#when the conference finals happen
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Hockey superstitions are weird.Â
#i was going to add more#but that's really the whole post#i just always think of the statistics behind 'to touch or not to touch'#when the conference finals happen#because past five cup wins#it hasn't mattered#2022: colorado + tampa touched = colorado win#2021: montreal no touch + tampa touched = tampa win#2020: dallas no touch + tampa touch = tampa win#2019: boston + st louis no touch = st louis win#2018: vegas + washington touched = washington win#so based on the last five years#you actually SHOULD touch the conference trophy#nicole talks#more like nicole muses but...
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PLS PLS PLSSSSS keep talking about kids with olympic athletes! gojo and nanami pls pls pls i have to Know. everything u wrote about yuuta was already so so cute
(prev olympics au here)
the gojo twins are hilarious because your baby boy looks exactly like satoru, but has very little of his personalityâit seems like the only things he inherited was satoruâs love for sweets and love for you. still, even though heâs a strong swimmer, he much prefers to relax in his floaties alongside you if youâre also in the pool, or chill by your side on a lounge chair, glasses too big for his face keeping the sun out of his eyes as he shares his smoothie with you, and asks to borrow your phone to take pictures of his sister and daddy in the pool.Â
your baby girl on the other hand⊠she might have your face but sheâs got satoruâs everything elseâhis competitive streak, his confidence, and definitely his mischievous nature. sheâs the one who tiptoes into your bedroom at five in the morning, tapping at her daddyâs shoulders, and putting her little finger over his lip to shush him before he can wake you up; sheâs always the one to convince satoru to take her swimming the backyard at the crack of dawn, and why by the time you and your baby boy wake up, she and satoru are already past warm up laps and swimming lessons and onto who can make the splashiest canonball competitions (she always wins because while her tiny body can endure a belly flop, satoruâs years of training physically doesnât allow him to do it⊠and maybe because heâs not so competitive when it comes to his baby girl, heâll always let her win).Â
kentoâs professional judo career honestly doesnât last very long. after his first olympic games, you two start dating and he proposes just after he wins gold the second time heâs in the olympics; he does maybe two more years of national competitions while youâre pregnant, and decides that the intense training for the next two years in preparation of a third olympic competition isnât worth missing time he could spend with you or your baby girlâplus, with all the money heâs made from competitions, winning gold medals, brand ambassadorships, commercials, and collaborations, he had enough money to provide for all of your for the rest of your lives. so, thatâs what he does (his dream has always been to be a househusband, anyway...) his previous salaryman career comes in handy when deciding how to invest his money, how to buy a house, how to take care of his friends, how to set up a fund for your daughter, and an extra account or two⊠just incase more babies come alongâŠÂ
by the time your baby girl is four, sheâs already kentoâs biggest fan. she loudly and proudly proclaims to everybody that her daddy was basically superman and won all the shiny trophies and medals in the house from when he was being a superhero. if anyone recognizes kento when theyâre out together, she always confirms their suspicions, proudly boasting, âyeah kento is my daddy! heâs a winner!â it always makes kentoâs heart swell to hear her praise. he doesnât compete professionally anymore, but he does train from time to time, and has taken on a few mentees, and your daughter LOVES to watch him coach/train. sheâs got her own uniform that she always puts on whenever they go to the gym together, and gets so excited when kento or ino or yuuji pretend to spar with her.Â
sheâs honestly kentoâs mini figure. sheâs respectful and reserved, but strong and knows when to fight and how to use her voice. thereâs a time when he gets a call from her school saying that she got in a fight, the principal frames it as your daughter needlessly pushing around an older kid, but your daughter is certain in her words when she tells her dad that it was because the kid was being mean to the younger kids, and to her. kento doesnât say a word to the teachersâdoesnât even fight them sending her home early for the day, because heâs happy to scoop her up and take her out for ice cream and tell her that heâs proud of her.
#anonymous#gojo twins r so real to me... one looks like him but does Not act like him and the other one does not look like him but might as well Be Hi#and he loves n smothers them both so much....#kento goes from salaryman to professional athlete to househusband he really does live the dream life LOLLL#see also: kento's baby girl đ€ satoru's baby girl = best friends LOLL#in my head kento and satoru are olympians at the same time/know each other#but yuuji isn't he has his own story/trajectory#which is why he is nanami's mentee in This Universe#actually i think yuuji's kinda exists on his own#and all his friends/his circle are real proud of him when it's all said n done yk#nobara teases him about finally putting his strength to good use megumi is proud in his own way#his grandpa and nanami are obviously proud of him and he comes home w a gold medal#and is basically a hero in his tiny home town#(also time for me to introduce my favorite hc: yuuta and yuuji childhood friends bc they're from the same city)#the narutoism of it all... he comes home w gold and everyone basically tosses him up and down... angel boy :(#megumi kinda exists in the kento/satoru world too i think... nd before him there was toji#wait maybe yuuta and yuuji can exist in the same timeline nd everyones like what r the odds those two kids from sendai are olympians#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader#gojo satoru x reader#satoru x reader#nanami kento x reader#kento x reader#think tho in the yuuta/yuuji olympics verse yuuji competes 2 or maybe 3 times (so total of 12 years) nd then quits#not because he's gotten weaker but just because he really did it for the money yk but he's set for life now#honestly he was set after the first time but he just wanted to be sure/you and his grandpa encouraged him to at least do it to have Fun#this time around so he does#but for yuuta this is his Career yk like he loves tennis#he's not in it for the olympics he just likes it and happens to be real good at it#two of them talking about each other in press conferences so cute
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#ay. tomorrow might b the day i face the music#which is to say. i tell my advisor how fucked i am. i mean. ill spin it so it doesn't sound so bad#its just that ive told him like 2 weeks in a row that id send him my edited preproposal and i have not bc im too afraid to start reading#papers related to my project. which is frustrating. and like the thing is. and i kno ive said it before and i kno im not a fucking idiot#i can read papers and i can even understand what theyre broadly saying. but thats it.#zero critical thinking. zero insight. i use all my tiny fucking brain space to try to understand the words on the pages#and even then it only forms this broken fucking image of whats being said. like u dont understand. i used to struggle with writing papers bc#i couldnt fucking connect what i was saying from one paragraph to the next when i was the one doing the fucking writing.#what the fuck am i doing here? and again. im not stupid. i can follow the information if its fucking said out loud but thats not how this#works. and it just feels like sometimes there's a limit to what you're capable of and im at that fucking limit. the undergrads in my lab#have more ability to comment on papers than i do. its so fucking frustrating and i just have to live with knowing itll never get any easier#so what the fuck can i do other than drop out? theres no god damn way im gonna pass a comprehensive exam. not unless i buckel down and break#myself in half to try to retain all the information i need to. which requires that i read so many god damn papers that i cant fucking read.#just. why tf did i pick a career path where my suffering is inherent to a huge part of my job? i feel like ive consistently chosen to take#the hard path in life and ive finally stumbled too far from what is possible for me#so well see what comes out of my mouth tomorrow when i have my weekly meeting. i just feel like its my last semester#i feel like this is it. i just need someone to fucking hire me. bc everytime my lab mate mentions something abt#my project down the line or talks abt future conferences i should attend. im just like. its a nice idea but that's not happening. im just#at the end of the line and it sucks#unrelated
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I DO NOT. HAVE TIME. FOR A NEW HYPERFIXATION. I DONâT HAVE TIME FOR THIS.
#I watched half of nerdy prudes must die with my partner on Wednesday and finished watching it last night and then decided that seeing the#lords in black made me wanna actually watch nightmare time bc I tried when it came out but the format/video quality of the first one made#me never keep watching it but I wasnât feeling well today so I watched the first episode and then I had rehearsal and watched the second#one after that. help.#time bastard is absolutely horrifying and I love it so much#but also HELP I DONâT HAVE TIME FOR THIS ITâS CONFERENCE SEASON#AKA AT MY SCHOOL WHEN ALL THE BIG PROJECTS CAUSE WE DONâT HAVE TEST FINALS JUST BIG PROJECTS ARE ALMOST DUE I CANâT DO THIS RIGHT NOW#HELP#hyperfixation#adhd#autism#nightmare time#hatchetfield#starkid#team starkid#<333333#but also NO PLEASE WHY COULDNâT THIS HAVE JUST HAPPENED THREE WEEKS LATER#being neurodivergent is so funny bc no neurotypical will ever understand the feeling of something making you so happy and being so goddamn#mad that this is happening itâs so funny itâs terrible I hate it help dkdhdgdjdhdg#the heir speaks
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In case it's hard to read/understand: "If I had a nickel for every time I had a story with a blonde girl named after a plant, who has a German father and a French mother but absolutely hates said mom, I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice."
weird, extremely-specific tropes in my stories: pt 1
#oc liveblogging#ughhhhhhh i really CANNOT afford to be procrastinating rn but i know this happens when im extremelyyyyyy fucking stressed.#creative/art related classes always get me for this reason bc ill use 'wait but i need to find inspiration!' as an excuse to procrastinate.#fuckkkkkkkkkk. UGH IM NOT EVEN WRITING SOMETHING FROM SCRATCH ITS JUST A FINAL REVISION BUT IM CONVINCED IT SUCKS#the worst part is hkjhkjGHKJ I HAVE TO PRESENT SOME OF THIS SHIT AT AN. INTERNATIONAL FUCKING CONFERENCE GUYS. GUYSYSSSS#anyways this post is sadly not related to that. nothing im presenting is related to my ocs [un]fortunately lmao#ive just been thinking rotating various oc stories around in my head again ourgghhhh.#and i realized this LMAO. i mean maybe technically not 2 separate stories anymore because im recycling a lot from one for the other?#one of these was already established lowkey and the other was something i made for an assignment for a class like 2 years ago#i actually don't know if petunie will be blonde in her final incarnation?? ive always imagined her as silvery blonde ig but idk#if ill keep that. she doesnt have proper colors like colin but at least colin has his design set more straight somewhat.#and all the recent petunie development is lowkey really fucking funny to think abt. i girlbossed with her character development so#hard that she really replaced lucian as a protagonist HAHAJSDHKGJ. ok well not 100% kamille's story is a shoot-off#of lucian's technically? i guess? it started becoming that and now its solidified as that lowkey bc same town same place time period people#but man if im not careful i might accidentally make kamille/petunie's arc THE default one and lucian's main one the offshoot instead#a lot remains to be seen. but also yeah the other one who's story is mostly getting recycled (myrtille) actually ALSO HAD HER MOM#COME FROM THIS SAME FUCKING PLACE BASICALLY. a few decades later but still bruh given developments for lucian's story too its just like#at this point im noticing a pattern man wtf is wrong w/ women who come from this town specifically lol. đđ„Ž#this town in general is just fucking cursed though i think ahkjshkg. i mean that jokingly and literally lolololl i gotta. work on it. but y#I HATE IT HERE WHY ARE WEIRD LITTLE FUCKING TOWNS WHERE BAD SHIT HAPPENS ALWAYS A CONSISTENT TROPE IN MY STORIES /silly#I DONT EVEN COME FROM A WEIRD LITTLE TOWN MY HOMETOWN IS LIKE. AVERAGE NORMALISH NOT SUPER LARGE??? IDFK?????#haaaaaaa fuck i need to finish this by the end of TODAY I S2G!!! SO I CAN MOVE ON TO ALL THE OTHER SHIT I OWE FUCKKKK
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next week we're going into the peak of our conference season (starting on wednesday we'll have 6 conferences in 11 days) and our department's website decided to act up this week so we have to use workarounds for everything and still the most cosmically unfair part to me is that satisfactory 1.0 launches the day before everything gets the most busy which means i absolutely cannot play it for the next two weeks or i will be exhausted and get zero work done
#i was watching the final update/1.0 teaser over lunch today and it looks so good :(#but i know myself. i will stay up stupid late to play it and i'll just be even more exhausted during this hell week (hell fortnight)#at the end of that though i'll be owed two days off (bc i'm working two saturdays) and THEN i can go ham#i am trying to relax this weekend and not think about next week. it'll be fine. there's a lot of stuff happening but it's all workable.#i'm trying not to think of it as 11 days because the first week is the hardest part and the second week will be longer but simpler#and we do have the sunday off in the middle. last year it was actually 11 straight days#we have to find a way to not do this next year though. i feel like for two years we've been like 'this is terrible and we shouldn't allow#conferences to happen on the same day as much as we can' but then when course directors come to us with overlapping dates we never push bac#people come to us late but with plans and our dept heads don't want to say no so we just schedule them anyway#i get that it's revenue for us. we can't just say no completely. but i think we can definitely push harder on the scheduling front#anyway. it's 5:30 i'm going to stop talking about work#j rambles
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spent all of work watching season 2 of mp100 and livetexting it to hartley and yeahhhh. season 2 is still my favorite season out of all three despite the back-to-back agony of the mogami and separation arcs
#ignorance cloud on#i just love seeing mob develop his own identity and like. genuinely make change! and everyone around him is doing it too#and w the world domination arc its just so fucking cool to see everyone band together and u can literally see With Your Eyes how mob#has impacted all of these people's lives by how they fight and strategize and defend mob#ALSO REIGEN!!!!!!! MY GOD HIS CHARACTER ARC IS SO GOOD IN SEASON 2#end of separation arc literally makes me cry every time#ive watched it twice now and even tho i KNOW whats happening i still cant help but cry#as reigen says 'youve really grown up' FOLLOWED SHORTLY AFTER W MOB CALLING REIGEN A GOOD PERSON#ITS LIKE. UGH. UGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#i texted this to hartley in my teary haze but i love that part especially#because for a while i think reigen believed the only way he could securely become Somebody was through fame or infamy#which is why he didnt mind being a shady guy if it meant climbing the socio-economic ladder faster#but even he was getting bored w his own tricks until MOB SHOWED UP#and from that moment forward reigen BECAME somebody. he was somebody to MOB#AND HE WAS MAKING A DIFFERENCE TO MOB#and during the press conference reigen finally realizes like. hes been doing all of this for mob. bc he cares abt mob#and he values mob's opinion above all else bc even under all his tricks he just wanted mob to think he was cool and important#bc he had never felt that before. and then when mob tells reigen hes a good person despite the lies and bullshit reigen REALIZES#THAT HES ALWAYS BEEN SOMEBODY. HE NEVER NEEDED FAME OR MONEY OR INFAMY OR ANYTHING#BC AS MUCH AS HE'S BEEN AFFECTED BY MOB. MOB HAS BEEN AFFECTED BY HIM#WHICH MEANS HE HAS IMPORTANCE AND HE'S MADE GREAT CHANGE AND IT DOESNT HAVE TO BE GLOBAL#IT CAN JUST BE THE CHANGE HE MAKES IN HIMSELF. AND TO SOMEONE ELSE.#AND THATS TRULY THE MOMENT I THINK LIKE. EVERYTHIGN CONNECTS#AND REIGEN REALIZES HE CANT LIVE HIS LIFE WITHOUT HIS LITTLE SIDEKICK AND HES SO PROUD AND#AUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH REIGEN ARATAKA FATHER OF THE YEAR....#anyway. ahem. if i had to rank seasons from favorite to least favorite itd be: 2 1 3
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I just finished watching The Batman--the 2022 film, not the actually excellent 2004 series--on the recommendation of four professional-and-reasonably-well-respected film/comics critics.
If four people can be that wrong about something and still have jobs doing that thing the next day, I think people can probably deal with my more controversial opinions on widely-read texts. So thanks for giving me that push I need to finally just write what I want to say in this damn Dracula paper, people who confidently said The Batman (2022) was worth watching.
#I have a new Least Favorite Movie of All Time as of 90 minutes into this 170 minute pile of rancid garbage#I HAAAAAAATE media that despises its audience#and this fucking movie just knocked Funny Games off its perch#at least Funny Games was short in comparison#and *almost* smart enough to be worth discussing in the class on scopophilia I accidentally took that time#at one point in The Batman I was reminded of the video where someone swapped the models for Selina and Bruce in the Arkham game#and I booted my ancient dying laptop installed an update and searched for the clip to show my gf who hadn't seen it before#and I didn't even pause the movie#I missed *nothing*#also I *will* at some point come across a queer theory analysis of the scene where the Riddler is clearly pleasuring himself off camera#and I don't care if it happens in the middle of a conference I *will* scream and run out of the room when I finally come across it
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After the hospital bombing, I finally heard back from my grandmother and confirmed that several of my relatives were murdered by Israeli bombing. Seven of them, to be precise. Three are still going, including her. We've been talking constantly ever since.
Asked if it was possible to head south, and was told they did but were also bombed there. So they decided to go back home, in Zeitoun. Their home was bombed and they were pulled out of the rumble, then driven by ambulances to the al-Ahli Arab Hospital. There were people in every corner. Gazans sheltering, sleeping on the floor. Gazans dying on the floor, waiting for beds.
Four were declared dead on arrival, three were in need of surgery and other three were just bandaged. Then, a bomb was dropped in the parking lot that made parts of the ceiling collapse, like Dr. Ghassan Abu Sittah reported in that horrific conference/interview. Those in need of surgery died.
By the way, just in case you didn't know: the Church of Saint Porphyrius, the third oldest in history, bombed by Israel a few days back, was located near the hospital.
When looking for new shelter, they saw schools with signs hanging outside, "We can't take any more families." They met families, sympathetic but already sheltering too many people. They're now staying in an apartment building they found empty. Sleeping in the corner of the living room. If the family comes back, they'll apologize and leave.
Told me she was saving her phone battery for when the bombing stopped, and she had to ask for help to rebuilt the neighborhood. But she doesn't think it's gonna stop anymore. The ones still with her are mute most of the time, like they're saving energy, but she feels lonely and wanted to talk. There's no internet and to connect to WhatsApp, people are buying "a card from the supermarket, there's a password and username." Not sure what she meant. Still, the internet is inconsistent and won't load neither videos or images nor pages, so she doesn't know what's happening on the outside world.
Told her there were a lot of people protesting to stop the genocide, she replied, "The bombings are getting worse by the day." The bombing yesterday was the worst she ever witnessed. The entire neighborhood is infested with the smell of death, of decomposing bodies. Bodies are piling up in the streets and she's not sure if it's because they ran out of places to store them, but most of them are in bags. The smoke of the bombings hide the blue skyâshe hasn't seen the clouds for a while.
Asked if I could share their pictures, names and dreams with people and was told, of which I partly agree, "they're not entertainment." If anyone genuinely cared, they would be aliveâI'd argue there are people who do care, but I'm not gonna lecture her pain. And they don't deserve to be used to fulfill someone's sick fantasy. Told me to remember what some Israelis do with pictures of dead Palestinians. And I do.
For those of you who are not familiar, many times before settlers got together to celebrate the murder of Palestinians. For one, in 2015, Israeli settlers set a house in Duma, West Bank on fire. An 18-month old baby, Ali Dawbsheh, was burnt alive. Both parents later died of wounds and only a 5-year-old, Ahmad, survived, although severely injured.
Two celebrations of their murder are widely known, one at a wedding and others outside the court in which two were indicted for the terrorist attack. In the wedding, guests stabbed a photo of the toddler, Ali, while others waved guns, knives and Molotov cocktails. Israel's Minister of National Security, Itamar Ben-Gvir, was present.
That's what happens in an apartheid. Palestinians are so abused by authorities that their "innocent civilians" come to accept the brutality as necessary or are desensitized by our suffering. After all, it's been 75 yearsâget used to it!
So I won't risk the image of my loved ones, in fear they are used in these kinds of depravity. I will say, though, the world lost a young footballer. Lost a female writer and an aspiring ballerina. Lost a kind father, who was also a great cook, and a loving mother that enjoyed sewing and other types of handicraft art. Lost a math teacher and a child that wanted to become one.
People think Israel is testing new weapons on them. There's civilians arriving at the hospital with severe burns, which they thought was from white phosphorus, but apparently the pattern is different from the one caused by white phosphorus. It's widely believed Israel tests weapons in Palestinians.
Jeff Halper, author of War Against the People, a book on Israel's arms and surveillance technology industries, said: "Israel has kept the occupation because it's a laboratory for weapons."
They've ran out of drinkable water and the "aid" Biden sent was only for the South of Gaza and no fuel, for hospitals, was allowed in. Many shelves in the supermarket are empty. She said many are convinced that if they don't die from the bombing, they'll die from starvation or dehydration, or whatever disease will develop from the dirty water they're drinking.
Told me all people do now is pray, cry and die. Told me she hopes West Bank is spared. Told her Israel bombed a mosque in West Bank and dozens of Palestinians in West Bank are being murdered by settlers, so she bided me goodbye.
#palestine#free palestine#gaza#free gaza#may allah protect them#may almighty allah see our pain#hopefully she'll message me tomorrow
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â đđđđđđđ đđ
đ
đđđđ â
â BEING PROF. GETO'S T.A. IS SO HARD BECAUSE HE'S SO HOT!! â
⧠pairing: professor!geto x f!reader (part two of the prof geto series)
⧠summary: you're now professor geto's t.a. for the semester, forced to spend time with the man that you so desperately want, either of you barely able to hold back when you're around the other, so what happens when you're forced to go to a conference with him...and there's only one bed.
⧠warnings: 18+, nsfw, a lot of smut (mostly fantasy), depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader is a grad student in my mind, but age is vague, so much mutual pining, bed sharing, cuddling, masturbation (f + m), oral (m! receiving), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), semi public sex (sorta), office sex (kinda), amateur's take on moral philosophy and ethics, art by @/nino84391425
⧠wc: 16,821 (apparently i am writing a novel lol) | part one | part three | part four
âOn time for once?â Professor Suguru Geto remarks without looking up from his notes on the podium, even as your footsteps echo in the empty lecture hall, âcolor me surprised,âÂ
âCouldnât be late on my first day as a teacherâs assistant, now could I?â and his lips curl in that damnable smile, as he finally glances up from his notes to see you looking far too gorgeous in his button up â one you had oh so generously relieved him of last night, pilfered away in your bag seemingly.Â
âBut you could be late on your first day as a student?â and you lick your lips, as you draw closer to him, âseems like youâre quite the hypocrite, not very ethical,âÂ
âDonât think what we did last night was very ethical either,â you murmur, enjoying the way his dark eyes glaze over for a moment with the thoughts what you both did â the places touched, the moans heard, and the pleasure had â âplus, I definitely have an incentive to be on time now,â your fingers graze his, and why does his touch always feel like coming home.Â
âAnd whatâs that, sweetheart?â he murmurs, running the back of his hand against your cheek.Â
âYour gorgeous face,â you smile, leaning close as your lips brush, âand some stolen kisses before class,âÂ
âAnd what makes you think youâve earned them, my favorite student?â He teases, as his fingers slide to the back of your neck, and his other hand snakes around your waist, tugging you close.Â
âOh, I have a few ways to earn them, Professor,â your fingers drag down his chest, âbut I donât know if we have the time before class toââÂ
And his lips find yours â needy and bruising, as your fingers clutch at his shirt, the pressed fabric now definitely creased under your touch, âweâll make time,â he murmurs, as he leans back to drag his thumb down your plush lips, âI still have many things to teach you, and what time is there like the present?âÂ
Heâs leaning down to press a kiss to your lipsâÂ
RING. RING. RING.Â
Your eyes snap open, a groan crawls its way out of your throat, as you fumble for your phone to silence the dreaded ringing. You lie back on your bed, a distinct ache between your legs that makes you squirm, and only want to bury yourself back into your bed and possibly the reality that existed within only your dreams.Â
But this was sadly reality, and you had about two hours before your first class as a teacherâs assistant for Professor Suguru Getoâs ethics and moral philosophy class. And two hours before you would see Professor Geto for the first time since you had made out.Â
You turn over, pressing your face into your pillow. You wondered if you tried hard enough, if you could suffocate yourself before then.Â
Probably not. That would be far too lucky.Â
~~~
Professor Suguru Geto couldnât sleep â instead he spent his time staring at his ceiling, the blades of his fans spinning above him, just like his mind was â in circles. It was as if he almost didnât want to risk his dreams taunting him, it was the same reason he had buried himself in research over the semester break, the same reason he had put off emailing you the materials for the semester, and the same reason he hadnât seen you since that day you had kissed.Â
It was too much of a risk.Â
You were risk personified, even for a risk averse theologian he liked to think himself as. But you were the thing of myths, the dangled food for Tantalus, the far too warm sun for Icarus, and the promise of gold for King Midas. But you were not a myth â you were real, his student made of flesh and bone, the same flesh he had pressed into his desk just a few short weeks ago, his legs parting your thighs, his fingers itching to rip your pantyhose off your legsâÂ
He sighed, this wasnât helping â his bedside clock blinked back at him mockingly â he only had a few hours before his first class. He should try to sleep even a little. So he did, shutting his eyes, and hoped he wouldnât dream of you.Â
But he couldnât possibly be that lucky.Â
How many times have you stood in front of this office door? Your Professor, to which this office belongs, would joke that it was far too many to count â and youâd be better speculating how many times that Sisyphus rolled the boulder up the same hill. But the last time you had been in it was the thing that made you hesitate now.Â
But that was your entire relationship wasnât it? A game of chicken, wondering who would hesitate first â and neither of you were the type to hold back. Except when it came to this â except when it came to your feelings for the other.Â
You shake your head, trying to shake your anxious thoughts free of their eternal bounce around your skull, and grit your teeth before finally knocking.Â
âIâm actually right here,â a voice behind you says, making you jump, as you whip around, nearly pressed against his office door. And now you stood face to face with the man who owned it.
