#you just have to take the first step / the first breath / and begin. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

p1psqueaks · 1 day ago

Text

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — MISSION GONE WRONG

ZAYNE

You stumble through the sterile white corridors of the hospital, the world around you spinning, and the sharp sting of pain gnawing at your every step. The mission had gone wrong in ways you didn’t even want to think about, but there was no avoiding it now. Blood stains your uniform, and exhaustion weighs heavily on your body as you drag yourself toward the medical wing. Every breath feels shallow, and your chest burns, the aftereffects of near-death lingering like a bad memory.

As you turn the corner, you catch sight of him. Zayne. He's standing by the nurses' station, his back straight and his usual professional composure in place, but his eyes immediately snap to you the moment you appear. The flicker of worry in them is unmistakable.

"What happened?" he asks his voice dropping an octave. His calm, steady demeanor never falters, but you can see the tension in his jaw. “Are you hurt?”

You try to give him a reassuring smile, but it’s weak and fails miserably. “Mission went south. Nothing I can’t handle.”

His eyes scan you from head to toe, quickly noticing the bloodied bandages peeking from under your torn jacket. His brow furrows in response. “You’re not handling this. Come on, we need to get you to a bed, now.”

You swallow, wanting to protest, but you don’t have the energy. Zayne’s hands are gentle but firm as he guides you toward the nearest treatment room, keeping you steady on your feet, as if the sheer presence of him is enough to keep you from collapsing.

He glances at one of the nurses, Yvonne, over his shoulder. "Have Dr. Greyson look over my post-ops for now."

Once inside, Zayne immediately takes charge, his usual calm and methodical self taking over. “Sit down,” he orders, voice soft but commanding. You sink into the bed, too exhausted to argue.

He begins assessing your injuries with a practiced eye, checking your pulse and temperature before gently peeling away the tattered remnants of your uniform. His hands are gentle but quick, his movements sharp, yet there’s an undercurrent of something more—something deeply protective. The quiet intensity of his gaze speaks volumes, and you realize, for the first time, just how much this affects him, seeing you like this.

"What happened out there?" he asks as he begins cleaning a deep gash on your arm. His touch is careful, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the unspoken fear of seeing you so badly hurt.

You take a shaky breath, the memories of the mission flooding back in waves. "They ambushed us... a trap. We weren’t ready. We should have known. I should have known. I couldn't save everyone."

Zayne’s face softens, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it. "You did what you could. You always do. It’s not your fault, my love."

But the guilt presses on you, suffocating in a way you can’t ignore. "We lost good people, Zayne. People who trusted me. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t—"

"You’re here," he interrupts softly, his voice dropping to a more intimate register. "You made it back. And that matters more than anything."

You look up at him, your heart twisting at the quiet sincerity in his eyes. It’s so rare for him to drop the doctor’s facade, to let down the walls that keep him so emotionally distant from the world. But with you, there’s no hiding it. There’s no barrier between the hunter and the man who cares about you.

"You don’t deserve this," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "I didn’t want to drag you into this... into my mess."

Zayne pauses, taking a breath before continuing his work, his hands never stopping as he applies a fresh bandage. "You didn’t drag me anywhere, my love," he says, his voice so soft, so sure. "You’re my partner. I’m here because I choose to be. I’m not going anywhere. You’ve got me, and I’ve got you."

His words settle in the room like a blanket, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself soften. You feel the weight of your guilt slip just a little, the sharp edge of fear dulled by his steady presence.

"I don’t know what I’d do without you," you admit, your voice hoarse. "You keep me from falling apart."

Zayne meets your eyes, his expression tender but firm. "I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever. We do this together, no matter what."

You let his words sink in, closing your eyes briefly, just allowing yourself to feel his presence, to feel the safety of being here with him. The hospital room, with its harsh lights and sterile smell, suddenly feels a little warmer, a little more like home.

Zayne finishes bandaging your arm and moves to your side, carefully sitting next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. His hand finds yours, his fingers lacing with yours with such ease, like it’s second nature. You squeeze his hand, the simple gesture grounding you in a way nothing else can.

"I love you, you know," you whisper, the words coming out before you can even stop them. You’ve said them before, but here, now, they feel even more significant—vulnerable, raw.

Zayne’s lips curve up into that small, rare smile you love so much, his eyes softening as he leans in close. “I love you too. Always.”

For a moment, everything fades—the mission, the pain, the guilt—until all that’s left is the quiet rhythm of your breathing and the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your side.

You lean your head on his shoulder, feeling the overwhelming weight of everything start to ease. There’s still work to be done, still losses to grieve, but for now, you know you’re not alone.

And with Zayne by your side, you know you’ll heal.

XAVIER

The metallic hiss of the docking bay doors echoed in the vast emptiness of the ship. You had just returned from a mission that should have been a simple recon, a sweep through an abandoned space station. But as the airlock cycled open and the faint glow of the docking bay lights illuminated the vessel, a heavy silence fell over the crew.

You stumbled through the door first, your body battered, clothes torn, and your movements sluggish. You had barely made it back at all, much less in one piece. Your face was smeared with dirt and blood, and your usually sharp eyes were clouded with exhaustion.

Xavier was the first to spot you.

His usual calm, collected demeanor faltered for a split second as he rushed forward, his boots making swift, purposeful strides across the floor. His face tightened with worry, eyes scanning your battered form. He had heard the distress call, had heard the urgency in your voice, but seeing you like this—bleeding, broken—hit him harder than he anticipated.

"Hey," he breathed, his voice tight with concern.

You looked up at the sound of your name, eyes blinking as if you had just woken up from a deep sleep. "Xavier..." you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper. The exhaustion in your tone was unmistakable, but there was something else there too—something darker. Something haunted.

Xavier took a step closer, reaching out instinctively to steady you, but you pulled away slightly, as though the contact hurt more than it helped.

"Easy," Xavier murmured, his voice gentle but firm. He hated seeing you like this. He hated the thought of you suffering alone out there in the cold, vast expanse of space. "What happened? We heard the distress call."

You swallowed, trying to push down the nausea that rose in your chest. The mission had gone wrong so fast—an ambush, a trap, enemies from a faction you thought you'd left behind. But none of that seemed to matter now. The only thing that mattered was getting through this, surviving long enough to see the others. To see Xavier.

"I was... outnumbered," you said slowly, words falling heavily. "They weren't supposed to be there. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Xavier. I couldn't..."

"You don’t have to explain," Xavier interrupted, his hand gently gripping your arm, this time making sure you didn’t pull away. "You’re here now. That’s all that matters. You’re safe."

But you could see it in his eyes—he didn’t believe it. Not fully.

You let out a shaky breath, a faint laugh that felt hollow in your chest. "Safe? After what happened out there?"

Xavier said nothing, but his grip tightened, his gaze never leaving yours. The silence between the two of you grew thick, like a storm cloud hanging in the air, heavy with the unspoken words that neither of them seemed ready to say.

Your voice was low but insistent as you looked up at him. "I should’ve... I should’ve called for backup sooner. We could’ve avoided this. I should’ve been better, faster, more prepared..."

"No," Xavier said, his voice low but resolute. "You did what you had to do. And you made it back. That’s what matters now." He leaned in, his forehead touching yours, eyes filled with an intensity that spoke of more than just concern. "Stop blaming yourself. You did everything you could."

The warmth of his breath on your skin, the steady beat of his heart beneath the thin fabric of his uniform, grounded them. You closed your eyes for a moment, fighting the overwhelming flood of emotions that threatened to rise up.

"I’m sorry," you whispered.

Xavier's hand, which had been hovering near your shoulder, finally settled there, steady and unshaking. "You don’t have to apologize to me,. Not for this. I’m just glad you're here."

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The world outside the ship continued on, the hum of the engine a distant, comforting sound. But in that small space between you, the silence held more than just words—it held everything they couldn’t say aloud.

"I thought I lost you," Xavier finally admitted, his voice raw, his usual composure cracking. His hand gently cupped their cheek, his thumb brushing over the cut there, as if he could somehow erase the pain just by touching them. "For a while, I didn’t think you were going to make it."

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice. You had always known Xavier as a strong and capable hunter, someone who could face anything with a cool head and unwavering confidence. But now, as he stood before you, his own walls seemed to crumble, if only slightly.

"I’m here," you murmured, their voice hoarse. "I’m still here."

The corners of Xavier's mouth twitched in a faint, weary smile. "I’m glad."

You both stood there for a while, silent but connected in a way that no words could express. The past was still there, heavy on both of you, but in this moment, all that mattered was the present. Xavier had always been a steady presence in your life—strong, supportive, always there when you needed him most. And now, after everything you had been through, you could finally allow yourself to lean into that strength.

"You should get some rest," Xavier said after a while, his tone softening with a concern that was unmistakable.

You shook their head slowly. "I can’t. Not yet."

Xavier raised an eyebrow. "You can’t stay awake forever. Let the others take over for now. You need time to heal."

The words were gentle, but they carried an undeniable weight. For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to relax, to let go of the tension that had been holding you together in the aftermath of the mission. You felt the weight of Xavier's gaze, steady and unwavering, and knew that, no matter what came next, you wouldn’t face it alone.

"Okay," you whispered. "I’ll rest."

Xavier gave you one last look, a silent promise hanging between them. "I’ll be here when you wake up."

You didn’t need to say anything more. There was nothing left to say.

The storm had passed. And for now, you were home.

RAFAYEL

The door creaks open on rusted hinges, the metal groaning in a way it didn’t the last time you stepped through it. The studio smells the same—linseed oil, old wood, drying paint, and the faint ozone tang of filtered sunlight through the solar skylights.

But something about it feels emptier.

You stand in the doorway a moment longer than necessary, your gloved hand still braced on the frame like it might be the only thing holding you upright. Your gun dangles from your other hand, cracked but intact.

Your boots leave damp prints on the worn floorboards as you step inside.

"You're back," a voice says from deeper in the room.

Not accusing. Not angry.

Just... frayed.

Rafayel doesn’t move from where he sits, half-hidden behind a leaning canvas. The stool beneath him creaks as he shifts, brushes idle in his fingers. He doesn’t even look at you at first—just stares at the wall, at some invisible point only he can see.

“You’re painting,” you say, your voice rough. You haven’t spoken much in the past forty-eight hours. Not since extraction. Not since you watched someone you couldn't save drift away into the black.

He finally looks up, eyes scanning you like you're part of the composition. Not a subject, not a muse—just someone he’s been trying to remember how to see.

“You weren’t supposed to be gone that long.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t send a message.”

“I couldn’t.”

A silence stretches out between you. It isn’t uncomfortable—it’s the kind of silence where everything lives. Fear. Relief. The ghosts of unspoken thoughts.

You shift, unfastening the collar of your suit. Your shoulders sag the moment the seal breaks. It’s always heavier when you come back. You remember the stars being beautiful once. Now they just feel cold.

“I thought about this place every day,” you say. “It was the only thing that felt real out there.”

Rafayel rises slowly, setting the brush down on the edge of the easel. Paint still clings to his fingers, ultramarine and burnt sienna smeared across his knuckles like bruises.

He crosses the studio to you, stopping just short of touching. His expression is unreadable. Distant, almost. But his eyes—those impossibly expressive, storm-colored eyes—are too full.

“What happened?” he asks quietly.

You hesitate.

“We lost half the team. Comms were knocked out. We drifted... longer than expected. Long enough to think maybe no one was coming.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the moment you left. When he steps closer and finally touches you, it’s with a gentleness that makes something in your chest give way. One hand on your cheek. The other rests against your side, feeling the tremor you can’t suppress.

“I didn’t paint for the first week,” Rafayel murmurs. “Every time I picked up a brush, I just... stared at the canvas. I kept thinking, what’s the point of capturing light if I don’t know whether you’re still in it?”

Your breath hitches. “I’m sorry—”

“No,” he interrupts, firm but soft. “Don’t. Not to me.”

He pulls you in slowly, giving you time to pull away. You don’t. Your arms slide around his waist and you press your forehead against his shoulder. The tension doesn’t vanish—it can’t, not yet—but it loosens. Bit by bit.

You stand like that for a long time.

When you finally part, Rafayel brushes a streak of dried blood from your temple with his thumb.

“Let me show you something.”

He leads you to a side alcove where the light is softer. A single canvas stands there, turned away from view. He hesitates for a heartbeat before flipping it around.

It isn’t finished.

Your silhouette is there—sharp and luminous—but your face is only partially rendered. One eye stares back, half-done, ringed with shadows that haven’t been painted in fully. The rest of the canvas is sketchwork, graphite and ghost lines.

“I started this the night before you left,” he says quietly. “But when I didn’t hear from you... I couldn’t keep going. I didn’t know how to draw someone I might never see again.”

Your fingers reach out, brushing the edge of the canvas.

“You don’t have to finish it,” you say.

He looks at you, startled. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not the same person you started painting.” You turn to meet his eyes. “But maybe you could start a new one.”

His lips curve—softly, not quite a smile, but something warmer.

“Stay,” he says. “Just for tonight.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And this time, when you kiss him, you mean it like a promise. Not to the stars. Not to the mission. But to him.

To here.

To home.

SYLUS

The lights in the apartment are dim when you step through the door.

Your body aches. Your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, and your suit—still streaked with dust from the failed mission—feels like a second skin you can’t shed fast enough. The echo of the explosion still rings faintly in your ears, muffled now by the silence of home.

You don’t expect him to be here. Not this late.

You barely make it two steps before you hear movement from the living room.

"You're late," Sylus says, voice calm but edged in something sharper—something tight. "Three hours. Mephisto couldn't locate you."

You turn toward the sound and find him sitting on the couch, long legs stretched out, hair tousled like he’s been running his hands through it all night. His gaze sweeps over you in one quick, calculating motion—assessing. Scanning.

"I'm here now," you say softly, your voice hoarse.

"You’re hurt."

You look down. There’s a cut along your forearm—dried blood, not deep. Another scrape near your collarbone. The mission had gone sideways, fast: an ambush, one of your own turning against you, comms scrambled. You’d barely made it back.

"I’m okay," you say, but even to your own ears, it sounds like a lie.

Sylus is already on his feet. In three steps he’s in front of you, his hands ghosting over your arms before settling on your shoulders. His grip is gentle—but grounding.

"You were off the grid for too long. I thought—"

You lean into him, the rest of the sentence unnecessary. I thought I lost you. You feel it in the way he holds you closer, in the way his forehead drops to rest against yours. He breathes you in like you’re the air he’s been missing.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

“You don’t have to be,” he says. “Just… next time, let me come with you.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You know you can't do that."

“Then quit."

He’s only half-joking, and you love him for it.

You pull back enough to look into his eyes. “I didn’t want you to see what happened.”

His expression shifts—more serious, more tender.

“Then tell me,” he says. “Tell me everything.”

So you do.

You tell him about the ambush, the way your mission had been sabotaged, how you’d lost communications and one of your team had turned traitor. You speak in low, halting sentences while Sylus cleans your wounds with steady hands. He doesn’t interrupt, just listens—his silence filled with warmth and quiet fury on your behalf.

When you finish, he doesn’t offer hollow reassurances. He doesn’t say it will never happen again, because you both know the truth: it will. That’s the job. The risk. The cost.

Instead, he says, “I’m proud of you.”

Your eyes sting.

“You made it back,” he continues. “You brought the rest of your team home. And you walked through that door.”

“I almost didn’t,” you admit. “There was a moment when I thought—I didn’t know if I could.”

“You did,” Sylus says, voice low, sure. “You always do.”

You sit together after that, on the couch, the silence between you no longer heavy but healing. His arm curls around you, his fingers tracing slow, absent patterns against your back. You let your head rest on his shoulder, your eyes fluttering closed.

“You know,” you murmur, “you should’ve been asleep.”

“I was waiting for you.”

“You always do.”

He kisses the top of your head. “I always will.”

CALEB

You wake hours later, the house quiet, the lights low. The faint scent of chamomile lingers in the air. Caleb’s not beside you, but you hear the low hum of the kettle in the kitchen. The clink of a spoon against ceramic.

He’s always like this — never sleeping when you’re out on a mission, never resting, always waiting for you to come back in one piece. He was always waiting, even when he didn’t show it.

You sit up slowly, stiff and sore in ways you didn’t feel before. The herbal tea calms the knots in your stomach, but there’s an ache deep in your chest, one you can’t ignore.

Caleb appears in the doorway, two steaming cups of tea in his hands. He looks at you with that same unreadable expression, but something’s different now. It’s softer, as if he’s peeling away the layers of control he holds so tightly around everything.

“Chamomile,” he says, his voice steady, though there’s a faint quiver in the way he says it, like he’s holding back something more.

“Thanks,” you say, taking the cup from him, your fingers brushing his. It’s a small thing, but it feels like a spark between you.

He doesn’t sit immediately. Just stands there, his eyes on you — searching, like he’s trying to read the unspoken things in the spaces between your words.

“You were gone for three days longer than planned,” he says, voice low. “No communication. No updates.”

You look down at your hands, your grip tightening on the mug, the weight of his concern pressing down on you. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“I know,” he replies quickly, too quickly. “But I still thought…”

He stops himself, and the silence stretches between you. It’s thick now, heavy with things neither of you have said.

You glance up at him, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “What did you think?”

He hesitates for a moment longer before answering. “I kept replaying every transmission you ever sent. Listening to the tone of your voice. Trying to figure out if there was something I missed. A clue. A hint. Anything.”

Your heart stutters. You set the cup down, the liquid inside forgotten. “That’s—Caleb, you didn’t have to—”

“I did,” he insists, his eyes fierce now, jaw tight. “Because you’re not just another hunter to me. Not just some mission on a schedule board. You—”

He stops himself again, and the weight of his words lingers in the air, like they’re trapped somewhere between his lungs and his lips.

You whisper, “Say it.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His hand is trembling just slightly when he reaches up, cupping your cheek in his palm. His thumb strokes along your skin, slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing the feel of you.

“I kept thinking about what I’d do if you didn’t come back,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with it. I don’t think I’d be able to breathe.”

You close your eyes at the rawness in his voice. “I’m here.”

The words break something inside him. He leans forward, just enough that his lips brush against yours — a tentative, barely-there kiss. A question, an offering.

It’s not neat. It’s not perfect. It’s messy and hungry, tasting like relief, like heat, like every unspoken word between you two that’s finally tumbling out.

When you finally break apart, he doesn’t pull back. His forehead rests against yours, breath coming in shallow bursts, and you both stay there, suspended in the moment, unsure of where the next breath might take you.

“You terrify me,” he murmurs, his lips barely brushing your skin.

“Because I might get myself killed?” you tease, though there’s a tremor in your voice, too.

“No,” he says, his voice soft, but filled with something more. “Because I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. And because I want you so much it hurts.”

