up in bed with the letter in your hand. You'd already put Peter to bed, and even though you were already very tired, you knew you couldn't ignore the letter, not when it could change everything in a minute.

Just looking at the letter made you feel like you'd aged about three years. Not even Peter tired you that much. You sighed as you opened the letter and began to read.

"Dear [your name],

I don't know where to start. I just discovered a letter you wrote me six years ago, and my world has turned upside down. I had no idea my son had become a father. I'm overwhelmed by a mix of emotions: surprise, sadness, guilt, and, most of all, curiosity.

I want to know more about my grandson. How is he? How has he grown? What has his life been like these past six years? It hurts to think that I haven't been able to be there for him, that I haven't been able to get to know him, hug him, watch him grow. I want to know more about you, too. How have you been? How have you handled all of this alone? I imagine it must have been very difficult for you, and I'm sorry I wasn't there to support you.

I want to meet my grandson. I want to know if he looks like his father, if he has his eyes, his smile. I want to know if he has inherited his passion, his energy. I want to be there for him, to support him, to guide him, to love him. I want to talk to you; I want to know more about all of this. I want to know if We can find a way to stay in touch, to share information about my grandson. I want to know if I can do anything to make up for lost time.

Please reply. I'm eager to learn more about my grandson and about you.

Sincerely, Bruce Wayne

Well, at least he didn't insult you or insinuate anything bad. You let out a sigh you didn't know you were holding. You felt a little lighter reading the letter, but more anxious about what would come next.

You noticed that below Bruce's name was a number. You imagined it was for communication, and all you could think was that to send him the first text, you'd have to suffer two nervous breakdowns.

(A sleepless night awaits me), you thought bitterly about the long night that would follow.

----------

Bruce was eagerly awaiting a message from you, and he wasn't the only one. His family too, especially Jason, who had been dying for a while. But even so, they couldn't get this far ahead of themselves. A message from you wouldn't arrive for a few days. Even if they sent the letter early, that wouldn't mean you'd respond right away; it would take a while.

(I hope you're at least better than we are,) Bruce thought, four days after the letter, while Jason sat on the couch looking at Bruce's cell phone to see if he had received a message.

(Spoiler: You're not.)

They were eating dinner in the dining room, and although Alfred didn't allow cell phones at the table, he knew full well that this time it was best to make an exception so as not to make the atmosphere any more tense than it already was.

Even so, there was a funereal silence; only the sound of forks and plates touching could be heard; it was exhausting. … ..

Tik Tik

Bruce wasn't surprised when he saw Jason jump onto the table to grab the cell phone next to him. He was Batman, for God's sake. In any case, he grabbed the phone faster than Jason did, so he wouldn't end up damaging it, which caused Jason to continue forward, shoving Tim into his side.

Their weight knocked the chair off balance and they both fell to the floor, making a terrible noise.

"Master Jason!"

"Jason, damn it!" Tim grabbed the back of his head while, with his other hand, he tried to push Jason, who was on top of him.

"What's she saying, what's she saying?!" Dick approached Bruce to check the notification on his phone.

"Grayson, we don't even know if it's her." Damian remained in his chair, not moving an inch. In fact, he seemed more amused by his brothers' fall than by the message.

"It's her." Bruce skims over the text you sent before being snatched away by his second son.

Jason begins to read the message.

"Jason, don't read it to yourself." Dick snatches the phone from his brother as he begins to read the message aloud.

"Hi, I don't even know what to say… I was so surprised to receive your letter after so long. I'm glad you want to meet your grandson, but I'm a little nervous. He's an amazing boy, so much like his father. He has his eyes and his smile.

I've been through all this alone, and it's been hard. I don't know what to expect now that you know the truth. I'd like to meet you, but I'm not sure I'm ready. Do you want to meet soon?

[Your name]"

----------

You didn't think much when you sent the message; it just came out as you thought. The only thing you omitted were the insults. You didn't have to start off on the wrong foot in this new relationship with you… Father-in-law? Your son's grandfather? You don't know the best definition.

They were at work, you had taken your break as a good opportunity to send a message, although a weekend would have been better. You decided you had to send a message four days after the letter; you didn't want him to see you as a bad woman.

.

..

Tik Tik

You were a little surprised when you immediately received a message from Bruce.

You were getting a little nervous, since even though you had sent him a message, you thought he'd be busy doing who knows what being the CEO of his company. Honestly, does he at least have free time, or is it just his secretary answering you? You didn't want to know.

You read the message quickly. It mentioned when a meeting would be convenient for you, that he was happy to have you contact him, etc., which seemed very normal to you, both formal and very professional. Where did this man get such elegance?

In any case, you quickly decided that the place should be private. You didn't want the news to talk about a meeting between the infamous Bruce Wayne and a woman who could easily be mistaken for his daughter, but since she was the mother of his grandson, for God's sake.

You decided it could be his office or something like that, that way there would be privacy and more comfort.

You quickly wrote a message and sent it to him. Then you thought about what you would wear to Peter's meeting. You thought it was best to bring him and have him play for a moment while you talked to Bruce about Peter, at the same time showing it to him as proof of your honesty.

"God, I don't want another sleepless night," you thought to yourself, imagining the night you would have because of the nervousness.

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

You wanted to run away when you arrived at the Wayne Company offices. Even though there was no turning back, you still had the faith to run, right?

"Mom…" You lowered your head to look at Peter, who was holding your hand. His blue eyes looked back at you with that innocent look that characterized a 6-year-old boy.

"No…"

You couldn't run away. Peter deserved to meet someone from his paternal side of the family. Although he already knew your parents, he didn't know anyone on his father's side. What kind of mother would I be if I didn't let him meet his paternal grandfather?

You sighed as you looked back at the building's doors and started walking toward the building, pulling Peter with you.

You entered the building and continued walking to the reception desk.

"Um… Hi, I'm looking for Mr. Wayne." The receptionist looked at you for a minute, as if judging you, then started typing on the computer.

It wasn't the first time someone had judged you with their eyes. Many judged you for having a child so young, others because you weren't married, or others because they simply didn't have anything better to do, but even if it didn't mean it wouldn't hurt.

"Do you have an appointment? If so, please tell me your name." You gave her a forced smile as you told her your first and last name. Then the receptionist went back to typing on the computer for a few minutes, then turned to look at you.

"Top floor, and at the end of the hall in Mr. Wayne's office."

"Great, thanks," you said as you dragged Peter away from the reception desk to take an elevator that was near a column. You could feel the receptionist's gaze on the back of your neck, and it was becoming more uncomfortable.

As you arrived in the elevator and were about to touch the up button, a hand appeared in your peripheral vision and touched the first vote.

"Oh, thanks…" Your gratitude died when you looked up to find Tim Drake-Wayne, also known as Mr. Wayne's third adopted son, who was your son's grandfather, and therefore your son's uncle.

"Hello?" Tim looked at you while you looked like you were rebooting your system.

"Oh!…Yeah, haha, hello." You smiled nervously as you looked at him and thought about all your life-giving experiences.

"HELLO!" Peter shouted, cheerfully waving at the other boy.

"Hey, buddy, what's your name?"

"Peter! And you?" Peter leaned closer to Tim but didn't let go of your hand.

"Timothy, but everyone calls me Tim-"

"And why does he call you that? And why do you have such big dark circles under your eyes? Are you a raccoon? A zombie, maybe? What are you doing here? Do you have a meeting too?" Peter, like any 6-year-old, started his barrage of questions. Before Tim could answer, another question was thrown out, leaving him speechless.

"Peter…" You were interrupted by the sound of the elevator reaching the first floor and opening its doors.

Finally… you thought to yourself…

That was before you saw Dick Grayson step out of the elevator doors. "Don't mess with me, Fate," you thought pitifully.

"Tim, there you are!" Dick approached Tim to put his arm around his shoulders.

"I've been looking for you everywhere, oh?" Dick stopped talking to look at you and Peter.

You stopped breathing completely…

"And who is this little one?" Dick knelt down next to Peter as he shook his hand.

"I'm Peter, and my mom!" Peter shook his hand as he also pulled yours.

"Well, hello Peter and your mom," Dick smiled as he stood up and looked at you.

"Hello…" You didn't say anything else.

"Okay, Tim, we're going. We have to have lunch. Bye, have a good afternoon," he said as he walked away with Tim behind him.

You entered the elevator with Peter and let out a sigh. You hoped he wouldn't notice Peter's resemblance to Jason.

The doors closed as you watched them leave.

---------

"She seemed very nervous, didn't she?" Dick turned toward the elevator as it was already going up.

"Yeah, he looked like he'd seen a ghost. Maybe it wasn't a good idea coming to see them. He looked like he was going to faint."

"Yeah, it's our fault, but you saw him, right? He looked like Jason!"

"Yeah, when I first saw him from the photos Damián showed me, I was really surprised, but it's nothing compared to real life, right?"

"Yeah, right! A miniature mini Jason. Does he like reading books?"

"When I had to get DNA for the test, I saw a bunch of books in his room, so yeah, but I can't ask him today which one would be his favorite. He asked me so many questions I couldn't answer."

"It's normal. At that age, they're more curious about the world."

"I guess. Anyway, let's go to lunch. I want an espresso."

"Haven't you had 4 yet?"

"Does it matter?"

"Tim…"

-----------

You were in Bruce's office, as he'd asked you to call him. Peter was playing with Bruce while you sat in one of his chairs in his office, watching them play.

At first, the meeting started nervously, with awkward silence, etc., but thankfully, it calmed down and everything got better. They introduced themselves, talked for a moment, explained a few things to Peter about who the man was, and now they were playing, while Peter also asked him about his father.

Yeah… this might have been the best idea…

Then a man came in and called Bruce for a moment.

Bruce looked at him and nodded at the man, then looked at you, which left you confused.

"I'd like to talk to you for a moment about some things." You immediately understood where the conversation was going.

"Sure, I understand."

"If you allow Peter to go with my employee and you and I talk."

That left a bit of a bad taste in your mouth, but you understood that they couldn't discuss those topics in front of Peter, so you nodded.

Bruce guided Peter to the employee, who said something to Peter and offered his hand.

Peter hesitated and turned to look at you.

"It's okay, honey, it's okay. I'll be here if you need anything," you said encouragingly.

Then the door closed, and Mr. Bruce sat down across from you.

"How have you been?" Well, you guess he wants to set the mood for a more serious conversation first, so that's fine.

You talked about the past and present, how things were going at work, your parents, among other things. Suddenly, Bruce stops and looks at you with a serious, grave expression.

"There's something you should know," he says, his voice low and full of suppressed emotion.

You grow intrigued, your heart beating faster.

Okay, here we go, you thought, the conversation you've been waiting for.