And how was it that every time you saw him, he was achingly more perfect than the time before? His ebony hair was half down, black locks brushing against his shoulders, the rest tied up in a neat bun. A crisp white button up underneath a neutral toned knit sweater vest, the shirt very much like the one you had stolen in your dream.Â
Perfect.Â
âProfessor Geto,â you offer a small smile, trying your best to keep your eyes on his, instead of drifting over his form, âitâs good to see you,âÂ
âItâs good to see you as well, and so prompt,â he says, brushing past you to unlock his office, âmade a habit of being on time these days?âÂ
âWell, when your professor reprimands you in front of the entire class, you try to make a habit of being on time,â why did it feel like your dream was repeating yet again? Itâs not as if your relationship with him wasnât cyclical enough â life imitating dreams was almost far too much. He opens the door for you, letting you enter first, before he follows you in, âand arenât you the late one this time?âÂ
His lips quirk, as he rounds his desk, and takes a seat, âYou really canât make it a conversation with me without giving me shit, huh?âÂ
âLanguage,â you chide, as you sit across from him, ânot very appropriate for an academic setting,â and you have to bite back the want to say that youâve done plenty of inappropriate things in this office the last time you both were here.Â
âWell, our track record isnât known for being very appropriate, now is it?â Or maybe you didnât need to say it, because the way he was looking at you told you everything you needed to know. But that didnât mean either of you would act on it. He licked his lips, mouth parted to say something, his gaze heavy.Â
And the moment is broken when his email goes off â you squeeze your bag a little tighter, as you busy yourself with digging through your bag for the materials to go over. That sound was nearly traumatizing in this office, not only did it usually signal the start of some assignment you had to trudge your way through â it also was the sound that had ended your relationship before it even really began.Â
âClass starts in an hour, so I thought we could have this meeting just to review the syllabus and see if you have any questions â as well as just overall any questions you had about being a T.A.,â he explains, pressing his pen to his lips, âI understand this is your first time being a T.A.?âÂ
âIt is, I hadnât really considered it until the department head approached me about that,â and he nods, a flash of emotion that surfaces for only a moment before dissipating, âwhat will my responsibilities be?âÂ
âGood question,â a smile pulls the corners of his lips, âobviously, as a T.A., you will have office hours that you can decide with your own discretionââÂ
âSo itâs okay if I have them once a month at 3:00 AM?â and he rolls his eyes as you bite your lip at the sight â why was everything he did so effortlessly attractive?Â
Fucking unfair.Â
âWitching hour, how apt,â he murmurs, as he tilts his head, âbut they should be weekly, as Iâm sure you know, and held not in the middle of the night, when nights should be used for other things,â and you have to bite back your reply, like what?Â
And then he continues to explain, âYou can also help with some grading â mostly entering grades online for me since you know I love to handgrade,âÂ
âOh yes, truly enjoyed having my self-esteem cut to shreds after receiving a paper back,â you scribbled notes down in your notebook, âglad I wonât be on the receiving end this time,âÂ
âIf youâre good, that is,â and you knew it slipped from his lips â from the way his lips parted, the way his body froze for half a second as if he had shocked himself â and he had, because the spark between you two remained, a weed stubbornly cracking through concrete, âsorryââÂ
âYou donât have apologize,â you shake your head, waving him off, âitâs really fine,âÂ
âItâs not,â he said softly, placing the syllabus down on the desk, âI know we agreed to keep our relationship professional,âÂ
âWe did,â Yes, you both did â sort of.Â
âAnd I want us to do thatââÂ
And you ask the question you werenât brave enough to ask the last time you two had seen each other, âWhy is that again?âÂ
When the email had come, it was as if a spell had broken â the rosy colored lenses had come off, only to leave the hard glare of reality behind. Your limbs still entangled while you both reread the email off of his screen â as if it would say something different the millionth time over.Â
It didnât.Â
And then the awkward clamor of disengaging, slow limbs pulling apart, as the warmth of his embrace left as quickly as it had come. Silence as the two of you let the news settle in, like a noose tightening around your necks, and you slowly slid off his desk.Â
âIf Iâm your T.A.,â you had said slowly, adjusting the skirt of your dress, âwe canât do this, can we?â and he had only nodded, his gaze unable meet yours, fixed to the rug on the floor of his office, and he could only muster two words as you brushed past him and gathered your thingsâ
âIâm sorry.âÂ
But even so, you couldnât remember why it was a bad idea? Why was it so wrong for the two of you to do this? What difference did it make that you were his T.A.? It was still against the rules either way â it was still unethical either way â so why, why did it matter?Â
But he knew why, from the way his brow creased with lines and his lips pursed and the way his eyes yet again couldnât quite reach yours â as if youâd spot something in them that he didnât want to see.Â
âBecause weâre going to working together all semester long, with students in class who will see us each week,â he licked his lips, leaning back in his chair, âbecause it was already problematic if we saw each other without any classes or connection, but now â if youâre my T.A. and my girlfriend, how would I even properly supervise you?â and he swallows, adamâs apple bobbing as he blows air through his teeth, before his voice grows softer, âhow would I focus on guiding you and our students if Iâm too busy gazing into your eyes or staring at your lips or wanting toââ he cuts himself off, âyou know itâs not a good idea, most of our students probably wouldnât notice, but rumors spread and it takes one good rumor to ruin your career,â and he adds, âwith how things work, you donât need me to tell you why it would be worse for you than me, even if I tried to take responsibility,âÂ
And you did know, knew very well that rumors got out that the two of you were together that nothing would happen to his reputation â perhaps he would be scrutinized a bit more, some judgment and side-eye from other professors and higher ups, but he wouldnât get vilified like you would. Called a slut or a whore â and those would be some of the kinder names youâd be called, and you canât imagine what it would do for your career, especially if you stay in academia. And then the rumors would fester and grow, more wondering where your grades came from â whether you had obtained them through honeyed words whispered over pillows and rumpled sheets instead through late nights spent at your desk and weekends practically living at the library.Â
âI do know,â you said quietly. But it didnât mean you wanted to do it anymore than you had that day. A part of you wished he had stopped you when you had turned to leave his office, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you into his armsâbut this was hardly a romance novel, âand youâre right,âÂ
He still has his gaze fixed anywhere but your face, settling his syllabus on his desk now, the silence familiarly filling the room yet again, muscles tense if your body didnât know whether to flee or to draw closer.Â
So you did neither, and instead broke the silence.Â
âSo would T.A.-ing provide an opportunity for me to teach the class?â and he blinks, eyes snapping up now, as a glimpse of sadness slips away behind his now thoughtful expression.Â
âWould you want to do that? I donât know if I could allow you to lead an entire class, only because some students may take some issue with another grad student teaching themââÂ
âI donât blame them with the tuition costs,â you mutter, and he nods, âdonât nod, itâs your salary Iâm paying for,âÂ
He laughs, a noise you wished you could bottle because you knew itâd be the same as bottling happiness, âWell worth your money after how much your writing and understanding of moral philosophy and ethics has improved,â and you roll your eyes.Â
âI see your ego is the same as ever,â and his lips curl, as he crosses his legs, and you fight the cruel temptation of your gaze flickering a little downward.Â
âWell, Kant did say an ego is necessary to understand the world meaningfully and therefore act in a moral way,â you tilt your head, being defensive with philosophy? That was a new one.Â
But you werenât one to let things go â as he very well knew.Â
âAnd he also said that an ego can lead you astray from living a moral life if we become too self absorbed,â and he raises an eyebrow.Â
âAre you calling me self absorbed?âÂ
You bite back a laugh, âWell, you are certainly self interested,â and you gesture around his office, âlook at this office,âÂ
âWhat about my office?â he gapes at you, and you snort, youâve seemingly struck a nerve by how wide his jaw dropped.Â
âItâs a littleâŠpretentious,â and dare you say it, your professor had a touch of pink painted across his cheekbones and the tips of his ears,Â
God heâs even pretty when he blushes.Â
âIâm just teasing Professor,â and then you add, âitâs one of my more tedious qualities,âÂ
And he blinks, before his lips curl in the smile you never tired of seeing, ânot tedious, more irritating,âÂ
You chuckle, before trying to get back on topic, âSo you think you could work out me teaching a part of the class?âÂ
And he nods, âLet me discuss it with the department head â it should be fine,â
âDo I have any other responsibilities?âÂ
âIf it doesnât conflict with your schedule, you can also attend some classes, students can stay after and ask you questions as well,â and you nod, looking over his class times in the syllabus.Â
âI can make the Tuesday one,â and he makes a note, as you rise, âwe should go. Donât want to be late for the first class now do we?âÂ
And he smiles the same damnable smile, âThat would be a terrible first impression,â and his shoulder brushes yours as he opens his office door for you, âafter you,âÂ
God, you thought as you stepped past him, the warmth from the brush of his body still there, this was going to be a long semester.Â
If there was one thing you had learned from being a teacherâs assistant for Professor Getoâs class, it was that the students were even more desperate for your professorâs attention than you had thought. You thought your introduction had went relatively well â besides the pointed glares of severalâŠ.enthusiastic students.Â
After his detailed overview of the class, he reaches the resources section of the course syllabus, âNow, I am available at my listed office hours, in which you can make an appointment online. Thereâs also tutoring services through the university listed as well. And lastly, we have a T.A. for this class, for the very first time,â and he smiles, âClass, please meet your T.A. for this semester,â Professor Geto says your name and gestures to you, sat up in the corner of the lecture hall, and you stand, waving, âyour T.A. took this very class last semester and showed great grit and dedication in the class assignments,â you have to stop yourself from shooting him a look, but you can see a hint of a smile on his lips, âShe is also a philosophy student, so please, feel free to reach out to her,âÂ
âThank you Professor Geto for thatâŠgenerous introduction,â your pause was slight enough that he caught it, a smile tucked behind an all too fake cough, âI really look forward to working with you all â this class truly had a great impact on my perspective about the world,â and you catch a flicker of an emotion ripple across his face out of the corner of your eye, âmy office hours will be posted soon, and I hope we can get to know each other well over the course of this semester.âÂ
You sit as the students cast their gaze forward again, and the class continues on as usual. You make use of your time by reading for some of your other classes, until class was over.Â
And thatâs when you really learned something. As requested, you joined Professor Geto at the bottom of the lecture hall to help field questions from the students.Â
Except, the students were far more interested in Professor Geto than they were in the course material.Â
But maybe it was simply because it was the beginning of the semester right? It couldnât happen again right?Â
It was a good thing you werenât getting graded because you would earned yourself a zero. As again, the next week, students were only interested in Professor Geto â whether it was because it was for his intellect or â you glanced at the students mooning over him â something else.Â
Something you knew very well.Â
You were forced to watch a female student flutter her eyelashes, then another brush against him, as she showed him what passage was confusing her, and then another student couldnât stop staring at his lips. And then you wonder, if it had been another student who kept pestering him week after week, would it have been them instead of you? Would they have shared those moments together? Maybe even they would actually gotten to be in a relationship, instead of watching other people flirt with himâ
âExcuse me,â your eyes snap up from your reverie and you see two students, seemingly waiting to speak to you.Â
Those students had seemingly taken pity on you and spoke to you about the class, tips, and asked about your office hours. But soon enough, the students filed out one by one until it was just you and Professor Geto. And heâs collecting his things, as he glances at you, lingering still as you check your email on your phone, âDonât you have class after this?âÂ
You blink, âhowâd you know that?âÂ
And heâs straightening his notes to place back in his bag, before he turns to look at you over his shoulder, âwell youâd always rush off after class so it was either you had class or you didnât want to be alone with me,â he looks back to his bag and you hear the click of the zipper, âI was hoping it would be the former,â he adds.Â
âWell, I never lingered after class when I was taking it either,â you adjust your bag, toying with the strap â why was it anytime you were with him it felt like stepping into quicksand, the more you struggled, the more you sunk â and even if you didnât move at all, you were still stuck all the same, âdidnât want to get in the way your students stroking your ego,âÂ
And he raises an eyebrow, âAre we back to my ego again?âÂ
âI donât see you shying away from smiles and praise from your students,â and his brow knits together, as he places his bag down on the podium, âno wonder your ego is so large,âÂ
âWhat students?âÂ
âOh please, the ones swarming your desk after clsss. Didnât you ever wonder why so many students from different disciplines take your class?â he opens his mouth and then you add, âand donât say philosophy and ethics apply to every aspect of life,âÂ
And then he seems to consider the thought, as before his lips curl, as he leans against the podium.Â
âAm I detecting some jealousy?â he smirks, and you pause before you scoff â far too quickly.Â
âNo,â and he only smiles wider.Â
He chuckles, âThat was convincing. Iâm glad your ability to teach is much better than your ability to lie,âÂ
âIâm notââÂ
âJealous or not,â and you have to bite back your retort, his gaze freezing you in place, a softness you hated to see â because you didnt know whether it made you want to push him away or pull him close, âthereâs only ever been one student who caught my eyes,âÂ
Ah, there is was â you were sinking again.Â
âReally?â you mumble, crossing your arms, ânot even one other? You have a habit of unethical behavior for an ethics professor,âÂ
Heâs grabbing his bag, before heâs taking a step forward to whisper, âOnly when it comes to you,â and you have to force yourself not shiver at his words warming your skin, âIâll see you next week,âÂ
And heâs gone â as you stand in the empty lecture hall next to the podium, the very one from your first dreamâ and youâre right back where you started.Â
Professor Suguru Geto wasnât the type to make mistakes. He was always meticulous and methodical â he used the very principles to help guide his life â because it gave him a moral framework, a way to interpret the world and his own actions. Thatâs what had drawn him to ethics in the first place. But then he met you.Â
And it seems like heâs made nothing but mistakes since.Â
He sat in his office after he practically fled the classroom, forcing his pace to be normal, hoping you didnât see the flush on his face. Fuck, he tossed the pen he had picked up to start grading away, what was he doing?Â
He had told himself it was for the best â again and again when he watches you leave at the end of the last semester. He held his muscles taut as he watched you gather your things, stepping over the crushed pieces of both of your hearts. The two words he had barely choked were the only ones he could manage before he watched his office door shut behind you.Â
It was for the best. It was for the best. It was for the best.Â
That sentence was on repeat in his mind as he tried to work on his paper over the break â âtryâ being the operative word. It felt as if even his work hadn't been untouched by you â your impact widespread and all consuming â just as your actual touch was.Â
Fuck, he rakes his fingers through his hair, how was he going to survive this week much less this semester?Â
He couldnât afford to be selfish â for your sake and his own. But it didnât mean he didnât want to be. He runs a hand over his face â he all but blatantly admitted that he had feelings for you after class. After promising to keep things professional â he was the worst.Â
He only wished he was worse enough to do what you both wanted when you asked him in his office why you both couldnât be together. He wanted to tell you the reasons why you should be â because he couldnât stop thinking about you despite never seeing you over the break, his heart nearly stopped when he saw you standing in front of his office, and because he couldnât help but smile when he could see you hesitating in front of the door â but he couldnât help but smile when it came to you. But he didnât.Â
He couldnât.Â
But he also couldnât help but toe that damn line in the sand, the one that he had drawn, but the one so desperately wanted to cross.Â
And then there was a knock at his door, he sighs, âCome in,âÂ
The department head enters his office, as Suguru blinks before he gets to his feet to offer his hand, as they exchange greetings, before gesturing for him to sit, âTo what do I owe the pleasure?âÂ
âI saw your email about having your T.A. teach part of your class, and I wanted to get a little more detail about it,â Suguru nods, his face composed, but his body tense â paranoia scratching at the back of his mind, no one happened to see them kiss had they? No one was on campus really at that point. And the door was closed â he probably just wanted more information. Â
âWhat questions did you have?â and the department head runs down his list â what topic would you cover? How much class time would it take? Would he be asking the class first? Would he review your materials beforehand?Â
âWell, you both seemed to have thought a lot about this,â he leans back, crossing his leg over the other, âI think having her teach a part of a class is fine, but I would like you both to do it sooner rather than later,â and Suguru opens his mouth, but then he adds, âand Iâd like to attend that class,âÂ
Suguru tilts his head, âYou would like to attend my class?â He considers his words carefully, âI was under the impression, based on the rules, the only thing needed to allow a T.A. to teach was the approval of the department head,â his anxiety begins to pick away at his nerves, âitâs not unusual for a T.A. to teach here correct?âÂ
It was his first time having a teacherâs assistant at this university so perhaps this was a quality check? To ensure both you and him were meeting the standards of the university â and his anxiety added, and to make sure no rules were being broken by either of you.Â
âYes, itâs not unusual, and I have my reasons which Iâll discuss with you after the class,â he checks the time and rises from his seat now, âI have another meeting soon â do you think she can present in two weeks?âÂ
Suguru hesitates, âIâll have to ask her but most likely that should be fine,âÂ
âOkay please send an email ccâing her and confirm the details,â he says his goodbyes, and heâs gone, as Suguru sits and considers this â what could he be planning?Â
Or, his nerves add, what could he be looking for?Â
Either way, he pulled up your email â it was going to be an interesting two weeks.Â
âDeontology determines whether an action is right or wrong based on a set of rules and principles instead of the consequences of the actions,â you speak to an empty lecture hall, your voice echoing in the silence, âtherefore an act that isnât morally good can lead to a good outcome,âÂ
You had come into the lecture hall to practice yet again this week. You were cursing your past self for inflicting this optional task on yourself â it had taken far more time than you had expected (whatâs new?), taken far more preparation than you thought (again, of course), and now had the fun added pressure of the department head attending. And why was he attending? A wonderful and complete mystery.Â
The last two weeks have been amazing for your mental health, truly.Â
You were lucky the lecture hall and the building at large was deserted at 8:00 PM â all of the staff and students had all but fled, and you were left with the perfect place to practice. It had been many nights of honing your presentation to the allotted time, leaving time to pose a thought exercise, time to discuss, and for questions.Â
You donât see the door behind you open, nor do you hear it close, as you use the clicker to go through your PowerPoint, switching to the next slide.Â
âFor example, killing an intruder, based on the consequence would be wrong, as I hope we all know killing is wrong â otherwise, I worry about what will happen when you get your grades back,â you give a brief chuckle â and hope some of the students would pity you with some laughs, and thatâs when you hear a small laugh behind you.Â
Your head snaps around, flushing when you see Professor Geto standing by the door. Heâs wearing a deep royal purple button up and gray slacks, the sleeves rolled up exposing his forearms.Â
God, this wasnât a dream was it?Â
âDonât let me stop you,â he says, his footsteps against the floor grew closer, and your body tenses, until they stop, âgo on,â and he leans against the wall behind you.Â
âBut when you do kill an intruder to protect your family, thatâs viewed as right under deontology,â and you canât focus with his gaze running over you, an all familiar feeling settled over you. Would life imitate dreams again? Would he come over and ask you to continue your presentation as his lips pressed gentle kisses to your neck and shoulder? Would heâÂ
âAre you okay?â he asks, and you canât meet his gaze, but you hear his footsteps, âshould I go?âÂ
âNo, no, itâs just,â you shake your head, âa little deja vu,âÂ
He raises an eyebrow, âdeja vu?âÂ
Your blood runs cold. Fuck.Â
âI donât recall you ever presenting like this in my clsss before,â you can't decide if his voice is more thick with confusion or curiosity.Â
âYeah, no, sorry itâs nothing,â you brush him off, your eyes fixed on your notes on the podium, and you know heâs still staring, âwhat?âÂ
âI see youâre still not a very good liar,â and you scoff, âwhat is it thatâs gotten you so bothered?âÂ
âNothing,â you insist.Â
âThe more you say that, the less Iâm convinced,â and now heâs walking closer, closer still â but youâre fixed in place, âwhat is it?â
âYou never let anything go, do you?â And you turn, your breath catching when you saw how close he was â inches from you, his pretty eyes wide at the sudden movement, his breath warming your lips. Black strands fall in his face, and you have to stop yourself from tucking them behind his ear. Stop yourself from wanting to touch him, stop yourself from wanting him to lean forward, stop yourself from wanting him.Â
Nothing good ever came from your want.Â
âOnly when itâs you,â but this man makes it impossible not to want him. Not when his voice is soft, not when the back of his finger, a knuckle brushes against your cheek. And no words are needed â you can hear it in the silence between you both, you feel it in the gentleness of his touch, and in the softness of his gaze.Â
And you know youâre in love with him. You are.
But you canât be.Â
âIâm not telling you,â you murmur, looking away â and it seems to break the spell, as he steps back, nodding, a flicker of sadness that slips away under his facade, âbut maybe I will sometime, over a drink,â you add.Â
A smile tugs at his lips, âWell we know how well that went, or didnât go rather, and you know, we canât anytime soon,âÂ
âWell sometimes an action that isnât morally good can lead to a good outcome,â and he raises an eyebrow.Â
âUsing deontology to convince me?â He tilts his head, ânot a bad strategy â maybe Iâll have you write a paper,âÂ
âAnd willingly subject myself to your red pen? No thanks,â and he snorts, before the smile fades into a frown, brow wrinkled in thought, âwhat is it?âÂ
âNothing, Iâm justâŠâ he crossss his arms, âIâm wondering why the department head wants to observe your presentation,âÂ
âHe didnât give any indication why?â and he shakes his head, âmaybe he just wants to evaluate how good a job youâre doing,â you add, âyou are relatively green,âÂ
âNot that green,â and you see his lips pressed together â and is he? â he was â he was pouting. You bite your lip how fucking adorable â but you know youâd be met with a scowl if you said that out loud, âdonât you worry that the dean may suspect something between us?âÂ
The thought had crossed your mind, but class had been nothing but professional so far, and youâd be too busy sweating bullets (and perhaps dodging them from the students if the presentation went poorly) to even consider your feelings for him.Â
You sigh, âLook, nothing to do but get through it, right? It should be fine, weâll deal with whatever comes after. As long as I donât choke, and you donât stare at me too adoringly, we should be fine,âÂ
And you expect a retort, a cheeky reply, or even a quite sarcastic one, but he only gives a small smile, âRight,â
You feel your cheeks burn and you canât meet his gaze again without feeling your heart flutter.Â
Fuck â maybe there was something to worry about.Â
Despite the concerns, the presentation goes off without a hitch. You spot the dean sitting in the corner of the lecture hall, pen and notepad in hand, which did nothing to soothe your poor heart (nor did the far too many cups of coffee and the total lack of sleep).Â
It happened quick â a blur of speaking, forcing yourself to slow your words down, a necessity when presenting â as you knew you always spoke faster than you believed you did when presenting. You think you even made the students laugh a few times, led an interesting thought experiment with a rousing debate that ended with no clear answer (as always), and then you answered questions.Â
All the while, Professor Geto stood in the back, and youâd catch a glimpse of him by the corner of your eye, his lips curled in that smile that haunted all your nights and days.Â
By the time it was done, you had barely realized time had gone so quickly, as you passed the metaphorical baton back to Geto. And you took a seat off to the side, opting to watch him lecture, rather than busy yourself with other work.Â
It felt like old times, you thought, as you watched him speak. You couldnât blame the people that took his class just to watch him speak â he was unfairly beautiful when he spoke, gesticulating as he read a Kant quote. And you kept your face as neutral as possible, but he catches your eye for a moment, corner of his lip twitching upwards. And a flush settles over your cheeks, as you discreetly press your thighs together, trying to look suddenly engrossed with your notebook.Â
Your heart ached as much as your body did. You wanted to walk over and just kiss him, swallow his smart words along with his gasp, and feel those hands run along your body. You wanted to know every thought in his head, every part of his day, and fall asleep beside him.Â
You glance up to see him still speaking â a black strand falling in his face. You bite your lip, before looking back down.Â
This man would be the death of you â and it was even worse being alone with him. Youâre thankful that your T.A. check-ins with him were every other week, because you couldnât imagine having to spend more than an hour with him every other week.Â
âYou want us to do what?â You blink at the Dean, his lips curled in a smile, his hands tucked into his pockets.Â
âApologies for all the secrecy, I did not receive confirmation about this until earlier today,â he explains, âbut I want you two to attend this conference on ethics and philosophy â itâs over the weekend, two weekends from now. It would be a wonderful opportunity for the both of you to make connections and attend presentations, as well as mingle with prospective students. It would also afford us an opportunity for both of you to help put our university on the map,âÂ
You glance at Professor Geto, his lips parted in surprise, âSir, is it appropriate for a male professor and aââÂ
âDonât worry, the accommodations will be separate and itâs a public event, as long as everything remains professional, thereâs no problem, right? As long as you two are okay with it and thereâs no problem,â he glances between the two of you, âis there a problem?âÂ
And Professor Getoâs eyebrows knit together. It was a lose-lose situation â saying no meant raising some suspicions that there was an issue between the two of you, but saying yes meant going on a trip with the same professor you had kissed at the end of the last semester. And if anything happened on this trip...it could be very bad â ethically and otherwise.Â
So you make the decision for both of you.Â
âThatâs fine. Iâm happy to attend if Professor Geto is,â and you know you have no choice â you had to spend the weekend with him, alone. At a conference. In a hotel.
âDo you have everything?â Professor Geto asks, as you hand him your suitcase, your fingers brushing as you do. He lifts your suitcase into the trunk of his car, his black t-shirt riding up as he does, a quick flash of the expanse of his musclesâ
Fuck, you bite your lip, stop, stop. Professor. Heâs a professor.Â
It didnât matter that you had felt him part your thighs, as his lips slid against yours, nor that every time you saw each other, you felt this undeniable ache to touch him, comfort him, hug him, nor that you knew he felt the same and wanted to give in as badly as you didâ
No, it didnât matter.Â
You consider his question, scrunching up your face in thought, âI think so, wait,â you snap your fingers as he glances at you, âforgot the rest of my apartment upstairs â you think thatâll fit in there too?âÂ
He smirks, rolling his eyes as shuts the trunk, âHa, ha, ever consider becoming a comedian instead of a philosophy major?â
âEvery day, but then I think what would my favorite professor do without me?âÂ
He raises an eyebrow, âIâm your favorite?âÂ
âWho said it was you?â you grin at him, as he shakes his head and you open the passenger door seat and slide in, as he slips into the driverâs seat. He adjusts his mirrors, buckling his seatbelt, as a sudden wave of guilt bombards you. You had dragged him down this rabbit hole with you â and now the two of you had to spend the entire weekend together, alone.Â
You lick your far too dry lips, âSorry if I roped you into this,â you fidget with your phone, tapping on the screen absentmindedly.Â
He starts the car, engine roaring underneath your feet, before he glances at you, brow furrowed in seeming confusion, âWhat? Itâs not you that roped us into this,âÂ
You purse your lips, âBut if I didnât agree to itââÂ
He sighs, âWe were in a position where we didnât have much of a choice,â his fingers drum against the steering wheel, as his eyes flicker to make sure your seatbelt was on, âitâs not your fault â and itâs not a bad thing â weâll spend time at the conference, weâll mingle, and then return to our hotel rooms,â he adds, âdonât worry. Nothing will happen.âÂ
And his reassurance is almost a punch to the gut instead â and your brain chides you for being so childish â you knew it was for the best, you knew it was the right thing to do, and you knew he was trying what was best for you, and for him.Â
But why did it hurt so goddamn much?Â
You steal a glance at him as he pulls into the street and begins to drive, dark gaze forward, his hair tied into its usual neat bun, and a chain poked out from underneath the rounded opening around his neck. And then your eyes flicker back out the window. Â
Was it really not a big deal to him?Â
Because the last two weeks were consumed with nothing, but thoughts of being alone with him. Days spent in conferences, sitting beside each other, whispering thoughts and inside jokes; evenings spent socializing together, waiting for the other to give the signal to leave; and nights walking back to your rooms, fingers brushing as you walked beside each other. You were sure it would take a slight bend of the rules, a gaze that lingers a little too long, to break the paper thin resistance either of you had to the other. The two of you could barely be alone for more than a few minutes without temptation rearing its ugly head â even now your eyes canât help but trace the curve of his jaw, the way the sunlight catches his eyes, the way your fingers want nothing more than intertwine with his hand that rests on the console between you two.Â
But you donât. You give a weak smile, glancing out the window as the streets of Tokyo pass you by â âYeah it should be fine.âÂ
Just fine.Â
âThere was a problem with your reservation,âÂ
And after half an hour of waiting off to the side, with your luggage stacked up and irritation creeping its way to a new high as you watched others easily being checked in to the hotel, you assumed there was a problem. If there wasnât a problem, you would wonder if this was a new take on Waiting for Godot that would end with the both of youu sleeping in the lobby. You rubbed at your temples, as Geto dealt with the hotel staff, his arms crossed, lips a tight line, âthe hotel double booked one of your rooms, so we only have one room available for you.â Â
You barely heard the rest of the argument your professor had with the hotel staff, the same phrase ringing in your ears â one room, one room, one room. With nothing more to argue about, they finally escorted you both to your room in awkward silence. And as they opened the door, you spotted it â there was only one single queen sized bed.Â
One. Bed.Â
You felt your cheeks flush, as you couldnât even meet Getoâs eyes, as he began to speak heatedly with the manager again. And the excuses began, as the manager wrung his hands, about how no other rooms being available due to the conference and another event happening in town.Â
âThere is a couch though,â he offers, pointing to a far too small couch, and the sharp glare that Geto gave him would put even his red pen to shame, âwe will see about comping halfââ Geto crosses his arms, âall of your stay here,â and with that, heâs gone.Â
âSo,â you sigh, glancing at Geto, with a strained smile, âI have dibs on the bed?âÂ
Was this a cosmic joke? You wondered as you turned off the water of the shower, squeezing your eyes shut. Was this a version of ethical karma for what you had done last semester? An ultimate ethical test that you would surely fail? A fucking prank show?Â
You didnât know. You dried off and got dressed, pulling on a t-shirt and shorts, your hair still damp, as you took a breath and stepped out, towel slung over your shoulders.Â
Geto was still on the phone, pacing back and forth â he was trying to call other hotels to see if there was anywhere else with two rooms or at least a room with two beds.
âYes I understand itâs very last minuteââ he sighs for what must have been the billionth time today, âyes, there was a mistake at the hotel Iâm staying atâyes, ok, well, thank you,â he hangs up, setting his phone down.Â
âNo luck?â You sit on the edge of the bed, wiping your hair, and he shakes his head.Â
âThe one thing they were right about is that every hotel room is booked solid â not only is our conference in town, but thereâs a physical science consortium happening as well,â he rakes his fingers through his hair, a few strands coming loose, âIâll have to give the Dean a call to update him on the situation,âÂ
You nod, âSo what should we do about sleeping?â And he canât quite meet your gaze, âare there no trundle or rollaway beds?âÂ
âNo, apparently those have all been spoken for,â he grumbles, and he prepares to call the dean, âIâll take the couch, you can have the bedââÂ
âProfessor, we canââ and his gaze snaps to you, âwe can shareââÂ
âNo, we canât,â he says softly, âyou know we canât do that,âÂ
âWeâre both adultsââÂ
âAnd weâre still a professor and a student,â he draws the line between you two again, the gash even deeper than before, the gap thatâs meant to keep you safe â the chase meant to protect you â so why did it feel more like a punishment? âIâll take the couch,â and he calls the Dean to update him on the situation.Â
You busy yourself with drying your hair in the bathroom, before coming back out to see him hanging up the phone.Â
âWell, are we in an ethical bind or should I go sleep in the lobby just to show thereâs no funny business?â And he shoots you a look, âthere have been stranger bedfellows,â and he opens his mouth, âand a single word comes out of your mouth, and Iâll join you on that couch,âÂ
And a very pretty flush adorns the tips of his ears and cheeks, âHe said it was fine, it was out of our control, but to just document everything, including the hotelâs incompetence for legality reasons,âÂ
âYouâre also a lawyer as well as a professor?âÂ
âYou have to hedge your bets,â he shrugs with a smile pulling at his lips, before he checks the time, âIâm going to take a shower,â he sighs, pulling his hair from the messy bun, letting his black locks down. And you watch him run his fingers through his hair again, sighing, as he heads into the shower.Â
You lay on the bed, biting your lip â as you turn over to use your phone, as the shower turns on. And you glance at the closed door â the thought of him in there, pulling his shirt over his head, shedding his pants and boxers. Your cheeks burn, burying your face in your pillow as if that would help (it did not).Â
You curl up on the bed, turning away from the bathroom door, using your phone. And a few minutes pass, as you kind of drift off into sleep, and you hear a creak of the bathroom door open that rouses you from sleep. You donât move at first but you hear shuffling, the sounds of a zipper. You finally turn on your other side, eyes fluttering open, and youâre met with the sight of bare skin.Â
You blink, eyes flickering up to see your Professorâs flushed face, before your eyes slowly following a bead of water slip down his bare chest, black hair dotting along the middle of his chest and abs, down to a happy trail that was hidden by a towel wrapped around his waist. His clothes in his hand, and your eyes find his own, your lips parted and mouth impossibly dry.Â
Oh. My. God.Â
âUhââ and his cheeks flare red, as you try your best not to let your eyes flicker downward, âI forgot my clothesââ and you turn away, as he darts back into the bathroom, âIâm sorry,â he says, muffled through the door.Â
âItâs okay!â You reply, your heart thumping against your ribcage, squeezing your eyes shut to only be met the memory of his bare torso, âfuck,â you mumble under your breath, as you turn onto your back, and stare at the spinning ceiling fan above you. A distinct ache below at the thought of him.Â
Your eyes flickered to the shut bathroom door. You hear the sound of water running again â maybe he needed to wash up again. Either way, you slid under the comforter, hand slipping into your shorts, you had some time. You wish you could have grabbed his hand before he fled into the bathroom, sat up on your knees, fingers sliding to his cheek.Â
âKiss me,â youâd murmur, and he would, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips sweetly, as your fingers glide up his bare chest. Youâd swallow his gasp with delight, as your other hand finds his wet locks, fingers tangling in his black locks, âplease,â you would guide his fingers to the hem of your shirt and he would oblige, lifting up and over your head. And your fingers would tug his towel away, letting it fall to the ground.Â
Your fingers press against the wet patch on your underwear, teeth digging into your bottom lip as you gasp, imagining it was instead his eager fingers that tugged your shorts down. You sunk one finger in and then another, pumping slowly, and you knew he would get you ready for him. He would fuck you with his thick fingers, as his mouth latched to your clit, sucking gently as he fucked you open. You moaned his name softly, as you imagine his fingers stretching you open.Â
âDo you want me, my pretty girl?â He would murmur between your thighs, lips glossy with your release, âsâgood for me, taste as good as you look,â and he would press your back gently into the mattress as he would meet your lips again before, rubbing the tip of his cock against your puffy lips, âtell me what you want, Princess,âÂ
âPlease,â you whispered, as you moved your fingers faster, adding a third finger, but you know his cock would feel so much thicker, and reach so much deeper, âfuck me,âÂ
And he would, sinking into you, his pretty cock parting your folds, his quiet grunts and moans whispering in your ear, as he works himself inside to the hilt. His lips would find yours as he would rock his hips into you â your cunt would flutter around his length. He would press your thighs apart further, long fingers digging into your soft flesh, the wet squelch of your cunt and the sounds of his skin slapping against yours would ring in your ears.
