#who i was over a year ago and everything i was about | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cheftsunoda · 1 day ago

Text

wait, what? — ih6

smau + real life

lewis hamilton x !daughter reader

isack hadjar x !model hamilton reader

Isack grew up idolizing Lewis Hamilton — posters on the wall, interviews memorized, the whole deal. But nothing could’ve prepared him for the moment he unknowingly asked out his daughter. One minute, he’s shooting his shot… the next, he’s dating a Hamilton.

fc : halima saadiyah

not proofread — still trying to brainstorm ideas for new series— send me any requests!

—

whotfisnaya

liked by lewishamilton, kikagomes, charles_leclerc & 1,348,308 others.

whotfisnaya : can’t talk rn doing hot girl shit

(also ferrari get your shit together or so help me god😁🔪)

—

kikagomes : my gf lover angel gave me flowers when i landed this morning 💘💋🤩🥹

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : take notes pear, this is why she is mine

liked by kikagomes

pierregasly : I lost her to you a long time ago..i just quit fighting

username00 : don’t feel bad pierre, it’s just part of the hamilton charm

liked by whotfisnaya & kikagomes

lewishamilton: Bub. What did we say about threatening the new team already? At least give them a full season.

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : my patience is out. i choose violence.

lewishamilton : I will not be making any further comments on that. You look beautiful, princess! Miss you.

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : thank you fatherrrr💘 see you this weekend!

liked by lewishamilton

charles_leclerc : welcome to the ferrari family, naya!

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : idk how you’ve made it this long leclerc…i would’ve crashed out and burnt everything to the ground like 3 years ago

liked by charles_leclerc

charles_leclerc : I’ve thought about it…but i just keep going back

whotfisnaya : stockholm syndrome. ferrari free my man from these chains

liked by charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

georgerussell63 : only 6 races into the season and I already miss you (somehow)

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : you try so hard to act like you don’t love me but i think you cried harder about me leaving than you did about dad

lewishamilton : can confirm

whotfisnaya : tell big man toto to be prepared because i am coming over next race

liked by georgerussell63

georgerussell63 : mario kart?

whotfisnaya : sigh. yes GR

carlossainz55 : psssst. it doesn’t get any better naya

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : im glad you’re free my friend

whotfisnaya : gonna start some mid season contract negotiations for him — im tired

whotfisnaya : WHO WANTS 8 (🖕🏻) TIME WORLD CHAMPION LEWIS HAMILTON ON THEIR TEAM

liked by carlossainz55, charles_leclerc, georgerussell63, pierregasly, lando, olliebearman, and oscarpiastri

lewishamilton : naya honey there is a reason I have professionals do this

—

f1 added a post to their story!

seen by 12,453,389.

—

There’s something about the Ferrari red that still doesn’t feel real. I’ve spent most of my life watching my dad win in silver, black, even turquoise—but red? It still throws me.

Still, I can’t lie… he wears it well.

I stroll into the paddock, dodging cameras and a few fans with sharp eyes. Sunglasses on, credentials tucked into my jacket, I keep my pace casual. Familiar.

“Look who decided to show up,” Dad calls before I even reach the Ferrari garage. He’s leaning against the wall in his race suit, arms folded, exuding the exact same energy he’s always had before lights out—calm, confident, and just a little smug.

“Didn’t want to miss my favorite guy in red,” I say, stepping in for a quick hug. He pressed a kiss to my temple.

Charles appears beside him, grinning as always. “You mean me, right?”

“You’re definitely top three,” I tease. We share a hug.

We fall into easy conversation—something about tire strategy, Charles’ espresso addiction, and how dad had to clear things with Ferrari after my recent…comments online.

It’s comfortable here. Familiar. But after a while, I shift my weight and check the time.

“I’m gonna go find Ollie,” I say, casually, but I see the way Dad lifts an eyebrow.

“Just friends,” I remind him before he can say anything.

“I didn’t say a word,” he replies with a smirk.

Charles, of course, does. “That’s not what your dad’s face says.”

I roll my eyes and walk backward toward the exit. “You two need new hobbies.”

—

The Haas garage is less polished than Ferrari’s��more wires, more noise, more energy. It feels alive.

Ollie spots me right away, lifting his helmet slightly and grinning. “You’re late.”

“You’re early,” I shoot back.

We fist-bump and fall into step, walking along the edge of the garage. “We’re still on for that sim day next week?” he asks.

“Obviously.”

As we walk, someone else joins us— shorter than Ollie, dark curls, relaxed smile.

“Oh—Naya, this is Isack. Isack, Naya.”

I offer a small smile. “Hi.”

Isack returns it, maybe a little too quickly. “Hey. Uh… sorry, are you new to the paddock?”

Ollie snorts. “You could say that.”

I shrug. “I’ve been around a while.”

He holds out a hand. “Well, it’s cool to meet you. Are you, like… press or PR or something?”

I shake his hand, biting back a grin. “Something like that.”

Ollie coughs pointedly but doesn’t say more. I shoot him a look—don’t you dare ruin this.

Isack turns slightly red, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re probably used to being around all this, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say, eyes flicking back toward the sea of red where my dad is doing media interviews. “You could say it runs in the family.”

—

I didn’t mean to hang around the garage that long. Really, I didn’t. But somehow, after Ollie wandered off to a briefing, I was still there—leaning against a pit wall, sipping on a bottle of water, chatting with Isack like we’d known each other longer than just a few hours.

He was easy to talk to. Surprisingly easy. Funny in a quiet way. Charming in a not trying too hard kind of way.

“So, you’re not press. You’re not PR. But you are paddock fluent,” he says, leaning on the wall next to me, arms crossed.

I smirk. “Observant.”

“And you won’t tell me what you actually do?”

“I like mystery.”

He laughs. “Alright, Miss Mystery. You coming to the after-party tonight?”

I tilt my head. “Depends. Are you going?”

“I might now,” he says, eyes glinting. “If I knew someone cool would be there.”

My smile softens, but I keep my voice even. “I’ll think about it.”

He pauses for a beat, and I can feel the shift—the way his tone gets just a little more serious, like he’s testing the water.

“Okay, real question,” he says. “Do you want to get coffee sometime? Like, not here. Somewhere… quieter. Just us.”

For a second, I just blink at him. He still doesn’t know. Still doesn’t realize who I am.

And it’s kind of… nice.

“Are you asking me out, Isack Hadjar?” I ask, folding my arms with a playful smile.

He grins, a little sheepish. “I think I am, yeah.”

I pretend to consider it, tapping my chin. “Hmm… you’re cute. And bold. I respect that.”

“So is that a yes?”

“Maybe,” I say, letting the word hang. “But only if you promise not to freak out when you find out who I am.”

His smile falters, just a little. “Should I be scared?”

I grin. “Terrified.”

Just then, I hear someone call my name—one of the Ferrari PR girls, waving me over.

“Duty calls,” I say, stepping back.

He watches me go with a slight frown. “Wait, are you actually someone famous or—?”

I shoot him a wink over my shoulder. “You’ll figure it out.”

Lando and Max stood next to Ollie and the rest of the rookies who were watching intently.

“He doesn’t have a clue who she is, does he?” Max asked with a smirk present on his face.

“Nope.” Ollie said with a chuckle.

—

whotfisnaya

liked by olliebearman, isackhadjar, charles_leclerc & 2,277,843 others.

whotfisnaya : i was told no more threatening ferrari so idrk what to caption this paddock dump

—

charles_leclerc : out of all the pictures you chose THAT one naya

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : that’s what you get for stealing my phone charles

scuderiaferrari: thank you naya. we appreciate you for trying

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya: id appreciate you guys trying some actual strategy

liked by charles_leclerc, lewishamilton and carlossainz55

username00 : NAYA😭

isackhadjar : so nice to meet you today, naya!

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : nice to meet you love!!

olliebearman : and to think you tried to tell me the ears weren’t a fashion statement

olliebearman : i look GOODt

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : bitch u look good with a t at the end…or whatever tf saweetie said

georgerussell63 : half of our mario kart time was taken up by you and toto gossiping

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya: god forbid a girl and her bestie catch up

whotfisnaya : still gave me enough time to beat your ass

georgerussell63 : i demand a retrial

whotfisnaya : you just want to hang again

georgerussell63 : blah blah details

username7 : her and toto gossiping omg

—

whotfisnaya added to her story!

seen by lando, olliebearman, lewishamilton & 2,278,358 others.

lando : does he know yet?

whotfisnaya : girl ur so nosey…and no

olliebearman : get in there isack!!!!

whotfisnaya: hate u 💘

lewishamilton: Hm. Who?

whotfisnaya: I don’t kiss and tell father but you will meet him soon.

lewishamilton : Sigh. I’ll go ask Toto.

whotfisnaya: that man would never spill my secrets, not even to you.

—

I wasn’t even nervous. Okay, maybe a little. But it wasn’t like a real date, right? Just coffee. Just… two people getting to know each other, in a quiet café tucked away from the chaos of race weekends. No pit lane, no photographers, no Ollie looking smug in the background. Just me and Isack and some overpriced espresso.

He was already there when I arrived — black hoodie, cap pulled low, sunglasses on like we were undercover spies instead of two mildly recognizable faces. He stood up when he saw me, smile soft and completely unguarded.

“You made it,” he said, sounding almost surprised.

“I said I would,” I replied, sliding into the chair across from him. “Do I strike you as unreliable?”

“Not at all,” he grinned. “Just… cool enough to bail at the last second if something better came up.”

I shrugged. “You’re lucky I like coffee.”

We talked for over an hour. About everything and nothing. He told me about his first karting crash, the fact that he still forgets to pack socks on travel weekends, and how much he actually hates running, no matter what his trainer says. I told him about the cities I’d lived in growing up, my obsession with baking shows, and my ongoing feud with Ferrari’s coffee machine.

(That part almost gave me away. But he didn’t catch it. Not yet.)

At one point, he leaned back, just watching me over the rim of his cup.

“What?” I asked, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.

“You’re hard to figure out.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” he said quietly. “Not at all.”

The silence between us was warm, not awkward. Comfortable. Which is probably why I blurted it out before I could overthink it.

“So… I’m having a birthday thing at the end of this month. It’s kind of a mix of family and friends, not a huge party, but you should come.”

He blinked, like I’d just asked him to join me on a trip to the moon. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah. Why not?” I took another sip of my coffee and added casually, “You’re fun. I like you.”

He smiled, and it was the kind of smile that didn’t need any clever reply.

“I’d love to come,” he said finally. “What should I wear? Are we talking jeans or, like, red carpet-level fancy?”

I laughed. “Definitely not red carpet. Just… look nice. And maybe be ready for a few surprises.”

His brow furrowed. “What kind of surprises?”

I smirked. “You’ll see.”

—

whotfisnaya

liked by isackhadjar, georgerussell63, olliebearman & 2,389,294 others.

whotfisnaya: life’s been cute or whateva

—

lewishamilton: I always thought I spoiled Roscoe the most and then I came back and you had ordered him every vegan item off the menu.

liked by whotfisnaya

whotfisnaya : that’s my boy right thurrrr— he asked me for it all and I deliver

lewishamilton : yeah on my credit card

whotfisnaya: duh

georgerussell63 : so honored to be included in a dump alongside your soft launch

whotfisnaya : only added because carms looks so cute

carmenmmundt : love you naya❤️❤️

liked by whotfisnaya

georgerussell63 : BETRAYAL

olliebearman : oh so we’ve moved into a soft launch era?

whotfisnaya: I literally should have never taught any of you men that phrase

—

isackhadjar

liked by whotfisnaya, olliebearman, yukitsunoda0511 & 424,289 others.

isackhadjar : lovin’ life

—

olliebearman : getting close with the in laws I see?

this comment has been deleted

olliebearman : who is the lady?!

isackhadjar : nunya

olliebearman: that’s a weird way to spell naya.

whotfisnaya: oliver stop being a menace

yukitsunoda0511 : 🔥🔥

username00 : him having Lewis’ daughter in his likes and his dad comforting him must feel amazing

—

lewishamilton

liked by whotfisnaya, charles_leclerc, georgerussell63 & 4,397,298 others.

lewishamilton : Happy birthday to my favorite girl in the world. Watching you grow into the woman you are today has been the greatest privilege of my life. You’re smart, bold, kind, and full of fire — just the way I always hoped you’d be. Keep chasing what sets your soul on fire. I’ll always be in your corner. Love you endlessly.

—

olliebearman: ofc the one day isack avoids instagram- sigh. HAPPY BIRTHDAY NAYA LOVE YOU

charles_leclerc : happy birthday mini hamilton! can’t wait to celebrate you.

georgerussell63 : to the biggest most lovable menace on the planet— happy birthday!

susie_wolff : Happy Birthday Sweet Girl!

scuderiaferrari : happy birthday naya!! 🎈🎈

mercedesamgf1 : happy birthday naya! we miss you so much!

—

The thing about hosting your birthday in Monaco is that there’s always a yacht, always a DJ, and always a guest list full of people who look like they belong in a GQ spread.

Mine wasn’t over-the-top — not by Monaco standards, anyway. Rooftop terrace, ambient lights, too many photographers across the street pretending not to be watching.

I spotted Isack the second he walked in, wearing a button-down that was definitely ironed by someone else and looking very out of place in the best way possible.

He kissed my cheek when he found me. “Happy birthday, Miss Mystery.”

“Glad you came,” I said with a grin. “Feeling brave?”

“Honestly? A little nervous,” he admitted. “I’ve seen three world champions already and I’ve been here five minutes.”

“Mm. You might want to stay nervous.”

I took his hand and pulled him gently toward the center of the terrace, weaving past Red Bull engineers, a retired footballer, and a couple of Ferrari mechanics.

And then—there he was.

Dad, standing by the bar, dressed in a sleek suit and sipping on sparkling water.

“Hey,” I said, walking up to him. “Someone I want you to meet.”

Dad turned, already grinning.

“This is Isack,” I said, as casually as if I were introducing him to my barista. “My boyfriend.”

Isack froze. Completely.

“Isack,” Dad said, offering his hand with a knowing smile. “Good to see you again.”

Again.

Isack blinked. Twice. Looked between us. “Wait. Hold on.”

I tried not to laugh.

“You’re…” He looked at Dad. “You’re her…?”

“Father,” Dad said smoothly. “Did she not mention that?”

“I—no. She definitely didn’t.”

I took a sip of my drink, trying not to smirk. “Felt like it would ruin the surprise.”

Isack turned back to me, eyes wide, voice half a whisper. “You’re Lewis Hamilton’s daughter.”

“Took you long enough.”

Dad clapped him on the shoulder, a little too hard. “Welcome to the family, son.”

Isack looked like he was questioning every life choice he’d ever made. I leaned in, voice just for him.

“close your mouth, love. you’ll catch flies.” i said and pushed up his chin.

—

“Oh no,” Isack muttered under his breath. “Why are they all here.”

“Because I have amazing friends,” I said sweetly. “And they love watching you suffer.”

“Hadjar!” Lando called, arms already spreading like he was about to hug him just to whisper something evil in his ear. “So you’re the one dating the princess of Formula One, huh?”

Jack whistled low. “You’ve got some guts, man.”

Kimi, deadpan as ever, tilted his head. “Did you think we wouldn’t find out?”

“I didn’t know!” Isack said for what was probably the seventh time tonight. “She didn’t say anything!”

“He called Lewis ‘sir,’” Ollie chimed in again, grinning like this was the best day of his life. “It was so formal.”

“Wait, did you?” Lando asked, barely holding in his laughter. “Like, a ‘Hello, Mr. Hamilton, may I date your daughter’ type situation?”

“He panicked!” I added, giggling. “Tried to act like they hadn’t met before.”

“I had no idea!” Isack groaned. “You all suck.”

“I’m just saying,” Jack said, nudging Kimi. “If I found out my girlfriend’s dad was seven-time world champion Lewis Hamilton, I’d have walked straight into the Mediterranean.”

Kimi nodded, stone-faced. “We still might throw you in.”

“Please do,” Isack said, face in hands. “End it.”

Lando gave him a brotherly clap on the shoulder. “Look at it this way. You’ve already peaked. Can’t go higher than impressing Lewis Hamilton.”

Ollie leaned into me with a smirk. “You know he didn’t even realize until Lewis introduced himself back?”

I sipped my drink. “Timing is everything.”

Isack looked up at me then — red-faced, wide-eyed, but grinning. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Only a little,” I teased. “But hey — you’re handling it like a champ.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Like an F1 champ or…?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Jack said dryly.

Kimi cracked the faintest of smirks. “We’ll see how you qualify next weekend, Hamilton’s boyfriend.”

—

whotfisnaya

liked by isackhadjar, lando, lewishamilton & 4,389,387 others.

whotfisnaya: long story short…i love isack and isack loves my dad (the selfie is warming my heart by the second)

—

username00 : dating your idols daughter?? wasn’t familiar with your game isack

olliebearman: neither was he

whotfisnaya : oliver be nice

lewishamilton : Welcome to the family, Isack. We love you even if you are oblivious sometimes.

liked by whotfisnaya, lando, isackhadjar and olliebearman

olliebearman : is it cheating since he will be mentored by the goat?

lando : he fr just skipped ten levels

isackhadjar: love you the most even if you embarrassed me in front of my goat

liked by whotfisnaya

—

🦋🐞💋🫶🏻🧜🏻‍♀️

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shewhowillrise · 2 days ago

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Sam drags Tucker into Danny’s apartment after they bid Danny good luck on his date. She ignores his protests of her nails hurting and and practically throws him into the living room before slamming the front door. Danny’s neighbor yells something but Sam can’t hear it over her anger.

“What the hell was that? He finally, finally! Goes on a date, and you’re face couldn’t look anymore sour then if you drank lime and pickle juice!”

“Come on Sam, even you have to admit that was an obvious catfish!” Tucker yells back while checking on his arm.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“The guy he matched with doesn’t exist! At least not anymore! Don’t you remember the case! The guys name itself was a red flag!”

“I have no idea what you’re going on about.”

Tucker looked at her incredulously, “have you not listened to any of the true crime podcasts I’ve recommended on my blog?”

Sam crossed her arms and just starred at him.

“You haven’t even read my blog have you?”

“I’ve been busy,” Sam defended.

“We’re literally roommates you have not been busy!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sam said putting her arms up in defeat, “what happened there connects to the guy our Danny is going on a date with?”

“Eight years ago Bruce Wayne adopted a boy. A son who likes everything listed on that guy’s profile. Pride and Prejudice, neapolitan ice cream, and favorite color green,” Tucker says as her takes out his phone and starts typing quickly.

“Okay?” Sam says, “what does that have to do with anything?”

“That boy died, four years ago, officially, in Ethiopia. I’ve seen the morgue papers myself. It’s one of the biggest cover ups this century. And his name was Jason Todd,” he turned his phone around to show a picture of a boy. And Sam paused. While this photo was of a teenage boy, it definitely was the same face as the profile Danny showed them a an hour ago. Just more baby fat.

“Holy fuck Danny’s in trouble.”

Breaking driving laws wasn’t something Sam did often in Gotham. Especially this close to night time but her friend was in trouble.

“They aren’t supposed to be at the restaurant for another twenty minutes. We could stake out on the roof-”

“-and risk a bat seeing us-” Sam interrupts.

“-They’ll understand when we tell them, they probably think Todd’s death is also fishy and wouldn’t like a man pretending to be him.”

Thankfully there was an apartment building across the street, with still attached fire escape. It still creaked though.

“Man I fucking hate this,” Tucker says, “how the hell do these not crumble under Batman or Red Hood’s weight fuck”

“Your idea,” Sam says, smirking at Tucker’s yeah I know.

Sitting at the roof’s edge wasn’t comfortable but anything for their friend, anything was worth it.

It was freezing but they didn’t have to wait long for the motorcycle that was as on the guy’s profile to park outside the restaurant.

Sam slapped Tucker’s arm to get him out of his phone and conspiracy boards, “he’s here.”

They watched as he set up the kickstand. The guy was as bulky as the photos were, so Tucker was thinking maybe Jason’s face photo shopped on the real guy’s body.

The guy took off his gloves and shoved them in his side bag. Before closing the bag back up he took out flowers, red spider lilies. Danny’s favorite.

“That’s actually sweet,” Tucker remarks then avoids Sam’s glare.

When the guy reaches for the strap of his helmet, Tucker gets his camera ready. But he doesn’t snap a picture because he’s frozen in shock.

Standing on that sidewalk was the same face from the profile. Only his green eyes glowed when in the flesh. Like Danny’s did.

“Holy shit,” Tucker says, “holy shit Jason Todd’s like Danny.”

“He’s like Danny,” Sam repeats in astonishment.

They both look at each other then start smiling, “he’s perfect!”

They started celebrating by hugging and jumping around, “Danny’s got a soulmate!”

They were shaking each other back and forth by their shoulders when they heard screaming from below.

“Sam! Tucker!” They turned to see Danny, holding the lilies in his hand, and Jason snickering behind him, “what the fuck guys!”

Dead on Main Omegaverse

Jason is having a brothers day out with Dick. The once a month they let the other in on their inner most thoughts.

“So any thoughts of dating?” Dick asked, setting a beer in front of Jason before sitting with his own.

Jason snorts, “An alpha wouldn’t want me.”

“Come on Little Wing,” Dick insists, “a traditional alpha would like the fact you cook and take care of kids well. A non traditional alpha would love your independence and resourcefulness. What’s not to like about you!”

“No alpha wants an omega that can break them in half.”

900 miles away Danny Fenton sits at Nasty Burger with his friends. He was the only alpha in Amity Park that weighed 180 pounds soaking wet.

“Look, there might be someone outside of this small town that likes small alphas,” Sam tries to point out.

“Yeah,” Tucker backs her up, “statistically you’ll find a better match in a global city like New York or Gotham.”

“I did qualify for a Gotham U scholarship,” Danny says. Tucker grasps Danny’s shoulder and shakes it while Sam slaps the table excitedly.

“See!” She exclaims, “already looking at the bright side! We’ll help you pack, set up a dating profile, and plan rogue attack escape routes.”

“Oh! And catch you up to speed on the bats—”

Danny smiled sadly as his friends talked about to do lists and must haves. He’s grateful for them but he knows that there’s no omega out there that would want an alpha they could push over with their pinkie.

#danny phantom #dpxdc #dcxdp #dp x dc #dc x dp #jason todd #danny fenton #dead on main ship #dead on main #batfam #sorry if tense is everywhere I wanted to get this out b4 I forgot

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lovings4turn · 2 days ago

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teasing oscar about his sudden, 'newfound' outbursts of emotion in response to his wins and successes. because apparently, to everyone else, your boyfriend is the human embodiment of the word 'unflappable'. sure, he isn't one to jump to use the team radio, or jump, and shout, and bawl over a triumph.

not that there's anything wrong with such a thing, no. not at all. in fact, you get it. drivers sacrifice a lot, sometimes everything, to get where they are, and you would never judge them for a second for how they choose to react to their hard work finally paying off.

it's just.. sometimes, the world's perception of oscar makes you giggle a little, that's all.

because to them, he may come off calm and collected. like if he were any more laid back, he'd be lying down. he's level headed. carefully chosen words, to the point without being unfeeling.

but to you? he's a totally different person. this is the man who smiles at you like you hung the moon and stars when you so much as yawn in the morning. the man who praises you for minutes on end for simply making him a good cup of coffee (light milk, no sugar. exactly how you learned he liked it three years ago, when you were only four months into your relationship).

he's the man who picked you up and spun you around without hesitation when you revealed you'd passed your finals after countless late nights, the one who will throw his head back in laughter at your shitty jokes. so, really, no one can blame you for having a little bit of fun with the misconceptions.

it's after his latest win, in miami, that you crack the joke. he heads over to you the moment he spots you. he's a little sweaty, sure, cheeks red and glowing with exertion, but nothing you aren't used to. as he drops a kiss to your temple, you speak.

"y'really getting full of yourself, now," you tease, unable to prevent the grin that's already tugging at your lips. "i mean, griddy-ing after a win? are you sure the heat didn't get to you too much?"

as expected, oscar laughs. a beautiful sound, a little high pitched, as he tips his head back, tan skin almost shimmering. he tsks, shaking his head as he returns his gaze to you. his cheeks are pink. and you know it's from more than the sun.

#something short and sweet for my comeback okay!#.° ༘🗝️⋆₊ becca’s drabbles #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri blurb #oscar piastri fluff #oscar piastri drabble #f1 x reader #f1 x you

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lanabuckybarnes · 3 days ago

Text

| Heating Up |

18+ MINORS DNI

Pairing(s): Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Reader x Alpha!Steve Rogers

Warnings: A/B/O Themes, Heat, Polyamory, Oral (F), PinV Sex, Knotting, Two sickly sweet alphas who adore their baby — if I’ve missed any let me know.

Word count: 1.5k

Note: Well hello enjoyers of my work I’m so sorry I abandoned you but life came at me fast. Having a puppy is hard work and before I knew it he was almost a year old and I hadn’t posted in a long time. I had surgery also so with everything going on I haven’t had time to write but hopefully I’ll get back to it. For now please enjoy a lil snippet from my drafts you beautiful souls.

This has not been looked over thoroughly forgive my mistakes!!

Your mates were concerned to say the least. You’d spent all but the better half of this week avoiding them, choosing to spend most of your waking hours cooped up in your room instead—only leaving to eat when both men had vacated the house or were tucked up in the much larger bed in the master bedroom.

“Steve have you seen my shirt?” A half naked Bucky stomps in, a scowl marring his perfect features. His bonding mark on perfect display above ropes of muscle that rippled and stretched at each little movement he made.

Steve only hummed, jutting his chin out in the direction of the closed door, your separate little bedroom.

“Thought I couldn’t hear her sneaking out while you were showering, I saw her come back with it not even five minutes ago.” Steve tossed the contents of his frying pan into the air, making sure to catch everything again effortlessly.

This hadn’t been the first time Bucky or Steve’s clothing had vanished into thin air this week. Just the other day Steve and Bucky had gone to training, each of them discarding their clothing in a pile before showering. When they finished the pile was nowhere to be found. They’d tried to question you, Steve pulling on the handle of the closed door but it was locked.

They both had a sneaky suspicion about what was up but you hadn’t had anything since dating the Alphas. It would be strange for it to happen now, right?

They let your strange behaviour continue, you weren’t harming anyone but Bucky was chomping at the bit to see you again. The more reserved of the two had become quite smitten with you, his bonding mark itched when you weren’t joined at the hip and the itch was becoming too much to bear. He waited until Steve was distracted before picking the lock of your room and stepping in.

The first thing that hit him was your scent, heavy in the air, its cherry undertones strong and almost overpowering, he could almost taste it. His alpha brain clicked instantly and told him to leave you alone but his human side craved your contact.

You weren’t in the bed, the shower running let him know exactly where you were. The perfect cover for him. The white sheets had been thrown on the floor, the bed littered in Steve and his shirts and other discarded clothing. It took him only a second to realise that the arrangement was intricate and thought out. A nest.

“What? Get out!” You snarled from behind him, teeth bared and eyes crazy, your body wrapped in a little towel. He blinked at you for a second before promptly apologising for the intrusion and slinked out of the room, jumping lightly at the loud slam and click of the lock.

“She’s in heat.” Steve groaned from his spot in the hall. Your sweet scent had wafted throughout the house, alerting Steve of your vulnerability. His cock hardened in his pants as his pupils dilated, matching the same look Bucky had.

Both of your poor alphas went to bed painfully hard, trying to ignore your soft yowls from the other room. You tried to hold off, deal with the feeling on your own but you couldn’t, you needed them.

Steve awoke instantly at the creak of their door, his nose twitching at your smell. He glanced over to Bucky who clutched your pillow, still fast asleep.

Your whimpers grew closer, the bed dipping under your weight as you crawled onto the mattress, until you straddled Steve.

“Stevieee,” you moaned weakly, your hips grinding into his brief covered crotch, your pussy hot against him. You whined as his length twitched against you, hardening easily.

“Oh angel, you’re in heat?” He asked, his large hands helping you move. When you nodded he snarled, flipping you both over until your head made contact with the pillow in Bucky’s arms, Steve’s head nuzzling into your neck, his teeth nipping and licking at your bonding mark. The ministrations had your sweet scent flowing from you in waves. The scent woke Bucky up, his hot breath on the side of your face as he growled lowly.

“Babygirl, you finally come around?” He chuckled at the pathetic sound that fell from your lips, your hand carding through Steve’s dirty blonde locks as he kissed down your almost naked body. Your panties clung to you as another wave of slick fell from you.

“Don’t k-know why…mm Stevie…just felt hot and needy,” you babbled, tears pooling in your water line as you looked up at Bucky. He thought you looked absolutely ravishing, your lip petted and swollen from your lip biting, your body flushed and glistening already.

“You shouldn’t have held back from us omega, you know we live to serve you.” You cried out at his words, nodding before leaning up slightly to slot his lips with yours.

Steve’s chuckle vibrated against your core as he watched how desperate you were. Steve didn’t mind that you and Bucky had such a close relationship, you were his first after all, but he knew you loved him too. Especially when he suckled on your sweet scent through your cotton panties.

“Mmm Stevieee,” your head fell back onto the sheets, your mouth gaping as your eyes fell shut, the fingers in his hair tugging tightly.

“You like that angel? Like your Alpha tasting you? Taste so sweet omega, so fucking sweet.” He growled, hooking a finger into the gusset of your panties before devouring your pussy.

Your sweet moans and whines were like music to your Alphas ears, your hips grinding up and practically riding Steve’s bearded face. You came undone when his nose nudged your sensitive little bud, your cunt gushing over his bearded face. You didn’t even know you could leak that much.

“Oh pleasepleaseplease Alpha, need your knot so bad, so so so bad,” you sobbed, uncaring of who’s knot you got, you just needed to be filled.

“Ok babygirl, alphas got you ok? We’ll let Stevie fuck that weeping cunt first alright, since he was such a good boy and made you cum” Bucky moved so he was sitting behind you, his arms holding your hips while Steve slipped your panties off before moving each of your feet to rest on his bulging thighs, spreading you out for the blonde haired man.

You keened at the sight of Steve’s long length, the curve of his cock decorated in thick, rope like veins leading to a fat tip. He might not have been as thick as Bucky but he still stretched you out nice.

You both moaned in tandem with each other as Steve sunk into you, his head grazing the rigid skin of your sweet spot making you clench around him almost painfully.