Your heart flutters, a distant star shining brightly in the center of your chest. You’re close now, too close to ignore the heat thrumming between you.

You whisper, “I didn’t think I’d make it back.”

He smiles, just barely, the corner of his lips lifting. “I did.”

You reach up, curling your hand around his, pulling him closer until there’s nothing separating you two, until you feel the heat of his skin, the thrum of his heartbeat.

And as he holds you, his arms wrapping around you like gravity itself has shifted, you finally let go of the last vestiges of fear, the mission, the blood, the fire.

You’re here now. Alive. And Caleb is here, too.

That’s enough.

416 notes · View notes

onlyquinns · 2 days ago

Note

Hiii!!!

First Your Jack Hughes fics im actually obssessed so I was wondering if you could write a fic about when Jack reinjured his shoulder. Like youre watching in the crowd and you rush down to the rooms to see him in pain and so upset and like him after the surgery. Him being all clingy but also really upset and moody yk.

Anyway just an idea!! But thank youuuu

you’re seated next to two of your friends, giddy in your seat as the three of you look down at the t-mobile arena ice rink. you’re dressed in a cute, little leather jacket that jack had bought you as a gift, his initials and number stitched into the cuff.

it’s been a while since you’d found time to watch one of jack’s games, far too caught up with work, and your friends knew that. the two of them had schemed together, finishing your work on top of theirs at the company the three of you worked at so you could finally find a day to fly out and attend a game. you were so excited, having thanked your friends with a girls night out and a fancy dinner as repayment—which really wasn’t necessary, since the three of you always said that you basically shared a floating twenty, even if the total cost was most definitely over twenty bucks.

as the arena lights dim, the crowd begin to shout and holler, a clear sign that the game is about to introduce the home team. your friend to the left, sarah, grabs your arm and squeals, shaking you with excitement as you excitedly point out jack to your two friends. they giggle with you, fully happy for you, and glare at the middle aged man who glares at the three of you.

maddie, your friend to the right, scoffs in your ear. “don’t let him ruin your night, girl,” she tells you, but you already had forgotten the nasty look he’d gave your little group, eyes drawn to jack’s tiny figure on the ice as you slowly rise for the anthem.

when the opening stuff is finally over, you watch with rapt enthusiasm as jack’s figure skates across the ice. he zips like lightning, moves calculated and controlled. you nibble on your nails, body positioned at the edge of your seat, as your boyfriend bullies his way across the ice and shoots.

as the game continues, score still zero for both teams, your anxiety builds. it’s the third period and you feel antsy, far too invested in the game. your knee bounces, and sarah reaches over to place a steadying palm to your leg, her fingers squeezing against the jeans you’re wearing. you give her a grateful smile and quietly sip your beer, hoping someone will score.

suddenly, the crowd cheers and several people shoot out of their seats. you quietly groan as the knights make a goal—the first one of the night—and listen to the loud horn that fills your ears and the arena.

“it’s okay,” sarah says, “they’ll get the next one.”

you nod in agreement and settle back down, watching as the two teams meet in the center for the puck drop.

it’s near the end of the third and the devils are losing 0-2. your heart feels heavy in your chest, but lightening just a little as jack comes back onto the ice. he skates like his life depends on it, rushing for the puck.

“woah,” maddie says later in the night, a beer in one hand. “jack’s really fast, it’s impressive.”

you nod, smiling a little with pride, because that’s your boyfriend. you’re about to respond, when jack’s body is slammed into the boards during a breakaway.

a gasp leaves your lips, hands flying to cover your agape mouth. he doesn’t move as he lays there, not even when another player jostles him and pulls him into a hasty recovery position.

“oh, my god,” you breathe, watching as he suddenly wakes back up.

without warning, you get out of your seat and run through the seats, quick apologies tumbling from your mouth. your friends call for you as you stumble down the steps, their voices dimming as you leave the stands. you can still hear the announcers as you skirt through the arena, finding the hallway that leads to the players locker rooms.

the security guard takes a look at you and steps aside. “he’s in medical,” he says as you whizz past. “to the left.”

“thank you!” you say as you make your way through, only stopping when you find a room labeled with medical in big, white letters.

when you push the door open, several people turn to usher you out, but you don’t care. you shove past them until you reach jack, his body propped up on an exam table. he’s still in his gear, except for his upper half. his hair is damp with sweat as he listens to the medical staff in front of him, face crestfallen as he takes in their words, a hand pressed to his hurt shoulder.

“are you okay?” you ask, grasping his face in your warm hands. jack’s surprised look quickly melts away as he registers your presence, his face suddenly shifting to something stronger and braver.

he chuckles, but it’s not his usual laugh. “of course i am, baby,” he says, smirking a little.

tears brim your eyes, “bullshit!” you turn to the team in front of you, eyes wild, then turn back to jack. “what—what happened? please, tell me.”

jack looks down at his lap and your hands slip from his face. he holds your hand tightly in his, and sighs. the medical team clears out, leaving the both of you together.

“i… i need to get my shoulder worked on again. hit the boards too hard and knocked out.” he looks up at you and gives you a painful smile, “lucky i still have all my teeth, huh?” he jokes, but you don’t laugh.

you frown, aware of how he might be feeling. “when are you flying out?” you ask, squeezing his hand in yours.

jack gnaws on his lip, “soon. come with me?”

you nod, “i’m always going to be by your side, jack.”

and you do.

you pick him up at the hospital after he’s discharged from his surgery, arm planted in a dark sling. you have a pillow in your car for his arm to rest on, his water bottle tucked in the cup holder for him to sip on, and advil tucked into your glove box. jack praises you as you drive the two of you home, snorting as he exaggerates his gratitude.

“oh, my god—you’re like an angel,” jack says as you pull into the parking spot of his apartment. “i can literally see the halo in your hair, baby!”

you laugh as you help him out of the car, listening to his teasing words as you walk through the lobby, as you ride through the elevator, and as you finally walk into the apartment with him.

“i’m going to change, okay?” you say, pulling your hair off your neck and clipping it up with a giant claw clip. you’re about to walk down the hall to jack’s room when he whines.

you look over at him, amused to see him laying on his back on the couch and his feet thrown over the arm rest. he dramatically kicks his feet, knowing it’ll make you laugh.

“cuddle with me!” he says. “it’s doctors orders!” he says dramatically, smirking a little when you relent and walk over.

“jacky, we won’t fit on the couch,” you say with your hands on your hips. jack admires your figure in your work clothes, hips looking soft and full in your black slacks.

“well… you said that last time but we still made it work,” he responds slyly.

your face heats at the insinuation, “that’s not what i meant!” you say, voice filled with indignation. “i meant that i’ll cuddle you in bed!”

jack grins and jumps up, “okay!” leaving his lips as he rushes down the hall and into his room. you sigh and follow after him, finding him in his boxers and shirt.

you walk over to him and gently maneuver his arm free from the sleeve of his t-shirt, tossing it into the hamper as he gets comfy in bed. you follow suit, stripping down to your underclothes, and laying in bed next to jack. you pull the thick comforter over your bodies, smoothing the fabric so it lays flat against your skin. jack hums as you tuck yourself into his side, tangling your leg into his and slinging an arm across his chest.

“i’m sorry you can’t play the rest of the season,” you murmur against his chest, lips brushing against soft skin.

jack shrugs, “it’s okay,” he says in an attempt at convincing you and himself. “at least… at least i get to spend more time with you,” he whispers, turning his face into you. long curls brush against your hair. “and even if the whole injury thing is the worst case scenario, i’m making the best out of it.”

you smile against his skin, “yeah… i suppose you’re right.”

jack hums in agreement and lays with you in comfortable silence, his arm forgotten and his mind on just you—you tucked into his body, skin to skin, and filled with an immeasurable amount of love for him. just him. just jack hughes, your boyfriend—not jack hughes, the hockey player.

#val’s reqs 🧃#nhl x reader #nhl imagine #nhl blurb #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #jack hughes x y/n #jack hughes x you #jack hughes fanfiction #jack hughes fic #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes fluff #jack hughes

179 notes · View notes

delilahsturniolo · 24 hours ago

Text

— ♡ motive . . . m.s

in which . . . you and matt meet at a party and go back to his apartment, just expecting him to be another player and nothing more, come to find out theres something real behind his motive.

warnings . . . smut, a bit of angst, oral, (fem!recieving) dry humping, kissing, use of pet names.

written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

POSITIONS WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #3

you don’t do this kind of thing.

you don’t let boys with soft lips and prettier eyes talk their way past your carefully constructed boundaries. you don’t fall for sweet words whispered in the back of dimly lit parties. you especially don’t fall for guys like him. the ones who flirt like it’s a sport and smile like they’ve already won. but then matt walks in with that crooked smirk and careless confidence, and suddenly, you’re rewriting your rules.

he finds you nursing a drink on the balcony, the bass from inside pulsing through the walls like a heartbeat. his voice is lazy when he says, “figured you’d be out here.”

“figured you’d be inside,” you shoot back, not even looking at him. you feel him come closer, his presence like gravity, tugging at your spine. “what, and miss you trying to play hard to get?”

you roll your eyes. “who said i’m playing?” his laugh is low and close to your ear now, warm and teasing. “you do know that just makes me want you more, right?” you finally glance at him, take in the way his curls fall across his forehead, the way his shirt clings to his chest like it was made for him. he’s too good-looking for his own good. for your good.

“you want me, huh?” you tilt your head. “why?” he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he looks at you like he’s trying to undress your intentions, your doubts, your game. “is this a trick question?”

“depends. are you just trying to get laid?” his eyebrows lift, caught somewhere between amused and impressed. “what if i am?” you blink, not expecting him to be that honest. it’s…refreshing, kind of. frustrating, too. because you don’t want to like how his honesty turns you on.

“then you’ll need a better pitch than that,” you murmur. he steps in closer, not touching, but almost. “i could give you a better pitch,” he says, voice dipping, “but i’d rather show you.” you exhale slowly, trying to ignore the heat curling low in your stomach. you want to know what his motive is. you want to believe it’s more than just one night, that he’s not like the rest. but even if it is just one night, you’re starting to think you wouldn’t mind.

“you always this forward?” you ask. he leans down, lips brushing your ear. “only when i really want something.” and god help you, you want him, too. so, you follow him to his car, trusting your gut. he begins driving once you buckle your seatbelt, his sleeves rolled up and his tie slightly lopsided.

when you get there, his apartment is clean, dimly lit, music playing low from some playlist that sounds suspiciously curated. he tosses his keys on the counter like he’s done this a hundred times before, but there’s something different about the way he watches you tonight, like he’s trying to memorize you. “you nervous?” he asks, stepping closer.

“should i be?”

he grins. “depends on what you think is gonna happen.” you cross your arms, ignoring how your body buzzes with anticipation. “why don’t you tell me what you think is gonna happen, matt?” his eyes darken. “i think you came here wondering if i was just another player.”

“and?”

“and i think you already know i am.” he pauses, hands sliding up your waist. “but that doesn’t mean i don’t want you just as much as you want me.” his fingers dig in, pulling you closer until your chest is flush with his. his breath is hot against your cheek. “we don’t have to lie to each other. not tonight.” his honesty cuts through the haze in your head like a match to gasoline.

so you kiss him. and it’s electric.

his hands are everywhere. your hips, your back, threading through your hair. he tastes like mint and sin, and he kisses like he’s trying to make you forget every boy who came before him. you pull his shirt over his head, fingers trailing over the lean lines of his torso, your breath catching when he whispers your name like it’s something sacred. his mouth traces the column of your neck, teeth grazing skin just enough to make you gasp. he doesn’t ask for permission, he knows you want this, but he still waits for that look in your eyes. the one that says yes.

you give it to him without hesitation. he backs you into his bedroom, lips never leaving yours, his hands teasing the hem of your top. when he pulls it off, he stares for a second too long, like he can’t believe you’re real. “beautiful,” he mutters, almost to himself.

you shove him down onto the bed, straddling his lap with a wicked smile. “still think this is just about sex?” his eyes gleam. “i’m starting to think it might be more.” you begin to grind against him slowly, watching him unravel beneath your hands. he’s all breathless groans and hushed curses, every nerve lit up like a fuse. “shit baby..” matt groans, looking up at you as you moved your hips, feeling his erection through his jeans. you were in nothing but a bra and your soaked panties.

“what? gettin’ tired already?” matt chuckled, grabbing you and flipping you both over so he was now on top. matt spread your thighs, leaning down and tugging your panties off with his teeth, slowly sliding them down and off your ankles. “gonna show you m’not playing around when i say i want you.” matt mumbled, he was gonna show you his motive.

you moaned as matt flicked his tongue against your clit, slowly and teasingly lapping his tongue around your wetness. he pressed a kiss to your clit, making you jolt. he was taking his time with you, and he was going to make this unforgettable. he continued to hold your legs open, getting lost in your slick, his lips were coated with your wetness. he brought his thumb over, stroking your clit a few times. and that was all it took the make you come undone. “fuck, oh my gosh—“ you cried out, cumming on matt’s tongue. he collapsed on the bed next to you, giving you some breathing room.

after, tangled in his sheets, bodies slick with sweat and breath still uneven, you find yourself tracing patterns across his chest. he’s quiet, but not in that usual post-hookup way. he’s looking at you like he’s still figuring you out. like he’s not ready to let you go yet. “so,” you murmur, “was that all part of the plan?” he laughs, lazy and satisfied. “if it was, it worked.”

“but what was the plan? just sleep with me once and ghost me after?” he frowns slightly, then leans in to kiss your shoulder. “honestly? i didn’t have a plan. i just knew i wanted you.” you tilt your head. “and now?” he brushes your hair back, his touch unexpectedly soft. “now i think i might want more.” you stare at him for a beat, heart thudding. “you sure you’re not just saying that?”

he laughs again, pulling you closer. “maybe. or maybe you’re just different.” you rest your head against his chest, letting the silence stretch. you don’t know what this is, or where it’s going, but for once, you don’t feel the need to ask. not tonight. tonight, you’re okay with not knowing the motive. you just know it feels good.

185 notes · View notes

xylatox · 1 day ago

Text

One In A Million || csb

The first spin-off of The Slow Surrender is here :’) After I was left literally going through it (I cried so hard and my heart broke multiple times), I am so glad to be back in this universe and even more ecstatic to read Soobin’s romance especially as the brother of the mc from TSS. Excited to see where exactly his story is interlaced with the original story or if it happens after the main events! A special congrats to Raya for reaching 800 followers as I’m reading this, so glad people are recognising and loving your work <3 Anyways, unto my thoughts!!

Before I even begin, I am always a sucker for flowers, their language, practically anything to do with them. The way you’re able to silently convey feelings through something as simple as a flower really just warms my heart.

You cherish the minuscule things, not out of whimsy but out of habit, because you grew up knowing that gratitude was not just a virtue but a necessity. You learned to say thank you for everything placed into your hands, whether it was something you longed for or simply something to fill the space on your plate. Even at nine years old, a meal was never just a meal... it was a gift.

Is it too early to say I already love everything about her? Just from the way she thinks to her past, I cherish every bit of her. My heart breaks just seeing everything she’s been through (thankfully my tear reserves are dried up for now [we hope] so no crying today [again only a distant dream knowing myself]). It is heartwarming that despite everything at least she has her grandmother with her, I feel like that’s a relationship like no other.

And you do. More than anything. Even if one day, she forgets. Even if, someday, she doesn’t remember you at all.

Raya, I will always wish to see how you think.To me your mind is literally such a beautiful place, the way you seem to just flawlessly write the words down, its something I admire greatly.

And we find out where their romance begins :( I’m taken back to that moment with the MC from TSS and God, the pain was unimaginable, familiar and heartbreaking.

His eyes catch yours, and the words die between your parted lips, caught somewhere too deep to reach. Slowly, he stands from his chair, his hand slipping away from the pouch. You watch him smooth out the front of his coat, before stepping toward the center of the table. His fingers reach for the rose in front of you. The stem just one thorn away from being trimmed. The same thorn that had cut you earlier. “I’ll take this too, then,” he says. “Is that alright with you?”

Something about this moment just gets to me, maybe its the hidden tension, maybe its something else, whatever it make be, it speaks to me. The way MC (rightfully) assumed it was Soobin’s wife that suffered a loss and then the way he still comes a year later, my god. Man, the moment she asked him out I smiled and giggled like an idiot, shes so cute, they feel like puppies who’re scared of going into the water right now and its so endearing.

I felt so bad when Soobin was late oh my god 😭😭 I had no clue what was going to happen but I’m so glad he eventually came (his reaction to her still being there was also so cute)

His brows lifted slightly, softening — not in mockery, but in surprise. “Stop acting so cute, will you?” he murmured, and his words only deepened the flush on your cheeks. “You’re making it harder for me.”

Soobin, god. The way this line alone actually sent me insane. I do love that despite the initial awkwardness/tension from Soobin being late, they have a kind of flirtatious banter going on; they eased into conversation so nicely. I love them :)

“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice steady, unflinching. “Every time I come to see you… you’re even more beautiful. And you take my breath away.” That ache—the one you’d fought to swallow down minutes ago—surges back with a quiet ferocity. Your bottom lip parts, breath hitching in surprise.

I feel sick oh my god, oh to be viewed like this.

Man. The vulnerability, The kiss. The kiss. The kiss. (yes 3 times was very necessary). The moment was just so soft?? It took me by surprise.

"You taste divine," he breathed against your neck, the words threaded with awe and desire.

Raya, youre going to make me pass out.

“I’ll be gentle with you then,” he promises, voice so gentle it nearly breaks you apart. His forehead rests against yours as his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, his touch light as silk. “You don’t have to fear anything with me. We’ll go slow. You just tell me everything you want… everything you don’t.”

The instant reassurance?!?!? Goodbye.

“Just think of it as my way to say sorry… for making the prettiest girl wait so long.”

MAN. (I was trying so hard to have my thoughts match the vibe of the fic; very cute, very calm but I fear I’m losing it.) CHOI SOOBIN THE MAN YOU ARE.

Before you could even set down the last plate, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest with a soft exhale of relief. His lips found your hairline in a series of slow, affectionate kisses, "You didn’t have to make breakfast, baby. I could’ve called someone."

RAYA. I literally went like “Oh, fuck” out loud because I could not handle it, Jesus. On another note though, the sleeping pills have me sad :((( and also slightly anxious. Man, the way mc single-handedly made him not think about it oh my god. Hes so downbad.

“All my life,” he murmured, gaze dropping to the untouched food on his plate, “I watched my sister become trapped in a marriage. Watching her lose herself made me believe I shouldn’t chase anyone… or anything. But then, I saw you.”

I love this Soobin so bad. He’s literally so in love with her oh my god.