âSâclose, Suguâfuck,â you would keen against him, instead of your fingers, âplease,â and his thumb would find your clit, just as yours did, and you would cum all over his cock, squeezing around his length, as he sinks even deeper, until his tip is brushing against your cunt. The moan of his name slips out, as you press your forearm against your mouth to barely stifle it.Â
Fuck, you come down from your high, panting. And you glance at the bathroom door, thinking youâll clean up once he gets out. You roll over in bed, as you pulled the pillow over your face.Â
This was going to be a long weekend.Â
Suguru lingers in the bathroom for far too long after that, the embarrassment of the moment still far too fresh in his mind, his cheeks still a dusty pink at the thought. Not only was it bad enough that he was trapped in this hotel room with you for an entire weekend, but now he had paraded out practically half naked for you to see.Â
Fuck his life.Â
He had hurried into the shower if only to get a break from being in the same room as you. It had been hard enough to endure the last few weeks as a T.A., but now he had to spend an entire weekend sharing a hotel room â and deal with situations like that one all weekend. Seeing you emerge from the bathroom, only in a t-shirt and shorts, still damp from your shower â wet hair in messy tangles that he wanted to run his fingers throughâ and thatâs why he excused himself to the bathroom. A reprieve if only for a moment. If he had only remembered to bring his clothes into the shower â he wouldnât have had to finish his shower, with only his discarded clothes to wear that had slipped off the clothes rack and onto the damp floor.Â
He had stepped out, towel around his waist, as he peeled out, only to see your back to him, the sounds of soft breathing told him you were asleep. And he crept out, silently cursing as the door creaked and rifled through his suitcase for clothes. He had found them, and gone to retreat back when you roused and turned all at once.Â
God, he sighed, it was such a mess.Â
But the way you looked at himâŠlips parted, gaze flicking across his body, the way your eyes lingered a little too long on his torso â and now he had an entirely different problem.Â
His cock tented against the towel, as his eyes slid to the bathroom door. What if he just hopped into the shower for a second again? The towel dropped to the floor, as he steps back into the shower, turning on the water.Â
He groans, his fingers slide over his mortifyingly hard erection, teasing his slit as he would imagine you would, as you would open the bathroom door, murmuring his name, âProfessor? Are you okay?â And you wouldnât wait for his answer as you stepped into the shower with him, eyes raking down his body, a teasing grin on your lips, ânot very ethical is that?â And your fingers would curl their way around the base of his cock, making him shudder with pleasure, âI can take care of that,â and you would kiss down his chest and stomach, even despite his protests, until you reached where he wanted your touch most.Â
And god, you would look so pretty on your knees for him, as your fingers pumped him far too slowly, teasing him with a chaste kiss to his tip, tongue dragging against his slit, better than how his thumb did, âsâgood for me, Professor,â youâd say, when you heard the hiss he just let out, âI wonder what other sounds you could make for me,â and your lips would close around his tip, sucking lightly, as he gasped, his other hand clasped over his mouth, muffling his sounds.Â
He would look down with half lidded eyes, and see your head bobbing as you took him so well, your fingers toying with his balls, spotting your eyes flicking up to meet his â glazed over and desperate, just he imagined his were. Your mouth would feel so much better than his hand, the wet squelch of his pumping would not compare to you swallowing around him, sucking and licking around his length, his pre-cum and your drool slipping down the corner of your mouth.Â
Youâd swallow around him, as his fingers would slide into your hair. And maybe you would let him fuck your mouth, hips rolling slowly as you adjust, before he slowly would thrust faster. He would repay the favor tenfold once you were done, burying himself in your sweet cunt, until you were begging him to stop. His fingers moved faster around his cock, his low groans and wet squelch bouncing off the bathroom walls, hopefully drowned out by the running water. Fuck, he wished he would feel how it would to have his tip brush against the back of your throat.Â
He was close, the twitch of his dick in his hand told him so, and he imagined what it would be like to cum in your mouth, watching you swallow his release, if youâd want to, or cumming all over your face or chest, letting his cock drag over your tongue as he pulled out.Â
Fuck, he shudders, moaning your name against his fingers, he cums all over his hand and the wall of the shower, his release running down mixing with the water. He rinsed his hand off, leaning his head under the water again, hoping it would wash away any traces of you.Â
It didnât.Â
And as he emerged from the shower, making sure any trace of his act had slipped down the drain, but the towel around his neck, wondering if youâd see what he did on his face. But you wouldnât â because you were fast asleep.Â
His lips curled as he watched you sleep for a moment, your lips parted, curled up facing away from the bathroom â your feet sticking out of your blanket. He adjusts the blanket for you, and you shift a little in your sleep, mumbling something under your breath, before settling back in.Â
And he bites his lip before turning away â he would never be clean, would he?Â
Not when it was you.Â
âHow much longer do you think weâll be stuck here?â you murmur, the smile plastered on your lips nearly starting to chip and crack.Â
Professor Geto sipped at his drink hiding his frown, long fingers cradling the wine glass far too perfectly, âat least another hour,â he sighs, âwhen in academia, one must get used to mindless conversing if only it will lead to another needless connection,â
And this day had been nothing but an exercise of that â lectures, panels, presentations â any other word that meant someone or several someones sitting in front of you, talking at you â with only maybe 30% of the people actually listening (if you were lucky or interesting). And now you were one hour deep into a mixer that had you engaging in dry chit-chat that had your mind going numb by the first ten minutes. Your only reprieve being by Getoâs side.Â
You hated how he could make the dullest of things enjoyable for you, or ratherâ
You hated how much you loved itÂ
âHow pithy â Plato?â And he snorts, as you finish off your own drink, âIâm going to get a refill, do you want anything?â He shakes his head, and you head off to the bar.Â
You were so restless after sitting for so long. Not to mention the slight rash you got from not washing up soon enough. You woke an hour and half later and cleaned yourself up â luckily Geto had passed out by then. You saw him sleeping half scrunched up, half sprawled out on the couch â one of his legs were hanging off the couch â and even his blanket had slipped off. You stifled a small laugh, taking a quick picture of him â so stubborn that he wouldnât sleep on the bed with you. Your gaze had softened, as you picked up the discarded blanket and placed it over him softly, your fingers gently tucking some of his hair from his face. You fell asleep again after heading back to bed, and woke up refreshed â while Geto had woken up with a very sore back and neck.Â
âCan I getâŠâ you look at the menu, ordering your favorite drink, standing by the bar as you adjust your dress, you had opted for a black dress with sheer tights â one you had worn a suit jacket over it. You tap against the bar top, checking your phone as you do.Â
âCan I get what sheâs getting?â A dark haired man sidles up beside you, his mouth curled in a smirk drawing attention to a scar in the corner of his mouth, and his voice drops to a whisper, âthough I think Iâd enjoy you more than the drink,âÂ
You raise your eyebrows, âand I think youâve certainly had enough tonight,â you say under your breath, giving an awkward chuckle, but he doesnât seem to notice as the bartender comes back with your drink. Your eyes flicker over the crowd as you search for Geto but you canât find him.Â
âWhatâs your name, pretty?â And your skin crawls as his dark gaze slides over your body, âmineâs Toji,â and you bite back a sigh, introducing yourself, âitâs very nice to meet you â Iâve met a lot of people tonight but you definitely have been the most interesting,â and the bartender comes back with his drink.Â
âThen you must have not met a lot of interesting people so far,â you say, eager to look for any out to escape this conversation, âmy friend is waitingââÂ
âNo, Iâd say that youâre just that interesting,â he sips his drink, âcan I get you another drink?âÂ
And right when youâre about to respond, âNo, I donât think sheâs interested,â And you tense a moment before you register the familiar voice, Geto smiles at Toji, if you could call that a smile â it reminded you of one a predator gave its new prey, âespecially because sheâs a student, and youâre most assuredly not,âÂ
Toji raises an eyebrow, âBut she is an adult, she can speak for herself, so why donât you let her, Professor?âÂ
âBecauseââ his fingers twitch as if he wants to reach for you but he canât.Â
You swallow the lump in your throat. And you know why he canât.Â
Getoâs smile wavers, and you intercede, âI can, and I think Iâve had enough for tonight,â you pay your tab, âletâs go back to the hotel, Professor,âÂ
And Toji pulls his card out, handing it to you, âIf you change your mind,â he raises his glass, leaning against the bar, before he leans closer to you, whispering, âif you ever get sick of him, call me,âÂ
You give a polite smile, tugging Geto away until you reached the outside of the building, silence filled the space between you two, until you found your way outside.Â
âWhat did he say?â He asks as he calls a car back to take you both to the hotel, and you donât know how to answer that â not without making it worse, âactually, never mind. I shouldnât have asked,âÂ
âProfessorââÂ
âYouâre an adult, heâs right â you should be allowed to make your own choices,â he licks his lips, his eyes still fixed on his phone screen, âIâm sorry if IââÂ
âCan you let me speak?â you sigh, as you wave your hand in front of his phone so he would look at you, and his eyes meet yours, âyouâre fine â I was trying to get out of there â I just felt very trapped.âÂ
He huffs out a chuckle. âWhen you took that long, I wondered if the group of solipsists had taken you hostage,âÂ
You grimace, âI guess when you believe everyone else is an illusion, you also think manners are an illusion too,â he laughs in earnest now, ânow thereâs a real smile,â He tilts his head, âthe smile you had inside, real scary kind of smile,â you tease, as his eyes canât quite meet yours.
âOh yeah?â he suddenly seems very interested in his phone, âour rideshare is almost here,âÂ
âAlmost like you were jealous,â and he scoffs.Â
âOf him?âÂ
âUh huh, he is pretty attractive, maybe I will give him a callââ and you notice him grip his phone tighter, and your lips curl, âbut I probably wonât, not really my type,âÂ
âNot your type?â he asks.Â
âMore into the intellectuals, that man was far from it â I like an academic, sweater vests, glasses, a pretentious little officeââ and the glare is back, as you laugh, the rideshare sparing him from you continuing this conversation, but you also didnât get to see the slight smile on his lips as you slipped into the back of the car.Â
âJust sleep on the bed,â you say for probably the thousandth time, but he only shakes his head, as he sits on the couch, combing out his black locks. Even freshly showered, he looks unfairly hot â a loose gray t-shirt with sweatpants, contacts switched to glasses, and now his hair brushed against his shoulders.Â
âIâll sleep on the couch â it was fine last nightââÂ
âYour spinal cord would beg to differ,â and he looks unamused, as he struggles with his comb, âwhat are you doing?âÂ
âI canât get this knot out of my hair, and I canât get you out of my hair either,â he adds, as you roll your eyes, slipping off the bed and walking over. You ease the comb from his fingers, biting your lip at the brush of his fingers, âwhat are youââÂ
âItâs easier if someone else does it,â and he sighs, giving in, as your fingers undo the knot in his hair gently, âyour hair is really smooth and fine, probably why it tangled so fast,â and he only hums in response, his body relaxing under your touch, as you comb through the rest of his hair. You bite back a smile, heâs almost like a cat, keening under your touch, âfeels good?â You murmur.Â
âYeah, it does,â and you donât want the moment to end, you want this excuse to touch him to remain, the first time youâve been able to breach this wall between you two â and itâd be over in an instant, âI think thatâs good,â he mutters.Â
He lays his head back on the top of the couch to look up at you â pretty obsidian orbs stared back at you â and your heart squeezes. He was so close, within reach, and all you had to do was lean down, press your lips against his, and maybe you wouldnât have to tiptoe anymore, maybe you wouldnât have to hide from him, maybe you could beâÂ
âWe should go to bed,â he sighs, the moment breaks, as he sits upright, adjusting his pillow on the couch beside him, âwe have an early start,âÂ
âDonât remind me,â you turn back to him, âbut youâre right - we should go to bedââ you grab his pillow, âon the bed,âÂ
âNoââÂ
âLike you said, weâre both adults,â you tilt your head, as he purses his lips, âI think I can handle sleeping in bed beside you, just sleeping, we can even put a pillow between us,â and you add, âif I try anything in my sleep, you challenge me to a pillow fight, and push me off the bed,âÂ
He scoffs, rubbing the back of his neck, âI really can sleep onââ and then you raise your eyebrows, eyes flicking to the hand on his neck. He sighs, âfine, but I really will push you off the bed, Iâm a restless sleeper,âÂ
âThen itâs equal opportunity,â you grin, as you slip into your side of the bed, stretching. Suguru is slower to get in, taking his time and adjusting his pillow and blanket before he finally gets into bed, âgood night,âÂ
âGood night,â he turns to face away from you as he sleeps and you do the same.Â
But it wasnât a good night. Not when you couldnât fucking sleep.Â
For someone so smart, you really were very stupid. The bed that seemed expansive and open yesterday now felt Tom Thumb tiny, every shift of your body felt like a ripple effect, as youâd feel the slight shift of Geto right beside you. He was so close â you swore you could nearly feel the heat radiate off of him, the weight of his body beside you felt far too close and way too far â a chasm you could never cross.
And it was close to driving you insane enough to follow your wants all the way down it.Â
But you couldnât â but you could look, stare into the void, without becoming part of it.Â
You shift again to face him this time â how could the back of someoneâs head be so beautiful? Jet black locks that you had combed yourself fanned out on his pillow. But you could spot the nape of his neck through the tresses, a lovely spot that you only wished you could lean over and bury your face in. Your eyes began to droop.Â
Hypnos finally took pity. You could only sleep this way. Your eyes finally flutter shut â you should have known â you were always the most comfortable with him in your sight.Â
Suguru knew that you had fallen asleep â because your soft breaths fell into a rhythm, the crinkle of your sheets had grown silent, and the loud thoughts that filled up your head had gone quiet. He was glad one of you could sleep.Â
He surely wouldnât get a wink tonight.Â
This was certainly more comfortable than the couch, but at least he had slept on the couch. He would be lucky to get thirty minutes at this rate. This weekend had already been too much â and he felt his will to stay away from you slowly snapping, a few strands away from breaking away completely.Â
When he had seen you with Toji â he didnât think, he just acted. He could see you were uncomfortable, the way your body leaned away from him, the way your eyes flickered around the room, and the way you toyed with your glass. It was a simple choice, but what happens when the next person that flirts with you is someone youâre interested in? Would he have to stand by and simply let it happen? Watch as youâre able to date this person but not him simply because of his title?Â
He was jealous. Not of Toji â but of the idea of you being with someone else â of your attention drifting from him, of you drifting from him. He turned to lay on his back, he really was fucked wasnât he?Â
He turns his head to look at you. It never helped that you were effortlessly adorable, even now as you slept. Lips parted, body curled up, your hair falling in your face yet again. His fingers tuck a strand behind your ear gently, and you shift, a quiet hum leaving your lips as you settle back into the arms of the sandman.Â
How were you so close but so far? You were mere inches away but you might as well be across the country. Because he couldnât touch you, he couldnât hold you, he couldnât kiss you. The kiss he shared with you haunted his dreams â a daydream wrapped up in the nightmare of reality. He couldnât ask you to wait â wait for your degree to be completed so the two of you could date. It wouldnât be fair to you, but what about this was fair?Â
And he turns on his side to face you, his fingers brushing your cheek gently â maybe if he couldnât be with you in reality, he could allow himself to dream, his eyes flutter shut.Â
Just for a moment.Â
And his unconscious allows it â allows him to dream of you.Â
Dream of your face buried in the crook of his neck, your soft breaths warming his skin, his nose buried in your hair. Your fingers grasped at his shirt, your other hand thrown over his middle. Why was your scent so intoxicating? He sighs, pulling you impossibly closer, and you shift, your leg sliding around his waist, as you pressed closer, pulling a groan from his lips as your core grazes right against his morningâŠvisitor.Â
And you move again, nose brushing against his collarbone, his name on your lips, quietly whispered like a secret against his skin. It was perfect â you were perfect.Â
But what if this wasnât a dream? The back of his mind prods â but thatâs not possible, he was home in bed, right? This wasnât real. It was the same dream he always had, of waking up in your arms, a lazy morning spent together in bed, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, the sheets becoming dappled in sunshine.Â
No, there was no way this was real, he sighs into your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, but even if it was, he thought as he drifted, he didnât want to wake â not yet.Â
A distinct buzz stirs you from your sleep. But you don't want to wake â you were far too comfortable. But the buzzing persists, so you reach blindly for your phone and to turn off the alarm. And settle back into bed, eyes still shut, as you find your way back onto your pillow â or what you thought was your pillow.Â
Except pillows didnât move, or have an arm they could wrap around you.Â
Your eyes open, to find yourself entangled with someone else â your brow furrowing in confusion that melts away to silent horror. Professor Geto.Â
So much for sticking to your sides.Â
Fuck. Â
You tried to extricate yourself to no avail, his arm wrapped around you, pulling you flush to his body, your legs entangled, aside from your leg thrown over his waist, you realize, a small squeak escaping your lips, as you try and fail to move away. Instead you brush up against something veryâŠhard.Â
You flush, cheeks burning so hot that itâs truly a miracle he didnât wake from the heat of your skin against his alone. His morning wood was pressed right against you, nearly between your thighs â just like the last time it was against you â why the fuck would you think about that now? You resisted the urge to press your legs together â lest you have another new problem, and a mess to deal with.Â
You manage to only pull your head away, urging yourself up so that your faces are an inch or two apart now. His soft breaths warmed your lips, his brow relaxed, locks of black hair fell in front of his eyes. Your fingers reach and tuck the locks behind his ear, tips skimming his skin. And the arm around you almost seems to tighten, and you bite your lip, the comforting presence of his arms far too tempting to drag you into wanting â as if you ever left. Wanting was dangerous, because wanting can only ever lead to need, needing him was as foolish as it was to share a bed with the man you were in love with.Â
But how foolish was it that you couldnât bring yourself to pull away? It was okay right? Okay as long your lips didnât touch, as long you didnât follow this slope all the way down â it was treacherous to press forward, but why did you want to anyway?
Your eyes flutter shut again for a moment â and your eyes glanced at the morning sky â the sun had just breached the horizon. You could allow yourself a few minutes â even if you had to give up a lifetime with him.Â
The blaring of your phone only seems to grow increasingly loud, as you give a small groan, rolling over to your phone again, slapping the screen to snooze it again. And your eyes flutter open a moment, lazily flickering over the screen â 8:45 AM.Â
Your eyes close â before your mind fully wakes â 8:45 AM?Â
âFuck,â you shoot up to get up, a tangle of limbs, jolting Geto awake, his eyes popping open, his arm instinctively grabbing you by the waist, and you land with an oomfph back onto the bedâwait, not the bed.Â
Your hand pressed against his chest, your body against his, noses brushing, your eyes unable to tear away from the other â his eyes were even prettier this close â a dark brown, nearly black, with flecks of another color â purple? You canât tell if thatâs your heartbeat or his thatâs racing with how close you are, chest to chest. And even as you try to shift, you make it worse by slipping, your hips rubbing against each otherâs.Â
Fuck.Â
You both freeze for a moment, his eyes flickering to your lips and back, as yours does the same, before you both scramble apart.Â
âWeâre late. Weâre really late,â you spring out of bed, grabbing random clothes from your suitcase, âIâm going to get ready, really fast,â you donât even bother to look at his expression, and you almost wished your heart had shattered your ribcage, with how fucking hard itâs beating, if only that you wouldnât have to spend another day in the conference with him.Â
You sighed, as you brushed your teeth hurriedly while doing your hair â well maybe a lecture or presentation would take your mind off this morning.Â
So that wasnât a dream, Suguru was only glad you didnât even glance at his face when you ran off, or you would have seen the lovely tomato red that graced his cheeks. He could still feel the warmth from your body, slowly receding, and he swore he could still feel you against him, your soft skin, your pretty lips against his neck, and your leg around his waist.Â
Fuck.Â
God, he had another fucking problem to deal with â as he shifted awkwardly, his morning wood up and erect with a tent that could put most large circus tents to shame. Fuck, he didnât have time to take care of this â especially with you in the bathroom right now.Â
But still, he pressed his inner palm to his lips, how was he going to make it through the rest of the conference with the feeling of your body still lingering in his mind. If the situation was different, the two of you would have woken up with smiles on your lips, spent the morning cuddling without a care, and probably a little more than thatâ
But the situation was the same, and his eyes slid to the bathroom door, so why was it that he still thinking about you? He wasnât the type to dwell, he accepted things for what they were â he had his principles and his beliefs, and he stuck to them, unless proven otherwise. He was a man of guidelines, of rulesâ
So why were you the only person that ever made him want to throw every rule away?Â
âWe are going to be discussing ethical dilemmas faced in universities and how to approach them,â the lecturer begins, âcan anyone tell us an example of one such dilemma?âÂ
You both had barely made it into a lecture â barely even speaking as you ran-walked into the conference â choosing a lecture at random, as the two of you ran a good fifteen minutes late. You both arrived, hiding your pants, as you both grabbed water bottles from the back, and sat down.Â
And of course to make matters worse, your phone goes off, making the entire room turn to look at the two of you. You silence your phone, murmuring a quick sorry as the two of you take your seats.Â
Could this possibly get worse?Â
Your eyes glanced at him â it was already bad enough to begin with. Geto had barely spoken a word this morning, even as the two of arrived at the conference, the only words he spoke were to the attendant that parked his car.Â
You tugged at the collar of your shirt, adjusting your clothes. And if that wasnât enough, you were going to spend the day sweaty and disheveled. Meanwhile, you stole another glance at your professor â his skin flushed from running, button up not buttoned up all the way, glasses instead of contacts, and his hair in its usual bun, but a few strands were nearly coming loose â he still looked fucking delectable. But he wouldnât meet your gaze, his body positioned to lean away from yours, his eyes fixed ahead.Â
You held back your sigh as you focused on the presentation â you just needed to get through today â as the lecturer picked someone who raised their hand.Â
âA student-teacher relationship is one such ethical problem faced in universities today,â and Geto nearly chokes on his water, coughing slightly, as you feel your cheeks burn at the thought of this morning, âit presents several ethical problems â including the role the professor plays in the studentâs education and future, their ability to provide praise or reprimand, and even grant recommendations gives them great power over their student. It leaves the student without much freedom in the relationship.â
Oh, what the fuck.Â
The rest of the conference is spent in relative silence with a thick film of awkwardness perfectly overlayed. When you both finally return to the hotel room, your only consolation is that youâll be leaving tomorrow. You toss your things onto the couch, âIâm going to wash up,â you tell him, and he only nods in reply, as you enter the bathroom and shut the door, back pressed against it and sliding down.Â
Oh this is such a mess. You sigh, maybe a shower will help.Â
It didnât. You were still just as much of a mess as you were before. You sighed, as you stood in front of the sink, wiping your hair with a towel. This could be so simple if you both could be together â so easy. There would be no tension, no hurt feelings, no awkwardness â you could just be. But thatâs not an option. So the only other option is to let him go.Â
But you didnât know how to begin to.Â
Either way, hiding in the bathroom wouldnât solve a thing â and you finally opened the door, âIâm done if you want to wash up,â he nods, sitting on the couch, reading a book. His glasses rested on the tip of his nose, lips pursed, and legs crossed.Â
You walk over, grabbing your things from the couch and put some of your things away in your suitcase. But after all of that is done, you realize one thing is missing â your cellphone.Â
âShit,â you murmur under your breath, searching through your suit coat pockets, your pants pocket, anywhere that your phone might be.Â
âWhatâs wrong?â Geto says, book in his lap, as he tilts his head.Â
âCanât find my phone,â you mumble, cheeks burning â god, it was already awkward enough, and now this?Â
âIs it on ring?â You nod â your phone was usually on ring, sometimes to your detriment â you cringe at the memory in the lecture this morning, âIâll call it,âÂ
He calls you â and you glance at his phone screen, your contact is just your name, no picture, nothing. You bite your lip, what were you expecting? A heart next to your name? And the sound of your phone ringing catches both of your attention.Â
âItâs over here, somewhere,â he says, lifting up some of cushions of the couch, and reaching underneath into the creases, as you walk over â âI foundââÂ
And you were so concerned about your contact information in his phone that you forgot about his contact information in your phone.Â
The screen flashed with the image of him sleeping all lopsided on the couch from that first night, as you covered your mouth in both horror, but also to stifle your laugh.Â
His eyes flicker to you, âWhen did youââ and you reach for your phone, but he moves it away, ânot until you answer my questions,âÂ
âThis isnât class, Professor, I want my phoneââ you reach for it again, and heâs holding it above your head, âoh real matureââÂ
âLike the picture you have of me as my contact picture?â He raises an eyebrow, a real smile pulling at the corners of his lips, âthought I should resort to my studentâs level,â Â
âYour T.A.,â you correct, as you reach for your phone again, but heâs using his height to his advantage, and heâs beginning to walk backwards, âcome on, give it backââÂ
âNot until I change and delete that photo,â and heâs trying to hold your phone up to your face to unlock it, and you gasp.Â
âOh my god, give it back!â And you grab his hand, and heâs grabbing at the other, giggles leaving your lips, as he laughs too, as the two of you struggle for the phone, your fingers closing over it, and over his own fingers as well.Â
And you realize how close you are to him.Â
The two of you freeze a moment, laughter on your lips fading away to soft smiles, and his fingers squeeze yours lightly, as he passes you your phone back. But he doesnât move away â and you donât either.Â
âWhy did you let go?â and it seems like itâs a force out of your control that draws you together, no matter how much either of you try to let go.Â
âBecause I canât help giving you what you want,â he murmurs, and the heat of his gaze melts your heart, as you drop your phone onto the couch, and reach for his hand again.Â
And you lean closer, your other hand gently brushing against his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw, âSo if I ask for a kiss, will you give it to me?â You wonât close the gap anymore than you have â he needs to reach for you too, let himself give into gravity.Â
He does, as his hand brushes against your cheek, thumb rubbing back and forth across your cheekbone, âwill we stop at just a kiss?â He murmurs, leaning so close that your eyes want to flutter shut.Â
âOnly one way to find out,â and his lips brush yours. And itâs not chaste like your first kiss was, no, his lips slide against yours, as his other hand slides to the back of your neck. He swallows your gasp eagerly, if the smirk you feel against your lips is anything to go off of. Your teeth graze against this bottom lip teasingly, drawing a small groan from the back of his throat.Â
Neither of you couldnât stop at one kiss, and you both knew that, even as your lips parted for a small breath of air, they found each other again â just as you both always did. Because you could never let him go â no matter how hard you tried.Â
RING. RING. RING.Â
And this time it isnât an alarm. But rather his phone, flashing with a name that brings you crashing back to reality.Â
The department head.Â
âFuck,â he murmurs under his breath, as he parts from you, his warmth leaving all at once, as he grabs his phone, and turns away, âHello? Yes, the conference is over. Everything went well. No, no, nothing out of the ordinary.âÂ
You stared at his back, this would always be the case wouldnât it? Even as you crashed together, something would pull you apart, and neither of you could break the cycle. You take your phone from the couch, and crawl into bed, but you could start.Â
You close your eyes, your fingers brushing against your lips for a moment. You needed to start â otherwise, you would just end up broken.Â
And you donât hear him hang up â or see him stare at your figure under the covers â and he would break along with you.Â
Suguru didnât know what to say the next morning â especially when it seemed couldnât even bear to look at him, much less speak to him. You had busied yourself with packing, even before he had awoken. His back ached from the night he spent on the couch, he couldnât fall asleep for far too long, and by the time he did, he kept sleeping â through his many alarms it seemed.Â
And it wasnât the couch that kept him awake.Â
You both had the most lovely timing, didnât you? He thought, as he combed his hair in the bathroom, the memory of your fingers running through his hair as you gently undid the knots in his locks still ever present â it seemed like any time you two wanted to act on your feelings, the universe was doing what it could to keep you apart.Â
Was this fate versus free will?Â
You both kept choosing each other â but fate kept pulling you apart. Did he have any control over his actions or did he have no control over his actions at all? Was it all predetermined by some force he couldnât perceive? Some force intent on pulling you apart.Â
He sighed, as his phone lights up with an email from the department head â department head position opened up in Jujutsu University: Kyoto âÂ
And so maybe he should let it.Â
The next few weeks pass by far too quick. As your semester picks up, you stop attending Professor Getoâs classes, opting to send an email to let him know, and he replies back with a simple response â Ok. Please let me know when and if you are available to input the grades for the midterm paper.Â
The rest of your T.A. work is done online and over email â and you do your best to keep busy, keep yourself occupied, and keep your thoughts from straying to him.