Bruce takes a deep breath before speaking, as if working up the courage to say something he's been holding back for a long time.

"My son, Jason, didn't die that day," he says, his voice trembling slightly. "He's alive."

…

…

what?…

You gape, unable to believe what you're hearing. It feels like the floor has opened beneath your feet and you're falling into a bottomless abyss.

"How…?" you asked, your voice shaking.

Just as you were still trying to process Bruce's revelation, the doors open and a man enters the room.

You didn't have to be a fortune teller to know who he was, not when you always saw that face on your son's face, not when you kept a photo of him with you from your school years, not when you cried while pregnant with him and had no idea what to do, not when you kept reading the note he left in his book, not when…

no…

when…

not when you still couldn't forget him…

The man approaches you with a nervous smile and stops in front of you.

"Hi," he says, his voice soft, "it's me, Jason."

He doesn't look like Jason, you thought as you stared at him as if he were a ghost, not your Jason.

The Jason you remember and the one in the photo are thinner, not as muscular as an elephant. He had blue eyes, not blue-green, and he had all black hair, not a white streak.

What happened to him? What happened? You don't understand, you don't comprehend, you feel like you're not breathing properly.

"Why… Why?" is all you manage to say. You don't understand, you don't understand.

You feel overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. You're angry, sad, confused, and scared all at the same time. You don't know how to react to the presence of the man you've thought was dead for so long.

Bruce quickly explains that it was all a cover-up, that Jason had to disappear for safety reasons, and that he'd been protecting him this whole time. You feel like you've been struck by lightning, unable to process the information, you can barely process the conversation, you even feel like you're not fully listening, you even feel like he's saying the words as if they were a rehearsal, as if he's practiced them, but all you're doing is staring at the man who called himself Jason.

"Why?" you ask, tears in your eyes. "Why didn't you tell me the truth?"

Jason approached you, but you moved away, not wanting to listen to his explanations.

"I… I didn't know," he said slowly, as if he were talking to an animal, which you weren't.

"No… you didn't know?" You looked at Jason wildly. He didn't know. All the letters, the emails, the pleas for help you sent to the mansion were what? A joke? He thought those things were a joke? Desperate? What did he think?

"YOU DIDN'T KNOW?" You couldn't help but scream. You felt foolish, stupid, hurt, angry, you didn't feel well.

"I'm going to throw up," you spoke without thinking, which alerted Jason and Bruce, who quickly found a bucket for you.

But even when Jason approaches you with the bucket, you back away. You didn't want him around, you felt disgusted, but you'd rather throw up on the carpet of who knows how many millions than be near him.

Jason looked hurt when you walked away, but you didn't care, not when he didn't care what you did to him.

God, you were crying, you thought as you felt the tears running down your cheeks.

Suddenly, Peter enters the room, curious about the commotion.

"Mom?" Peter asks, his voice innocent. "What's wrong?"

You feel a lump in your throat when you see your son, who doesn't know his father is alive, standing in front of you, looking at him.

You walk quickly over to him, bend down, and hug him tightly, trying to protect him from the truth.

"Nothing, my love," you say, rubbing his back, tears in your eyes. "Let's go home."

You stand up and take your son's hand, not looking at Jason, whom you've thought was dead for so long.

"Wait," Jason says, but is quickly interrupted by Bruce, who places his hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Bruce says, his voice soft. "Maybe we should talk later."

You don't even answer him; without a word, you walk away with your son, leaving the shock and uncertainty behind.

"What's wrong, Mom?" Peter asks as they walk toward the elevator.

You don't know what to say to him. You don't know how to explain the truth, how to feel, what to say, nothing. You were blank.

But you only knew one thing…

You only knew that your life has changed forever.

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

end, goodbye

@mev-fizzah-writes @1abi @kkocho @winterelfqueen @yl90 @salvatt1 Thanks for reading. I don't know much English.

I'm tired

[ijustwannabecool]

The Wrong Letter

Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Summary... A letter never meant to be read by Lewis Hamilton finds its way into his hands. What starts as a simple reply turns into an unlikely bond—one filled with letters, honesty, heartbreak, and healing. In a world where the wrong address led to the right person, what happens when pen meets paper, and two broken hearts begin to write a new ending?

Trigger Warnings: emotional manipulation, mental/emotional abuse (past), themes of abandonment and healing, language, grief, vulnerability, slow-burn romance, miscommunication A/N: I hope you enjoy it! I wrote it with lots of love for you guys. Enjoy it. Feedback is always welcome! Comment, repost, and like. Have a beautiful day!

THE WRONG LETTER

The Letter That Wasn’t Supposed to Be Sent

⸻

The flat is still.

There’s no dramatic thunderstorm, no flickering lights. Just the hush of twilight seeping through the windows and the low hum of your record player crackling out some melancholy tune you can’t remember the name of. You’re not sad, not really. Just tired.

Exhaustion lives in your bones now.

Not the kind sleep fixes, but the kind that hangs around long after someone has convinced you you’re too much and somehow not enough all at once.

You’re in your favorite hoodie—the soft, oversized one that smells faintly of lavender and school paint—and you’re sitting on the floor with a pen in your hand and a letter you’re not supposed to be writing.

It started as a thought. Then a sentence. Now it’s three pages in and your hand won’t stop moving.

You didn’t plan this. You were cleaning out the drawer next to your bed, the one filled with tangled chargers and expired coupons and that old blue stationery you forgot you even owned. Something about the blank page pulled at you. Like a dare.

You told yourself it was just a writing exercise. Closure. Nothing more. But now the ink is dry on your fingers, and the page in front of you reads like a confession.

⸻

Dear You, I don’t know what I’m hoping to get out of this. It’s not like you’ll ever read it. Which is probably for the best.

You don’t deserve this version of me—the one that stayed soft, even after you tried to strip her down to splinters. You were always good with words. Always knew how to rearrange a sentence so it sounded like care instead of control. Love instead of leverage.

I used to think your silences were deep. Now I know they were empty.

Still, part of me misses you. Or maybe I miss who I thought you were. The you I built in my head. The one who laughed when I danced barefoot in the kitchen and kissed my shoulder when I fell asleep during movies.

But that version of you never existed, did he?

No, the real you gave compliments like currency. Affection in measured doses. Love as a prize to be earned. And I tried. God, I tried.

I folded myself smaller. Smiled quieter. Disappeared gently. And still—you left.

So I guess this is me saying goodbye to a ghost. I’m letting go of you. Of the echo of you. Of the space you used to take up in my head. You won’t read this. But I need to say it anyway. I’m done writing stories where you’re the hero. — Me

⸻

You fold the letter carefully. You don’t know why. You could rip it up. Burn it. Drop it in the bin. But instead, you slide it into the envelope and write out the name almost instinctively.

M. Hamilton

312 Grafton Way London NW1

You stare at it. You don't even know if he still lives there. Then you frown. No—wait.

You flip the envelope back over. You wrote it wrong.

It says:

L. Hamilton

213 Grafton Lane London NW1

You groan. “Of course,” you mutter. “Because nothing in this chapter can be simple.” You set the letter aside, swearing you won’t send it.

But the next morning, in a fog of Monday autopilot, you grab a handful of outgoing post—bills, a birthday card, and the letter—and drop them all in the red postbox outside your building.

It’s only as the flap closes behind them that your stomach sinks. “Shit.”

⸻

A Week Later — Monaco

He notices the envelope right away.

It’s the only one without a stamp, as if someone hand-delivered it, even though it came through the normal post. It’s pale blue and slightly wrinkled. The handwriting is neat, but unsure—like someone who learned to write letters in a hurry and never stopped.

L. Hamilton

He sighs.

Another fan letter, maybe. Or someone asking for money. Or advice. Or a favor he can’t give.

Still, something about it makes him pause.

He’s been restless lately.

Ferrari is new, and so far, it feels like trying to start over in a language he only half understands. Everyone wants a piece of him. A statement. A smile. A legacy.

And all he wants—quietly, stubbornly—is something real. So he opens the envelope. And reads. Once.

Then twice.

Then again—slower.

By the third read, he’s no longer just reading. He’s feeling.

The words dig beneath his ribs.

It’s not meant for him. Obviously. He’s never said any of these things to anyone. And yet—he recognizes the ache in every line.

The loneliness. The exhaustion. The delicate way she holds her own pain like it might spill if she’s not careful.

He stares at the letter for a long time. Then he folds it neatly and places it on the table.

He makes a cup of tea. Takes a shower. Paces the room. Plays part of a jazz album he’s never finished.

And still—he’s thinking about her. The woman who wrote to the wrong Hamilton. And made him feel more seen than anyone had in months.

⸻

He stares at the letter again the next morning.

He’d left it on the edge of his desk, tucked just under a book he hadn’t had the attention span to read. He told himself he wasn’t going to pick it up again.

But he did.

Twice.

And now—again.

He rereads the opening line: “I don’t know what I’m hoping to get out of this.”

Same.

Lewis exhales sharply and runs a hand down his face. He’s still in his sweats, hair barely tied back, a mug of lukewarm coffee in one hand.

The world outside his window is bright and red and fast. But in here, it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

He doesn’t remember the last time someone told him something real without asking for something in return.

And this stranger—this accidental letter writer—didn’t even mean to.

She gave him honesty on accident. Gave him something that wasn’t for him, but somehow still fit him like a second skin.

She’d sent a goodbye, but it felt like a beginning. He hated how much he wanted to know more.

Was she okay now? Did she still make tea and leave the light on? Did she feel better after writing that letter, or worse?

He folds it again. Then pulls a fresh page from the drawer. Stares at it. Pen hovering. Waits. Then, finally, slowly, begins to write.

Dear Me, I read your letter three times before I let myself breathe.

It wasn’t meant for me—I know that. You probably wanted it to disappear. Or maybe just exist long enough to stop hurting. Either way, it landed here. With me.

And I don’t know what to do with that, except... write back.

I’ve been trying to remember the last time someone told me the truth without dressing it up first. Without asking for anything. Without spinning it for their own satisfaction.

You didn’t do that.

You just wrote.

And in doing that, you made me feel a little less like I’m walking through the world alone.

I won’t pretend I know your story, not really. But I know what it’s like to question yourself so deeply that you start to think your own reflection might be lying.

If you don’t mind—if it’s not too strange—I’d like to keep writing.

Not to fix you. Not to fix me. Just... to talk. I’ll go by L.

If you write back, I’ll know it’s okay. If not—I’ll still be grateful I got to read the first letter.

—L

He folds it carefully, slips it into a fresh white envelope, and handwrites the return address on the back.

Just an initial.

Nothing else.

No fame. No clues.

Just words.

He hesitates before sealing it.

He could throw it away.

He probably should.

But instead, he walks down to the private courier drop he trusts more than the usual post and hands it off without saying a word.