Her eyes sweep over you unblinking, as though weighing you against some invisible scale. “Are you the woman seeing my son?” A chill skips down your spine.

Did I forget about their mother who I absolutely dislike? Yes. I immediately remembered her from the beginning of TSS, and the distaste I feel is ever present

Her head tilts, something sharp glinting behind her expression. “Why did you stutter?” The question is too sharp for someone who doesn't know you. Before you can even try to answer, she lifts her hand in a small, dismissive gesture. “Go on. Change your clothes. Make it fast. I don’t like waiting.”

I fear this just made my dislike her so much more, the MC is so sweet please dont speak to her like that, she doesnt deserve it, no one does.

The young woman settles beside her mother, her gaze drifting to you with a kindness that wraps around you like a soft blanket. No scrutiny, no sharp edges, it's curiosity. “I’m Soobin’s sister,” she says her name gently, her lips pulling into a smile that reaches her eyes. “You look even more beautiful than what he says.”

AND SHES HERE MY BABY :(((( My precious star, I missed her.

The air felt thinner now. You could feel your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, in the trembling tips of your fingers that curled tighter under the table. “Then how would you run a family if you don’t even have one?”

No. Raya you didn’t

“Don’t cry,” she whispers finally, pulling back, her palms warm against your damp cheeks. Her eyes search yours. Slowly, she slides a handkerchief from her pocket and presses it into your hand, her thumb brushing over your knuckles as she lets go. “My mother… she’s always been like this. I won’t tell you not to feel hurt, you should feel hurt. She doesn’t know how to soften her words, even when she should.”

I really do love the MC from TSS so bad, shes such a darling. Her and Soobin and such lovely examples of not feeding into the behaviour of the household that raised you (just focussing on the mother). Wait omg ::::::((((((( TSS’s MC is pregnant against oh my god :::((((((

Beomgyu stays still, waiting. His jaw flexes slightly, not out of impatience, but out of habit, you can tell. He doesn’t move, not until she disappears inside the building safely, not until the glass doors close behind her and she’s no longer in sight.

I just know he’s worried :((((((((

She took a step closer, “I’m Aera,” she said smoothly, not a trace of hesitation. “Soon to be Soobin’s fiancée.”

Oh god. Oh my god. I feel so bad for her what. I feel sick for her/

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, “You’ve been asleep so long, I’m starting to miss you.”

Oh this is a cute line 😭😭I didnt expect such cute words

By the time you found a clean sheet of paper and sat at the dining table, your whole body trembled with the weight of it. The pen felt too heavy in your hand. Your tears hit the page before your words did.

You slowly, wrote your goodbye.

Nooooooooooo. Raya ::::((((( RAYA NOOOOOO YOU MADE HER MOVE TOO ;-;-;-;-;-;-; RAYA.

“Why are you here?” You asked, each word flung like stones across the space between you. Your jaw clenched. “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you I don’t want you anymore?”

Your voice cut clean but your hands betrayed you. They shook at your sides, fingers twitching like they weren’t sure whether to reach for him or push him away. The ache in your throat frayed the edge of every word. And Soobin saw it. He saw all of it.

Oh my god.

"Marry me." It’s his last attempt to keep you from walking away. “Marry me, and I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Just don’t—” His throat closed up, and for a second, it sounded like he forgot how to breathe. “Don’t walk away again.”

Noooo the dried up tear reserve is filling up :(((

“I don’t want the world.” His eyes locked on yours, fierce and aching. “I never wanted any of that. Not once. I just… I just want you.”

My heart clenched oh my god. Oh, To be loved like this.

The odds of this… of you… out of all the people, all the cities, all the winding chances and missed timings, was one in a million.

I giggled. Its always a Raya fic when the title is referenced in the end. It’s literally such a trademark of yours now and I always get to giddy reading it :). This was a remarkable first spin-off to the TSS series Raya. As always, I truly love your work, there are no amount of words that exist in this world to correctly describe how your works make me feel. Thank you for existing and thank you always for writing.

‎₊ ˚ ⊹ ིྀ 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍

𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖾𝖻𝗈𝗅 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝖻𝗂𝗇 𝗑 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾-𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

He stares at you, the glisten in his eyes that you've come to know whispers his truth. His shaking hands hold your wrists. Droplets slide from his hair, tracing the sharp angles of his face, mixing with the storm clinging to his skin as he stares at your face. You feel it before you hear it. You see it before he speaks. "Marry me." It's his last attempt to keep you from walking away.

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: chaebol au, strangers to lovers, angst, family issues, toxic societal norms, yearning, longing.

𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍-𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: MDNI, multiple-smut scene, heavy make-out, body-worship, nipple-play, fingering, oral!fem receiving.

𝗐𝖼: 17.5k — playlist.

𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌: hi hello!! to clear things up, this is a spin-off of the main story but each txt male lead gets their own reader! (aka you, heh). other female leads might show up for the plot, but they’ll stay nameless.

(definitely read the first part if you haven’t — but you can read this as a standalone!) see the event 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.

If there is one truth that time cannot taint in your life, it is your love for flowers. They bloom unburdened, much like the love you cradle for things that ask for nothing in return.

Perhaps you were a flower in your previous life — maybe that’s why people have always likened you to one. A flower is something delicate, something beautiful, something that marks in memory with its scent and colour. Yet if you were to tell the real reason why they call you that, it wouldn’t be for any of those things. It wouldn’t be because you were particularly graceful or charming.

It would be because you see the world through the eyes of a dreamer, a romantic, someone who clings to the smallest joys as if they were... lifelines.

You don’t blame your parents for leaving. People say you should be grateful — they gave you life, after all. And they did. But not even a year into your existence, they chose their own paths, carving out futures that no longer had room for you. And you never resented them for it, not really.

It doesn’t mean it wasn’t lonely.

No matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, it’s hard so, so hard to grow up in a house that never truly felt like home. Hard to wake up each morning knowing there’s no mother to greet you, no father’s voice to remind you you’re safe. Hard to fall asleep at night, knowing that if a nightmare came, there would be no one there to hold you.

No one at all.

They're happy, somewhere out there. Twin sisters from your father’s side, three brothers from your mother’s. And you were happy for them, truly. They had their lives, their homes, their own worlds to tend to. They checked in when they could — once, maybe twice a month, just enough to remind you they were still out there. Just enough to keep you from forgetting... while you stayed with your grandmother.

And that was enough. Or at least, it had to be.

“Nana,” you sigh, “You just watched that yesterday. Are you sure you want to go again?”

“Yes. Mom.”

You continued to scrub the plate she ate from, forcing a smile. She’s called you Mom again. It happens often now. Some days, you’re her daughter. Other days, her niece, a friend. But most days, you’re her mother.

And that’s fine. It has to be fine. As long as there are still days when she calls you anything at all. Because the worst days, the ones that keep you up at night, are the ones when she just looks at you with empty eyes, searching your face like you’re a stranger.

You swallow hard and turn back to her. “Did you take your meds, Nana?”

"Yes."

You wipe your hands on the kitchen towel, glancing toward the small pillbox on the counter. Walking over, you flip open the lid, scanning the compartments. She took them. A quiet breath of relief escapes you.

“Thank you,” you murmur, closing the box. “After this, we’ll head to bed, okay?”

“Okay.”

You sink onto the couch beside her, adjusting the hem of your floral home dress—the one you tailored yourself, stitching distractions into the fabric on nights when the weight of it all felt unbearable.

Mama Mia plays on the screen, the familiar melodies filling the small space between you. It’s always been her favourite movie. Even after the diagnosis, even as the world around her blurred at the edges, she kept coming back to it.

As if, somehow, it was something she could still hold onto.

You glance at her, watching the way her lips move with the lyrics, her hands tapping against the armrest in time with the music. She remembers this.

“Can I hold your hand while we watch?” you ask softly.

Your grandmother turns to you with a soft smile, her eyes whispering at the corners. She’s seventy-five now, her hair thinner, her hands frail, but to you, she’s still the same. Still beautiful. Still her.

People told you to put her in a nursing home. Said it would be easier, that it was the practical choice. But how could you? How could you leave the one person who never left you? The person who held your hand through every scraped knee, every heartbreak. The only real family you have.

Her frail fingers squeeze yours gently. Then, just as you turn back to the movie, you hear it.

“I love you, Y/N.”

Your breath halts. You tear your gaze from the screen, eyes wide, heart pounding. It’s been months — months of her calling you by the wrong names, or worse, not calling you anything at all. But now, she’s looking right at you, remembering you. A lump sits in your throat as tears sting your eyes. You grip her hand tighter.

“I love you too, Nana,” you whisper, voice shaking.

And you do. More than anything. Even if one day, she forgets. Even if, someday, she doesn’t remember you at all.

You slide the key into the lock, your right shoulder weighed down by the new pots you picked up earlier. As the door swings open, the soft chime of the bell echoes through the quiet shop. Stepping inside, you nudge the door shut behind you and flip the sign to OPEN with a satisfied smile.

It’s 10 a.m., and the morning light spills in through the windows, casting a warm glow over the flowers on display. Running your fingers gently over delicate petals, you inhale their fresh scent, the fragrance mixing with the faint traces of paint lingering on the walls — your own handiwork, soft strokes of color bringing the shop to life.

You set your bag down behind the counter and power on the computer, scrolling through the day’s orders. Five minutes pass in a comfortable rhythm before the familiar chime rings again. The door swings open.

Someone’s here.

"Good morning!" You greet with a warm smile, but your voice falters just slightly as you take him in. He’s not the usual type to wander into a flower shop. Dressed in a sharp, black tailored suit, he carries himself with an air of quiet confidence. The glasses perched on the bridge of his nose add to his composed demeanor, but it’s his presence — towering in the doorway, making the shop feel smaller somehow, catches you off guard.

Still, you keep your smile, smoothing the surprise on your chest. "Are you looking for any particular flowers?"

He glances at you and gives a small nod — a quick acknowledgment that he’s heard you. It’s familiar. You’ve dealt with customers like this before, the ones who prefer to browse in silence before saying what they need.

You nod back slightly, a polite gesture, then shift your gaze back to your computer, trying to shake off the strange unease prickling at you. He hasn’t even spoken yet, and still, something about him makes your pulse tick faster.

Why?

“I'm looking to have a funeral arrangement made.” he says suddenly, making you blink and look up.

His eyes meet yours.

You cleared your throat, "I'm sorry for your loss." You try to follow the routine speech that you have. "Let me get my book and I'll assist you. Please, take a seat."

You point towards the table, a round wooden structure with three matching chairs, a small white vase holding a fresh boquet decorated the center. He quickly followed your instructions, pulling the chair as it scraped on along the wooden floorboards before they sit with a sigh.

You took a quick glance at him again, watching as he fishes out his phone, one of the brands that is you think the latest release, and you see a unique looking rolex in his wrists. You avert your eyes as soon as you did, and your eyes catch the black car parked in front of your store.

Your store.

Your small humble store that is stark comparison compared to everything this man have.

You cleared your thoughts as to why he chose this place to buy flowers. You turned around to gather your book filled with arrangements.

"Do you run this place by yourself?" As you reach for the leather spine of the book, you glance over your shoulder, meeting his eyes already on yours.

He didn’t respond, even as you took a seat across from him. Still, you could feel his gaze following you. You pushed the roses aside, their petals bruised from restless handling, and replaced them with the open book. Its pages, worn thin, exhaled the faint, bitter-sweet scent of aged paper — a comfort you almost resented tonight.

He stayed silent, his arms draped over the table, eyes steady. His presence bled into the air, heavy and warm, as though the room itself bent around him. You swore you could see it — something low and smoldering radiating off of him, a slow burn that clawed past the polished edges he wore so well.

You tore your gaze away before it could swallow you whole.

You tighten your grip on the pen. “May I have the full name of the deceased?” Your hand drifts across the top of the page, hovering over the empty space waiting to be filled, just as you wait for his answer.

When it comes, it lands harder than you expect.

“It… doesn’t have a full name,” he says quietly. Your eyes lift to meet his. “But we call him Moon.”

Your breath catches. There’s only one meaning behind words like that. A child. Your mind pulls back into dim memories; the parents who’d come to your shop before, searching for flowers with little else to offer but love for someone whose life never had the chance to unfold. Your lips part, but no sound comes. You drop your gaze, forcing it back down to the blank page. You’ve done this before — too many times — but it still finds a way to shake you.

Pushing through the heaviness in your chest, you press the pen to paper and write the name.

Moon.

“And what are you looking for in this arrangement?” The words burn as they leave you, bitter and dry, clinging to the back of your throat. You wait, feeling the seconds stretch thin between you.

“What do you think?”

You should know. This is what you do — what you’ve poured years into. Flowers have been your language longer than words ever have. But it’s always this question that unravels you. It pulls at the seams of whatever certainty you pretend to hold. Of course you have ideas. They come in flashes,but what are they worth?

What if it’s wrong? What if it’s not enough?

The thoughts spiral fast, like they always do. Familiar and merciless, burrowing deep where you can’t shake them loose. They weigh heavy in your chest, anchoring themselves into the cracks of a confidence too fragile to stand against them. You sit there, hollowed out and grasping for something to offer this man, something that won’t disappoint him, or worse, dishonor what he’s lost.

A baby. A mother greiving. And now this man, carrying his own mourning, offering no guidance to make the task easier. Your fingers twitch, restless and unsure. You have to give him something. Anything.

“Well, for funerals, people usually gravitate toward chrysanthemums,” you say, lifting your free hand toward the cluster of blooms sitting in their vases to the right. His gaze follows where you gesture. “Lilies are another favorite,” you add, motioning to the soft petals hanging to the left. “And people often ask for—”

“But what do you think?” His voice cuts through yours, making your words falter. Slowly, your eyes meet his, and he holds your gaze across the table. “What do you gravitate toward?”

“White roses,” you murmur, your gaze flicking away from him and toward the blooms resting quietly in the front window of the shop. “They symbolize… eternal love, and remembrance.” Your voice softens. “If it were me… someday… I think it would make me happiest to be remembered that way. To be loved like that, even after.”

When you finish, your eyes drift back to his, uncertain, before you quickly lower them to the blank page in front of you. “Sorry,” you whisper, flinching at your own rambling.

“No.” His voice is firmer this time, “Don’t be sorry. Tell me more.”

You swallow hard. Your heartbeat stirs faster in your chest, a throb blooming from the tender cut on your fingertip. You breathe through it.

“Forget-me-nots,” you say. “I suppose… I’d start with a base of hyacinths, then layer in forget-me-nots and foliage as filler. And maybe top it off with white roses.”

“Think you can have it ready in two days?” he asks, his gaze shifting toward the rosebuds waiting to be trimmed on the table. “That’s when the memorial service will be.”

You nod before the words even catch up to you. “Yes, yes. That’s no problem.” You lower your head and start to write, sketching out the arrangement you’d described, even as your hand strains to keep steady against the shake running deep in your chest.

“Here.” He sets a small black bag on the table. You don’t have to open it to know — from the weight, the way it sits — it’s easily a week’s worth of your shop’s earnings.

“That’s too much. It’ll only be —”

“It’s the least I can do,”His voice is gentle but leaves no room to argue.“I doubt many would have come up with something as thoughtful as yours.”

“Please… I can’t let you overpay.” Your hand rests on the bag, fingers curling around the edge as you begin to slide it back toward him but his hand meets yours, halting you. His fingertips graze against your skin.

The nervousness clawing at your chest tightens, cinching your breath and locking the words in your throat. It burns — sharp and hot, like a brand searing them shut. You can only nod, managing the smallest smile before your eyes drop, trailing back down to the thorn that had drawn your blood.

You reach for your shears and rise from your chair, stepping toward him.

“I’d just started working on this one when you came in,” you murmur, lifting the sharp edge to the base of the stem. His fingers shift aside, careful and slow, as you steady the blades around the thorn. His eyes stay on you, not on the flower, not on your hands, but on the furrow of your brow as you focus.

You sense the moment he holds his breath.

With one clean motion, you clip the thorn away. “Thank you,” you say, your voice soft and thinner than you meant it to be.

“Thank you,” he echoes. His tone mirrors yours, but heavier somehow. “I look forward to seeing what you create.” He turns toward the door, tall frame gliding in that unhurried way of his, but he doesn’t touch the handle yet. His body shifts just enough to glance back. “By the way… I should get your name.”

“Y/N,” you answer. The name comes easy, but your breath feels uneven behind it. “And yours?”

You’ve never been like this before. Never so openly invested in someone you’d barely exchanged a few scattered words with. Never so quick to give away your curiosity. But here you stand; unmoving, staring, studying him more openly than you’d dare with anyone else.

He smiles. Barely. So faint you might have missed it entirely… if you weren’t so completely, foolishly locked on him. Enough of a curve to tug at the corner of his mouth. And there, a small hollow moves in his cheek. Does it get deeper when he really smiles? Does his smile reach his eyes?

Your throat tightens at the thought, inexplicable.

“Soobin,”

He came back two days later. Right when he said he would. When you handed him the arrangement, his eyes lingered on it longer than you expected. His face didn’t shift much, but you caught it, a flicker of surprise, as though he hadn’t entirely expected it to look the way it did. As though he hadn’t expected you to remember it so well.

“Thank you,” he said, voice low, steady. And before you could step back or fold the moment away, he spoke again. Another request. The same one. For next week.

And that’s how it started.

It became a pattern before you realized you’d memorized it. Every week, almost the same day, he returned. Always asking for the same thing. And it took so little, for you to start waiting for him. You didn’t need to admit you were. It was clear enough in the way your hands moved faster on the mornings you thought he might show up. The way you found yourself glancing at the clock more often. The way your breath shifted, when the bell over the door chimed and you hoped it would be him.

The weeks folded into months before you realized how quickly the time had passed.

“Your wife must be having a hard time,” you say quietly, watching him from behind the counter as his fingers brush along the edges of the newest arrangement vases you’d set out last week. Your voice tries to sound casual, light enough not to pry. “But she’s lucky to have you.”

It’s the only explanation that ever made sense. The one you’d quietly settled on back when he first asked for those mourning flowers. That was how you’d made sense of it. How you’d made peace with why the arrangements always felt so heavy.

He stops. “Wife?” His brow lifts, faint confusion softening the lines around his eyes.

Your throat pulls tight. “Uh… yeah,” you fumble, heat creeping up the back of your neck. “… How is she recovering?”

There’s a pause. His stare doesn’t waver. His jaw sets, just enough that you can tell he’s measuring something inside before letting the words go.

“It’s for my sister.”

Sister. All this time, you thought you understood. The flowers, the endless varieties he carefully chose week after week — they were for his sister. That’s what you told yourself. It made sense. She must be the one who lost a child. A grief so cavernous that even the brightest blooms could barely soften its edges. You could understand it. the tenderness of a brother trying to tether her to something gentle. The quiet, steady ritual of bringing beauty to someone drowning.