And you maybe succeed 10% of the time. It doesnât help that your unconscious does not wish to cooperate since it seems that once you stopped seeing your professor during waking hours, heâs infiltrated your sleep â sneaking in and out by the time your eyes open.Â
And then youâre left with the fragments of his touch, his voice, his kisses, and soft, loving words.Â
Just as you always were it seemed.Â
And before you know it, the end of the semester comes, and you find yourself in front of that same office door yet again. It felt like an eternal reoccurrence â stuck to repeat the same events again and again in an infinite loop. Was there any exit from this loop?Â
You didnât know â you knocked on his office door â but you could try.Â
âCome in,â you do, entering his office to find him sitting at his desk, hair half up for once. And his eyes flicker up to meet yours, his head tilting at your stare, âsee something interesting?âÂ
âYour hairââ and your cheeks burn â so much for trying â âitâs different,âÂ
âThought Iâd try something different â my hair is growing out,â and you have to repress the want to curl a lock or his hair around your finger, âdo you not like it?âÂ
You shake your head, âIt looks nice, just different,â
And he hands you the papers heâs graded, âyou can input those, Iâm just finishing up a couple more, so if you wouldnât mind waiting a bit?âÂ
âNot at all,â a silence falls over between the two of you, the quiet scratch of his pen as he grades, the occasional ding of his e-mail breaking up the silence. You sneak a glance at him â ebony tresses brushing against his broad shoulders, his brow furrowed that you wished to run your fingers along to smooth his worries from his mind, pretty lips parted as he reads a sentence silently to himself.Â
Fuck â no, no, you canât do this.Â
You busy yourself thumbing your way through the papers, spotting the familiar red scrawls littering these pages, as they once did yours. You were so pissed when you got your first paper back â indignant even â a whole Karen ready to speak to his supervisor. But when his honest criticism and blunt words rang true, you found yourself not only wanting to prove him wrong, but a want to be better. To earn his respect. And of course, later, you wanted to earn a little more than that.Â
You bite back a chuckle, and here you still were â by his side. Except next semester you wouldnât be his T.A.Â
But you would still be a student. And he would still be a professor.Â
But one other thing that hasnât changed is how brutal the feedback is â you couldnât help but feel bad for âItadori Yuujiâ â whoever that was.Â
âWhat are you smiling about?â Your eyes snap up to meet his, his head leaning against his palm, elbow resting on the desk.Â
âNothing,â you shake your head, but he looks unconvinced, âjust thinking about our first time in this office,â and then your cheeks burn at the double meaning, âI mean our first office hours appointmentââÂ
He waves you off, âI know what you meant,â a small chuckle in his cadence, as he continues to grade, âyou certainly werenât happy with me,âÂ
âNo I wasnât,â a small smile on your lips, âbut it worked out in the end,â you add, âyou got an amazing T.A. after all,âÂ
His eyes meet yours, âMore than just that,âÂ
Why canât you help but get pulled in time and time again? And why canât you help but ask questions that will only hurt you in the end?Â
He continues to grade when you finally speak, âWhat do you think would have happened if I didnât end up being your T.A.?âÂ
And his pen stops, lips pursed, âWe shouldnâtââÂ
âWhy shouldnât we?â you felt like a child demanding an answer from their parent.Â
âWe agreedââ
âI donât remember an agreement-âÂ
âIt was unspokenââÂ
You scoff, crossing your arms, âYou really are only a professor because an attorney would know that binding agreements canât be unspoken,â he falls silent, his voice soft.Â
âI donât want to keep hurting you,â his words are wrought with conflict, pain seeping into every syllable, âI donât want to keep going down this road only to for you to get hurt in the end â I donât want to jeopardize your future for something that might not lastââÂ
âBut what if it does?â and he swallows thickly, âwhat if we can make it work? Weâre both adults, we can be discreetââÂ
âSo discreet that we end up making out in my office?â he takes off his glasses only to run a hand down his face, a slight pink tinge on his cheeks, and you huff out a chuckle.Â
âA little more discreet than that, weâll lock the door next time,â itâs his turn to scoff, and you rise from your seat, lips curled, âclose the lights, or maybe even kiss in a place thatâs not on campus,â but he does the same, meeting you on the side of his desk, his fingers brushing your cheek so gently as if youâd shatter under his touch.Â
âI donât want to stand in the way of your career,â he says, his fingers finding your hand regardless, fingers interlacing, âI donât want you toââÂ
âItâs my choice, Suguru,â you murmur, as you lean against his warm palm, your fingers sliding against his palm and into his inky tresses, âdonât you owe me a choice, and a drink?â you add, and his lips curl in a knowing smile.Â
âI do, if youâll still have me,â and heâs leaning close, sucking the air from the room, and the logic from your minds, as his lips barely graze yours, âshouldnât we lock the door?âÂ
âFuck it,â and you pull him into a deep kiss that pulls a groan from his lips that makes your cunt ache, as heâs already pushing you into the lip of his desk, his hand sliding down to your waist.Â
âNow whoâs being unethical?â he murmurs, pressing eager kisses along your jaw, that makes you melt against him, your legs nearly jelly at this point, âwhat kind of example are you setting as a T.A.?âÂ
You bite back your moan as his lips find the soft spot of your neck, teeth grazing it far too fucking teasingly, âWell students learn by example,â and his hands are slipping under thighs to lift you so youâre sitting on his desk â you spread your legs for him in the dress that youâre in, pantyhose underneath, his heavy lidded gaze raking over your body, âand look at my professor staring at his T.A. so lustfully, even with a clear power dynamicââÂ
And his fingers find your thighs again, squeezing, before his fingers dig into the sheer hose, tearing holes in it, drawing a gasp from your lips, âHowâs that for a power dynamic, princess?â far too pleased, âdonât worry, Iâll buy you new ones,â he murmurs, ânow just be a good girl and spread your legs for me,â he says, as he pulls away the ruined pantyhose, and heâs undoing the buttons on his shirt with one hand â one, two, three â before your fingers take over, leaning to press kisses at each inch of exposed skin, until the shirt falls open.Â
Then his lips find yours again, his silver tongue asking for you to part your lips and you do â as he extracts every want you have with his burning touch â his lips against yours, his large hands parting your thighs, his knee pressed against your twitching cunt â and only leaves your want for him behind, until it becomes a need.Â
âWonder what our students would think of you,â his fingers tease your inner thighs, drawing a whine from your lips, âwanting your professor to fuck you in his office instead of inputting their grades,â he whispers in your ear, as his fingers finally skim the wet patch of your underwear, âso wet fâme, already? Look I think you even soaked my slacks,â he tsks, as his thumb and forefinger find your chin and tilt it up, âwhat are you going to do about that?âÂ
âSuguruâplease,â and he smiles as his finger starts to tease your puffy clit through your drenched panties, âdonât teaseââÂ
âHow can I not when youâve nothing but tease me with your existence?â he pulls the crotch of your underwear aside, âIâll oblige my favorite student this timeâbut I wonât be so nice next time,â he adds, biting your bottom lip.Â
RING. RING. RING.Â
It was his fucking office phone. You groan, but his finger continues to sink into you, âSuguruââÂ
âLet it ring,â his lips find yours in a bruising kiss as his finger deliciously sinks into you, âI have all I need right here,â he whispers, and you pull him back into a kiss by the collar of his unbuttoned shirt, your hand sliding up and down his chest, while he worked a finger into your cunt, âso fucking wet fâme, so perfect,âÂ
And your hand flies back to support yourself as a second finger begins to sink into you â but your hand grazes his office phone, and the messages begin to play back.
âFuck, sorry,â you mumble, as you reach blindly for the phone, only to knock it back, as he chuckles and reaches behind you, trying but failing to help â your noses brushing, and he smiles before kissing you again.Â
Mr. Geto, sorry we missed each other, I was calling, hoping that you would still be in office for the day, but I must have just missed you. I wanted to call to offer you the job as department head at Jujutsu Tech University: Kyotoâ
You freeze, your lips parting from his as you look up at him, his eyes wide as he stops the message from playing back any further â and the words settle over the mood like a sheet pulled over a dead body.Â
And youâre the first to speak, always asking the questions that will hurt you in the end, âYouâre moving to Kyoto?âÂ
⧠a/n: so i'm sorry for that ending hahah, i promise there will be a happy ending later on for these two. thank you to @gaylatteart and @laneysmusings for betaing and just being the best. also if i tagged you please comment / reblog because tagging on tumblr sucks, it takes very long.
⧠taglist: @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @difficultdomains, @diogodxlot, @that-goth-bisexual, @bash1018, @dazailover1900, @aliyalala, @ashhlsstuff, @blue041803, @mwtsxri, @bblgumfairy, @sukunasleftkneecap, @xo-evangeline, @fiannee, @teatreeoilll, @chalametet, @ryukaver, @d1gitalbathh, @saga3ious, @seventhcinema, @satosugucide, @your-l0nely-star, @sokkasmoon, @deegausserr, @hyookka, @oggsyy, @littlebitb, @higuchislut, @ti-mame, @itoshisins, @cerene-dipity, @onionsoop, @sinlillith, @izzythenaive, @akvrae, @lalacute03, @rxndou, @c-themoon, @xxrag-d0llxx, @hqtoge, @sugarxlumps, @hopeluna, @actualdeemon,
#sab [mlist]#sab series [prof suguru]#suguru geto x reader#suguru geto smut#geto suguru x reader#geto x reader#geto suguru smut#suguru geto fanfiction#jjk x reader#jjk smut#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen smut#geto suguru imagines#geto suguru x you#geto x you#geto fanfiction
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To Have a Heart
CEO!Max Verstappen x single mother!Reader
Summary: Max is a titan of industry, used to making grown men cry with one glance ⊠then you and your daughter turn his carefully controlled life upside down
Warnings: descriptions of pediatric cancer
Max strides into his corner office, his Italian leather shoes clicking sharply on the marble floors. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline, but he pays it no mind as he makes his way to the large mahogany desk.
His assistant, Clara, follows a few steps behind, her heels clacking nervously. âSir, Mr. Henderson is waiting in the conference room per your request.â
Max doesnât bother responding as he unbuttons his suit jacket and takes a seat behind the desk. With a flick of his wrist, he motions for Clara to leave. She gives the tiniest of nods and scurries out, closing the double doors behind her.
Taking a deep breath, Max presses the intercom button. âSend him in.â
A moment later, the doors reopen and a balding, paunchy man in an ill-fitting suit enters. Even from across the room, Max can see the bead of sweat rolling down the manâs forehead.
Good.
He should be nervous.
âMr. Henderson.â Max says, his tone clipped. âDo you know why I called you here?â
The man â Henderson â fidgets with his tie. âY-Yes, sir. The, uh, the Brighton acquisition ...â
âThe $3.75 billion deal that was supposed to be finalized yesterday.â Max interjects, leaning back in his chair. âA deal that the company has been meticulously negotiating for over six months. A deal that would have been the largest hostile takeover in our firmâs history.â
Henderson gives a somber nod, his Adamâs apple bobbing. Max fights the urge to roll his eyes at the sad display.
âBecause of your incompetence, that deal is now in jeopardy.â Max continues, his voice dropping to a menacing register. âPlease explain to me how someone with three decades of accounting experience could possibly make the amateur mistake of misplacing a decimal point on the binding purchase agreement?â
âI ⊠I missed it in the final review.â Henderson stammers out, sweat now visibly staining the armpits of his shirt. âThe numbers, they all start to blur together after-â
âDo not insult my intelligence with your pitiful excuses.â Max cuts him off, slamming a fist down on the desk. He takes no small amount of satisfaction in the way the man flinches. âBecause of your idiocy, we offered $235 million over the agreed purchase price. An overpayment to the tune of $2.5 billion with a âBâ!â
Henderson seems to shrink into himself with each biting word. âIâm so sorry, Mr. Verstappen. It wonât happen again, I swear-â
âYouâre damn right it wonât happen again.â Max growls, rising from his chair so quickly that it goes clattering backwards. He leans across the desk, getting directly in Hendersonâs ashen face. âBecause youâre fired. Effective immediately.â
The words seem to take a moment to register in Hendersonâs mind. When they do, his eyes widen in panic and he starts shaking his head rapidly.
âNo, no, please! You canât fire me!â he cries, any veneer of professionalism crumbling. âI-Iâll work double shifts, triple shifts! Iâll volunteer for all the weekend audits, no overtime pay! J-Just donât fire me, Iâm begging you!â
Max recoils slightly at the outburst of blubbering, his lip curling in disgust. How pathetic, to see a grown man so thoroughly debased. He almost feels pity for the wretch ⊠almost.
âThis conversation is over.â Max says, his tone resolute as he straightens his tie. âYou have one hour to collect your things and get out of my building. After that, security will escort you out.â
âB-But I have three kids!â Henderson sputters, tears streaming down his face now. âA mortgage. Alimony payments! You canât just-â
In a burst of rage, Max sweeps his arm across the desk, sending papers, files, and office supplies clattering to the floor in a violent clutter.
âI am Max Verstappen!â He bellows, his face flushed crimson. âI do not make empty threats, Mr. Henderson. You are a miserable, costly disappointment. A failure. And I will not allow failures to remain under my employ.â
The words seem to drain what little fight was left in Henderson. His shoulders slump in defeat, and he lets out a pitiful whimper. Max feels his anger deflate, replaced with a tired disdain.
âOne hour.â he repeats, falling back into his chair in exhaustion. âGet out of my sight.â
Henderson doesnât need to be told twice. With trembling hands, he begins collecting the various objects scattered across the floor â pencils, paperclips, manila folders now slightly crumpled. His motions are slow, pained, like those of a man having just received a terminal diagnosis.
Max watches impassively as the sniveling accountant gathers his belongings. Part of him feels a twinge of ⊠not quite guilt, but maybe the faintest pangs of empathy for the broken man before him. He quickly smothers that flicker of sympathy. This is the cost of doing business in the world of high-stakes acquisitions and mergers. There is no room for weakness or mistakes. Only results matter.
Finally, with his meager pile of office supplies clutched to his chest, Henderson straightens up. His face is blotchy and tear-stained, but he seems to have regained some small scrap of dignity. He meets Maxâs cold stare for just a moment before turning on his heel and shuffling out of the office.
The double doors close behind him with a hollow thud that hangs in the air. Max lets out a slow exhale, suddenly aware of the tension that had been coiling inside him. He runs a hand over his face, then taps a button on his phone intercom.
âClara, get me William Evans from legal on the line immediately.â he says, his voice steady once more. âWe need to do damage control on the Brighton situation before it becomes irreparable.â
âRight away, sir.â comes the reply, his assistantâs voice tightly professional.
Max leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he stares out at the New York City skyline. This is far from the first firing he has issued, and it certainly wonât be the last. He is a great white shark, always needing to move forward or else he will drown in the depths of his own ambition.
There is a soft rap at the door, pulling Max from his reverie.
âCome in.â he calls out. Clara enters, her face schooled into a mask of polite disinterest. So much the better â he respects discretion.
âI have Mr. Evans on line two for you.â she says crisply.
Max gives a succinct nod. âThank you, Clara. That will be all.â
As his assistant withdraws, Max takes a fortifying breath. He is Max Verstappen. He is the master of the corporate ocean. And he will not allow one flailing failure to capsize his empire.
Squaring his shoulders, he picks up the phone and begins issuing a stern series of orders and demands. After all, there is little time for rest when one aims to be a modern day titan of industry.
***
You take a deep breath and rap firmly on the door to the HR directorâs office. âCome in.â a flat voice calls out.
Steeling yourself, you twist the handle and step inside the dingy, fluorescent-lit room. Janet, the red-haired HR manager, looks up from her computer with a practiced smile that doesnât reach her eyes.
âAh, Y/N. What can I do for you today?â She asks in an overly saccharine tone.
You take a seat across from her cluttered desk, your knee bouncing with nervous energy. âI ⊠I need to request some personal leave. Family medical reasons.â
Janetâs perfectly penciled eyebrows rise in bland surprise. âI see. And how much time were you hoping to take?â
Your throat tightens as you force out the words. âAt least a month. Maybe more, depending on ⊠on how things progress.â
The HR manager clucks her tongue as she shakes her head. âIâm afraid that wonât be possible. Weâre in our busiest quarter and you know the company policy â no extended leave during crunch periods unless itâs a valid health emergency.â
You feel panic fluttering in your chest. This has to be a valid emergency! âBut it is an emergency! My daughter, sheâs ...â Your voice cracks and you swallow hard, desperate to maintain your composure. âSheâs very sick, potentially terminal. I need to be with her right now.â
Janetâs face remains stubbornly impassive. âIâm sorry to hear about your daughterâs illness. Truly, I am. But unless you can provide official documentation from a medical professional, my hands are tied.â
The words hit you like a slap across the face. Of course they would require documentation to approve leave â itâs standard corporate policy. But how can mentally collect yourself to get paperwork in order when youâve been spending every waking moment by your little girlâs hospital bedside?
Unbidden, your mind flashes back to two nights ago, watching in helpless terror as your daughterâs tiny body was racked with another severe seizure. You had screamed yourself hoarse calling for the nurses as the meds they pumped into her did little to stop the violent convulsions ...
Youâre vaguely aware of Janet still speaking across from you, something about company guidelines and productivity expectations. But the words sound muffled and far away, as if youâre underwater.
How naive you were to think they might bend the rules, just this once. To think the faceless corporation you pour your life into might actually show a shred of human compassion during your hour of desperate need.
No. Thatâs not how companies like this operate.
They donât care about you or your daughterâs life. All they care about is the bottom line, and youâre just an expendable number in their organizational flowchart.
Youâre jolted back to reality as Janet raps her lacquered nails impatiently on the desk. âWell? Is there anything else or can I get back to work?â
Is there anything else? Oh, thereâs so much more you want to scream at this unfeeling paper-pusher. You want to cry and rage and beg her to just show an ounce of basic human decency.
But you know it would be pointless. Janet is just a cog, same as you. Thereâs only one person here with the power and influence to authorize what you need.
Only one person who strikes abject terror into the heart of every employee with his infamous volcanic temper and uncompromising expectations.
The thought makes your stomach twist into knots, but you know what you have to do. For your little girlâs sake, you have to try.
So you rise from the chair, willing your legs not to shake. âThank you for your time.â you mutter tightly, already turning on your heel and storming out of the office.
You donât look back as Janet calls out something about proper procedure. You just keep moving, your footsteps fueled by a motherâs desperation.
The elevator seems to take an eternity, each second feeling like a little bit more of your daughterâs life trickling away. By the time the doors finally open with a mocking ding, youâre practically vibrating with pent-up nervous energy.
As the mirrored box ascends, your heart feels like itâs trying to batter its way out of your chest. You can hardly breathe past the constriction in your lungs. What if the infamous Max Verstappen laughs in your face? Or has you fired on the spot for daring to interrupt his billion-dollar dealings?
No, you canât afford to think like that. This may be your only chance to get the time off you so desperately need. For your daughterâs sake, you have to be brave.
The elevator seems to crawl upward at a glacial pace. By the time the doors finally part with a soft chime, you feel like youâre going to be sick from anxiety. This is it, the executive floor â the lair of the terrifying Max Verstappen himself.
You step out into the plush, mahogany-accented lobby with shaking legs. Behind a curved desk, Maxâs assistant Clara looks up, her expression instantly hardening when she recognizes you as some inconsequential employee.
âIâm sorry, but Mr. Verstappen is not accepting any visitors at the moment.â she says, her tone brooking no argument. âIf youâd like to schedule an appointment for next week ...â
âPlease.â you blurt out, hating how your voice trembles. âItâs an emergency. I ⊠I need to see him. Just for five minutes.â
Claraâs manicured eyebrow arches skeptically. âI extremely doubt Mr. Verstappen would consider your issue important enough to warrant an unscheduled meeting. Now if youâll excuse me, I have a million things to-â
âItâs about my sick daughter!â The words burst from your lips before you can stop them. Immediately, you regret being so unprofessional, but desperation has eroded your self-control.
For a split second, Claraâs expression flickers with something that might be pity. But itâs quickly subsumed by her usual cool mask of professionalism as she shakes her head.
âIâm very sorry to hear about your daughterâs illness. But those are still not grounds for me to disturb Mr. Verstappen while heâs-â
âPlease!â You plead, tears of frustration pricking your eyes. âIâm begging you. This could be my last chance! If he says no, Iâll leave, I promise. But I have to try!â
Clara regards you appraisingly for a long moment. Then, letting out a weary sigh, she presses the intercom button. âSir? Thereâs someone here requesting an urgent meeting with you. A ⊠personal matter.â
The line crackles with static for several tense seconds. You hold your breath, praying beyond hope that the infamous Max has a rare charitable impulse today.
Then, his unmistakable baritone growls through the small speaker. âThis had better be good. Send them in.â
Clara winces almost imperceptibly before gesturing towards the double oak doors to Maxâs corner office. âGood luck.â she murmurs.
You donât need any further prompting. Drawing a shuddering breath, you straighten your spine and make your way to the doors. You pause just briefly, hands trembling, before rapping your knuckles firmly against the lacquered wood.
Thereâs no going back now. Either Max Verstappen is about to grant you a miracle ⊠or utterly crush your last, fragile hope.
***
Max scowls as the intercom crackles to life, Claraâs hesitant voice filtering through the speaker. âSir? Thereâs someone here requesting an urgent meeting with you. A ⊠personal matter.â
He resists the urge to roll his eyes. Surely whatever this is can wait until tomorrow. Max is elbow-deep in paperwork and holding patterns, trying to do damage control on the Brighton acquisition fumble. He has no time for frivolous âpersonalâ disruptions.
âThis had better be good.â he growls into the intercom. âSend them in.â
With an irritated huff, Max leans back in his buttery leather chair as the doors to his office swing open. Heâs already opening his mouth to berate whoever dares disturb him over something as trivial as a âpersonal matter.â
Then you tentatively step into the room and Maxâs words die in his throat.
Even with your shoulders hunched inward and your makeup smudged from crying, you are utterly breathtaking. A fragile beauty drowning in an oversized blazer, your wide eyes darting around his opulent office with obvious intimidation.
An unwelcome jolt of attraction lances through Maxâs chest and he quickly squashes it down. He cannot afford such distractions, especially from a lowly employee like yourself who should know better than to interrupt him during work hours.
âWell?â He finally finds his voice, aiming for a brusque tone to remind you both of your respective places. âYouâre hardly someone important enough to be granted an audience. This had better be worth my time.â
The harshness of his words seems to make you flinch. You worry your lip between your teeth, shrinking back slightly.
âI ⊠Iâm so sorry to disturb you, Mr. Verstappen.â you begin haltingly. Already Max can feel his patience waning. He hates fumbling fragility and wants only confident decisiveness.
But then your next words come tumbling out in a desperate rush. âItâs about my daughter, sir. My little girl ⊠sheâs in the hospital. She has a brain tumor and her condition is deteriorating rapidly. I asked Janet in HR for some personal leave to be with her, but she denied my request and said I need official medical documentation which could take days I donât have!â
Tears are welling in your eyes now, your voice rising to nearly hysterical levels. âPlease, Mr. Verstappen! Sheâs only three years old and Iâm a single mom. Iâm all she has right now! Iâm begging you ⊠please just give me some time to be with her before ⊠before ...â
You seem unable to voice whatever terrifying possibility lurks in the back of your mind. Instead, you dissolve into shoulder-shaking sobs, burying your face in your hands as you break down completely.
Max feels his earlier irritation softening in spite of himself. Heâs seen grown men thrice your age become blubbering messes under his withering glare. But thereâs something distinctly vulnerable and gut-wrenching about your anguished tears.
Part of him recognizes this as a prime opportunity to regain control, to berate you for such an unseemly display of emotion. His reputation as a merciless taskmaster practically demands he put you in your place.
But another part of Max ⊠a part he barely recognizes ⊠feels a rare pang of empathy pierce through his calloused exterior.
Perhaps itâs the thought of a scared little girl lying crippled in a hospital bed, scared and missing her mother. Or perhaps itâs the way you wear your devastation so plainly, managing to humanize yourself in a way most people never achieve in his eyes.
Whatever the reason, when Max finally speaks, his tone has lost its earlier bite.
âI did not realize the full severity of the situation.â he says, slowly rising from his chair. He moves around the desk, not missing the way you tense as he approaches.
Up close, he can see the puffy redness rimming your eyes, the despair etched into every line of your face. It stirs something inside him ⊠an ancient ghost of an emotion he canât quite place.
âIâm sorry you were dismissed so carelessly by HR.â Max continues, struggling to keep his voice even. âPerhaps if you had led with mentioning your daughterâs condition, instead of being so oblique ...â
He trails off as you sniff loudly, dragging the sleeve of your blazer across your nose. The motion is equal parts endearing and mortifying for him to witness.
âHere.â he says impulsively, plucking a crisp linen handkerchief from his suit pocket. He presses it into your hand, watching as you blink owlishly at the unexpected gesture. âAllow me to make things right.â
Without waiting for a response, Max turns and strides over to his desk. He snatches up the phone and rapidly punches in a extension code, holding the receiver to his ear as it begins to ring.
âJanet? Yes, itâs Max Verstappen.â he says crisply when the line picks up. âIâve just been informed about an ... employee situation that requires your immediate attention.â
He pauses, glancing over at where youâre clutching his handkerchief like a lifeline. Your eyes are still glistening with tears, but youâve gone utterly still â hanging on his every word.
âOne of our marketing staff came to me in quite a state about needing extended leave to be with their hospitalized child.â Max continues, his voice hardening slightly. âA matter you seemed to dismiss without proper consideration for the ⊠nuances of the circumstances.â
Thereâs a sputtering on the other end of the line, undoubtedly Janet trying to make excuses. Max doesnât give her the chance.
âThe decision has been made to grant the employeeâs leave request, effective immediately.â he cuts her off. âThey will be excused for ⊠two months, with full pay and benefits.â
His announcement seems to render you momentarily stunned. You simply stare at him, eyes wide and unblinking, like you canât quite process what youâre hearing.
Max clears his throat self-consciously, refocusing on Janetâs flustered response filtering through the receiver. âB-But sir, we have very strict policies about-â
âWhich is precisely why Iâm instructing you to make an exception.â Max interjects, his voice brokering no arguments. âThis leave is to be coded as paid health and wellness time. I expect no push-back or foot-dragging on this, understood?â
Thereâs a meek murmur of assent from Janetâs end. Max canât resist a tight smile of satisfaction.
âGood. Iâll leave the paperwork in your capable hands then. That will be all.â He punctuates the statement by firmly hanging up the phone.
As the clatter of the receiver breaks the tense silence, Max turns to find you staring at him with an utterly inscrutable expression. For a long moment, neither of you speak or move. He finds himself paralyzed under the weight of your intense, unblinking gaze.
Then, with a strangled cry, you suddenly surge forward and throw your arms around him. Max goes ramrod stiff as your slight frame collides with his, your tears dampening the front of his crisp dress shirt.
âThank you!â Youâre whispering over and over like a prayer, clinging to him with a desperation that should be uncomfortable. And yet ... âThank you, thank you, thank you!â
Max feels utterly transfixed, like a statue too stunned to react. He canât remember the last time someone dared to encroach so boldly on his personal space, much less make actual physical contact. Heâs not accustomed to such ⊠warmth.
But before the unfamiliar embrace can start to grate on him, you suddenly pull back. Swiping at your eyes, you manage a watery smile up at him.
âYou have no idea how much this means, sir. I ⊠I canât thank you enough for your kindness and understanding.â
He wants to scoff at the notion, to remind you that he is Max Verstappen â merciless and uncompromising in his corporate dealings. That this was merely an isolated instance of pragmatism to avoid a PR incident or workplace lawsuit, nothing more.
But something in your earnest gaze stops the curt rebuttal in his throat. For once, the infamously brusque Max Verstappen finds himself momentarily at a loss for words.
So instead, he gives a terse nod of acknowledgment. Already, his mind is starting to analyze how best to re-allocate your responsibilities for the next two months, which temporary hires to bring in for supplemental coverage.
But one stray thought continues to nag at the back of his mind, an errant curveball amongst the dizzying calculations.
For the first time in years â perhaps his entire adult life â Max feels almost ⊠human.
Itâs a strange and deeply unsettling realization, but luckily one he doesnât have to dwell on.
Because in the next breath, youâre sweeping out of his office, a renewed vigor in your step and a brilliant smile lighting up your features. Max watches you go, an odd tightness settling into his chest.
He doesnât have words â or perhaps doesnât want to admit to any words to describe what heâs feeling in this moment. But one thing is for certain, for better or worse, youâve well and truly upended Max Verstappenâs world.
***
Max remains rooted in place long after youâve departed, his office now eerily silent in your absence. He should feel relieved to have some peace and quiet again after that ⊠emotional encounter.
Yet instead of settling back into his usual all-consuming work flow, he finds his mind stubbornly replaying the scene on an endless, maddening loop.
The desperation etched onto your delicate features. The way your frame practically vibrated with barely-constrained anguish. The broken, pleading sound of your voice as you begged for his mercy ...
Despite his best efforts to dismiss it, the memory of your raw vulnerability has burrowed its way under Maxâs skin, taking up an unwelcome residence. It picks and nags at the edges of his consciousness no matter how much he wills it away.
He has witnessed similar breakdowns from countless employees over the years â grown men and women brought to sniveling tatters by his uncompromising demands. But none of them elicited the same ⊠response within him.
None of them made something twist so peculiarly in Maxâs chest, unleashing that brief yet startling flicker of empathy from whatever dark crevice it lurks.
Gritting his teeth, Max paces behind his desk in tight, agitated circles. He prides himself on being a merciless pragmatist, unmoved by emotional pleas or babelling outbursts. Whatever decisions he makes are calculated toward the maximum profit potential and bottom line, end of story.
So why does this one case, this one instance of showing a bare modicum of human compassion, insist on gnawing at him so persistently? It makes no logical sense, no matter how he tries to mentally contort it.
Perhaps thatâs the core issue â that for once in his life, Maxâs motivations werenât born strictly of logic or financial incentive. Something else had escaped from beneath, something primal and indefinable, when you broke down so nakedly in front of him.
The realization causes Maxâs steps to stutter to a halt. His jaw works tensely as he runs a frustrated hand through his brown hair, disheveling the meticulously groomed coif.
He can admit to himself that some base part of his brain had been ⊠affected by the rawness of your emotion. The way you had stripped away all artifice and propriety to plead so urgently and authentically.
Not many people manage to disarm Max Verstappenâs carefully curated expectation filters. But you had blown straight through them without even realizing it, battering down the reinforced walls he builds around his life. Just by being horrifically, unguardedly human.
Itâs both impressive and deeply unsettling in equal measure.
Before Max can spiral any further down this rabbit hole of self-reflection, a sharp rap of knuckles against the door jolts him back to awareness. He straightens and clears his throat roughly.
âCome in.â he calls out, already retaking his seat and trying to project an aura of resolute control.
Clara slips into the office, her usual unflappable poise slightly ruffled as she catches the tense atmosphere. âYou asked to see me right away, sir?â
âYes.â Max says brusquely, watching her over steepled fingers. âI need you to do some ⊠discreet digging for me into a personal matter.â
Claraâs perfectly groomed eyebrow arches inquisitively. But to her credit, she doesnât comment on his evasive phrasing.
âAnd what exactly am I looking into?â
âThe employee who was just in my office seeking leave.â he explains curtly. âThe one with the hospitalized child. I need you to find out everything you can â where the child is being treated, their condition, prognosis, all of it.â
Claraâs perfectly glossed lips purse ever so slightly. âYouâre aware I canât exactly go through official medical channels without violating all sorts of privacy laws ...â
âIâm fully aware.â Max interjects with a curt wave of his hand. âWhich is why youâll have to take a more ⊠unconventional approach. I donât particularly care what methods you have to employ, just get me those details by the end of the day.â
His assistant regards him silently for a long beat, as if trying to suss out his motivations. Max meets her contemplative look with an unwavering stare of his own.
Finally, Clara gives a tight nod of understanding. âConsider it done, sir.â
With that, she pivots on the towering heel of her Louboutin and sees herself out of the office, the click of her footsteps rapidly retreating down the hall.
Max lets out a slow exhale, alone with his thoughts once more.
What is he doing? This bizarre crusade is so wildly outside of his typical conduct and practices. The lengths heâs going to, all for the sake of some random underlingâs personal crisis ...
A smart, calculated part of his brain recognizes this entire situation as a foolâs errand, a waste of time and resources. He should be devoting every ounce of his focus toward extricating the Chinese investment group from the Brighton deal before their next earnings call.
And yet, he canât seem to fully let this go. Your haunted, hopeless expression keeps flickering through his mindâs eye. The memory of your tears soaking into his suit lapel as you clung to him with a desperation that shook something deep within him.
Itâs almost as if his body is acting of its own accord, driven by some urge he canât fully parse or control. Like a murmured voice insistently compelling him to ⊠to what? Help you? Offer some vague sense of solace or security?
The thought is patently ludicrous, and Max scoffs audibly at his own melodrama. Get a grip, he chides himself sternly. Since when do you care about coddling your peons?
He forcefully shakes off the uncharacteristic reverie and turns back to the stacks of paperwork and documents splayed across his desk. Focusing intently on running new financial projections for Q3, he manages to bury himself in the work for a solid two hours.
Heâs in the midst of furiously scribbling margin and revenue notes when the trill of the phone line cuts through his concentration. A glance at the caller ID has him resisting the urge to sigh.
âClara.â he answers crisply, leaning back in his leather chair. âI trust youâve made progress?â
âIndeed.â comes the smooth reply, devoid of inflection as always. âThough I should warn you, some of these details are ⊠concerning.â
Something tightens in Maxâs chest, but he quickly tamps it down. âJust lay it all out for me. No need to editorialize.â
âVery well.â Clara acquiesces. âSo the child, a three-year-old daughter, is currently a patient at Lennox Hill Hospital here in the city. According to my sources, she was admitted five weeks ago after experiencing severe seizures and hallucinations. An MRI revealed she has a large mass-â
âLet me stop you right there.â Max interjects, his brows furrowing. Even he can recognize those are less than encouraging signs. âWhatâs the official diagnosis then?â
âGrade IV glioblastoma.â Clara replies flatly. âOne of the most aggressive malignant brain tumors, especially in children her age.â
A terse silence falls between them as the weight of that diagnosis sinks in. Grade IV ⊠practically a death sentence wrapped up in clinical terminology. Max finds his hand unconsciously clenching the arm of his chair.