The next day, he checks his mailbox five times. Even though he knows better.

⸻

Back in London – Three Days Later

You find it wedged between an ASOS return and a flyer for a takeaway you swear you’ve blocked a hundred times.

It’s stark white. No stamp. No sender. No clue. Except the handwriting. Your heart skips. You open it slowly. Hands shaking. Breath caught. And when you finish reading, you sit on the floor in your hallway and cry.

Not because you’re sad. But because, for the first time in a long time, someone didn’t try to fix you. They just stayed.

You write back that night. Just one line:

Dear L, I don’t know what this is either, but I think I’d like to find out.

⸻

It becomes a ritual.

You come home from school, kick off your shoes, toss your keys in the bowl by the door—and check the mail.

Every day. Like a teenager with a crush and a fountain pen addiction. Most days there’s nothing. But some days— There’s him.

⸻

Letter #2

Dear L,

I didn’t expect a response. Honestly, I expected the letter to get lost, or burned, or laughed at over brunch. I didn’t think it would matter.

And yet... here we are. I’m not great at this kind of thing. Feelings. Trust. Vulnerability. Capital-L Letters. But there’s something about your reply that didn’t scare me. Maybe it’s because you didn’t try to solve anything.

You just witnessed. And maybe that’s what I’ve needed all along.

Tell me something unimportant. Tell me what you had for breakfast or the last thing that made you laugh. Tell me what your voice sounds like when you’re tired.

I think I’d like to know. — Me P.S. You said you go by L. Can I go by Y/I? Seems fair.

⸻

Letter #3

Dear Y/I, Okay. Something unimportant:

I had granola with almond milk this morning. Mostly because it was the only thing left in the fridge and I was too lazy to do a shop.

I forgot how much I hate almond milk.

As for laughing—yesterday I walked into a glass door while texting. My assistant pretended not to see it but I know he did.

My tired voice? It’s apparently lower than usual. Scratchy. My mum says I sound like a hungover jazz singer.

(...That’s probably too much information.)

This is already more personal than 90% of the interviews I’ve done in the last year.

And I think that says something.

Still writing, —L

P.S. Yes. Y/I fits you.

⸻

It keeps going.

Little things. Honest things. You start opening up without realizing you’re doing it.

You tell him about your favorite mug—the chipped one with a sunflower on the side. About the boy in your class who named his left shoe Kevin and insists it has a twin named Steve. About your best friend who makes you playlists with titles like “Songs to Emotionally Shatter You During Grocery Shopping.”

You don’t tell him about Marcus yet. But it’s there. Between the lines. In the way you talk about softness like it’s borrowed, not owned.

He picks up on it. Of course he does.

⸻

Letter #5

Dear Y/I,

I think we forget how brave softness is.

Everyone wants to be strong. Loud. Unbothered. But you—

You write like someone who’s still learning to trust her own voice, and I think that’s the bravest kind of loud there is.

Today I went for a run at sunrise. Not because I wanted to, but because I couldn’t sleep. Something about the silence felt heavy. Then the sun cracked through the sky like it was begging to be noticed. I thought of your letter. The one where you said mornings make you feel both holy and hollow. I took a picture. It’s nothing special. But I wanted you to see what I saw when I thought of you. —L

(Polaroid attached: A sunrise over a quiet bay, light spilling gold over rooftops. In the corner of the frame, a coffee cup and one bare foot.)

You hold the photo to your chest like it might disappear.

You don’t know what this is.

But you know it’s becoming something you need.

You write back the same night.

⸻

Letter #6

Dear L,

It feels strange, how much I look forward to your letters. Like I’m building a home inside a mailbox.

I’ve started writing you in my head when things happen—like today, when one of the kids sneezed so hard he fell off his chair. Or when I saw a pigeon aggressively fighting a croissant on my lunch break.

I wanted to tell you.

And I don’t even know your face.

But I know your mind. Your voice. Your stillness.

So I’m sending you something too.

It’s small. But it made me think of you.

— Y/I

(Polaroid attached: A blurry photo of her windowsill at night, soft fairy lights glowing, a cup of tea, and a stack of letters—his letters—tied with ribbon.)

⸻

And just like that, the distance between you starts to shrink. Not in miles. But in silence.

You tell him about Marcus in your next letter. Not the full story. Not yet. But enough.

Enough for Lewis to fold the page twice before reading it again, slower. Like her words might bleed if he moved too fast.

⸻

Letter #12

Dear L,

I thought about deleting this letter.

I still might.

But if I don’t tell you this now, I never will.

There was someone.

He made me feel like love was a job interview. Like I had to be the right combination of soft and sexy and small in order to be kept.

He didn’t hit me. He didn’t scream.

But he rewrote the world in a way that only made sense when he was in it. And when he left, I realized I hadn’t heard my own voice in months. I’m still trying to find it again. Sometimes I think I only speak in whispers now.

But you hear me. Thank you for that. — Y/I

He sits with the letter for a long time. Long enough for the sky outside his window to shift from gold to gray.

He traces the edge of the paper. Imagines her, somewhere miles away, hunched over a desk or a kitchen table, writing these words. Brave and trembling.

He wants to say everything. Wants to fix it.

But knows he can’t. So instead—he writes her back.

⸻

Letter #13

Dear Y/I,

I don’t know if this will help, but...

You don’t speak in whispers anymore.

Not to me.

Your letters fill the room when I open them. Your voice has a weight I can feel in my chest. It lingers.

And I know we said this is just letters. Just words.

But when you trust someone with your story—even a part of it— That’s not nothing.

You’re not nothing.

I hope you never forget that

—L

And from that point forward— The letters change. They become a place to land.

Sometimes soft.

Sometimes raw.

Always honest.

⸻

Letter #15

Dear L,

I can’t believe how much I look forward to this. To you.

To the moment I get to peel open an envelope and see your words.

You’ve started to live in the in-between spaces of my day.

Between class sessions. In the quiet moments before sleep. In the sun through my window and the smell of clean sheets.

It scares me, how much I care. I don’t even know what you look like. But I know your mind. And your heart.

And I think... that’s more important.

— Y/I

⸻

Letter #16

Dear Y/I,

There’s this little alleyway near where I’m staying. It’s nothing—just old bricks, chipped paint, the hum of a neon sign in a language I don’t speak.

But it reminded me of your last letter. The part about “between spaces.”

I took a photo. It’s not good. I almost didn’t send it.

But then I thought—maybe it doesn’t have to be perfect.

Maybe it just has to be honest.

Like us.

—L

(Polaroid: A quiet alleyway at dusk, soft yellow light spilling onto cobblestones. A bicycle leans against the wall. There's no one in sight.)

⸻

You hold it for a long time. Wonder what he was thinking when he took it.

And realize— You want to ask him. Not through a letter. Not weeks later. But face to face. And that, more than anything, terrifies you.

⸻

You don’t set an alarm anymore.

Your internal clock is tuned to the sound of birds and buses and the small clatter of the kettle boiling in the flat next door.

You stretch quietly in bed, blink up at the ceiling, and smile at the faint sunlight creeping through the curtains.

It’s a Tuesday. That means circle time, two back-to-back art projects, and a high chance of glitter in your bra by noon.

You slip on a loose sweater and jeans, twist your hair up, and grab the sunflower mug you once mentioned in a letter. It’s chipped, but perfect. Familiar.

You sip your tea as you stare at the little wooden box on your kitchen shelf.

It holds his letters now.

You don’t read one this morning. You want to save it for later—like dessert.

⸻

Your day unfolds the way it always does.

You greet your students with that voice you reserve for them—bright, warm, steady.

You kneel beside Sophie, who’s crying because her banana touched her yogurt.

You high-five Theo for remembering to say “please.”

You tape two shoelaces and one broken crayon back together.

⸻

At lunch, your coworker Ana plops beside you on the bench outside.

“Big weekend plans?” she asks, unwrapping her sandwich.

You shrug. “Not really.”

“Still writing to mystery man?” she grins.

You fight the smile. “Maybe.”

“God, you’re such a romantic.”

“No,” you say softly. “I think I’m just... hopeful.”

She gives you a look but lets it go.

⸻

The school day ends.

You wave goodbye to the last kid and lock your classroom door. The janitor hums as he sweeps the hall.

And when you walk home—your steps are a little quicker.

Because you know. You know. You fumble your keys, heart skipping.

You open the mailbox. And there it is. White envelope. Familiar handwriting. Just your first initial on the front.

⸻

Fifteen minutes later, you’re curled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, tea steeping on the table, fingers trembling as you open the letter.

Inside?

A note.

And a photo.

⸻

Dear Y/I,

It’s been a week of motion. Too many cities, too many suitcases.

But I found a little moment of stillness.

I thought you might like it.

You feel like stillness, sometimes.

Like breath.

More soon.

—L

(Polaroid: A single red flower growing out of cracked pavement, light hitting it just right.)

You press the photo to your chest. And smile.

⸻

He wakes up in yet another hotel.

He has to blink twice to remember where he is. Barcelona. This week,

it’s Barcelona.

The light is soft, filtered through gauzy curtains, and the air smells faintly like salt and rubber and espresso from the street below. He can hear the hum of traffic already—low, constant, like a heartbeat.

He groans, presses a palm to his face, and drags himself out of bed. There’s a media briefing in forty-five minutes.

Another debrief after that.

Then sim work.

Then setup.

Then dinner with someone he doesn’t really know.

He pulls on a hoodie and sweats, ties his braids back messily, and pads barefoot to the table by the window.

There, tucked neatly under his notebook, is her letter. He’d brought it with him.

Always does now.

Wherever he goes.

Just in case.

He unfolds it like something sacred and reads the last paragraph again.

“You’ve started to live in the in-between spaces of my day.”

He smiles.

And exhales.

⸻

The paddock is chaos.

People. Cameras. Logistics. Language.

He answers questions without really hearing them. Shakes hands. Nods. Smiles.

He does the dance.

But his mind keeps drifting back to the letter.

Back to her.

To the way she described the way the rain sounded on her roof. Or the way her students pronounced “spaghetti” like “buhgetti.”

He tucks a small Polaroid camera into his jacket pocket before heading out to do the track walk.

⸻

He takes photos quietly.

A puddle reflecting the clouds. A half-eaten orange on a bright red barrier. The back of someone’s helmet with a quote in Italian sharpied on the side: “Chi trova un amico, trova un tesoro.” (He who finds a friend, finds treasure.)

He frames the shot. Clicks.

And hears a voice behind him.

“Since when do you take artsy photos, man?”

He jumps slightly, turning.

It’s Charles.

His teammate. Friendly. Sharp. Always watching.

“Oh,” Lewis says quickly, tucking the photo into his pocket. “Just something for a... project.”