But one year have passed. One year, and still, he comes.

You watch Soobin now, and something inside you twists sharp and deep. Your throat pulls tight, a burn clawing up the back of your eyes, your heart thrashing in your chest like it’s frantic to be let loose. His fingers move across the petals with reverence, the kind of touch meant for something breakable, sacred. As though each flower is an apology too heavy to speak aloud. A brother so devoted, so relentless in his quiet offerings — and surely he has a life beyond this. A job. Responsibilities. People waiting for him. And yet here he is. Always here. Always returning, as though caught in some private penance only he can feel, rooted in your little shop like he doesn’t know where else to go. Every week, standing in the hush of your little shop like a man trying to repent for a sin he never committed.

The flowers… you’ve always loved them. They’re stitched with meanings you’ve memorized like scripture; hope, solace, rebirth. They ask for nothing in return, and still, they give so much. The burn behind your eyes sharpens as you watch him, your mind comparing him to one, your chest aching in places you thought you’d long since sealed shut.

You wrap the arrangement slowly, careful with each fold and knot. Your heart thuds against your ribs like it’s trying to outrun the thoughts crowding your chest. The ones you don’t say out loud. The thought unsettles you more than it should. It coils tight in your gut, sharp and sickening. Because part of you already knows — one day, the door won’t open. One day, he won’t come anymore. You hear his footsteps before you see him. He’s seen that you’re nearly done ,the bouquet he asked for, the one you’ve handled like it’s something sacred. You feel his presence before you meet his eyes.

You don’t know why. You can’t name it, not exactly. Maybe it’s the dread that coils in your stomach that there will be a day you wake on a day he’s supposed to come, only to find the hours slipping by, the bell above the door never ringing. And before you can stop yourself, before your good sense can catch up to your mouth, the words tumble out. “Would you want to go out sometime?”

You instantly regret it, the way your voice cracked, the way you can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry,” you say quickly, fumbling. “That was, I didn’t mean to put you in an awkward position. If it’s invasive or —”

“Yes.” You blink. His expression is steady, unshaken. “Yes,” he says again, softer this time. “I was going to ask you, too.”

Your breath stumbles in your chest. You nod, unsure of what to say, heart hammering loud enough to drown out everything else, but he goes on, “Next week. Same day, same time. Let’s do that.”

You nod again, this time slower. Something settles in your chest, light but anchoring. “And,” he adds, as he picks up the bouquet, “make another arrangement.” You glance at him, brows lifting in question. “Anything you want,” he says. “Doesn’t matter what it costs. Just… make something for me.”

You swallow the rush in your throat, the spark behind your ribs. You can already feel the stems in your hands, the petals under your fingers. You don’t know what you’ll make yet but you know it will say everything you can’t.

“Okay.”

You stare at the bouquet as it slumps at the edge of the table. The one you arranged so carefully, over and over again for days.

Dawn had already cracked the sky.

Now, the gloss on your lips is gone, long since faded like the sun. The coat you pressed at sunrise feels stiff, resentful, like it's been waiting just as long. Your spine aches from sitting too straight for too many hours, and your breath trembles in your throat, thin and cold.

He said he’d be here before lunch. He said he’d take you out.

He never came.

Maybe he got held up. Maybe it slipped his mind. Maybe something urgent came up. You tell yourself these things because it’s easier than the alternative. Still, the silence wraps around you too tightly. It hums in your ears, thick and heavy, until the only thing left is the dull thud of your heartbeat, knocking against your ribs like it’s looking for a way out.

Your eyes sting. Are you even allowed to cry over this?

“Well,” you murmur, voice thinner than you’d like, “let’s get you to a vase.” Carefully, you gather the arrangement, fingertips grazing the petals. You breathe in — soft, floral, faintly sweet — and hold it there.

Your movements felt slow. Deliberate, almost. Strange, when these steps had always come easy to you, and yet, you lingered. As if dragging out every motion might somehow buy him time to show. Your gaze settles on the bouquet now resting in the vase. You exhale, slow and shallow, but no words rise to meet the breath. There’s nothing left to say. Nothing worth breaking the quiet for. Turning to the door, your steps this time are steady, unhesitant. No more stalling. You did what you could. You waited. You hoped.

And now, it’s clear; he’s not coming.

You were just about to lower the blinds when a familiar car slid to a stop out front. Your breath caught, frozen tight in your chest. You didn’t move, didn’t blink, as the driver’s door flung open before the engine had even settled into idle. There he was, the tall figure who’d haunted your thoughts for months, carved into every restless night. Disheveled, frantic, a deep frown cutting across his face.

When his eyes found yours, he ran.

The air slammed back into your lungs so fast it almost hurt. The fog, the static that had smothered you for hours, gone. Blown clean away in one look on his face.

He's here.

“Why did you wait for me?” The words tumbled out the moment he pushed the door open, his gaze locking onto yours. His face, guilt etched into every line. “You waited for me,” he said again, quieter this time. The guilt cracked, crumbled at the edges, and in its place came something softer. His eyes didn’t waver. It was awe, unmistakable and unguarded.

It was as if he couldn’t believe you were real.

The car ride was quiet. His coat rested over your shoulders, warm and grounding, as the streetlights blurred past. Since it was already late, Soobin had offered his place. You didn’t argue.

“We’re here,” he murmured, unbuckling his seatbelt. You’d somehow already undone yours without realizing it, stepping out into the cool air just as he rounded the front of the car to meet you. His hand hovered near the door, but you’d beaten him to it. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you breathed, offering a small smile. Your eyes drifted past him, brows pinching slightly as you took in the skyline ahead —towering buildings stretching into the night. Your confusion flickered across your face before you could hide it. “You said your apartment, right?”

He hummed, his lips twitching into the faintest smile. He nodded toward the buildings ahead. “Come on.”

You walked, still puzzled, trailing a step behind him. Your eyes wandered, curious and cautious, as you neared the towering building. Inside, staff seemed to scatter and straighten the moment they caught sight of Soobin. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Postures snapped upright. The door swung open before either of you reached it.

“Late evening, Mr. Choi,” the security guard greeted, bowing deeply. The others followed suit, dipping their heads in swift, practiced motions. It felt surreal. Like you’d stumbled into the middle of a K-drama you used to watch. Like you were seeing something you weren’t meant to. Soobin didn’t slow. He didn’t pause at the front desk like everyone else did. He just kept walking, glancing back once to make sure you were still with him. When he reached the elevator, he pressed the button without hesitation. The panel lit up, and you caught the word just above it; Penthouse.

Your breath caught, but you masked it quickly, dropping your gaze. That’s when you noticed his hands, resting at his sides, relaxed. The silence wrapped around you again. You shifted your hand, hesitant, pinky inching toward his. You just wanted to hold it — just once. Who knew if you’d get another chance like this? Maybe tomorrow he’d decide you weren’t someone he wanted to see anymore. Maybe you’d bore him. Maybe he’d drift away like people sometimes do.

So just once. Just to know what it felt like.

Your fingers moved closer, careful, unhurried. Barely an inch away — Ding. The elevator chimed, breaking your focus. Your hand froze mid-reach. Soobin turned, catching you dead-on. His gaze flicked down, just fast enough to see the way you yanked your hand back, swatting it away like you’d touched something too hot. “Uh—” you blurted.

Before you could even piece together what he meant, his hand reached out. His fingers found yours, threading between them with an ease that made your breath catch. The touch was warm, grounding, and when he gently tugged, you startled just a little. He didn’t say anything about it. He only pulled you softly toward him and guided you into the elevator. The elevator closes, but everything feels distant.

And all the while, his fingers stay laced with yours, anchoring you gently as the world rose around.

“Do you drink?” he asks, his voice low as he approaches the couch where you sit. The bottle in his hands glints under the warm lights, dark glass wrapped in crinkled gold foil, the wine inside a deep, velvet red that swirls languidly as he moves. One glance, and you already know: it’s expensive.

His penthouse is sprawling, though you suppose all penthouses are. “On special occasions,” you admit, watching as he reaches for two crystal glasses.

“Would you call this a special occasion?” He sinks into the couch beside you, his back meeting the cushions.

“I’d say so.” Your answer draws a small smile from him as he leans closer. Carefully, he cradles a glass in each hand and offers one to you. You accept it, fingertips brushing the cool surface as you balance the bowl of the glass in your palm, the slender stem threading between your knuckles. You lift it gently, only needing the faintest tilt toward your nose to catch the aroma. Your intuition was right, this would be the finest drink you’ve ever touched.

You take a sip. The wine blooms sharp on your tongue, threading warmth down your throat.

“Tell me,” he says, lifting the glass to his lips. His bangs fall loose over his eyes, soft and unbothered, and you fight the quiet urge to reach over and sweep them aside. “How did you start your business?”

“Like most things in this world,” you reply, taking another small sip, the pungent taste stinging your palate. “A bit of luck and a bit of misfortune.”

Soobin shifts, turning more fully toward you. One arm drapes along the back of the couch, as though he’s subconsciously reaching closer. His glass rests loosely against his thigh, “What was your luck?”

“I received money. Enough to build the business.”

“And the misfortune?”

Your throat tightens slightly. You swallow. “It was because my grandmother… wouldn’t be able to take care of it anymore.” Your voice softens. “Or herself anymore.”

The quiet smile at the corner of his lips falters, folding into something more solemn. A flat line. His eyes don’t leave you, they track every flicker of your expression: the slight furrow of your brow, the quick blinks you can’t quite suppress, the faint, compulsive bite to the inside of your cheek. But he doesn’t press.

“Why flowers?”

You know the answer. It unfurls easily in your mind, sprawling and layered. But a flicker of doubt tugs at you. If I ramble, will he grow tired of me?

“I liked their meanings,” you say instead, choosing your words slowly. “How each plant holds its own importance, just by existing. It’s fulfilling. And it’s a beautiful thing… seeing the way even simple arrangements can affect people.” You glance down, your thumb brushing the base of your glass. The words settle in the air between you.

He doesn’t fill the silence or shift in his seat. His eyes stay fixed on you. The glass in his hand remains perfectly still. His gaze lingers like he’s reading something delicate between your lines, like you’re a puzzle he’s in no rush to solve. He watches without pressing, without judgment. You feel the heat creep into your cheeks despite yourself, and you lower your gaze, hoping it hides the way your pulse trips over itself.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a pause, his voice lower, gentler. “I feel like I’m bombarding you with all these questions. Would you like to ask me something instead?”

A dozen questions flicker through your mind, each vying for space. Yet one floats to the surface, steady and clear, eclipsing the rest. “Why did you ask me to make you that bouquet?” The words leave you smoother than you expected.

For a breath longer, he says nothing. And then — a soft, breathy laugh escapes him. His eyes crinkle at the corners, something warm spilling over his features, and you swear you feel your heart tighten in your chest.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him laugh. It’s the first time you’ve seen the hollows of his cheeks deepen, the dimples ghost into view.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat gently, He leans forward slightly, setting his glass on the table with a clink. “I do have an answer. But it’s a long one… if you’ll bear with me.” You nod, something soft and weightless settling in your chest.

Soobin’s voice dips, even softer now, like he’s confessing something he’s carried for far too long. “I asked you to make me that bouquet because I knew you’d pour yourself into it. You’d try your best to make it perfect for me. And when I saw it… I knew you’d done exactly that.” He pauses, gaze never wavering from you. “I never planned to take it with me. That bouquet—it was always meant for you.”

He shifts closer, just a few inches, slow and unintrusive. You don’t look at him; your eyes drop away, blurred with the tears threatening to spill over. You hold them back with every ounce of restraint, blinking fast against the shimmer at your waterline.

“I could’ve gone to any florist,” he continues, his voice barely above a murmur, “bought flowers and handed them to you. But I didn’t want that. I wanted you to make them… for yourself.”

Your chest pulls tight, your breath shallow and quick.

“I wanted you to create something as beautiful as you are. That’s why I asked for the bouquet.” His words land soft, final. “Because you’re beautiful.”

You try to fight it. Your head lifts slightly, your gaze tipping upward as if looking higher might will the tears back in. But the moment you blink, they slip free, tracing a slow, unbidden path down the curve of your cheek. There’s no hiding it. Not from him. Soobin’s eyes track the tear’s descent, his expression open and unreadable.

“I…” You falter, biting down gently on your tongue as your throat burns, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says immediately, “Tell me.”

Your breath shudders out, thin and shaky. “It’s just… earlier, I thought you wouldn’t come back.” The fracture in your voice is clear, woven into every syllable. Soobin hears it as easily as if you’d shouted it. His focus sharpens, tender and intent, even as another tear slips down your cheek.

Without a word, he lifts his hand. His touch is featherlight, the side of his index finger brushes just beneath your eye, catching the tear before it can fall farther. The contact startles you; your breath catches, your eyes widening at the gentle weight of his skin on yours. Though he’d caught your tear, his hand lingers on your cheek. His skin is cooler than yours, a contrast that sends a ripple down your spine. Then his finger glides down the curve of your face, tracing a path to your chin. His touch is careful, as if he’s afraid you might shatter under anything less. His fingers cradle your chin gently, coaxing, as he tilts your face toward him. Your breath catches as your gaze is guided back to his.

He’s looking at you.

Your nerves spark like a live wire under your skin, a delicate ache blooming in your chest. You swear you’ll come apart if you move too quickly, if you breathe too hard. Your heartbeat drums mercilessly in your ears loud enough, to fill the silence between you.

He leans closer. Slowly, gingerly, he edges forward like he’s stepping through every invisible barrier you’d built, slipping past every wall you thought you’d carefully kept intact. You watch as his eyes trace the line of your lips. Is he feeling the same tremor, the same breathless ache threatening to consume you whole?

Your eyes mirror his, drifting down until they rest on his lips. You feel his breath first, warm and shallow against your mouth. Your eyes flutter shut, anticipation blooming low in your belly — an ache, a flutter, a trembling promise. The thought alone sends shivers down your spine.

His lips meet yours. It's soft.

You don’t dare move. His fingers remain at your chinr. And for the first time, you let yourself surrender completely, allowing someone else full, irrevocable control. You let him lead. You let yourself fall. Then, subtly, Soobin shifts. His lips part just slightly against yours, enough to press a second kiss, lighter than air, softer than thought. The faintest sound of it rings in your ears, delicate and clear, as if it’s the only sound left in the world. There is no one else. Nothing else. Only you and him.

When he pulls away, it’s slow. He creates space between you, his gaze dropping—gentle, searching. “I apologize,” he says softly, his voice drawing your eyes open again. His pupils are dark, downcast, uncertainty clouding their depths as his fingers slip away from your skin. “If I made you uncomfortable… if I overstepped — I’m sorry.”

Without a word, with your tears now stilled, you reach for him. Your fingers wrap gently around his wrist, the same hand that had so carefully traced your skin. You hold him. With a pull, you guide his hand back to your face. When his fingertips meet your skin again, a wordless relief unfurls in your chest.

He’s watching you. His eyes are locked to yours, dark and unwavering, tracking every small shift in your expression as if deciphering the meaning behind your touch. Your hand stays clasped at his wrist as you draw your lips inward, wetting them with a soft sweep of your tongue, a silent permission offered without a single breath of speech.

You see it instantly, the way his brow knits downward, a soft furrow of longing. His lips part slightly, a breath escaping that he doesn’t bother to rein in. The expression across his face is raw, unguarded, needy in a way that makes your stomach swoop, a sweet ache pulling low in your core. His gaze flickers downward, fixated on the subtle shift of your mouth.

Before you even can take your next breath, his lips are on yours again. His mouth meets yours with more urgency, yet still achingly soft. His free hand ghosts up your jaw, fingers threading into the hinge of your neck, You’re taken aback, quite literally as his mouth parts against yours, deepening the kiss in a way that makes your breath falter. Your head tips backward instinctively, but before you can drift too far, his hand is there to catch. His fingers tangle into the soft strands at the nape of your neck, cradling you.

You clutch tighter to his wrist, as if that alone could tether you. The moment dissolves into something weightless, and the sensation of Soobin’s kiss begins to eclipse everything else — until the world narrows to nothing but his lips, his breath, his touch.

Your lungs tighten. Your head spins just as you feel the graze of his tongue against your lower lip. With a soft gasp, you break away.

Cool air rushes between your lips as you pull back, your breath coming quick and shallow. Your fingers, once gripping tight at his wrist loosen, falling limp against his skin. His hand slides gently from the back of your head, fingertips gliding down the column of your neck before settling against the delicate curve of your throat. His thumb traces there idly, barely a whisper of contact.

His voice, when it comes, is hushed. “Are you alright?”

All your life, you had been pursued. Suitors with bright eyes and polished words circled like moths, eager to capture your hand, to fasten their futures to yours. They came with promises that echoed hollow against your ribs. They smiled too easily, spoke too sweetly and though you tried, how you tried to meet them halfway, something inside you always stayed untouched.

You had forced smiles you didn’t mean. Laughed at jokes that never reached your eyes. You wrapped yourself in false emotions like gossamer, hoping the weight of them would feel like belonging. But after every encounter, you only felt emptier. You never understood why.

Until now.

With Soobin’s kiss still lingering on your lips, with his hand resting against the tender line of your throat as though you were something precious, and easily breakable. The truth settles in you, your heart had never been wandering.

It had been waiting. Waiting for him.

It wasn’t that no one wanted you. It was that your soul had already made its choice long before your body could catch up. And after all the quiet, lonely years of not knowing what you were longing for, he had finally found you.

You are home.

"I…" Your voice is thin, threadbare with wonder. You search for words, but none seem big enough to hold what you’re feeling. "I’ve never… been kissed like that before."

He smile slowly, a laugh tumbles from him and the thumb resting against your neck drifts upward, grazing the curve of your cheek with such careful reverence it makes your breath catch. You don’t have time to react. He leans in before you can even think, brushing a kiss against your lips, so brief it’s almost weightless. Too fleeting, too quick, and when he pulls away, you instinctively lean forward, chasing the fading warmth.

"Is that better?" he murmurs, mischief softening the edges of his gaze.

You swallow thickly, your pulse fluttering wildly beneath his touch. "I didn’t…" Your voice falters, a smile tugging unbidden at the corner of your lips. "…say that I didn’t like it."

It was as if your words had unspooled something inside him, like you'd spoken a secret incantation only he could hear. The moment your words left your lips, he was on you — his mouth capturing yours with a hunger. His hands slid down at your waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, warm palms pressing against your skin as if he needed to feel every inch of you. His lips broke from yours only to travel lower, grazing the delicate line of your jaw before finding the curve of your neck. The first brush of his mouth there drew a sound from you, a soft moan. You felt him smile against your skin, a low, pleased hum from his throat as if your every sigh was a gift.