“Ohh fuck angel so tight, mmm relax lemme breed that sweet pussy ‘mega” he was panting already, balls slapping against you as he fucked you deeply, making sure you could feel everything. Your soft noises mixed with the slick slapping sound and wet squelching filled the room, your pussy gushing all over the sheets. You must’ve looked pathetic, wailing for your alphas cock to breed you full.

To both of them though, you were the sexiest fucking thing ever. Bucky lipsed down your neck, whispering sweet nothings to you as Steve picked up his pace.

“Ohh there we go babygirl, taking it like a fucking champ. Stevie gonna breed you full of his pups yeah? Look at how soaked you’ve got him, such a good little omega”

Bucky’s filthy words paired with Steve’s swelling knot sent you over the edge, your screams reverberating off the walls—neighbours be damned. Steve followed suit, pressing as deep as he could into you before spilling his seed, his knot swollen to full size to prevent anything from slipping out.

You might’ve blacked out, you don’t know, the only thing you could vaguely register was Steve’s teeth biting down on your dark mark, causing another shockwave of your orgasm to shoot through you.

“There we go babygirl that’s it took it so well, ohh my fucking god” Steve’s chest rumbled with laughter as he settled, grabbing the water Bucky handed him and gulping down gratefully before helping you take a drink yourself.

Both of them moved so that you lay on top of Steve, waiting for the swell of his knot to settle. Bucky’s fingers brushed through your locks, his head laying on Steve’s other pec so he could kiss you gently.

“Take a little nap babygirl ‘cause once Stevie’s knot is gone I’m gonna fucking ruin that cunt, ok?” Despite the sweet way he spoke you knew Bucky meant every single word of it. And your pussy throbbed with excitement.

“We are never gonna survive this” Steve joked after you’d fallen asleep, his hand running up and down your bare arm. Bucky laughed in agreement before speaking,

“We’ll give it our best shot.”

366 notes · View notes

tobiosbbyghorl · 2 days ago

Text

pairing: scientist!sunghoon x scientist! reader

wc:10.5k

released date: 05.17.2025

warning: PURE FICTION!!

synopsis: In the quiet of her lab, Dr. Y/N, a skilled scientist, sets out on a risky mission to bring back her late fiancé, Park Sunghoon, who died in a car accident. Using his preserved DNA, she creates a clone that grows rapidly in just two years. When Sunghoon wakes up, he faces the difficult reality of being brought back to life and the moral issues surrounding Y/N's actions.

a/n: ITS HERE!! Hope you guys will love it as much as I did writing it! feedbacks,likes and reblogs are highly appreciated!

In the cold glow of my underground biotech lab, silence is sacred. Down here, beneath layers of steel and earth, the world doesn’t exist. No grief. No time. Just me. Just him.

The capsule glows in the center of the room—a vertical womb of steel and glass, pulsing faintly with blue light. Suspended inside, wrapped in strands of bio-filaments and artificial amniotic fluid, is the reason I wake up in the morning. Or stay awake. I don’t know the difference anymore.

Park Sunghoon.

Or… what’s left of him.

One year ago, he died on his way to our civil wedding. A drunk driver. A rainy street. A second too late. I got the call before I even zipped up my dress. I still remember the way my coffee spilled all over the lab floor when my knees gave out. I never cleaned it. It’s still there, dried in the corner. A fossil of the moment my world cracked open.

⸻

He used to say I was too curious for my own good.

That I’d poke the universe too hard one day and it would poke back.

Maybe this is what he meant.

⸻

Sunghoon and I were both scientists—biotech researchers. We studied regenerative cloning, theorized about neural echo imprinting, debated ethics like it was foreplay.

He was against replicas. Always. “A copy isn’t a soul,” he’d say. “It’s just noise pretending to be music.”

But the day he died, I stopped caring about music.

I just wanted to hear his voice again.

⸻

I had everything I needed. A sample of his bone DNA—collected after a minor lab accident years ago and stored under a pseudonym. His blood type, genome map, neural scan from our first brain-simulation trial. A perfect match, all buried in our old hard drives. He never knew I kept them. Maybe he would’ve hated me for it.

Maybe I don’t care.

I called it Project ECHO.

Because that’s what he was now.

An echo. A ripple in the void.

⸻

The first version—ECHO-1—was a failure.

He looked like Sunghoon. But he never woke up. I ran every test. Monitored every vital. Adjusted nutrient cycles, protein growth, heartbeat regulators. But something in him was missing—something I couldn’t code into cells.

A soul, maybe. Or timing.

He died the second I tried to bring him out.

I cremated and buried that version in the garden, under the cherry tree he planted the first spring we moved in. I didn’t cry at the funeral. I just stood there holding the urn and whispered, “I’ll get it right next time.”

⸻

ECHO-2 was different.

I restructured the genome to prevent cellular decay. Added telomere stabilizers to delay aging. Enhanced his immune system. This time, I built him stronger. Healthier. The version of Sunghoon that would’ve never gotten sick that winter in Sapporo, or fainted in the elevator that one night after forgetting to eat. That version who could live longer. With me.

But the rest—I left untouched.

His smile. His hands. The faint mole scattered in his face. The way his hair curled when wet. All exactly the same. It had to be. He wouldn’t be Sunghoon without those things.

I even reconstructed his mind.

Using an illegal neural mapping sequence I coded from fragments of our joint research, I retrieved echoes of his memory—dream-like reflections extracted from the deepest preserved brain tissue. It wasn’t perfect. But it was him. Pieces of him. The things he never got to say. The life he never finished.

⸻

It took two years.

Two years in the dark, surrounded by synthetic fluid and filtered lights, modifying the incubator like a cradle built by obsession. I monitored every development milestone like a parent. I watched him grow. I whispered stories to him when the lab was quiet, played him our favorite records through the tank’s acoustic feed, left him notes on the console like he could read them.

⸻

One night, I touched the tank and felt warmth radiate back. His fingers twitched.

A smile cracked on his lips, soft and sleepy.

And I whispered, “You’re almost here.”

⸻

Now he floats before me—grown, complete, and terrifyingly familiar. His chest rises and falls steadily. Muscles formed and defined from synthetic stimulation. His brain is fully developed. His body—twenty-five years old. The age he was when he died. The age we should’ve gotten married.

And now, he’s ready.

⸻

The console buzzes beside me.

“Project ECHO – Stage V: Awakening. Confirm execution.”

My fingers hover. The hum of the lab grows louder. My heart beats so hard I feel it in my throat.

This is it.

The point of no return.

I press enter.

The Awakening didn’t look like the movies.

There was no dramatic gasp, no lightning bolt of consciousness.

It was subtle.

His eyes fluttered open, hazy and uncertain, like the first morning light after a long storm. They didn’t lock onto me at first. He blinked a few times—slow, groggy—and stared at the ceiling of the pod with a confusion so human it made my knees go weak.

Then his gaze shifted.

Found me.

And held.

Just long enough to knock the breath from my lungs.

“Sunghoon,” I whispered.

His lips barely moved. “…Y/N?”

And then—just like that—he slipped under again.

His vitals were stable, but his body couldn’t process full consciousness yet. It was expected. I designed it that way. A controlled emergence. Gentle. Like thawing from ice.

He would wake again. Soon.

⸻

Phase VI: Integration.

I had the room ready before I even began the cloning process. A private suite in the East Wing of my estate, modified to resemble a recovery room from a private hospital: sterile whites and soft blues, filtered natural lighting, automated IV drips and real-time vitals displayed on sleek black monitors. The scent of lavender piped faintly through the vents. His favorite.

I moved him after he lost consciousness again—quietly, carefully. No one else involved. Not even my AI assistant, KARA. This part was just mine.

Just ours.

He lay in the bed now, dressed in soft gray cotton, sheets pulled up to his chest. The faint hum of the machines harmonized with his breathing. It was surreal. Like watching a ghost settle into a life it forgot it had.

I perched on the armchair across from him, the dim lighting casting long shadows over his face.

“You’re safe,” I murmured, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “And when you wake up… everything will be in place.”

⸻

I spent the next forty-eight hours setting the stage.

Fabricated records of a traumatic car accident—minor amnesia, extended coma, miraculous survival. Hacked into the hospital registry and quietly added his name under a wealthy alias. I made sure the media silence was absolute. No visitors. No suspicious calls. A full blackout.

I memorized the story I would tell him. Rehearsed it like a script.

We had been on our way to City Hall. A drunk driver ran a red light. I survived with minor injuries. He hit his head. Slipped into a coma. No signs of brain damage, but long-term memory instability was expected.

He’d been here ever since. Safe. Loved. Waiting to wake up.

And now—he had.

⸻

On the morning of the third day, I heard movement.

Soft. Shuffling. Sheets rustling.

I turned from the monitor just as he groaned softly, his head turning on the pillow.

“Sunghoon?”

His eyes blinked open again, more alert this time. Still groggy, but present.

“Y/N…?” he rasped.

I rushed to his side, heart in my throat. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

His brows knit together, voice hoarse. “What happened?”

“You were in an accident,” I said gently. “The day of our wedding. You’ve been in a coma. Two years.”

His eyes widened—just a little. Then flicked down to his hands. The IV. The machines. The unfamiliar room.

“…Two years?”

I nodded, bracing for the confusion. “You survived. But it was close. We weren’t sure you’d ever… come back.”

He said nothing.

Just stared at me.

Like he was trying to remember something he couldn’t quite reach.

“…Why does it feel like I never left?” he whispered.

I smiled softly. Forced. “Because I never left you.”

And for now, that was all he needed to know.

But deep down, behind those eyes, behind the half-forgotten memories and muscle memory that wasn’t truly his—

Something flickered.

Something not asleep anymore.

He was awake.

And the lie had begun.

The days that followed passed in a quiet rhythm.

He adjusted faster than I anticipated. His motor skills were strong, his speech patterns natural—so much so that sometimes I forgot he wasn’t really him. Or maybe he was. Just… rebuilt. Reassembled with grief and obsession and the memory of love that still clung to me like static.

I stayed with him in the hospital wing, sleeping on the pullout beside his bed. Every morning he’d wake before me, staring out the wide window as if trying to piece together time. And when I asked what he was thinking, he always gave the same answer:

“I feel like I dreamed you.”

On the seventh day, he turned to me, his voice clearer than ever.

“Can I go back to our room?”

I paused, fingers wrapped around the rim of his tea mug.

He still called it our room.

I nodded.

“Yeah,” I said. “You’re strong enough now.”

And so we did.

I helped him down the hallway, hand in his, the same way I’d imagined it during the long nights of Phase II. His steps were careful, measured. But his eyes… they lit up the moment we entered.

It looked the same.

The navy sheets. The low lights. The picture of us by the bookshelf—framed and untouched. His books still on the shelf in alphabetical order. His favorite sweatshirt folded at the foot of the bed like I had never moved it.

He smiled when he saw it. “It feels like nothing’s changed.”

Except everything had.

I didn’t say that.

⸻

He asked about the lab a few nights later. We were curled together in bed—his head on my shoulder, our legs tangled like old habits finding their way home.

“How’s the lab?” he asked, voice soft in the dark. “Are we still working on the neuro-mirroring project?”

My heart skipped.

I’d gotten rid of everything. The pod. The DNA matrix. The prototype drafts. Scrubbed the drives clean. Smashed the external backups. Buried the remains of ECHO-1 under a new tree. The lab was as sterile as my conscience was not.

I turned toward him, brushing my thumb over the scar that curved above his brow. The one that hadn’t been there before the “accident.”

“It’s being renovated,” I said carefully. “After the crash… I couldn’t go in for a while. So I decided to redo it. Clear things out. Start over fresh.”

He nodded slowly. “Makes sense.”

He didn’t ask again.

And just like that, life began to move forward.

He followed me around the house again, stealing kisses in the kitchen, playfully poking fun at the way I never folded laundry properly. He rediscovered his favorite coffee, laughed at old movies like they were new, held my hand under the stars like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But sometimes—when he thought I wasn’t looking—he’d stare at his reflection too long. Tilt his head. Press his fingers to his chest like he was checking if something was still there.

Maybe he felt it.

The echo of what he was.

But if he did, he never said.

One night, wrapped up in each other’s warmth, he whispered into my neck, “I don’t know how I got so lucky to come back to you.”

I pressed a kiss to his temple, forcing a smile as my heart ached beneath the surface.

“I guess some things are just meant to find their way back.”

Even if they were never supposed to.

Time softened everything.

The sterile silence of the house began to fade, replaced by the quiet thrum of life again—the clink of mugs in the morning, the shuffle of his bare feet on the hardwood, the lazy hum of music playing from a speaker that hadn’t been touched since he died. I started to breathe again, and so did he.

Like we were rewriting the rhythm we’d lost.

—

Our first night out felt like time travel.

He picked the place—a rooftop restaurant we always swore we’d try, back when work kept getting in the way. I wore the same navy dress I had worn on our second anniversary. He noticed. His hand slid into mine under the table like it belonged there, his thumb tracing invisible patterns against my skin.

Halfway through dessert, he leaned in, grinning with chocolate at the corner of his lip.

“You still scrunch your nose when you’re pretending to like the wine,” he teased, eyes gleaming.

I blinked. “You remember that?”

He nodded slowly. “It just feels like… I always knew.”

I smiled, heart aching in that strange, quiet way it always did now.

“You’re right,” I said, brushing the chocolate off his lip. “You always did.”

Even grocery shopping with him became a date.

He pushed the cart like a child let loose, tossing in things we didn’t need just to make me laugh. At one point, he held up a can of whipped cream with the most mischievous glint in his eye.

“For movie night,” he said innocently.

I arched a brow. “For the movie or during the movie?”

He smirked. “Depends how boring the movie is.”

We walked home with one umbrella, our fingers interlaced in the rain, and the world somehow felt smaller, warmer.

He burned the garlic the first time.

“I told you the pan was too hot,” I said, waving smoke away.

“And you told me to trust you,” he countered, looking absurdly proud of his crime against dinner. “Besides, I like it crunchy.”

“You like your taste buds annihilated, apparently.”

We ended up ordering takeout, sitting on the kitchen floor, eating noodles out of the box with chopsticks, laughing about how we’d both make terrible housewives.

But the next night, we tried again.

He stood behind me, arms around my waist, guiding my hands as I chopped vegetables.

“You used to do this,” I said softly. “When I first moved in.”

“I know,” he murmured. “It’s one of my favorite memories.”

Cuddling became a ritual.

He always found a way to get impossibly close—sprawled across the couch with his head in my lap, humming contentedly while I read a book or ran my fingers through his hair.

Sometimes we didn’t speak for hours.

Just the quiet breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, his heartbeat echoing faintly against my thigh. Real. Solid. Present.

It was a miracle I could touch.

One night, as rain tapped gently on the windows and he was half-asleep on my shoulder, he whispered:

“I feel safe with you.”

I held him tighter.

Because if I let go—even for a second—I was afraid he might vanish again.

⸻

Love blossomed differently this time.

Slower. Deeper. Less like fire, more like roots. Tangled and unshakable.

And sometimes, in the quiet of our shared bed, I would watch him sleep and wonder if it was love that brought him back.

Or obsession.

But when he opened his eyes and smiled like the sun lived behind them, I told myself it didn’t matter.

He was here.

And that was enough.

For now.

⸻

I woke with a jolt, my heart pounding so violently it threatened to break free from my chest. The nightmare was still fresh, its vividness clinging to my mind like the smoke of a fire.

Sunghoon.

He was in the car again—his face frozen in the moment before everything shattered, his eyes wide with disbelief. The screech of tires, the crash. His body limp. The way I couldn’t reach him no matter how hard I screamed.

I gasped for air, my fingers clutching at the sheets, tangled in the panic that still gripped me.

My breath came in ragged bursts as I sat up, drenched in sweat. My chest heaved with the rawness of the memory, the terrible what-ifs that still haunted me.

A hand gently touched my back.

“Y/N?”

His voice, soft and concerned, cut through the haze of the nightmare. I froze for a moment, the world around me still spinning from the disorienting shock.

I turned, and there he was—Sunghoon—sitting up beside me in the bed, his eyes full of concern. The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated his face, and for a moment, it was almost as if everything had shifted back into place.

But only for a second.

“Are you alright?” He asked, his voice warm with worry.

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breathing. “I… I just had a nightmare,” I whispered, avoiding his eyes. My heart was still trying to settle, and I didn’t want him to see the fear in my face. I didn’t want him to see how broken I still was.

Sunghoon leaned forward, his hands reaching out to cradle my face gently. He brushed a strand of hair away from my forehead, his touch so familiar, so tender.

“Nightmares are just that,” he said softly, his thumb grazing my skin. “They aren’t real. I’m here.”

I nodded, trying to pull myself together, but the knot in my throat wouldn’t loosen. There was something about the way he said it—so assuredly. So real. Like the past didn’t exist, like he had never been gone.

Like I hadn’t created him from fragments of grief and obsession.

He sat next to me, his arm around my shoulders as I leaned into him. The warmth of his body, the steady rise and fall of his chest, slowly calmed me. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of him—the same as it had always been.

“I’m here,” he repeated, his voice a quiet lullaby.

But somewhere deep inside, I couldn’t shake the question that had haunted me since the moment I had revived him: Who was he really? Was this truly the Sunghoon I had loved, the one who had filled my life with light? Or was this just a perfect imitation, a replica of my memories? An echo of a man who would never truly exist again?

I wanted to believe he was him. I needed to believe it.

But as he held me, his warmth seeping into my skin, I couldn’t deny the doubt that gnawed at my soul.

“Y/N?” he murmured, sensing my tension.

“Yeah?” I whispered, pulling myself closer into his arms.

He tilted my chin up, his gaze intense as he met my eyes. “I love you,” he said quietly, with such certainty that for a moment, it almost felt real—like the love we’d always shared before the accident, before everything shattered.

And in that moment, I wanted to believe it. I wanted to forget everything else, to let myself drown in the reassurance that this was him—my Sunghoon.

But the ghosts of the past still lingered in the corners of my mind.

“I love you too,” I replied softly, my voice shaky but true.

And for a few minutes, we just sat there, holding each other in the stillness of the night.

But as I closed my eyes and let the warmth of his embrace lull me back to sleep, the doubt remained.

Would I ever be able to escape the shadows of my own creation?

As the days passed, the weight of my doubts gradually lightened. Sunghoon’s presence—his warmth, his voice, the way he smiled—reminded me more and more of the man I had once loved, the man who had been taken from me.

The fear, the gnawing uncertainty that had once been constant in the back of my mind, slowly started to fade. Each moment we spent together was a little piece of normalcy returning. He didn’t just look like Sunghoon. He was Sunghoon. In every little detail—his laugh, the way he tilted his head when he was deep in thought, how he always made the coffee exactly the way I liked it. His presence was enough to reassure me that this was him, in all the ways that mattered.

We went on walks together, hand in hand, strolling through the garden I had planted the day we first moved into the house. It was filled with flowers that bloomed year-round—just like the memories I had of us, blooming and growing despite the heartbreak.

We laughed, reminiscing about everything we had shared before. Sunghoon was never afraid to be vulnerable with me, and it felt like we were picking up right where we left off. His sense of humor, always dry and sarcastic, never failed to make me smile. And slowly, I began to accept that the man who stood beside me, laughing at his own jokes, was truly my Sunghoon.

One night, as we cooked dinner together, I watched him carefully slice vegetables, his movements graceful and practiced. It was simple, domestic, but it felt like everything I had longed for since he was gone.

“Don’t forget the garlic,” I reminded him, teasing.

He shot me a look, smirking. “I remember.”

I smiled, feeling the warmth of the moment settle into my bones. This was real. The way he made sure I was comfortable in the kitchen, the way we worked together without needing words—this was our life, reborn.

The more time we spent in the house, the more at ease I became. We cooked together, watched old movies, read books side by side, and held each other as we fell asleep at night. There were no more questions in my mind. No more doubts. Just the feeling of peace settling over me, like the calm after a storm.

Sunghoon never asked me about the lab. And I never had to lie, because there was no need to. The lab had been dismantled long ago, every trace of Project ECHO erased. It was as if it never existed. My obsession, my grief—gone.

In its place was this. A second chance.

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving you, Y/N,” he said one evening as we sat on the couch, the sound of rain tapping against the windows. He held me close, his head resting against mine. “No matter what happens, no matter what changes… you’re the one for me.”

I turned to look at him, searching his eyes for something—anything—that might reveal the truth I feared. But there was nothing. Only love. Real love.

“I feel the same,” I whispered back, brushing my lips against his.

For a moment, the world outside disappeared. There was no past, no lab, no questions. There was only Sunghoon, here with me. And that was enough.

The days continued to pass in a peaceful blur of moments that I had once thought lost forever. With each sunrise, my doubts melted away, and with every touch, every kiss, I felt more certain that this was real. That he was real.

Sunghoon might not be the exact same person who had walked out of that door all those years ago—but in my heart, it didn’t matter. He was my Sunghoon, and that was all I needed.

Together, we built a life—one step at a time. And this time, I wasn’t afraid.

I wasn’t afraid of the past. I wasn’t afraid of the future.

I was just… happy.

Sunghoon’s POV

It had been a year since I came back to her, and in that time, I had slowly convinced myself that everything was okay. That what we had, what I had, was enough. That the woman I loved, the woman who had saved me—had done so much more than just revive me—wasn’t hiding any more secrets. But the past… it always had a way of creeping up, didn’t it?

I wasn’t snooping, not exactly. I was just cleaning up. I had offered to help her tidy up the office since she had been so caught up in her work lately, and well, I had nothing else to do. After all, it’s been a year now, and I’ve come to understand her more than I could ever have imagined. She’d been distant the past few days, and it made me uneasy. The kind of unease that makes you feel like there’s something you should know, but you can’t quite put your finger on it.

It was as I was sorting through the boxes in her home office—one that she hadn’t allowed me to visit much—that I found it.

A video tape.

It was tucked behind a stack of old files, half-buried in the clutter. At first, I thought nothing of it. She was always meticulous about her work, so maybe it was just an old research document, something from her past. But when I saw the words “Project ECHO – Development and Breakdown” scrawled on the side, my heart stopped. I felt a sickening knot tighten in my chest, and instinctively, my fingers curled around it.

What was this?

My thoughts raced as I fumbled with the tape, my hands trembling just slightly as I slid it into the old VCR player she kept in the corner of the office. The screen flickered to life.

There I was.

Or… the version of me that had once existed. The first one. My mind was running faster than my eyes could follow the images flashing on the screen. I saw footage of my development, from the initial growth stages to the first electrical impulses firing in my brain, as well as my physical appearance being tested and adjusted.

My stomach turned as the video documented every breakdown of my body—every failed attempt to bring me to life. I saw the wires, the artificial fluids, the machines that I had been hooked up to before I had opened my eyes, before I had woken up in that hospital room.

But it was the last part of the video that hit hardest. There, in her cold, emotionless voice, Y/N narrated her thoughts, her failed efforts, her obsession with recreating me.

“I couldn’t get it right… not the first time. But I will, because I have to. For him. For us.”

My chest tightened as the realization hit me like a brick. She had known the entire time. She had created me. I wasn’t the Sunghoon who had died. I was a version of him. A shadow of the real thing.

The screen went black, but the words echoed in my mind like an incessant drumbeat.

For him. For us.

The pain of that truth was like a knife twisting in my gut. The woman I loved had spent years trying to recreate me, to bring me back—because she couldn’t let go. She couldn’t let me go. But she never told me. She never let me in on the truth of it all.

I was a lie.

I wasn’t real. And all this time, I had been believing I was the same Sunghoon she had lost. But I wasn’t.

I could feel the tears stinging my eyes as I reached for the nearby papers, pulling them out in a frantic rage. More documents. More of my development—charts, genetic breakdowns, notes about my failed memories, and even the procedures Y/N had carried out. Every page proved it. I wasn’t just a clone; I was the culmination of her grief and desire.

The door to the office opened quietly behind me, and I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The air in the room grew thick, suffocating. I could feel her presence like a weight pressing down on me.

“Sunghoon,” she whispered, her voice barely a murmur.

I finally turned to face her. She looked pale, her eyes wide, clearly having seen the documents I had scattered across the room. She knew. She knew what I had found.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I choked out, my voice raw. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth, Y/N?”

Her eyes flickered with guilt, and for a moment, I thought she might say something—anything to explain, to apologize. But instead, she took a step back, her hands wringing together nervously.

“I didn’t want you to hate me,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I didn’t want to lose you again. I—I thought maybe if you didn’t know… maybe we could have our life back. I just wanted to have you here again, Sunghoon.”

My hands balled into fists at my sides, and I could feel the tears building in my eyes. “But I’m not him, am I? I’m not the real Sunghoon. I’m just… this.” I gestured around at the papers, at the video, at the mess that had been my life. “I’m a replica. A copy of someone who doesn’t exist anymore. How could you do this to me?”

She stepped forward, her face pale with fear, but her voice was firm. “I didn’t mean for it to go this far. I just wanted you back, Sunghoon. I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t lose you. You were taken from me so suddenly, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t live with the thought that you were gone forever.”

I looked at her, the woman who had once been everything to me—the one who I thought had rebuilt me out of love, not out of desperation.

“Do you think I’m the same person? Do you think I can just pretend that I’m the man I was before? How could you think I wouldn’t want to know the truth?” My voice cracked, emotion flooding out of me like a dam breaking. “How could you do this?”

Her face crumpled, and I saw the tears well up in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Sunghoon,” she whispered, her voice barely audible through the sobs. “I thought if I could just give you everything back, we could start over. But I was wrong. I—I should’ve told you from the beginning.”

I could feel the overwhelming ache in my chest, the confusion, the betrayal. But more than that, I felt the loss of something far deeper: trust. The trust that she had built between us was gone in an instant.

“You’re right. You should’ve told me,” I whispered, stepping back, my throat tight. “I need some space, Y/N. I can’t… I can’t do this right now.”

I turned and walked out of the room, my heart shattering with each step.

I paused at the door, the weight of her voice sinking into me like a stone. I didn’t turn around, not right away. The question lingered in the air, hanging between us, impossible to ignore.

“If I was the one who died, would you do the same?”

Her words were quiet, but they cut through the silence of the room with precision, like a knife through soft flesh. I could feel the tension in the air—the desperation in her voice, the need for an answer. She was asking me to justify her actions, to somehow make sense of everything she had done.

I clenched my fists at my sides, fighting the urge to turn and lash out. But I couldn’t do it—not when the pain of her question was a reflection of everything I was feeling.

“I… I don’t know,” I finally muttered, my voice barely a whisper. “Maybe I would. I can’t say for sure. But I don’t think I’d ever hide the truth from you. I wouldn’t keep you in the dark, pretending that everything was okay when it wasn’t.”

Her soft, broken gasp from behind me reached my ears, but I couldn’t face her—not yet. Not when the anger and hurt were still so raw.

“You don’t know what it’s like to lose someone you love that much,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “I couldn’t stand the thought of living without you, Sunghoon. I thought… maybe if I could just bring you back… we could have our future. But now, I see how selfish that was. How wrong.”

I wanted to say something—anything—to ease her pain, but the words stuck in my throat. The truth was, part of me still wanted to reach out to her, to hold her, to tell her it was going to be okay. But I wasn’t sure if that would be enough. Would it ever be enough?

“I need time, Y/N,” I said quietly, my voice cracking. “I need to think. About all of this. About us.”

The silence that followed was heavy, unbearable. And then, finally, I walked out the door, leaving her behind, standing in the wreckage of her choices—and my own shattered heart.

The days stretched on like a slow burn, each passing hour marked by the tension that filled every corner of our shared space. We were still in the same house, the same home, but it felt like we were living in different worlds now. The walls felt thicker, the silence heavier.

I moved through the house in a daze, keeping to myself more often than not. Y/N and I had an unspoken agreement—it was easier this way. She’d stay in the study or the kitchen, and I’d retreat to the room we used to share, now feeling like an alien space, void of the warmth it once held. We didn’t speak much anymore, and when we did, it was brief—polite, almost mechanical.

There were moments when I caught a glimpse of her, standing in the hallway, her head bent low, a soft frown on her face. Other times, she’d walk by without looking at me, her eyes fixed on the floor, avoiding my gaze as if she feared what might happen if she met my eyes for too long. I wanted to reach out, to say something—anything—but every time I did, the words felt inadequate, like they couldn’t possibly capture the weight of everything that had changed.

One evening, I found myself sitting in the living room, staring out the window at the moonlit garden. I could hear her footsteps in the hallway, the soft sound of her presence lingering in the air. For a moment, I thought she might come in, might sit beside me like she used to. But she didn’t. Instead, the silence stretched between us again, a reminder of the distance we had created.

I exhaled sharply, rubbing my eyes as frustration built inside me. The whole situation felt suffocating—like I was trapped between what I wanted and what had happened. I didn’t know how to fix it, or even if it could be fixed. There was so much to unravel, so many emotions to sort through. And then there was the truth—the truth of who I was now. Not just a man trying to find his way back to a life that no longer existed, but a clone—a replica of someone who once had a future, now burdened with a past he didn’t truly own.

The sound of her voice from the kitchen broke my thoughts.

“Dinner’s ready,” she called softly, her voice almost too gentle, too careful.

I hesitated for a moment, staring at the untouched glass of water on the coffee table. The empty space between us felt too vast to cross, but eventually, I stood up, making my way to the kitchen.

We sat across from each other, the dim light from the pendant lamp above casting shadows on the table. There were no small talks, no jokes exchanged like before. We ate in silence, the clinking of silverware the only sound between us. Every so often, I would look up, meeting her gaze for a fleeting second, but neither of us had the courage to speak the words that were hanging in the air.

The food was good, as always, but it didn’t taste the same. The flavor of everything felt hollow, like a memory that wasn’t quite mine.

When the meal was over, I helped clear the table, my movements stiff. The kitchen felt too small, the air too thick.

She turned to face me then, her expression unreadable, her eyes dark with something I couldn’t quite place. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, her voice barely a whisper. “For everything.”

I swallowed hard, the knot in my chest tightening. “I know you are. I… I just don’t know what to do with all of this.”

Her eyes flickered with unshed tears, and she stepped back, as though the space between us could somehow protect her from the weight of the moment. “I never wanted to hurt you, Sunghoon,” she murmured, her words full of regret. “I thought… I thought if I could just bring you back, we could have another chance. But now I see how wrong I was.”