Charles raises an eyebrow. “A project?”

“Yeah. Personal one.”

Charles squints at him. Then shrugs. “Alright. You just looked like you were thinking hard about it.”

“I was,” Lewis admits, softer this time.

Then, without thinking, he adds:

“She writes about things like this. Ordinary stuff that feels... alive.”

Charles tilts his head. “She?”

Lewis clears his throat. “Just someone I talk to.”

Charles smirks. “You getting poetic on me?”

“Maybe,” he mutters, walking away. “Mind your business.”

But he’s smiling.

Because that’s what she does to him.

Makes the world feel quiet again.

Even here.

⸻

That night, after hours of meetings and late-night workouts, he finally gets a moment alone.

He sits on the edge of his bed, pulls out his worn journal, and slides one of the new Polaroids inside a letter he started days ago.

⸻

Dear Y/I,

Today was loud.

The kind of loud that follows you even after the noise stops.

But I saw something that made me think of one of your old letters—the one about how beauty is just borrowed stillness.

I think you’re right.

This isn’t much.

But it made me feel quiet.

And when I feel quiet, I think of you.

—L

(Polaroid: A reflection of clouds in a puddle shaped like a heart, partially stepped on, still beautiful.)

He seals the envelope and sets it by the door. It’ll go out in the morning. And when he gets home— Her words will be waiting.

He already knows exactly where he’s going to sit to read them.

⸻

The letters start arriving more often. No longer once a week. Now it’s every few days. Sometimes back-to-back. Sometimes overlapping. And they’re longer. Richer. Almost too much to hold in your hands.

⸻

Letter #28

Dear Y/I,

I don’t know what this is anymore.

And I don’t mean that in a bad way.

It’s just—somewhere along the way, I stopped writing to pass the time and started writing to remember who I am.

I don’t tell most people anything real. I give them smiles. Headlines. “Doing great, thanks.” But you ask me questions I don’t even realize I’ve been dying to answer. Like what my laugh sounds like when I’m tired. Or what I’d do if the world stopped spinning for a day.

(For the record, I’d sit in the sun and read your letters.) Sometimes I wish I could just... show up. Knock on your door. Ask you what kind of tea you’re making and sit in your quiet for a while. But I won’t do that.

Because part of what makes this feel real is that it’s not built on appearances or performance. It’s just us. Words. Trust.

Still yours,

—L

⸻

You read that letter three times.

Then again the next morning.

You walk through your day differently now. More alert.

More tender.

You find yourself watching the sky at red lights. Running your fingers along brick walls. Laughing longer at things that make you feel known.

⸻

Letter #29

Dear L,

You said you don’t know what this is anymore.

I don’t either.

But I know what it’s not.

It’s not nothing.

And sometimes I catch myself saying things like, “My friend said—” and I mean you.

Or when I see something beautiful, I reach for my camera, then stop, because I remember...

You already saw it.

You live in these spaces I didn’t even know I’d left unlocked.

And that scares me.

But it also makes me feel whole.

— Y/I

P.S. If you ever did knock on my door... I’d make chamomile. And I’d let you sit in the silence for as long as you needed.

⸻

Letter #30

Dear Y/I,

This week I was back somewhere familiar. A city I’ve been to a hundred times, for work.

I passed this bakery that smelled like cinnamon and woodsmoke, and I remembered something you once wrote—about how you used to bake on Sundays with your mum, just to fill the flat with warmth.

So I bought a pastry I didn’t even want. Just because it made me feel close to you. There were cameras, like always.

But I kept thinking—what would it feel like to walk here with you, no one watching? 

To just be a man next to a woman he respects.

Not a name.

Not a brand.

Just L.

(Almost slipped there. Guess I’m tired.)

— Still just L

⸻

You reread that paragraph.

“There were cameras, like always.” “Almost slipped there.”

Your heart kicks up. You don’t Google him.

You could.

But you don’t.

Because whatever this is—it’s enough.

And you trust him.

⸻

Letter #31

Dear L,

When I was with Marcus, I used to write things and hide them. Little notes to myself. Things I was afraid to say out loud.

“I am not difficult.” “I deserve to be chosen.” “I am allowed to take up space.”

I found them again last week.

And I cried.

Not because I felt that way again. But because I don’t anymore.

You didn’t fix me.

But you reminded me that I wasn’t broken to begin with.

You don’t know my face. My laugh. The shape I take up in a room.

And still—you see me.

More clearly than anyone else has.

— Y/I

⸻

He reads that letter after a long flight. Eyes burning.

The hotel is too cold. The hallway echoing. His muscles sore.

But none of it matters.

Because she just told him the one thing he’s been terrified to believe:

That he matters without being anyone else.

That she wants him, not the idea of him.

That she’s ready.

And just like that—

He knows.

It’s almost time to tell her who he is.

⸻

It was raining the day you wrote the draft.

Not the romantic kind of rain. Not the soft pitter-patter you loved with a mug of tea.

This was the kind of rain that felt mean.

That made the sky feel heavy and mean and too much.

It had been a rough week. The school was understaffed. A parent yelled at you for enforcing a food allergy rule. Your period came early. You felt bloated and stupid and small.

You were already crying before you picked up the pen.

And you shouldn't have written it.

But you did.

Not to him.

Just... to yourself.

A letter that bled frustration. Fear. That creeping anxiety that whispered what if he’s only being kind? What if you’re building a fantasy out of figments and metaphors?

You wrote:

Sometimes I wonder if you’re just good with words. If I’m just a soft place for you to land until you’re ready to walk again. If I’m falling alone, and you’re just watching.

You folded it.

Slid it into your drawer.

You didn’t sign it.

Didn’t intend to send it.

You wrote a new letter the next day. A good one. A hopeful one. You slipped a photo of your favorite bookstore at twilight into the envelope and dropped it in the post.

You didn’t realize... that you’d picked up the wrong page.

⸻

Four days later — Monaco

He gets home late.

The race weekend was long. Brutal. Not his best.

He drops his suitcase, toes off his shoes, and heads straight to the table.

Her letter is there. Waiting.

He smiles before he even opens it.

But the smile fades.

Line by line.

Word by word.

He reads the first sentence.

And stops.

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re just good with words...”

It feels like a slap.

Like being called a liar by the only person who doesn’t see him as one. He stares at the page, willing it to turn into something else.

A joke.

A mistake.

A test.

But it’s just... her.

Questioning all of it.

All of him.

And he—

He doesn’t know what to do.

⸻

He doesn't reply.

Not right away.

Not at all.

He wants to write something. Anything.

But the words won’t come.

Because the truth is—he was afraid. That he was falling harder. That he was hoping for something real. That she might only be in love with the idea of him, not the messy, exhausted man who sits in hotel rooms and wonders if he's worth any of it.

So he doesn’t write.

He disappears.

⸻

A Week Later

You feel it before you know it.

The silence.

It’s louder than any rejection you’ve ever heard.

You check the mailbox obsessively. Refresh your phone, even though you’ve never texted. Wait for something. Anything.

And then it comes.

One envelope.

No letter inside.

Just a photo.

A paper airplane.

Caught mid-fall, fluttering toward a storm-gray pavement.

And on the back, written in familiar handwriting:

I didn’t know I was disposable.

You sink to the floor.

The kind of cry you can’t make pretty. The kind with hiccups and shaking hands and a voice that sounds foreign when you whisper, “No... no no no...”

Because it wasn’t meant for him.

That letter—

That damn letter—

Was a ghost you were trying to exorcise. Not a truth you meant to send.

You run to your drawer, flipping through everything.

And there it is.

The real one.

The one he was supposed to read. The one that said:

You make me believe in softness again. You make me want to be brave. You feel like coming home.

You crumble it in your hands, then press it flat again.

Too late.

You whisper to the empty room, your heart breaking into pieces:

“Please come back.”

⸻

Days pass.

Then a week.

Then two.

You don’t write.

Not because you don’t want to.

But because you don’t know how. What do you even say?

“That letter wasn’t meant for you”?

“I was scared and hormonal and bleeding and sad”?

“You’re the only thing that’s felt real in months, and I ruined it with my doubt”?

You sit by your window, tracing the rim of your mug with a trembling finger.

You haven’t opened the box of his letters since the paper airplane arrived.

But tonight—

You do.

You take them out. One by one. Lay them across your floor like constellations.

And then...

You write.

⸻

Letter #32

Dear L,

I sent you the wrong letter.

That’s the truth.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Literally.

It wasn’t supposed to be you.

That page... it was something I wrote on a bad day. A page of fear. A draft I buried under better things.

But I sent it.

And I know how it must’ve sounded.

Like I didn’t believe you. Like I doubted all of this.

But I didn’t. I don’t.

I’ve never trusted anyone the way I trust you.

I’ve never felt seen the way I do when I read your words.

You gave me my voice back.

And I used it to hurt you. Even if I didn’t mean to.

I understand if that’s unforgivable.

But if by some miracle you’re still reading—please know this:

You are not disposable.

You never were.

You are everything.

And I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner.

Come back. — Y/I

⸻

You don’t send it.

Not right away.

You fold it.

Place it inside the box. And wait.

⸻

Meanwhile — Three weeks later, Monaco

He’s still carrying her last photo in his pocket. Even now.

Even though it hurts.

He’s been quiet too long.

Long enough that his friends have stopped asking.

Long enough that he’s almost convinced himself it was just a phase. A beautiful mirage.

But then—

He finds her real letter.

Not on purpose.

It’s tucked inside a notebook. One he’d left on the plane. One his assistant brought back and casually dropped on his desk.

He flips it open.

And there it is.

The handwriting.

His heart stops.

He reads it. He rereads it. His hands start to shake.

And in that moment, he realizes— She didn’t leave him.

She was trying to tell him the truth. He just didn’t listen.

And that—

That’s what finally breaks him.

He doesn’t write back this time. He needs time to think.

⸻

The sun is sharp over the circuit. The sky, clean and cruelly blue. Perfect for photos. Perfect for a podium.

Lewis Hamilton stands with champagne running down his fire suit and a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

The crowd is screaming. His team is cheering. His name echoes off the grandstands like something holy.

And yet— He feels like a ghost inside his own body.

He won.

But it feels empty.

⸻

TWO DAYS EARLIER

“Radio check,” Marc says through his headset as Lewis climbs into the car.

“Copy,” Lewis replies, voice flat.“Loud and clear.”

He hears Marc hesitate. “You good?”

Lewis adjusts his gloves. “Yeah.”

He’s not.

He hasn’t been for a while.

It’s been almost two months since her last letter.

Or rather, since his last letter.

The one he didn’t send.

He’s still reading her last one. Still keeping it folded in the inner pocket of his backpack like a bruise.