âAnd her prospects?â He finally prompts gruffly. âWhatâs the ⊠prognosis for her case?â
Clara doesnât answer right away. Over the line, he can hear her exhale slowly, a rare tell of emotional discomfort from his typically unflappable assistant.
âFrom what my contact at Lennox Hill said ⊠if weâre talking full disclosure?â Her customary professionalism wavers slightly as her voice grows hushed. âTheyâve given her three months at most, sir. Maybe less, if another seizure or bleed occurs before then.â
The words hang in the air like a guillotine blade against Maxâs neck. Suddenly, all those intrusive mental flashes of your inconsolable despair take on a sharper, even more heartrending clarity.
Of course you were devastated, he realizes with startling empathy. How could any mother face their childâs death sentence with any measure of composure?
An unexpected swell of emotion rises in Maxâs throat and he has to blink rapidly to keep it at bay. Now isnât the time for such indulgences.
âThank you, Clara.â he manages in a rough baritone. âThat will be all for now.â
He ends the call without waiting for a response, abruptly severing the connection.
Alone once more, Max slumps back against the leather upholstery, an uncharacteristic weariness settling into his bones. He reaches up to loosen his already disheveled tie, suddenly feeling stifled within the confines of his suit.
Three months. Three paltry months for a precious young life to be snatched away before it ever really began. His jaw clenches hard.
Thatâs unacceptable. Not just unfair, but a complete and total injustice to all that is right and good in this world.
No child should have to suffer like that ⊠and certainly no mother should have to face a future of unimaginable grief and emptiness once her only family is gone. Not if there was anything to be done about it.
And, at the end of the day, Max Verstappen has the means to quite literally move mountains with his wealth and influence.
An idea begins to blossom in his mind â one that feels daring and reckless and so utterly unlike his usual business-oriented self. But he finds himself drawn to it with a singleminded resolve he canât quite explain.
Jaw set, Max snatches up his phone and punches in a number he never thought heâd use outside of donor galas.
âRoland? Max Verstappen here.â he says gruffly when the line picks up. âI need you to connect me directly with someone in Sloan Ketteringâs pediatric oncology department ...â
Half an hour and multiple calls later, Max is finally patched through to one of the top clinical researchers in the field: Dr. Spencer Paulson.
âDr. Paulson, thank you for making time on such short notice.â Max says, his tone polished yet clipped. âTo cut right to it, I was recently made aware of a ⊠sensitive case involving a terminal pediatric patient and some rather bleak estimated survival rates.â
Without preamble, he lays out what little he knows about your daughter â the diagnosis, the staging, the Lennox Hill prognosis that has already written her off for dead. All throughout, the doctor on the other end of the line remains grimly silent.
âSo in your expert opinion.â Max finishes, realizing his hand has unconsciously tightened into a white-knuckled fist. âWhat would you say her realistic prospects for meaningful treatment or survival are?â
Thereâs a pregnant pause, then a grim sigh filters through the tinny line. âBased on what youâve told me ⊠Iâm afraid the prognosis does indeed sound dire. Grade IV glioblastomas in children under five have approximately a 5% survival rate past twelve months with conventional treatment regimens.â
Max clenches his teeth, brutally unsurprised yet still floored by the frank assessment. Moments ago, he had still been clinging to a foolâs hope.
âHowever.â Dr. Paulson continues, his tone brightening slightly. âWe do currently have an ⊠experimental trial ongoing that might be an outside option to explore.â
Something akin to hope flutters in Maxâs chest. âIâm listening.â
âWell, to put it simply, weâve had some promising early results adapting viral gene therapies to target and destroy these aggressive brain tumor cells in young patients.â the doctor explains, shifting into a more clinical, lecture-style delivery.
âBy modifying and re-engineering certain viruses to bind only to the specific mutated RNA and protein markers found in diseases like glioblastomas, we can theoretically use those same viruses as a delivery vector. One that can slip past the blood-brain barrier and directly infect the cancerous cells with a sort of ⊠controlled payload, if you will.â
Max nods along, his mind working furiously to keep up with the technical jargon. âSome kind of treatment regimen then? Drugs or radiation therapy delivered directly to the tumor site?â
âPrecisely.â Dr. Paulson confirms approvingly. âOnly weâve expanded past just chemo and gamma rays as the options. Thanks to the pioneering work of doctors like Bert Jacobs, weâve now created an entirely new frontier of cancer treatments centered around gene therapy and mRNA editing.â
He rattles off a dizzying litany of polysyllabic scientific terminology that sails completely over Maxâs head. Not that it matters â his focus is fully captured by the notes of guarded optimism finally creeping into Paulsonâs voice.
âOf course, this is all still highly experimental. Weâve only managed to achieve remission in a handful of trial cases thus far.â the doctor cautions. âAnd we have no idea if the viral vector weâve engineered will be equally effective against every variation of cancerous mutation out there.â
Max nods impatiently, waving a hand as if to physically shoo away the vague caveats. âI appreciate the need for clinical hedging, doctor. But letâs cut right to the heart of the matter.â
He draws in a fortifying breath. âIf you were to take on this little girl as a patient, deploy these ⊠gene therapy regimens of yours ⊠would you give her a legitimate chance? At treatment, remission, survival?â
Thereâs a pregnant pause, as if Dr. Paulson is carefully considering the ethical ramifications of his answer. Then, âIf she meets the selection criteria and baseline health conditions ⊠and we get a bit of luck on our side ...â Another sigh, heavy with the weight of his responsibilities. âThen Iâd say we would have a fighting chance, yes.â
Those five simple words crash over Max with the force of a tidal wave, hitting him squarely in the chest.
A chance. At life. At making it past those grim, dire prognoses.
After several moments of stunned silence, Max finally finds his voice.
âSay no more, doctor. Whatever it costs â money, time, logistics â none of it matters. I want this treatment option fully activated and prioritized immediately. Spare no expense, Iâll take care of the bill.â He utters the words with the same decisive confidence he handles his billion-dollar business dealings.
Because in this moment, it doesnât feel like just some impulsive, emotionally-driven whim. Helping your innocent child â ensuring she gets the fighting chance she deserves?
It feels like the only choice he can possibly make.
***
You sit hunched in the hard, plastic visitorâs chair, your body angled protectively towards the small hospital bed. Despite the tubes and wires snaking from her fragile limbs, your daughter appears almost peaceful in her restless slumber.
She always was such a sound sleeper as a baby, you reminisce wistfully. Remembering how youâd regularly creep into the nursery just to watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest, assuring yourself she was still breathing.
Even back then, the ever-present fear of something going horribly wrong never truly left you. The world is far too cruel a place to let a mother relax, no matter how deeply you wish you could.
One slender hand rests atop the thin bedsheet covering your little girl, your thumb tracing soothing circles along her tiny knuckles. A silent, simple gesture of tenderness you hope she can feel even in sleep. If only you could so easily soothe away her pain and suffering as you could your own.
The quiet flutter of the heart rate monitor keeps beat, each mechanical beep another hammer striking your already shattered soul. You want to feel relieved, blessed even, that it continues that steady cadence. Instead, you only feel exhausted hollowness.
Because this morning, the doctors came to âdiscuss options.â As if their clinical detachment could soften the blow of learning your child is well and truly out of miracles.
âWeâve run every available scan and lab test.â Dr. Rhodes had said, failing to meet your desperate gaze. âIâm so very sorry, but the tumor isnât responding to any of our treatments. At this point, we have to start considering ...â
You hadnât let him finish, couldnât let those hateful, unthinkable words pass his lips. Palliative care. Hospice. Just give up and let nature take its inevitable, brutal course while they pumped her full of numbing opiates so she could âcomfortablyâ slip away.
The rage and anguish had bubbled up from some primal pit within your guts, hot and viscous like magma erupting from deep beneath the earthâs crust. Youâd screamed incoherent denials until your voice was hoarse, begging and pleading through sobs for them not to take away your only hope.
In the end, theyâd sedated your daughter fully so you could âcalm downâ and âprocess things rationally.â You know they meant well, trying to spare her from your outburst. But it only compounded your devastation, feeling like they were already treating her as a lost cause no longer worth fighting for.
So here you sit, after untold hours of cycling through various stages of grief, left only with bone-deep weariness cloaked by a fragile veneer of numb acceptance. You dimly wonder if youâll ever truly feel anything else ever again.
Through the blur of tears constantly stinging your eyes, you keep a silent vigil over your daughterâs bedside. You memorize every delicate sweep of her sooty lashes, the tiny smattering of freckles across her upturned nose. Desperate to commit every last precious detail of her existence to memory before ⊠before ...
A choked sob bubbles up from your chest at the thought, hot and acidic at the back of your throat. You quickly muffle it with the crook of your elbow, determined not to disturb your resting girl with the outward manifestations of your agony.
In through the nose, out through the mouth. An old meditative mantra you try to focus on, struggling to regain control of your tenuous grip on composure. You know your tears and hiccupping gasps for air are only harming yourself at this point. Better to conserve what little physical and mental strength you have left to simply be with your daughter while you still can.
The grief is an ever-churning sea just waiting to drag you under its dark, icy depths. But still you stubbornly tread water, unwilling to fully surrender just yet. Not as long as you can still feel the reassuring thrum of her pulse against your fingertips, a solitary lifeline keeping you tethered to the present.
You arenât sure how much time stretches in that manner â minutes or hours, you cannot say. The days have all started blurring into one long, endless haze of sleeplessness and overwhelming sorrow.
So when the door to the hospital room suddenly clicks open, the sound manages to penetrate the cotton-muffled fog shrouding your senses.Instantly, you stiffen and blink rapidly, as if only just now awakening to your surroundings.
A stranger stands in the doorway â a tall, slender man in an impeccably tailored suit that looks distinctly out of place amongst the bland, sterile patient rooms. His face is sharp and angular, almost harsh in its sternness if not for the way his brow is furrowed with evident concern.
You open your mouth to ask who he is and what he wants, but he raises a placating hand before you can find your voice.
âPlease, donât be alarmed.â he says, words clipped yet softened slightly. âI know this is a terrible situation, and the absolute last setting youâd want an uninvited visitor.â
Now that heâs closer, you can see behind his obvious affluence lurks a cultured, aloof sort of demeanor. Thereâs no outward malice or disrespect in his manner, but he carries himself like someone long accustomed to privileges and deference. The sight of him sets you even more on edge amid your emotional rawness.
âMy name is Spencer Paulson.â the man presses on, taking a few measured steps further into the room. âIâm actually a doctor, Ms ...â
âY/N.â you automatically supply, dredging up the remnants of social graces. âY/N L/N. And this is ⊠this is my daughter, Olivia.â
Your voice cracks ever so slightly on her name, heated moisture already welling behind your eyes once more. You quickly dab at their corners with the sleeve of your worn cardigan, determined not to dissolve into fresh hysterics in front of this absolute stranger.
âWell, Ms. Y/L/N.â the man â Dr. Paulson â says, tone measured. âI realize Iâm intruding on a highly stressful situation for you and your family right now. And for that, I truly am sorry.â
His apology seems sincere enough. But wariness still prickles along your nape as your overtired, over-protective instincts flare up. You clutch your daughterâs limp hand in yours a fraction tighter.
âThen if you donât mind my asking.â you begin in a calculated tone, scrutinizing Paulson carefully. âWhy are you here? And what business could possibly bring you to Oliviaâs bedside unannounced?â
He regards you silently for a long moment, something inscrutable flickering across his features. When he speaks again, his words are deliberately precise, weighted down by their momentous gravity.
âI was recently contacted by ⊠an interested third party about your daughterâs case.â Paulson explains, clasping his hands behind his back. âI was filled in on the specifics of her diagnosis â glioblastoma, grade four, extremely aggressive and largely unresponsive to standard treatment. Am I correct so far?â
You can only numbly nod, a chill prickling across your flesh. The manâs crisp, clinical recitation of your worst nightmare forces a painful convulsion of renewed heartache.
Paulson seems to catch your distress and quickly presses on. âRight, well, Iâm actually here in an official capacity as the Chief of Pediatric Oncology over at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center.â
The words hit you with all the force of a defibrillator charge, jolting your entire frame upright in the hard plastic chair. Your jaw drops open, already fumbling for a desperate reply that will somehow make this all make sense.
But Paulson continues before you can vocalize any of the hundreds of jumbled questions flooding your mind.
âIâll keep this relatively simple, Ms. Y/L/N.â he says, holding up a forestalling hand. âMy team at Sloan Kettering recently received permission to transfer your daughter over to our care as soon as logistically possible. You see, weâve been working on an experimental new treatment protocol â a form of gene therapy designed to treat even the most aggressive, mutation-riddled forms of cancers like Oliviaâs brain tumor.â
You blink owlishly, unable to fully process the onslaught of technical jargon being leveled at you. All you can do is continue sitting there, stunned into silence as the doctor launches into an almost dizzying explanation of re-engineered viruses, targeted gene editing, and âcontrolled payloadsâ being essentially the extent of modern medicine.
â... And while the trial is still in its early stages, weâve actually already achieved partial and even full remission in a few key pediatric cases remarkably similar to that of your daughter.â Paulson continues, his tone growing faintly tinged with optimism and something akin to pride. âWhich is why weâre reasonably confident Olivia could be an excellent candidate for our experimental therapies, if you allow it.â
He lets the weight of that statement hang in the air between you, watching you carefully for any visible reaction. But youâre frozen, fighting between warring tides of soul-rending hope and knee-jerk cynicism.
After all, youâve come to reflexively distrust when desperation-stoking scenarios sound too good to be true over the past several torturous weeks. A small, rational voice in the back of your mind pipes up to remind you that you canât afford to get your hopes up, only to be gutted yet again by the crushing inevitability of disappointment.
But another part of your wearied brain â the part thatâs grown so fatigued by the oppressive feeling of hopelessness â recoils at dismissing any potential reprieve from the nightmare, no matter how fanciful or far-fetched.
So instead you hear yourself croaking out a single, wobbling syllable.
âHow ...â
Paulson tilts his head inquisitively. âIâm sorry?â
You clear your throat, igniting the spark of desperate yearning flickering to life inside your chest. âHow much would ⊠would a treatment like this cost?â
For the first time since barging his way into your fragile world, Paulsonâs aristocratic features twist into an unmistakable grimace. He lets out a tight sigh, clearly recognizing the gravity behind your simple question.
âUnfortunately, due to the experimental and intensive nature of this therapy ⊠the baseline costs do run relatively high.â he explains in a precise tone, as if trying to distance himself from the crass logistical realities. âIf approved for the trial and full treatment regimen, weâre looking at around $1.4 million in projected costs over the first six months alone.â
The astronomical number hits you squarely between the eyes, setting your head swimming with disbelief. One point four ⊠million? The amount is so ludicrously exorbitant that it almost doesnât seem real.
You open your mouth, fully intending to spit out the derisive scoff that such an impossible ask deserves. No amount of desperate wishing could ever make that attainable for a single, working-class parent already drowning in tens of thousands of medical debt.
But Paulson clearly recognizes the crestfallen defeat settling over your features. Because he quickly rushes ahead with his next words, effectively cutting off any vocal dismissal on your end.
âHowever, as I mentioned earlier, we did get some ⊠special circumstances greenlighted regarding your daughterâs case.â he says, tone brightening with carefully cultivated hopefulness. âYou see, thereâs an anonymous benefactor whoâs agreed to cover the full cost of treatment on a ⊠philanthropic basis, letâs call it.â
The words punch you directly in the gut, momentarily robbing your lungs of oxygen like a cruel sucker-punch. You blink dazedly up at Paulson, struggling to make sense of what heâs saying through the roaring static in your ears.
âI ⊠I donât understand.â you manage to stammer out. âSomeone wants to ⊠pay for my daughter? All of it? But why? How could they possibly-â
âHey now, none of that.â Paulson cuts you off, his voice softening with what might be the first hints of empathy and warmth creeping in. âThe why doesnât matter right now â only that itâs been arranged at no cost to you or your family.â
He moves closer then, resting one hand on your shoulder in an unexpected gesture of kindness that makes you flinch despite yourself. Up close, you can see the sincerity shining in his hazel eyes, pleading for you to simply accept this incredible parting of the dark clouds that have shrouded your existence.
âI know this is ⊠well, frankly astounding news on top of everything else youâre already dealing with.â Paulson continues, giving your shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze. âAnd please, believe me, we want to avoid overwhelming you with undue complications. For now, I think itâs enough to simply feel that spark of hope again, yes?â
Despite your best efforts to tamp down the desperate yearning swelling in your chest, you find yourself nodding mutely in agreement. Because in this moment, you understand exactly the miraculous implications of his words.
After so many agonizing weeks of feeling utterly powerless, of watching your baby girlâs life slowly ebb away before your very eyes ⊠there is a chance. An opportunity, a fighting possibility that everything wonât end in crushing grief and irredeemable sorrow.
And even just that single glowing ember of hope, no matter how faint, is enough to shatter the dam holding back your turbulent sea of pent-up emotion. Paulson watches in quiet acceptance as you finally break down in great, shuddering sobs â only this time, theyâre threaded with the catharsis of relief.
Happy tears stream down your blotchy cheeks, unchecked and convulsive. You press your face into the cool, starchy sheets of Oliviaâs bed, body wracked with a release of tension weeks in the making. It feels as though youâre being simultaneously unmade and reborn in this singular, messy instance.
Through the storm of your breakdown, youâre dimly aware of Paulson stepping away to give you privacy. And then, just before he slips from the room entirely, his composed baritone rings out one last time.
âWeâll make all the arrangements to transport Olivia to Sloan Kettering as soon as possible. Get her started on this treatment regimen right away, alright?â
You canât even summon the words to respond, only nodding rapidly between hiccuping bursts of gasping and sobbing. But just before he exits, shutting the door silently behind him, you catch Paulsonâs murmur.
âThereâs a fighting chance now. Thatâs all any of us can really ask for ...â
***
Max rakes a hand through his meticulously styled hair as he strides down the sterile hallway of Sloan Ketteringâs pediatric oncology ward. His eyes scan the room numbers tacked to each door, searching for the one he was provided.
456 ⊠458⊠ah, there â 460. Max pauses outside the closed entry, squaring his shoulders as he tries to tamp down the uncharacteristic fluttering of nerves in his stomach. Taking a fortifying breath, he gives the door a perfunctory series of raps with his knuckles.
Almost immediately, a muffled voice filters through from inside â your voice, he recognizes with a start. âCome in!â
Maxâs brow furrows momentarily at the warm, chipper lilt to your tone. So unlike the brittle, devastated one he had heard that fateful day in his office. Though he supposes thatâs only fitting, given the radically shifted circumstances these past several weeks.
Pushing his hesitation aside, Max takes the invitation and pushes into the hospital room. Youâre seated in one of the uncomfortable plastic visitorâs chairs, wearing a soft cardigan and jeans â by all appearances the very portrait of a typical doting mother.
Well, not entirely typical. Because curled up on the bed next to you is a tiny, doe-eyed little girl whose resemblance leaves no question as to her relation to you.
Olivia.
As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, you glance up â and immediately do a double-take, eyes going comically wide. âM-Mr. Verstappen?â You splutter out, frozen halfway out of your chair like a hostess belatedly remembered her manners. âI ⊠I didnât realize you were-â
Max holds up a hand to stop the tide of nervous rambling, inexplicably touched by your visible shock. The effect is only compounded when Olivia shifts on the bed, eyeing him owlishly from beneath the cuddly weight of a stuffed unicorn nearly as large as she is.
âItâs quite alright, Ms. Y/L/N.â he says, offering you the barest hint of a disarming smile. An expression he finds shockingly easy to produce given the scene before him. âI admit I hadnât warned you about my visit in advance.â
He pauses there, suddenly realizing the reason for his impromptu trip isnât entirely certain, even to himself. It had begun as little more than a nagging impulse tugging at him throughout his days, growing more persistent and insistent until he finally gave in and scheduled some time away from the office.
And now that heâs here, standing in this dimly-lit hospital room, Max feels strangely ⊠unmoored. Adrift in a situation his renowned business acumen didnât even begin to equip him for handling.
But then your daughter is shifting again, curiosity winning out over her bashfulness as she props herself up on her elbows. âWhoâre you?â She pipes up in a tiny, raspy voice that somehow bypasses Maxâs usually implacable defenses.
Something pangs oddly in his chest at the innocent inquiry. He finds himself crouching into an automatic squat, bringing himself level with the bedside so he can better meet Oliviaâs inquisitive gaze.
âYou can just call me Max.â he says, injecting a gentle warmth into his tone that he didnât even realize he was capable of. âItâs a pleasure to finally meet you.â
It occurs to him then that heâs been subconsciously clutching the bouquet of flowers still in his off-hand â an overly ornate spray of exotic lilies and birds of paradise blooms that probably cost more than a monthâs rent for most families. He had ordered them from the cityâs most exclusive florist boutique on pure aesthetic impulse, without pausing to consider the message such an excessive display might send.
This morning, holding the massive arrangement felt appropriate, a reflection of Maxâs stature as a dominant business magnate. But now, watching Oliviaâs large eyes track the oversized bouquet with open-mouthed awe, he feels suddenly self-conscious.
Hoping to recover some sense of propriety, Max clears his throat and holds the flowers out in front of him.
âThese are, ah, for your mother.â he explains gruffly, avoiding your questioning gaze burning against the side of his face. âA small token of ⊠of appreciation, one might say.â
He isnât quite sure what prompts the carefully worded addition â perhaps an instinctive reflex to avoid showing any overt sentimentality. But either way, you seem to simply accept the generous offering with bemused grace.
âThank you, Mr. Versta-â You quickly correct yourself at his mild arched brow. âEr, Max. Theyâre absolutely lovely.â
You bend to inhale the rich floral perfume, eyelids fluttering in evident delight at the fragrance. Max watches the childlike awe play out across your soft features, feeling an odd sort of satisfaction settle in his chest.
Having given you the flowers, he rises to his feet once more with a put-upon sigh of effort. Every bit of spoiled opulence and bravado that usually comes as second-nature to Max.
And yet, none of it lands quite with the affected solemnity heâs accustomed to projecting. Not when Oliviaâs sweet-faced attention is still utterly transfixed by his every move and micro-expression.
Your daughter still hasnât looked away from him even as you arrange the flower vase on her bedside table, entranced in a way only the very young can be. Itâs ⊠disarming, to say the least. But not entirely unpleasant, Max finds himself admitting.
âI, ah, got something for you as well, Olivia.â he announces impulsively. From behind his back, he produces a floppy-limbed teddy bear easily half her size.
Heâs not even sure what prompted him to purchase such a pedestrian sort of toy. All he knows is that he saw the stuffed creature in the hospital gift shop window on his way in, and some impulse compelled him to acquire it for reasons he still canât understand.
But any lingering uncertainty fades from his mind like a passing cloud when Olivia lets out an audible gasp of delight. Her little hands instantly shoot out, making desperate grabbing motions at the plush offering.
âOhmygosh, thank you!â The words tumble out in a breathless, childish rush. Before Max can even react, she leans precariously over the edge of the bed, arms outstretched and grasping imploringly.
On instinct, Max takes a half-step forward, carefully depositing the stuffed bear into Oliviaâs waiting embrace to avoid any accidents. She immediately snatches it to her chest, burying her face in the softness of its soft fabric with a contented hum that seems to vibrate in Maxâs very soul.
He swallows hard past the unexpected lump that forms in his throat, watching a child delight in something so simple and innocent. How long has it been since he allowed himself to find joy in the pure, unbridled way that Olivia does? Far too long, heâs forced to admit.
Clearing his throat with an awkward rumble, Max tears his gaze away from your daughterâs cuddling. He levels his focus back onto you instead. Only then does he realize youâve been staring at him throughout the entire interaction, an unreadable look painted across your face.
âI trust the medical team has kept you informed of Oliviaâs progress so far.â he prompts in his usual clipped tone, struggling to reassert some sense of distancing professionalism. âI donât have any special insight into the procedural specifics, but from what Iâve gathered, positive results are steadily accumulating, yes?â
You blink once, almost like shaking yourself out of a reverie, before offering a slow nod in response. âY-Yes, you could definitely say that.â
Something sparks behind your gaze then â some dawning realization creeping over your delicate features. âIn fact, Dr. Paulson himself said Olivia seems to have responded better to the gene therapy than almost any other patient yet. Her tumor reduction trend is so far exceeding their best models that theyâre actually considering tweaking the formula for future tria-â
You abruptly cut yourself off, lips pursing into a tight line as you turn your focus back to Max. He holds your stare evenly, waiting for whatever it is you seem to be mustering the courage to say.
Then, almost in a whisper, âMax ⊠are you the anonymous donor paying for all of this?â
The words hang in the air like a physical force between you, so full of implication and unvoiced emotion that even Max canât find a way to deflect them. He stares back at you, utterly disarmed beneath the intensity of your scrutinizing gaze.
For a long beat, only the hum of hospital machines and equipment fills the weighty silence. Maxâs jaw works tensely as he considers how best to respond. He wants to shrug it off, make some sardonic quip to reestablish the carefully curated aloofness that serves him so well in the business world.
But then Olivia lets out another joyous giggle as she squishes the plush bearâs paw, completely enraptured and undistracted by the silent standoff occurring across her bedside. And all of Maxâs formidable defenses and calculated denials abruptly dissolve in the face of such childlike innocence.
So instead of evasion, he answers your question with a small, barely perceptible nod and a softly murmured, âYes.â
He doesnât have time to brace himself before youâre suddenly surging up out of the chair with a wounded cry. And then your arms are flung around his neck, your body slamming against his chest as you pull Max into a fierce and entirely unexpected hug.
The impact momentarily stuns him, freezing Max in place with his arms held useless at his sides. He canât remember the last time someone dared to initiate such a brazen display of physical contact â perhaps ever, now that he racks his brain.
But just as he contemplates gently extricating himself from your clutches, your ragged voice rises to his ear in a trembling whisper.
âThank you.â youâre whispering over and over like a fevered prayer. âThank you, thank you, thank you ...â
With each impassioned repetition, Max can feel more of the tension slowly leeching from his frame. He finds himself sinking bonelessly into your embrace, one hand coming to rest against the small of your back in an automatic gesture of soothing.
Soon enough, heaving sobs are wracking your entire body against his. Hot tears quickly begin to soak through the fabric of his expensive dress shirt as you cling to him with the desperation of a fallen angel clawing her way back into grace. But Max doesnât pull away, doesnât extricate himself or put distance between your respective roles as worker and corporate king.
Instead, in a move even he canât fully explain or justify, his free hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pulling you in even tighter as you keen your grateful relief against the column of his throat.
âItâs ⊠quite alright.â he finds himself rumbling in a low, soothing voice completely at odds with his usual persona. âNo thanks are necessary. All that matters now is ensuring your daughterâs full and complete recovery ⊠at whatever cost required.â
He isnât sure whether his throwaway platitude is meant more for his benefit or yours at this point. But either way, you show no signs of releasing him from the crushing strength of your desperate clutch anytime soon. So Max does the only thing left available to him â he simply lets you cry and shake and cling to him for as long as you need.
Until finally, with a handful of watery hiccups and sniffles, you manage to tilt your blotchy face up towards his.
âI ⊠I donât know how Iâll ever repay you for this.â you murmur throatily. âFor giving Olivia more than just some faint hope, but an actual chance to grow up and live the life she deserves.â
Tenderness isnât something that often breaks through Max Verstappenâs shroud of callous indifference. He can count on one hand the number of times in his adult life heâs allowed himself to indulge in such sentimental trivialities.
But gazing into your puffy, reddened eyes, he finds he canât quite summon any bitter cynicism. Instead, his voice remains low with a soothing gentleness that feels almost foreign falling from his lips.
âThe only form of repayment Iâll require.â he says finally, âis your permission to take you to dinner.â
He blinks once, almost taken aback by the words that slipped unbidden from his throat. But you, for your part, seem equally dazed as your brows knit in bewilderment.
âDinner? But ⊠I havenât left Olivia in weeks.â
At that, Max manages a wry smile, feeling as if heâs regained at least some fraction of his footing and composure. âOf course I donât expect you to. I simply meant for the three of us to dine together ⊠here, in the hospital. My treat, naturally.â
Your fingers unconsciously clench tighter into the fabric of his ruined dress shirt. But even with the hint of embarrassment pinkening your cheeks, he can see what looks almost like ⊠excitement? Perhaps even coyness sparking behind your gaze before you avert your eyes demurely.
âI ⊠yes, of course.â you murmur, sounding almost bashful. âWe would be honored.â
Max simply nods, committing every little part of the interaction to his increasingly scattered memory for later dissection. For now, he withdraws himself from the gentle circle of your arms with what he hopes appears a natural sort of casualness.
âVery good then,â is all he finds himself able to say in response. âI shall make the necessary arrangements and return shortly with something to eat.â
With that, he turns on his heel and strides towards the exit, throwing one final look over his shoulder. Youâre already back in your chair at Oliviaâs bedside, shooting him another shy little smile as you start to idly stroke your now dozing daughterâs hair.
And before Max even fully processes the impulse, he feels the corner of his mouth tugging upwards into a warm half-grin in response.
A expression so unfamiliar on his usually dour features that it renders him momentarily unrecognizable, even to himself.
Shaking his head as if to cast off the dizzy sense of displacement, Max continues out into the hallway. He stubbornly refuses to dwell too much on the stirrings of contentment radiating through his chest.
Such indulgent notions are highly unseemly for a man of his stature and influence, after all. Better to ignore them entirely, as he always has.
Though even as the thought crosses his mind, Max finds himself picking up his pace with a renewed sense of purpose and determination. Because somewhere along the way, he realizes ...
Denial doesnât appear to be an option anymore.
***
Two Years Later
The ornate grandfather clock in the corner ticks rhythmically, its pendulum swinging with measured precision. Maxâs gaze flicks over to it briefly before returning to the stack of documents before him. Numbers and figures blur together as his eyes scan the pages, his brow furrowed in concentration.
A giggle from the corner of the room breaks his focus. He glances up to see Olivia sitting cross-legged on the plush carpet, curls bouncing as she plays with her Barbie dolls. A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips at the sight of her innocent joy.
âWhat are you up to over there, kleine muis?â He asks, his voice gruff but tinged with affection.
Olivia looks up, her eyes sparkling. âIâm having a tea party with Barbie and Ken.â she explains, brandishing the dolls. âWould you like to join us, Maxie?â
Max chuckles softly. âThank you for the invitation, but Iâm afraid I have a bit too much work to do for a tea party right now.â
âOkay.â Olivia says cheerfully, returning to her imaginary festivities.