I nodded slowly, trying to process the ache in my chest. “I don’t know how to fix this either. But I know… I know I need to understand who I am now. And what we are.” My voice trembled, but I fought it back. “I need time.”

“I understand,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “Take all the time you need.”

It felt like a farewell, and yet, we stayed in the same house. In the same life, but now it was something unrecognizable.

The next few weeks passed in the same quiet, empty rhythm. We moved around each other, living parallel lives without ever crossing paths in any meaningful way. There were mornings where I would wake up to find her sitting on the couch, staring at her phone, or nights where I’d catch her reading a book in the dim light.

Sometimes, I would linger by the door to her study, wondering if I should knock, ask her how she was feeling, but each time, I backed away, unsure if I was ready to face the answers she might give.

At night, I would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was how we were going to live—side by side but separate. I missed her. I missed us. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was just a shadow of the man she once loved, and that was a weight I wasn’t sure she could carry anymore.

One night, as I lay in the dark, unable to sleep, I heard the soft sound of her crying. The quiet sobs seeped through the walls, and my heart clenched painfully in my chest.

I wanted to go to her. Hold her. Tell her everything would be okay. But I couldn’t. I didn’t have the words anymore.

And maybe, I never would.

The night stretched on, and despite the tension that hung thick in the house, I managed to fall into an uneasy sleep. The weight of everything—our fragmented relationship, the guilt, the uncertainty—had left me exhausted, though the sleep I sought felt shallow and restless.

It was around 3 AM when I was jolted awake by the softest sound—a faint, broken sob. My eyes snapped open in the dark, my heartbeat quickening. I froze, listening carefully, the sounds of her grief pulling at something deep within me.

It was coming from the direction of her room.

At first, I told myself to ignore it. After all, she had her own space, her own pain, and I had my own to deal with. But the sound of her brokenness—quiet and desperate—was too much to ignore.

Slowly, I slid out of bed, my bare feet padding softly on the cool floor. I moved silently through the house, drawn to the soft, muffled sounds echoing through the walls. When I reached the door to her room, I paused.

She was crying, the kind of sobs that wracked her body and left her vulnerable. I hadn’t heard her cry like this before—unfiltered, raw, as if the dam inside her had finally broken.

The light from her bedside lamp flickered weakly, casting long shadows on the walls. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her head buried in her hands, the tears falling freely, like they couldn’t be held back anymore.

I stood there, frozen, my chest tightening at the sight. My first instinct was to rush to her side, to pull her into my arms and whisper that everything would be alright. But I didn’t. I just watched from the doorway, a spectator in my own home.

The sound of her pain made me feel powerless, as if I were too far gone—too far removed from who I once was to even be the man she needed. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came. The silence between us felt like an unspoken agreement, a distance neither of us knew how to cross.

And then she spoke.

“I’m sorry… Sunghoon,” she whispered to the empty room, the words slipping from her like a confession she hadn’t meant to make. “I thought I could fix it. I thought… if I could just bring you back, we could be happy again. But I don’t know what I’ve done anymore. I don’t know who you are. Or if you’re even really you.”

Her voice cracked at the end, and I could hear the weight of her regret, the guilt, the fear of everything she’d done.

The flood of emotions hit me all at once—anger, sadness, confusion—and yet, there was something else, too. The overwhelming desire to reach out to her. To show her that I understood, that I knew how hard this was for her.

But still, I stayed frozen. Silent. The words that had once flowed so easily between us now felt like strangers.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, but it didn’t stop the tears.

“I was selfish,” she muttered to herself, her voice barely audible now. “I couldn’t let go. I wanted you back, no matter the cost. And now… I don’t know if you can ever forgive me.”

That was when the weight of it all hit me fully—the pain she had been carrying, the burden she had placed on herself. The fear she had been living with, not knowing if I could ever truly forgive her for bringing me back.

I stepped forward then, unable to watch her fall apart without doing something.

“Y/N,” I said quietly, my voice hoarse, betraying the emotions I had kept bottled up for so long.

She immediately stiffened, her breath hitching as she quickly wiped her face, trying to pull herself together. “You’re awake,” she said, her voice faltering. “I didn’t mean for you to—”

“I heard you,” I interrupted, taking a few steps into the room. “And I’m not angry with you.”

She looked at me, her eyes filled with so much sadness, it was almost more than I could bear. “But I did this to you,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I brought you back, Sunghoon. And I don’t know if you even want to be here. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t ask to be—” She stopped, her breath shaky, as if even speaking the words caused her pain.

I knelt in front of her, my heart aching as I reached for her hands, gently pulling them from her face. “Y/N…” I said softly. “I am here. I’m here because I want to be.”

“But what if I’ve ruined everything?” she whispered. “What if I can never make it right?”

I shook my head, cupping her face in my hands as I looked into her eyes, searching for some glimmer of hope in her. “You didn’t ruin anything. You did what you thought was best… even if it was wrong. And I understand that. But we can’t live like this, hiding from each other. We need to talk. We need to be honest.”

She nodded slowly, tears still slipping down her cheeks. “But can we ever go back to what we were?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, filled with a quiet desperation.

I swallowed, my own emotions threatening to spill over. “I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice thick. “But I want to try. I want to figure it out. Together.”

There was a long pause, and then, slowly, she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against mine, her tears falling onto my skin. I closed my eyes, letting the weight of everything settle in.

In that moment, I realized that maybe there wasn’t a way back to what we once had—but that didn’t mean we couldn’t find something new. Something different. Something real.

And I was willing to fight for it.

I held her closer, whispering against her hair. “We’ll find our way. Together. One step at a time.”

The silence between us stretched out, thick with the unspoken words, the weight of everything we had been through. Her breath was shaky against my skin, and I could feel the warmth of her body pressed against mine, like she was finally letting herself soften, letting me in again.

I wanted to say more, to fix everything, but the words weren’t coming. I could only focus on the rhythm of her breath, how the vulnerability in her touch made everything seem both fragile and precious.

And then, almost instinctively, I pulled back just slightly, my hands still cupping her face, fingers brushing softly over the damp skin of her cheeks. I searched her eyes for something, anything—some flicker of permission, of trust.

The question formed in my chest before I even realized it, and before I could second-guess myself, it slipped from my mouth, quiet and uncertain but earnest.

“Can I kiss you?”

The words were soft, tentative, as if I wasn’t sure she would say yes, as if I wasn’t sure I even had the right to ask anymore. But something in me needed to hear it—to know if we could bridge that last distance between us, if the gulf of everything we had been through could be closed with something as simple as a kiss.

Her gaze locked onto mine, and for a moment, everything went still. She didn’t say anything. There was only the quiet sound of her breathing, the rise and fall of her chest under my palms. The world outside the room felt distant, irrelevant. It was just us now, alone in this fragile moment.

I waited. She could say no. She could push me away. But I needed to know where we stood.

And then, slowly, her eyes softened. She gave a slight nod, her lips trembling as if the simple motion of it took all her strength.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but it was there. It was all I needed to hear.

Before I could even think, my hands moved to her shoulders, pulling her gently closer. I closed the distance between us, hesitating only for a brief second, just enough to feel the weight of the moment.

And then I kissed her.

It wasn’t the kiss I had imagined—the wild, desperate kiss of two people who couldn’t control themselves. No, this one was different. It was slow, careful, tentative, like we were both afraid to break something that had just begun to heal. My lips brushed against hers, soft and uncertain, as if I were asking for permission again with every gentle touch.

She responded after a moment, her hands finding their way to my chest, clutching at me like she was trying to ground herself in the kiss, in the connection we were rebuilding. I could feel her hesitation, but I could also feel the warmth, the pull, the quiet promise in the way she kissed me back.

The kiss deepened slowly, our movements syncing, building, and for the first time in so long, I felt something stir inside me that had been dormant—hope. A fragile, trembling hope that maybe, just maybe, we could find our way back to each other. That maybe this was the first step in learning to trust again.

When we finally pulled away, neither of us spoke for a moment. We just stayed there, foreheads pressed together, our breaths mingling in the stillness. I could feel her heart beating against my chest, a steady rhythm that told me she was here. She was still here with me.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice small, but it wasn’t the apology I had been expecting. It wasn’t guilt or regret. It was a quiet understanding. A promise, maybe.

“I know,” I whispered back, brushing my thumb over her cheek, wiping away the last remnants of her tears. “We’re going to be okay.”

And for the first time in so long, I actually believed it.

The air between us was thick with the weight of everything unspoken, but in that moment, there was only the soft brush of our lips, the warmth of our bodies pressed together, and the undeniable pull that had always been there. We moved slowly, cautiously, like we were both afraid of shattering something fragile that had just begun to heal.

The kiss deepened, an unspoken question lingering in the space between us. I could feel her heartbeat against my chest, fast and erratic, matching mine. It was as if we both understood that this was more than just a kiss—it was a reclaiming, a restoration of something that had been lost for far too long.

I gently cupped her face, tilting her head slightly, deepening the kiss as my hands found their way down her back, pulling her closer, as if I couldn’t get enough of her, couldn’t get close enough. Her fingers slid up to my chest, tracing the lines of my shirt before pushing it off, the fabric slipping to the floor without a second thought.

There was no more hesitation, no more doubt. Just the raw connection between us that had always been there, waiting to be unlocked.

She responded with the same urgency, hands moving over my body, finding the familiar places, the marks that made me me. I could feel the heat of her skin, the way her breath caught when we came closer, when I kissed her neck, her jaw, her lips. The taste of her was like everything I’d been missing, the feeling of her so real, so tangible, that for a moment, it was hard to believe she was really here. Really with me.

Our movements grew more urgent, more desperate, but still tender, as if we were both trying to savor this moment, unsure of what tomorrow might bring, but desperate to make up for the lost time. I wanted to show her everything, all the ways I loved her, all the ways I had missed her without even knowing how much.

The world outside the room disappeared. There was no lab, no documents, no research, no mistakes. Just us—finding our way back to each other, piece by piece. I held her close, kissed her as if I could never let her go, and when the moment finally came, when we both reached that point of release, it wasn’t just about the physicality. It was about trust, about healing, about starting over.

When we collapsed against each other afterward, breathless and tangled in sheets, I felt something shift inside me. Something I hadn’t realized was broken until it started to mend.

Her hand found mine, fingers lacing together, and she rested her head on my chest, her breath slowing, and for the first time in so long, I felt peace. A peace I hadn’t known I needed.

And in the quiet of the room, with her beside me, I whispered softly, “I’ll never let you go again.”

She didn’t answer right away, but I felt the way she squeezed my hand tighter, her chest rising and falling against mine. She didn’t need to say anything. I could feel it in the way she held me.

And for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to believe that we could truly begin again.

The quiet stillness of the room enveloped us, the soft sound of our breathing the only thing that filled the space. I held her, tracing the curve of her back with my fingers, savoring the moment as though it might slip away if I wasn’t careful. The weight of everything—the doubts, the fears, the mistakes—was still there, lingering in the shadows of my mind, but for once, I didn’t feel like I had to carry them alone.

She shifted slightly, raising her head to meet my gaze. There was a softness in her eyes now, the guarded walls that had once stood so tall between us slowly crumbling. I could see the vulnerability there, but also the strength that had always been her anchor.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but it carried all the weight of everything she’d been carrying inside. “I never meant to hurt you.”

I brushed a strand of hair away from her face, my fingers lingering against her skin. “I know,” I murmured, my voice thick with emotion. “I know. But we’re here now. We’ll figure this out. Together.”

She nodded, her eyes closing for a moment as if gathering herself. The air between us was charged with unspoken words, and I could feel the weight of the past year pressing down on us. But there was something different now—something that had shifted between us, something I hadn’t felt in so long.

Her lips found mine again, soft and gentle, a kiss that spoke volumes more than words ever could. It was an apology, a promise, a plea all rolled into one. And for the first time in so long, I allowed myself to believe in it fully.

When we finally pulled away, her forehead rested against mine, both of us still tangled in the sheets, the world outside feeling miles away. I could hear the distant hum of the city, the night stretching out before us like a quiet, unspoken promise.

“I love you,” I whispered, the words escaping before I could even think about them. But it felt right. It felt real.

She smiled, her fingers brushing against my cheek. “I love you, too. I never stopped.”

And in that moment, I knew. No matter the struggles we’d faced, no matter the secrets, the pain, or the mistakes, we were still here. Still us. And as long as we could keep finding our way back to each other, everything else would be okay.

We stayed there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside fading into nothingness. In the quiet, there was only peace. The peace of knowing that, together, we could face whatever came next.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I finally let go of the fear that had kept me tethered to the past. Because with her by my side, I knew we could build a future. A real future. And nothing, nothing at all could take that away from us.

As the days passed, something began to shift between us. It was subtle at first, small gestures of kindness, moments of vulnerability that had been buried under the weight of secrets and doubts. But as we spent more time together, the trust that had once been strained slowly started to blossom again, like a fragile flower daring to bloom in the cracks of the world we had rebuilt.

Every morning, Sunghoon would make me coffee, just the way I liked it—strong, a little bitter, with just a hint of sweetness. It became our small ritual, something to ground us, to remind us that we were still learning, still growing. And every evening, we’d find ourselves lost in the quiet comfort of one another’s presence. Sometimes we didn’t say much, just the familiar silence that had always existed between us, but now it felt different. It felt safe.

One night, as we sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket together, he turned to me, his expression soft. “I’ve been thinking about everything. About what you did…and why. I don’t want to just forgive you. I want to understand. I want us to really move forward.”

I smiled, the warmth in his voice soothing the lingering worries in my chest. “We will,” I whispered, “We’re already on the way.”

Sunghoon gave me a small, genuine smile, his fingers lightly brushing over mine. It was a touch so simple, yet it carried all the weight of the world. I had feared this moment—the moment when the cracks would be too deep to heal—but instead, I felt something stronger than before. Something more real.

As the weeks went on, we found ourselves sharing more than just physical space. We started talking about the future—what we wanted, where we saw ourselves. There was no more fear of the unknown between us. Instead, there was excitement. There was trust, slowly but surely, weaving its way back into our lives.

I could see it in the way Sunghoon would ask about my day, genuinely interested, and how I would lean into him when I needed comfort, no longer second-guessing whether I deserved it. Our conversations had depth now, unafraid of the things we once kept hidden. We didn’t pretend anymore. We didn’t have to.

One evening, while we were cooking dinner together, Sunghoon turned to me with a teasing smile. “You’ve improved. Your cooking’s actually…not terrible.”

I laughed, playfully shoving him. “Hey, I’ve gotten better!”

He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me into his chest. “I’m proud of you.”

I could feel the sincerity in his words, the love that had grown back between us like something tangible. The fear and doubt that had once plagued me were nowhere to be found now. In their place was a quiet certainty.

We weren’t perfect. We still had our moments of miscommunication, of moments when the past reared its head, but with each day, the trust between us grew stronger. It wasn’t about erasing the mistakes we’d made. It was about learning from them and choosing to move forward together, no matter what.

And as I looked into Sunghoon’s eyes, I saw the same thing reflected back at me—the understanding, the acceptance, the desire to never give up on us.

In that moment, I knew that trust wasn’t just something that had to be given freely—it had to be earned. And we were earning it every day. Slowly, but surely, we were becoming something new, something even more beautiful than before. Something that could withstand anything life threw at us.

And for the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to believe in the future again.

In us.

Life had felt like it was finally settling into a quiet rhythm, like the calm after a storm. Sunghoon and I had been living together in peace for the past year, our bond mended from the cracks of the past. The tension had faded, leaving room for love, laughter, and domestic moments that felt so normal and reassuring. We’d shared so many firsts again—first trips, first lazy weekends in bed, first home-cooked meals. Everything felt right. Almost.

It was during one of these peaceful afternoons that I made a discovery. I was cleaning out the attic of our home, something I’d been meaning to do for months, when I came across an old box. It was tucked away in the corner behind some old furniture, covered in dust and cobwebs. The box was unassuming, wooden with a faded label that simply read, “Don’t Open.”

Curiosity got the best of me. I knew it was probably something from my past, but that label tugged at something deep inside me, urging me to open it. I hesitated for a moment, but then, with a deep breath, I lifted the lid. Inside, I found an old video tape. It was yellowed and cracked with age, but there was no mistaking the handwriting on the label: “For Y/N.”

My heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t like me to leave things unexamined, especially if they seemed tied to my past. But this felt different. There was an unspoken warning in those words. Still, I couldn’t resist.

I brought the tape downstairs and found the old VCR player we kept for nostalgia’s sake. Sunghoon was in the living room, reading a book. I hesitated for a moment before calling him over.

“Sunghoon, you have to see this,” I said, holding up the tape. “I found something in the attic…”

He looked at me curiously, putting the book down. “What is it?”

I popped the tape into the player, and the screen flickered to life. At first, there was nothing—just static. But then, the image cleared, and I saw him.

The figure of a man in a lab coat appeared. His features were unmistakable—he was Park Sunghoon, the real Sunghoon, the one who had died in the accident years ago. But this Sunghoon wasn’t the one Y/N knew now. He looked younger, more fragile, and tears stained his face.

“I… I don’t know how to start this,” the Sunghoon on the screen murmured, his voice choked with emotion. “Y/N… is gone. She passed away. Leukemia. It was sudden. I—I couldn’t do anything. She was everything to me. And I… I can’t bear it.”

Y/N’s breath hitched. She glanced at Sunghoon, whose face had gone pale. He looked at the screen, wide-eyed, his expression unreadable.

“In my grief, I’ve decided to do something I never thought I would. I’m using her preserved DNA, the samples we took when we were researching regenerative cloning… to bring her back. I—I have to do this. I can’t live with the pain of losing her,” the real Sunghoon continued, his voice trembling.

The video cut to a series of clips from the lab: footage of the real Sunghoon working late nights, mixing chemicals, monitoring equipment, and seemingly obsessed with recreating Y/N.

“I’ve used everything we learned in our research. I’ll make her whole again,” the video continued. “But this is for me, I know. For us. I want to have a second chance. A chance to make things right. If you’re watching this, Y/N… then I’ve succeeded. I’ve recreated you.”

The video ended abruptly, and the screen turned to static.

It was strange, to know the truth about their origins—about the fact that their love had been recreated, in a sense, by science and heartache. But as Y/N lay in Sunghoon’s arms that night, she couldn’t shake the feeling that none of it truly mattered. What mattered was that they were together now. They had both fought for this. They had both fought for each other. And nothing in this world could take that away from them.

Their love had brought them to this point—not fate, not science, but love. It was a love that transcended life and death, pain and loss. A love that, no matter what had come before, had always been destined to endure.

They had started as two broken souls, unable to move forward without the other. But now, they were whole again. Their love, their memories—no matter how they came to be—were theirs to cherish.

And that, in the end, was all that mattered.

The rest, the science, the questions of whether they were real or not, faded into the background. Because, in the end, they were real. Their love was real. And that was all they needed to know.

taglist: @raavenarmy-blog @maewphoria @limerenceisserenity @honey-bunnysweet @crispysharkwizard @semi-wife @beomgyus11 @bambisnc @feymine @yujinxue @xoxorara @cyjhhyj

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p1astr81 · 12 hours ago

Note

Hi! I saw you were open for requests and I was wondering if you would be willing to do one for Oscar Piastri? Something along the lines of Oscar finds driver!reader in the McLaren Garage going over race footage late at night and he comforts her because she’s under pressure as the first Female driver? Sorry if it’s a little wordy 😂 and thank you if you write it!

an: I hope this is what you were looking for🙈

warnings: use of y/n, underlying themes of misogyny

Oscar forgot his phone at the track, two hours after he had already returned to his hotel.

Fine, whatever, he’d get it in the morning.

Except he needed it to set his alarms.

So, showered and ready for bed, he drove back to the track and snuck into the paddock. He took the back entrance to the garage, pausing when he saw a faint glow in the space on your side of the garage.

Strange, the lights and computers were usually shut off at night. Perhaps someone forgot one?

Or, perhaps not, because a voice cut through the still silence. “Where is he getting four tenths?” It was undeniably your voice that was filled with frustration.

You were bent over the computer, comparing your qualifying lap with Oscar’s. Your hair was a mess, your hands having run through it and grasped it in your fists more times than you could attempt to count.

As he got closer, he could see your distressed state. He could see how tension seized your body, and paralyzed it to the outside eye. The darkening circles under your eyes. The exhaustion weighing on your body.

Too engrossed by whatever was displayed on the computer, you hadn’t noticed he was there until you felt his hand on your back. You jumped, fists readying for a fight until you realized it was only Oscar. He held his hands up in surrender. “Hey.” He spoke with a soft laugh. “Just me.”

It had only been seven short weekends—and 5 months that flew by like minutes—that the two of you have spent as teammates. But Oscar was a guy who was easy to get along with. Everything about him (apart from his initial intimidating demeanor) was a big welcome sign.

Every muscle in your body relaxed. “I thought you’d gone back to the hotel awhile ago?” You questioned, diverting the conversation before he can question you about your whereabouts.

“I came back for my phone.” He paused. “What are you still doing here?” He raised a brow.

You adverted your eyes, studying the data in front of you instead. You shrugged. “Trying to figure out where my pace has gone.” He could hear everything in your voice—the disappointment, anxiety, doubt.

Oscar frowned then reached across you to take the cursor in his hand. He closed the tabs.

“Hey-! I was looking at that!”

“It’s not going to help you any tomorrow. You’re better off reviewing it after the race.” He sighed.

You shook your head. “Oh, ha ha.” You laughed sarcastically. “I get it, you’re trying to throw me off to get an advantage.”

“No, im trying to help you.”

“I’m not buying it.”

“Y/n, just listen to me.” He huffed. “I get it. It’s a lot of pressure and you feel like you have to be incredible right away, but you’re going to destroy yourself thinking like that.”

Your laugh was void of humor. “How am I supposed to not think like that? I don’t have a 5 year contract like you.” You shook your head. “One year. That’s all I get.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I overheard Zak and Andrea talking. They see potential in you. They want to extend your contract.” Your demeanor shifted. Hope lightened your body.

But it was a lie. He didn’t intend to make a habit of it, and he was sure they would sign you again. He just wanted to give you some confidence. “So will you just come back to the hotel with me?” He was exhausted himself, desperate to get to sleep, but he wouldn’t leave until you did.

He saw the hesitation cross your features before you gave in, shutting the computer off. “Do you mind giving me a ride? I don’t-“

“Yeah.” He answered without a question about it.

You offered a small smile and muttered a, “Thanks.”

Oscar thought that was the end of it. Boy, was he wrong.

This time, he caught you still in the meeting room, two hours after the post-race debrief had ended. He stood in the doorway for a moment, observing you. Routinely, your eyelids fluttered closed before snapping back open.

Until they didn’t, and you let your eyelids close. Your head—previously held up by your hand—slid from its spot. The drop of it woke you up with a start.

“If you’re tired, you should probably head out.” He said, making himself known while stepping into the room. He closed the door behind him.

“Can’t. I have to figure out how to beat you.” You deadpanned.

Oscar chuckled, taking the seat next to you. You glanced at him from the corner of your eyes before rubbing the sleep from them. “That’s where your problem starts. Focus on winning, not beating me.”

You put your head in your hands. “Same thing.” You grumbled.

“Except it’s not-“

“I’m not in the mood for another one of your lectures.” You snapped.

Oscar sat in stunned silence. You’d never lost your temper. It was a strange sight to see. But he didn’t blame you for it. He could see the tension in your stiff shoulders and the frustration in your unkept hair. The pressure was still getting to you. He didn’t offer any more words. Just a hug.

You froze, unsure of what to do or say.

Until the comfort of his embrace broke down your carefully constructed walls built around your emotions. You wrapped your arms around him, burying your head in the curve of his neck.

He just held you, offering his warmth to comfort you. “I wish I was a man. It would be so much easier. Less eyes. Less questions. Less speculation.” You mumbled. “Less people telling me I can’t do it.”

His hand rubbed your back. And all the frustration, it just broke. You shoved his chest as soon as you felt the first tear slip and turned your face away from him. Still, he rubbed your back. “I- I think I got something in my eye.” You rushed out the excuse. Anything to not seem weak.

He chuckled. A sound that wasn’t meant to be cruel but you interpreted as. You stood, distancing yourself. “You don’t have to lie, it’s okay to cry.”

“I’m not crying.” You defended too quickly.

He called your name in that kind voice of his. The one that felt like a warm hug on a cold winter’s day. The one you couldn’t not turn around for.

You took in his gaze, understanding with an undercurrent of pity. “I’m just so frustrated.” You confessed in whispers. “I know I’m good, but the results aren’t showing it.”

He stepped closer, his hand finding your arm. “They are.” He reassured. “You’re just stuck up here.” He tapped your head with a small smile. “And thinking too much about what other people think.” He added.

You bit the inside of your cheek. You hated to admit he was right, but you nodded.

He initiated the hug this time and you reciprocated, resting your head on his shoulder.

#f1 #formula 1 #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 blurb #f1 fluff #f1 x you #op81 #f1 angst #oscar piastri x fem!reader #oscar piastri angst #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri one shot #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri blurb

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venusbyline · 1 day ago

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Continuing on that competence kink I was mentioning on my blog, it's my personal headcanon that Aemond would get so hot watching his partner be physically violent. Hurting someone, or torturing someone, committing war crimes... (I mean, the way he looks at Daemon after he's murdered Vaemond- HELLO THAT MAN GETS OFF ON VIOLENCE AND BLOOD)

tbh I never knew about competence kink until that post of yours, but when I saw it... everything makes sense 🤭🤭 I wanna join him in his freakiness

btw, I wrote this two days ago but I forgot to post it 😭😭

⚠️: SMUT & DARK CONTENT. female!reader, dom!Aemond Targaryen, Targcest (twin brother/twin sister), competence kink, blood kink, blood licking, missionary position, non-graphic violence, implied Alys Rivers.

— high valyrian words used: Idaña (twin), Issa (yes).

There had always been something wrong with both of you.

Aemond noticed this when you were still children. He knew how angry you got when his bastard nephews teased him along with Aegon, he saw how you glared at Lucerys when the little boy gouged out one of your twin brother's eyes, just as he heard you mutter something about Rhaenyra deserving that scar on her arm after all that fight at Driftmark.

Your violent thoughts were just thoughts back then, but Aemond was not stupid. Despite trying to be a kind loving child, over time Aemond came to understand a little better what you felt.

He always liked your way of being, though. Sometimes he had lectured you if you expressed it around someone you should not, especially someone as prude as your mother. However, deep down Aemond liked to hear everything you had to say.

Alicent was furious when Aemond was younger and he went to talk to her about letting you start training with him and Ser Criston, after Aegon stopped being interested about swords. For the Queen, it was absurd for a girl to want to practice something like that, you were born to marry some lord and carry children, making more necessary alliances for the Greens when the right time came. After so much insistence from Aemond and even Ser Criston, who promised to your mother that no one but them would know that you were doing such a masculine activity, Alicent finally gave up on putting some sense into your mind.

Now, a few years later, you had proven a great worth to Aemond when you marched with him and Criston Cole to Harrenhal. Your dragon might be smaller than Vhagar, but you were willing to do anything he ordered during that war. After all, the two of you were twins and freak like each other.

Aemond felt horny watching you slit the throats of the men of the castle, your frustration at Simon Strong’s loyalty to the Blacks matching your twin's anger at the situation. The two of you were covered in blood as he sipped some wine with Ser Criston, because of Aemond's refusal to order the random woman with long black hair — the one whose life he spared, so he could keep as a servant — to draw you a bath yet...

Aemond wanted to see you like this for a little longer… Your silver hair was drenched in red drops, both a scarlet shade and a darker shade. You had killed so many people that the stains were a mess caused by other people's arterial and venous blood.

Ever since the entire family witnessed Daemon kill Vaemond Velaryon in front of everyone, the Prince Regent had been jerking off picturing what it would be like to see you committing all sorts of atrocities possible.

"Cole, leave me and my sister alone now." He ordered the knight, who nodded and left, taking the brunette servant with him.

"Feeling good, idaña?" Aemond teased, staring at you moaned with each deep thrust, the sounds of slapping skins echoing through the dark room.

You nodded, biting your lower lip at the feeling of your brother's cock sliding in and out of your warm cunt. He had already deflowered you many years ago, but nothing like that night. Aemond had never been so aroused and you had never been so tight before. "Mmm, issa..."

"Issa?" A low, husky chuckle rumbled from his chest, mocking your whining tone before he leaned down to nibble your neck, licking at the blood that dried there, the metallic, bitter taste making him growl and speed up the thrusts pace further. "Fuck... Your little cunt feels so fucking tight right now, sister. Such a freak thing, are not you? Just like me."

There was no need for a verbal response, though. Aemond had always known the truth. You were the only girl who matched the freak inside him.

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toomanystoriessolittletime · 2 days ago

Text

Wouldn't it be nice

Part four

Summary: A dinner at your place leaves you and Harry talk through things before... things heat up.

Pairing: Harry Castillo x fem. reader

Rating: T

Wordcount: 2.3k

Warnings: (for this chapter; check overall warnings for this series in the Masterlist ) dinner date, food, talking, idiots in love, some making out, feelings, fluff

follow @toomanystoriessolittletime-fics and turn on notifications to get notified when I post new fics

Main Masterlist // Harry Castillo Masterlist // Wouldn’t it be nice Masterlist

Emily was so exhausted from her day at the daycare, that she went to bed without much fuss. You made her a quick dinner (spinach omelette, she’s big on breakfast foods for dinner), gave her a quick bath and it didn’t even take a whole story for you to read to have her asleep in her little pink bed.

Closing the curtains before you got out of her room you quietly closed her door after making sure her night light was on.

Outside of her room you leaned against the door, sighing, your shoulders dropping.

A quick look at the clock told you that Harry would be here in the next 45 minutes.

You used the time you got home after work to tidy a little, Emily being a big help with filling your new bookcase with all the books you had shipped here from home.

It was a small apartment.

A small that hallway only had four doors.

Emily’s room.

The bathroom.

The living room with a small open kitchen.

And your room.

The room you were standing in in now, trying to decide what to wear. Which was…. Stupid. Harry pretty much had seen (and touched and licked) every inch of you. Well before you had a baby. But… you wanted to look pretty.

Hearing that he fell in love with you did something to you.