⸻

Back in the garage, everyone’s buzzing. There’s tension in the air. Good tension. Energy. Hope.

They’ve got a shot at pole.

Maybe more.

Lewis leans against a wall, sipping on an electrolyte pouch, pretending to scroll through data on the iPad in his lap.

His assistant, Natalie, walks up quietly. “You’ve been off today.”

He doesn’t look up. “I’m here.”

“That’s not the same as being present.”

He finally lifts his eyes.

She softens. “Still thinking about her?”

He swallows. Doesn’t answer.

“You know,” she says carefully, “you could always just reach out. Not with a letter. Just... talk to her.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not what this is. It never was. If she wanted to hear from me, she would’ve written back.”

Natalie stares at him for a second. Then says quietly, “Maybe she’s waiting for you, too.”

He looks away.

⸻

RACE DAY

The car feels good.

Better than it has in weeks.

Lap after lap, he pushes harder. Lighter. Freer.

Maybe it's adrenaline.

Or maybe it’s because for once, he stops trying to outrun the ache and lets it sit in the passenger seat with him.

He takes the win.

First place.

Everyone’s shouting, hugging, throwing their arms around him like he just saved the world.

And maybe he did.

But it’s not the world he wants to save.

⸻

That night, he sits in his hotel room, champagne unopened on the dresser, still in his race suit pants and a hoodie.

And he stares at a blank page. Then he starts to write.

⸻

Dear Y/I,

It’s been 52 days since I heard from you. I’ve counted every single one.

And for the first 20, I told myself I deserved the silence.

Because I was a coward.

Because I didn’t ask if that letter was a mistake. I didn’t trust you the way I should’ve.

But if I’m being honest? I

stopped writing because I was scared.

I didn’t want to fall for someone who didn’t exist outside of pages and polaroids.

I didn’t want to be seen so completely and still be left behind.

But you didn’t leave me.

I left you.

And I’m sorry.

I should’ve known better.

I should’ve asked.

I should’ve told you the truth.

—

I started writing this at 2am. Then rewrote it at 3. I’ve cried twice. Walked away once. But every time I try to give up—your words come back. You told me once I made you believe in softness again. You made me believe in real.

—

You asked once what my favorite part of the day was. It’s not the win. It’s not the champagne. It’s the moment I walk through my door, drop my bag, and see your letter waiting on the table. Even now. I still check. Even when I know it won’t be there.

—

I miss the way you see the world. I miss the way you write about rain like it’s a friend. The way you call yourself a mess but write with so much clarity it could split stars.

I miss you.

Not the idea. Not the version I created in my head. 

You.

Whatever name you wear.

Whatever face you have.

You are already mine in every way that matters.

—

I got something.

A tattoo.

I wasn’t going to tell you. But it’s the only thing that’s made me feel brave in weeks.

You wrote once: “I’m not broken. I’m becoming.”

I had those words etched into my skin. Because that’s what this has been.

A becoming.

And I want you to see it.

—

If you never write back, I’ll understand.

But if there’s even the smallest part of you that still wants to meet—

I’m ready.

I want to hear your voice. I want to see your face. I want to know how you laugh and whether you still leave the bathroom light on.

I want all of it.

Not in fragments.

Not in metaphors.

You.

Please let me come home.

—L

(Polaroid enclosed: A close-up of his forearm. In clean, delicate lettering—I’m not broken. I’m becoming. Just below it, faint ink smudges. A fresh tattoo. His skin raw. Real.)

⸻

You wake up with paint on your hands.

Dried glitter on your temple.

Your hair is in a lopsided braid you forgot to take out the night before.

It’s been 51 days since your last letter.

52 since you heard from him.

You stopped checking the mailbox after the fourth week.

You told yourself it was over. That it was a chapter you needed to leave behind.

But still—when you brush your teeth, you glance toward the door. Still—when you pass the postbox, your heart skips.

You still miss him.

And it’s quieter now, the grief. But it never left.

⸻

8:02 AM — Your Classroom

“Miss Y/N! Look! Look what I made!”

You blink back into the moment and crouch down beside Ava, who is proudly holding a collage of cotton balls and sequins.

“It’s stunning,” you say, voice catching.

“It's a cloud!” she beams. “But a magic cloud. It cries glitter.”

You smile, and feel your throat close.

You used to write like that.

⸻

10:14 AM — Playground Duty

You and Ana walk the perimeter of the small playground while the kids scream joyfully into the wind.

Ana nudges you gently. “You good?”

You nod. “Fine.”

“Liar.”

You sigh. “It’s just... I miss someone I never met.”

Ana stays quiet.

Then: “Maybe they’re missing you too.”

⸻

12:45 PM — Staff Room

You’re eating cold pasta out of a Tupperware when the receptionist walks in.

“Delivery for you.”

You frown. “Here?”

She shrugs. “Postmarked from Monaco.”

Your heart stops.

You take the envelope like it’s a live wire.

It’s heavy. Dense.

Your name is written in careful, familiar handwriting.

Just your initial.

Your hands shake.

You excuse yourself. Walk down the hall. Sit on the floor beside the storage closet. And read.

Ten pages.

Ten pages that rip you open and stitch you back together in the same breath.

The moment you unfold the photo—his arm, the tattoo, your words etched into him—you break.

Tears fall silently.

You clutch the pages to your chest.

You whisper, “You didn’t leave.”

And for the first time in 52 days—

You let yourself hope.

⸻

6:04 PM — Your Flat

You sit at your kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket, tea cooling beside you. You’ve read the letter five more times.

Your hands are still shaking.

You grab your best pen.

A blank page. And write.

⸻

Dear L, You said you didn’t know what this is anymore.

I think I do.

It’s real.

It’s two people finding each other in the most impossible, tender way.

It’s the ache in my chest when I check the mailbox.

It’s the way my fingers tremble when I write your name.

It’s the way I stopped being afraid of my own voice.

Because you heard it.

And then you answered.

You said you want to hear my voice.

You said you want to see my face.

So let’s.

Let’s stop hiding behind paper.

Let’s meet.

Let’s begin.

You’re not the only one who’s becoming. I am too.

And I think we’re meant to do it together.

— Y/I

P.S. I kept every letter. Even the hard ones. Even the ones I read in the dark. They were never just words. They were you.

(A Polaroid enclosed: Her favorite mug, steaming. His first letter curled at the edges. A blurred tear on the page. And in the background, a tiny sticky note on the wall. It says: “Come back.”)

⸻

Two Weeks After Y/N’s Reply

You don’t expect a response this fast.

But it arrives four days after your letter—postmarked Monaco. The envelope is heavier than usual.

You hold it for a long moment before opening it. You already know it’s him.

⸻

Letter #33

Dear Y/I,

I’ve been staring at this blank page for hours.

I’ve written a hundred versions of this and deleted every one.

But then I remembered something you said in one of your first letters—“Just be honest. We’ve both had enough lies.”

So here’s the truth:

I want to see you.

I want to hear your voice for real. I want to laugh with you without waiting two weeks for your reply. I want to hand you a cup of tea and see what your eyes do when you smile.

I want to meet you too.

And I think we’re ready.

So here’s the plan—if you’re still in London, I know a small bookstore tucked between a florist and a laundromat on Oakwell Street. Quiet. Forgotten. Perfect.

Saturday. 11AM.

There’s a little reading bench near the back window. I’ll sit there.

I’ll be wearing a black hoodie. Jeans. My favorite shoes—white with the red stripes on the sides. You said you liked stories that felt “lived in.” These shoes are just that.

If you’re still sure—wear the sunflower necklace. The one you said you forgot to take off for a week because it felt like protection.

That way... I’ll know it’s you.

And if you don’t come—

I’ll sit there for an hour.

I won’t be angry. Or sad. Just grateful I got to know you at all.

But if you do come—

Then maybe this story isn’t finished yet. —L

P.S. I’m scared too. That’s how I know it matters.

⸻

You press the letter to your chest.

Then you cry. Then you laugh. Then you read it again.

You don’t even hesitate.

⸻

The Night Before

You can’t sleep.

You try. God, you try.

You make tea. Breathe deep. Re-read every letter in the box.

Your mind won’t stop.

What if he’s not what you imagined?

What if you’re not?

What if it’s perfect?

You finally fall asleep around 3AM.

You wake at 6.

Put on your softest jeans. The green sweater that makes you feel like a walking hug. And the necklace.

The one with the tiny sunflower charm, warm from your skin.

⸻

Meanwhile — Monaco

Lewis stares out the window of the private jet.

His hands are shaking.

He’s held the last Polaroid from Y/N so many times it’s starting to curl at the corners. Her favorite mug. The first letter. The sticky note that said, “Come back.”

He’s still wearing his hoodie. Black. Comfortable. Familiar.

The tattoo is healing.

He touches it absently as he looks down at London coming into view. There’s a folded note in his pocket.

It’s not for her.

It’s for him.

Just four words:

"Be who she knows.”

⸻

Back to Present – The Bookstore

You arrive at 10:44 AM. Fifteen minutes early.

You don’t go inside right away—you pace. Breathe. Pace again. Your fingers won’t stop fidgeting with the sunflower charm around your neck.

You check your reflection in the bookshop window.

You look the same.

But you’re not.

Not since him.

Not since the letters.

The bell above the door jingles once as you finally step inside. The smell of old paper and sandalwood hits you like a memory you didn’t know you had. Warm. Safe.

You make your way to the back, to the little reading bench.

You sit.

And wait.

⸻

11:08 AM

He’s standing outside the shop.

His heart is a percussion instrument.

He walks past once.

Then again.

He almost turns back.

But then he sees it—

Through the window.

You.

Your hand resting gently on your knee, thumb brushing the chain around your neck.

And he knows.

⸻

The bell rings.

You look up. And the moment your eyes meet— It’s like

something tectonic shifts.

Your mouth parts just slightly.

He’s real.

More real than you ever imagined.

He stands just inside the doorway. Hood pulled down. Hands in his pockets. The sleeves of his hoodie pushed slightly up—and you see the edge of the tattoo.

His lips lift, soft and unsure.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” you whisper, standing.

Neither of you moves.

Then—he laughs once.

Nervously.

“This is weird, right?” he says.

“The weirdest,” you say, breathless.

He glances at your necklace.

“You wore it.”

“You told me to.”

He smiles wider. “You always did follow instructions better than I did.”

You laugh. It’s shaky. Full of disbelief.

You look him over. Slowly. Not because of who he is—but because of who he’s been. To you.

“I don’t know what I expected,” you admit, voice soft.

“Disappointed?” he teases gently.

You shake your head, eyes misty. “You’re... you.”

He steps forward. Hesitates. “Can I... hug you?”

You nod.

And when his arms wrap around you, the whole world exhales.

⸻

You sit across from each other in the corner of the shop, tea cups untouched.