You had dropped Olivia off at Maxâs office after her kindergarten class, needing to rush to an urgent marketing meeting. Max had insisted on keeping her company until you returned, despite the mountain of paperwork on his desk.
He watches Olivia play, mesmerized by her ability to create entire worlds from mere toys and her vibrant imagination. Her carefree laughter is a soothing balm against the chaos of his day.
After a while, Olivia looks up again. âMaxie, can I ask you something?â
âOf course, lieverd. What is it?â
Olivia fidgets with one of the dollâs dresses. âToday at school, we had to draw pictures of our families.â
Maxâs heart constricts slightly at the innocuous statement, but he manages a reassuring smile. âDid you have fun with that activity?â
Olivia nods enthusiastically. âUh-huh. I drew me, Mommy, and you.â
The words hit Max like a physical blow, stealing his breath away. He stares at Olivia, his eyes widening as a storm of emotions swirls within him.
Olivia, oblivious to his inner turmoil, continues, âBut then Timmy said that youâre not really my daddy since we donât have the same last name. Is that true, Maxie? Are you not my daddy?â
Max swallows hard, his throat constricting. He had grown to love this child as if she were his own flesh and blood, but he had never dared to assume the sacred title of father. The realization that Olivia saw him that way, despite the lack of biological ties, threatens to shatter his carefully constructed walls.
Pushing back from his desk, he rises to his feet and makes his way over to where Olivia sits. He lowers himself to the floor, his movements stiff and hesitant. Olivia watches him with curious eyes, still clutching her dolls.
âOlivia.â he begins, his voice thick with emotion he struggles to contain. âEven though we donât share the same name, and I didnât ...â He pauses, swallowing hard. âI didnât have a hand in bringing you into this world, you are every bit as much my daughter as if you were my own.â
Olivia tilts her head slightly, considering his words. âSo, I can call you Daddy?â
The simple question unlocks something deep within Maxâs core, a part of himself he had locked away long ago. He feels moisture prickling at the corners of his eyes, an unfamiliar sting that he doesnât fight.
âYes, kleine muis.â he whispers, his voice wavering. âI would be honored if you called me Daddy.â
Without warning, Olivia drops her dolls and flings her small arms around Maxâs neck, hugging him tightly. Max freezes for a moment, unaccustomed to such open displays of affection, before melting into the hug. He wraps his arms around Oliviaâs tiny frame, holding her close as if she might slip away at any moment.
They stay like that for long minutes, Maxâs shoulders trembling slightly as the dam he had so carefully constructed finally cracks. Tears slip silently down his cheeks, mingling with the softness of Oliviaâs hair as he buries his face against her.
At last, Olivia pulls back, her eyes shining with joy. âI love you, Daddy.â she says simply, the words reverberating through Maxâs very soul.
He manages a watery smile, brushing away the dampness on his cheeks. âAnd I love you, lieverd. More than you could ever know.â
Olivia beams at him before scrambling to her feet. âOh! I almost forgot!â She darts over to her little backpack, rummaging through it eagerly.
Max watches her, his heart still thundering in his chest from the whirlwind of emotions coursing through him. He had built an empire, commanded boardrooms with an iron fist, and struck fear into the hearts of grown men ⊠yet this innocent child had disarmed him completely.
âHere it is!â Olivia exclaims, returning with a piece of paper clutched in her small fist. She holds it out to Max, beaming. âFor you, Daddy.â
With trembling hands, Max takes the drawing. A bright smile breaks across his face as he studies the crude but endearing figures â stick figures, but he can clearly make out Olivia, you, and himself, joined by vibrant swirls of color.
âItâs beautiful.â he murmurs, his fingers tracing over the lines with a tenderness he reserves only for her. âThank you.â
Over the next few days, Max has the drawing professionally framed, the simple piece of artwork taking pride of place on the wall of his office. Whenever his gaze falls upon it, his heart swells with a love and sense of purpose that had been missing for far too long.
Beside the framed drawing hangs his business degree, a symbol of his power and influence in the corporate world. Yet, it is Oliviaâs artwork that holds the most meaning, a reminder of what truly matters in this life.
Because Max is many things â a captain of industry, a force to be reckoned with, a man who has clawed his way to the top through sheer grit and determination.
But most importantly, he is a father.
And he has never been more proud of any achievement than to call himself Oliviaâs daddy.
#f1 imagine#f1#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#f1 fanfiction#f1 x reader#f1 x you#max verstappen#mv1#max verstappen imagine#max verstappen x reader#max verstappen x you#max verstappen fic#max verstappen fluff#max verstappen fanfic#max verstappen blurb#f1 fluff#f1 blurb#f1 one shot#f1 x y/n#f1 drabble#f1 fandom#f1blr#f1 x female reader#max verstappen x female reader#max verstappen x y/n#red bull racing#max verstappen one shot#max verstappen drabble
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AU where Shen Yuan gets transmigrated into a younger brother of Mobei-Jun. He manages to avoid getting axed in the inheritance struggle by being a slippery little bugger and a catty bitch that the warring siblings keep around for entertainment purposes. There's a pact that he has to be the last to go when their numbers are finally down to two and everything. He has teleportation powers, but since he doesn't actively cultivate they're not as powerful as Mobei-Jun's.
He's built like a bean pole, but somehow inherited a similar teleportation ability to Mobei-Jun. He spends 75% of his free time holed up in the library and puttering around any markets for books that by all appearances he hates, but won't stop buying. The other 25% he spends actively pissing people off for shits and giggles. His brothers find this hilarious and defend him from the foreign dignitaries he ends up trolling straight to rage.
He only gets in trouble with Mobei-Jun when he finds out that Shang Qinghua is Airplane and beats him with his own scrolls. Mobei-Jun walks in on this scene and is like 'my little brother, finally showing a shred of interest in something other than books, and it has to be with MY situationship'. He's like 3 seconds away from beating the snot out of Shen Yuan for trying to take HIS boy toy. Shen Yuan senses the murderous aura behind him before he's basically throwing in the towel and posturing to his brother like "he's one of the terrible authors, his crimes against words are numerous. I'm not trying to take your man."
Shen Yuan is trying so hard not to piss off the brother that will actually win the fight for inheritance that he ends up wingmaning him after that conflict. He also gets dragged into spars, and he can't tell if this is actually for his benefit or for Mobei-Jun to blow off steam with the added benefit of plausible deniability if he ends up dead at the end. Meanwhile Mobei-Jun is like 'ah, yes, another ally in my struggle to become king. I must make sure he is able to hold his own. He can live.'
Immortal Alliance Conference happens and Mobei-Jun goes there like in the novel to try to catch a couple minutes with Shang Qinghua, breaks Luo Binghe's seal and dips, but Shen Yuan appears and tries to usher him into the Endless Abyss. He gives Binghe some supplies and a weapon before having to try and distract Shen Qingqiu so Binghe can make an escape. He can only transport himself with his weak shadow powers, but he can buy time for Binghe to go down on his own.
Binghe's eventual escape from the Abyss means he comes straight to the Northern Palace and challenges Mobei-Jun in a fit of rage, coincidentally running into his savior - the only person who had been kind to him since his mother died. Shen Yuan becomes a quasi advisor, helping Luo Binghe's adventures and conquest. It's surprising that Luo Binghe doesn't seem to be interested in all the demon women he meets, but at least he doesn't have to endure being the third wheel to all the papapa.
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PRISONER! ELLIE HCS!
an: sheâs so ughhh..wanna be her babymama so bad
Jailbird! Ellie whoâs got a picture of you taped poorly on the top of her bunkbed so when sheâs laid down tiredly at night, she has you to look at,
Jailbird! Ellie who finds it to be both a blessing and a curse because if she looks at it at the wrong time, it can stir something wrong in her.
Jailbird! Ellie whoâs only got you and her dad as motivation to get out, even going as far as to not retaliate when others pick fights with her.
Jailbird! Ellie who watches you, as she lifts weights in the courtyard, be escorted by other officers to the conference room, giving her a small wave through the gates.
Youâre such a sweetheart :(
Jailbird!Ellie who sits across from you on the otherside of the reinforced panel, smirking as she lifts the phone up to her lips when you immediately begin speaking
Jailbird!Ellie who listens to you talk about whatâs been happening since she got locked up, mentioning how you miss her so much at home, how lonely youâve been
Jailbird!Ellie who sighs, bringing a hand to meet yours with the window as a barrier between you two from actually making contact, promising as soon as she gets out, sheâs all yours.
Jailbird!Ellie who for the first time in all her years of delinquency, regrets her actions of being in here when she could be making a life out with you
Jailbird!Ellie who shortly gets out a few months later on good behavior, clad in a wife beater and some sweats as you lead her out of the quarters to your car, ecstatic and beaming beyond excitement that your girlfriend was finally out
Jailbird!Ellie who canât help but fuck you in that same car, moaning into your pussy about how sheâs missed her sweet girl and that she hopes you never make her same mistakes, suckling on it like a starved woman
Jailbird!Ellie whoâs unsatiable, going multiple rounds and dirtying the vehicle seats, claiming sheâs got all this pent up energy from not having you in months, referring to you more as if you were a guilty dessert one has been abstaining from.
Jailbird!Ellie who whispers in your ear as she slots her legs inbetween yours about the times how sheâd have nothing else to do but fuck herself with her long fingers to your picture and how itâs gotten her through sooo many similar nights, not even caring about her bunkmate hearing her.
Jailbird!Ellie who promises sheâll have a cleaner track record now, never wanting to be away from you that long anymore.
#ellie williams smut#Ellie williams#ellie williams x reader#the last of us#wlw#tlou#ellie william hcs#san8ny
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Lost & Found
Summary: You suffer memory loss after an accident, only remembering your sister, Emily, and not your boyfriend, Spencer.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader
Category: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort
Warnings/Includes: car accident, depressive thoughts, fighting, crying, memory loss, struggling with memory loss, showering together, suggestive content (16+), use of Y/N
Word count: 19.6k
a/n: this reminds me of the vow lol my bad but i already wrote it sooo
main masterlist
The sun had just begun to rise over Washington, D.C., casting long shadows across the bustling streets. You were driving to work, your thoughts on the day ahead, when the unthinkable happened. Out of nowhere, a semi-truck barreled down the road, its brakes screaming in protest, unable to halt its deadly path. There was no time to react. The world slowed as the massive vehicle collided with the driverâs side of your car, the sound of metal crunching filling the air like a thunderclap.
â
Spencer Reid sat in a sterile conference room, surrounded by maps and case files in a small town in Missouri. He was miles away from home, yet his mind kept drifting back to you. It had been a little over two years since you and Spencer began dating, and in that time, he had come to rely on your comforting presence. Even though he was away, the two of you made it a point to call each other whenever possible, exchanging stories about your days and sharing a few jokes. Today, he hadnât heard from you yet, and a nagging feeling tugged at the back of his mind. Â
The shrill ring of his phone jolted Spencer out of his thoughts. Hotch was in mid-sentence when Spencer abruptly stood up, excusing himself from the meeting as he glanced down at the caller ID and recognized your best friendâs name.Â
âHey, Spencer! Sorry for calling so early, I just wanted to ask if you knew what Y/N would like for her birthday dinner!â they chirped, their voice a bit muffled from what sounded like some activity in the background. âSheâs so picky, you know! Maybe we could make a surprise for her?â
âI...I donât know. I havenât spoken to her yet today,â Spencer admitted, his voice nearly shaking. âBut she loves Italian food, maybe pasta?âÂ
âOh, of course! Iâll start with that, then. Thanks, Spencer!â they replied before hanging up, oblivious to the gravity of the situation.
The call left Spencer feeling hollow, a growing sense of dread gnawing at him. He sank back into his chair, his mind reeling. Moments later, his phone rang again, and he picked it up without even glancing at the screen. This time, the voice on the other end was urgent and frantic, and Spencerâs heart sank as he listened.Â
"Hello?" he said, trying to keep his voice steady, though the room was still buzzing around him.
âSpencer Reid?â a calm, authoritative voice inquired on the other end.
âYes, this is he,â Spencer replied, straightening up slightly as he recognized the tone of someone delivering important information.
âThis is St. Agnes Hospital in Washington, D.C.," the voice continued. "Iâm calling about Y/N L/N.â
Spencer's heart skipped a beat. The mention of your name brought everything else to a halt, and he felt a wave of apprehension wash over him.
âShe has been in an accident,â the voice said, and Spencer could hear the weight behind those words. âYou are listed as her emergency contact, how soon can you get here?â
He froze, unable to process the words as they echoed in his mind. âAn accident?â he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper. "What happened?"
âThere was a collision with a semi-truck,â the hospital staffer explained, their voice professional yet tinged with compassion. âY/N was seriously injured. Sheâs currently in surgery, but itâs critical.â
Spencer's mind raced, each word like a punch to his gut. âIs sheââ he started, his voice breaking. âIs she going to be okay?â
âWeâre doing everything we can, Dr. Reid,â the worker reassured him gently. âBut you should get here as soon as you can.â
He nodded, though the person on the other end couldn't see him, trying to gather his thoughts through the haze of shock. The room around him felt surreal, the voices of his colleagues fading into the background.
âThank you,â Spencer managed to say, his voice shaky with barely restrained panic. âIâm on my way from Missouri, Iâll be there as soon as I can.â
As he ended the call, Spencer abruptly returned, shoes pounding against the floor. His teammates noticed the sudden change in his demeanor, their conversations pausing as they turned to him with concern.
âSpencer?â Emily asked, noticing the ashen look on his face. âWhatâs wrong?â
âItâs Y/N,â Spencer said, his voice tight with urgency. âThereâs been an accident. I need to get home.â
Without waiting for a response, he grabbed his things, already planning his route to the nearest airport in his head. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing the urgency to be by your side, to hold your hand, to be there when you needed him most.
âWeâll cover things here,â Hotch assured him, stepping forward. âGo.â
âThanks,â Spencer replied, his voice holding gratitude and desperation. He turned to leave, his thoughts solely focused on getting back to you, hoping with every fiber of his being that he wouldnât be too late.
â
Spencer couldnât remember the flight home. The moments blurred together as his mind replayed the words over and over: life support, coma, severe accident. They echoed in his head, refusing to let him think of anything else. His team had rallied around him, offering words of support and handling the details to get him back as quickly as possible.Â
As the plane touched down in Washington, Spencer felt the full weight of the situation crashing down on him. His legs trembled as he stood, a numbness spreading through his body as he made his way through the terminal.Â
The hospital was a short drive away, and yet it felt like an eternity. He barely registered the buildings and streets flashing by as he sat in the back seat of a cab, his heart pounding with each passing moment.Â
Finally, he arrived at the hospital, a large, imposing building that now seemed more like a fortress. Spencer rushed through the doors, barely acknowledging the bustling activity around him as he focused solely on reaching you. He navigated the maze of hallways with a determination that surprised even him, eventually finding his way to the ICU.Â
Your room was sterile and filled with the rhythmic beeping of machines, each sound a stark reminder of your fragile condition. Spencer stopped short at the sight of you lying in the hospital bed, tubes and wires snaking across your body. His heart wrenched at the sight, a profound ache settling in his chest as he slowly approached.Â
âY/N,â he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion.Â
He took a shaky breath, feeling the enormity of the situation press down on him. He felt helpless, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest with the assistance of the ventilator, knowing there was nothing he could do to change what had happened.Â
Spencer reached out, his hand trembling as he gently took yours. The warmth of your skin was a small comfort, a reminder that you were still there, still fighting.Â
âIâm here,â he said softly, his voice breaking as he spoke. âIâm here, and Iâm not going anywhere. Please, Y/N... please come back to me.âÂ
The room was silent except for the steady hum of the machines, and Spencer felt a tear slide down his cheek. He brushed it away, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to your forehead.Â
â
The hours that followed were a blur. Spencer sat by your side, his hand never leaving yours as he kept a silent vigil. The nurses and doctors came and went, their words and actions a distant murmur as Spencer focused solely on you. He remembered snippets of conversations, assurances that you were receiving the best care possible, and updates on your condition that offered little comfort.Â
In those moments, Spencer clung to hope. He recalled all the times you had smiled at him, the way your eyes lit up when you were excited or passionate about something. He remembered the quiet moments you shared, the laughter and love that had blossomed between you over the past years.Â
â
Three Days Later
Spencer hadnât left the hospital since he arrived. The team had been by his side, offering support and keeping him company, but he barely registered their presence. All that mattered was you, and the hope that you would wake up and return to him.Â
On the third day, the doctor came in with a more hopeful expression than before. He checked the monitors, made some notes, and then turned to Spencer with a small smile.Â
âThereâs been some improvement,â he said gently. âItâs a good sign. Weâre going to try reducing the sedation and see how she responds.â
Spencer felt a flicker of hope at the words, his heart clenching with a mix of anticipation and fear. He nodded, unable to trust his voice as he watched the doctor adjust the IV line. They assured him they would keep him informed as soon as your surgery was complete and directed him to the waiting area, where he could collect himself while waiting for more information.
Spencer made his way to the waiting room, his thoughts a whirlwind of emotions. Memories of you together flooded his mind: the quiet evenings spent curled up on the couch, the laughter shared over inside jokes, and the whispered promises of a future together. He sat down, feeling the weight of uncertainty pressing down on him, wondering what the next few hours would bring.
â
The hours stretched on interminably, each tick of the clock echoing loudly in Spencer's ears as he waited in the sterile waiting room. He couldn't bring himself to focus on anything other than the thought of you, lying in surgery, fighting for your life. The antiseptic smell of the hospital, the murmur of other patients and visitors, all faded into the background as he replayed every memory he had of you in his mind, trying to cling to the hope that you would pull through.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a doctor approached Spencer with a solemn expression. "Dr. Reid?" the doctor asked, and Spencer quickly stood, his heart pounding in his chest.
"Yes, that's me," Spencer replied, his voice fullof hope and anxiety.
"The surgery was successful," the doctor said, offering a small, reassuring smile. "We were able to stabilize her, and she's currently in the ICU under observation."
Spencer felt a rush of relief wash over him, though the gravity of the situation was still heavy on his shoulders. "Thank you," he said sincerely, his voice trembling with emotion. "Thank you so much."
The doctor nodded, understanding the depth of Spencer's gratitude. "She's not out of the woods yet," the doctor continued, "but she's made it through the worst part. However, I need to prepare you for the possibility that there may be complications. We won't know the full extent until she regains consciousness."
Spencer nodded, taking in the doctor's words with a mix of relief and apprehension. He felt his breath catch in his throat, knowing that there was still a long road ahead, but grateful for the chance to be by your side as you began to recover.
â
You pulled through, but it wasn't without its challenges. When you finally awoke, the room was filled with the soft beeping of monitors and the faint hum of medical equipment. Everything felt disorienting as you blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights, trying to make sense of where you were and what had happened.
Spencer was at your side, his eyes filled with relief and worry as he watched you stir. He reached out to take your hand, squeezing it gently in reassurance. "Y/N," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "You're awake."
You turned your head slightly, trying to focus on the man before you. He looked somewhat familiar, yet your mind struggled to place him. The last thing you remembered was being 18, living with your sister Emily, and yet here you were, in a hospital bed, with a stranger by your side.
"Who are you?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. The question hung in the air, heavy with the weight of uncertainty.
Spencer felt his heart drop at your words, a painful realization settling in. He had hoped that when you woke up, everything would be back to normal, that you would go back to the life you had built together. But the look of confusion and fear in your eyes told him everything he needed to know.
"I'm Spencer," he said gently, trying to keep his voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "I'm your boyfriend. We've been together for over two years. You live with me."
You shook your head slowly, trying to wrap your mind around his words. It felt like a dream, a reality you couldn't quite grasp. "No," you said, your voice breaking with frustration and fear. "I live with my sister, Emily. I don't know you."
Spencer felt a wave of sadness wash over him, but he forced himself to stay strong for you. He knew this was a possibility, that the trauma of the accident could have affected your memory, but hearing it from you was a different reality altogether. He took a deep breath, his heart aching with every word he prepared to say.
âUm, no. IâI donât know how to tell you this, but, uhâŠâ Spencer tried to speak through the tears coming on, his voice trembling. âYou are 25 years old, Emily is 38, and you work as a liaison for the Sex Crimes Unit in the FBI. Emily and I work together in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. We met through Emily, and now you live with me. You were in a severe car accident three days ago, and you may be suffering from amnesia.â
His words hung in the air like a cloud, heavy and dense, as you struggled to process what he was telling you. The hospital room felt colder, the sterile smell more pronounced, as your mind tried to catch up with the information being presented to you. Everything he said felt distant and unfamiliar, like a story someone else was telling, not your own life.
âAmnesia?â you repeated, the word foreign on your tongue. You could feel panic beginning to rise in your chest, the fear of the unknown pressing down on you. âHow is this possible? IâI donât remember any of this.â
Spencerâs heart broke at the fear in your eyes, and he longed to reach out and comfort you. But he knew that, to you, he was a stranger, someone who claimed to know you but didnât feel real. He had to tread carefully, to give you space to process the situation at your own pace.
âItâs okay,â Spencer said softly, his eyes filled with compassion. âI know this is a lot to take in. Youâve been through so much, and Iâm here for you. We can take this one step at a time. Whatever you need, Iâm here to help.â
You looked at him, studying his face for any sign of deception or recognition, but all you saw was sincerity. It was both comforting and unsettling. Here was a man who seemed to care deeply for you, yet you couldnât find a single memory to support his claims. It was like standing at the edge of a vast, unknown ocean, unsure whether to step forward or retreat.
âI just... I donât understand how I got here,â you said, your voice small and uncertain, the edges of panic sharpening your words. Your eyes filled with tears as you grappled with the enormity of your situation. âWhereâs Emily? I want to see Emily,â you added, the tears now spilling over, and you could feel your chest tighten with fear and helplessness.Â
Spencer felt a painful twist in his heart as he watched you cry, the sight of your distress cutting through him like a knife. He knew how much you relied on Emily before, but he had been your rock these past years. To not be able to comfort you in your time of need tore him apart. Despite the situation, he felt a glimmer of relief that you still remembered your sister, a familiar anchor in a sea of unfamiliar faces and places.
âSheâs at home sleeping. Iâll give her a call,â Spencer assured you, reaching for his phone with a steady hand, though inside he felt anything but calm. He wanted to be the one to comfort you, to hold you and tell you that everything would be okay, but he understood that right now, Emily was the person you needed most.Â
âThank you,â you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. You wiped at your tears, feeling both grateful and overwhelmed by the kindness of this man who seemed so determined to help you, even though you couldnât remember him.
Spencer stepped out into the hallway to make the call, wanting to give you a moment of privacy. The hospital corridor was quiet, save for the distant murmur of medical staff and the occasional beep of machinery. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself before dialing Emilyâs number.Â
âSpencer?â Emilyâs voice was groggy but instantly alert as she answered the call, concern evident in her tone. âIs everything okay? Howâs Y/N?â
Spencer swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on him. âEmily, sheâs awake,â he said, his voice tight with emotion. âBut she doesnât remember anything from the past seven years. She thinks sheâs still living with you.â
âOh my God,â Emily breathed, the shock clear in her voice. âIs she okay? What did the doctors say?â
âThey think itâs retrograde amnesia caused by the trauma of the accident,â Spencer explained, running a hand through his hair as he spoke. âSheâs asking for you, Emily. Sheâs really scared.â
âIâll be there as soon as I can,â Emily promised, already moving to get dressed. âTell her Iâm on my way, okay? And Spencer... thank you for being there with her. I know this must be incredibly hard for you.â
Spencer nodded, even though Emily couldnât see him. âIâll tell her. Drive safely.â
After ending the call, Spencer returned to your room, his heart heavy with the knowledge of how disorienting this must be for you. He found you sitting up slightly, your eyes still red from crying but showing a flicker of hope at the mention of your sister.
âEmilyâs on her way,â Spencer said gently, offering you a small, reassuring smile. âShe should be here soon.â
You nodded, the knowledge that Emily was coming bringing you a semblance of comfort. But still, questions swirled in your mind, the uncertainty of your situation looming large.
"Thank you, um, what was your name again?" you asked softly, your voice hesitant and tinged with the confusion that clouded your mind.Â
Spencerâs heart ached at the question, a painful reminder of the gap that now existed between you. But he managed a gentle smile, determined to be patient and understanding.Â
âSpencer,â he said quietly, meeting your gaze with a steady warmth. âMy name is Spencer.â
You nodded slowly, trying to commit his name to memory, even though it felt like grasping at straws. There was something comforting about the way he looked at you, a sense of safety that you couldnât quite explain.
âThank you, Spencer,â you repeated, hoping that saying his name would help anchor you in this unfamiliar reality. Despite the overwhelming uncertainty, you felt a small sense of reassurance knowing he was there, a steady presence in the storm of your fractured memories.
â
Emily arrived at the hospital within the hour, her eyes filled with concern and determination as she made her way to your room. When she saw you, relief flooded her features, and she rushed to your side, wrapping her arms around you in a warm, reassuring embrace.
âHey, itâs okay,â Emily murmured, holding you tightly as she stroked your hair. âIâm here, Y/N. Weâll figure this out together.â
You clung to her, the familiar comfort of her presence grounding you in the midst of the chaos. For the first time since waking up, you felt a sense of safety, a reminder of the life you remembered.
Spencer watched the reunion, his heart aching with a mixture of emotions. He was grateful that Emily was there for you, knowing how much you needed her support right now. But there was also a longing, a deep-seated hope that one day, you would remember the life you had built with him, the love that had grown between you.
As you leaned into Emily's embrace, you whispered, âCan you stay with me, please?â Your voice was soft, almost childlike in its vulnerability, and Spencerâs heart clenched at the sound of it.
Emily smiled gently, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face as she nodded. âOf course, Iâm so sorry I wasnât here,â she said, guilt tinging her words. âI came as soon as I heard.â
âItâs okay,â you replied, offering her a small, reassuring smile. âPeter is really nice.â
The misstep in Spencer's name hit him like a physical blow, and yet he understood. You were trying your best to piece things together, to make sense of the world around you, and that meant trying to fit him into a picture that didnât quite match the reality you remembered.Â
Emily glanced at Spencer, a flicker of understanding in her eyes as she gave him a supportive nod. She knew how hard this must be for him, watching you struggle to recall the love and life you shared.Â
Spencer swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing himself to return Emilyâs nod with a small, grateful smile. He knew that rebuilding the bridge to your past wouldnât be easy, but he was willing to do whatever it took to help you find your way back.Â
He remained quiet, a gentle presence in the background as Emily continued to comfort you, knowing that while he might not be the one you remembered now, he would do everything in his power to be the one youâd remember in the future.
â
Spencer eventually went home, the weight of the last few days pressing heavily on his shoulders. The hospital had become a second home in the wake of the accident, but now, as he drove through the familiar streets of Quantico, he felt the exhaustion finally catch up with him.Â
The apartment was quiet when he arrived, the silence amplifying the absence of your presence. He dropped his bag by the door and stood in the entryway for a moment, looking around the space that had been your shared sanctuary. Everything about itâthe framed photos, the little touches that marked your shared lifeâfelt like an echo of the past he was desperate to help you remember.
He made his way to the bathroom, shedding his clothes and stepping into the shower. The hot water cascaded over him, washing away the grime and fatigue, but doing little to ease the turmoil inside. As the steam filled the room, Spencer closed his eyes, allowing the water to drown out the noise in his head for just a moment.Â
He thought about you, lying in that hospital bed, trying to piece together a life you couldnât remember. The thought of your struggle weighed heavily on him, and he wished more than anything that he could simply take away the burden of your amnesia. But he knew that wasnât possible, and it frustrated him deeply.
Stepping out of the shower, Spencer wrapped a towel around his waist and caught his reflection in the mirror. The face staring back at him was etched with worry and sleepless nights. He knew he needed to rest, to recharge so he could be strong for you, but his mind was already racing with possibilities, with ways to help you find your way back to the life you had known.
Reluctantly, he made his way to the bedroom and sank into the mattress, pulling the covers over himself.Â
â
When Spencer awoke, the morning light was filtering through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. He stretched, feeling the knots in his muscles protest at the movement, but he pushed through, determined to make the most of the day ahead.
His mind immediately returned to you and the questions that had haunted him since the accident. He needed answers, a plan, something tangible he could use to help you. Rising from the bed, he quickly dressed and made his way to the library, his thoughts already churning with possibilities.
The library was quiet, a haven of knowledge waiting to be tapped into. Spencer made his way through the aisles, pulling books from the shelves with practiced ease. He found volumes on neurology, psychology, and memory restoration, stacking them on the table as he prepared to dive deep into his research.
Sitting down, Spencer opened the first book, his fingers flipping through the pages with the kind of fervor only a man on a mission possessed. He absorbed every word, every study and theory on amnesia and retrograde amnesia, searching for anything that might provide a glimmer of hope.
He read about the mechanisms of memory, the ways trauma could affect the brain's ability to store and retrieve information. He learned about the potential for memory recovery, the techniques that could aid in jogging the mind back to the present, and the importance of emotional connections in bridging the gaps.
As the hours passed, Spencer lost himself in the sea of information, each new piece of knowledge building upon the last. He scribbled notes in the margins, cross-referencing studies and compiling a mental list of strategies he could employ to help you.
It was a daunting task, but Spencer felt a sense of purpose in the research, a way to channel his love for you into something tangible. He was determined to do everything he could to help you regain your memory, to guide you back to the life you had shared together.Â
For Spencer, this was more than just a quest for answersâit was a testament to the bond that had grown between you, a bond he was unwilling to let go of. He was ready to fight for your future, to be there for you in whatever capacity you needed, until the day your eyes lit up with recognition and the memories flooded back.Â
With renewed resolve, Spencer closed the book he was reading, his mind buzzing with ideas and possibilities. He gathered his notes, feeling a sense of determination settle over him. He would be there for you, no matter how long it took, until you found your way back to him.
â
Spencer called Emily, feeling a slight tremor in his fingers as he punched in her number. He knew how delicate your situation was, and he didnât want to risk upsetting you with his presence if it would cause more harm than good. As the phone rang, he took a deep breath, hoping that Emily would have some insight into how you were doing and whether it would be okay for him to visit.
âHello?â Emilyâs voice came through the line, sounding calm but tinged with exhaustion.
âEmily, itâs Spencer,â he said, trying to keep his voice steady despite the nervousness fluttering in his chest. âI wanted to check in and see how Y/N is doing... and if it would be alright for me to come back to the hospital. I donât want to overwhelm her, but I think I might have found some helpful information on memory restoration tactics.â
There was a brief pause on the other end, and Spencer could hear the soft murmur of the hospital in the background, the distant beeps of monitors and the hushed conversations of medical staff. Emily sighed softly, and he could picture her leaning against the wall outside your room, her hand running through her hair as she considered his request.