This man, who could have everything and everyone he wanted, he fell in love with you. But that was three years ago. And he fell for a version of you that wasn’t real. You looked at your face in the mirror, small lines around the corners of your eyes that hadn’t been there before.

You looked different, older.

Exhausted.

Could he really love you?

Shaking your head you took a deep breath before you pulled one of your favourite sweater dresses over your head. Giving yourself one last look in the mirror you walked out of you room, closing the door behind yourself.

You walked into the small kitchen, putting the dishes from the small dinner you had thrown together for Emily into the dishwasher before you wiped down the counters. It almost looked homey.

Lighting one of the big scented candles you had indulged on before you moved you hummed to yourself. You didn’t have a dining table or area. There were four chairs at the kitchen island that separated kitchen from living space, so this would have to do.

Would that be okay?

He was probably used to a different setting. You wondered how Harry lived.

Did he have a townhouse? One of those brownstones you saw on sex and the city?

Or was he more of a apartment type of guy? A penthouse maybe?

You never really thought about it.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a notification on your phone.

Harry texted you he was here.

Suddenly your nerves were back. Your fingers brushing down the fabric of your dress after you buzzed him in.

This was Harry.

Harry, who loved to talk about how he grew up outside of Washington.

Harry, who watched Pride and Prejudice with you at 2 am in a dark hotel room in literal paradise while he held you in his arms.

Harry, who had kissed you in a way you have never been kissed before or after him.

There was a knock on the door and you took a deep breath before your hand reached for the door handle, twisting it to open it.

And there he was.

„You’re nervous,“ Harry had put his phone on speaker as he stood in the big walk in closet of his penthouse. He had prepared everything.

He had ordered food (he ordered at Rezdôra, who usually did not do take away but dropping his name had helped) that he would pick up on his way.

He had ordered flowers (red peonies for you, daisies for Emily) that were already waiting downstairs with his doorman if the notification on his phone was correct.

All he had to do now was get dressed and be on his way.

„Fuck yes I’m nervous. It’s not everyday that you get to have dinner with the woman you fell in love with on an island, only to not see her for three years, and when you do you find out she had your baby and all without you knowing,“ he said, gripping the bridge of his nose.

He heard his sister sigh on the other end of the line.

„Just put some jeans and a sweater on and be on your way,“ she said and Harry rolled his eyes.

„Very helpful, thank you,“ he grumbled and Sarah laughed.

„That’s what I am. Helpful. But in all seriousness. Just use tonight to talk. I know you’re halfway on your way to buy a ring for her, but keep in mind that there is a little girl that probably has no idea who you are. Even if she’s as smitten with you as you are with her, it’ll take time,“ she reminded him gently while he put his sweater on.

„I know,“ he said with a sigh. He reached for his watch, slipping it over his wrist.

„Just… relax. Have a dinner. Get reacquainted with each other and… use protection,“ she added and he shook his head with a laugh.

„Remind me to be just as helpful as you are right now when you meet someone,“ he picked his phone up, taking one last look at himself in the mirror, before he walked out towards the elevator that would take him down to his car.

„I would, but I will never date anyone ever again, so I’m good,“ she teased back.

„Yeah, Yeah,“ he shook his head, putting his coat on.

„Good luck big brother,“ she said softly and he found himself smiling as the elevator opened and he stepped in.

„Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow,“ and with that he ended the call.

Driving through New York City would never be one of his favourite things, but he didn’t want anyone to know about you yet, so he chose to drive himself instead of calling his driver. With the Flowers and the food he had picked up from the restaurant he drove through the traffic of this city, before his navigation finally told him that he reached his destination.

After finding a parking space he got out of the car, looking up at the old building.

Not the best neighbourhood, but also not the worst. He got the food and the flowers out of the car and made his way towards the house. Texting you when he was at the door he only had to wait for a minute before he was buzzed in.

He took note of the very secure front door, as he made his way inside, taking the stairs up to the second floor where your apartment was.

You were there, just behind the door.

You, who knew a side of him he hadn’t shown anyone in a long time.

You, who fed him all the green M&M’s because he insisted they were his favourite.

You, who made a small noise every time he kissed you that he was still dreaming about.

When he finally was in front of your door he took a deep breath before he raised his hand to knock, a big smile sneaking to his face when you opened.

The flower arrangement he brought was so big it almost didn’t fit on your coffee table.

Beautiful big red carnations sat on your table, and a smaller arrangement of daisies just for Emily that she would get tomorrow. That he even thought of getting her flowers too…

He insisted on serving the dinner he brought, so he asked you where everything was and made you sit at the kitchen island, where you were currently watching him, his back towards you as he plated the food he brought. Your head was resting on your hand was you watched him, your brain still processing that he was really here.

In your apartment.

„I remember you liked pasta, so I hope this is okay,“ he said, looking at you over his shoulder. You just nodded. He turned around and reached for the bottle of wine he had brought, opening it with expert hands. You didn’t have wine glasses yet, so he winked at you when he filled your mismatched mugs with red wine.

„More than okay,“ you said and he smiled before handing you first a mug of wine, and then sat down a beautiful plated portion of pasta in front of you.

He rounded the small island and sat down next to you with his own plate.

„Thank you, for this,“ you said and he angled his body towards you so he could look at you.

He was so close, and for the fist time in three years you smelled it, his scent. The aftershave you had forgotten the name of familiar to you.

His eyes were lingering on your lips before he looked up into your eyes again.

„We should eat,“ he whispered and for a moment you were disappointed, wondering if he wanted to say something different instead. So you smiled.

„It smells delicious,“ you said as you picked up your fork.

You talked throughout dinner.

About everything and nothing and it was as if no time had passed at all. It was just like you were back in those four walls of your hotel room. The awkwardness was gone as you updated each other about what had happened in your life in the last couple of years.

The bottle of wine was almost empty when you made your way to the couch, wanting to be more comfortable.

„I think,“ he said after you sat down, „that if you had kept my number after you left, we would have made it work.“

„You think?“ You whispered and he nodded.

„You would have moved to the middle of nowhere if I had asked you?“ You asked him and he nodded.

„I would have. I only wanted to be with you. I have… I have never felt so… intensely for someone that I did, I do, for you,“ he confessed and you lips parted as you took a breath.

„But the version of me you fell in love with… I don’t know if she was real,“ you said and he frowned.

„What do you mean?“

„I mean… The confident woman that just took what she wanted, that didn’t think about tomorrow, that’s not me. I am an over thinker, I am a perfectionist and a control freak. I am so much more complicated than the version you met…“ you shook your head.

Harry just kept looking at you before he took your hand.

„The woman I met and fell in love with, is the woman who talked in her sleep. It’s the woman who made sure that the room was tidied up so housekeeping didn’t have to much to do. It’s the woman who made sure to ask if their was garlic in every single meal we had because I told her that I was allergic. We spent days together. I know you. And I love you,“ he said and you just looked at him, speechless.

And before you could talk yourself out of it you crossed the distance between the two of you and kissed him. Your arms wrapping around his neck and he wasted no time, pulling you towards him, onto his lap as he deepened the kiss, one of his hands on the back of your neck.

You sighed against his lips and he groaned, lips moving against yours, his tongue slipping against your lips until you parted them for him. Your hands were in his hair, your eyes closed as you allowed yourself to let go. To melt against this man you had spent three years secretly yearning for.

Slowly, his hand ran down your back, pulling you even closer and you moaned when you felt him beneath you, his cock getting hard.

„Oh fuck," you gasped, parting from his lips and he wasted no time kissing himself down your throat as you crossed your arms behind his neck.

„Fuck, that smell. I missed that smell,“ his nose ran over your throat as he took a deep breath. You pulled his head back up, kissing him again, unintentionally moving on top of him and he groaned against your lips.

„Shit. We gotta.. Fuck I can’t believe I’m saying this, we gotta stop,“ he said and you parted form his lips. You both looked at each other, lips kiss swollen, his hair a mess from the way you had been running your hands though it.

He never looked better.

„You’re… you’re right. This… We can’t. I’m so…“ you mumbled, suddenly embarrassed but he kissed you again, stopping you.

„We need to stop because I don’t wanna fuck you like this. I wanna take my time. And I want to know where we stand. Cause I don’t think I’ll be able to let go of you ever again if we continue this,“ he said and your shoulders fell.

He wrapped both of his arms around you and let himself slowly lean against the couch, taking you with him, your head resting on his chest.

You just laid there like this, enjoying the silence that was never uncomfortable.

He cleared his throat after a while.

„Tell me about her,“ he whispered and you smiled before you began to tell him about his daughter.

#my fic #Harry Castillo #Harry Castillo x fem. reader #Pedro Pascal #fanfiction #fanfic #fan fiction #pedro pascal characters

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eraserbread · 18 hours ago

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ugh that ex husband gojo fic HURT but i loved it sm,, do u think u can write ex husband gojo AGAIN but even after the divorce he's still so in love w/ u? thank uuu!!

the ex husband gojo in question ✧

→ f!reader, angst... mostly angst

sure, gojo took it well, but at the beginning, he was a mess.

it was fleeting at first—you two had only been married for five years before it all got too much. but five years in the grand scheme of things was a long time. he was your twenties personified—a walking shell of your old self—but he was just too distant.

your marriage wasn't a marriage. there was no partnership, gojo is married to a job he can't even tell you about.

so those first few weeks without you were hell. you're the one who finally did it in after moving out, sending him a classified bundle of papers to his address at jujutsu high. then, you hit no contact. you left him in the dust.

must be nice, pretending like he never existed. gojo died that night, standing alone in the manufactured shell of your love.

that big-ass apartment in the city he doesn't even live in—he leased it for you—your love that you could decorate to the sound of his voice. right now, it's an expensive thorn in his pocket.

and he's only here because half of his wardrobe is here. It's sad how bad he is at doing his own laundry. it's the first time he needs to be on top of it in over ten years. luckily for him, clothes you laundered just before you left him sat untouched in the expansive walk-in closet. some of those shirts will be a good buffer until he finds a good laundry service.

yeah... that's his reason for being back at this apartment, key sliding through the gold-plated doorknob. it's locked, just like he left it a few days ago. if he were counting on his fingers, it's been exactly ten days since you left him.

and only his second time being back.

so when he walks into the door, footsteps light as he shuts it, he's shocked silent when he sees you.

you're in the kitchen, back turned, packing a reusable bag of cooking tools. the first thing he notices... your face. you're so beautiful. even just your side profile shines in the low light. his unshakable form quakes when you look up at him. his gaze softens. you're the same as you always were.

"hi, stranger."

"i'm just here to grab some dishes. i'll be out in a few." you're emotionless and quiet as you pack your bag. some of the things in here are your favorite—it's been hard to cook without them, but you just couldn't come back yet. gojo's schedule is too all over the place, the wound is still fresh.

"take your time. i've been meaning to talk to you." he's talking to you the only way he knows how: soft and loving, dripping sweetly because his heart still sees you as his wife.

you're trying everything to ignore him, not to listen to the words that you know will sway you. this divorce was not easy. you're trying to relearn your life without your external heart—the heart standing at the doorway with a relieved smile on his face. all he had to do was call you by your old name, paint you in lovelicked daydreams backed by the sweet sound of his laugh. it's what made you fall in love. he covers up so much of himself with the humor, that you reveled in the time it took you to peel it all away.

but he's peeled, now. waiting to be devoured like a piece of oddly-shaped fruit.

"don't really wanna talk..." you're murmuring, not wanting him to hear you. you don't want to make him laugh—can't bear the weight of it anymore. "sign those papers when you get a chance, yeah?"

gojo watches you hoist your bags over your shoulder, the way they catch your blouse under the arm. he can't help but smile, I mean... you're right in front of him. "sign what papers? i'm not signing any papers, you're a gojo. always will be—never gonna change."

"you're bitter."

"so i'm gonna wait for this to pass... this, whatever it is for you," he's waving at you, noting the small embarrassed scowl on your face. "a call for help, maybe? a desperate plea for more attention? i understand, it's okay." he's so sure of himself that it makes you sick, but he won't come closer to you. won't even take a step. "you can just move back in, we'll fix it together. that's all we can do."

"i don't deserve to hang on your string for weeks, barely any contact. not when you agreed to be my husband." suddenly sure of yourself and your crafty ability to turn him down, you're pummeling for the door. "you make promises you can't keep, satoru. i don't want an absent marriage."

"you not wanting to be married to me is fine—we don't have to be married, just wait." now, he's pleading. palms held together at his chest as he watches you reach for the knob. you're angry, he sees that, but he knows you. "i love you so much, please don't go."

"no matter what you think, this isn't easy for me."

"you want the apartment? you can have it. the diamonds I bought are all yours."

"i just want you."

"here i am! come get me, i'm here in the flesh." you can feel yourself starting to cry as he finally walks up to you, vaguely reaching for your hand. his eyes are sad, yet passionate against some form of the word. it's a familiar look on him, as hard as that is to sit with...

"come get me," he whispers as his final plea, voice so distinctly low between the heavy wood door.

you're left speechless for a second, shaking away the tears that start sliding down your face. he makes contact against the door handle and it frightens you.

"i've made my choice."

that's what you leave him with, tearfully and starkly indifferent to his suffering. the knob turns, he backs away, and you bolt out of that door like the room is on fire.

and when you're alone in that hallway, face-to-face with the elevator, you cry. because, of course you do.

#y'all are simps #eraserasks #.satoruu <3 #.ex husband ✧#jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk angst #satoru gojo x reader #satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru

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thedensworld · 21 hours ago

Text

Lost Star | l.jh

Pairing: Producer Woozi x ex-trainee reader

Genre: First Love, Reunion, Second Change

Type: Slow Burn, Angst, Fluff

Word Count: 14k

Summary: Jihoon had lost the star of his heart a long time ago. However, 11 years later, his lost star appears, and his heart never feels more conflicted.

Jihoon counted his steps from his new apartment unit to the convenience store with a slow, measured pace. The clock pointed to four in the afternoon, and all he needed was a single pack of ramen—something simple to soothe his mind. Soonyoung had visited the day before and deliberately left it off Jihoon's grocery list, citing health reasons with a smug grin.

"We're in our thirties now. Let’s eat healthier, Jihoon."

Did Jihoon care? Not really. He’d been going to the gym religiously for years. Ate vegetables and fruits after every meal like some disciplined monk. But sometimes—like today, when his brain felt sluggish and creativity hit a wall—he just wanted to boil a portion of ramen. Let the MSG fill his kitchen, fog up his windows, and trick his dopamine into working again. Sometimes, that salty warmth was all it took to unlock a melody worth recording on his phone.

So now he had to get it himself. Again.

Exposing himself to the daylight wasn’t the worst thing, he figured. One of the reasons he moved to this new neighborhood was because it was closer to the company building. Seungcheol had said the area was peaceful, and Jihoon agreed—at first.

That was before he saw you again.

Before the surreal gut punch of recognizing you behind the counter at the convenience store.

Before the awkward silence that stretched too long between two people who used to dream under the same roof.

He could walk to that store. The one where you worked. Pretend to be just another customer craving the nation’s favorite instant noodles. But his heart wouldn’t let him. Not after that accidental reunion. Not after your eyes widened just a little, then dropped just as quickly. Not after both of you pretended it didn’t happen.

For the past two days, Jihoon had been walking around with this subtle ache in his chest—a kind of guilt he couldn’t explain. Maybe it wasn’t his fault you disappeared, but somehow, the silence that followed still made him feel like an asshole.

Meeting you again was never on his to-do list for the year.

Not after eleven years.

Not after your sudden disappearance during the trainee days—when everything had felt like it was about to begin, and then you were just… gone.

But who would’ve expected you to work there too?

The further convenience store. The one Jihoon deliberately chose to walk to—solely to avoid seeing you again.

“Is it possible to work in two different convenience stores?"

He found himself asking that question to his manager, offhandedly, while they were on the way to a schedule a day after he saw you for the second time that week.

It haunted him.

Not in a horror-movie way, but in that quiet, persistent kind of way that made his chest heavy and his mind foggy. So much so, he’d forgotten how to make music.

He couldn’t even count the hours he’d spent staring blankly at his studio screen, letting beats loop endlessly without direction. Every time he sat down, memories of the trainee days swelled like echoes in the room. His keyboard—usually his safe place—suddenly looked like the old one from the practice room.

And just like that, he’d be back in time. Sitting beside you, both of your fingers grazing the keys, your heads low in shared concentration while chaos unfolded around you—Soonyoung falling over, Seungcheol screaming his puberty out, the usual mess.

“I think it’s possible,” his manager said. “With different shifts, I mean.”

“Why? You thinking of working at a convenience store now?” his manager joked, glancing over while keeping one hand on the wheel.

Jihoon let out a small chuckle.

He had too many zeros in his bank account for that kind of lifestyle—and far too little energy to immerse himself in a brand-new job culture. Honestly, just the idea of small talk with strangers all day made him tired.

“If you were talking to Dino, he might say yes to your suggestion, hyung,” Jihoon replied, resting his head back against the seat.

His manager laughed. “I know, right? But still, it’s the first time I’ve heard you bring up something so... not you. Lee Jihoon, behind a convenience store counter?”

Jihoon grinned, a little more amused than he expected. “Hey, I might be great at it. I was a hard worker during trainee days, remember? You forgot already?”

His manager—one of the oldest on the team, someone who’d seen Jihoon through his fiery teenage years and his stubborn perfectionist era—just let out a warm, knowing laugh.

“Trainee days must’ve been tough, huh?” he said after a beat. “You did well, Jihoon. Seriously. Good job.”

And for a moment, Jihoon didn’t say anything. The corner of his lips twitching up. Compliments always made him awkward—but coming from someone who saw the whole messy journey? It settled differently. Deeper.

“Hyung… do you remember a female trainee named Ji Y/n?”

His manager glanced at him, then nodded. “Of course. She was an ace. Everyone thought she’d debut for sure. But she just... disappeared. I always wondered what happened. Did the company drop her? Did you ever hear anything?”

Jihoon slowly shook his head, eyes shifting toward the road outside. A convenience store passed by in a blur, and for a second, his heart clenched.

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “Everyone asked around back then. It was just the four of us at first—me, Soonyoung, Coups hyung, and her.”

His voice softened at the memory, almost reverent.

Jihoon hadn’t realized it until recently, but somewhere along the way—after he debuted, after the whirlwind of success—he had stopped questioning your disappearance. The noise of the industry had drowned out the ache. He buried it under practice schedules, tour dates, and deadlines.

But the truth was...

Somewhere deep inside his heart, there was still a space carved out for the quiet longing.

A small, unspoken ache that whispered, Where did she go? Is she okay?

And now, after seeing you again—after all these years—he wondered if that ache had never really left.

Maybe you were the ghost that had always haunted him.

Back then, small Jihoon didn’t know what to do with himself during his early trainee days. Everything felt overwhelming—the routines, the expectations, the constant pressure to improve. But he was quietly relieved to find comfort in two people: an older boy named Seungcheol, and a same-age friend, Soonyoung. The three of them stuck together, quietly enduring every class, never once daring to complain out loud.

Then one day, a new face entered the frame.

The vocal instructor introduced her as a transfer trainee—someone with experience from a major entertainment company. They were told to learn from her. Study her discipline, her skill, her presence.

And that’s when you, Ji Y/n, walked into the green practice room with an assertive smile painted confidently on your face. Like you had no doubts. Like you already knew your path. Like the stage was already yours.

You glowed.

It wasn’t just your visuals—though Jihoon would admit, even then, you were an eye candy in the middle of their hard, exhausting days. But it was more than that. You had aura. The kind that lit up the room. The kind that made people look up when you passed by.

You shared generously with them—tips, stories, encouragement. You could sing. You could dance. You even rapped with surprising ease. Every evaluation, you impressed the supervisors without fail. And of course, everyone expected no less from someone who had come from a bigger company.

Jihoon remembered watching you from the back of the room, sweaty from practice, trying to hide the envy in his eyes behind admiration.

You were everything he wasn’t yet.

And everything he quietly wished to become.

Jihoon clearly remembered the day you casually mentioned that you were learning how to produce music. You said you’d picked it up from an older trainee at your previous company, brushing it off with a humble smile. “I’m not that good,” you claimed.

But to young Jihoon, Seungcheol, and Soonyoung, you might as well have been a genius. The three of them watched you with stars in their eyes, completely captivated. It was their first time witnessing someone actually create a song—piecing together melodies, layering harmonies, experimenting with beats—and it lit a spark in them. In Jihoon especially, something shifted.

“Did you learn it from G-Dragon of Bigbang?” Soonyoung had asked with innocent curiosity, eyes wide.

Everyone laughed, but Jihoon didn’t forget that moment.

Looking back, he realized—

That was the exact point when he started seeing you as a star.

Jihoon leaned back in his studio chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling as an old song played softly in the background. It was one he had produced years ago—rough around the edges, unfinished, but alive with memories.

He had sent nearly ten messages to Seungcheol earlier, pestering him about whether he still had the old folder filled with their trainee-day demos. And now, with the files finally playing through the speakers, Jihoon felt himself slipping into the past.

None of the tracks were perfect. Far from it. But each one carried a piece of who they were back then—ambitious, reckless, hopeful.

Seungcheol’s voice came in first, mid-puberty and full of effort. His rap stumbled a little, but the fire was there. Jihoon chuckled when he heard the word “Elevation” in one of the lines. How did teenage Seungcheol even know that word? Had he been reading dictionaries between dance classes?

Then came your voice.

Soft. Grounded. Not the kind of high-pitched perfection producers chased today, but something more—something real. There was honesty in your tone, a raw emotion that pulled him in even after all these years.

Jihoon closed his eyes.

Do you still sing like that?

Jihoon didn’t see you when he first stepped into the convenience store tonight. The last time he came, it was during the night shift—maybe this time, it wasn’t your turn. A small part of him felt relieved.

He walked through the automatic doors with the simple intention of grabbing another pack of ramen. A soft hum echoed faintly through the aisle, and as he turned the corner, he found the source.

There you were—crouched down, restocking shelves.

You flinched at the sudden awareness of his presence, nearly losing your balance.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you coming,” you said quickly, bowing your head politely before walking away with a full restock basket in hand.

Jihoon parted his lips, wanting to say something—to stop you—but the moment passed too quickly. You were already gone.

He turned his eyes toward the rows of ramen, but his mind had long wandered. The image of you behind the convenience store counter was a stark contrast to the version of you etched into his memories.

You—once the ace trainee, confident and radiant, someone the instructors praised, someone the rest of them watched in awe—now stood beneath flickering fluorescent lights, wearing a clerk’s uniform and scanning barcodes. It was jarring. And it hurt in ways Jihoon couldn’t name.

“What is this?” Soonyoung pointed at the suspiciously large stack of ramen stuffed into one of Jihoon’s kitchen cabinets while he rummaged around for coffee.

With arms crossed and a judgmental stare, he turned toward the living room where Jihoon was sprawled on the couch, eyes glued to his phone as he mindlessly scrolled through the webcomic he’d been hooked on lately.

“What?” Jihoon lifted his head lazily, following Soonyoung’s gaze toward the open cabinet.

“There’s like… fifteen packs of ramen in here. Do you even eat these?” Soonyoung asked, brows furrowed in disbelief.

Jihoon nodded, eyes flicking back to his phone. “I do. Sometimes,” he replied nonchalantly, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

Soonyoung tilted his head with a mix of annoyance and concern. “Didn’t I tell you to stop eating junk? What happened to eating healthy?”

Jihoon let out a soft chuckle, amused. “You sound like a wife.”

Soonyoung scoffed dramatically as he finally located the coffee powder and slammed the cabinet shut. “I’d make a great wife, thank you very much.”

He shot Jihoon a look as if daring him to disagree, but Jihoon just smirked, raising an eyebrow like he agreed—at least a little.

Soonyoung didn’t say anything after that. The kitchen fell into a soft quiet, broken only by the clinking of a spoon stirring coffee. Jihoon stayed on the couch, but his thoughts wandered.

He thought about his new, strange habit—buying a pack of ramen almost every night. Always just one. Never to eat. He let them pile up in the cabinet like forgotten mementos. He never said why. Because he knew the reason. And saying it out loud would make it too real.

“By the way…” Soonyoung broke the silence as he walked over to the couch, settling beside Jihoon with a glass of iced coffee in hand.

“The convenience store a block from here—”

Jihoon’s body tensed. His eyes shot up, and he sat up straighter, alarmed. “Why?” he asked, a little too quickly.

Soonyoung blinked, startled by the sudden reaction. “What’s with you?” he asked, puzzled.

Jihoon quickly shook his head, brushing it off. “Nothing. Just—keep going. What about the store?”

“I was just gonna say…” Soonyoung sipped his coffee, still eyeing Jihoon. “They started selling Kkokkalcorn and Matdongsan again—the ones we used to destroy during trainee days.”

Jihoon let out a soft sigh. The tension left his shoulders as quickly as it had appeared. He leaned back against the couch cushions again, suddenly feeling silly. For a second, he thought Soonyoung had seen you.

“Oh,” he mumbled. “Cool.”

But the tightness in his chest didn’t fully fade. Because while Soonyoung was thinking about snacks, Jihoon was still thinking about you.

Jihoon raised his brows in confusion, standing still in front of the cashier counter. You had just slid a small bottle of vitamin drink across to him after he’d paid for what must’ve been his twentieth pack of ramen this month.

“You should start taking care of your health,” you murmured, not quite meeting his eyes.

He blinked. Did you really think he was eating all those ramens? Of course you did. Anyone would.

He took a quiet breath, a little too sharp, and grabbed the vitamin drink. “Thanks,” he mumbled, voice slightly rough as if it had caught on something in his chest.

With that, he turned and walked toward the door. His steps felt heavier than they should, dragging under the fluorescent lights and quiet pop music in the background. The clock behind the register read 2:04 a.m.—his work could wait. That wasn’t why he came tonight anyway.

He stopped just before pushing the door open, something tugging at him.

“You still sing?” he asked, without turning around at first.

When he finally looked back, his eyes met yours.

The question lingered in the air between you—simple, but heavy. Like it had taken him years to ask, and now that he had, everything might shift.

You looked taken aback by his question. “Me?”

Jihoon nodded slowly. “Yeah… do you still sing, Ji Y/n?”

Silence settled between you. Not awkward—just heavy, like the universe paused for a moment to let Jihoon hear himself say it. After nearly a month of seeing you again—glimpses, passing words, late-night convenience store visits—he had finally asked the question that had haunted him more times than he could count.

But you tilted your head slightly, your voice light, accompanied by a soft, teasing smile. “No ‘how are you?’ first?”

Jihoon huffed out a breath, half-laughing at himself, shaking off the embarrassment. Of course, that’s what you’d say. You were always that girl—calm, confident, casually radiant in your own way. You knew how to disarm people without even trying.

Taking a few steps closer, he gave in. “Okay, fine. How are you?”

This time, your smile softened into something real. “I’m great… How about you, Woozi?”

Jihoon’s heart clenched at the nickname. Not in a way that hurt—but in a way that burst something open inside him. Warm. Familiar. Breath-stealing.

Woozi. You were the one who gave him that name.

There was a phase when you grew close to some of the senior artists in the company. They adored Jihoon, calling him in a playful, affectionate tone that never failed to make you laugh during practice.

“Our Jihoon… Our Jihoon…”

“Our Jihoon got the step wrong?”

You’d mimic them with a teasing grin, and the other trainees would burst into laughter. Jihoon, on the other hand, could only lower his head, trying to hide the pink dusting his cheeks. No one needed to know just how much that nickname affected him.

“Uji?” Soonyoung, who had just proudly settled on his stage name ‘Hoshi,’ chirped excitedly, offering the shortened form of Uri Jihoon—Our Jihoon.

Jihoon groaned in frustration, clearly unimpressed. “Please, no.”

The room echoed with laughter, everyone amused by the suggestion—everyone except Jihoon.

But then your voice cut through the noise, calm and certain. “Woozi… sounds more sophisticated, right?”

Jihoon turned his head, catching the gleam in your eyes. You were seated cross-legged on the studio floor, marker cap between your fingers, looking at him like he was something more than just another trainee. Like you saw something already formed within him.

Without waiting for approval, you stood up, walked to the whiteboard, and uncapped the marker. With neat, confident strokes, you wrote the name.

Woozi.

Jihoon took a deep breath, his gaze dropping to the slippers on his feet before slowly lifting back to where you stood behind the counter.

"I'm..." he started, arms falling open at his sides as if gesturing to his entire self—his tired eyes, messy hair, and the bag of ramen crinkling in his hand.

You let out a soft laugh at his little gesture.

"I'm still the same," he said with a shrug and a small, helpless smile.

He saw you glance down, a chuckle slipping from your lips as you bit back a smile, covering it with your hand. "That’s great," you said, voice warm, eyes flickering up to meet his.

Then you tilted your head, teasing lightly, "So... does ramen help with your music now or something?"

Jihoon exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "It’s not the ramen," he murmured, and something in his tone hinted that there was more to the story.

A gentle silence settled between the two of you, stretching just long enough for both your hearts to beat twice. Then Jihoon spoke again, voice quieter this time.

"I'm glad you're okay."

You nodded slowly, a small but genuine smile tugging at your lips. "Me too."

The soft chime of the door interrupted the moment as a new customer entered. You turned immediately to greet them, your professional smile slipping into place as you lifted your restocking basket again and headed toward the drink section.

Jihoon lingered for a second longer, watching your back before finally stepping out into the night—with a heart that, for the first time in a long while, felt a little lighter.

How could someone be this chronically offline?

Okay, Jihoon was, too—kind of. But not like this. He had social media, even if he barely posted, and his company profile existed with at least a few photos and a bio. But you? You were a complete digital ghost.

No record. No trace. No tagged photos, no mutuals, nothing.

Were you using a different name now? A secret username?

He rubbed his temples in frustration, eyes scanning the last of the open tabs before giving up.

Jihoon sighed heavily and dropped his head beside the keyboard, forehead grazing the cool surface of his desk.

He'd started to question if you were even real—or some elaborate figment from his overworked, nostalgic brain.

"Is she a ghost?" he muttered, his voice half annoyed, half amused, as he sat back up and began closing one social media tab after another.

Click. Click. Click.

With five tabs gone and zero results to show for it, Jihoon finally leaned back in his chair and returned to his work—though your absence lingered louder than any background noise.

The next day, Jihoon invited Hansol to his studio, letting him be the first to hear the song he had worked on the night before.