He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

You’re trying to breathe normally.

“Do I look how you imagined?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “No.”

Your heart drops slightly.

“You’re... more.” he finishes.

You smile. “That was a save.”

“No. That was the truth.” He runs a hand through his hair.

“You know what’s wild?”

“What?”

“I was terrified. Of this. Of us. I kept thinking... maybe it was only magic on paper.”

“And now?”

He looks at you.

Really looks.

“You’re better than magic.”

Your throat catches.

“I almost didn’t come,” you admit.

He blinks. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t want to ruin what we had. What if I showed up and you were just—some guy?”

He nods slowly. “And what if I showed up and you weren’t her?”

You both sit in that quiet for a long moment.

“I still write to you,” he says suddenly. “In my notes app. On napkins. The back of boarding passes. It’s like... I can’t not.”

You grin. “Me too. I started a journal. Every entry begins with ‘Dear L.’”

You both laugh. It’s small. Intimate. Familiar.

Then you grow serious again.

“This... is real,” you say quietly.

He nods. “Yeah. It is.”

You look down. “So what now?”

He reaches across the table. Takes your hand.

“Now we start again. Just not with letters this time.”

You glance toward the little wooden box of staff recommendations beside you and say, “Maybe just one more.”

He grins.

“I’ll write the first line.”

⸻

EPILOGUE – THE LETTERS NEVER STOPPED

The flat is quiet.

Golden hour spills across the countertops, and you’re wearing one of his old hoodies. You’re barefoot, sleepy, peaceful. He’s packing for a short trip. A two-day sponsor event, nothing major.

But the house always feels different when he’s gone.

He walks past you, brushes a kiss across your temple, and says, “Check the coffee tin before I leave.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

He shrugs. Smiles. “Just trust me.”

You wait until he’s busy shoving socks into his bag, then pad into the kitchen, pop open the tin...

...and there it is.

A folded note.

His handwriting.

You already know what it is.

⸻

Dear You, I don’t write you as often anymore.

Mostly because I get to tell you now.

But this morning I woke up to your hand on my chest and your leg tangled over mine, and all I could think was—

God, I get to love her like this. Still. Always. So this is just a little reminder. Of who we were.

And who we still are.

You’re the beginning. You’re the becoming. You’re the entire story.

And I’ll write you forever.

— Me

⸻

You’re still smiling when he walks back in and sees you holding it.

He grins. “Told you to check the tin.”

You don’t say anything.

You just wrap your arms around his waist and whisper into his chest, “Write me again tomorrow.”

⸻

Later That Week

It’s raining.

You’re clearing out an old drawer, not really looking for anything.

And you find it.

Tucked in a notebook.

No envelope.

No note.

A Polaroid.

Blurry. Dim. A hotel room.

A letter on a table.

Lewis, caught mid-breath, back bent, hand frozen over a blank page.

You flip it over.

Two words.

“I waited.”

And this time—your tears fall without ache. Because now?

He’s here.

THE END.

⸻

THEIR POLAROID SCRAPBOOK

1. His First Polaroid

Sunrise over a bay. A cup of coffee in frame. One bare foot tucked beneath the window. → Back reads: "You said mornings feel holy and hollow. I finally understand."

2. Hers

A blurry photo of fairy lights, a cup of tea, and his letters stacked on her desk. → Back reads: "They keep me warm."

3. His – From Somewhere Quiet

A cobbled alleyway. Yellow neon glow. A bike leaning on the wall. Empty but alive.

→ No words. Just breath.

4. Hers – First Bookstore Mention

A tiny corner of her favorite bookshop. Golden light pooling at her feet. → Back reads: "Someday, I hope you’ll sit here with me."

5. His – The Near Reveal

A pastry on a napkin. A crowd in the background. Sunglasses beside the plate. → Back reads: "Felt close to you today."

6. Hers – Come Back

Her sunflower mug. His first letter. A sticky note on the wall. → Note says: "Come back."

7. His – The Tattoo

Close-up of his arm. Fresh ink. Red around the phrase: “I’m not broken. I’m becoming.”

→ No caption. Just the truth.

8. The Final Polaroid (Never Sent) Lewis in a hotel room. Your letter on the table. His hand paused over a blank page. → Back reads: “I waited.”

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

For Joaquin maybe like a mr used to be a player x miss/mr/mx (and other non gender specific titles) never had a bf and its them navigating the relationship cuz readers going to be all niave and unsure and hes just going to be a know it all reassurance king. (If any of that makes sense 😭)

"Who He Was"

[Joaquin Torres x gn!reader]

Masterlist

Summary: Navigating your first relationship was daunting enough without his history, but Joaquin was determined to prove his heart belonged to you, one patient, achingly sincere moment at a time.

Warnings: Fluff, light angst (reader's insecurities), past relationship mentions.

Word Count: 762 words

"What’s going on in that mind of yours?"  

Joaquin's voice was a soft, warm rumble that cut through the silence on his couch. You froze, the half-eaten slice of pizza in your hand suddenly feeling like a lead weight. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and you realised you'd been picking at the crust for five minutes straight. Again.  

"Nothing," you mumbled, eyes fixed on the TV where some action movie exploded soundlessly. You had begged to watch it, yet you hadn't absorbed a single scene.  

"C'mon." He tugged gently at your wrist until you were facing him. His dark eyes were too perceptive, too kind, and it made your throat tighten. "You've been quiet all night. Did I do something?"

"No!" The word came out too fast, too sharp. You winced. "No, you didn't. It's just… me."  

He hummed skeptical, and shifted closer. The scent of his cologne—something woodsy and unfairly calming—wrapped around you. "You were thinking about the thing Sam said earlier, weren't you?"  

 "Damn, Joaquin, when'd you turn into such a sap? Last year, you'd have bolted the second someone mentioned labels."   

Sam's teasing comment at dinner had been harmless, but it had lodged itself in your chest. Joaquin just laughed it off, his arm slung casually over your shoulders. But you spent the rest of the night wondering about his words.

"I mean…  did you? Bolt, I mean. When people wanted… more."  

He sighed, not annoyed but tired, like he'd been waiting for this conversation. "Yeah. I did. A lot." His free hand tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering. "But that isn’t who I am anymore. With you."  

"But why?" The question slipped out, raw and shaky. "You could've had anyone. And I'm just… I don't know how to do any of this. I've never even—"  

"Hey." His voice was firm, cutting off your spiral. "Look at me." Reluctantly, you met his gaze. "You think I don't know that? That you are… new to this?" A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "You forgot I've known you since day one. You tripped over your own feet trying to ask me out for coffee."  

"I stumbled," you muttered, face heating. "There was a curb—"  

"And you turned soo red when I said yes." His smirk softened into something tender. "That's when I knew, okay? All those people before—it was just noise. Distraction. But you? You're real. You don't play games."  

Your chest ached. "But what if I mess up? What if I'm… boring? Or too clingy? Or—"  

Joaquin snorted. "You think I'll let you get away for being clingy? Please. I'll thrive." He leaned in until his forehead rested against yours. "And 'boring'? You once spent twenty minutes explaining which toppings belonged on pizza. You are the least boring person I've ever met."  

A laugh hiccuped out of you, despite yourself. "That was a debate, not an explanation—"  

"Semantics." His nose brushed yours playfully. "Point is, I’m not going anywhere. Unless you want me to. Then I'd have to stand dramatically in the rain until you took me back."  

"You're ridiculous."  

"But you’re smiling."  

You were. Against all odds, your cheeks hurt with it. Joaquin grinned, triumphant, before pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. "I'm serious, though. Ask me anything. Right now."  

You hesitated. "…How many other people have you said this stuff to?"  

"None." No pause. No flinch. "I've never brought someone to Sam's dinners. Never let them steal my clothes." He plucked at the sleeve of his sweatshirt, the one you were drowning in. "Never wanted to."  

Your breath caught. "Oh."  

"Yeah. Oh." He rolled his eyes, but there was no bite. "You're stuck with me, okay? That other Joaquin is dead. Bury him."  

This time, your laugh was louder, brighter. Joaquin's answering smile was blinding, and the knot in your chest unravelled for the first time all night.  

Later, he paused when he walked you to your door. "Wait. I almost forgot." Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a crumpled receipt and a pen, scribbling something before pressing it into your hand.  

 One dramatic rain scene. Redeemable anytime.

You snorted. "You are such a dork."  

"Well, I'm your dork," he corrected, kissing you until the world narrowed to the warmth of his lips and the steady grip of his hands on your waist.  

(And if you taped the note to your fridge later, well. That was between you and the magnet collection he was slowly building for you, one stupid souvenir at a time.)  

[parkerloves]

MAYBE I DON'T MIND IT || ZG24 x Bottas!Fem!Reader

paring: zhou guanyu x gf!bottas!fem!reader

trope: smau + teammate's sister

summary: new colors, new chaos for the stake garage with the youngest of the bottas and "her boys"

fc; @pdm.clara + pinterest girls (but picture her as you like)

warnings: none, this is pure fluff

notes: this can be a part 2 for new favourite or a separate fic :)

[masterlist]

ynbottas has posted!

liked by valtteribottas, kimimatiasraikkonen and 7,234 others

ynbottas: new team, new color (wich i have ZERO clothes of) also admin, hire me as a photographer

tagged: valtteribottas, zhouguanyu24

zhouguanyu24: i think green looks good on you

ynbottas: aww my baby 💚​💚​ valtteribottas: don't do that in front of me ynbottas: you literally have a wife???? zhouguanyu24: but we are not in front of you

stakef1team: we'll get you some pretty green clothes

ynbottas: my savior<333

user825: I lover her your honor

emilia.pikarainen has posted!

liked by valtteribottas, ynbottas and 264 others

emilia.pikarainen: I'm feeling a lot of judgement here and it's not because of me I can assure you that

tagged: valtteribottas, zhouguanyu24, ynbottas

ynbottas: my sister in law to the rescue, kick his ass🤍🤍

emilia.pikarainen: i never said that darling ynbottas: well, you should've 😔​ emilia.pikarainen: that's my husband ynbottas: and my brother, don't see your point valtteribottas: why do you hate me? ynbottas: with love

zhouguanyu24: can i have those pictures?

emilia.pikarainen: aww sure darling ynbottas: told you he was the cutest​🥹​

stakef1team has posted!

iked by zhouguanyu24, ynbottas and 14,325 others

stakef1team: the track is calling so we needed to be back for it!!

ynbottas: look at my boy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and valtteri is there too ig

zhouguanyu24: 💚💚💚 valtteribottas: thanks? user865: at least she was nice this time

user651: this our weekend!!!! (let me be delusional)

liked by ynbottas

user651: aaaaaaaaaaaa she liked my comment!!! stakef1team: we react the same dw

ynbottas has posted!