âSpencer, sheâs been asking about you,â Emily finally said, her voice gentle and reassuring. âI think she wants to start trying to piece things together a little, and having you here might actually help.â
The fragments of your past felt like pieces of a puzzle scattered across the table, and you were trying to fit them together. The memory of just having graduated college and moving in with Emily in Europe while she worked for Interpol was clear in your mind, yet the reality you were living in contradicted that memory in every way. You obviously went to college, got an important job, met someone, and fell in love. That would be nice to remember.
The thought of your life nowâa life filled with achievements, meaningful relationships, and moments of joyâwas enticing. You felt a sense of longing to reconnect with those parts of yourself, to remember the paths that led you to where you were today. The idea of having accomplished so much, of having people in your life who cared deeply for you, filled you with both curiosity and determination.
You sat in the hospital bed, the beeping of the monitors a constant reminder of the present, and tried to reconcile the gap between what you knew and what was real. There was a sense of urgency within you, a desire to reclaim the life that had slipped through your fingers due to the accident.
As you contemplated this, Spencer arrived, a reassuring presence amidst the confusion. He had a folder in hand, filled with information heâd painstakingly gathered to aid in your recovery. His expression was one of quiet resolve, a testament to his commitment to helping you find your way back.
âHey, Y/N,â Spencer greeted softly, taking a seat beside your bed. His eyes were warm and encouraging, and you couldnât help but feel comforted by his presence. âI know this is a lot to take in, but Iâve found some information that might help you remember.â
You nodded, eager to hear what he had discovered. The prospect of understanding more about your life, your achievements, and the connection you shared with Spencer filled you with hope.
Spencer opened the folder, revealing a collection of notes, articles, and studies on memory restoration and retrograde amnesia. âIâve been looking into different techniques and therapies that could aid in restoring your memories,â he explained, his voice steady and full of purpose.
He began to outline the various strategies he had found, discussing everything from cognitive therapy and memory exercises to more experimental approaches. As he spoke, you listened intently, absorbing the possibilities and feeling a flicker of determination ignite within you.
âI believe that with the right approach and support, we can hopefully help you piece together your memories,â Spencer said, his gaze meeting yours with unwavering sincerity. âIâm here to support you in whatever way you need. We can do this together, one step at a time.â
His words resonated with you, and you found yourself nodding along, feeling a renewed sense of hope. The idea of reclaiming your memories, of rediscovering the life you had built, felt like a light at the end of a long tunnel.Â
âThank you, Spencer,â you said softly, your voice filled with gratitude. âI want to remember.â
â
The hospital released you into Emilyâs care. While the medical staff had done everything they could, the journey to regaining your memory would continue outside the hospital walls.
The decision to stay with Emily instead of Spencer hurt him, but it felt like the right choice for now. As much as Spencer wanted to be there for you, he understood the need for you to be in an environment that felt familiar and safe. The last thing he wanted was to push you further away by overwhelming you with too much, too soon.
âItâs okay,â Spencer assured you as you prepared to leave the hospital. His voice was steady, but the flicker of pain in his eyes was unmistakable. âI understand. Emily will take good care of you, and Iâm just a phone call away if you need anything.â
You nodded, appreciating his understanding. A part of you felt guilty for not choosing to stay with him, especially considering how kind and supportive he had been. But the gaps in your memory left you feeling adrift, and being with Emily was like holding onto a piece of your past that still made sense. Besides, he was still technically a stranger.
â
The drive to yours and Spencerâs apartment was quiet, Emily navigating the streets with the ease of someone who knew them well. You sat in the passenger seat, watching the city pass by, anticipation and apprehension swirling within you. This was a chance to see the life you had built, to find clues that might help bridge the chasm between the past you remembered and the present you couldnât grasp.
Arriving at the apartment building, you felt a sense of déjà vu, as if you had been here countless times before, but it was all shrouded in fog. Emily led you up to the front door, her presence reassuring and calm as she unlocked it and gestured for you to step inside.
The apartment was warm and inviting, filled with little touches that spoke of a life shared between two people. You took a tentative step inside, your eyes scanning the space as you tried to grasp any spark of recognition. The furniture, the dĂ©cor, the scent of your favorite candle burning on the coffee tableâeverything felt just out of reach.
But it was the photographs that caught your attention, lining the walls and filling the shelves with captured moments of happiness and love. You walked over to a series of framed photos, your heart aching at the sight of the images. There you were, smiling and laughing with Spencer, your faces filled with joy.
There was a picture of the two of you on a hiking trip, arms around each other as you gazed at the camera, the sun setting behind you. Another of you dancing together at what appeared to be a wedding, Spencerâs hand on the small of your back, your face lit with laughter.
And then there was the one that brought tears to your eyesâan image of you and Spencer sharing a tender kiss, your arms wrapped around his neck, his hand gently holding your waist while the other stretched out to hold the camera. The love captured in that single moment was undeniable, and yet it was a memory you couldnât access, a chapter of your life that felt painfully distant.
Tears streamed down your cheeks as the weight of what you had lost settled over you. You turned away from the photos, covering your face with your hands as sobs wracked your body. The sadness was overwhelming, a deep, unbearable grief for the beautiful life you couldnât remember.
Emily was at your side in an instant, her arm wrapping around you as she whispered soothing words, trying to calm the storm of emotions that had taken hold.
âIâm so sorry,â you cried, your voice breaking with the depth of your sorrow. âIâm so sorry, Spencer. I wish I could remember. I wish I couldââ
Spencerâs expression was filled with compassion and understanding, though his heart ached at the sight of your distress. He longed to reach out and hold you, to reassure you that it was okay, that you would find your way back to him in time. But he knew that the memories were something you had to reclaim on your own.
âHey, itâs okay,â Spencer said gently, his voice soft and comforting. âItâs not your fault. None of this is your fault.â
Despite his reassuring words, the pain of not being able to remember was too much to bear. You were inconsolable, and Emily could see that you needed space to process everything, away from the emotional overload of the apartment.
âLetâs go home, Y/N,â Emily suggested softly, guiding you toward the door with a gentle touch. âWe can come back another time when youâre ready.â
You nodded, allowing her to lead you away, the tears still streaming down your face. Spencer watched as Emily escorted you out, his heart heavy with sadness.Â
â
The following Monday, the next step in your recovery journey was to visit your workplace, a place where you had spent countless hours building a career you could no longer remember. The decision to bring you back into the office was made with the hope that it might jog some of your lost memories, and while it felt daunting, you were determined to face it head-on.
Emily drove you to the FBI headquarters, the massive building both imposing and familiar as you approached. You had been nervous about this visit, unsure of how it would make you feel or what it might stir within you. Your unit chief had been extremely understanding about your situation, assuring you that you had all the time you needed to recover and that your job would be waiting for you if and when you were ready to return. The possibility of never coming back loomed large, but today was about exploring what felt right.
As you walked through the corridors, passing colleagues who greeted you with warm smiles and words of encouragement, you felt a mixture of anxiety and curiosity. The familiarity of the surroundings tugged at the edges of your mind, teasing you with whispers of recognition that were just out of reach.
When you finally reached your desk, something shifted within you. A small sense of familiarity washed over you, grounding you in a way that you hadn't expected. The space was uniquely yours, decorated with personal touches that reflected your personality and interests. The colorful keyboard and mouse pad, the photos adorning your workspace, all felt like pieces of yourself that you were slowly rediscovering.
Emily stood beside you, watching as you took it all in. Her presence was reassuring, a steady hand on your shoulder as you navigated the myriad of emotions swirling within you.
"This is your desk," Emily said gently, gesturing to the array of decorations and mementos that made it uniquely yours.Â
You ran your fingers over the keyboard, tracing the familiar keys, and then turned your attention to the photos. There were images of you and Emily from your first apartment together in D.C., snapshots of a time when life felt full of possibility and adventure. Your eyes lingered on the photos of you and Spencer, capturing moments of joy and love that you desperately wished to remember.
One photo, in particular, caught your eye. It was of you and another person, both of you with wide smiles, arms wrapped tightly around each other, faces pressed together in a display of friendship and affection. The bond between you was evident, even in a still image, and you felt a pang of longing to recall the memories associated with it.
âWho are all of these people?â you asked, your voice tinged with curiosity and a hint of sadness.
Emily leaned in, pointing to the photo of you and the person who seemed to be a close friend. âThat is your best friend, Noah,â she explained. Her smile was warm, the fondness for your friendship evident in her tone. âYou two have been inseparable for years. Theyâve been by your side through thick and thin.â
You studied the photo, trying to summon any fragment of memory, but the connection eluded you. Still, it was comforting to know that you had someone like Noah in your life, a constant presence of support and friendship.
Emily then pointed to another photo, this one featuring a large group of people gathered in a spacious kitchen that looked to be part of a grand mansion. The scene was lively and filled with laughter, the closeness between everyone palpable even in a photograph.
âAnd that,â Emily said, gesturing to the group photo, âis my team. The Behavioral Analysis Unit, at David Rossiâs house for pasta and wine. Itâs a tradition of ours to get together and unwind after a long week. Youâve become a part of that tradition too.â
The photo brought a sense of warmth and belonging that tugged at your heartstrings. Though you couldnât remember the specifics of the event, the image conveyed a sense of community and acceptance, a reminder that you were surrounded by people who cared for you deeply.
You nodded, feeling a mix of emotionsâgratefulness for the connections you had forged, sadness for the memories that remained out of reach, and determination to piece it all together. As overwhelming as it was, the visit to your workplace had sparked something within you, a desire to reclaim the life you had lost and reconnect with the people who meant so much to you.
âThank you for bringing me here, Emily,â you said softly, turning to your sister with gratitude in your eyes.
Emily smiled, her hand squeezing your shoulder reassuringly. âYouâre doing great, Y/N.â
â
After spending some time familiarizing yourself with your desk and the environment, you felt a little more grounded. Emily suggested taking a break, and the two of you made your way to the break room for some coffee. The small talk and casual atmosphere provided a sense of normalcy, and you found yourself relaxing into the environment, even if it still felt like you were seeing it all for the first time.
As you sipped your coffee, Emily shared stories about the team, painting vivid pictures of the friendships that had developed over the years. Her words were filled with warmth, and you could sense the deep bond that connected everyone in the unit.
ââand then you and Penelope performed as much of the Rent musical as you could while Spencer took you home from girls' night.â
You laughed, a joyous feeling after all the sadness and confusion youâd been wearing like a cloud. It felt good to feel lighthearted again, if only for a moment, and the image of yourself belting out show tunes with Penelope at the top of your lungs was both hilarious and comforting.
âWas he mad?â you asked, picturing the scene in your mind.
âQuite the opposite,â Emily said, her eyes twinkling with amusement at the memory. âHe asked you out the next week at work.â
âThatâs so sweet,â you said, a warm glow spreading through you at the thought of Spencerâs patience and kindness.Â
âHe really loves you,â Emily added, her voice gentle and full of sincerity.Â
You looked down at your coffee cup, a mix of emotions swirling within you. âI just canât believe Iâm loved so much by someone I donât remember,â you said softly, your words carrying the weight of your current reality.Â
Spencer hadnât meant to eavesdrop, but as he was walking to the break room, your voice reached his ears, and he froze just outside the door. The sound of your laughter was like music to him, a familiar melody he had sorely missed since the accident. It felt normal to hear you in the building, like it had been before, a sense of dĂ©jĂ vu that was both comforting and bittersweet.
But hearing that last snippet of conversationâthat you couldnât believe you were loved by someone you didnât rememberâwas like a punch to the gut. It was a reminder of how much had been lost, how fragile the threads of your connection had become in the wake of your amnesia.
Spencerâs heart clenched with longing and sadness. He wanted to be there with you, to share in the laughter and help rebuild the life you had once shared. Yet, he also knew that the path to healing was not a straight line and that you needed time to find your footing.
With a heavy heart, Spencer decided against going into the break room. He felt it would be too much to face you right then, knowing that he was part of the gap in your memory. He turned on his heel, heading back to his desk with a resolve to give you the space you needed while still being there for you in whatever way he could.
Back in his office, Spencer tried to focus on his work, but his mind kept drifting back to you and the conversation he had overheard. He wished he could do more, be more, to help you remember. The thought of the love you had shared, a love you now couldnât recall, weighed heavily on him.
â
Over the next few weeks, life became a series of ups and downs, filled with moments of both clarity and confusion. Living with Emily had its comforting momentsâher presence a soothing balm to the chaos in your mind. You cherished the time you spent with her, grateful for the bond that had been rekindled. You missed Emily deeply during high school, and living with her felt like a second chance to reconnect and make up for lost time.Â
But the reason for your reunion weighed heavily on you. You were so happy to be living with Emily again, until you remembered why. Some nights, the memoriesâor lack thereofâwere overwhelming, and youâd find yourself crying silently into your pillow, grieving for the life you learned about but couldnât recall. You mourned for the person you once were, the experiences youâd lost, and the love you had built with Spencer, a man who was now a stranger in your life.
In those darker moments, a part of you wondered if a second accident could somehow reverse the damage, though you knew deep down that it wouldnât work. The thought was fleeting, a desperate whisper in your mind, quickly silenced by the knowledge that the path to healing lay elsewhere.
You wanted to love Spencer, you really did. Everything youâd learned about him painted a picture of a man who was kind, intelligent, and deeply devoted to you. But every time you looked at him, all you felt was a sense of apathy and resentment. It was an unfair burden, one you didnât want to carry but couldnât seem to shake. He knew you, but you didnât know him. He had gotten to know the you that you couldnât remember, had built a life with a version of yourself that no longer existed.Â
Safe to say, you hadnât spoken to anyone but Emily since that day at Spencerâs apartment. Despite Emilyâs best efforts to coax you out of your shell, to encourage you to re-engage with the world, you found solace only in her presence. She would suggest small outings, opportunities to reintroduce you to the life youâd livedâa coffee date with Penelope, a lunch with Noah, a casual dinner with the BAU teamâbut you declined each invitation with a sense of dread.
â
Emily understood your reluctance, though she worried about the isolation you were imposing on yourself. She was patient, never pushing too hard, but she tried her best to gently encourage you to take those first steps toward reconnecting with your life.
"Y/N," she said one afternoon as you both sat in the living room, the afternoon sun streaming through the windows. "I know itâs hard, but you have so many people who care about you. Theyâre all here, ready to support you whenever youâre ready."
You nodded, your eyes fixed on the floor. âI know,â you replied softly, your voice tinged with frustration and sadness. âI just... I donât know how to face them, Emily. Itâs like theyâre expecting me to be someone Iâm not.â
Emily reached over, taking your hand in hers, her grip reassuring. âTheyâre not expecting anything,â she said gently. âThey just want to be there for you, to help you find your way back. And you donât have to do it alone. Iâll be with you.â
Despite her words, the idea of facing Spencer or any of your friends felt daunting. It wasnât just about remembering; it was about rebuilding a sense of self that had been shattered by the accident. You felt like a puzzle with missing pieces, unsure of how to fit back into the picture of your own life.
â
One night, as you lay in bed, the weight of it all pressed heavily on your chest. You stared at the ceiling, the darkness a mirror to the emptiness you felt inside. The person you were before the accident seemed like a ghost, haunting the edges of your consciousness, taunting you with glimpses of a life you couldnât quite grasp.
Tears slipped silently down your cheeks as you grieved for the life youâd lost, for the love that was now a distant memory. It felt like an insurmountable chasm between the past and present, a gap you couldnât bridge no matter how hard you tried.
You curled up under the covers, wishing for relief from the emotional storm, longing for a sense of belonging that remained elusive. But as much as you yearned for the past, you knew the journey to healing had to start from where you were nowâfrom this moment, with its uncertainties and challenges.
Emily found you the next morning, the traces of tears still visible on your face. She didnât say anything, simply pulled you into a hug, offering her silent support. You leaned into her embrace, grateful for the unconditional love and understanding she provided.
âIâm here, Y/N,â Emily murmured, her voice steady and reassuring. âWhenever youâre ready to take that next step, Iâm here.â
â
On a random Tuesday morning, you regained a glimpse of yourself. It was an ordinary day, the sun barely peeking over the horizon as you padded into the kitchen, the scent of freshly brewed coffee filling the air. Emily was already there, pouring herself a cup and offering you a warm smile as you entered.
"Good morning," she said, her voice carrying the comforting tone you had come to rely on over the past few weeks.
âDid I bring any files home?â you asked, the question slipping out naturally as if it were the most normal thing in the world. âI want to review the Cooper case.â
Emily whipped around so fast she thought she might get whiplash, her eyes wide with shock and a glimmer of hope. âWhat did you just say?â she asked, her voice almost trembling with anticipation.
âThe Cooper case?â you repeated, frowning slightly as you tried to grasp the memory that felt just within reach. âOh, I wanted to review the evidence for the upcoming trial. I want to make sure that son of a bitch gets locked away.â
Emilyâs face lit up with astonishment and disbelief, a slow grin spreading across her features. âY/N⊠how do you remember that?â she asked, her voice tinged with awe.
âWhat?â you blinked, the realization dawning on you like a gentle wave, the fog lifting ever so slightly. âOhâŠâ you murmured, the pieces clicking into place.
âOh my god! Oh my god! I remember!â you exclaimed, your heart pounding with excitement and relief.
âDo you remember anything else?â Emily asked eagerly, stepping closer as if to catch every word.
âMy, um, my unit chief⊠her name is, uh, Sarah Freeman!â you said, a smile breaking across your face as more fragments of memory bubbled to the surface. It was like pulling on a thread and watching a tapestry unfold before your eyes.
âThatâs amazing! Youâre amazing!â Emily cheered, her eyes shining with pride and joy. She grabbed your hands, squeezing them tightly as if to anchor this precious moment in reality. âIâm going to call your doctor! Keep thinking!â
You nodded, your mind racing with possibilities. There was a thrill in the air, a sense of rediscovery that felt like sunlight streaming into a darkened room.Â
â
As the days and weeks passed, your world gradually came into sharper focus. You began to remember more and more, and your doctors believed that your brain was finally healing from the trauma of the accident, allowing you to access information that had been temporarily locked away. It was as if the fog that had settled over your mind was beginning to lift, and the memories of your life were emerging from the shadows.
With each passing day, you started seeing people more. The familiarity of their faces and the warmth of their presence became less overwhelming and more comforting. You remembered small bits of Noah, moving in with Emily, a few girlsâ nights, and coffee dates with Penelope. Each memory was like a small gift, a piece of the puzzle that was slowly coming together.
Whenever you shared a memory with someone, it was met with tears of joy and hugs of relief. They were all so patient and understanding, celebrating every little moment of rediscovery with you. It was a testament to the love and support that surrounded you, a constant reminder that you were not alone on this journey.
â
With your birthday approaching, the excitement in the air was palpable. Everyone was thrilled that they would at least get to celebrate with you, even if the memories of past birthdays were still hazy. The anticipation of the party, the chance to be surrounded by the people who meant so much to you, filled you with a sense of hope and gratitude.
The only person you couldnât seem to remember, however, was Spencer. Despite the progress you were making with others, there was an inexplicable block when it came to him. It was as if the memories you shared were trapped behind a door that refused to open, no matter how hard you tried.Â
Spencer felt the weight of this exclusion acutely. While everyone else reveled in your regained memories, he remained on the outside, watching as you reconnected with the life youâd once shared. At first, he tried to be patient, understanding that recovery was a complex and unpredictable process. But as time went on and the memories continued to elude you, Spencer began to feel a growing frustration, a simmering resentment that he struggled to contain.
â
The night of your birthday party arrived, and Emily had invited everyone important to you: the BAU team, Noah, your unit chief, and colleagues. The apartment was filled with laughter and music, the air buzzing with the joy of celebration. You moved through the crowd, receiving hugs and well-wishes, feeling more like yourself than you had in months.
The party was a joyful affair, filled with the warmth of friends and loved ones, each of them eager to share in the celebration of your continued recovery. You spent time with everyone, enjoying the opportunity to catch up and reconnect.Â
You found yourself talking to Derek Morgan, recounting a small memory that had surfaced earlier in the dayâa humorous moment from a case your units had worked on together. Derekâs laughter echoed through the room, a rich, joyful sound that drew the attention of others nearby.Â
Spencer overheard your conversation with Derek and felt the frustration within him build past his boiling point. It was like a dam breaking, all the emotions he had tried to keep in check spilling over into an overwhelming wave. The exclusion, the constant reminder that you remembered everyone but him, finally pushed him to the edge.
Unable to contain his feelings any longer, Spencer stormed past you, his shoulder bumping into yours as he made his way toward the front door. The suddenness of his actions caught you off guard, the usually sweet and gentle Spencer now a storm of emotions.
âSpencer?â you called after him, confused by the abruptness of his departure. You quickly excused yourself from Derek and followed Spencer, determined to understand what had upset him.
You found Spencer in the hallway of the building, his back turned to you as he tried to compose himself. But when he turned around, you saw the angry tears in his eyes, the hurt etched across his features. It was a side of Spencer you hadnât seen before, and it unsettled you.
âSpencer, whatâs wrong?â you asked, your voice gentle but firm, wanting to understand the source of his pain.
He took a deep breath, his emotions churning within him. The question felt like a catalyst, igniting the frustration and hurt he had been holding onto for so long. And then, finally, he exploded, the words tumbling out in a torrent of anger and anguish.
âWhy, Y/N?â Spencerâs voice was raw, filled with desperation and resentment. âWhy do you remember everyone but me? Do you secretly remember me but donât know how to break it off, so you keep pretending you donât know me?â
His accusation hung in the air, sharp and cutting. It was a blow that took your breath away, the depth of his pain evident in every word. Spencerâs eyes bore into yours, searching for answers, for some explanation that could make sense of the exclusion he felt so deeply.
âIâm not pretending, Spencer,â you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, the shock of his words settling over you like a heavy fog. âI wish I could remember. I want to remember you more than anything.â
Spencerâs expression shifted, hurt and frustration warring within him. He turned away, running a hand through his hair as he tried to gather his thoughts. âIt just feels like... like Iâm the only one left out,â he said, his voice cracking with emotion. âI watch you remember all these moments, all these people, and I keep hoping that one day youâll look at me and just... know.â
His words hung in the air, each syllable a reminder of the distance that had grown between youâa distance neither of you wanted, but couldnât seem to bridge. It was like standing on opposite sides of a vast chasm, reaching for one another but never quite able to touch.
âYou think this is easy for me?â you shot back, your voice rising with each word. âDo you think I wanted to get hit by a semi and lose my memories? No! I want it all back, I want my life back.â You took a step closer, the intensity of your emotions propelling you forward. âDo you know how much it kills me that you know a version of me that I donât? You want her back, and so do I, but Jesus Christ, Spencer! Iâm not her, I canât just be her, Iâm fucking trying, okay?â
The hallway seemed to close in around you as you stood there, the weight of your words hanging heavy between you. Spencerâs eyes widened in surprise at the raw honesty in your voice, the depth of your struggle laid bare before him.
âI know youâre trying,â Spencer said, his voice softening even as his frustration simmered beneath the surface. âBut itâs so hard to watch you remember everyone else and not me. It feels like Iâm losing you all over again, every single day.â
"Iâm losing myself too!â you replied, your voice breaking with emotion. âEvery time I remember something, itâs like Iâm meeting a stranger whoâs supposed to be me. Itâs terrifying, and I donât know how to make it better. And it doesnât help when Iâm constantly reminded that youâre disappointed in me too.â
Spencer ran a hand over his face, his own anger and hurt warring with the compassion he still felt for you. He wanted to say the right thing, but his emotions were tangled, pulling him in different directions. The frustration that had built up over the weeks finally met the compassion he still felt for you.
âIâm sorry,â he said, the fight leaving his voice as he took a step back, trying to regain control. His eyes softened as he looked at you, the anger giving way to vulnerability. âI know itâs not fair to put this on you. God, Iâm not disappointed in you, Iâm just... Iâm scared, Y/N. Iâm scared that Iâll never get you back.â
The vulnerability in his words pierced through your own defenses, the rawness of his confession echoing the fears that had plagued you both. It was as if the anger that had fueled the argument had stripped away the layers, leaving only the truth of your shared fears and insecurities.
You sighed, your own anger giving way to a wave of exhaustion and sadness. The argument had drained you both, leaving behind a hollow ache that you couldnât ignore. âIâm scared too,â you admitted, your voice trembling as you spoke. âIâm scared that Iâll never be able to remember the love we had, that Iâll never be able to be the person you fell in love with.â
Spencer's eyes met yours, and you could see the struggle within himâthe longing to reach out and bridge the gap between you, the desire to hold onto the love that had once been so strong and certain. âYouâre still the person I fell in love with,â he said softly, his voice tinged with desperation. âI know itâs hard to see right now, but you are. And I donât want to lose you, even if it means starting over.â
His words hung in the air, a lifeline thrown across the chasm that had opened between you. You took a deep breath, the weight of his words.Â
âCan I ask you something?â Spencer spoke up, his voice laced with vulnerability. His eyes held yours, searching for an answer he seemed afraid to hear but needed to know nonetheless.
âOf course,â you replied, curious about what was weighing so heavily on him. You wanted to reassure him, to offer some comfort amid the storm of emotions that had engulfed you both.
âDo you find me attractive?â Spencerâs question was simple, yet it held a complexity of emotionsâself-doubt, insecurity, a desire for reassurance.
âSpencer⊠what?â you asked, taken aback by the suddenness of his inquiry. You hadnât expected that question, and yet, as you looked at him, you realized how important your answer would be.
He shifted his weight, his gaze dropping for a moment before returning to yours, the raw honesty in his expression clear as day. âDo you think that I am attractive? Even now, that you donât remember me?â
You considered his question carefully. Spencer was undeniably an attractive personâhis features were striking, with a gentle kindness in his eyes and a quiet strength in his posture. There was an undeniable allure to him, a magnetic pull that you felt even in your current state of confusion.Â
You imagined seeing him in a bar or a crowded room, where his presence would stand out, where you would undoubtedly look twice. His intelligence, the way he carried himself with quiet confidence, and the kindness in his eyes were all qualities that would draw you in.
âYes,â you replied honestly, your voice steady and sincere. âYes, Spencer, I find you attractive.â
Spencer let out a small breath he seemed to have been holding, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he absorbed your answer. There was a flicker of relief in his eyes, a subtle shift that spoke volumes about how much your opinion mattered to him.
âThank you,â he said softly, his voice a blend of gratitude and something deeper, something that felt like hope.
You took a step closer, wanting to close the distance between you. âSpencer, itâs not just about looks,â you added, wanting to make him understand. âI may not remember everything, but I can see the person you are. The way you care, the way youâve been so patient with me⊠thatâs what makes you truly attractive.â
His lips curved into a tentative smile, the tension in his features easing as your words reached him. It was a smile that held the promise of new beginnings, a shared understanding that even in the absence of memory, there was a foundation upon which you could rebuild.
Spencer nodded, a small chuckle escaping him as he rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture you found endearing. âI guess I just needed to hear it,â he admitted, his vulnerability laid bare in that moment.
You nodded, reaching out to take his hand in yours. âWeâll figure it out,â you said, your voice filled with determination.
Spencer's fingers intertwined with yours, his touch gentle yet reassuring. The simple act of holding hands felt like a small victory, a step toward rebuilding the connection that had been so abruptly severed.
âYou couldnât possibly remember this,â Spencer said with a wry smile, âbut I donât usually touch peopleâs hands. Itâs actually safer to kiss; fewer germs are spread that way.â
You let out a laugh, the tension between you dissolving into a moment of lightness. It was the first genuine laugh you'd shared since the accident, and it felt like a breath of fresh air.Â
âI canât tell if youâre joking or not,â you replied, raising an eyebrow with a teasing grin. âBut if thatâs a line, itâs not working.â
Spencer chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. âItâs not a line, I promise,â he said, a hint of mischief in his tone. âJust one of those strange facts about me youâll probably hear more about as you get to know me again.â
âGood to know,â you said, your smile softening into something more sincere. âBut for now, hand-holding is just fine.â
â
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of laughter and joy, a celebration not just of your birthday but of the progress you had made and the hope that lay ahead. Surrounded by friends and loved ones, you felt a sense of belonging, a reminder that even in the midst of adversity, there was a community that held you close.
As the night drew to a close, you and Spencer stood together on the balcony, the city lights twinkling in the distance like stars. It was a moment of quiet reflection, a chance to breathe and appreciate the small victories that had brought you to this point.
âHappy birthday, Y/N,â Spencer said softly, his voice carrying a warmth that resonated deep within you.Â
You turned to him, your heart full of gratitude and the promise of what was to come. âThank you, Spencer,â you replied, your words laced with sincerity.
â
âY/N! Spencer is here for you!â Emily called out from the living room, her voice carrying through the apartment with an excited lilt that made you smile.
You were in your bedroom, putting the finishing touches on your outfit, excitement and nervousness fluttering in your stomach. Today marked your fifth date with Spencer, a milestone that felt both exhilarating and significant as the two of you continued to rebuild your relationship from the ground up.
The past few weeks had been a journey of rediscovery. You and Spencer had taken it slow, giving each other the space and time needed to navigate the complexities of your situation. Each date had been a new beginning, a chance to learn about each other all over again, and it had been going wellâbetter than you had dared to hope.
Youâd spent hours talking about everything and nothing, sharing stories and memories that both filled in the gaps and created new ones. There were still moments of hesitation and uncertainty, but they were gradually being replaced by laughter and warmth, a growing sense of familiarity that felt like home.
Taking one last look in the mirror, you adjusted your necklace and took a deep breath, feeling a thrill of anticipation for the evening ahead. You made your way to the living room, where Emily was chatting with Spencer, her eyes lighting up with the kind of mischief only a big sister could muster.
âHey, Spencer,â you greeted him with a smile, feeling the familiar flutter in your chest that had become a welcome sensation. âReady to go?â
Spencer turned toward you, his face breaking into a warm smile that made your heart skip a beat. He looked dapper in a casual blazer and slacks, an outfit that struck the perfect balance between relaxed and stylish.
âWow, you look amazing,â he said, his eyes filled with admiration as he took in your appearance. "If I had known you were going to look this stunning, I would have worn my best suit."
You laughed, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks. "Oh, please, you look great," you replied, meeting his gaze with a teasing grin. âBesides, I think we match perfectly. You know, two fashion icons taking on the city."
Emily watched the exchange with a satisfied smile, clearly pleased to see the chemistry between you and Spencer reigniting. She gave you a playful nudge, her eyes sparkling with encouragement. âHave fun, you two,â she said, ushering you toward the door. âAnd donât do anything I wouldnât do.â
You laughed, rolling your eyes at Emilyâs antics, before turning back to Spencer. âShall we?â you asked, extending your hand toward him.
Spencer took your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze that sent a reassuring pulse of connection between you. âWe shall,â he replied with a grin, leading you out the door and into the evening that awaited.
â
The drive was filled with easy conversation, the kind that flowed naturally and effortlessly between you. You chatted about everything from work to your favorite TV shows, reveling in the comfort of each otherâs company.