“It’s not perfect—it’s still raw,” Jihoon said, his voice quiet but edged with anticipation as he clicked the play button.

The room filled with the soft rise of synths, layered with ambient textures that pulsed gently through the speakers. Hansol raised his brows in surprise, the corners of his mouth twitching into an impressed smile. He began nodding along, fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrest of the chair.

“This is... very different from your usual stuff,” Hansol said, glancing over with interest.

Jihoon nodded slowly, already aware. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes focused on the screen even though he wasn’t really looking at anything.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “I know.”

Hansol chuckled once the song faded out. “Last month you said you lost your sense. What’s this then?” he asked, amusement flickering in his tone.

Jihoon let out a laugh, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe moving out sparked something. Change of scenery might’ve rebooted my creativity.”

Hansol pointed a finger at him knowingly. “Exactly! So, how’s the new house?”

“It’s great. Bigger space, definitely more comfortable for me. The cats are still going crazy trying to adapt, though.” Jihoon smiled faintly, eyes softening at the thought. “But I feel at ease. Finally.”

Hansol nodded, genuinely listening. “I figured as much. I was worried about you, hyung. Even Coups-hyung mentioned you asked the staff for old pre-debut folders. I thought, ‘Oh no, Jihoon’s really at his breaking point.’”

Jihoon chuckled, clearly entertained by Hansol’s concern. “Nah, not yet. I’m grateful it hasn’t hit the limit.”

“Good,” Hansol said, leaning back in relief. “Because if you go down, we all go down.”

Jihoon smirked. “Then I better stay afloat, huh?”

A heavy silence settled between them, stretching long enough to feel intentional. Jihoon tapped his fingers lightly against his knee before finally speaking, his voice low.

“Do you remember that one female trainee who just disappeared one day?”

Hansol’s expression shifted instantly. “Of course,” he said without hesitation. “She was in the debut line. Y/n, right?”

Jihoon nodded slowly, eyes drifting toward the studio wall. “Yeah… I ran into her recently.”

Hansol straightened a little. “Seriously? Where?”

“At a convenience store,” Jihoon replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “She works there now.”

Hansol looked genuinely surprised, his brows lifted. “Wow. That’s... unexpected.”

Jihoon didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to the floor, lips pressed together. “She looks the same,” he said softly. “But there’s something different too. I don’t know... It messed with my head a bit.”

Hansol tilted his head. “You talked to her?”

“A little. Nothing deep.” Jihoon rubbed the back of his neck. “But just seeing her again... it brought back more than I thought it would.”

Hansol leaned back in the chair, a nostalgic smile spreading across his face. “She was pretty much a celebrity back then.”

Jihoon gave a small scoff, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Yeah… everyone knew her name. Even the vocal trainers talked about how fast she picked things up.”

“She had that vibe, you know? Confident. Chill. Like she didn’t need to try too hard,” Hansol added, his voice tinged with fondness.

Jihoon hummed in agreement, eyes lost in some far-off thought. “Yeah... she always felt like she was meant for something big.”

Hansol glanced at him. “So what happened? Did she say why she left?”

Jihoon hesitated, then shook his head. “No. I didn’t ask.” A beat passed. “And I don’t think she’d tell me, even if I did.”

Hansol didn’t push further. Jihoon’s voice had softened into something almost unreadable.

There were things Jihoon wasn’t saying. And maybe he wasn’t ready to.

Not yet.

Jihoon sat at the small table in front of the convenience store, phone in hand, aimlessly scrolling as he waited for your shift to end. Earlier, he had walked into the store with all the courage he'd gathered since stepping out of his apartment. He needed you to hear the song. The thought had been haunting him for days, and tonight, he was being braver than he’d ever been.

“When does your shift end?” Jihoon asked, setting a bottle of Zero Coke on the counter.

“In twenty,” you replied, a little caught off guard by his sudden visit.

Jihoon simply nodded, paid with his phone, and grabbed the drink. “Okay. I’ll wait for you,” he said casually before turning on his heel and walking out, not giving you time to respond. He didn’t dare look back. He was too nervous to care how confused you looked.

Now, he watched from the table as you reappeared, changed out of your uniform and ready to go. You walked over holding another vitamin drink, setting it in front of him as you sat across the table.

Jihoon chuckled at the sight. “I don’t have those unhealthy habits anymore, Y/n.”

“So you eat your vegetables now?” you teased.

Jihoon laughed, the sound light and genuine. “I’m not that hopeless.”

You leaned back slightly, eyeing him curiously. “So what is this, Jihoon? What do you want from me?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pulled out his earphones and plugged them into his phone. “You know I don’t do small talk,” he muttered, handing you one of the earbuds. “I want you to hear something. It’s rough, the lyrics are still nonsense, but… I want your opinion.”

You raised an eyebrow. “My opinion? You’re the one making a living writing songs, Jihoon.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Just listen first.”

“This isn’t your style,” you said once the song ended. Your voice was calm, almost casual, but there was a trace of something else—familiarity. Like you knew his sound, like you’d been paying attention all along. And something inside Jihoon stirred with quiet hope.

He nodded slowly. “It’s not. It’s yours.”

You let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head. “I don’t have a style, Jihoon.”

Without saying anything, Jihoon opened his phone and pulled up a SoundCloud profile. He turned the screen toward you. “This is you, right?”

There it was—your old stage name as the username, your song watermark sitting in the bio like a timestamp from a past life.

Your eyes widened. “You looked for that?” you asked, half laughing in disbelief. “You’re crazy.”

Jihoon shrugged, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Maybe. But it was the only place I could still hear your voice.”

You stared at the screen for a second longer before looking up at him. “So… what’s your intention with all this, Jihoon?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes dropped to the bottle of zero coke in his hand, thumb running absentmindedly along the rim. Then he looked at you, fully, like he was trying to read something in your face before saying it.

“I want you to sing it,” he said quietly. “For the demo.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jihoon took a deep breath. “I wrote it with your voice in my head. I don’t know why, but I kept hearing you. Not just any vocal—it had to be you.”

You looked away, biting the inside of your cheek. “Jihoon… it’s been years.”

“I know.”

“I haven’t even sung properly in—”

“I know,” he interrupted gently. “I just… I couldn’t let this one go. I need your voice to bring it to life. Even if it's just a demo.”

His voice was calm, but you could tell it was costing him everything to stay that way.

You looked at him again, brows slightly furrowed. “And after that?”

Jihoon hesitated. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

A quiet laugh escaped you, more out of nerves than amusement. “That’s very unlike you.”

“I know,” he repeated, softer this time. “But this… this just felt right.”

You looked at him for a long moment, the weight of shared history hanging between you.

Then your gaze dropped to your hands, fingers brushing against the condensation on your drink bottle. “I don’t know if I can, Jihoon.”

He tilted his head, watching you quietly. “Why not?”

You took a breath, but the words felt heavier than you expected. “Because music… it used to mean something different to me. It was everything, and then it wasn’t. And now, I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what I am with it.”

Jihoon didn’t interrupt. He waited, the silence around you stretching like a safety net rather than pressure.

You forced a laugh, more bitter than you intended. “You said you heard my voice, but I haven’t even let myself sing in years. I don’t know if I even like how I sound anymore. What if I’ve forgotten how to feel it?”

Jihoon leaned back, resting his arms on the table. “Then let’s just try. Not as a job. Not for the industry. Just you and me, like we used to.” His eyes softened. “You don’t have to be who you were. You just have to be honest.”

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers now picking at the edge of the label on your drink. “It’s complicated. You don’t understand, Jihoon.”

You stared at the old blue mp3 player Jihoon had left for you. Not a file sent through a messaging app, not an email attachment—just this little, scratched device loaded with his new demo. A relic of the past, almost stubborn in its simplicity. Holding it felt like touching a memory, one that pulled you back to a time when everything was filled with laughter and reckless dreams. No tears of regret, just passion.

With a quiet sigh, you set the mp3 player on the chipped table in your cramped studio apartment and shuffled toward the tiny kitchenette. The kettle’s hum filled the silence as you reached for another cup of instant noodles. You had lost count of how many you’d eaten this week. But counting anything had become pointless long ago—especially the years since your parents died.

You were eighteen. It was just another exhausting training day when the manager called you out of the practice room, his expression uncharacteristically somber. He told you, in a voice that tried to sound steady, that your parents had been in a car accident. Out of town. Fatal.

Shock was too small a word. You didn’t know what to feel, didn’t know how to react. You hadn’t been close with them—not in the way families in dramas were. No warm hugs, no heartfelt talks. Just the distant, dutiful exchanges of a family that functioned but never flourished.

Your uncle and aunt arrived in Seoul a day later, somber and silent. They promised to take you home to South Jeolla—promised you would return soon, that you could continue chasing your dream. But those promises were lies, whispered only to keep you from protesting.

Seoul faded into the rearview mirror, and so did your dream. What was once a life bursting with dance practices, vocal lessons, and late-night laughter with your trainee friends turned into the quiet humdrum of rural life. The city lights you once knew blurred into distant memories, and the path you’d so fiercely pursued buried itself with your parents.

You sought help from the company, but by then, everyone already knew. Knew your parents were gone, knew your uncle had taken over their business, and knew he’d cut off the funds your father used to send every month. Sympathy turned into avoidance. Promises of support dissolved into awkward silences. No one listened. No one reached out.

And so you were alone—alone with a dream that withered before it could bloom.

You didn’t finish school. Never went to college. No work experience worth mentioning. Your uncle’s family kept the business for themselves, never offering you a share, never once asking what you planned to do with your life.

"Life is so full," you muttered as you settled back at the table, snapping your chopsticks apart before stirring the steaming noodles. The warmth touched your lips, a poor but familiar comfort—the only warmth you’d felt in a long time.

"Full of shit." Your gaze drifted back to the mp3 player.

There was no way Jihoon was serious about wanting to hear you sing again. Not after everything. Not when you’d buried that part of yourself so deeply, you almost forgot it was ever real.

You went to Seoul without anyone knowing a year after Seventeen debuted. Covered from head to toe, you slipped into a crowded broadcasting show, watching them perform with the same intensity as always—driven, passionate, like nothing had changed. But for you, everything had.

As if fate couldn’t resist irony, you bumped into an old manager. His eyes widened, recognition breaking through his initial shock.

"Y/n?" he whispered, his voice tight, as though saying your name might summon a ghost.

You stood still, hands shoved deep in your pockets, your expression unreadable. "I heard the girls are debuting," you said simply, ignoring his question.

He glanced around nervously before grabbing your arm, pulling you aside. "You shouldn’t be here. The vice president is here."

"Can I talk to him?"

"What are you thinking? You can’t just disappear and then show up expecting to talk to him."

"Disappear? I didn’t disappear. Everyone knows what happened to me. They knew, and no one looked for me."

You found yourself humming to the demo Jihoon handed you. Your hand paused mid-motion, a soda can hovering just above the fridge shelf. You had listened to it, finally—maybe not much, or so you told yourself. But you listened until you fell asleep. And now, without even realizing it, you’d been humming it all day. The melody lingered, familiar and strange, wrapped in the warmth of guitar riffs and a band sound Jihoon rarely touched before.

Later, you caught yourself typing sentences into your phone’s notes. Drafting lyrics, deleting one word only to replace it with another, trying to fit them against a melody that seemed to cling to your thoughts. You were even considering a theme—the song didn’t even have one yet. What were you doing?

Jihoon stepped into the convenience store, the familiar chime signaling his entrance. He glanced toward the counter, but you weren’t there. Instead, faintly, from the back room, he heard it—a soft, almost tentative melody.

His brows knit together as he moved closer, ears straining to catch the sound. It was his song. And it wasn’t just playing—it was being sung.

He paused by the door to the storage room, not daring to move any closer. Your voice, clear and a little rough around the edges, wove through the notes with an effortless familiarity. You were humming the melody, occasionally mumbling words that you hadn’t quite settled on yet, but the sound was unmistakably yours.

Jihoon didn’t breathe for a moment, his chest tight. You didn’t even notice him, too caught up in the rhythm, stocking shelves while lost in the music.

A smile broke out on his face, small but undeniable. He hadn’t heard you sing in years, not since back when everything was simpler, when music didn’t feel like a burden.

Suddenly, you spun around, a soda can still in your hand, and froze. Your eyes widened, caught mid-hum, and Jihoon had to bite back a laugh at how startled you looked.

“Oh,” you managed, your voice betraying both surprise and a hint of embarrassment. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Jihoon leaned against the doorframe, his smile soft but genuine. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, his tone low and careful. “You sounded... really good.”

You looked down, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. “It’s just—just stuck in my head,” you muttered, trying to sound nonchalant as you resumed stacking the cans.

Jihoon hesitated, unsure if he should push or let it go. But the chance felt too precious to pass up. “That’s a good sign, right?” he asked, stepping further into the room. “Means it’s catchy.”

You shrugged, still not meeting his gaze. “Maybe.”

Jihoon shifted his weight, trying to keep his voice casual. “Were you… coming up with lyrics earlier?”

You froze for a fraction of a second, fingers hovering over the last soda can. “Maybe.”

“Do I get to hear them?” he asked, his tone light but his eyes a little too hopeful.

You straightened, closing the fridge door with a soft thud. “No.”

He blinked, surprised by your bluntness, but there was no sting—just a quiet laugh. “Why not?”

“Because they’re not ready. They’re just… thoughts,” you muttered, crossing your arms, feeling defensive even though he hadn’t done anything. “They might not even make sense.”

Jihoon nodded slowly, stepping back slightly to give you space. “Okay. No pressure.”

But that only made you feel worse. You leaned against the wall, letting out a heavy sigh. “It’s just… I don’t even know what I’m doing, Jihoon.”

“Writing lyrics, apparently,” he teased, but his voice was gentle.

You glanced at him, and the earnest look on his face melted away some of your frustration. “The theme… it’s about being there for someone. Like… promising to be there, even when they think they’re alone.”

Jihoon’s smile faded, replaced by a quiet understanding. He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence. “That’s… powerful,” he murmured. “It’s honest.”

You bit your lip, hesitating again. “I don’t know if it’s any good.”

“I want to hear it,” he said, voice unwavering. “Even if it’s just a draft.”

You stared at him, searching for any sign of pity or insincerity. But Jihoon was just there, waiting—patient, unwavering.

Finally, with a sigh, you pulled out your phone, scrolling to the notes app. “Fine, but if you laugh—”

“I won’t,” he promised.

You stepped closer, handing him the phone. Jihoon’s eyes scanned the words, his expression shifting subtly as he read. His fingers lightly brushed the edge of your phone, his lips moving soundlessly along with the lyrics.

Seconds stretched into a minute. Then another.

When he finally looked up, his eyes were a little brighter, his voice softer. “Y/n… this is beautiful.”

You swallowed, feeling your chest tighten. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” Jihoon whispered. “It’s… it’s everything I wanted the song to say but didn’t know how.”

You looked away, a shy smile tugging at your lips. “Well… now you do.”

He chuckled, the sound light and almost relieved. “Now I do.”

And for a moment, standing there in the quiet hum of the storage room, it felt like you were back in a place where music was more than just sound—where it was a language, something only you and Jihoon could speak.

You sat on the leather couch in a studio, fingers twisted together, watching Jihoon work in his element. He hadn’t said much since you both arrived—just a few clicks of his mouse, a quiet hum under his breath, and the soft glow of the monitor lighting his focused face.

Your gaze wandered, from the cables snaking across the floor to the soft, ambient lights lining the room. You tried to keep your breathing steady, but you could feel the nerves crawling up your spine, your thumb unconsciously tracing the edge of your phone.

Jihoon hadn’t turned around, but you knew he sensed it. Maybe it was the way you shifted on the couch, or how your voice had gone quieter since you both stepped inside.

He paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Do you want some water?” he asked, not even turning, voice calm but carrying a gentleness that tugged at you.

You almost laughed. “Am I that obvious?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “A little.”

Silence settled again, but it was softer this time. He adjusted the volume of a track, listened, then leaned back in his chair.

“Y/n,” he said suddenly, and you straightened slightly. “Just sit there. You don’t have to do anything else.”

“I know,” you whispered, but the words felt thin against the weight in your chest.

He leaned his head back, finally meeting your eyes. “I brought you here because I want you to feel it again. Not because I expect you to perform.”

You swallowed, nodding, but you didn’t trust your voice.

“Besides,” he added with a gentle laugh, “I need you here. You have better taste in lyrics than me, remember?”

The tension in your shoulders eased, just a little. “You used to hate it when I nitpicked your lines.”

“Maybe I did. Or maybe I just hated that you were right most of the time.”

You smiled, leaning back into the couch, your fingers finally relaxing.

Jihoon turned back to his screen, but not before you caught the faintest look of relief in his expression. He wasn’t just working—he was making space for you, creating an atmosphere that felt safe, unhurried.

“Wanna try it?” Jihoon asked, casually, but his gaze was attentive.

Your heart skipped. “Sing it?”

He nodded, not pushing but not letting you hide either. “Just try. No pressure.”

You leaned back, taking a deep breath. “Okay… just… play the track.”

Jihoon adjusted a few settings, and soon the familiar sound of the demo filled the room. The gentle guitar strums, the soft beat—familiar yet new, warm and inviting.

You inhaled sharply, your fingers curling around the edge of the couch. And then, with a voice that felt shaky at first but gradually steadied, you began.

“Come stop your crying, it will be alright…

Just take my hand, hold it tight…”

Your voice wavered, but you pushed on. Jihoon’s eyes remained on the screen, but you could see the subtle way his head nodded, following your rhythm.

“I will protect you from all around you…

I will be here, don’t you cry…”

Jihoon made a few adjustments, lowering the instrumentals slightly, letting your voice shine just a bit more.

“For one so small, you seem so strong…

My arms will hold you, keep you safe and warm…”

The nerves twisted inside you, but the words carried you. They weren’t just lyrics—they felt like a promise, a warmth you had missed, a memory that still lingered.

Jihoon’s hand reached out, his index finger tapping a small rhythm on the desk, a silent gesture of encouragement.

“This bond between us can’t be broken…

I will be here, don’t you cry…”

As you reached the final line, your voice softened, but it didn’t shake. It flowed.

“You’ll be in my heart…

Yes, you’ll be in my heart…

From this day on, now and forevermore…”

Silence followed, the track fading into nothingness. You barely realized you were gripping the edge of the couch until you felt the tension in your fingers.

Jihoon turned, a soft, almost amazed smile spreading across his face. “You’re still incredible.”

You looked away, feeling your cheeks warm. “It’s… it’s just a draft.”

“A beautiful one,” he corrected. “And your voice… it’s still there, Y/n. Stronger than you think.”

You bit your lip, a small laugh escaping. “I was terrified.”

“And yet, you sang like that.” He leaned back in his chair, his smile growing. “You wanna try another take? Just to warm up more?”

You met his eyes, a quiet spark of excitement finally breaking through your nerves. “Yeah… I’d like that.”

Jihoon leaned back in his chair, the soft glow of the studio lights casting a warm hue over his face. He was quiet for a moment, his fingers tapping lightly against the armrest, eyes still on you. You expected another round of feedback, another subtle correction. But instead, he smiled—a slow, thoughtful smile.

“I think we should release it.”

You blinked. “Release? Like… as in, actually put it out there?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, leaning forward, his hands resting on his knees. “We could release it as an indie song. No heavy promotion, just… something real. Something raw.”

“Jihoon, I haven’t sung in years,” you whispered, your fingers instinctively curling into your sleeves. “I mean… this was just—”

“Beautiful,” he interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. “This was beautiful. Your voice, the lyrics… it’s all there.”

Your lips parted, a hundred protests dancing on the tip of your tongue. The fear, the anxiety, the echo of all those years wasted, the bitterness of dreams abandoned—they all screamed at you. But beneath them was something else, something softer and far more dangerous.

Hope.

“What if…” you hesitated, your gaze falling to the polished floor, “what if no one listens?”

“Then it’s just a song we made,” Jihoon said easily, his voice calming. “But if someone does… if it reaches even one person, then it’s worth it.”

Your gaze met his, and you saw nothing but sincerity in his eyes. No judgment, no pity—just that quiet, unwavering faith Jihoon always seemed to carry.

“But… it’s just a draft. It’s not perfect.”

“Then we’ll perfect it. We’ll record a proper take, polish the instrumentals, mix it right.” His voice grew animated, that spark of creative energy you knew so well lighting up his expression. “It can just be under a simple artist name—no big reveal, no pressure.”

You bit your lip, a nervous laugh escaping. “I don’t even know what name I’d use.”

“Then we can come up with one.” Jihoon’s grin widened, his excitement infectious. “Or we can just go with something simple. Y/n. Nothing to hide.”

Something in your chest tightened at that—your name, out there again, but this time without the weight of forced expectations or shattered dreams. Just you.

“You’re serious,” you whispered, a hint of awe slipping into your tone.

“I am.” He leaned forward again, his voice softer now. “You deserve to be heard, Y/n. Even if it’s just this one song. Even if it’s just this one moment.”

Your throat tightened, and you looked away, blinking quickly. You didn’t want to cry—not now, not in front of him. But you couldn’t stop the smile that spread slowly across your face.

“Then… let’s do it,” you whispered, barely trusting your own voice.

Jihoon’s smile softened, relief and pride mingling in his expression. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You let out a shaky laugh. “Let’s do it.”

The song was out—and it was a hit. More than just a quiet indie release, it spread like wildfire, carried by word of mouth and algorithmic whispers. People were captivated by the raw emotion in your voice, the honest lyrics, and the gentle but powerful production. It didn’t take long for listeners to notice the signature touch in the arrangement. Soon, word got out: Woozi of Seventeen had produced it.

Suddenly, you were no longer just a voice behind an anonymous track. Labels started reaching out, messages flooding your inbox with offers and promises. It was overwhelming, surreal.

Jihoon was there, calm and steady as always, sifting through the chaos with you. He recommended a label—one he trusted, one that would nurture your talent without forcing you into a mold. And you listened, handing in your resignation at the convenience store without a second thought.

Your world changed. You went from late-night shifts stocking soda cans to late-night sessions in recording studios. The label signed you, and they were careful, letting you be yourself, preserving the authenticity that made your first song a success.

And now, here you were, standing under the stage lights of a bustling university festival. A gentle breeze rustled your hair, the warm glow of the sunset casting an amber hue over the crowd. You sat with a guitar in your lap, the mic waiting. Nervous? Absolutely. But the moment your fingers found the strings, a familiar calm washed over you.

You played Jihoon’s song—no, your song. Your voice carried over the crowd, clear and heartfelt. People swayed, some holding up their phones, and you lost yourself in the music.

In the audience, Jihoon stood beside Hansol, his cap pulled low but not low enough to hide the proud smile tugging at his lips. His gaze never left you, watching every strum, every note you sang.

Hansol leaned over, his hands in his pockets, his voice a mix of honesty and admiration. “I thought you were going to give this song to Dokyeom hyung.”

“I was about to, for his solo.” Jihoon’s eyes softened, a quiet sense of satisfaction settling in. “But this song found its owner first.”

Hansol chuckled, his gaze shifting back to you. “I guess it did.”

Jihoon didn’t reply, but his heart swelled with pride, watching you command the stage with a quiet, soulful power he always knew you had. And he couldn’t help but feel like this was just the beginning—your beginning.

“I don’t know if you’re the type who likes staring at the stars.” Your voice teased Jihoon, a soft laugh lacing your words as both of you lay side by side on the rooftop of his place, the summer night sky stretching endlessly above. A gentle breeze rustled, carrying the scent of warm grass and distant city lights.

Jihoon had picked you up from a performance at a local music festival, a quiet but thoughtful way of celebrating the first anniversary of your debut. The night air felt cooler up here, the world below seeming a distant hum.

“I always enjoy nature,” Jihoon muttered, a hint of mock annoyance in his voice. “Wonwoo’s not the only one who’s romantic in our group.” But his expression betrayed him, a playful grin spreading as he turned to see you laughing.

“You sure? Because he sets the bar pretty high.”

Jihoon’s grin softened, his gaze wandering back to the stars. For a moment, a comfortable silence wrapped around you, the kind that didn’t demand to be filled.

“How do you feel?” he asked, his voice a touch quieter.

“About what?”

“Everything.”

“Surreal.” You breathed out, the word slipping past your lips like a confession. Your fingers traced idle patterns on the cool rooftop surface, searching for words that didn’t feel cliché. “I don’t know, honestly. Everything was hard—very hard. I was just... surviving. Then suddenly, I woke up one day, and I was on stage, singing. Living my dream.”

Jihoon listened, his gaze steady, his silence an invitation for you to continue.

“But sometimes, it still feels like a dream I might wake up from. Like I’m just waiting for someone to tap my shoulder and tell me it’s over.”

“Then why did you stop?” Jihoon’s question was gentle, but it hit deeper than you expected.

You hesitated, watching a faint cloud drift across the stars. “Because it felt like the world I knew crumbled overnight. Everything I thought I’d always have just… disappeared. I thought my dream went with it.”

Silence settled between you two, the gentle rustle of the summer breeze the only sound. Jihoon’s gaze remained on the stars, but his focus was entirely on you.

“What happened back then?” he finally asked, his voice cautious, almost hesitant.

You didn’t answer immediately, your fingers nervously tracing the rough texture of the rooftop. “It was… well, you know, my parents died in an accident. The business went to my uncle, and they kept me there. I was… stuck. And the company didn’t reach out either.”

Jihoon turned his head slightly, concern darkening his eyes. “I… I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah.” You tried to keep your voice steady, but a hint of bitterness slipped through. “I don’t know what the company told everyone, but once my uncle stopped funding them—the monthly support my father used to send—suddenly, I didn’t exist to them anymore. I wasn’t even a memory.”

Jihoon’s brows furrowed, his expression a mix of anger and sadness. “That’s… that’s awful.”

“It was.” You laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Being forgotten hurts more than losing everything else.”

You took a deep breath, letting the summer air fill your lungs before exhaling slowly. “Thank you, Jihoon.”

His gaze shifted to you, confusion flickering in his eyes. “For what?”

“For everything.” Your voice was softer now, carrying a weight you hadn’t meant to show. “There was a time when it felt like everyone had forgotten me. My family, the company… even the dream I once had. But you… you didn’t.”

Jihoon’s lips parted, but no words came out immediately. His fingers fidgeted slightly, a nervous habit you had come to recognize.

“I didn’t do much,” he finally murmured. “I just… I just gave you a song.”

“That’s more than enough.” A gentle smile tugged at your lips. “It wasn’t just a song, Jihoon. It was a reminder that I could still be someone. That I could still do something I love. And you listened. When no one else did.”

He looked away, staring back at the stars as if they had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world. “You’re giving me too much credit.”

“Maybe.” You leaned a bit closer, your shoulder brushing against his. “But I’d rather give it to you than let myself think I did this all alone.”

A quiet chuckle slipped from him, a hint of warmth returning to his voice. “Well, I guess I can accept that. Just don’t forget that I’m still your producer. I’m allowed to be bossy.”

You laughed, a genuine, lighthearted sound that seemed to lift the weight from your chest. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Jihoon leaned back in his chair, his gaze shifting between the scattered lyric sheets on the table and the two figures beside him. You were seated cross-legged on the couch, your phone in one hand as you scribbled words onto a notebook with the other. Seungcheol sat beside you, far too close for Jihoon’s liking, his shoulder pressing against yours as he leaned over, peering at your notes.

“Are you sure that line flows well?” Seungcheol asked, his voice a low murmur close to your ear, his hand resting casually on the back of the couch—dangerously close to your shoulder.

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I think it captures the feeling. But I’m open to suggestions.”

“Here,” Seungcheol’s fingers lightly grazed your wrist as he reached for your pen. “What if you say—”

Jihoon’s jaw tightened, and he reached over, pulling his keyboard closer with a faint, intentional clatter. “Let’s focus on the melody first. No point in perfecting lyrics we can’t fit to the music.”

You glanced up at him, your expression caught between amusement and gratitude, while Seungcheol just laughed, leaning back but making no move to create more distance.

“Of course, Producer-nim,” Seungcheol teased, though his tone was light. “I’ll leave the melody to the master.”

Jihoon’s fingers danced over the keys, the soft piano notes filling the room. But even as he worked, his eyes would occasionally dart back to you and Seungcheol. He saw the way Seungcheol would lean in, his hand sometimes brushing against yours, his quiet chuckles always a little too close. And you… you seemed oblivious, focused on your lyrics, nodding at his ideas, but never quite leaning back into his touch.

Still, it was enough to gnaw at Jihoon.

“I think this transition needs more impact,” he finally said, a little louder than necessary, his gaze meeting yours. “Y/n, try humming it with me?”

You perked up, nodding. “Sure.”

You moved slightly forward, leaving Seungcheol’s side as you walked over to Jihoon’s setup. He adjusted the mic stand for you, his hands lingering for a second, his voice softer now. “Just follow my lead.”

The melody played, and you hummed along, your voice blending seamlessly with his instrumental. As you sang, Jihoon’s tense shoulders seemed to ease, and the faint hint of a smile played at his lips.

Seungcheol watched, a knowing smirk crossing his face as he leaned back against the couch. “Wow, Producer-nim really knows how to bring out the best in his artists.”

Jihoon’s fingers paused on the keys, his gaze flicking to Seungcheol. “That’s the job.”

But beneath the calm expression, his focus never strayed from you.

The door clicked shut behind you, leaving a quiet stillness in the studio. Jihoon leaned back in his chair, exhaling as his fingers tapped rhythmically against his armrest. He began to tidy up the lyric sheets scattered around, but his calm didn’t last long.

“You know, I should start charging for my acting,” Seungcheol's voice cut through the silence, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “I mean, watching you go all stiff with jealousy was worth every second.”

Jihoon’s eyes shot up, narrowing. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please,” Seungcheol laughed, casually leaning against the back of the couch. “The way you practically glared holes through me every time I leaned close to Y/n? The piano smashing was a nice touch too.”

“I wasn’t glaring,” Jihoon grumbled, shuffling the lyric sheets with unnecessary force. “I was focused on the work.”

“Sure. Because ‘Let’s focus on the melody’ wasn’t you screaming ‘Back off’ in music producer language.”

Jihoon’s cheeks tinted the faintest shade of pink, and he spun his chair around, refusing to face Seungcheol. “You were the one being unnecessarily touchy. That’s a cheap move, hyung.”