liked by valtteribottas, zhouguanyu24 and 7,234 others

ynbottas: because i forgot to post our track walk earlier

tagged: zhouguanyu24

user982: I never though that yn would be the one giving us zhou content

ynbottas: you're welcome valtteribottas: me neither

zhouguanyu24: at least you didn't post the video

ynbottas: I am this 🤏🏻 close​ user624: WHAT VIDEO???????????? zhouguanyu24: please control yourself 寶寶 user167: OMG DARLING??????????? ynbottas: okay 😔

user317 has posted!

iked by user254, user641 and 12,541 others

user317: idk about the videp that yn talked about but i have this pic which i love of them

user382: omg when did you took it????

user317: after the FP2 on friday!!! they were waiting to go to the hotel, they were the cutest

use142: so luckyyyyyyyyyyy

user285: love them so much

ynbottas: @zhouguanyu24 look at this pic stoppppppp

zhouguanyu24: now they wont belive me when i say that i don't like contact ynbottas: then don't lie about it duh

ynbottas has posted!

liked by valtteribottas, zhouguanyu24 and 7,234 others

ynbottas: because aparently he doesn't like physical contact

tagged: zhouguanyu24

user982: I LOVE THEMMMMMMMMMMM

user317: i just know that someone it's getting scoled rn

ynbottas: shhh don't give him ideas

zhouguanyu24: where do you even get this pictures?

ynbottas: It's a secret user624: he doesn't even get mad at this point zhouguanyu24: i never get mad ynbottas: he doesn't

zhouguanyu24 has posted!

liked by ynbottas, valtteribottas and 18,682 others

zhouguanyu24: thanks to the person that took those first pics, she looks amazing

tagged: ynbottas

user854: was something obligated to post these?

ynbottas: I SWEAR that I didn't

user854: if you say sooo

user959: the flowers 😩😩

user438: they are so cuteeeee

user784: I took that pic:))

ynbottas: @zhouguangy24 say thank you now

zhouguanyu24: thank you :))

ynbottas has posted!

liked by valtteribottas, zhouguanyu24 and 7,234 others

ynbottas: enough with the cuteness, here is our son (idk if he's my child or my competion because he can be away from him)

tagged: zhouguanyu24

user982: STOP WHO IS THISSSSSSSSS

user317: OMG WHAT HIS NAME

ynbottas: zhou picked it, i just know how to say it

valtteribottas: you scared me with the kid thing

ynbottas: can't you look at the pic before? valtteribottas: don't talk to your brother like that zhouguanyu24: so i'm not dead yet? ynbottas: of course no baby

zhouguanyu24 has posted!

liked by ynbottas, valtteribottas and 18,682 others

zhouguanyu24: he is our son and his name is 玉米粒(Sweetcorn), he's the sweetest

ynbottas: okay i belive you but just because he's on my lap

zhouguanyu24: so you love him?

ynbottas: i can't help it

user959: I'm ALREADY in love

user658: soooo when is the wedding?

ynbottas: as soon as my brother lets me

zhouguanyu24: huh? valtteribottas: what?

aglist:::

@saturnpxtter @fastcarsgonyoem

[swrkn]

Heyyy 👋🏻👋🏻

Could I get a Kwon Hyuk x fem!reader story where the reader’s his childhood friend?

Im in the mood for something feel-good and fluffy, nothing too heavy or angsty 🥹

P.S. I seriously LOVE your writing so so much!!I’ve read all the WB posts already hehe,

so I thought I’d finally try requesting something too!

Thank you in advanceee 🙇🏻‍♀️💖

𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐈𝐓

Hyuk x fem!reader

Genre ; fluff , sfw

Author note ; Thanks a lot for the compliment on my work it means a lot to me !! It’s been like a month since i last wrote , med school is killing me , so sorry if i take a lot of time doing your request !

You finally found the young boy, you’ve been searching for quit long now, crouched in a alley, again.

You knew that weird glint in his eyes before you even saw what he was doing — legs folded, hands still, face blank.

“…Hyuk.” you said cautiously.

He didn’t even look up. “It was already dying.”

You took a step closer and saw it — a dragonfly, wings gone, body twitching weakly on the ground. You winced. He didn’t.

“I wanted to see how long it’d move without wings.” he said, as if it were science. As if it didn’t make your stomach twist a little.

“You’re scaring the other kids.” you said carefully.

“They’re stupid.” he muttered.

You squatted down next to him. “They said you tried to fight three of them yesterday.”

“They wouldn’t shut up.” His jaw clenched. “They said I was crazy.”

You looked at him for a long time. He didn’t seem angry, well, not really. Just… detached. Like there was a wall between him and the rest of the world.

Except when he looked at you.

“I’m not scared of you.”

Hyuk’s eyes flicked to yours, unreadable. “Maybe you should be.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers against his scraped-up knuckles. “Maybe I just know you better than they do.”

He stared at you like he didn’t understand why you stayed. But he didn’t pull away.

You and Hyuk sat side by side on the low wall behind some abandoned garage. The race had ended hours ago, but the rest of the team had already left, leaving the two of you

Rain tapped gently against the pavement, but the overhang kept the both of you dry. Hyuk was staring ahead, hoodie pulled low over his face, one knee propped up, fingers loosely laced around it.

“I forgot how quiet it gets here after dark.” you said softly.

He hummed in agreement. “That’s why I like it.”

You glanced at him, chin on your knees. “You ever miss when it was just us? Back home?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then: “Sometimes.”

You smiled faintly. That was Hyuk-speak for all the time.

“You were a menace.” you said teasingly. “You used to always making kids cry, and fought with them.”

“They started it.” he replied evenly, not even looking at you. “I didn’t like when they talked about you.”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

Hyuk’s expression didn’t change. “They said stuff. I didn’t like it. So I made them stop.”

A beat passed. You swallowed, unsure what to say. It was the kind of thing only Hyuk would casually drop in conversation like it didn’t mean something.

He shifted slightly, then spoke again, voice lower this time.

“I didn’t know how to say things back then. So I just did what I could.”

You let that sit between you for a minute. The sound of the rain, the wind rustling the trees, the way his shoulder was just barely brushing yours.

“You still do that,” you said. “Even now.”

He glanced at you. “What do you mean?”

“You show up. Quietly. You don’t say much… but you’re always there.”

Hyuk looked away again, like he didn’t know what to do with that kind of truth.

You leaned your head against his shoulder gently. “You don’t have to say anything, Hyuk. I’ve always known how to read you.”

He didn’t move, but after a moment, his hand found yours between you — not a full grip, just fingers brushing yours lightly.

And that, from Hyuk, was enough.

✵

[zeroseuniverse]

Final_Cut: You

Word Count: 1.6K Summary: But the camera wasn’t your webcam. It was handheld. Moving. Breathing. Someone had been there. Close enough to count your lashes. Close enough to brush hair from your forehead if they’d wanted to. Pairing: DK X Reader

Taglist: @haaruki  @agaha127 @zaycie @sh0dor1 @tinyelfperson @lezleeferguson-120  @ltfirecracker

Navigation

You never really knew your editor. Not in the traditional sense, anyway. You’d never shaken his hand or looked into his eyes. Never heard him laugh, or seen his name written down anywhere but in one sleek, unassuming corner of your shared folder. He went by DK. That was all he gave you, and in your line of work—where people overshared by default—that kind of anonymity almost felt charming. Clean. Professional.

He came recommended by another content creator you trusted. “Quiet. Fast. Reliable. Creepy good at catching your good side,” they’d said, half-laughing, not knowing how literal that would feel later.

So, you hired him. DK became the name behind the edits, the ghost in your machine. Every video you posted passed through his hands before the world ever saw it. He cleaned up the mess behind the illusion: removed your awkward pauses, trimmed your half-hearted brand plugs, warmed the lighting when your eyes looked too tired, softened your voice when it trembled.

You’d always found it eerie, in a way. How he seemed to know which frame made you look strongest. How he lingered just a moment longer on your real smile—the one you didn’t even know you gave. It was like he knew you better than you knew yourself.

At first, you chalked it up to talent. Intuition. Maybe a touch of luck.

But talent doesn’t explain how he caught the moment your expression faltered during a livestream, just before the screen glitched. It doesn’t explain how he managed to isolate your voice from a noisy café mic and leave only the breathy laugh you made when you spotted someone you liked. And it certainly doesn’t explain how, when you asked him for a behind-the-scenes edit—something raw, something real—he delivered something so intimate it made your skin crawl and your chest ache at the same time.

You watched that draft alone at midnight, curled into your blanket, half-expecting it to be a highlight reel of giggles and bloopers. But it wasn’t that. It was… you. Not the version you curated. Not the persona you wore like perfume.

No, this was you when the camera had slipped, when you forgot to mute, when your face settled into something hollow between takes. It was the moment you stared into your mirror, saying nothing. The way you brushed your fingers over a half-empty mug like you were waiting for it to fill. The sound of your breath after you ended a call and didn’t smile afterward.

And somehow, impossibly, he had footage you didn’t remember filming. A glimpse of you through a rain-streaked window. A shaky shot of you lit only by your laptop, eyes red but not crying. You blinked and replayed the segment four times, then stared at your drive.

You never recorded that.

But it was in your folder. Neatly named. Edited. Color-corrected. Yours.

You posted the video anyway. You weren’t sure why. Maybe because it felt real. Or maybe because the way he saw you was flattering in its honesty. Painful, yes—but gentle. Careful. Tender. Like someone memorizing the cracks of porcelain instead of fixing them.

The internet loved it. Flooded you with praise. “So raw.” “So real.” “So you.”

You messaged him afterward:

“That was beautiful. I felt like you saw the parts of me I never show anyone.”

He didn’t respond in words. Just a single file the next day, titled: “Final Cut_You”

You didn’t open it at first. Something about the name unsettled you, though you couldn’t explain why. It sat in your drive like a whisper behind a door you weren’t sure you wanted to open.

Meanwhile, you tried to think more about the DK you thought you knew. Tried to recall any calls, any photos, any trace of who he was beyond the edits. There were none. You hadn’t even spoken to him directly in months—just emails, maybe the occasional voice note on your end. He never replied in voice. His presence was always silent. Always watching.

You started to wonder if it had always been this way—if there had been clues you ignored. Your camera turning on by itself. Footage from a different angle. Files moved in your drive when you knew you hadn’t touched them.

Sometimes you felt him in your apartment, even when you were alone. That strange sixth sense, the weight of eyes in the walls. But when you turned, there was no one there. Just your webcam. Your blinking cursor. Your reflection, almost unfamiliar in the quiet.

Still, you didn’t stop sending him content. Maybe a part of you wanted to be seen like that. Honestly. Lovingly. Obsessively.