âSo, where are we going tonight?â you asked, curious about the plans Spencer had made for your date.
âItâs a surprise,â he said cryptically, a teasing smile playing on his lips. âBut I think youâre going to love it.â
âReally?â you said, raising an eyebrow with a playful smirk. âAre you sure itâs not just another one of your ploys to impress me?â
Spencer chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. âWould it be working if it was?â
âYouâll have to wait and see,â you teased, giving him a flirtatious glance as the car continued through the city.
Eventually, you arrived at a charming little restaurant tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. It was the kind of place that exuded warmth and intimacy, the cozy ambiance inviting you in as soon as you stepped through the door.
âWow, this place is lovely,â you said, taking in the dim lighting, the soft music playing in the background, and the delicious aroma of Italian cuisine wafting through the air.
Spencer smiled, clearly pleased with your reaction. âI thought it might be a nice spot for us to relax and enjoy some good food,â he said, leading you to a table by the window that offered a view of the city lights twinkling in the distance.
âSo, any more memories come back recently?â Spencer asked gently, his tone curious yet considerate, as if he knew the subject was still delicate.
You nodded, feeling a flicker of excitement as you recounted some of the fragments that had returned. âI remembered a trip I took with Emily last year to the beach. We ended up getting caught in a rainstorm and had to take cover in this little cafĂ©, where we spent the afternoon playing board games. It was such a fun day.â
Spencer listened intently, a smile tugging at his lips as you spoke. âThat sounds amazing,â he said, his eyes filled with warmth and understanding. âYou know, we had a similar rainy day adventure once. It involved an umbrella, a very wet cat, and an impromptu rendition of Singinâ in the Rain in a park.â
âDid we now?â you replied, a playful twinkle in your eyes. âAre you sure you werenât just trying to get me to fall for your charming rendition of a classic?â
âGuilty as charged,â Spencer admitted with a laugh, his gaze meeting yours with a sincerity that made your heart flutter.
âTell me, though, did we kiss in the rain?â you asked, wiggling your eyebrows suggestively.
Spencer blushed, a charming pink spreading across his cheeks. âWe might haveâŠâ
âHow scandalous!â you replied, feigning shock, but the playful glint in your eyes gave you away.
âYou were the one who initiated it!â Spencer shot back, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
âOh yeah, am I just supposed to believe you?â you teased, leaning back in your chair with a smirk. âYou could be making it all up just to impress me.â
âWell,â Spencer said, a hint of mischief in his voice, âit is supposed to rain later. We could test out the theory.â
âSpencer Reid, you dog!â you exclaimed, laughing at the thought of dancing in the rain with him.
You shared a laugh, the sound mingling with the gentle hum of the restaurant around you. It felt like the world had faded away, leaving just the two of you in your little bubble of happiness.
â
After dinner, you and Spencer strolled through a scenic path in the park, hand in hand. The night was pleasantly cool, and the stars dotted the sky like scattered jewels. The conversation between you flowed effortlessly, a blend of teasing and genuine connection that made the evening feel special.
âI thought it was supposed to rain?â you mused aloud, glancing up at the sky.
âAre you disappointed itâs not?â Spencer asked, a playful edge in his voice as he followed your gaze.
âAre you going to kiss me anyway?â you replied with a teasing smile, looking up at him with hopeful eyes.
Spencer froze up for a moment, caught off guard by the boldness of your question. A myriad of thoughts raced through his mind, each one tangling with the next.Â
He had been nervous to make any moves on you ever since youâd started dating again. What if you didnât like how he kissed anymore? Or his scent, or taste? What if you two didn't have rhythm anymore? The fear of these possibilities had kept him in check, cautious and tentative.
âWhatâs going on in that big brain?â you asked, your voice gentle and full of curiosity. You squeezed his hand, bringing him back to the present. Your touch was reassuring, a reminder that the connection between you was as strong as ever.
Spencer shook his head slightly, chuckling at himself. âJust... overthinking, as usual,â he admitted, meeting your eyes with a sheepish grin. âIâve just been worried that maybe things arenât the same between us.â
You tilted your head, regarding him with a soft smile. âSpencer, nothing about you could ever disappoint me. We might be rebuilding things, but I think thatâs what makes it exciting. We get to discover everything all over again.â
He nodded, his apprehension slowly melting away as your words resonated with him. The sincerity in your voice was like a balm, soothing the insecurities that had plagued him.
âAnd besides,â you added with a playful twinkle in your eye, âI think we both know weâve still got that spark.â
Spencer laughed, his tension finally breaking as he took a step closer. The warmth of your presence enveloped him, and he realized how much he had missed these moments with youâthe teasing, the laughter, and the unspoken bond that seemed to transcend the gap of memory.
âYouâre right,â Spencer said, his voice softening as he gazed into your eyes. âIâd be more than happy to kiss you, rain or no rain.â
You smiled up at him, your heart fluttering with anticipation. As he leaned in, the world around you seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you beneath the starlit sky.
When Spencerâs lips met yours, it was like coming home. The kiss was gentle at first, a tentative exploration of the familiar territory that quickly blossomed into something deeper. His lips were soft and warm, and the familiar scent of his skin surrounded you like a comforting embrace.Â
All the previous worries melted away as you found your rhythm together, the familiarity and connection more than you could have hoped for. Spencerâs kiss was tender but charged with an intensity that made your heart race, a reminder of the passion and warmth that had always been at the core of your relationship.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, feeling the subtle tension in his muscles beneath your fingertips. Spencer responded in kind, his hands finding their place on your face, drawing you into him as if he was afraid to let go.Â
The kiss deepened, and it was as if time had stopped, the world around you fading away until only the two of you remained. Lips slotted together perfectly, tongues gliding in a slow, sensual dance that sent shivers down your spine.Â
You felt Spencerâs teeth gently nipping at your bottom lip, a playful gesture that made you gasp softly against his mouth. The small sound seemed to spur him on, and you could feel the gentle pressure of his hands pulling you even closer, until there was no space left between you.Â
In that moment, everything felt rightâthe way his lips moved against yours, the warmth of his touch, and the gentle thrum of your heartbeat syncing with his. It was a moment of pure connection, a dance of lips and breath and emotion that left you both feeling dizzy and alive.Â
You could feel the tension and uncertainty of the past few weeks melting away, replaced by a deep sense of belonging and peace. As you finally pulled back, you looked into Spencerâs eyes, seeing your own emotions reflected back at youâthe warmth, the longing, the hope that you both shared.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless but smiling, the shared moment leaving a lingering warmth that seemed to wrap around you both.
âWow,â you murmured, gazing up at Spencer with a soft, genuine smile. âThat was... perfect.â
Spencer chuckled, relief and joy evident in his eyes. âIâd say it was pretty amazing,â he agreed, still holding you close.
You both lingered there for a while, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment, the cool breeze whispering through the trees, the world feeling just a little bit brighter.
â
As you continued your stroll through the park, the clouds did open up, and the rain did come, soaking both you and Spencer. The unexpected shower was a sudden thrill, droplets of water cascading down your hair and cheeks, drenching your clothes in moments. The rain brought a fresh, invigorating scent to the air, wrapping around you like a cool embrace as you and Spencer burst into laughter.
âYou said you wanted rain,â Spencer quipped, looking at you with a playful glint in his eye, water droplets clinging to his hair and eyelashes.
âI did, didnât I?â you giggled, brushing a lock of wet hair out of your face. You both sprinted toward his car, shoes splashing through puddles, the sound of your laughter mingling with the rhythm of the rain.
You reached the car, breathless and exhilarated, climbing inside and closing the door behind you. The heated air enveloped you both in a welcome warmth, and you shivered slightly, feeling the chill of your soaked clothes.Â
Spencer turned on the carâs heater, and soon the air filled with warmth, contrasting the rain still pelting the car roof outside. You shared a look of amusement, the shared adventure bringing a delightful sense of connection.
âI donât want to go home, but Iâm uncomfortable,â you admitted, glancing down at your soaked clothes with a bemused smile.Â
âWe could⊠go back to ourâmy apartment and change. Maybe watch a movie?â Spencer suggested, his voice soft and inviting, a hint of hesitation in his words as if worried you might say no.
You met his eyes, the warmth in them offering reassurance. âIâd love that,â you replied, your heart fluttering with the anticipation of spending more time with him.
â
Spencer drove you both back to the apartment, the windshield wipers swishing rhythmically as the rain continued its steady drumming against the car. It was your first time returning to the apartment since the night youâd cried there, overwhelmed by the weight of memories you couldnât quite grasp. But now, the thought of revisiting felt different, less daunting and more like a step forward.
As you entered the apartment, you paused to take it all in againâthe familiar scent, the little touches that made the space feel like home. Spencer watched you with a gentle smile, allowing you to explore at your own pace, offering silent support as you reacquainted yourself with the surroundings.
âDo you want to take a shower?â Spencer asked, breaking the comfortable silence. âAll of your stuff is still in there.â
âUm, sure. Thank you,â you replied, grateful for the chance to shake off the chill of the rain.
You made your way to the bathroom, feeling a sense of nostalgia as you stepped inside and closed the door behind you. The shower was just as you remembered it, a familiar haven of warmth and comfort.
The water was soothing as it cascaded over you, washing away the rain and the lingering remnants of the dayâs adventure. You felt a sense of relaxation settling in, a quiet moment of peace as you let the warmth envelop you.
But then, as you turned too quickly, your foot slipped, and you fell onto your tailbone with a startled yelp.Â
âOw!â you exclaimed, wincing at the sudden jolt of pain.
âY/N?? Are you okay?â Spencerâs voice called out from the other side of the door, filled with concern.
âYeah! I just fell,â you called back, trying to keep your tone light despite the embarrassment.
âIâm coming in,â Spencer announced, the worry evident in his voice.
âWait, Spencer, noââ you began, but he was already in the bathroom, eyes wide as he took in the scene.
He saw your naked form on the ground of the tub through the clear glass, his expression filled with worry and, perhaps, just a touch of awkwardness.
âSpencer!â you exclaimed, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment and amusement.
âWhat happened? Are you hurt? Did you hit your head?â he asked, his concern overriding any sense of propriety.
âIâm fine, Iâm naked!â you replied, laughing at the absurdity of the situation even as you tried to cover yourself.
âOh, Iâm sorry,â Spencer said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. âI forget. Iâve seen you naked many times.â
âThat is so weird,â you teased, rolling your eyes playfully.
Spencer laughed lightly, his eyes twinkling with warmth. âI donât think so,â he said, his voice softening into something more tender.
âCan I see you then? Even it out?â you asked, a mischievous grin spreading across your face.
âWhat?â Spencerâs eyes widened slightly, his cheeks flushing a delightful shade of pink.
âIâve seen you naked before, right?â you continued, your playful tone belying the genuine affection in your gaze.
âWell, yes, but itâs different,â Spencer stammered, trying to maintain his composure.
âSo itâs okay for you to see me, but not for me to see you?â you challenged, a teasing lilt in your voice. âCome get in the shower and help me up.â
Spencer hesitated for a moment, then his expression softened into a smile, affection and delight playing across his features. âAlright,â he said, his voice filled with laughter. âJust this once.â
He quickly shed his clothes and joined you in the shower, his presence a comforting warmth amid the steam and water. With a gentle touch, he helped you up, his hands steady and reassuring as he held you close.
âThank you,â you said softly, meeting his eyes with a smile.Â
Spencerâs gaze was warm and tender, his hands lingering on your waist as he smiled back at you. âAnytime,â he replied, his voice a gentle promise.Â
Your eyes couldnât help themselves as they wandered downward, taking in the sight of him. The realization that you were both standing there, unashamedly bare, brought a new kind of awareness that was both amusing and endearing.
âY/N!â Spencer laughed. âEyes up here.â
âI'm sorry,â you said with a playful smirk, your eyes darting back up to meet his. âItâs human nature, after all.â
âI know,â Spencer replied, shaking his head with a chuckle. âBut at least pretend to be subtle.â
âYouâre quite large,â you teased, unable to resist the opportunity to keep the mood light. âAre you a grower still? Or always a shower?â
Spencerâs cheeks flushed a deep red, his hands instinctively moving to cover himself as he groaned, âOh my godddd.â
âAnswer the question, and Iâll shut up,â you promised, a sweet smile playing on your lips as you looked at him with mock innocence.
With a sigh of resignation, Spencer removed his hands, his expression a mix of bashfulness and humor. âStill a grower,â he admitted, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.
âLucky me!â you exclaimed, your tone full of playful triumph.
Spencer shook his head, his laughter infectious as he declared, âNot anymore, this was great. Goodbye!â He made a half-hearted attempt to step out of the shower, clearly feigning an exaggerated exit.
âNot so fast!â you interjected, grabbing his arm and pulling him back gently, your own laughter bubbling up as you did so.
His eyes met yours again, and the playful banter settled into something softer, a mutual understanding that transcended words. The silliness of the moment gave way to a quiet intimacy, the kind that came from truly seeing one another and finding joy in simply being together.
As the water continued to rain down, you and Spencer stood there, wrapped in each otherâs presence, feeling a sense of comfort and safety that went beyond the physical.Â
You both eventually turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, towels wrapped snugly around you. The steam-filled bathroom felt like a private world where the rest of the dayâs worries faded away.
â
Once dried and dressed in cozy clothes, you settled into the living room, the aroma of freshly brewed tea wafting through the air as you curled up on the couch together. The rain had stopped outside, leaving a soft patter of droplets against the windows, the perfect backdrop for a cozy movie night.
Spencer draped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. âSo, whatâs our viewing pleasure tonight?â he asked, his voice filled with a relaxed contentment.
âI was thinking something classic,â you suggested, snuggling into his side. âMaybe a bit of Casablanca?â
âCasablanca, it is,â Spencer agreed, reaching for the remote with a smile.
As the movie played, you found yourself not only immersed in the storyline but also in the warmth of Spencerâs presence beside you. The shared laughter, the gentle teasing, the comfortable silenceâit all felt like home.
â
You donât remember falling asleep, but when you wake up, you find yourself nestled in the bed, no longer on the couch. The room is softly lit with the early morning sun filtering through the curtains, casting a warm glow over everything. Spencer is still sound asleep next to you, his arms wrapped around you in a protective embrace. His breathing is steady and calm, and you watch him for a moment, feeling a rush of affection for this man who has been so patient and kind through everything.
Wanting to do something kind for him, you slowly and carefully extricate yourself from his embrace, trying not to wake him. You slip out of bed, pulling on his robe as you head to the kitchen to make some coffee, a small gesture of appreciation for the many times heâs been there for you.
As you move about the kitchen, the familiar routine of making coffee brings a sense of comfort. You smile to yourself as you measure out the coffee grounds and water, the rich aroma filling the air. It feels good to be doing something for him, even if itâs just a small gesture.
When Spencer finally wakes up, the smell of freshly brewed coffee lures him from the cocoon of blankets. In his sleep-delirious haze, he doesnât realize anything has changed, and he instinctively walks into the kitchen, still half-asleep, and wraps his arms around you from behind.
âMorning, Spence,â you say softly, feeling the warmth of his embrace as you continue to stir the coffee.
âMmm, good morning, baby,â he mumbles into your hair, his voice thick with sleep.
âI made your coffee, just how you like it,â you say with a smile, feeling a sense of satisfaction at the little surprise youâve prepared for him.
âBlack, seven teaspoons of sugar?â he asks, his voice carrying a note of playful suspicion.
âPrecisely,â you reply, leaning back to kiss his head where itâs nestled against your neck. You love the way his hair feels soft and slightly tousled from sleep, the familiarity of the moment wrapping around you like a warm embrace.
Spencer hums contentedly, the combination of your affection and the promise of coffee stirring him more fully awake. You hand him a steaming mug, and he takes a grateful sip, savoring the sweet warmth.
âThought we could call Diana today, check in on her progress,â you suggest casually, remembering the conversations youâve had about keeping in touch with his mom.
Spencerâs mind is still catching up to the morning, the mention of his mother registering slowly. âOkay, thatâs a good idâwait⊠what?â His eyes widen as he pulls back slightly, looking at you with surprise and hope.
âDiana, babe? Your mom? I havenât talked to her in a while, and I wanted to see how she was doing,â you say, turning to face him, your own excitement bubbling beneath the surface.
âY/N, are you messing with me?â Spencer asks, his voice a blend of disbelief and anticipation, as if heâs afraid to hope too much.
âNo⊠Are you okay, Spence?â you ask gently, reaching up to touch his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly over his skin.Â
âSpence? My coffee preference? My mom?â Spencerâs eyes search yours, an array of emotions flickering across his face. âWhat are you not telling me?â
You smile, unable to contain your excitement any longer. âOh, I woke up this morning with a few memories of our time together.â
Spencerâs eyes widen, his expression shifting from confusion to pure joy. âYou remember?â he asks, voice filled with a hopeful wonder that sends a warm thrill through you.
âBits and pieces,â you admit, nodding as you set your own coffee down on the counter. âItâs like little snapshots coming back, but theyâre there. And you were in them.â
His face lights up with a brilliant smile, the kind that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners and sends warmth flooding through you. âThatâs amazing, Y/N,â he says, pulling you into a tight embrace, his arms enveloping you completely.
You melt into his hug, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your cheek. Itâs a moment of connection and triumph, a small victory in the long journey of reclaiming the life you once shared.
âIâm so happy,â Spencer murmurs, his voice muffled by your hair but no less filled with emotion. âIâve missed youâevery version of you.â
You pull back slightly, meeting his gaze with a smile that mirrors his own. âIâve missed you too, Spence. I canât wait to see what else comes back.â
Spencer leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. His touch was a gentle reassurance that you were exactly where you were meant to be, a soothing balm to the uncertainty that had lingered since the accident. The warmth of his lips against your skin sent a wave of comfort through you, a reminder that love was a constant, waiting patiently to be remembered.
âI love you,â Spencer murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with sincerity and a gentle vulnerability. âCan I say that now? Is that okay?â
His eyes searched yours, seeking not just permission but a confirmation that the love you once shared was finding its way back, stronger and more resilient than before.
âOnly if itâs okay for me to say I love you too,â you replied, your voice soft but filled with the depth of emotion that had grown in your heart.Â
The words were a quiet declaration, an acknowledgment of the bond that had endured through the haze of forgotten memories and the challenges of the past. It was a promise of the future you were eager to explore together, a future built on the foundation of love and understanding.
Spencerâs smile widened, his eyes sparkling with a joy that mirrored your own. âThen itâs more than okay,â he said, his voice warm and full of affection.
You both stood there for a moment, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of the morning, the aroma of coffee mingling with the soft light filtering through the kitchen. It was a simple moment, yet it held the weight of everything you had been through together, a testament to the resilience of love and the power of memory.
âCome here,â Spencer said, pulling you into another embrace, his arms wrapping around you with a tenderness that spoke volumes.
You leaned into him, resting your head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a comforting reminder of the life you were rediscovering together. In that embrace, you found not just comfort but a sense of belonging that had been waiting for you to come home to.
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The five times you left Spencer speechless (or how I like to call it, in quiet awe)
Warnings: reader wears glasses but no biggie, reader can fight and use a gun because why not, bau!reader, smitten Spence, nothing happens just feelz, Spence's drug addiction... I think that it
1. The first meeting
It had been a long week. People were crowding the small space of the bullpen. It had been the first case after Gideon's return, and Spencer had been buzzing with excitement to work with his mentor again. The case hadn't been particularly easy, and almost one agent named Elle Greenaway had been lightly injured, who would from now on work with them. His eyes were burning, and he gave into the temptation to wear his glasses as he looked into the nearly filled report in front of him, containing at least seventeen pages worth of information. Madame Strauss claimed that his reports were unnecessarily detailed, how that was a problem he couldn't tell. The hours seemed to blur together as he continued writing his report, losing many minutes trying to form his handwriting into something more presentable.
That was the moment. The time he first laid eyes on her. He had read many romance novels, which he wasn't going to admit, that the moment someone met the one time seemed to slow to near non-existent and his reality at the moment seemed like something coming out of a book.
She was wearing a chunky white pullover with huge sleeves that strangely represented bells and a light brown plaited skirt that reached just at the middle of her thighs. Long legs that seemed to be going on for miles ended at a pair of black Mary Jane's. And sure, her appearance was incredible, but that was not what made him make a double take. He was sure he was hallucinating as he saw the most beautiful face he had seen in his life, looking as if it was something that came out of a Renaissance painting. Her hair was in a braid resting on her shoulder, and wire-framed glasses sat on her nose, making her eyes appear slightly bigger. A tattered pair of wired headphones framed her face, and for a second, Spencer forgot how to breathe, the most cognitive function, the one he had been able to do since he first entered this world. His ears were buzzing, and his brain was running in endless circles.
A hand was moving in front of him, and he stared at the angel that was standing in front of him. Her mouth was moving, probably talking to him, and he willed himself to pay attention.
âS-Sorry.â
âIt's alright.â The angel answered him; maybe he had finally overdone it with the sugared coffee he was drinking as if it were his primary source of hydration. â I am looking for Aaron Hotchner.â
âR-Right. UmmâŠâ
âGood, you are here. Come with me.â Hotch's voice echoed in the empty room, and Spencer's cheeks flamed an angry red as the girl turned and kindly waved at him as she quickly climbed the stairs and entered the conference room. Spencer had half a mind not to turn his chair and stare at her. With an unnecessary loud cough, he turned back at his report and thanked his luck for Morgan's absence because if he had witnessed this, he was going to hear the end of this anytime
2. The lesson
A month had passed since he first saw her. And yet, he could recall her vividly, the deep-set eyes, the rosy lips. His birthday had been a blur as he celebrated them in the office and invited JJ in a lame attempt to ask her out which just resulted in a long evening where JJ and Penelope talked endlessly and he could comprehend the sport he was supposedly watching.
He was waiting in Hotch's office as a stand-in. He was teaching a young agent to join the unit and he was thrilled when he heard that the student was just a few months shy of his own age. At the moment, he was trying to move a huge board to the office when someone lightly tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around way too fast and came face to face with the angel he saw, the one he thought he willed into existence.
âDo you need help with that?â
âNo, no. I got it. Are you Hotch's student?â Ge asked and immediately regretted it. Of course, she was his student. Why did he have to lose half of his IQ around her? He gave one last hard shove to the board end and then aligned it with the desk. âSo um⊠Hotch asked me to be your tutor for today if that is alright with you. Um⊠What material are you studying?â
âMostly psychology. Which I am not very good at, by the way.â She retrieved a huge book from her bag and a small pencil case that was filled with just a pen and three markers, red, yellow, and green. Just as she opened the book, he could see that its majority was colored and that it had notes in the margins. His heart thudded louder in his chest.
âWhat do all those colors mean?â He asked curiously as he approached her.
âWell green means that I understand it; yellow means that I am working on it and red ⊠I just have no clue. It's just mostly yellow at the moment, though the notes help.â
âWhat's red?â She looked at him in a strange way, and too late did he realize that she was studying him, his question had been earnest and probably too forward, and he rushed to explain himself. â I just - I asked because I have a PhD in the subject.â He could see her eyebrows lifting before they settled in a scowl and whacked his brain to understand what he said wrong.
âYou are Doctor Reid, right?â She asked quietly, and he stupidly nodded as an answer to her question. âWell there is ⊠I don't understand some differences between some categories of killers; they have much in common, so why are they in a separate category?â
âThe answer is actually way simpler I'd you think of it in a Venn diagram.â He rushed to the board, and drew a few circles, and he started writing on it as he explained its category separately. He talked for what seemed like hours, and he embarrassingly looked at his watch. He must have been talking for over an hour, and he turned to look at the girl only to find her writing on her book, still in the margins looking at him expectantly. The way she was staring at him almost had him stammering once again, and he felt his knees weaken for a strange reason. So he carried on.
When he was done, he turned to look at her; she was still writing something before she whispered. âYou need to tuck your chest in when you are firing a gun.â
âI'm sorry?â
âAaron said that he was having trouble with one of his agents' firearm training, and it must be you. You have a long torso, so your weight center is different from the diagrams in the training books you must have read. That's why you keep missing.â And just like that, she was gone again wishing him good night and a nice weekend.
His head was spinning as he walked towards the training room, and he wore his earmuffs and protective glasses. Tuck your chest in. And so he did before aiming and pressing the trigger three times. His shots were the best, but he hadn't missed. Pride swarmed his chest; he was going to do it.
The next day, he failed his exam. He had lost his gun.
3. The first case
Small-town cases were always the most thrilling in his humble opinion. And any time somehow a cult or demons were involved, he worked ten times harder to prove them wrong. Only this time, their team had a new member. Gideon did seem to take a liking to her, in contrast with Spencer, who was incredibly warm to her the moment she entered the room. Maybe it was because he had met her before, or maybe it was because whenever she was around him. Somehow, his conversation with Morgan had turned to the explanation of attraction in the neurotic sector.
âChemicals, such as dopamine, may cause one to be giddy, euphoric, and even to experience suppressed hunger and sleep cues. You may recall a time when someone made your heart thud erratically in your chest, heat rise in your body making you blush, and the sensation of being tongue-tied or not able to form coherent thoughts. These are the characteristics of attraction.â
âIs that what you feel around her then? Because you don't act like yourself around her. I mean, come on, you are a germaphobe, and you were the first to shake her hand.â
Heâs a germaphobe, he is, and that doesnât just go away when you meet someone lovely, but he did shake her hand. She surprised him too quickly to think beyond taking her hand, letting it happen. Their formal meeting, the one where they acted as if they hadn't spent an evening together in this same room. Hotch gave him a funny look. Mostly impassive, but not quite, and he was definitely on to him. In the duration of the case, he tried to keep his distance, which didn't go that well when he found himself staring at the barrel of a gun that was aimed at him. Everything went by too quickly as she dove toward the UnSub, without a second thought tackling him to the ground and disarming him in a few short seconds. He wanted to be impressed, yet he had seen her in the training room with Morgan as they had hand-to-hand combat. She moved with agility, and her every move seemed calculated and strategic. He had felt his heart stutter in his chest as she helped him stand and checked him for injuries.
He was lovestruck as Penelope teased him. His silly crush on JJ had been entirely forgotten.
4. The Lila Archer incident
He was an idiot. It was the first time he would characterize himself in such a way. And hopefully the last.
When you guard a beautiful actress, Spencer, don't jump in the pool with her.
Love,
Spencer
He could identify the disappointment in his colleagues' faces from the very first second, yet the one that pierced him the most was hers. She barely spoke during the discussions about the possible type of the UnSub, no matter how much Elle or Hotch urged her on. She had been stuck with him for pretty much all of the cases and he had to admit that she was a brilliant young woman. The others interpreted her quietness as an inability to profile but her insights were what had helped him make some major breakthroughs on the last cases. When they congratulated him for that he simply smiled stating that he didn't work alone yet the others probably thought that he was just trying to cover his partner and not share mutual credit for their work. It unnerved him how she seemed incredibly distant and stoic always five paces away from the rest of the team.
Yet this time she seemed furious, it was the deathly kind of quiet, the one that sent a chill to his bones and left all the apologies that were spewing up in his brain die on his tongue.
Frustration was welling up on him and he tried to muster up the courage to talk to her, only to find her crying in Morgan's arms. He couldn't understand for the life of him what she was saying and a selfish, terrible part of him hoped that, maybe, she had been crying for him.
5. The drug addiction
Tobias Hankel was going to be a name that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Sometimes deep into the night he was still at that cabin fighting for his life, the one time his intelligence wasn't enough. What drew him to steal those few bottles of Dilaud from his pocket, why he used them, why he formed his addiction. He didn't want to be a drug addict but it was his new reality. He desperately tried to stop it, tried to hide it and always felt ashamed when he relapsed to that horrible habit. He would sit in his bathroom sweating, crying and begging a higher force, a higher being to end his torment, despite never being a religious man, only for his phone to ring demanding his presence because of a new case and for him to fall back to his old routine.
It was a tough journey and he wanted to talk with his friends about that, he needed their help, yet they ignored his problem as if it didn't exist, even though the signs were clear. He was always lashing out, having terrible mood swings and when they tried to confort him about it he lashed out. He had met an old friend of his and he had been the only one he had been brutally honest about his ⊠condition. Gideon knew, his mentor knew, he had the confirmation, yet he turned a blind eye to the situation. Everyone did, except from her.
Everyday she would bring him his extra sweet coffee filled to the brim with stevia and not sugar, because sugar was just as addictive. When he craved, he played with his fingers, tried to distract himself but to no avail, a long strip of hard licorice sweets would appear in front of his face, after research be learned that the flavourful of licorice was extremely distinctive and strong and its hard texture led a person to chew endlessly at just one piece. It was the best food to consume to distract yourself. Every night after a case she would show up at his place with Greek takeout, which was apparently the best cousine, and demand longtime marathons of a show or series of movies, which wasn't something unusual for the two of them. She visited him because she knew that he would never use in her vicinity. He had never known true love until that moment and he recalled a quote by Jane Austin.
To be loved is to be known.
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#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid angst#spencer reid#spencer reid x you#criminal minds x you#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds#criminal minds fluff#criminal minds angst#bau!reader
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Book & KD combined for the most points by a duo in their first 5 games as Teammates since 1962-63!
#IT HAS FINALLY HAPPENED! 2023#NBA24Highlights#Book & KD combined for the most points by a duo in their first 5 games as Teammates since 1962-63!#Devin Booker#Kevin Durant have combined for most points as a duo in first five games as teammates since 1962-63#Durant#who was traded to the Suns Feb. 9 for forwards Mikal Bridges#Cam Johnson#Jae Crowder#four unprotected first-round picks and a pick swap in 2028#has averaged 25.2 points in five games with the Suns. Phoenix has won each of those games.#Booker#who is averaging a career-best 28.1 points per game this season#has averaged 32.8 points in five games with Durant. The duo combined for 57 points Friday night against the Denver Nuggets#a win that helped the Suns keep the No. 4 seed in the Western Conference.#who had 30 points in the game on 11-of-15 shooting Friday#said he had a better rhythm of the game than his first home contest with the team Wednesday against the Minnesota Timberwolves#when he had just 16 points on 5-of-18 shooting. Durant missed his first six shots in that game.#âIt felt like I was the rookie last game#â Durant said. âI started off 0-for-4 and then after every shot#I kept trying to get back to 50 percent. So Iâm rushing shots#taking uncharacteristic looks and it lead to a night like that. So just being patient#letting the game come to me. Thatâs how Iâve always been playing.â#Booker has played incredibly of late#especially after he returned from a groin strain Feb. 7. He has averaged 31.2 points on 53.6 percent shooting (37 percent from 3-point rang#5.2 rebounds and 4.5 rebounds since Feb. 24.#It has arguably been the best basketball of his career and is much-needed with Durant now available after he missed three weeks due to a sp#booker#durant#kevindurant
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