Without thinking, your arms wrapped tighter around him. You shifted, lifting your legs to curl around his waist, pulling him flush against you. The soft, unrestrained groan that escaped him at the motion sent a spark racing straight through you.

You had never felt so wanted as hands slid down, tracing the shape of your thigh before they dipped to the bend of your knee. You had never felt so treasured as he slowly, began to gather the fabric of your skirt, dragging it higher along your leg with unhurried care, revealing skin he touched as though memorizing you with each pass.

"You taste divine," he breathed against your neck, the words threaded with awe and desire. His lips trailed open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your throat, grazing you with teeth soft enough to make you shiver, as if he wanted to consume you completely yet worship every part of you. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently as you guided him back to your lips. He met you eagerly, melting into the kiss as though he’d waited lifetimes for it.

“If you want me to stop… tell me,” he whispered against your mouth, voice rough and tender all at once.

You nodded unafraid, and in that quiet, unspoken agreement, you watched something flicker in his eyes. As if he was vowing to worship you fully but never without your permission. His hands moved, deft and gentle, helping you ease out of the thin barrier of fabric that separated you, his gaze never leaving yours as if even in this unraveling, your comfort was his compass.

His smile curves against the delicate line of your neck, breath fanning across your skin as his words slip through, velvet-soft and low, “You’re already so wet for me.” His tone is laced with adoration. “I didn’t know you’d be such a good girl for me.”

The world dissolves.

It shrinks and softens until all that’s left is him — Soobin and the press of his body against yours, Soobin and the way his voice drips honey and reverence into your ear, Soobin and the hands that worship every part of you like he’s learning a language spoken only through touch.

Every piece of clothing that falls away is marked by his mouth, kisses dragged slow across your lips, your jaw, the hollow of your throat, the slope of your collarbones. His lips move like he’s tracing constellations on your skin, as though, somehow, you hold the entire night sky within you.

His hands, large and steady, move over you with a duality that makes you ache. Greedy and gentle. Certain but tender. He touches you as though he’s starved for you, but terrified you might slip away if he’s too careless. His fingers map your curves, glide down your sides, ghost along the backs of your thighs, curling possessively.

The room is thick with something heavier than air. It’s breath; yours and his, tangled in rhythm. It’s the soft rustle of fabric sliding over skin, the quiet catch of a moan swallowed between kisses, the faint sighs that spill when his hands find somewhere new to caress. Everything slows because he slows it. He takes his time, like he refuses to let any detail slip by unnoticed.

It doesn’t feel like he’s simply undressing you.

It feels like he’s unveiling something sacred. Like every inch of you laid bare is a gift he’s longed for, and now that he has it, he won’t squander a second. His gaze drinks you in between every kiss, full of a softness that cradles the sharp edge of desire. His pupils blown wide, his lips pink and kiss-bitten, his breath shaky though he tries to steady it.

You’re cherished.

“Soobin,” you gasp, breath hitching as he pulls you effortlessly into his lap. His lips find the swell of your breast, as his hands caress you with tender precision — teasing. The soft drag of his tongue against your nipples pulls a shiver from deep within you.

“I’ll take you to bed, sweetheart,” — “Yes, please,”

His mouth meets yours again, slow and consuming, while his arms curl around you. Without breaking the kiss, he rises, lifting you as though you weigh nothing, as though carrying you is the most natural thing in the world. You don’t open your eyes. You don’t need to. Your hands stay laced behind his neck, your fingers threading through the soft hair at his nape. You surrender wholly, letting yourself be cradled in his care. His footsteps echo and then you feel it, the plush give of the mattress beneath you as he lowers you gently into the center of the bed. The sheets are cool against your back, but his gaze is molten, grounding you in a warmth no fabric could match.

“Soobin…” Your voice trembles, “I haven’t done this before.”

For a moment, his expression stills. Something softens even further in his eyes. His lips tilt into the faintest, sweetest smile before he leans down, planting a slow kiss on your lips.

You gave him a smile, you reached up and kissed him. A simple peck. His eyes is open mid-kiss, like he couldn’t bear to miss a second of it. As though the feeling of your lips wasn’t enough, he wanted to see it too. “I trust you,” you whispered against his lips, “I do.”

You had never been blinded because of a smile before.

His lips press against your sternum, inching his way with slow pecks towards the plump skin of your breasts. And the second he finds your nipple, a sharp gasp leaves your throat as you feel his warm tongue caress the sensitive flesh. His hand moves to your navel, his palm lying flush to your abdomen as he holds you down to the mattress; continuing to glide his tongue over you. As Soobin lifts his lips from you momentarily, the chill of his saliva lingers on your breast, makes you softly squirm in his grasp.

He move to the other side of your body, slowly slowly repeating the process as he suckle at your hardened bud ever so gently. But this time, he use his teeth to bite the softest mark onto your nipple; the careful sting pulls your back into an arch. You whimper at the roughness, though it only lasts for a second, and as you process their actions, Soobin begins to trail down from your breasts, moving to the other one. His hands work, reaching down to caress your core which pulse between your thighs.

You try to control yourself as he went lower, to control your body, control the moans begging for release but the moment he place a kiss to your clit, the little control you have begins to slip. He starts gently, a kiss, a soft lick up your entrance, and gets back to give the most careful suckle at your clit. His gentle licks turn into passionate laps as he palce his tongue flat to your clit and allow the pressure of his muscle alone to spark up your spine.

You gasp at the feeling, your hands grip desperately onto the sheets by your sides.

With his hand still placed on your lower belly, Soobin outstretches his fingers towards his mouth latched onto your cunt. His thumb finds its place just above the hood of your clit, as he begin to add to the simulation causing your teeth to sink into your bottom lip. He swirl the wet skin, sucking, intervals of tender kisses in between as he feel you between his lips; as the squelching of his tongue against your soaked entracne takes over the silence of the night.

"You're being such a good girl for me," Soobin kisses the words onto you, "So fucking good." He use his freehand to pull your leg up and over his shoulder, your body willingly at his control. He lift his mouth from you only to place his lips inside of your thight, his fingers still simulating you even with the pause.

You can feel it brewing. The band threathening to snap at any moment. Your pleasure pleading for release as he return to lap at your cunt.

"S-Soobin," you gasp, "Wait, I-" your please turn into tight cries of desperation as they retrieve a smile from Soobin, who listens intently to you moaning his name.

"I know baby," he kisses your clit, his thumb giving you an experimental amount of pressure, "I know baby, you can cum on my tongue. I don't mind."

If it weren't for your orgasm now unleashing inside of you, you possibly would have laughed, but the only thing that comes out of you, among the essence leaking into Soobin's mouth, is the lewd noises breaching the shores of your pleasure. Your hips instinctively push into his mouth as it explodes.

Your legs twitch, faint tremors echoing long after the euphoria crests and slowly ebbs away. Your breath is uneven, your chest rising and falling in shallow pulls as your mind tries to fix itself again. The world feels distant, softened at the edges, but you feel him. You feel Soobin everywhere. You hardly register the trail of his lips scaling their way back up your body, delicate kisses pressed along your stomach, the hollow between your ribs, the curve of your collarbone; until his face hovers just above yours. His breath fans against your lips, warm and even, as though he’s been composed the entire time, despite the flush that paints the high of his cheekbones. And when you meet his eyes —

Adoration. That’s all there is. As though you hung the stars in his sky.

Your fingers, still faintly trembling, reach down to the waistband of his pants, a silent plea building in your chest to return the worship he’s lavished on you. But before you can so much as graze the fabric, his hand wraps gently around your wrist, and moves it away.

“Tonight is about you,” Soobin murmurs, voice low, coaxing you back into ease. A smile, soft and disarming, tugs at the corners of his lips as he dips forward to nuzzle the tip of his nose against yours. “Just think of it as my way to say sorry… for making the prettiest girl wait so long.” His fingers, those long, graceful ones you’ve become so attuned to, sweep gently through your hair, combing it back from your damp forehead as though you were something priceless. His thumb brushes the line of your temple before trailing down the curve of your jaw, feather-light.

You stare back at him, your gaze tender and unwavering, the reflection of your own adoration open across your features. Whatever he sees in your eyes makes something in his expression soften even further.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, his voice dropping as he nestles closer to your side. Instinctively, you open your arms for him, and he slides into the space as though it were carved just for him, his head resting gently against your chest.

“Nothing,” you whisper truthfully, your fingers threading into his soft hair as you tilt your head to study him. Wonder flickers within you like the soft flicker of candlelight, igniting gently as you take in the way the dim glow plays in his irises — deep brown kissed with honey, shadows and softness blending as if the universe itself tried to paint the richest portrait inside his gaze. “You’re beautiful,”

The smile that spreads across his face is breathtaking. His lips curve in that boyish, gentle way that squeezes your heart painfully tight, and then he laughs. Your own smile spills out in response, and soon both your laughs mingle, weaving together in the space between you like spun gold, before your lips find each other’s once more.

You woke with the sunlight brushing gently across your skin, the warmth pooling on the sheets.

His breath is steady against the back of your neck, his chest rising and falling. His arm is still draped over your waist, fingers laced together just under your ribs as if even in sleep, he’s afraid to let go. Every time you shift, even slightly, his hold tightens; subconscious, instinctive. As though his body has decided on its own that you belong nowhere but here. You feel the ghost of his lips at the back of your head again, a soft, unthinking kiss pressed into your hair. And then that murmur that drifted from him throughout the night, something wordless and sweet, as though he was dreaming of you and couldn’t help but let it slip into the waking world.

You are exactly where you’re meant to be.

You blink slowly, everything is softened by the white sheets. Warmth surrounds you, not just from the sun filtering through the windows, but from the comforting weight draped over your back. You shift slowly, turning in his embrace until you’re met with the sight that makes your heart swell.

Choi Soobin.

Your fingertips ghost along the curve of his cheek, feather-light, afraid you might wake him if you touched him too boldly. His skin is soft beneath your hand, still asleep. His lashes rest delicately against his cheekbones, his lips parted slightly, breath deep and even.

“Sleepy Soobin,” you whisper, your thumb brushes along the slope of his cheekbone and, instinctively, he leans into your palm, nuzzling against your touch. The simple action sends a tender ache spiraling through your chest. Your mind drifts back, to the way his hands gripped you with both hunger and patience. To the way his lips worshiped every inch of you. To the way he had cradled you afterward, not letting a single shiver escape him unnoticed, whispering soft words against your skin.

Your eyes drink him in, the soft rise and fall of his chest, the tousled strands of dark hair falling across his forehead. You lean forward, pressing the lightest of kisses on the corner of his mouth. You linger there, breathing him in, letting your lips stay against him like a silent thank-you whispered straight from your heart.

“I don’t think,” you murmur softly against his skin, your lips curving in a smile, “I’ve ever been this happy before.” And as if he heard you even in sleep, his arm around your waist tightens, pulling you closer.

Your phone buzzes. You move quickly, fingers curling around the device as you move yourself out of Soobin’s arms. You sit on the edge of the bed, the cool air brushing against your skin. His shirt hangs loosely off your frame, the fabric soft and saturated with the faint scent of him. You tuck a hand into the hem absentmindedly as you answer. “Hello?” Your voice is hushed.

“Oh, hi. I just wanted to check in about your grandmother. She took her meds.” Hana’s voice comes softly from the other end, the caregiver you’d called last minute yesterday when you weren’t sure you’d make it home in time.

Relief unfurls gently in your chest. “Thank you, Hana,” you murmur, a small smile touching your lips. “I’ll be back in the afternoon.”

There’s a few more exchanged words, small reassurances and thank-yous, before you end the call. The screen dims in your hand, but you don’t move just yet. You glance over your shoulder. He hasn’t stirred, not really, but his brows are slightly furrowed now, as if he noticed the loss of you in his sleep. The sheets dip where you’d been moments ago, and one hand rests, palm open, where your body had once been.

A soft smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. You want to crawl back to him already. But you know you can't.

Setting the phone down, your gaze drifted toward the bedside table. You remembered Soobin opening the drawer last night, tucking away both of your things. You needed your ponytail. You pulled the drawer open.

Your fingers falter for the the first thing you see. You hadn’t meant to intrude. Two large bottles, their labels slightly worn, tucked neatly in the corner of the drawer as if he’d kept them close, yet out of sight.

Sleeping pills.

Your lips press into a thin line as thoughts flicker behind your eyes — how gentle he’d been with you, how steady and warm his gaze had felt, how easily sleep had taken him last night in your arms. And yet… these. Did he take them every day? Your hand brushes over the edge, and finally, you spot your ponytail nestled beside his wristwatch.

You swallow gently, pushing the drawer close.

You hummed softly as you slid the fried eggs onto a white plate, the gentle sizzle fading as you set them down. This place is a wide, unfamiliar kitchen, but somehow your hands had found their routine effortlessly. Turning, you arranged the plate beside the crisp bacon and the golden slices of toasted, buttered bread.

Out of the corner of your eye, the bedroom door creaked open. "Good morning," you called, your voice laced with a smile that turned fully when you saw Soobin, no confusion in his sleepy gaze, no hesitation in his steps. He made a beeline straight to you.

"I didn’t mind it," you replied, breathless with laughter as you tried halfheartedly to nudge him away. But he only shook his head, clutching you tighter, "Come on," you coaxed gently, tilting your head to meet his soft gaze. "Let’s eat."

At just those simple words, he loosened his hold, his hand sliding down to lace his fingers with yours.

“What is it?” Soobin asks softly, voice in curiosity as he chews his food. His eyes catching the question behind your gaze. “I did tell you… you can ask me anything, remember?”

You nod, your fork slowly tracing circles on the edge of your plate. “Yes…” You swallow, “I don’t mean to pry, I really don’t. I just… I just wanted to ask if you take those pills every day?”

He nods slowly. “I do,” he admits. “I’ve always had trouble sleeping.” Your lips part to speak, but before you can, he sets his fork down and leans in, elbows resting on the table as his hand slides gently over yours. His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “But last night…” A faint smile curls the corner of his lips,“Last night, I didn’t even think about them. I didn’t need them.” His voice drops, “You were here.”

Sitting at that table, sharing breakfast, you felt like you were learning him in layers, like pages of a book gently unfolding for you. You already had your suspicions the moment you first met Soobin. The cut of his clothes, the sleek car he drove; they all whispered of a life far from ordinary. But hearing it from his lips, hearing him confess that he was set to inherit and run an entire empire, sent a quiet shiver up your spine. A chaebol. How had someone like you managed to cross paths, let alone hearts, with someone like him?

He spoke openly, though gently, about the burden he had carried since he was just a teenager. How sleep had long been a stranger to him. How those pills had been his quiet crutch in the endless swirl of expectations, decisions, and responsibilities that clouded his nights. You tried your best to absorb every word. Soobin told you how he had found you captivating from the very first moment he saw you — how, despite that, he never had the courage to approach you.

It was unclear why he trusted you so deeply, why he felt safe enough to share such memories about his sister’s pain and the misplaced guilt he carried on his shoulders. But he did. He let you in. The shadows in his expression melted the moment you leaned in, your lips pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to his and your arms curling gently around him. Maybe that was why. Maybe you were his perfect match. You were the one brave enough to ask him out first; unknowing then, but somehow sensing what held him back.

You learned more little things about him that morning too. How he often misplaced his watch because he’d take it off absentmindedly and forget where he’d set it. How he liked his coffee with an extra spoon of sugar and a generous pour of creamer, because despite everything, Soobin had a sweet tooth.

And somehow, every one of these small pieces only made you fall for him more.

“I can’t wait to get back and see you,” his voice comes gently through the phone, smooth and warm like a whisper against your ear. “Just three more days, and I’ll be back. Okay?”.

“Okay,” you breathe, your voice softer than you intend. “Just make sure you’re eating well, alright?” You swallow gently, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “I’ll see you soon.”

His laugh drifts back to you, honey-sweet and effortless. You miss him already. “Okay, baby.”

And just like that, the line clicks silent.

You move quietly around your shop, fingers trailing along the shelves, straightening small displays here and there. You smile to yourself, a small, private thing, as memories of the past few days float to the surface. His touch. His laugh. Everything lately had felt… right. Almost effortlessly so.

The soft chime of the doorbell rings out, pulling you back to the present.

“Welcome,” you call, your gaze lifts and locks instantly with a pair of sharp, assessing eyes. A woman stands there, immaculately dressed, her age maybe in her fifties, though the confidence she wears makes her seem ageless somehow.

Her eyes sweep over you unblinking, as though weighing you against some invisible scale. “Are you the woman seeing my son?” A chill skips down your spine.

“Pack your things up,” she says crisply, her gaze drifting coolly over the small, carefully curated space of your shop. Her lips twitch, close enough to make your stomach twist. “Come have lunch with me.”

You blink, thrown off balance, your heartbeat picking up beneath your ribs. This… wasn’t what you’d expected today. “Uh—yes, ma’am,” you say, trying to gather yourself.

Your fingers twitch on your lap as you lower your gaze, lashes casting shadows over your cheeks. The seat beneath you feels too plush, too stiff all at once, as if you don’t quite belong in it. You’re somewhere deep inside this towering glass building — a restaurant so vast and pristine it feels like even your breath is too loud for the space. You try to inhale quietly, chest tight, as Soobin’s mother sits across from you, commanding the room with a presence that doesn’t falter.

You watched, silent, as she spoke crisply to the waiter. Her tone left no room for correction, no cracks for uncertainty to slip through. She didn’t ask what you’d like. She didn’t ask if salad was to your taste. She simply ordered it for you without sparing you a glance — as though she already knew what you should eat, or perhaps decided it didn’t matter.

The clink of glassware is sharp, and you jump slightly when she clears her throat. Slowly, reluctantly, you lift your eyes to meet hers. Her gaze is steady, dark and searching, the sort that makes you feel like you’re being turned inside out with just a look.

“What do you want—”

"Mother," a new voice drifts into the space; light, melodic. You turn instinctively, and there she stands: a woman so strikingly beautiful it’s impossible to mistake the relation. The soft curve of her jaw, the familiar gentle slope of her nose, she carries pieces of Soobin effortlessly in her features.

She moves toward the table with a grace that makes the heavy atmosphere ease, as though her very presence carries warmth where there was only frost before. Soobin’s mother’s stern face softens, her posture loosening subtly for the first time since you sat down and it’s clear this new woman holds sway over her in ways no one else has managed thus far.

The sincerity in her voice disarms you. It feels like exhaling after holding your breath for too long, like finding a familiar light in a room full of shadows. Warm. Genuine.