“Cheap but effective,” Seungcheol sang, walking over to Jihoon’s desk. “I just wanted to see how far you’d go. Honestly, I thought you were going to throw that keyboard at me.”

“I considered it,” Jihoon muttered, his grip tightening around the edge of his desk. “Don’t push it.”

Seungcheol chuckled, leaning closer. “You should just tell her, you know. You’ve already done the hard part—writing with her, watching her grow, supporting her in the background. The only thing left is saying it.”

Jihoon’s shoulders tensed, and for a moment, his eyes softened. “She… has a lot going on. And I’m…”

“A coward?”

Seungcheol had known about Jihoon's little crush on you since predebut. It wasn't anything Jihoon ever said—it was everything he didn’t. The way his eyes would follow you just a moment longer than anyone else, how his usually stoic expression softened whenever you spoke, and how his rare laughter seemed to come easily whenever you made a joke. Jihoon never talked much, but when it was with you, his words seemed to flow a little easier.

But Seungcheol had kept quiet, just observing, thinking it was just a passing crush. After all, they were all young, chasing dreams, busy with practices, and dealing with the pressure of a debut that seemed just out of reach. Feelings were bound to get tangled.

It wasn’t until years later, when he heard Jihoon was producing a song for you—your first song, the one that became a hit—that Seungcheol realized it wasn’t just a crush. Jihoon didn’t just work on your song; he poured himself into it, perfecting every note, making sure the melody brought out the best in your voice. It wasn’t just a project to him.

So, one night, when the two of them were alone in the studio, Seungcheol leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching Jihoon fine-tune your track for the hundredth time. The younger one didn't even notice him at first, too lost in his world.

“You like Y/n, don’t you?” Seungcheol finally asked, his voice calm but direct.

Jihoon’s fingers stilled over the keyboard, a faint hesitation hanging in the air. He didn’t turn around. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on,” Seungcheol chuckled, pushing off the doorway and walking in. “Don’t pretend. I’ve seen how you look at her. I saw it back then, and I see it now.”

Silence. Jihoon’s shoulders seemed to tense slightly, and then he exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” Seungcheol frowned, taking a seat on the couch. “You’re making her first song. You’re working harder on it than any other track you’ve touched lately. If that’s not a confession in itself, I don’t know what is.”

“She deserves something good. Something that works,” Jihoon mumbled, his fingers fidgeting with a pen.

“Yeah, because she’s talented. But for you? It’s more than that.”

Jihoon finally turned to Seungcheol, his expression unreadable. “What if it’s pointless? What if she doesn’t see me that way?”

Seungcheol leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You won’t know unless you try. And you know Y/n. She’s not the type to run away from something honest.”

Jihoon’s gaze dropped to the floor, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting his lips. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Well, maybe not by glaring at me every time I joke with her,” Seungcheol teased, lightening the mood.

Jihoon rolled his eyes, but there was a warmth in his expression now. “Maybe I’ll throw the guitar at you next time.”

“Sure, sure. But just so you know, if you keep pretending you don’t care, someone else might show up and make her fall for them.”

That thought alone seemed to light a fire in Jihoon’s chest, and Seungcheol caught it—the brief flash of determination in his eyes.

After that night, Jihoon began to change in ways that were almost too subtle to notice—unless you were paying attention. Jihoon was still Jihoon, calm and focused, but now there was a quiet sort of energy around him whenever you were near.

He started texting you more often—just small things, like asking if you got home safely after a late recording session or sending you a link to a song he thought you’d like. He listened intently when you spoke, his gaze never wavering, and his usual brief responses grew a little longer, more thoughtful.

In the studio, he would suggest a break whenever he noticed you seemed tired, even going as far as bringing you your favorite drink without asking. Once, he even swapped his hoodie with yours when you shivered slightly from the cold air conditioning.

You noticed it too. The way he would look up when you walked in, how his usually distant expression softened, or how he would stay in the studio a little longer when you were there, even if his part of the work was done.

One evening, as you tried to perfect the chorus of a song, your voice cracking slightly from overuse, Jihoon stood up and gently took your wrist. “Let’s take a break. Pushing won’t make it better.”

“I’m fine. I can—”

“You’re not a machine, Y/n,” he interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. “Come on.”

He led you out of the studio, the warmth of his hand lingering on your skin. Outside, the cool breeze swept across your face, and you sighed, leaning against the wall.

“Thanks,” you murmured, looking at him.

Jihoon nodded, but his eyes lingered on you, as if there was something more he wanted to say. But instead, he just stayed there, standing beside you in the quiet hallway, his presence alone enough to calm your nerves.

Seungcheol noticed too—how Jihoon’s attention seemed to orbit around you. He watched with a grin whenever Jihoon would get subtly annoyed if someone else got too close, how his friend seemed to naturally gravitate toward you.

“Man, I never thought I’d see Woozi being soft like this,” Seungcheol teased one day when you left to get water.

“Shut up,” Jihoon muttered, pretending to focus on his laptop.

“You’re not even hiding it anymore.”

“I’m just making sure she’s okay.”

“Yeah, and I’m the president,” Seungcheol laughed. “Just admit it, you care about her.”

Jihoon’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze flickering to where you stood by the water dispenser. “I do.”

“You should tell her.”

“Easier said than done,” Jihoon mumbled, but the way his eyes followed you spoke louder than any confession he could make.

The quiet hum of the studio equipment filled the room, a gentle backdrop to the creative chaos surrounding you. Papers scattered on the table, some scribbled with half-finished lyrics, others with scratched-out chords. You sat on the couch, your guitar resting against your thigh, and Jihoon was beside you, his laptop open, the familiar glow illuminating his focused expression.

You strummed a gentle melody, your fingers moving almost automatically, but your mind was elsewhere—specifically, on the way Jihoon’s gaze kept flickering toward you. He wasn’t obvious, but you’d known him long enough to recognize when something was on his mind.

“Let’s try it again from the second verse,” he said, his voice steady as always. But the way he leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against yours, felt different.

You cleared your throat, trying to shake off the slight flutter in your chest. “Okay, but I still think the transition feels awkward. It’s too sudden.”

Jihoon hummed, leaning back, but even then, his arm remained against yours, his warmth grounding you. “Then let’s smooth it out. Maybe extend the line or add a softer bridge.” His fingers tapped on the keyboard, adjusting the track.

You glanced at him, trying to focus on the work, but the closeness was impossible to ignore. “You’re getting really good at reading my mind, you know that?”

Jihoon smiled, a gentle, almost shy smile that you rarely saw. “Maybe I’ve just been paying attention.”

Silence fell again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You played the melody, humming along, your voice blending with the soft notes. Jihoon’s gaze didn’t leave you, his eyes tracing the way you lost yourself in the music.

“Your voice… it always suits this kind of song,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You stopped, cheeks warming slightly. “You think so?”

“I know so.” His tone was soft, but there was a quiet certainty to it. “You bring the lyrics to life. That’s why I knew this song was meant for you.”

Something in your chest tightened at his words, the sincerity in his voice wrapping around you. “Jihoon, I—”

The door swung open, and Seungcheol peeked in. “Still at it? I knew you two would be here until dawn.”

You cleared your throat, suddenly aware of the closeness. Jihoon leaned back slightly, his expression returning to its calm, composed look. “Almost done. Just refining.”

“Of course.” Seungcheol grinned, stepping in. “But don't overwork her, Woozi. She still needs that voice tomorrow.”

Jihoon rolled his eyes. “I know. I’m not a slave driver.”

But as you tried to refocus, you couldn’t shake the lingering warmth of his words—or the way his gaze had softened when he looked at you.

The door swung open again, and Soonyoung waltzed in, carrying two plastic bags that crinkled noisily. “Midnight snacks! I bring salvation in the form of tteokbokki and kimbap!”

“Finally,” Seungcheol cheered, abandoning his spot by the soundboard to raid the bags. Jihoon, ever the disciplined one, simply raised an eyebrow, though the faint smile on his lips betrayed his amusement.

“You two are gonna spoil her,” Jihoon muttered, but he didn’t stop you when you reached for a kimbap roll.

“Oh, please. She’s working too hard. A little late-night energy won’t hurt.” Soonyoung plopped down on the couch beside you, practically beaming. “So, what are we working on?”

Jihoon tapped on his laptop. “Just fine-tuning the second verse. Y/n thinks the transition’s too abrupt, and I agree. We’re trying to find a smoother flow.”

Soonyoung leaned forward, chewing on a piece of tteokbokki. “Why don’t you add a two-bar instrumental bridge? Something subtle, like a rising piano line to ease the mood?”

Jihoon’s eyes lit up. “That could actually work. Give me a second.” He started tinkering with the software, and the room filled with the delicate rise of soft keys, fitting perfectly between the verses.

“I’m a genius,” Soonyoung declared, looking smug. “I should get producer credits.”

“You wish.” Jihoon snorted, but he saved the updated version, clearly pleased.

As you sipped on a can of soda, feeling the comfort of the warm, slightly chaotic atmosphere, Soonyoung’s voice suddenly cut through, clear and casual—too casual.

“Didn’t you like him in the past?”

Silence. An absolute, crushing silence.

The room seemed to freeze. The soft hum of the equipment suddenly felt louder. You stared at Soonyoung, your breath caught, the half-chewed kimbap in your mouth suddenly dry.

Jihoon’s fingers, which had been moving so fluidly over the keyboard, halted mid-gesture. His gaze snapped to you, a mix of shock and confusion. Seungcheol looked up, a piece of tteokbokki half-raised to his lips, his jaw slack.

“I—What?” you managed to say, your voice smaller than you intended.

“You forgot?” Soonyoung looked genuinely surprised, blinking at the stunned faces around him. “I remember you told me about that on our way to the dorm. You thought Jihoon was cute—especially when he got all serious with his lyrics.”

“I—That was…” Your voice faltered, heat rushing to your cheeks. “I was young. We were all kids.”

“Soonyoung-ah,” Jihoon’s voice was a warning, but the redness creeping up his ears betrayed him. He still hadn’t looked away from you.

Soonyoung seemed to sense the tension he’d stirred up, but instead of backtracking, he leaned back with an amused smile. “Hey, I’m just stating facts. And now look at you two, making music together all over again. Feels like fate.”

You tried to focus on your food, each bite feeling heavier than before. Jihoon’s gaze flickered away, his attention returning to the screen, but his fingers hovered, unsure.

The warmth in your chest was impossible to ignore. Jihoon’s eyes met yours once more—fleeting, almost shy—but in that glance, there was a question, a hesitant spark. And your heart raced just a little faster.

The chaos erupted like a wildfire.

You had just stepped off the stage after another successful performance, the bright lights still lingering in your vision when your manager rushed toward you, her expression pale. “Y/n… you need to see this.”

She handed you her phone, and there it was—a news article that had already gone viral. The headline screamed: "Rising Star Y/n Accused by Family of Theft and Runaway: The Truth Behind Her Past."

Your heart dropped. Your uncle’s name was right there, and his words were cruel and twisted.

“She stole from our family, took a large sum of money, and disappeared to Seoul. We tried to help her, but she betrayed us,” the article quoted him. He painted a picture of you as an ungrateful, deceitful child who had thrown away family for fame.

Panic twisted your stomach. Your manager’s phone kept vibrating, notifications pouring in—fans commenting, people demanding an explanation, other news outlets picking up the story.

“How… How could he…?” your voice was barely a whisper, your hands cold

“Y/n, we need to make a statement,” your manager urged. “We have to clear this up.”

Clear it up? What even was there to clear up? It was a complete lie. You knew the truth, Jihoon knew, but would anyone believe you over the man parading as your family?

Your mind spun with memories—the suffocating isolation back then, your uncle holding back your inheritance, his family treating you like a burden. You had nothing when you left, nothing but the tiny bit of courage you had left to chase a life they tried to take from you.

The staff members whispered, your phone buzzed incessantly. Social media was already flooding with comments—some defending you, others calling you a fraud.

Jihoon’s phone buzzed endlessly. Notifications flooded in, messages from the members, the manager, and even his mother, asking if he knew about the chaos involving you. His jaw tightened, a sense of dread clawing at his chest. He had just seen you hours ago, your smile bright after another successful performance. How had everything fallen apart so quickly?

He dialed your number, pressing his phone to his ear, but the call went unanswered. Once, twice, three times. Panic gripped him tighter with each failed attempt. He paced his studio, his fingers tapping against his thigh, a nervous habit he couldn’t shake.

The headlines were ruthless, and the comments even worse. People who didn’t know anything about you were already labeling you a liar, a thief. Jihoon knew better. He knew how you had struggled, how you had clawed your way out of the darkness they had thrown you into.

Finally, he grabbed his keys and stormed out. He wasn’t going to just sit there. He needed to find you.

As he sped through the city, he tried calling you again. This time, he called Seungcheol.

“Hyung, where is she? Did you get to her?” he blurted the moment Seungcheol picked up.

“Jihoon?” Seungcheol's voice was muffled, the sound of a car engine in the background. “Yeah, I have her. We’re heading somewhere safe. Soonyoung’s coordinating with the legal team, but things are blowing up fast.”

“Is she… Is she okay?” Jihoon’s voice softened, betraying his fear.

“She’s in shock, I think. Trying to stay calm, but you know Y/n. She’s… trying to hold it together,” Seungcheol explained, his voice quieter. “But Jihoon, she’s hurt. Her own family did this to her.”

Jihoon’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, knuckles pale. “Where are you taking her?”

“To my place for now. It’s better if the press doesn’t know,” Seungcheol replied.

“Stay there. I’m coming.” Jihoon didn’t even wait for Seungcheol’s reply before ending the call, his foot pressing harder on the accelerator.

His mind raced, thinking of what to say to you, how to comfort you. But all he knew for sure was that he needed to be there. You weren’t going to face this alone. Not again.

When Jihoon stepped into Seungcheol’s apartment, the air was thick with tension. The lights were dim, and Soonyoung stood in the kitchen, whispering urgently into his phone. Seungcheol was by the window, his gaze shifting between the streets below and the silent figure curled on the couch.

And then he saw you.

You were sitting there, knees drawn to your chest, your face buried against them. Your shoulders trembled slightly, and even from across the room, Jihoon could see your fingers gripping the fabric of your pants so tightly your knuckles were pale.

“Y/n…” Jihoon’s voice was barely a whisper, but it seemed to echo in the room.

You didn’t look up immediately, but when you did, your eyes were glassy, lost. A faint, broken smile appeared on your lips, but it crumbled just as quickly. “Jihoon… I…”

Before you could finish, Jihoon crossed the room, kneeling beside the couch. He didn’t hesitate, reaching out to gently hold your hands, prying your fingers free from their tight grip. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

You shook your head, a choked laugh escaping you. “It’s not okay. They’re saying… they’re saying I stole from them. That I ran away with their money. That I… Jihoon, I didn't do that. I swear—”

“I know.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for doubt. “I know you didn’t. We all know.”

Your breathing was unsteady, each gasp catching in your throat. “But the whole world thinks… They’re calling me a thief, a liar. My own family did this… Why? Why would they—” Your voice broke, and tears slipped down your cheeks.

Jihoon’s heart twisted painfully. He had never seen you like this—so exposed, so lost. The woman who stood on stage, who wrote lyrics with such passion, who fought to rebuild her life, now reduced to this fragile state.

“They’re scared, or greedy, or just cruel. But none of that is your fault,” Jihoon whispered, his thumb brushing away your tears. “We’re going to fix this. I promise you.”

You stared at him, searching for something—reassurance, hope, anything to hold on to. “Jihoon… I don’t know what to do.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned closer, resting his forehead against yours, letting you feel his warmth, his steady presence. “You don’t have to know. You just have to let us help you. Let me help you.”

A quiet sob broke from you, and you leaned into him, your arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders. Jihoon’s arms enveloped you, holding you close, his chin resting on your shoulder as he whispered, “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

Across the room, Seungcheol looked away, giving you both a moment. Soonyoung stepped out to the balcony, continuing his call but throwing a quick thumbs-up toward Jihoon. The world outside might be cruel, but here, you had them—people who knew you, who cared, who would fight for you.

Within hours, statements from both your label and Pledis were released, carefully crafted yet resolute in their tone. Your label firmly denied your uncle's accusations, clarifying that his claims were false and rooted in a personal dispute. They acknowledged the difficult situation you faced in the past, explaining that you were a young trainee who had to abandon her dreams due to unforeseen family circumstances.

Pledis, under the direct supervision of Seungcheol, Jihoon, and Soonyoung, released their own statement. They confirmed your history as a promising trainee who was forced to withdraw from debut due to family complications. They expressed regret that you had to leave under such circumstances but emphasized their support for you now.

The company stood by your truth, and it wasn't just words on paper. Seungcheol was the one who demanded the statement be released immediately, his voice firm and unwavering in the meeting room. Jihoon insisted on the wording, making sure every detail reflected the reality of your situation without exploiting your trauma. Soonyoung, surprisingly serious, went as far as personally reaching out to industry connections, making sure the narrative didn’t spiral out of control.

With their combined efforts, the public's perception shifted. Sympathy replaced doubt, and the comments under your social media flooded with support.

Alongside the official statements, photos of you with Seungcheol, Jihoon, and Soonyoung began to circulate on social media. Some were candid shots—Seungcheol playfully ruffling your hair, Jihoon walking beside you with a faint smile, and Soonyoung making exaggerated faces to make you laugh. Others were from studio sessions, showing you deep in conversation with Jihoon or Seungcheol leaning over to check your lyrics.

Fans started piecing together the connection. Jihoon, the genius producer behind almost all your songs, wasn’t just a collaborator—he was a steadfast presence in your life. Seungcheol and Soonyoung, who were known for their loyalty and protectiveness over their members, clearly extended that same care to you.

Online discussions swelled with sympathy. “If Seungcheol and Jihoon trust her, then I trust her too.” “You can see in their eyes they genuinely care about her.” “Jihoon produces all her songs—there’s no way she’s the person her uncle described.”

A week after the tide of public opinion began to shift in your favor, Jihoon arrived at your doorstep unannounced. The moment you opened the door, he stepped inside with quiet confidence, his eyes searching the small space until they found you standing there—alone, vulnerable, yet somehow still holding on.

He said nothing, letting the silence fill the room before slowly opening his arms wide. Without hesitation, he pulled you into a deep, unwavering embrace. Your body shook as the walls you’d built crumbled, and the sobs you had kept buried for so long spilled out uncontrollably. You melted into his chest, feeling like fragile glass finally cradled safely after a storm.

Jihoon’s arms tightened gently around you, his steady heartbeat resonating against your ear like a calming rhythm. In that quiet moment, his presence spoke louder than words ever could—he was here, unwavering and steadfast, ready to be the anchor you needed. No matter what had happened, no matter how far you had fallen, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Jihoon’s hands slowly stroked your hair, his touch gentle and soothing as if trying to erase every trace of pain you’d carried alone for so long. He whispered soft reassurances, low and steady, barely more than a breath.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he murmured. “I’m here. We’ll get through this—together.”

His voice held no pressure, only quiet strength that wrapped around you like a warm blanket. As your sobs softened, you clung to him tighter, letting yourself finally rest, finally breathe. For the first time in a long while, you felt seen—not as someone broken or forgotten, but as someone worthy of care and love.

Jihoon held you like that until the world outside faded away, and all that mattered was the steady beat of two hearts healing side by side.

After a while, Jihoon gently pulled back just enough to look at you. The two of you settled on the worn-out couch, close but not crowded, the quiet hum of the city outside your window filling the space between you.

He studied your face with soft concern. “How are you feeling? Really.”

You hesitated, then let out a shaky breath. “Honestly? Still fragile. But... better, now that you’re here.”

Jihoon nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. “It’s okay to take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

His words wrapped around you like a shield, giving you the courage to admit the weight you’d been carrying, the fear that had made you shut down for so long. In that moment, sitting side by side, you realized maybe—just maybe—you could start to heal.

You looked down at your hands, twisting the edge of your sleeve nervously. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice barely steady. “For everything that happened—how I disappeared, how I pushed people away... especially you.”

Jihoon’s hand found yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Hey, none of that was your fault. You didn’t ask for any of this.”

“But I still feel like I should’ve done better. Stayed strong—for myself, for everyone who believed in me.”

He shook his head gently, eyes soft but firm. “You’ve been through so much. It’s okay to be human, to stumble. What matters is you’re here now, and we’re going to face this together.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, grateful for his steady presence. “Thank you... for not giving up on me.”

Jihoon smiled, a quiet promise in his gaze. “Never.”

Jihoon’s grip on your hand tightened just a little, his eyes searching yours with a seriousness that made your heart skip. He took a slow breath before speaking, his voice softer than before.

“Y/n, I’ve been holding this in for a while… but I can’t anymore. I like you. More than just a friend, more than just someone I want to help. I’ve liked you since before you even knew I existed.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden confession, your heart racing.

“I didn’t say anything because I wanted to be there for you, not add any pressure. But seeing you now, vulnerable and still so strong—it’s made me realize I don’t want to hide it anymore.”

He gave you a small, hopeful smile. “I want to be by your side. Not just as your producer or friend... but something more, if you’ll let me.”

Your breath hitched, and a heavy wave of doubt washed over you. You looked down, voice barely a whisper.

“I... I don’t know if I deserve this—deserve you. After everything I’ve been through, all the mistakes, all the pain... How could someone like you want someone like me?”

Your heart ached with a mix of gratitude and fear, the weight of your past pressing hard against the hope Jihoon’s words had sparked.

Jihoon reached out, gently lifting your chin so your eyes met his. His gaze was steady, full of warmth and certainty.

“Y/n, you don’t have to be perfect for me to want you. I see you—everything you are, everything you’ve been through—and it only makes me want to be by your side more.”

He smiled softly, his voice low and sincere.

“You deserve kindness, love, and a fresh start. And I want to be part of that with you.”

You searched his eyes, vulnerability and doubt still lingering in yours. “Jihoon… are you sure you won’t regret this? Being with someone like me—after everything?” Your voice cracked, heavy with the weight of all the pain and uncertainty you carried.

He held your gaze steadily, no hesitation in his eyes. Slowly, he shook his head, a gentle but unwavering smile playing at his lips. “Never. I’ve waited so long to tell you this. You don’t have to be anyone else for me—I like you exactly as you are.”

Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached out and cupped your cheek tenderly. The world around you seemed to quiet as he leaned in, closing the distance between you. His lips met yours softly at first—warm, comforting—like a silent promise that he was here to stay, no matter what.

You melted into the kiss, feeling a fragile hope bloom inside you for the first time in so long. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real. And in that moment, that was enough.

His lips brushed against yours with a softness that took your breath away, gentle like the first drop of rain after a long drought. The kiss deepened slowly, tender but full of meaning, as if every unspoken word between you was being conveyed through this quiet connection.

Jihoon’s hand moved from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, steadying you, grounding you, letting you know he was there—completely present. You felt the warmth of his breath mingling with yours, the faintest tremor of emotion in his touch.

It wasn’t hurried or desperate; it was patient and sincere, like a promise that no matter how broken or uncertain your past had been, he wanted to be part of your future. Your heart hammered wildly as the kiss lingered, a delicate thread weaving your two souls closer in that perfect, fragile moment.

After pulling back just slightly, Jihoon rested his forehead against yours, his eyes searching yours with a quiet intensity. His voice was soft but certain, carrying all the emotions he had kept hidden for so long.

“I love you,” he said simply, as if those three words held the weight of everything between you. “I’ve loved you from the moment I first saw you, even when I didn’t say it. And I want to keep loving you—if you’ll let me.”

He gave you a small, hopeful smile, his hand still gently holding your face.

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

The end.

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cheftsunoda · 2 days ago

Text

heal your heart—cl16

part four (a hefty amount of words)

smau + real life

carlos sainz x !sister singer reader

charles leclerc x sainz reader

catalina sainz has it all— she is a successful grammy award winning artist, her brother is a well known formula 1 driver, she has an amazing family and wonderful friends. she was also blessed with a fiance and a beautiful baby boy.. she had everything.. until she didn't. her fiance disappears and takes her son with him. catalina watches as her world crumbles...who will be there to help pick up the pieces?

fc : kali uchis

⚠️ATTENTION : TRIGGER WARNING! mentions of abuse, kidnapping, depression. ⚠️

part one here

part two here

part three here

f1gossipgirls

834,741 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Catalina Sainz had her custody hearing today and gave a raw and emotional testimony opening about years of mental, verbal and physical abuse by the hands of her fiance. Catalina was awarded full custody with absolutely no visitation rights for the father. Charles Leclerc - her suspected partner- and Carlos Sainz were by her side the entire hearing. Along with Lando Norris, Pierre Gasly, George Russell, Lewis Hamilton and more. Baby Mateo will return to the paddock soon!

username00 : i am SOBBING. she did it. she FOUGHT and she WON. queen mother catalina sainz we salute you

username10 : the fact that she stood in that courtroom and relived all that trauma… and STILL protected her baby boy. hero status.

username5 : charles, carlos, pierre, LANDO, LEWIS??? she really said “assemble the avengers” huh

username15 : OUR BABY MATEO IS COMING BACK TO THE PADDOCK

username0 : carlos sainz as big brother of the year. no further questions. the man was READY to go feral.

username1 : lando didn’t speak ONCE during that press conference after the hearing. just stared down the reporter that asked if the ex will appeal

username0 : literal death glare

username20 : I hope whoever said “she was being dramatic” when she left the spotlight chokes on this news. SHE WAS FIGHTING FOR HER LIFE

username17 : “suspected partner” lmao pls. charles was holding her hand, wiping her tears, AND glaring down the ex like a villain origin story. it’s not a suspicion. it’s fate.

now back to where we really left off...

charles pov

The laughter inside the house had faded, replaced by an unbearable silence. Carlos and I exchanged a look — the kind that says, something’s wrong. Horribly wrong.

“She went outside a few minutes ago,” Carlos said, his voice tight, nearly breaking.

My chest tightened. “Where is she?”

We ran out into the night, the cool air suddenly feeling sharp against my skin, like a warning. The streetlights flickered overhead as we scanned every shadow.

Then Carlos’s voice cracked, pointing ahead. “There.”

I followed his gaze and saw it — Catalina’s phone, smashed against the cracked sidewalk, its shattered screen reflecting the harsh light like broken promises. My heart lurched. I dropped to my knees, fingers trembling as I reached out, terrified of what this meant.

Carlos’s voice was rough, raw with fear and anger. “Who would do this? Where is she?”

I pulled out my phone, frantically dialing the number to her business phone, over and over. Each ring echoed like a countdown to despair. No answer. No signal.

"I think we both know who would do this." I managed to choke out.

Carlos’s jaw clenched so hard I thought it might shatter. “This... this isn’t just some stupid fight. He is gonna hurt her. Or worse.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked at Carlos. The pain in his eyes mirrored my own — helplessness, guilt, and a burning need to fix this.

“We have to find her. Now,” I said, voice low but fierce.

We called her name into the darkness, our voices raw, desperate. Every second felt like an eternity, every shadow a cruel reminder of how much was at stake. Carlos’s hand found my shoulder— a steady anchor amid the chaos. We wouldn’t stop until she was safe. We had to.

I was running before I even knew it—phone clutched in one hand, the broken pieces of Catalina’s still burned into my mind. Carlos was close behind, yelling her name into the darkness like it could somehow bring her back.

“Catalina!” I shouted, heart thundering, lungs burning. “CATALINA!”

No answer. Only the eerie quiet of the night, like the world was holding its breath.

We split up, scouring the streets, knocking on neighbors’ doors. Pierre and Lando had followed us out, confusion quickly turning to fear as we told them what we found.

Pierre’s jaw was tight. “Do you think it was him?”

“It has to be,” Carlos said. “He’s the only one who’d do something this reckless. He knows he’s lost.”

Lando pulled out his phone. “I’m calling the police.”

“I’m calling the lawyers,” Carlos added, already dialing. “And her security team—where the hell were they?”

I didn’t wait. I kept running. Past the corner. Past the line of hedges where we used to walk Mateo in the stroller. Past every version of safety we’d tried to build around her. My heart was in my throat. I couldn’t stop picturing her terrified, alone, in danger. I had promised her she was safe now. I had promised. The second I got signal, I pinged her phone’s last location. The dot blinked. Then vanished.

“She was taken,” I whispered. “This was planned.”

Carlos’s face hardened like stone. “Then he’s going to regret it.”

Sirens began to wail in the distance — too far, too late. The rest of the drivers had gathered by the time we returned to the house, George, Alex, even Lewis. No one had to ask what was happening. They saw it in our eyes.

“She’s family,” Lewis said quietly. “We’ll find her.”

“I won’t stop until we do,” I replied, and I meant it.

catalina's pov :

At first, I thought I was dreaming. Everything was muffled. My head throbbed. The last thing I remembered clearly was the buzz of my phone, a number I didn’t recognize, the instinct to step outside for air. Then — nothing. Now it's-- dark. cold. Something scratchy pressed against my skin — the seat of a car, maybe? My wrists were sore. Duct tape. My heart started to pound. No. No no no. I opened my eyes slowly. Blurry shapes. The interior of a van. The smell of cheap air freshener barely masking gasoline and something else — sweat and fear. Then I heard it. His voice.

“I told them this wasn’t over.”

The chill that ran through me was worse than anything I’d felt in that courtroom. Worse than childbirth. Worse than the endless nights I’d spent replaying years of him trying to erase me.

“You think some judge can take my son from me?” he growled. “You think Carlos and your boyfriend can protect you?”

"You think you can just get up there and make me look horrible in front of everyone? You are a lot more stupid than I thought, Bitch."

I didn’t respond. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing my fear. But I couldn’t stop the tremble in my limbs. My baby. Mateo. Was he okay? Was he safe? Where was Charles? Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them away. I needed to stay clear. I needed to survive.

“You should’ve stayed quiet,” he hissed.

"But you didn't and now I have to ruin your life...or end it."

I turned my face away. I wouldn’t cry for him. Not this time. Not anymore. I breathed, slowly, counting in my head like Charles taught me. Like I had done on the nights when Mateo wouldn’t stop crying and I was sure I was unraveling.