You opened the file one night. The “Final Cut.”

And there you were.

Not a montage. Not a highlight reel.

Just you, asleep.

The camera slowly panned closer. The room was dark, lit only by a streetlamp outside your window. You could see the rise and fall of your chest, the gentle shift of your hand against your pillow. The timestamp matched a night weeks ago. You’d fallen asleep editing late and hadn’t remembered hitting record.

But the camera wasn’t your webcam. It was handheld. Moving. Breathing.

Someone had been there. Close enough to count your lashes. Close enough to brush hair from your forehead if they’d wanted to.

The final frame held on your face for a full minute, unflinching. Then, softly, almost imperceptibly, the whisper of a voice you’d never heard before.

“You belong in every frame.”

That was the last thing on the video.

You didn’t report it. You didn’t fire him. You didn’t even change your passwords.

Instead, you stared at the screen, heart quiet in your chest, the room so still you could hear the silence breathe.

Because deep down, you already knew—

He’d been watching long before you ever hit record.

And maybe, just maybe, you were okay with that.

You didn’t speak of the video. Didn’t message him about it. Didn’t scream, didn’t cry, didn’t tell a soul.

You simply watched.

Once. Twice. Then five times more. Each viewing slower, more deliberate, like your silence was a ritual and this was your offering. You examined the shadows for a silhouette. Counted your breaths. Noted how steady the camera was—how intentional.

Someone had filmed you. Someone had been there.

He had been there.

But what unsettled you most wasn’t the invasion. It was how gentle it all was. The way the camera never violated. Never touched. Just witnessed. It wasn’t lewd. It wasn’t violent. It was reverent.

Like love, in its rawest, most unhinged form.

That was the first night you left your window open.

The second night, you wore the sweater you knew he liked—because he always lingered just a second longer in the edits when you wore it. You knew he noticed. DK noticed everything. It was in the way he paused on your fingertips brushing your jaw, or the way he let your inhale echo longer when you were talking about things you loved.

It was devotion. Warped, but careful. It made you feel chosen.

And when you left the camera running overnight, you didn’t label the file. You didn’t need to. By the next morning, it had already been moved. Already edited.

When you opened it, you found yourself sleeping again—same room, same soft rise and fall of your chest—but this time, something had changed.

The footage was warmer. Closer. Your hand had moved in the night, and the lens had followed. A shift in the light revealed the faintest blur of movement in the corner. Not a face. Just the impression of someone sitting near your bed. Waiting.

At the end of the video, he’d added music. A soft, looping instrumental you’d used once in an old vlog. You’d said it made you feel safe. He remembered.

And then—his voice.

“You see me now, don’t you?”

Not a question. A fact.

And you did. In the absence. In the edits. In the invisible fingerprints across your life. You felt him everywhere. You knew his rhythm, his restraint, his fascination with your solitude. And part of you—maybe the part you’d never dared to speak aloud—wanted it.

The next video you sent him was different.

You didn’t speak. You simply stood before the camera, holding eye contact. Still. Unmoving. Like you were letting him look. Really look.

You stayed like that for two minutes.

And when the final edit came back, it was exactly the same. No cuts. No filters. No manipulation.

Just you. Just him. Staring back.

The next file you received wasn’t in the usual folder. It arrived on a flash drive, taped inside a nondescript envelope, no return address.

You found it in your mailbox.

Your name printed in block letters.

Your real name.

The video was darker than the others. Titled only “Home.”

It opened with your front door.

From outside.

Rain dripped down the lens. Your window glowed dimly. Shadows moved inside.

The camera lingered. Patient. Unhurried.

And then the footage changed.

It was your hallway. The inside of your home. The familiar creak of the floorboards, the low hum of your fridge. Footsteps—soft, deliberate, a lover’s cadence.

Then your bedroom.

Your silhouette in bed. Sleeping.

Closer now.

And then—

Your eyes opening.

Not in fear. Not in surprise.

Just… open. As if you’d been expecting this.

The video cut to black.

And in your lap—real, physical, not digital—a note had been tucked inside the envelope.

You unfolded it slowly. Handwriting careful, almost elegant.

I’ll come when you’re ready. But I’m already yours.

You could’ve run.

You could’ve blocked him. Called the police. Changed your locks. Burned your hard drives.

But instead, that night, you lit a candle on your windowsill and left the door unlocked.

And in the quiet that followed, you laid in bed and whispered into the dark—

“…I see you.”

[retrowitchy]

Concept: evil katniss body double is rescued from the capitol with hijacked Peeta. Evil!Katniss meets real Katniss

loooooooooove this concept. love. thanks for sending this in, this is a great idea!!!!!!

I stare through the glass. I can feel Plutarch breathing down my neck behind me and I know he wants me to say something- so I refuse to say anything.

The person in there. The body, hunched over, cuffed to the bed, dressed in a hospital gown- it is not me. But it is.

I brace my jaw, only just realizing I have been grinding my teeth for the past minute and it hurts. I'm mesmerized by her. Her tangled black hair falls over her face just the way mine does, just the way I hate. Her fingernails are short and cracked. So are mine. I've been biting them raw since I got here. Her eyes, gray like mine- wait, no, they're more brown. So she's not exactly identical. But she's close.

I'm jolted out of my reverie by a hand on my shoulder. I know before even turning around that it's Haymitch, and he is not who I want to talk to right now. I want to talk to Peeta. I need to talk to Peeta.

"Pretty good likeness," is all Haymitch says. I glare at him.

"I want to see Peeta."

"You can't," he says, for the third time since the rescue team got back an hour ago. "We have no idea what Snow did to him. Thanks to Capitol Katniss, here," he throws a hand up to my double behind the glass window, "we know there's a strong chance he's been involved in some hijacking."

I turn all the way to him. "What's that?"

"Something we've been working out for a while now. It's a method of torture Snow likes to use- turning people's memories against them using tracker jacker venom to target their fear systems," Plutarch says. I forgot he was here.

What does that mean? Peeta was tortured? Brainwashed? Mind-controlled? And what does that have to do with her?

Plutarch answers before I can ask. "We think they might have used this Katniss to manipulate Peeta, to rewire his memories to see you as....something else."

"What?" I ask, looking from Plutarch to Haymitch. "Like, convince him that I don't l- that I hate him?"

Plutarch looks at Haymitch. Haymitch sighs.

"To convince him to see you as a threat. An enemy," he says.

An enemy. So this is how Peeta will see me now. Exactly what I saw him as in the beginning of our first Games. The irony is not lost on me. Of course, Snow knew it wouldn't be.

"I want to talk to her."

"I don't think-" Plutarch begins.

"Let her." Haymitch's expression is steely and strange. I wonder if he's ever heard of something like this before and has a bit of sympathy for me, or if he just has the opposite of my best interest at heart.

Plutarch watches both of us carefully for a minute. My face is probably mirroring Haymitch's, stoic and more serious about this than I've been about anything recently.

"Fine," he sighs. "But she's staying cuffed to that bed."

_____

The mechanical, hissing sound of the door locking shut behind me almost makes me jump. But I do not lose my focus on the girl in front of me.

Capitol Katniss, as Haymitch so staunchly put it, is sitting on the bed. As promised, she remains cuffed, but she is sitting up, facing me and meeting my eyes. I hate eye contact, but I'm maintaining it.

"Who are you." The words come out hoarse and my mouth is full of spit. Not as intimidating as I had hoped.

Her expression is unchanging. "Katniss Everdeen," is all she says.

"No, you're not," I say. "You're created by the Capitol. Snow made you. You're not me."

She just tilts her chin up at me. "How do you know you're not the one he made?"

And with this, she has a point. Snow has made me. He has shaped me, created a version of me that I never thought would exist. I have been a tribute, a victor, a wife, a mother, a deranged teenage girl, a leader of revolution. All of these things have been against my will. Maybe Capitol Katniss and I are not so different. But I know that's not what she means.

"You think I'm a mutt?" I ask.

"Can't rule it out."

This shakes me more than I want it to.

"What did you do to Peeta."

She does not tear her eyes away from me, this double of mine. She really can't be me, I think. She is undisturbed by any of this. They got the rasp in her voice right, though.

"I did what had to be done. I showed him the truth.

"What truth? That I'm the enemy? That I'll hurt him?" I blurt out.

"Do you think I'm wrong?" she asks.

I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. Because I don't think she's wrong.

From the very beginning, I have only brought danger to Peeta. I have only made his life miserable. I have endangered him in the arena. I have been unclear and uncertain about where we stand romantically. I have forced him to pretend to marry me. When I swore to protect him in the Games, he ended up a tortured captive of the Capitol. Every horrible thing that has happened to Peeta has been because of me.

I feel dizzy, and I can feel my breathing starting to get more shallow.

"I don't want to hurt him," is all I can say.

Fake Katniss leans forward. Unnerved. Powerful. Stronger than I ever will be.

"Katniss Everdeen. You are the reason he is here, and you will be the reason he dies. You are the biggest threat that has ever existed to Peeta Mellark," she says.

And with that, I am spiraling, banging on the door to be let out, tumbling outside, running, sobbing into the arms of Haymitch. I am weak. And she is right.

[splatsvilles-fashionista]

Been thinking about the possibility of a Splatoon 3 Switch 2 Edition again. I wrote it off initially because it wasn't in the Switch 2 Direct, but fool that I am I completely forgot that this year is going to be Splatoon's tenth anniversary, so they might be saving any announcements until then.

Though this had me thinking about what a Switch 2 upgrade pack for Splatoon 3 would even be. Performance boosts and changes to utilize the new technology they're building into the console of course, but would that be it? I can't imagine they'd lock actual new multiplayer content behind a paywall like that. It's not impossible of course, but Nintendo's clearly figured out long ago that that's not how they want to structure their paid content for their premiere multiplayer series. Splitting your players like that just isn't a good idea.

If the Switch 2 version of the game gets any exclusive content at all I think some kind of singleplayer DLC is more likely. Maybe we finally get a story focused on Deep Cut, or maybe those minor cuttlefish teases the game has here and there will finally pay off?

And of course, more multiplayer stuff is still a possibility, just unlikely to be just for the Switch 2 version. New weapons and stages would be the perfect way for Nintendo to breathe new life into the game in time for the new console and revitalize the fandom, and that's good for nintendo no matter which console people are playing on.

The one thing that makes me hesitate to call it a sure thing is that Grand Festival felt so confidently final that it'd almost be weird to keep adding stuff to the game after making that kind of statement, even if the devs didn't explicitly say it was the end. Extending Splatoon 3 is an option, but it's just as likely that the devs would rather start the new console with a clean slate.

We'll just have to wait and see, I suppose. I'm sure they'll do something for the tenth anniversary, so we've just gotta sit tight for now.