“Th-thank you,” you murmur, voice small as your gaze drops shyly to your lap. The elegance she carries so effortlessly makes you acutely aware of every inch of yourself; of your softness, your simplicity. You steal a glance upward as she turns away, leaning toward her mother, her voice soft and fluid as she starts to recount her day.

Their hair, not a strand out of place, styled with a polish that speaks of salons you’ve never stepped foot in. The fine lines of their blouses, their tailored cuts, fabrics that drape as if stitched to their skin. Even their nails is perfectly shaped, coated in shades that gleam soft and subtle, unchipped. Their handbags resting beside them glint of understated luxury, the kind of leather that never creases, the kind of detail you notice only when you’ve never had it.

Your gaze falls to your skirt — the one you had sewn with patient hands from fabric you bargained for at the market’s edge. You’d chosen the material carefully, pieced it together with love, made it yours. But here… it feels smaller somehow. Less. You smooth your palms over your knees.

How long will you have to sit in moments like this? How long will you have to feel the weight of difference settle like a stone in your chest? The gap between their world and yours feels so wide it burns.

You don’t belong here.

You hadn’t even managed to lift your fork, “How old are you?” Soobin’s mother asked.

“Twenty-three,” you murmured, your tongue thick in your mouth. The number sounded too small as soon as it left you.

Her lips tugged downward. “Five years younger than him. Too young.” A pause, heavy. “Education status? What of your family?”

You swallowed hard. “I’m living with my grandmother.”

Her brow arched, unimpressed. “Since when?” — “Since I was a child.”

The sting behind your eyes burned fast. You blinked hard, but it did nothing to wash it away. You felt small, smaller than you ever thought you could shrink.

“Mother,” Soobin’s sister snapped, her voice tight with disbelief. You lifted your gaze to her, grateful and ashamed all at once. Her expression was shocked that her mother had gone that far.

But then the next blow landed. “Do you even know there’s a girl who’s supposed to marry him?” Her tone dropped, dripping with disdain as if she wanted to watch you crumble beneath it.

“Mom, stop it. Now.” Soobin’s sister, again. Firmer this time.

Your lips parted to answer — to say something, anything — but all that came out was fragile and thin. “We… we haven’t talked about it.” It was all you could manage. Your voice cracked just enough to make the shame crawl higher up your throat. Your chair scraped against the floor softly as you rose, every inch of your body stiff and burning. You forced a tight smile that felt more like a grimace. “Excuse me… I’ll just take the bathroom.”

Your legs carried you away before the first tear slipped free.

You gripped the sink’s edge so hard your knuckles ached, head bowed as silent sobs racked through your chest. You couldn’t catch your breath. Couldn’t hold it together long enough to even pretend you belonged here. Your reflection in the mirror blurred behind the sheen of tears; eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, lips trembling. Small. Out of place. A girl trying to fit in.

Of course she was right. You’d always known it, hadn’t you? You were someone born from absence. A child left behind by two people who couldn’t even stay for you, much less for each other. You’d spent so long tucking that truth away, convincing yourself. His mother didn’t have to scream to shatter you.

You wiped at your face uselessly, but the tears kept slipping, warm and bitter down your jaw. You didn’t want to ruin what Soobin had left with his mother, thin and cracked as it might be. You’d seen the strain in his eyes before when he spoke of her. You’d heard the weight when he talked about duty, legacy, responsibility; but you wouldn’t be the reason he chose sides. Maybe everything really had just been a dream. And maybe now…maybe it was time to wake up.

The door creaks open, and you flinch too late to hide the tears streaking your cheeks.

Soobin’s sister.

Her expression crumbles the second she sees you. “Oh, honey.” Her voice is soft, almost breaking, and before you can turn away or gather yourself, she’s already crossing the room. You shake your head, a weak protest caught in your throat, but it falls apart the second her arms wrap around you. You don’t mean to collapse, but you do. Your body folds into hers, trembling, your fingers clutching at the fabric of her coat.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathes against your temple, her voice rawer now, as if she can feel even a fraction of what’s tearing through you.

Your chest hurts. You can’t speak. You don’t trust your own voice not to shatter the second you try. So you just stand there, breathing uneven, tears soaking the front of her blouse.

“I came here because I heard she’d come after you the moment Soobin flew out for his trip,” she continues, “And about that woman… or whatever arrangement that was, Soobin never met her. Not even once. That was all our mother’s doing. If you want the truth, it’s best you hear it straight from him, hm?” Your fingers curl tighter around the handkerchief.

“I… I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice frayed at the edges, the apology slipping out even though you aren’t sure what you’re apologizing for— being here, being too small for this world, for falling for someone you were never supposed to have?

“Don’t be,” she says softly, her lips tugging into a smile. "You’ve done nothing wrong."

She reaches to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “You can go home. I’ll handle her,” she promises. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t come near you again, not until Soobin gets back and sorts all of this out himself.”

Your throat tightens again, “Why?” The word falls out of you in a whisper. “Why are you doing all of this?”

“Soobin deserves to be happy,” she says, there's a glisten in her eyes. “And you… you make him happy.”

You sit still, hands folded tightly in your lap, nails pressing crescents into your skin as the hum of the engine vibrates beneath you. Through the window’s glass, blurred by your uneven breaths, you see them, Soobin’s sister and her husband.

Choi Beomgyu.

Even from here, even without sound, it’s clear. The way his eyes search hers, soft and intent. The way his hand brushes her cheek, tender and unhurried. And then, his palm drifts lower, resting on the curve of her stomach.

Your breath catches, an involuntary gasp escaping from your lips. You hadn’t noticed it before, maybe because you’d been too wrapped in your own thoughts, but there it is now; the small, rounded swell of her belly beneath her dress.

She’s pregnant.

Your eyes dart away. It sinks in heavier than you expect—the contrast of it. The weight of what you felt in that restaurant still gnawing at your ribs. You swallow hard, blinking fast. You shouldn’t be jealous. Not of them, not of their certainty, not of the way they fit together. You curl your fingers tighter.

Beomgyu slides into the driver’s seat, his eyes flicker to you in the rearview mirror, not invasive. “You okay?” His voice is gentle, low.

You swallow past the knot tightening in your throat. “Yes.”

He doesn’t press. He just nods once, slow, and leans back in his seat. His hands rest on the wheel but he doesn’t start the car. Instead, his eyes shift toward the building. You follow his line of sight and see her— his wife, walking toward the entrance.

Only then does he release a small breath and turn the key in the ignition. The car starts.

You've never seen a love so whole.

You’d finally made peace with it all, to speak to Soobin when he returned. His sister’s promise had held true; his mother hadn’t darkened your doorstep again. For once, the silence felt like safety.

Only one more day. Just one, and he’d be back.

The sharp chime of the door snapped through the quiet. You turned instinctively, forcing a smile onto your lips out of habit.

Standing there was a woman. “Good morning,” you greeted softly, stepping behind the counter, trying to keep your hands steady.

“You’re Y/N, right?” Your stomach flipped, hands instantly cold. What is it this time?

“Yes,” you answered carefully, guarded. “How can I help you?”

She took a step closer, “I’m Aera,” she said smoothly, not a trace of hesitation. “Soon to be Soobin’s fiancée.”

Your breath stuttered. The smile fell clean from your lips. “I’m sorry… what—”

“His mother told me about you.” The words barely registered before the woman dropped to her knees in front of you. The motion was so sudden, so desperate, your breath caught in your throat and your eyes went wide.

“Please…” her voice cracked as she folded her hands together, her head bowed low in a way that looked almost unnatural for someone like her; pristine, polished, composed. But here she was. Crumbling. “Please tell him to accept the proposal.”

Your chest constricted painfully. “No, no, stand up, you don’t have to,”

But she shook her head sharply, her shoulders trembling. Tears clung to her lashes, heavy and raw. “I’ll let you have everything you want. You can still be with him .I don’t care. I’ll just marry him in name. I’ll stay in a different room. A different house, even. I won’t touch him. Our family… we need his. Please, I’m begging you.” Her voice broke entirely on that last word.

Even she knew. Even she understood what his mother refused to admit; his heart was already in your hands.

You walk to the building, each step echoing in your chest. The elevator hums softly as you press the button, your reflection in the mirrored doors a stranger to you. When it finally dings open, you step out into the hallway.

Your hand hovers over the doorbell of his home. You take a breath and press the button. And then you wait.

You run over the speeches you carved into your heart all day, I’m sorry, but we need to break up. I’m sorry, I can’t do this anymore. But the moment the door opens, it all disintegrates.

He stands there, and for a split second, it’s as if everything stills. His eyes meet yours, rimmed with exhaustion so deep it settles into the lines of his face. “I’ve been waiting for you, sweetheart.” His voice is soft. Almost fragile.

And before you can think, before you can remember the careful goodbye you rehearsed a thousand times, he reaches for you.His fingers curl around your arms, and he pulls you into him. Into the chest that has always felt like home.

The door clicks shut behind you.

“Soobin, I—” Your voice barely breaks through the air before it’s swallowed by the heat of him; his lips finding the curve of your neck, hot and hurried, like a man starved. His body crowds yours effortlessly, the breadth of him making you feel small. His hands, large, trembling with restraint digs firmly on your waist.

“I fucking missed your voice,” he breathes against your skin, “I fucking missed you… I couldn’t even sleep.”

Your throat tightens, a lump clawing higher and higher as your heart caves in on itself. Coward. That’s what it feels like. Your heart, shrinking, curling away from what you came here to say. Because how could you speak of endings when he’s here, clinging to you like this? When he holds you like you were his last hope?

“I need you, baby,” he murmurs, his fingers slide to your blouse, undoing the buttons one by one, slower than his breath, slower than the pounding of your pulse against your ribs. His knuckles brush against your skin, “Did you miss me?”

You open your mouth. The truth swells painfully, desperate to tear out. I did. I missed you more than you’ll ever know. But all you manage is a breathless, broken, “I—”

His hot mouth sucks your nipple. “…Yes.”

It’s all a blur — his hands, his mouth, the way he whispered your name. You don’t remember how the clothes came off, how the sheets tangled beneath your bodies. You only remember the weight of him, the heat of his skin, and the soft drag of his lips along your body that made your breath catch.

The sharp stretch, the slow push of him sinking into you. Tears spill before you even realize they’re falling. It isn’t the pain that makes you cry. It’s the ache in your chest, the way your heart splits in two at the sight of him — Soobin, tired and unraveling, still so gentle. You were too scared to say no. Not because you didn’t want him, but because you did. Too much. You craved to erase the exhaustion from his eyes, even if it was only for one night.

Maybe you were fooling yourself into thinking you were giving something to him, when really, you were trying to steal one last piece of him for yourself.

His brow furrows as he stills inside you, the concern written all over his face. His thumbs swipe at your damp cheeks, his lips brushing against your skin in soft, frantic kisses. “Did that hurt? What’s wrong?”

You force a breath through the tightness in your throat, eyes locking on his, “No,” you manage to choke out, your voice cracking. Your hand comes up to cradle his cheek, thumb brushing the soft curve of his under-eye, tracing the shadows you wish you could take away. You swallow the sob clawing at your chest, and say it. You have to say it. Even if it’s the last time.

“I— I just love you.” His lips part slightly at your confession. His breath stutters, and something raw flickers behind his gaze; wonder, disbelief. His whole body goes still as if those words rooted him to the earth. “I love you, Soobin.”

"I love you. I fucking love you."

Warm hands find your waist, circling you with a gentle pull, long fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns across your bare skin. A soft squeeze follows, then warm, featherlight kisses trail from your neck to your ear, each one taking time to settle on your skin. Your name slips from his lips, barely more than a breath, before he tucks himself closer, body melting into yours.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, “You’ve been asleep so long, I’m starting to miss you.”

You exhale a soft huff, but there’s no real protest in it. Just the lazy stretch of your arm as you roll toward him, pressing your face into the curve of his neck where he smells like him. Your voice comes out muffled. “Let’s stay like this for five more minutes.”

A smile ghosts against your temple. His hand slides to your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer. “Okay,”

You finally peeled yourself from the bed, soft sheets still warm with sleep and the weight of him. He trailed after you, tall and shadowing your every move around the kitchen as the morning light spilled in. You couldn’t help it, your fingers found his constantly. On his wrist as he buttered toast, laced with his as you poured coffee, curled around his as you sat across from him at the table. And for the first time, you saw it clearly: the way Soobin’s cheeks flushed pink under the weight of your affection, his gaze flickering down, shy and boyish, every time you touched him like you couldn’t stop.

Now, he stands by the mirror, freshly showered, crisp shirt hugging broad shoulders, hair damp and curling just a little at the edges. You’re sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him. He wanted you to stay here, in his penthouse. Wanted you here waiting when he came home.

You rise when you see him fumble with his tie, long fingers struggling with the knot. “Let me,” you say softly. Your fingertips brush against his as you take over, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse beneath his skin. He watches you, head tilted down, eyes steady and soft, drinking in every precise movement as you fold and tug the silk into place.

His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, “Thank you, baby,” he murmurs. He leans in, scattering kisses across your face — your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, your lips — each one light and full of that unshakable, boyish smile of his.

You walk him to the elevator, bare feet padding softly on the cool floor. He steps inside, glances back at you, and lifts his hand in a wave; a grin stretching wide, something childlike and unguarded lighting up his whole face.

All while everything was breaking your heart.

You moved quietly through his home. The morning hush wrapped around you like something delicate and suffocating all at once. You folded his clothes with shaking hands, smoothing out every crease, tucking each piece into its rightful place as if order could somehow soften what you were about to break.

His watch. You found it lying carelessly on the counter where he always forgot it. You fixed it gently onto the shelf beside his cufflinks and rings, aligning everything just so, because you knew he liked it neat, even if he never said it out loud. It was small, but you wanted to leave it perfect for him.

The kitchen was next. Your movements felt numb now, mechanical. You prepared everything the way he loved it: coffee beans ground just right, the sugar jar filled, the creamer where it belonged. You wrote it all down on a small scrap of paper; the exact way you made it for him, step by step and pressed the note beside the kettle. Your handwriting blurred through your tears, but you forced yourself to keep writing.

You slowly, wrote your goodbye.

"Nana, this is your new room, okay?" Your voice is soft, careful not to crack as you push the door open, guiding her slowly inside. "It’s a little different, but we’ll figure it out. I’ll make sure we’re alright."

You smile, or something close to it, when she nods faintly, her eyes drifting over the unfamiliar space. The pale walls, the narrow window, the worn bed frame. None of it felt like home yet, but it had to be. You’d make it be.

Her fingers brushed against the edge of the dresser as she turned to you. "Why did we move so suddenly?"

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. "Oh," you answered lightly, "because we had to."

Your chest tightened when her gaze lingered on you a beat longer, as if peeling back layers you didn’t want exposed. And then, almost absently, she asked, "How about your man?"

You froze. The air seemed thinner, sharper. You weren’t even sure she remembered him clearly — just a distant echo of the day Soobin had shown up with that gentle smile, introducing himself with careful politeness.

"I… I broke up with him," you whispered. She didn’t react at first. Just nodded quietly, turning to sit on the edge of her bed. Her small frame curved gently as she smoothed the blanket beneath her hands, her movements slow and methodical.

You took a step back toward the doorway, trying to breathe steady. Trying not to crumble in front of her. But then, just as she rose again to cross the room, her voice drifted back to you. "Love will not fail," she murmured. "If it fails… it’s not love."

It was as if you’d just torn your own heart out with your bare hands.

Love will not fail. If it fails, it’s not love.

It had been days since you moved.

And still, no matter how many boxes you unpacked, no matter how carefully you folded your grandmother’s cardigans into drawers or wiped down every surface, this place didn’t breathe like the home you left behind.

The sky hadn't lightened once since you arrived. It hung heavy and bruised from dawn to dusk, a slate-colored weight pressing down on everything. You couldn’t remember the last time you saw sunlight crack through.

And then, the rain came.

You noticed it first in the shift of the wind. A few drops scattered across the concrete, and then it broke open all at once. Panic seized you as your mind jumped to the laundry. The sheets you’d washed them early this morning and hung them in the front of your lawn, hoping they'd dry before nightfall.

You bolted outside, breath shallow, feet slipping slightly against the wet pavement. Cold droplets clung to your hair, running down the line of your neck, soaking through your shoulders. Your fingers fumbled over the clothesline as you yanked the white sheets down frantically, heart racing as you tried to save what little you had.

And then — Your body stilled. Your hands slackened on the fabric as your gaze caught on a figure standing just past the fence.

For a moment, the rain softened around you, every sound falling away except the ragged beat of your own heart breaking all over again.

Choi Soobin’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles pale under the dim wash of the dashboard lights. His eyes flicked from one worn street sign to the next, cataloguing every turn, every corner, like a man tracing the edges of an old wound. Every so often, he let the car slow to a crawl. Stared a little too long at places that meant nothing to him, but might have meant everything to you.

It’s the town, the one his investigator pointed him to. The small, quiet town where the woman who tore through his world had disappeared into without a trace but with every piece of him still in her hands.

He’d already gone over everything twice. No. Three times. He couldn’t remember anymore. His chest felt tight, like something was sitting on it and daring him to breathe around the weight. He wondered if he should start all over tomorrow. Sweep the streets again. Retrace the steps he didn’t even know you'd taken.

Without meaning to, Soobin’s hands turned the wheel, guiding him down a road he’d circled too many times to count. Muscle memory, maybe. He didn’t know why he kept coming back.

The first drops of rain tapped against the windshield, soft and uncertain, like the sky hadn’t made up its mind yet. He let out a breath and dragged a hand down his face. He glanced right, thinking to turn back, to call it for the night. But then he saw it.

A figure cutting through the field, darting between rows of white laundry sheets billowing in the wind like ghosts.

He didn’t think. His door was open before he could catch the impulse, the car engine still on behind him as he bolted forward. He didn’t even shut the door. His feet hit the wet grass hard, slipping a little, but he kept running. Fast. Desperate. Like if he blinked, even for a heartbeat, you might vanish.

The way you vanished from his life when he turned his back.

If he’d stayed that day. If he’d ignored the meeting, called in sick, shut the world out, would you still be here now?

He saw you stumble back. Your shoulders tensed, then you turned to escape. And just like that, the breath punched out of his lungs. His heart cracked against his ribs, like thunder rolling too close to the ground. Panic clawed at his throat. His feet wouldn’t move fast enough. So he did the only thing left.

He called your name. Louder than he meant to. He shouted it. Frantic. You didn’t move at first. Just stared at him across the field, rain threading through your hair, clinging to your skin. When you spoke, your voice was sharp.

“Why are you here?” You asked, each word flung like stones across the space between you. Your jaw clenched. “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you I don’t want you anymore?”

Choi Soobin stares at you, the glisten in his eyes that you've come to know whispers his truth. He's now infront of you, eyes sweeping your face.