1… 2… 3…

He could hurt me. He could scream. He could drag me into the dark. But he wouldn’t win. Not this time. And somewhere, I knew — Charles was looking for me. Carlos was raging. Lando was running. Pierre was calling every contact in Europe. My family was coming. I just had to hold on. Just a little longer.

charles pov :

The sun was rising, but the world still felt dark. I hadn’t slept. None of us had. Carlos looked like he’d aged ten years in one night. His jaw was set so tightly it looked like it hurt to speak. He hadn’t said much, anyway. Just made calls. Punched a wall. Made more calls. I sat at the kitchen table, her phone laid out in pieces in front of me like a puzzle we couldn’t put back together.

“What was she doing out there alone?” I muttered, more to myself than anyone. “Why didn’t someone see something?”

Lando walked in with two coffees and handed me one. “She probably thought it was safe. Home. It was just a step outside. Who would’ve expected—?”

“She should’ve expected,” Carlos snapped. Then immediately winced. “Not her. I meant him. He waited for a crack. That’s how he always was.”

I nodded. My fingers were still trembling.

Pierre came in next, phone to his ear. “Interpol is involved now. That’s something.”

“Interpol,” Carlos repeated, rubbing his eyes. “Jesus.”

We had nothing. No new footage. No new leads. Just her broken phone and an eerie silence. No ransom note. No contact. Just... gone. And Mateo — God, little Mateo — he was upstairs in his crib with Rebecca and Kika taking turns holding him, like keeping him close would somehow keep Catalina safe, too. My heart physically ached. I kept thinking of the way she looked at me that morning, just before she went outside. Her eyes were soft. A little tired, but brighter than they’d been in weeks. She had finally seemed steady. Like she was climbing out of the wreckage of the last year. And now… she was out there somewhere. In pain. Scared. Maybe worse.

“We’re missing something,” I said suddenly. “Something small. Something stupid.”

Carlos looked up. “Like what?”

I gestured to the remains of her phone. “She wouldn’t have picked up a random number. She blocks everything that isn’t saved.”

He nodded. “Unless—”

“Unless she knew it. Maybe it was disguised.”

We both lunged for the laptop at the same time. Minutes later, we found it. A call routed through a system. Masked, but underneath… an old number. One she’d deleted. One she had asked me to delete from her contacts months ago. But one that, maybe, in a split-second of familiarity, she answered out of instinct. His number. We had a trace. Not much. But it was more than we’d had an hour ago.

Carlos stood. “We take this to the team. And to the police. Now.”

I followed him to the door, turning one last time to glance at the stairs where Mateo was sleeping.

“Hold on, Catalina,” I whispered. “We’re coming.”

catalina's pov - two days later

I think it’s been two days. I can’t be sure. The light doesn’t change much in here. A sliver of sun cuts through the boarded-up window in the corner, but it doesn’t reach me. Nothing does. My mouth is dry. My head is pounding. Everything hurts — my cheekbone, my ribs, my wrists, my pride. Hunger gnaws at me in dull, endless waves, but worse is the thirst. And worse than that is the silence. Except when he talks. He doesn’t yell. Not yet. That would require energy. He speaks slow, calculated. Like a man who’s convinced he’s won.

“I told you they’d never protect you,” he said this morning, crouching in the doorway like a shadow. “Where are your drivers now, Lina? Where’s your precious brother? Where’s Charles?”

Charles. The name hit me like a breath I couldn’t take. He doesn’t know what Charles is capable of when he loves someone. He doesn’t know that Carlos would burn the world down for me. That Lando would fly across oceans in a heartbeat. That Pierre has too many ghosts of his own to let me become one. That I am not alone. But… in this room, in this silence, it’s so easy to believe him. So easy to believe I was stupid to think I could ever win. I close my eyes and press my forehead to my knees, curled up on the floor like a child. My body is screaming, but I’m too numb to listen. My lip is split. My shoulder might be dislocated. Or maybe just badly bruised. It doesn’t matter. None of it feels real anymore. Maybe I should’ve just kept quiet. Maybe I shouldn’t have testified. Maybe this was always going to be the end. A quiet room. A locked door. And him winning. I hear his voice again — lazy, mocking.

“They’ll forget you. They’ll move on. I told you. You were never strong enough for this.”

I grit my teeth and hold back the sob clawing up my throat. My hand presses to my stomach, not for comfort — just to feel something. And then…A whisper of a memory. Mateo’s laugh. Tiny and warm and real. Charles’ arms around me, steady and strong. Carlos’ voice in the courtroom, cracked and furious. “She is not alone.” Maybe I was stupid to think I could have peace. But I’m not stupid enough to give up now. He hasn't won. Not yet.

charles pov :

We were running on fumes and adrenaline. Carlos hadn’t slept more than twenty minutes at a time. He was in full-blown survival mode — locked in, eyes cold, voice clipped. I don’t think I’d seen him this terrifyingly focused since our first years racing together. But this wasn’t a track. This was his sister. It had been 56 hours since Catalina vanished. And every minute she was gone, something in me frayed further. We’d been in Spain, back and forth between the coast and the countryside. Carlos had a private investigator running traces off her ex’s last known associates. The police were treating it like a domestic abduction, which gave us some pull — but not enough. Not fast enough. The break came from a toll booth camera. A grainy shot of a rental van heading into a remote wooded area northeast of Zaragoza — the driver matched the rough description of him. Catalina wasn’t visible, but Carlos knew. We both knew.

“He’s taken her off-grid,” he muttered, studying the map spread across the kitchen table of his parents’ house. “This road here — barely anyone uses it. There are old farms, vacant cottages.”

“Hideouts,” I said.

“Exactly.”

The investigator confirmed an abandoned property registered under a fake name. The kind of thing he would’ve set up before the trial — a plan B, just in case. He was always a few steps ahead. But not anymore.

Carlos stood up, clenching his fists. “We go now.”

I didn’t ask if we were waiting for the police. I didn’t ask if it was legal. I just grabbed my jacket and followed him out the door, lando following behind.

catalina's pov :

It’s getting harder to stay upright. I’m bleeding. Dizzy. My arms are shaking so badly I can barely keep them up, and he’s still coming. He has beaten me to the point where I can slowly feel the life draining out of me. I keep fighting. He’s enjoying it now. Enjoying watching me fight for what life I have left.

His voice is a cruel hum in my ear, saying things I’ve stopped registering. I just keep thinking about Mateo — the weight of him on my chest when he sleeps, his tiny laugh when I make the dinosaur voice, the way he says “mama” like it means everything. I feel the anger and strength in my core. If I die here, he won’t remember me. I scream and thrash as hard as I can, even though I know I won’t win. He throws me against the table. My shoulder hits first. The pain’s white-hot, and the world blurs. He steps over me. Knife in his hand. A jagged edge. My blood already on it.

“No one’s coming,” he spits. "You thought you won, huh bitch?"

"Well time is up." He said and pressed the knife against my jugular. The cool blade snaps me into reality. This is really it - this is my own chance.

BOOM.

The front door slams open like it’s been ripped off the hinges. I barely register the sound before I hear him.

“CATALINA!” Carlos. My brother. His voice is hoarse, shaking, wild with panic.

“Where is she?!” Charles.

“Oh my god—there!” Lando.

The three storm toward me and rip him off of me. I pull myself up, adrenaline being the only thing keeping me up straight. Charles rushes over to me, taking in my appearance.

“Cat, Cat—baby—it’s okay. I’m here.” He’s fussing, his hands moving over my arms, my face, checking me, grounding me—but my mind is only on one thing.

Revenge.

Revenge for the years of abuse and trauma. Revenge for stealing my son. Revenge for bringing me to the edge of death. Revenge for tearing me away from myself.

I can barely hear Charles. My vision has narrowed, tunneled in. I see the blade on the floor, slick with my blood. I reach for it.

“Catalina—wait—” I hear behind me, but it’s faint.

I wipe the blood on my pants. Cold. Mechanical. My heartbeat isn’t even racing anymore—it’s steady. Deadly steady. I push past Carlos, who startles as I move. My eyes lock on him, crumpled on the floor. Whimpering. Pleading. Just like I had, minutes ago.

His voice breaks. “Please—Cat—please—don’t—”

“I begged you too,” I whisper.

“Catalina—” Charles says again. This time closer. His voice is shaking now.

Carlos grabs at my arm, and pulls me towards him. His lips against my ear.

"It isn't worth it, Lina. I will have him dealt with, trust me." He said in a whisper.

The blade clattered against the floor. It echoed louder than I expected. Louder than his cries. Louder than my heart, which had finally begun to beat again, now in chaotic thuds against my ribs. I didn’t even feel Carlos pulling me against his chest until I was there — until the heat of his palm curled behind my head and my forehead met his collarbone. I was shaking. Violently. My knees buckled under me, and he held me upright.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, low and fierce. “He’s done. He’ll never touch you again.”

Behind us, I heard the sickening crack of Lando’s fist connecting with his face. Then the shuffle of movement—Lando swearing as he pulled his belt off to bind the bastard’s wrists behind his back. But my body wouldn’t move. My eyes were wide open but I couldn’t see anything. I heard his voice again. Choked. Spitting blood through split lips.

“A fit mother wouldn’t think about ending someone’s life, Catalina.”

The words sliced deeper than the blade ever could. My spine tensed. I started to turn back—but Carlos held me fast.

“Don’t give him what he wants,” he said. “Don’t let him take this moment from you, too.”

I was trembling, mouth parted in disbelief. In rage. In grief. I didn’t even realize I was crying until I felt the wetness slide over my chin. Charles was suddenly in front of me again, his hands on my face, gently guiding my eyes to his.

“Look at me,” he said softly. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

I searched his face—his beautiful, worried, furious face—and nodded. Barely. Carlos stepped in closer and wrapped his arms around both of us. His hand rested between my shoulder blades like a tether. Behind them, Lando was still working, his jaw tight as he finished tying the man’s ankles and muttering to himself in disgust. The air was thick with blood and the heavy fog of aftermath. No one said anything for a long moment. Then— I whispered, barely able to form the words.

“He tried to break me.”

Charles leaned his forehead to mine. “But he didn’t.”

Carlos nodded, voice sharp. “He never will again.”

Lando pulled the car up to the front, tires crunching over gravel, and I barely registered the sound. Everything was dimming now — the adrenaline had drained from my system, leaving behind only pain, exhaustion, and a hollow ache in my chest. Charles lifted me into his arms again, holding me bridal style as if I weighed nothing, though I could feel how careful he was being with every step. My body ached in ways I couldn’t describe, and it was getting harder to keep my eyes open. I clung to his shirt, my head pressed into the crook of his neck. As we approached the car, I spotted two unfamiliar men standing near Carlos — tall, serious, armed. Definitely not security. Not bodyguards. Something… darker. Carlos handed one of them a large, worn leather bag without a word, just a nod. The man accepted it like they’d done this before.

Carlos turned to us. “Get her to the medic. She’s fading fast.”

Lando didn’t hesitate—he slipped back into the driver’s seat, engine already rumbling. Charles eased me into the back, laying me down as gently as if I were made of glass. He didn’t let go of my hand. Not for a second. Carlos leaned into the open window, his eyes sharp but softening when they landed on me.

“Go get well. Go hold that beautiful baby of yours. I’m keeping my promise, hermana.”

He pressed a kiss to my bruised forehead, lingered there for a breath.

“See you soon. Love you.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, voice cracking. “I… I don’t even know what to say—”

He cut me off gently. “You don’t have to. My job is to protect you. Let me do it.”

I nodded, swallowing the knot in my throat. He tapped the roof of the car, and Lando pulled away. I kept my eyes on Carlos in the side mirror, watching him grow smaller, more distant. The two men flanked him as they entered the building. The door swung shut behind them. Five seconds later, a sound split the silence. Gunfire. Rapid. Merciless. Then screaming — awful, blood-curdling. I flinched. Charles squeezed my hand tighter.

“Don’t look back,” he said softly.

And I didn’t. I closed my eyes and let the darkness take me. Because for the first time in a long, long while…I wasn’t afraid anymore.

The car jolted to a stop, gravel crunching beneath the tires. I was barely aware of where we were, my head lolling to the side as the pain surged again, sharp and punishing. My body had become one deep bruise. My breath came in short, shallow gasps.

“We’re here,” Charles whispered, his voice close, grounding.

Warm arms gathered me again, lifting me from the back seat. I tried to speak—tried to ask if Mateo was inside—but the words wouldn’t come. Everything was static. Charles and Lando carried me through the gates of my childhood home, now transformed into a place of refuge. Safe. Familiar. It smelled like lemons and wood polish and my mother’s old perfume. We entered through the back, where the lights were dim and someone had already cleared a guest room. A woman stood waiting—middle-aged, with kind eyes and medical gloves already on. The medic.

“She’s lost a lot of blood. I need to check for internal injuries,” the woman said to Charles in a low voice. “You can stay, if she wants you to.”

“She wants me to,” he replied instantly, like it wasn’t even a question.

They laid me on the bed. The pain exploded when I moved and I couldn’t hold in the sound that tore from my throat. Charles was instantly beside me, holding my hand, brushing my hair back from my face.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, again and again. “I’ve got you, mon ange.”

The medic worked quickly—stitching a gash near my ribs, wrapping the bruises around my midsection, checking for concussion signs, forcing water down my throat in small sips. I tried to focus on Charles. On the way his eyes never left mine. On how he murmured soft things in French like a prayer under his breath.

When it was over, and I was clean, bandaged, and trembling in fresh clothes, the medic nodded at him. “Let her rest. Stay with her. She needs to know she’s not alone.”

I wanted to say thank you. I wanted to say everything. But exhaustion crashed over me. Charles climbed into the bed beside me without hesitation, pulling me carefully into his arms. I tucked my head beneath his chin. My whole body ached—but in his arms, I finally felt warm.

“You did so good,” he whispered against my hair. “You survived, mon cœur. You’re home.”

“I don’t feel like myself anymore,” I mumbled, my voice small and wrecked.

“You will. Piece by piece,” he said, kissing my forehead. “We’ll find her again.”

I clutched at his shirt, letting the sobs rise now that it was safe to let them. He held me through every single one. And in that room, in the house I’d run from and come back to, I started to believe maybe healing was possible—because Charles was holding my broken pieces like they were sacred.

The room was bathed in golden dusk, the last traces of sunlight curling around the edges of the curtains. I was curled beneath the blankets, every muscle in my body sore and frayed, but the pain was quieter now—held at bay by bandages, medicine, and the steady presence of the man who had barely left my side since I’d been carried out of hell. Charles had stepped out to take a call. It was quiet now. Too quiet. The door creaked open. I didn’t look up—I didn’t need to.

Carlos.

He stepped in with the same careful energy he always used when I was hurting, like he was afraid one wrong move might crack me open again. He didn’t say anything at first. Just dragged the chair beside my bed a little closer and sat.

"Hey," I said softly, turning my head toward him.

He looked tired—bone deep. There was dried blood on the sleeve of his sweater. I didn’t ask whose it was.

“You okay?” he asked. The words were simple, but his eyes were swimming with something far heavier.

I nodded slowly. “Getting there.”

He gave a slight nod back, jaw tight, like he was holding something inside he couldn’t quite let out.

“You got me back,” I whispered.

He exhaled hard. “Yeah.”

A pause stretched between us.

"Thank you, Carlos. For… everything."

He didn't answer at first. Just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. Then, without looking at me, he said, "There are some things a brother shouldn’t have to forgive himself for. And there are some things… a man shouldn’t be allowed to walk away from."

My breath caught. My stomach twisted—not from fear, but from understanding.

“You don’t have to say it,” I whispered.

He finally looked at me, and for a moment I saw something behind his eyes—something dark, final, and brutally calm.

“I know,” he said quietly. “But I need you to know you’re safe now. Really safe. No one’s ever going to touch you again.”

"I knew that if I let you do it, you'd live with it the rest of your life and that haunted me. I need you to be able to grow from this, to move on, to get married to someone who actually loves you, to raise my nephew."

A slow silence fell between us. My throat felt raw, my chest too full to breathe.

“Carlos…”

He shook his head and stood, coming to the edge of the bed and brushing a strand of hair from my face. “You rest. Be with Mateo. Be with Charles. Let yourself come back.”

I reached for his hand and squeezed it. He didn’t pull away.

“You always knew how to clean up my messes,” I said softly, trying to smile.

He gave the faintest smirk, but his eyes were glassy. “You were never the mess, Lina. He was.”

He leaned down and kissed my forehead gently—just like he had when we were kids and I’d fallen off my bike or woken from a nightmare.

“Te amo, hermana.”

And then he left—quiet as he’d come in. He didn’t say what he did. He didn’t have to. I knew. And for the first time in a long time, I felt safe enough to close my eyes and sleep.

The house had gone still. The kind of stillness that comes after a storm—the air heavier, quieter, like even the walls were holding their breath. I lay curled under a soft throw blanket in my childhood bedroom, every inch of my body aching, stitched together by gauze and silence. My heart, though—my heart was still trying to remember how to beat. How to believe I had made it out. That I was still here. That I was whole enough to hold him. I heard the soft pad of footsteps outside the door. Then a knock. Not Charles—his knock was always gentle, hesitant. Carlos had already come and gone. This one was quieter. Then came a second sound: a soft, hiccupping whimper. And I knew.

“Come in,” I rasped, barely above a whisper.

The door opened slowly. Rebecca stepped in first, eyes kind and brimming. In her arms, bundled in a soft blanket, was Mateo. My breath caught in my throat. He was heavier than I remembered. Bigger. His curls had grown, messier, darker. But his eyes—those wide, soulful eyes—were still the same. He looked at me like he wasn't sure if I was real.

"Hey, mi amor," I whispered, my voice shaking. "Hi, baby."

Rebecca crossed the room slowly and knelt by the bed, lowering him into my arms. The moment his small body rested against mine, it was like the world cracked open. He blinked up at me. Then touched my cheek with his chubby fingers, right where a bruise was fading. I cried. Quietly. Without restraint. The kind of cry that comes from a place buried deep—where grief and joy and relief live all tangled up together. And he—my beautiful boy—just nestled into me.

“I missed you so much,” I whispered, kissing his forehead, over and over again. “I looked for you every second. I didn’t stop. I never stopped.”

He made a small cooing sound, like he understood. I wrapped my arms around him tighter, careful not to press too hard against the bruises still healing, and rocked gently side to side. Just the two of us. The rest of the world melted away. I didn’t care that my body still throbbed or that I hadn’t eaten more than toast and soup. I didn’t care that my phone was buzzing somewhere or that tomorrow there would be lawyers, reporters, whispers. Right now, I had him. And he had me. And we were safe. Rebecca stood back quietly. I caught her eye and mouthed, thank you. She gave a soft nod and slipped from the room, closing the door gently behind her. I curled myself around Mateo and hummed the lullaby I used to sing to him when he was a newborn—broken, uneven, and trembling, but still a lullaby. His breathing slowed. His body relaxed. And as his tiny fingers curled into my shirt, I finally let myself believe -We were home.

The room was dim, lit only by the golden spill of late afternoon sun through gauzy curtains. Mateo slept against my chest, one small fist still tangled in the fabric of my shirt, his cheek warm against my collarbone. I hadn’t moved in over an hour. I didn’t dare. I’d forgotten what it felt like to just breathe with him in my arms. To feel the rise and fall of his tiny chest. To know he was safe. That we were safe. The door creaked slightly, and I looked up. Charles stood in the doorway, quiet as a shadow. He didn’t speak—just leaned his shoulder against the frame, arms folded, eyes soft. A look on his face like he was witnessing something sacred. I gave him a tired, barely-there smile.

“You’ve been standing there a while,” I whispered.

He smiled back. “Didn’t want to break it.”

I looked down at Mateo, brushing my lips against his forehead. “He didn’t cry once,” I murmured. “Just... curled into me. Like he remembered. Like he knew.”

Charles stepped in slowly, his movements careful, reverent. He crouched beside the bed and reached out, brushing a curl from my cheek. His fingers were gentle, but the way he looked at me—like I was breakable and invincible all at once—nearly undid me.

“You’re his entire world, mon cœur,” he said softly. “Of course he remembered.”

Tears welled in my eyes, and I let them fall. For once, I didn’t feel the need to apologize for them.

I leaned into Charles’ touch, closing my eyes. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this moment,” I whispered. “I thought... he’d grow up without me. I thought he’d forget my face.”

“He won’t,” Charles said. “He won’t forget. And you’ll remind him every day.”

I opened my eyes and looked at him.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” I said, my voice cracking. “For everything. For not giving up on me. For finding me. For staying.”

Charles leaned in and kissed my forehead, just next to a fading bruise.

“I would’ve searched every corner of the world,” he said. “I would’ve burned it down to bring you home.”

Mateo stirred slightly and let out a small sigh, his little hand patting against my chest before settling again. Charles smiled, his hand now resting gently over Mateo’s back.

“Is this what you want?” he asked quietly, almost like he was afraid to break the fragile peace in the room. “This... life. With him. With me.”

I blinked at him. “Charles,” I whispered, “You are the only thing that has felt safe in the middle of all this. I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

He nodded, pressing another kiss—this one softer, lingering—against my temple.

“Then we start here,” he said. “The three of us. One step at a time.”

And in that moment, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, I believed we could.

p4:)))

i decided i will add a part 5 just to show how cat has healed and her relationship with charles and her happy ending!! will be posted shortly

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athenas-only-daughter · 3 days ago

Text

Haunting the Canvas - The Clea Post

spurred on by conversations I've been having with @linka-from-captain-planet, I'm collecting the info we've been able to gather about Clea here, under a read-more for spoilers, because if you run around act 3, there's actually QUITE a bit to glean about her.

This is gonna be a living/edited post as we find more info! Pls let me know if you guys see anything that's missing, find out new info, etc!

Truly as soon as you get to act three, you can't go three feet without bumping into a sidequest that has to do with Clea in some regard. She is HAUNTING the canvas almost as much as real!Verso and she's not even dead.

First and foremost, The Fading Woman is often Clea! Sometimes it's Aline (if she's sad, it's Aline) but especially in act 3 it's Clea. Particularly at the Endless Tower location. If you want to glean more about Clea, I recommend talking to the fading woman when you see her, particularly as Maelle.

Clea is the eldest sibling, this is made plain during Maelle's companion quest at The Reacher

Also in this quest Maelle implies that Clea is Renoir's favorite. Verso disputes this, saying Alicia was his favorite child. However, earlier in a conversation with Lune, Verso says Clea was Renoir's favorite. Seems like there's some nuance here!

Clea has her own axon! If you were like 'hey Renoir made Axons for the rest of his family, where is Clea's?' it's easy to miss but it's the Axon in old Lumiere that's already dead (more on this later)

Clea's Axon seems to be called 'The Hauler' and is carrying part of the world on its back (incredibly on brand Eldest Daughter Shit)

Aline also painted a version of Clea - she is no longer with the painted family and is now trapped in the Flying Manor location by Clea herself.

Clea seemed to not like the portrait Aline painted of her, or at the very least resents her parents trying to portray her in the canvas full stop (she also dislikes the Axon). This led to Clea painting over her mother's version of her and leaving her in the painting to continue her work of making Nevrons.

We know Clea is making the Nevrons thanks to dialogue in the Fountain and Flying Manor quests, as well as Clea's dialogue to Maelle before act 3 AND dialogue with the Fading Woman in the Endless Tower.

The only Nevrons that are NOT Clea's are the ones on the Axon Islands, those are Renoir's.

On that note, why is Clea making Nevrons? she's using them to stop the chroma from returning to her mother when the painted citizens die, hoping to speed along her parents' conflict and then end this once and for all.

Also on this note! Clea is also making the painted WHITE Nevrons that we see and help. I'm still not 100% sure why, but we find this out by talking to Blanche during the Fountain quest, who has the special task of killing all of Clea's failed Nevrons, because god forbid someone see she made a mistake (perfectionist eldest daughter Clea Dessendre I am studying you sooo closely)

Painted Clea had a romance! with a painted lumiere citizen named Simon (he can be fought by reaching the Abyss in Renoir's Drafts)

Real!Clea apparently shared none of her painted counterpart's affections because she tricked him by pretending to be painted!Clea and gave him enough power so he could kill her Axon (also through trickery).

Has entered the painting several times since the start of Aline and Renoir's conflict. Notably to make Nevrons, capture her painted counterpart, trick Simon, but also she met Expedition 00 at the barrier and told them everything. Then tried to kill them when they wouldn’t leave. She also came in and tried to recruit Verso at one point.

Her final time in the canvas, that we know of, was when she came in 16 years ago and told him to watch over Alicia/Maelle.

Clea thinks its safer for Alicia to be in the Canvas, away from the war.

On that note, there's a war! Clea is apparently fighting a war against the Writers near singlehandedly. Renoir calls this her 'solitary war' and Alicia/Maelle says she 'took Verso's death personally', so it seems she's seeking revenge.

Clea is noted by both Alicia/Maelle and painted!Verso as being the most talented painter of the three of them

Also plays the harp!

There's a record you can unlock play at camp called "Clea, Stop Pulling Your Sister's Hair!"

Clea seems to have stopped playing in the Canvas well before either of her siblings - Francois is mentioned as missing her for over a hundred years, well before the fracture.

Francois and Clea used to sing together!

Much of the original canvas was made my Verso and Clea together. In the Endless Tower, the Fading Woman (Clea, here) says that she "spent far more time" in the canvas than Alicia and that she painted "half this world with Verso"

Despite this, Clea does not share her family's same fixation on it and seems to dislike their meddling with it - her mother's painted creations, her father's axons, etc. She does not consider the painting 'real', but "was perfectly fine to leave Maman here to work on her sorrows", and says it's Alicia's choice if she stays. She seems equally dismissive of her parents, saying that Aline "doesn't want help" and Renoir is "wasting time" when she needs his help.

There's a Fading Boy and another fragment of Clea in Fading Leaves. The Clea fragment has been erasing things from the canvas, 'out of respect for him, his creations and the things they made together'. We can infer she's talking about Verso here. The Fading Boy (remember, a fragment of Verso's soul) seems to be disheartened by this.

ETA: In the Painting Workshop, the Fading Boy talks to you about both real!Clea and Painted!Clea. It's hard to parse which is which but it seems like Real!Clea might have made the Lampmaster specifically to spook Verso, maybe when they were kids? The Fading Boy implies that he told Clea he was scared of the dark and she made him the world's most haunted nightlight (sisters amiright?)

Additionally, he mentions 'jealousy' so it seems Clea was, at times, jealous of Verso. This tracks with her being the most talented painter of the 3 but overlooked for her brother and also with something the Fading Boy says at the start of the flying manor that seems to be about Clea (not sure whether real or painted): "Everything is always about her. Her paintings, her sculptures. Everything has to be perfect, but perfect I have never been"

ETA: In Old Lumiere, the Fading Man (Renoir) seems to have some interesting things to say about 'she who painted nevrons' aka Clea: "She wasn't scared of death itself. / She was sad because there are more works of art than she'd ever be able to see in her lifetime. / So many fables from around the world that she'd never be able to collect. To bring her life in her workshop. / All the beauty in the world she'd never get to experience. That saddened her."

He also says that Clea "loved to challenge him" and that they were "the most alike"

ETA: At the Forgotten Battlefield, there's a Clea Fading Woman who asks Maelle if she can help and when Maelle is confused, says "I guess not. Pity. I'd hoped to return to more important matters. But instead I must occupy my time with... this." She then tells Maelle to "Go and play with your friends. I'll handle this."

#clea #clea dessendre #clair obscur: expedition 33 #clair obscur spoilers #clair obscur

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ayamari-no-goshi · 2 days ago

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Been thinking about my "Not All There" AU again. Basically, the idea that the Lazarus Pit fixed everything BUT Jason's memories (I'm going with the explanation that memories are complex and even magic has a hard time with it). But, Jason still returns to Gotham as the Red Hood, but he's not as overtly antagonistic. Instead, he likes to watch the Bats.

Here's what I had written:

He didn’t understand why he continued to watch them. Every time he saw the Bat or one of his Birds, anger seared through his very being, but it was always followed by a numbing mix of sorrow, pain, and loneliness. The emotions tended to set off nightmares and memories so fragmented they did little more than distract him. Yet, there had to be a reason those feelings existed. Perhaps he once knew them, or maybe they were somehow directly related to how he ended up half-way across the world in the care of a woman who seemed to know his past. She told him he’d been unavenged, but never provided further details. Perhaps he did know her once. Or maybe he just had a talent for reading people, but he knew she would not harm him, even if she sent him all over the world to train how to fight and kill. And once he seemed to be ready, she sent him to Gotham. She told him his enemy still hurt the people he once tried to protect, and that the protectors of the city continued to allow that to happen. He didn’t know who that enemy was, but it felt like coming home when he stepped foot into Gotham. Somehow, he knew her streets and her people. And he knew things had only gotten worse. How he knew, he had no idea, but something told him it was true. So after setting himself up a safe house, he took time to watch and learn before he acted. The Bat claimed he protected the city, but the cries of the people constantly hurt by his temporary measures fell on deaf ears. The people were tired and scared. They wanted, needed, something different. So, he decided to be that difference. … “B, our stalker showed up again,” Dick stated as he caught sight of the man who wore a red helmet on a nearby building as he helped Bruce disarm one of the sloppiest put together bombs he’d ever seen. Bruce grunted in understanding as he continued his work. “Any sign of movement?” “No… wait, he’s tilted his head.” He turned just in time to catch Bruce’s expression harden which made him smile. Teasing Bruce when he was being a hard ass was always worth it. But it was strange. The man in the helmet tended to just watch them, especially Bruce. When they first spotted him, due to lighting and stature, there were concerns it might have been Deathstroke. It wouldn’t have been surprising due to the sheer amount of run ins they had with him over the years. However, they quickly realized that his behavior didn’t line up with the mercenary’s. There were never any attempts at approaching them. Instead, he just watched from a nearby location, almost as if he was curious about what they were doing. It made all of them uneasy as they had no idea who he was or what he was doing. What they could see of his gear suggested he’d been well trained, and the one time they chased after him, he was one step ahead of them the entire time before vanishing into the shadows. Dick was dead set figuring him out. “Do you have this? I’d like to see if I can have a chat with our stalker.” “Don’t take any unnecessary risks,” Bruce responded, not looking up from his work. Gripping his heart, he made a show of being wounded. “Me? I would never.” Years ago, it would have at least made Bruce smile, but the man had lost most of his humor when Jason died. But it still got a reaction out of Bruce via a sigh, and for now, that was good enough.