The storm isn’t just around him; it’s inside him, bleeding into the tremble of his hands as he reach and clutch your wrists, desperate. Rain seeps through his clothes, slides down his skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you.

Because you're the only thing keeping him standing.

“I said—”

“Don’t lie to me!” The words snapped harder than he wanted, frustration cracking wide open in his chest. His hands curled into fists at his sides, not in anger but in helplessness. “Don’t make me feel crazy. Don’t make me feel stupid. My sister told me everything, Y/N. I know. I know everything.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Your shoulders caved, the last of your defenses buckling under the weight of it all.

“I’m not fit for your world,” you choked, voice splintering as tears blurred your vision. Your hands fell limp at your sides, fingers tangled in the thin fabric of the laundry you’d long forgotten.

“I don’t have anything. I hardly even have myself,” you whispered, your face crumpling like it hurt to say the truth out loud. “And you — you deserve the world. You deserve more than someone who can’t even keep her life straight.”

Soobin’s chest hollowed at the sight of you crumbling in front of him. He didn’t care about the rain, or the mud soaking through his shoes, or the ache in his lungs. There was only one thing left he wanted to do. Fall to his knees if he had to. Beg, if that’s what it took. Beg for you. Beg for everything.

“I don’t want the world.” His eyes locked on yours, fierce and aching. “I never wanted any of that. Not once. I just… I just want you.”

His breath shuddered out, shaky, as if saying it hurt and healed him all at once. “I want to live with you. To grow old with you. To have your children. To wake up next to you for the rest of my life.” His words stumbled, his throat thick with the burn of unshed tears, but he didn’t stop.

Before you could slip farther away, Soobin reached for you, his arms wrapped tight around you, pulling you into his chest. His hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading into your damp hair with a gentleness that almost broke you on the spot. His heartbeat thundered against your cheek.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered, voice cracking on the plea. “Please, baby. Not when I finally found you. Not when all I want… is to spend the rest of my life with you.”

He felt you shift in his hold, felt your hands press against his chest like you were about to push him away. His stomach dropped but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t.

“I love you.” The words came out hoarse, frayed at the edges. Honest in a way that stripped him bare. He felt you still. The tension in your shoulders faltered. Slowly, slowly, you softened against him, all the walls you’d been gripping so tightly started to crumble in his arms.

You stopped pulling away this time.

“I love you,” he breathed again. His lips brushed against your temple, “I’ll fix everything for us. I swear it. You just have to trust me, baby. Please. Just trust me.”

He felt your arms loosen, the fight in them dissolving. Softening, giving your surrender — just as the rain itself began to ease, falling gentler, as though the sky had finally tired too. A breath punched out of his chest, relief so fierce it almost dropped him to his knees. His arms closed tighter around you, cradling you against him like he could tuck you safely inside his ribs, where nothing could ever reach you again.

When would he ever get a moment like this again?

A chance like this? To meet his soulmate. To meet the one person who could read the shadows behind his smile before he even noticed they were there. Who knew him better than he had ever dared to know himself.

What were the odds? If he hadn’t driven down that street that day. If he hadn’t wandered into your little flower shop with its peeling paint and sunlight pooling across wooden counters. If he hadn’t looked up and seen you and not known, right then, that he’d nearly lived his life without finding his missing half. And what were the chances you would’ve seen him?

He shuddered, blinking hard against the burn behind his eyes. His throat tightened as he breathed you in, the faint trace of wildflowers still clinging to your skin like memory. His heart clenched.

The odds of this… of you… out of all the people, all the cities, all the winding chances and missed timings, was one in a million.

taglist: ily @heesmiles , @lovingbeomgyudayone , @virtaideen , @hyukascampfire , @fancypeacepersona , @bamgeutori , @lilbrorufr , @beomieeeeeeeeeeees , @xylatox , @yunverie , @imlonelydontsendhelp , @moagyuu , @immelissaaa , @readinmidnight , @pagelets , @wonderstrucktae , @boba-beom , @seodami , @izzyy-stuff , @gyudollies , @i-am-not-dal , @page-isa , @tyunarisu , @s0urcherry , @prettypeachprincesz @zaynspidey @sxmmerberries @immelissaaa @definitelynotherr @fics-lovebot @missychief1404 @irishspringing @lovesickchoi @beomgyusluver @sumzysworld @usuallyunlikelyfox @soo-blue @younbeanz @storminacloud @bamgeutori @soobinieswife @prized-jules @soobmeongie @lostgirlysstuff @hoseocakes @fancypeacepersona @ke4s @lvlyhiyyih @aerangi @suneonu @ryuhannaworld @soheeunderthesun @luvleyylina @georgeweasleys-gf @marissariveraaaa

643 notes · View notes

purplereina11 · 1 day ago

Text

In a match where the scoreboard tells only half the story, a fierce on-pitch rivalry between you and football royalty, Alexia Putellas, evolves into something electric — something unspoken, but deeply felt. Between the lines two players lock eyes, trade touches, and blur the line between competition and connection. What begins as a game becomes a gravity neither can resist.

Part 9 Other Parts

Word Count: 8k

You’re still curled on the corner of the sofa, a blanket tossed over your knees. The TV is still on, the volume low something forgettable playing while your focus drifts elsewhere.

You glance toward the clock. She’s been gone longer than fifteen minutes. You smile, faint but fond, and call out toward the hallway with raised eyebrows, “Did you get lost?”

The front door opens almost exactly as the words leave your mouth.

Teddy barrels in first, nails clicking across the tile, tail wagging wildly. He goes straight for you like he missed you after ten minutes of freedom, launching his head into your lap and letting out a triumphant huff. You laugh, fingers immediately threading through his fur. “Hey, bud. You give her a hard time?”

Then you look up and the smile flickers, because there she is, standing with flowers. Wrapped in soft brown paper, a little loose around the edges like she carried them carefully but not nervously. The colours are muted, warm. Kind.

Alexia looks like she doesn’t quite know what to do with herself, she clears her throat. “Teddy got these for you.”

Your brows lift. “Oh, did he?”

She steps closer, still holding them like she might change her mind. “Yeah. Saw them. Thought of you. Made me carry them.”

You try not to smile too big. You fail. “Wow,” you say, taking them gently as she crosses the room. Your fingers brush hers. “He’s very emotionally intuitive for a dog.”

“Unbelievable instincts,” she murmurs, eyes flicking to your face just once before sliding away again.

You look down at the bouquet. It’s perfect, thoughtful, soft. Intentional, you bring it to your nose, breathing in. “Ranunculus,” you murmur, impressed.

She shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “I liked the name.”

You glance up. “Liar.”

She huffs, rubs the back of her neck. “The woman in the shop said they mean charm.”

You blink. “They mean you’ve been reading into flower meanings?”

She gestures to Teddy. “He asked.”

You laugh, holding the flowers against your chest. “Well he has incredible taste.”

Alexia sits beside you now not too close, but close enough. One leg tucked under her, fingers fidgeting slightly at the hem of her shirt.

You shift the flowers to one side, still smiling. “Thank you,” you say, voice quieter now.

She nods, doesn’t look at you just yet. “You’ve had a hard week.”

You rest your head on the back of the couch, looking at her profile, “I’m glad it ended here.”

That makes her glance at you properly, her voice drops to a whisper. “Me too.”

Teddy sighs between you both loud, satisfied and neither of you moves.

You’re both half-watching the screen, the opening whistle just blowing for Bayern vs Hoffenheim. The stadium is loud through the speakers, commentary layered with the low hum of crowd noise.

Alexia stretches out slightly on the other side of the couch, her head resting back, one leg bent beneath her, the other stretched toward the edge.

She shifts, wincing faintly, you glance over. “You alright?”

She exhales through her nose. “My new boots are a nightmare.”

You turn your head toward her. “Blisters?”

“Worse. Pressure. They’re too narrow across the midfoot. I can’t feel my toes after 30 minutes.”

You frown. “Why didn’t you switch them?”

“I’m stubborn.”

You smirk. “No kidding.”

She kicks lightly in your direction. “Shut up.”

You nod to her foot. “Want me to rub it?”

She blinks, scoffing softly. “What?”

“Your foot. If it’s sore. I’ll rub it.”

She laughs short, dismissive. “You don’t have to—”

“I didn’t say I have to,” you cut in, turning toward her. “But I can do?”

She opens her mouth to protest again, but you’re already reaching forward gently taking hold of her ankle, shifting her leg into your lap.

“Wait” she says, more startled than offended, but your hands are warm and sure, thumbs already pressing into the arch with practiced pressure. She goes quiet, her head tips back against the cushion, eyes fluttering closed for a second.

You glance sideways, your tone smug but affectionate. “That’s what I thought.”

She mutters something in Catalan under her breath you've quickly learnt 'Annoying' in Catalan she says it multiple times whenever you're around, but she doesn’t pull away.

In fact… she melts, bit by bit, minute by minute.

The longer your thumbs work along the arch of her foot, your fingers tracing gentle circles along the pressure points, the more tension leaves her body like you’re unplugging something at the source.

At one point, she sighs not soft, not hidden and lies fully back against the couch, stretching out with her arm over her eyes.

You keep going, you’re not really watching the match anymore. “Still want to argue?” you murmur, thumb sliding along the curve beneath her ankle.

She doesn’t lift her arm, just shakes her head once.

“Didn’t think so.”

You smile, not because you’re winning but because she’s letting you in like this. Letting you take care of her, even in the small ways.

Your thumbs are working slow circles into the arch of her left foot, the pads of your fingers easing tension like it’s what you were born to do. Every time she exhales, you feel it the way her body settles deeper, the way her edges soften.

Then she mutters, eyes still closed, head still tipped back against the cushion, “Don’t stop.”

You don’t answer at first. Just slow your movements, then lift your hands away entirely.

She whines, actually whines, the softest, most involuntary sound from the back of her throat.

You tilt your head, grin tugging at the corner of your mouth.

“Yeah?” you say, voice low, lazy. “Beg me.”

Her eyes snap open. “What?”

You tap her thigh twice, grinning. “Give me the other foot. Bring it up.”

She glares at you but it’s all performance, because she does it. Shifting with a groan, stretching the other leg out and settling it in your lap like she hates herself for giving in. “I’m not begging.”

You raise an eyebrow, already starting to knead at her heel. “No? Sounded like you were getting close.”

Alexia groans, draping her forearm across her face. “Cállate…”

You laugh quietly. “That’s not a denial.”

Her voice comes muffled from beneath her arm. “You’re impossible.”

“Comfortable, though.”

She doesn’t answer, but she does lower her arm a second later, peeking at you with a reluctant smile. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

You meet her gaze, and this time, your voice softens just a little “Maybe. Or maybe I just like making you feel good.”

That does get her, you can see it in the shift of her throat, the way she swallows, the flicker in her eyes, but instead of answering, she mutters, “Just focus on the foot.”

You smirk. “As you wish.”

And you do thumb sliding gently along the bridge, fingers pressing into the ball of her foot with care and purpose.

Her eyes close again but that smile it stays. You shift your fingers up her sole with another long, slow press and then glance at her with mock curiosity. “I wonder if Mateo would like a foot massage…”

She freezes, then pulls both feet out of your lap instantly, curling them protectively beneath her as she sat up like you’ve just committed an unforgivable sin. You burst into laughter. Her jaw drops. “You did not just say that.”

You grin, unrepentant. “I mean, he’s very emotionally intuitive—”

That’s all you get out before she lunges. One moment, she’s glaring at you, and the next she’s on you, hands going straight for your sides like she knows exactly where to strike. “Take it back!” she laughs, her fingers merciless at your ribs.

You squirm, gasping through your own laughter. “Never!”

“You’re the worst!” she says, laughing too hard to sound truly angry, and you grab for her wrists, trying to defend yourself and failing spectacularly.

She’s on top of you now, completely, your back against the couch cushions, her weight warm and steady, hair falling over her face as she grins down at you, breathless.

And then without warning the mood shifts, your hands are still wrapped around her wrists. Her laughter softens, her gaze catches on yours and stays there. Neither of you moves for a beat, then her smile fades into something else and you’re the one who leans up.

Her mouth meets yours in a kiss that starts soft a question, an answer then deepens quickly, all heat and relief and too many held-back moments finally spilling forward.

She tastes like mint and something sweet from earlier, her hands threading into your hair now, your fingers sliding up her back as you shift beneath her, anchoring her to you like this is where she was always meant to be.

Her body presses down into yours, slow and certain.

You sigh against her mouth, hand sliding under the hem of her shirt just to feel her skin warm, smooth, real.

She hums softly, mouth never leaving yours.

When you finally pull apart barely her forehead rests against yours.

Her voice is breathless. “No more Mateo jokes.”

You grin, tugging gently at her shirt. “Noted. Only adult massages from now on.”

She kisses you again, laughing into your mouth and this time, it lingers, it deepens quickly. No trace of teasing now.

Her weight is settled fully on you, one hand still twisted gently in your hoodie at your chest, the other sliding up to your jaw, fingers resting lightly like she wants to feel every inch of this moment.

You tilt your chin slightly, meeting her with a slow kind of urgency not rushing her, just matching her intention.

It’s not messy. It’s not loud. Every press of lips, every brush of breath between you, every shift of her hips over yours, you can feel her smiling against your mouth now and then small, involuntary things that make your stomach tighten and your chest ease��all at once.

She pulls back only slightly, her eyes heavy-lidded, warm.

“Come here.” You whispered, you weren't any near done with this yet.

She kisses you again slow, warm, her mouth parting under yours now, her hands sliding beneath your hoodie, fingertips exploring the skin at your waist like she’s been thinking about this too long not to remember it.

You sit up slightly, enough to push the hoodie over your head, her gaze following every motion, eyes catching at the hem of your shirt riding up.

Then her lips are back on yours before you can say another word, and it’s closer now hands moving with purpose, mouths syncing, breath hitching with each shift.

Your hand slides under her shirt, slow, reverent and she lets you, her stomach twitching under your touch, her breath catching in your mouth.

The match on the TV is long forgotten.

All that’s left is the warmth of skin under fabric, the gentle gasp she makes when your thumb brushes just beneath the curve of her ribs, the way she sighs your name like a secret she’s finally allowed to say aloud.

And when she pulls back again hair mussed, lips swollen, flushed she looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s made sense all night.

And then the buzz, a low, persistent vibration on the coffee table, neither of you moves at first. You groan softly, tilting your head toward the sound, reluctant, when it keeps going.

Alexia does it for you shifts just slightly, propping herself on one elbow, squinting at the screen.

Then she says, calmly, but not without interest, “Abby”

Your heart skips a beat, "My agent" You explain, “Shit,” you mutter.

She moves off you gently, giving you space, as you sit up her hand brushing yours once before letting go.

You grab your phone, the name staring up at you. Unmissable. You glance back at her once. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Alexia nods, softly. “Take it.”

You walk barefoot through the open bi-fold doors, out onto the cool tiles by the pool. The night air hits your skin crisp, welcome, grounding. You swipe to answer. “Hey,” you say, trying to steady your voice, trying to hold on to what just happened with her.

There’s no delay. No warm-up, your agent’s voice is all urgency. “I know it’s late, but I didn’t want you finding out from the press.”

Your stomach tenses. “What happened?”

“They’ve made a decision,” she says. “Your club. They’ve told me you're being released at the end of your contract.”

Silence. Just you, and the still water at your feet. You don’t say anything at first. “But I have a year and a half left yet?”

“They’re not extending. They’re making room. New signings, different direction. They’re spinning it as a mutual decision.”

You stare into the water. Your reflection isn’t clear too many ripples. “They’re done with me.”

Your agent hesitates. “They’ve moved on. But you’re not done. That’s what matters.” You nod slowly, not trusting your voice. “You knew this might happen,” she adds gently.

You swallow hard. “I didn’t want to be right.”

A pause. “I’ve already had a few calls,” she says. “Clubs asking what’s next. You’ve still got options.”

You exhale slowly. “Okay.” You need a second. Maybe more than that, but it's time you haven't got. “Are there any options to leave now?” you ask. Your voice is low, tight. “Loan, even. Buyout, if someone bites. I can't stay there knowing they don't want me for all that time”

Your agent doesn’t hesitate. “That’s what I’ve been checking since I heard.”

“I can’t sit on a bench for another year and a half.” You run a hand down your face. “By then, no one will want me.”

“They already do,” she says calmly. “There are clubs watching. But they’ll want clarity. They’ll want minutes.”

“I don’t have any minutes,” you mutter.

“But you have history. Presence. Reputation. That’s something especially if you can go now, I can blame the Portugal match for lack of minutes right now but that can only ride for so long.”

There’s a pause. You press harder, “If it’s loan or nothing, I’ll take the loan. I just—” You stop yourself. Lower your voice again. “I need to play. That’s it.”

Your agent exhales softly on the other end. “Okay. Then that’s what we go for.”

You nod, mostly to yourself. “No press release. Not until we know where I’m going.”

“I’ll control the timing,” she assures you. “And I’ll push.”

Another silence. But this one has more oxygen in it. A plan is forming now, the kind that keeps you standing when everything else tries to shrink you down. “Thanks,” you say. “Call me if anything changes.”

“I will.”

You end the call and let the phone drop into your lap. You’re sitting on the edge, legs stretched out in front of you, phone limp in your hand, eyes fixed somewhere that isn’t the water anymore. Behind you, soft footsteps on the tiles. No rush. Just presence. Then her voice quiet, but sure. “You’re going to tell me you have to go home, aren’t you?”

You don’t look at her right away. Just breathe. Then glance sideways, “Says the woman flying off tomorrow for international camp.”

She lets out a short, low laugh and comes to sit beside you, her legs crossing beneath her. “Fair,” she murmurs. Silence slips between you, but it’s not sharp. It’s soft around the edges. Then barely above a whisper. “Be here when I get back?”

You look at her now. She’s not smiling. She’s not pushing. She just looks at you with something open in her eyes not desperate. Just hoping.

You search her face for a second, the quiet honesty of her question wrapping around you like a thread you didn’t expect. You nod, once. Steady.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Ok.”

She nods too, slowly, like she’s folding that answer away somewhere private. Then she leans just slightly, her shoulder brushing yours, her voice closer now. “Good.” You smile faintly, fingers curling around the edge of the pool tiles. She leans her head gently onto your shoulder, and neither of you says anything more.

⚽️

You wake slow, the kind of sleep that leaves your body heavy and your thoughts scattered. For a moment, you don’t remember where you are. Then you do.

The bed is warm, but the other side is empty.

You blink against the pale morning light seeping through the open window, the distant sound of traffic barely audible under the chirp of birds and the occasional shuffle of Teddy’s tail against the hallway floor.