#jason todd #dc comics #batman #red hood #fanfiction #fanfic #bruce wayne #dick grayson #nightwing #I think I'm posting this to see if it generates any interest #writing has been hard recently

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chrissv4mp · 20 hours ago

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★ HEATWAVE

INTRODUCTION : PART 1 : PART 2 reading now...

warnings. fluff, angst, language, arguments, both are in the wrong, and crying.

synopsis. after a long year of struggle, your parents decide to move back to the place you spent most of your childhood years: the old farm that they never had the heart to get rid of. however, after leaving a decade ago, they hired some help who you were never aware of until your arrival.

words. 6.4k

letters. idk if i love this or hate it, but here u guys go 😽

SERIES MASTERLIST : NAVIGATION

the morning slips in slow, golden, and quiet. soft rays of sun creep across the old hardwood floors and up the pale walls of your old bedroom, warming the corners of posters you never took down when you had to leave. througy your open window, you can hear the low hum of bees and the distant chirp of something rustling through the fields.

it's warm inside despite the crack in the window, and it's only when you shuffle that you realize you're on top of billie.

you're both tangled in the cotton sheets that were starting to hold billie's scent even after only one night in your bed.

she's on her back, her side pressed against the wall, breathing slow and deep like the whole world could stop, and she wouldn't even notice. her arm's curled loosely around your shoulder, her cheek resting near the crown of your head.

one of your legs is draped over hers—somehow, in the middle of the night, you migrated entirely onto her body.

you don't move.

instead, you remember the events after you took her up here.

the way she whispered about everything and nothing the night before—childhood stories, horses she used to sneak sugar cubes to, a terrible scar she got from climbing the barn roof to watch the stars. she kept talking even after your eyes fluttered shut, voice soft, steady. just in case you were still listening.

a sleepy smile curls on the corners of your mouth.

and then—

"oh—oh my god," your mom's tired voice slices through the morning like dropped glass. you don't even turn your head at first. you just feel your entire body freeze.

"i—well, i didn't know you brought her over last night," your mom stutters, still standing in the doorway, staring.

your hand moves to billie's shoulder, shaking her roughly and hoping that she'll wake up before—

"she still asleep?" your dad's voice follows, heavy footsteps approaching.

"dad, wait, don't come in!" you call frantically.

too late.

he pokes his head in, and upon seeing the scene, bangs his fist against the door to wake billie up. it scares her awake immediately, her entire body jolting beneath you as you try to roll over and give her space, but the bed doesn't allow that.

stupid twin bed.

"sleepover's done, girls," he announces loudly, sighing tiredly.

billie practically levitates off the bed like the mattress was on fire, mouth dry, and heart rate picking up rapidly. she stutters, trying to find her shoes and hat as she stammers an explanation at the same time.

"we fell asleep—shit, i'm—we were just talking, i—"

your dad nods slowly, unimpressed, "uh-huh," he raises a brow, "should i be calling your parents and telling them you'll be staying for breakfast, miss eilish?"

a frustrated sigh passes by your lips, bringing a closed fist up to your eye and trying to rub the sleep away, "dad!" you groan, "can you not?"

he only puts his hand hands up like he's innocent, but the small smirk on his face stays.

your mom is still stunned, but not mad—just tired and confused as to why the farmhand was sleeping in your bed. more so, why a girl was sleeping in your bed.

billie ties her boots and throws on her hat in record time, muttering apologies as she scurries past your mom and dad like they might bite her if she stayed much longer.

you scoot off the bed slowly, rubbing your eyes and trying to find your footing as your dad walks closer, "really?" you huff.

he just shrugs, looking through your window and seeing billie practically bolt out of the house, "what? i just didn't feel like having company today."

you roll your eyes so hard you almost make yourself dizzy.

then your mom turns on her heel and walks away to her room, facepalming and muttering something about "not even wanting to know what happened last night."

your dad pats your back, guiding you through your doorway and down the stairs until he parts ways with you once you reach the kitchen. you sit down at the dining table, yawning tiredly as your dad flips the pancakes he was making just before scaring the shit out of billie.

he slides you a plate just as your mom comes sluggishly stomping into the kitchen, walking over to your dad and starting up some coffee for the three of you—which, normally, she doesn't do, but you definitely needed it.

you're barely halfway through the pancake before your dad is starting to talk again, turning around and leaning back against the counter, itching the back of his neck.

"you wanna be useful this morning, sweetheart?" you blink at him.

"...do i have a choice?" you mumble, voice muffled against the food in your mouth. when he shakes his head, you huff in annoyance.

he grins at your response, "well, i need you to go get billie."

your face drops, and so does your fork.

"you just scared her away, and now you decide you need her back?" you scoff, furrowing your brows at him and leaning back in the uncomfortable wooden chair.

"i forgot we had chickens, until your mother reminded me last night and we swung by the barn to see if everything was fixed. great job on the stable door, by the way," he says, turning back around and flipping a few more pancakes before continuing, "and they need more food."

"i think i remember you having a car?" you murmur, taking another bite of the pancake.

"you're right. but then how would you kids ever patch things up from your little sleepover?" your face flushes in embarrassment, and you're immediately pushing the chair from out of the table and rushing up the stairs to your room.

and just like that, you're changing and brushing your teeth in a hurry before heading out of the door without a goodbye to your parents. as you're getting far from the house, you realize your dad didn't even give you an address or anything. just a casual—"you'll know when you see it" as you shut the door.

so, to pass the time of the long walk into town, you begin to rehearse what you'll say to billie.

"hey, sorry about this morning. my dad's a lot." too casual.

"i didn't mean for that to happen—i mean, i didn't not mean for it, but—" messy.

"you looked really comfortable. but you talk in your sleep, by the way." avoiding the whole point.

you're so deep in your chaotic spiral that you don't even realize when you walk into town—or when you're bumping into the very girl you were thinking about just a second ago—walking very slow the same way you were going, hat on her head, still in the same old clothes from this morning.

"well if isn't my little bed hog," billie teases immediately, smirking before you even get the chance to speak.

you blink, trying to collect your thoughts. "hey, what? i did not—"

"yeah, keep tellin' yourself that, darlin'," she interrupts, adjusting her tank top. "i was an inch away from falling off the mattress and breaking my tailbone."

all you do is stare at her, your cheeks heating up from the name. you should be used to this by now, but somehow, you're not.

"okay," you murmur, "but are we just not gonna talk about the way you scrambled out of the bed like it was gonna eat you alive?" you laugh, nudging her arm.

billie snorts. "i panicked, alright? your daddy looked like he was about to kill me."

you shrug, understanding quite a lot. "he just has that look. scared all my boyfriends away back in the city."

"oh, also," you pause, explaining before you forget, "he wanted us to pick up some feed for the chickens because their food is empty. that's the only reason i came."

billie raises her eyebrows, not believing that's the only reason you came.

you walk beside billie until she abruptly stops in the front of a small house, turning to you and putting a hand on her hip, running the other through her hair.

"you comin' in?" she asks.

"...i can stay out here, if you'd like," you murmur shyly, glancing over at the walkway.

billie shoots you a look that says 'really?' and then adds, "you'd last five minutes out here before knocking on the door like a stray dog. just come in."

you roll your eyes but follow her anyway.

the house is small, cozy, a little older than you expected, but it smells like lemon and cleaner and something fresh out of the oven. the moment you step inside, you're hit with air conditioning and a woman's voice calling from deeper in the house.

"bil, is that you?"

before you can fully step in, there's a flurry of footsteps heading yours and billies way. then, a woman with gray hair comes around the corner and practically lunges at billie.

you barely have time to blink before she's got both hands cupped around billie's face, eyes wide, looking her daughter up and down like she's checking for injuries.

"do you know how close i was to calling the sheriff? you didn't answer your phone once, billie. what even—where were you? did you sleep? did you eat? did you—?"

"mom," billie laughs, her voice strained and a little embarrassed as she tries to wriggle free. "i'm fine. still in one piece, see? stop stressin' so much."

maggie blinks rapidly, trying to calm herself down, hands still cupping billie's cheeks. "well, i'm not fine. you scared me half to death last night—i've never seen your father pace before last night."

a man, who you're guessing is billie's dad, hums from the living room, "i don't recall that."

maggie ignores him.

you're still in the doorway, awkward and quite but at the same time trying not to laugh. you try to pretend you don't even exist, which is working quite well considering maggie hasn't even looked your way.

"look," billie says gently, taking her mom's wrists and lowering them from her face. "i was just at the old farm. slept over."

maggie blinks, raising a brow. "the old farmhouse? why?"

and this is the part where billie shoots a quick glance over her shoulder, where you're frozen in place like a statue.

"uh," she says smoothly, "she just... needed help. movin' stuff. and it got too late to walk home. i was tired, as well."

her mother sniffs. "well, you should've called. you know how I get—"

"i know, i know," billie says, guiding her mom toward the kitchen. "'m'sorry, okay? won't happen again, ma."

she turns back to you, mouthing 'play along,' before jerking her head towards the stairs, "c'mon."

you nod quickly, silently thanking the universe that billie didn't tell her mom the real reason you were curled up on top of her in your bed all night. it was embarrassing. you sneak past maggie, who finally notices you mid-hug and just blinks in surprise like you showed up out of nowhere.

"oh—hello, sweetheart," she says, trying to collect herself, brushing hair from her face. "you poor thing, did you sleep there too?"

poor thing?

you smile awkwardly, nodding once and just deciding not to tell her you live there, "yeah, actually."

maggie just sighs, softening. "i'm just glad you both are safe. i don't care where you sleep as long as you're safe."

"maggie," patrick calls out calmly, "they're almost adults."

"right. almost," she huffs.

billie's already dragging you up the stairs before her mom can say another word, taking you down the hallway until she reaches a room on the very end of it.

when you walk in, her space is way bigger than you expected. warm wood floors, posters everywhere, guitars in the corner, a window cracked open with a soft breeze pushing through her curtains. it's effortlessly her.

"this is your bedroom?" you mutter, looking around.

"what? did you expect hay bales and a bucket for a toilet?" she smirks, walking to her dresser and rifling through a drawer.

you don't get the chance to reply, because as soon as you turn to look at her again, she's tugging her shirt off over her head.

you freeze.

"billie!"

she pauses, confused. "what?"

you squeal, slapping your hands over your eyes as you spin around on your heel quickly. "you could've warned me! oh my gosh."

billie just laughs. "you've literally seen me drenched in sweat and covered in mud."

"that's not the same!" you grumble, cheeks burning. "you had your shirt on both of those times, idiot."

she pulls a new tank top over her head, this one black and a little tighter than the last. "relax. it's nothin' you haven't seen in health class diagrams."

you groan, still refusing to look even when you don't hear the shuffling anymore. "you're insufferable."

"and you're a prude."

"am not!"

"mm-hm." she walks past you, fingers tugging on your belt loops as she goes. "you can look now, drama queen."

you peek over your shoulder, pushing billie away and glaring at her as she shoots you a smug grin.

your heart's beating a little too fast for your liking.

billie drags you almost an inch by your belt loops before you shove her away playfully, following her out of the room and back down the stairs.

"mama, we're headin' out again!" billie calls over her shoulder, swiftly snatching the keys from a ceramic plate on a table near the front door.

she lets you out first, shutting and locking the door behind the two of you as she swings the keys on her fingers. she unlocks a truck in the driveway, and you pause immediately.

"...are you kidding me?" you scoff, turning to billie and smacking her arm with the back of your hand as the headlights of the truck turn on, "you had a truck this whole time?"

billie's already grinning, ducking away from you as she laughs. "ow—first of all, rude. second of all... yeah?"

"billie! we walked in the heat for miles these past few days!"

she shrugs, completely unbothered. "figured you needed to toughen up a little. besides, domino needed the exercise."

"you just said yesterday he was gonna be sore. i hate you."

"no, you don't," she says with that insufferably smug grin as she rounds the truck and hops into the driver's seat.

you slam the passenger door shut dramatically. "i could've been sitting with the ac yesterday."

billie only chuckles, reversing out of the driveway with one hand on the wheel and the other resting lazily on the gearshift. you're still scowling as you buckle your seatbelt, but even you have to admit—her confidence behind the wheel is kinda attractive.

the little bell above the farm shop door jingles as the two of you step inside, the smell of grain, hay, and something... earthy hits like you a wall. you wrinkle your nose a little, but billie'a already making a beeline for the back, completely unbothered. like she lives in this place. which—okay, fair.

"you know," you say as you trail behind her, eyeing the stacked bags of feed. "you could've at least warned me that my entire week would be filled with this. instead of treating me like your emotionally unstable, city-raised intern."

"you are my emotionally unstable, city-raised intern," she fires back over her shoulder, grinning.

a scoff falls from your lips, "well, you're wrong. i wasn't city-raised," you argue, crossing your arms over your chest. "ugh, i hate it here."

"that's not what i heard yesterday," she teases, already squatting down and throwing a giant sack of chicken feed over her shoulder like it weighs nothing. "and i see the way you look at the animals, like they're your emotional support pets."

"okay, first of all," you start, pointing at her in shock. "that bag is definitely heavier than i am. you're not supposed to make that look easy."

billie smirks, flexing her shoulder slightly just to be obnoxious. "jus' say you're impressed."

"fuck no," you deadpan. "but if you throw out your back, i'm not helping you. i'll just sit on a hay bale and plan out your funeral."

she chuckles loudly. "please. i've carries heavier things than this."

"like what, your ego?"

the cowgirl lets out a sharp laugh and nearly drops the bag, "okay, i'll give that one to ya."

you flash her a smug grin, finally satisfied. she sets the bag down at the register like it's made of feathers, barely even breathing hard. showoff.

the cashier rings it up, and billie throws the bag over her shoulder again, heading to leave and holding the door open with her other hand. she winks at you when you pass by her, and you only roll your eyes in response.

you hate her. you hate her so much.

billie throws the bag into the truck bed before skipping over to the drivers side door and jumping in, shutting her door just as she starts the car and you hop into the passenger seat.

the drive to the barn is much shorter than the walk, and it only makes you hate her more for making your feet sore for the next week.

she pulls up along the side of the barn, tires crunching against the gravel. you hop out a second after billie, smoothing out your top and rounding the truck. she grabs the feed bag from the truck bed and starts walking to the open barn doors, you trailing not too far behind, still muttering about show-offs and secret trucks and lies.

you're about halfway into the barn when the soft clinks and brushing noises start to register. and then—

"yo," a voice calls out from somewhere deeper inside. "thought i heard the ol' girl pull in."

you peek around billie's shoulder just in time to see a taller guy standing next to one of the younger horses, holding a brush in one hand and a carrot in the other. his sleeves are rolled up, long but short ginger hair fluffed from the heat, and he's got a casual nice guy grin.

this must be finneas.

billie drops the bag near the front of the barn doors, deciding that she'll take care of it later, "hey, finn." she greets, walking over to pull him into a hug.

you follow behind her slowly, smiling up at the two of them. you can already feel how strong their sibling bond is.

when they pull back, finneas ruffles billie's hair and then turns to you, setting the brush down on the stool he was sitting on a few minutes before you two arrived.

"and you must be her shadow," he smiles, holding out a hand to you in a greeting.

you take his hand, shaking it, "y/n is the preferred name, though."

he hums, loosening his grip before pulling away entirely, "finneas. nice to meet you, y/n."

billie turns to you, motioning to her brother with a hand, "well, now that you've met him, is he all you expected and more?" she teases.

you grin, glancing at billie before directing your attention back to finneas, "well, i didn't expect him to be ginger."

finneas chuckles, turning back around and picking up his brush again to continue with his job. he holds up the half-eaten carrot to the colt, and he immediately takes a bite.

"understandable," billie murmurs. "but i'm not exactly a natural brunette, so..."

you fully turn your body to her this time, eyes widening and brows furrowing in confusion, "sorry, what?"

the cowgirl shrugs, brushing it off as she goes back over to grab the bag and carry it to the back of the barn, where the chickens resided in a coop out in the yard.

she was impossible.

yet you follow her because you have nothing better to do. so, you hold open the feeder as billie cuts open the bag with her pocket knife, turns it upside down with a quiet grunt, and begins to pour the seed into the feeder.

once she's done, you step back and watch as she clicks her tongue to get the chickens over. but they're already scrambling to the feeder, clucking and squawking. billie steps away, smiling down at the little ones like she loves them.

because she really, really does. and you've grown to know that over the short time you've been here. the way she cares so gently for the horses, how she immediately jumps to help the sheep if they ever get stuck in fences, and just the sheer kindness she has for everything and everyone around her.

but before you can say something, billie's moving again. she never seems to let herself catch a break around here.

she goes over to the hose, unraveling it from the reel and dragging it over to the messy pen of pigs that wasn't too far from the chicken coop.

you scurry to the reel, looking over at billie and waiting for her signal to turn the valve. when she gives you the thumbs up, you begin to turn it. but it's surprisingly hard. and you can hear billie's surprised chuckle even from a few feet away.

when you finally get the water on, you're sweating. you try to convince yourself it wasn't just due to the struggle, but also the unbearing heat of summer. still, the fact that billie watched you made it even more embarrassing.

"damn, i thought you climbed fences and threw chairs back in the city," billie inquired teasingly, glancing over her shoulder just as you walked up to her. "guess not. that upper body strength isn't the best."

you nudge her roughly, causing her to groan at the light pain. she changes the setting on the hose before fully turning the water on, aiming it at one pig and spraying it down on a medium water pressure.

her arm flexes when she moves the direction of the hose to spray another one, biting her lip and trying not to get the water directly in their eyes. gosh, why does she have to be so concentrated all the time?

it makes it harder to hate her.

your lips curl into a cheeky smirk when you come up with a teasing remark, knowing billie wouldn't see it coming.

"steady hands, huh? is that just with hoses or..." you trail off with a smirk, eyeing her arms and hands.

billie turns her head to you, furrowing her brows with a surprised and annoyed smile on her face. however, what you don't expect is when she turns to you completely and starts to spray you down.

she turns the water pressure up just a bit, making you squeal and jump back in shock, "billie, what the fuck!" you gasp.

"don't mess around when i have a hose in my hand, city girl." billie says, beginning to chase after you when you decide to sprint off in the yard.

you wipe your eyes, trying to shield yourself with your hands as you laugh in shock. billie doesn't let up, she just continues to spray your face and body in retaliation.

that's when you decide to finally charge at her, hands grabbing at the hose in an effort to grab it and spray her just like she did you. but her grip is strong, her hat falling off her head as you try to grab her.

then you lose your footing, slipping on the wet grass.

a loud gasp escapes your lips as you feel yourself going down quick—until it stops. you feel a pair of hands on your waist, holding you up so that you don't fall farther.

your hands clutch billie's shirt the second you open your eyes, your own tank top soaked. she holds you there for a moment, face so close to yours that you can feel her breath on your lips, your cheeks flushing.

the laughter from earlier dies down in the back of your throat.

she's just staring at you, eyes soft, face relaxed.

little drops of water drip down the ends of her hair from your playful fighting, the neck of her shirt partially wet. but all you can think about is the way she's clutching onto you so surely.

then she chuckles, "don't start things you can't finish, princess," billie winks at you teasingly before helping you back onto your feet, walking back over to the hose reel and wrapping it back up.

neither of you speak on it. instead, you just go back to annoying billie while simultaneously helping her with the chores you were assigned today—which weren't very many, now that you think about it.

in—what feels like—record time, you and billie are already walking back out to the front.

you wipe your dusty hands off on the back of your jeans, glancing over your shoulder at finneas, who's slowly emerging from one of the stables. your arms aren't as sore as the past few times, your legs barely ache, but there's straw in your socks somehow. again.

billie pats her jeans down and squints up at the burning sun, "looks good. we're done for today."

you blink, whipping your head in her direction. "...that's it?"

"yes ma'am."

you turn back around to the barn. no horses to brush, no food to fill, no gates to fix or sheep to sheer. it's... weird. after a whole week of nothing but labor, you almost don't know what to do with yourself.

finneas walks up before you can say anything else, brushinh his hands off on a towel. "you two hungry?"

"starving," you both say in unison, and billie smirks at the timing.

"right, cool. i'll drive, just lemme finish lockin' up." he holds out a hand, and billie tosses him the keys without hesitation.

he catches them without even looking—still turned toward the barn doors—and your jaw drops just a little.

"damn," you mumble.

as finneas slides the doors closed and slips the bolt into place, he calls out over his shoulder, "you takin' her to the rodeo later, by the way?"

you're still brushing off your hands when you hear his question, and just as you look back at billie, she perks up.

"what rodeo?" you ask, turning back to finneas with a look of confusion.

finneas walks over, swinging the keys. "oh, yeah. i forgot you're new," he chuckles. "there's a rodeo with this cool bonfire every year. always right at the beginning of summer. it's always a good time."

you glance back at billie, who's dead quiet and frozen in place, "...what?"

she clears her throat, trying to play it cool. "i—uh. i was gonna go with someone, actually."

finneas—god bless his oblivious mouth—grins. "oh, right. savannah rae."

"who?"

billie's cheeks flush, the tips of her ears a light pink.

"she's an old friend. though, i haven't seen her 'cause i've been busy with you all week," billie explains. "not that i mind, of course." she adds quickly.

"we were gonna go together before... y'know. 'fore you got here." she murmurs, voice trailing off. she'd learned that you were a bit... reactive, in the past week.

you nod slowly, trying to keep your face neutral even though something twists low in your stomach. "oh. cool."

you hate how obvious it sounds. you're not even sure why it bothers you. maybe it's the blush. maybe it's that you thought you were... special. just a little.

but billie notices. of course she notices. you perked up when finneas mentioned it, thinking billie might ask you. and now? your posture's just the slightest bit stiffer, like you're trying not to care.

finneas breaks in again, throwing an arm over billie's shoulder and unlocking the car. "you can always take both of 'em," he teases.

the cowgirl pushes him away, rolling her eyes. "it's not like that, dummy," you glance between the two siblings, then out toward the fields.

but she doesn't look at you when she says it.

you slide into the backseat and try to laugh it off, even as your arms cross on instinct. "didn't know you were that kinda person, cowgirl."

she slides into the passenger seat just as you say it, glancing back at you a moment too long, "neither did i."

it's times like these when you hate her. really hate her.

the sun is fully set as you sit on the porch swing of your parents house, one leg crossed over your other as you clasp your hands in your lap. billie said she'd pick you up at 7, despite your obvious attitude toward the whole thing.

so, here you were: wearing a short skirt and one of the tighter crop-tops you'd found in the back of your closet. this was your norm for a going-out outfit, especially if there was gonna be a bunch of people there—that, and the fact that you were probably gonna be attached to billie's hip the whole time.

you turn your head up when you hear the rumble of a truck pulling up to your place. it parks in front of the house, and billie's already jumping out and walking up the front steps.

"you ready, y/n?" that's the first time she's used your actual name since the day you've met.

and your gut tells you the reason behind it is the girl staring at you through the drivers side window from the passenger seat. that must be savannah. and god, is she annoyingly attractive.

she already looks like she hates you, brows slightly furrowed and a pout clear on her lips. you try not to stare for too long, but it's too late because billie's already looking at you like she's lost.

"yeah, uh," you stammer, clearing your throat. "i'm ready."

billie kisses her teeth, nodding and turning on her heel to jog back down the porch and to the truck again. you pull open the backdoor, slinging yourself in, but you can feel savannah's eyes on you, sharp and critical.

the second you slide in, you catch her staring at you with some kind of annoyance. like you're a problem she's been handed without an option. she doesn't even say hi—just sends you a small smile.

"you look... nice," she mutters before turning back around to look at billie, her smile growing genuine.

you're about to snap something back—maybe something rude—but you manage to stop yourself just in time. hardly.

instead, you throw yourself against the back of the seat, crossing your arms and avoiding billie's eyes in the rear view mirror, staring out the window. you're not in the mood for small talk. or any talk at all.

the drive is mostly quiet, except for a few moments of forces conversation that you're not even pretending to be interested in. you can feel the tension building. billie keeps glancing at you, trying to figure out what's going on, but you won't give her the satisfaction of saying another word.

finally, the truck bumps over the gravel road as it pulls into the rodeo grounds. you can already hear the yells and shouts, the low murmur of the crowd, and the distance crackle of a bonfire. there's a part of you that wants to enjoy it, but it's buried under the fact that the only thing that matters right now is billie—how she's been acting weird since finneas brought this up, how she brought you and savannah, how everything feels off now.

billie leads the way, and you follow, your boots kicking up dust, too proud to admit how much you're looking forward to getting to the bonfire. but your eyes are locked on savannah, and every time she catches you looking, she raises an eyebrow, as if she's daring you to say something. you stay quiet. for now.

the bonfire flickers, lighting up the crowds excited faces. it's hot, and the sound of country music echoes around the place. you see people laughing, dancing, but the only thing that's really drawing your attention is billie and savannah talking, thr two of them whispering between themselves. it doesn't help that savannah keeps looking at you like you're a joke.

"you good?" billie finally asks as she steps forward, her tone unsure, like she's being cautious.

you snap softly, unable to control yourself. "yeah, i'm great," you bite, rolling your eyes. "just... amazing."

billie gives you a confused look, but you're too busy staring at the fire to meet her gaze. you just want the night to be over. to go back to the farm, back to normal. but you don't wanna admit it.

"y'wanna go see the rodeo?" billie offers, but she sounds like she's asking herself more than you.

"no, you and savannah go have fun," you mutter, stepping away from them both and moving toward the fire.

billie hesitates for a second, like she's trying to figure out if you're playing some kind of game with her. she looks over at savannah, who just shrugs like it's whatever. billie takes a breath and shakes hed head, walking off to join the crowd without another word. you're alone again, but this time, it feels different.

you hate it. you hate her.

the night drags on after that, but the air feels thick and heavy. you're getting more irritated by the minute. the heat, the noise, the people... it's all too much. the rodeo's dying down, but the bonfire outside it still roaring with energy. you hear footsteps before you see them. billie and savannah walking past you and going to sit at one of the benches near the fire. it's making you insane, the way savannah's kept billie's attention the whole night. and she doesn't even try to hide it—her little smirk every time she talks to billie, the way she keeps leaning in, whispering to her. you're done.

it's been like this since you got here. billie's barely spared you a glance since she went into the building, caught up in whatever she's got going with savannah. so when billie looks over her shoulder and motions you over to sit next to her, your patience runs dry. you throw a sarcastic comment savannah's way the moment you sit down, loud enough for billie to hear, not caring if it's cruel.

"yeah, i bet you and you're little lapdog have a lot to talk about," you scoff, too tired and angry to stop yourself. you roll your eyes, crossing your arms tighter. it's just—something about savannah being all over billie again rubs you the wrong way.

your comment is enough to set her off. she grabs your wrist, muttering to savannah about being right back before she drags you over toward the parking lot. her lips are pressed tight with frustration. "are you serious right now?" she growls, getting in your face. "what the fuck is your problem with her?"

a scoff falls from your lips as you bite back, words sharp. "my problem is that you invited me, knowing you already had a date, only gave your attention to her the entire night, and made me feel like i'm just in the way," you snap. "maybe i should've just stayed home, so you and your little girlfriend could've had some alone time."

billie eyes flash with surprise, her jaw tightening noticeably. "that's what this is about? me spending time with savannah? i haven't had a break from you since you came here, and now you're complaining about me not spending time with you?"

her voice is rising now, and you can see people turning, hearing the tension in the air. some phones are getting pulled out, whispers being passed. but billie's beyond caring, her voice growing rougher.

"maybe that's what's been driving me insane—your constant fuckin' complaining. you hate farm, you hate the weather, you hate the people... you've barely even tried to get along with anyone, and now you're taking it out on her?"

you sputter, your face flushed with heat. "you seriously think i'm complaining just to complain?" you growl, voice shaky. "it's not my fault you decided to invite me when you knew you were bringing that bitch. why even ask me to come..."

"don't call her that," she says quickly, eyes flashing dangerously. it's clear that she's done with you, shoulders tense and hands stiff in fists. her tone is raw, and it's a side of her you've never seen before. but it doesn't shock you. you've been waiting for this, honestly—waiting for her to finally get sick of you like your parents did.

you try to spit something back at her, but thr words catch in your throat. it's like you can't even breathe through the sting of billie finally lashing out on you. you stare at her, and suddenly she can't control herself. "maybe this would've been better if you didn't come to the farm at all."

the air feels thicker now. your chest tightens, and for a moment, you feel like you might throw up. billie doesn't soften, doesn't back down. she just... watches you, eyes hard, daring you argue.

you're too stunned to respond. the words are there, but they choke in your throat. her words echo in your mind, a painful reminder that, yeah, she might've just been putting up with you this whole time.

the crowd around you has gone completely silent now, watching the scene unfold, phones lowering, whispers picking up again. but it doesn't matter. nothing matters except the way billie looks at you, like she's done with this, done with you.

for the first time tonight, your voice catches, and the anger fades. it turns into something worse, something bitter. you stare at her, the hurt creeping in. "fuck you."

your words are just above a whisper, heavy with the weight of it all. you turn on your heel and storm off, not caring about the people watching, not caring about anything except the pit in your stomach that you haven't felt since before you got back to your hometown.

billie doesn't chase after you. doesn't call your name. she just watches as you walk away, and for a moment, it feels like she's glad you're leaving. that she's done with this.

the crowd doesn't stop staring, but you don't care. you walk fast, faster than you should, not knowing where you're going, but needing to get away before someone notices the tears in your eyes. you just need to leave.

somewhere—anywhere—where you don't need to feel like this anymore.

tags. @mseilishmwah @sophloveswomen @mxqdii @livvydunneness @vyntagess @wiidfi0wer33 @loving1dsworld @tan1shere @fallingforfalll2 @cierraonline @dandelions4us @scarlittt @ifwdominicfike @slxtarchive @bilsdillldough @47lake @hopingforgoodblogs @mybluebossanova @strwberrybils @justtr @greenbttrflyy @billsbaby @bilsova @lottiepierce @northlndnisred @asterisk-eyes @dragoneyelashart @xxangelfarrlzxx @ilomiloblohshh @kittymarrow @meliciousmel13 @jul3esz @rightarion @svelish @hkkuugu @eeuni @dragoneyelashart @thinkshespretty @cnnibalize @canthelpit0 @hailwiggly @karaeilishh @bilswifee @drunkinyourbenz @astr-0-wrld @lovesturni0l0s @cvrledpages @umadirectioner @lanabrock

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