You pull on one of Alexia’s hoodies, the first thing within reach, and pad barefoot down the hall. The kitchen is quiet.

The coffee machine is on, half-full pot waiting like she knew you’d wake up slow. The blinds are half-open, and Teddy’s already curled in the sunspot by the sliding doors.

And then you see it, propped against the side of your mug. A small folded note. Her handwriting, neat but unhurried. You pick it up, fingers brushing the edge of the paper.

It simply says:

Didn’t want to wake you. Behave yourself I’ll call when I land. — A 🐾 (Teddy's in charge)

You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then press it flat to the countertop with your palm.

You pour the coffee, lean against the counter, hoodie sleeves falling over your hands. Teddy stretches and pads over, nosing your shin before plopping down at your feet.

You run a hand absently over his head, sipping quietly. “She left you in charge, huh?” He doesn’t move, neither do you, because in this silence, you can feel it, serenity.

⚽️

At Spains international camp the common area is buzzing in the low, distracted way it always does before a double training session players sprawled on beanbags and sofas, water bottles half-drained, music playing softly through a speaker in the corner.

Alexia’s cross-legged on the floor, back against a sofa, phone in one hand, a pair of boots beside her she still hasn’t started re-lacing. Jana’s flipping through a playlist, Olga and Aitana talking quietly near the windows.

“Oye, have you seen the gossip about Y/N?” Misa says suddenly, screen raised, eyes wide in half-shock, half-entertainment.

Alexia’s head snaps up. Her tone is immediate, too sharp to hide, “What?”

Misa blinks, surprised. “It’s just online. People are talking.”

Alexia is already moving rising to her knees, tossing her phone on the cushion behind her. “Where?”

Misa scrolls quickly, tapping open a football blog post clearly being passed around. “Here,” she says. “I didn’t think it was—”

Alexia leans over her shoulder, jaw tight.

Misa reads aloud, frowning slightly, “Sources close to the club claim the relationship between Bayern’s head coach and their star forward Y/N has soured, becoming strained over the past few months. Once a fixture in both club and country starting elevens, Y/N has now fallen from both, failing to make England’s most recent camp. With a year and a half still on her contract, insiders question whether Bayern’s top goalscorer might now be seeking an early exit, or risk sitting out the season and losing her spot in any international contention completely.”

Silence. No one laughs. Not even Misa. Alexia stands properly now, arms folded, eyes fixed on the screen like she could burn it.

Only the Barça girls glance up, Patri, Mapi, Aitana, they know. The rest just wait, curious. Alexia’s voice is quiet, but firm. “She’s not gossip."

Misa looks up, taken aback. “I didn’t mean—”

“She’s still the best forward in Germany if not the world. I don’t care who wants to spin what.”

Aitana shifts closer, her voice low. “They’re just trying to fill space before the transfer window opens.”

Alexia nods once, jaw still clenched. “They don’t know anything.”

She doesn’t say but I do. She doesn’t have to. Misa softens. “Sorry, Ale. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Bayern are fumbling hard,” Laia says, shaking her head. “You don’t sit a player like her unless something serious went down.”

“Yeah, but with who?” Olga chimes in. “The coach? Management? She’s been everywhere and never had issues before.”

“They’ve got the best scorer in the league and they’re benching her?” Jana snorts. “What kind of manager does that?”

Mapi leans forward, hands clasped between her knees. “She’s done it all though, hasn’t she?”

Aitana hums in agreement. “WSL titles with Chelsea and Arsenal. Then Lyon the whole sweep, quadruple twice with them.”

“Champions League,” Olga adds, holding up a finger. “Coupe de France. Trophée des Championnes.”

“And now in Germany too,” Patri says, glancing up. “Bundesliga. Pokal. Supercup.”

They all go quiet for a beat. Then Misa says it half-laughing, half-serious, “Maybe it’s time she conquers Spain.”

A low whistle from someone near the back. “If she comes here, that’s history. No one’s done it across all those leagues.”

“She’d change everything,” Laia murmurs. “Again.”

Alexia stays completely still, she doesn’t speak, doesn’t react. Just stares quietly at the screen, then down at the floor, but her mind is full.

She knows how you feel about sitting out. About being silenced, and she knows, with sudden clarity, what Spain would look like with you in it. Next to her. Wearing the same colours. The others keep talking, but the noise fades at the edges for her. Because that one sentence echoes louder than all the rest,

“Maybe it’s time she conquers Spain.”

Alexia doesn’t say anything, but she’s thinking maybe it is.

⚽️

The water glimmers, warm and lazy, as you float on your back. The day has been quiet, just sun, silence, and Teddy passed out in a shady patch with his paw twitching in a dream.

You’re stretched out on a lounger, sunglasses sliding down your nose, droplets still clinging to your skin. Bikini straps low on your shoulders, hair damp, a book open across your stomach but forgotten pages ago.

Your phone vibrates once.

You lazily reach for it, barely glancing until you see her name.

Alexia 🖤 calling…

You smile immediately, swiping to answer as you sit up slightly. “Look who remembered I exist,” you tease, voice low and warm.

Her voice comes through with a soft laugh, a little static in the background. “I always remember you exist,” she says. “Even when my coach is yelling and Misa’s playing DJ badly.”

You chuckle, adjusting your sunglasses. “Sounds like a dream. What made you call?”

“I don’t know,” she says, and it’s honest. “Wanted to hear your voice.”

You pause at that. Let it settle. “Miss me already?”

A silence. Then, quieter, “Yeah.”

You pull your knees up slightly on the lounger, resting your chin on top. “I’m in a bikini, just so you know. Really missing out.” You were joking but Alexia definitely pauses. “Cruel.”

“Just setting the scene.”

“I already hate this camp,” she mutters, and you laugh.

“Go on, then,” you say. “Tell me about your day.”

She does, the drills, the heat, how she nearly tripped over Laia in a possession game. You listen, smiling, eyes closed, soaking in the sound of her, the rhythm of her voice. “Did you see the stuff online?” she asks eventually, softer.

You sigh. “Yeah.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not right now,” you admit.

“Okay.”

You love that about her. No push. Just space. Just her.

“I’m proud of you, by the way,” she adds. “For not letting them decide what happens next.”

You smile, lips pressed together. “Thanks. That means more than you probably realise.”

You can almost hear her smile. “Are you going to swim after this?” she asks, tone lighter.

“Maybe. Why?”

“I just want the image. You know… for morale.”

You laugh, leaning your head back, full-bodied this time. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re distracting,” she fires back, smirking through the line.

“Good.”

“So… Misa said something earlier,” she starts, tone casual but laced with a thread of something else.

“Oh?”

“She was reading stuff online about you, and she said—” Alexia clears her throat. “She said maybe it’s time you conquered the Spanish league.”

You lean back again on your lounger, stretching, the sun warm on your chest. “Well,” you drawl, “I do love a new challenge.”

“I told her to shut up,” Alexia says quickly, but there’s a smile behind it.

You smirk, one eyebrow raised. “Why? Because she was right?”

“No,” Alexia deadpans. “Because I didn’t want her scouting you.”

You let the silence hang, playful. “Should I text my agent? See if Real Madrid are in the market?”

There’s a pause long enough to make you grin, “Don’t you dare,” she mutters, but her voice is light the edge of a laugh tucked behind every syllable.

“You’d fall out with me?” you ask, feigning innocence.

“I’d block your number.”

“Oh, ruthless.”

“But I’d still be checking your Instagram every morning.”

You laugh, tipping your head to the side, eyes closed. “I mean… you could have me closer,” you tease. “If someone else around here was bold enough to say what she really wants.”

Alexia’s quiet for a moment. Not heavy just… considered. “Maybe I am.”

Your stomach does a flip, but you don’t rush the silence. “Yeah?” you say finally.

“Yeah.” And then “But just for the record… if you ever wear white and gold, I’m fouling you every time i play you.”

You grin, biting your lip. “What about a little red and blue?”

This time, she laughs properly, low and delighted. “Now that’s more like it.” Alexia’s voice hums through the speaker, warm and unhurried now. “I’m just saying,” she murmurs, tone deliberately casual. “If you ever… happened to get the opportunity to play for Barcelona…”

You pause, one eyebrow raised, lips tugging into a grin. “Oh?” You tilt your head, biting your lip. “Wouldn’t mind, would you?”

“No,” she says, soft and sure. “I wouldn’t.”

You laugh gently, tapping the rim of your glass. “That sounds dangerously close to recruitment.”

“If I were recruiting,” she says, “I’d be way more convincing.”

You stretch your legs out, heart thudding just a little louder under your grin. “This isn’t convincing?”

She sighs, dramatic. “I’d buy you flowers.”

“You already did.”

“I’d take you for long walks along the training ground.”

You laugh. “Okay, romantic and tactical.”

“I’d promise to pass you the ball,” she adds.

“Oh, now we’re talking.”

She hums thoughtfully. “Unless you annoy me. Then I’ll ghost you on the pitch.”

“You already do that off it” you shoot back, after she apologised for next texting you like she promised when she got to camp.

“Lies.”

“Evidence-based truth.”

You’re both smiling now the kind of smiles you don’t need to see to feel. The kind that live in the quiet between words, in the softness under the jokes, then Alexia exhales, voice lowering again. “But really…” A pause. “If it ever happened… I wouldn’t just not mind. I’d… like it.”

You close your eyes. Let it settle. “Good to know,” you say quietly.

She’s quiet on the other end. Then, “You’d look good in blaugrana.”

You smirk, hand resting lightly over your chest, “You just want to steal my goals.”

She laughs, low and warm. “I want to keep you close.”

You let that sit there for a moment. It’s not a suggestion. Not a push. Just her giving you a piece of truth. You shift the phone to your other ear, voice dropping a little, grounding. “I told my agent to start asking around,” you admit. “If I can be bought out. Or loaned.”

The quiet on the other end changes not silence. Just focus.

“I can’t…” you sigh, thumb brushing your eyebrow. “I can’t sit on the bench for a year and a half. Or worse not even make it there like now. That’s not who I am. I’d rather fight somewhere new than fade where I am.”

Alexia doesn’t rush to answer, when she does, her voice is steadier than you expect. Warm. Clear. “I don’t want you to fade either. You're world class you should be playing”

You exhale, slowly. “I don’t know where I’ll go. I don’t even know what’s possible. But I know I’m not waiting around to be treated like I’m done.”

“You’re not done,” she says immediately. “You’re not even close.”

You smile again smaller this time, “I miss feeling like myself.”

“I see her,” Alexia says, quiet but full. “Every time I talk to you. Every time I think about you.”

That one makes you still, your fingers curl slightly against your leg, “Don’t,” you say softly, teasing edge still there, “make me cry in a bikini.”

Alexia laughs gently. “Then don’t cry. Just get ready.”

“For what?”

“For your next move,” she says. “For whatever’s coming next, because something is.”

You let out a breath that feels easier now. “Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay,” she echoes.

⚽️

The sun’s dropping low, casting long shadows through the trees as you walk slowly along the gravel trail. Teddy’s off leash, bounding through dry grass like a creature reborn. Johnny, Ellie’s squat little Frenchie keeps closer to the path, snorting like a tiny engine every few steps.

Kika’s walking ahead with Ellie, her injured leg braced, but she’s keeping pace well enough. They’ve been swapping stories for the last ten minutes mostly nonsense until Ellie slows a little and drops back beside you.

“So,” she says, tossing a look over. “Everyone’s talking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “About?”

She grins. “You. Bayern. The whole silence-followed-by-transfer-window frenzy. Just wondering if we should be refreshing woso gossip Twitter.”

You exhale a laugh, but it’s tight. You don’t answer right away.

Kika glances back, curious. “Is it true? You’re getting iced out by the coach?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

Ellie whistles low. “Shit.”

You kick at a stone on the trail. “It’s complicated,” you say, rubbing the back of your neck. “I… may have gone on a date with her daughter.”

Both their heads whip around.

“What?” Ellie says, loudly enough to make Johnny bark once.

Kika freezes in her step.

You shrug, trying to play it off. “We went for drinks. It was fine. But we didn’t click. She made a big deal of it. Or… maybe I did. Doesn’t matter now.”

“And?” Ellie asks, narrowing her eyes. “That’s not worth getting benched over.”

You hesitate. “I still went back to hers. After. We had sex. And I left while she was asleep.”

Silence. Even Teddy seems to pause. Kika’s jaw drops. Ellie groans, dragging a hand down her face. “Oh, babe…”

You shrug again, arms crossed now. “I didn’t mean to ghost her. I just… didn’t want to stay.”

Kika finally lets out a soft laugh. “Well. That explains it.”

“Yeah.” You exhale, glancing at the sky. “Now her mum doesn’t speak to me directly. Everything’s through assistants. I haven’t started a match since.”

Ellie bumps your shoulder lightly. “For what it’s worth, still a dumb reason to tank a player’s career.”

You nod, grateful. “Tell that to her.”

“She’s bitter,” Kika says. “And clearly threatened.”

You don’t say anything to that. You don’t have to, because somewhere behind all that regret, the quiet truth is you understood your coaches decision. Even it came from a personal perspective not professional.

⚽️

You, Ellie, and Kika settle at a small terrace café tucked into the curve of the walking trail. Johnny, Ellie’s French bulldog, pants happily beneath the table, while Teddy curls beside him with quiet, golden indifference.

You’re picking at the last of your sandwich when your phone buzzes.

Alexia 🖤 Boarding now. See you soon.

You smile without even thinking thumb hovering over the screen then you pause and breathe.

You glance up. “Alright,” you say. “Before I reply to this, you both need to promise not to say anything.”

Ellie looks immediately intrigued. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

Kika, quiet but curious, lifts an eyebrow. “Secret agent stuff?”

“Something like that.” You lean back in your seat, eyes flicking between them. “Promise?”

Ellie lifts a hand like she’s swearing into court. “I swear. Unless it’s illegal. Then I’m out.”

“It’s not illegal.”

“Then go on.”

You exhale. The words come slower than expected, but they come. “So… you remember that Champions League quarter-final? The one against Barça?”

Ellie nods. “Of course. You were ridiculous in that second half. Alexia was tracking you the whole time.”

You half-smile. “Yeah. So… it started there.”

Ellie leans forward, her face already lighting with disbelief. “Started?”

“I don’t know what it was,” you admit. “We were just… close the whole game. Flirty, almost? Lots of looks. Touches. Corners. I thought I imagined it.”

Kika’s watching you carefully now, quiet but focused.

“But then after the match,” you continue, “she asked to swap shirts. I didn’t think it’d go further.”

Ellie’s eyes widen.

“But we started messaging. DMing. Then texting.” You glance down at your drink. “She came to see me in Munich. Just for a few days and then I went to Barcelona stayed at her place. Met her sister who took me to a game”

Ellie’s hand slowly lifts to her forehead. “You’ve seen her house?”

You nod. “Twice.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“And then,” you continue, softer now, “we kissed. A couple times. Nothing rushed. And this time? She said she wanted me here when she got back from camp.”

There’s a long pause.

“I’m here… for her.”

Ellie stares at you, mouth parted. “And you’ve been telling everyone you’re just having time off?”

“Technically true.”

“But you’re sleeping at her place.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

Ellie stares. Then bursts out, “This is huge! I thought you were just, like, walking the dog and brooding.”

“I am walking the dog and brooding.”

“With Alexia Putellas on the side!”

You laugh. “It’s not that serious, we share a bed but nothing happens”

Kika chimes in finally, voice thoughtful. “But it’s also… not nothing.”

That lands. You glance back down at your phone, rereading the message. “She’s on her way back now,” you say softly. “And I don’t know what it is between us, really. She doesn’t either, I think. But I like her.”

Ellie whistles low. “Yeah, I’d say you do.”

You smile, but it’s cautious. “It feels like friendship… but sometimes it’s more. I don’t know.”

Ellie nudges your arm. “Whatever it is, you look lighter talking about her.”

You glance sideways. “Do I?”

Kika nods. “Yeah. You really do.”

⚽️

The front door swings open, keys clinking into the ceramic bowl by habit. Alexia exhales, the quiet of the house greeting her like a warm tide. She drops her gym bag just inside the threshold and kicks off her shoes.

“Hola!” she calls, voice casual, unsure if you’re upstairs or out with Teddy still.

She’s halfway through tugging off her sweatshirt when she hears the soft sound of bare feet padding down the stairs.

She glances up and freezes, because there you are.

Hair still damp from the pool, hoodie slung loose over your shoulders and unzipped all the way revealing your bikini. Legs bare. Skin kissed golden by the sun. And that easy, slow smile playing at your lips, like you know exactly what you're doing.

Alexia’s hand falters in her sleeve.

“Hey,” you say, leaning lazily into the bannister.

Alexia stares for a heartbeat too long. Then blinks. Then forces a smile that’s a little too tight around the edges. She goes to say something, anything, but instead, the keys slip right out of her hand and clatter to the floor.

“Hi,” she says, voice about half an octave higher than usual.

You smirk. “You okay there, champ?”

“I—yeah, I just…” She gestures vaguely toward her gym bag, like that explains anything. “Didn’t expect you to be home.”

You tilt your head. “Would you rather I wasn’t?”

Her eyes do a quick circuit, collarbone, boobs, abs, the line of your thigh, back to your face. She tries to act like she didn’t just get caught, but her ears are pink. “No,” she says, too fast. Then clears her throat. “I mean, no, it’s nice. You're here. That you're… here. I did ask you to be here after all”

You step down another stair, slow and deliberate. “Want to join me out back? The water’s cool.”

Alexia looks at you like she’s buffering, a blink, a small nod that doesn’t lead anywhere. “I should probably shower first,” she mumbles, eyes absolutely not dropping to your chest again.

You lift a brow. “Or… skip it. You look clean to me.”

She bites the inside of her cheek, like it might help her focus. It doesn’t. She meets your gaze and tries for something casual, something easy, but it comes out breathy and a little too soft, “Are you trying to distract me from something? Did you break something?”

You’re at the bottom step now, in front of her, hands tucked into your hoodie pockets, gaze locked with hers, calm, unreadable, dangerous, “Only if it’s working.”

Alexia exhales a short laugh caught somewhere between flustered and surrendering. Then, helplessly warm, “I'll meet you out there, I'm going to grab a drink” ⚽️

You’re stretched out on a lounge chair by the pool, sunglasses on, skin still damp from your last swim, a glass of iced water balanced on your stomach.

The patio door slides open behind you, and you hear the sound of her sliders before her voice follows.

“Did you paint the gym?”

You look up over your glasses to find Alexia standing there, one brow arched, arms crossed, clearly trying to sound neutral but there’s something else behind it. Surprise. Maybe even something a little softer. You push your glasses up and sit up on your elbows. “Yeah.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “You painted it.”

“Sure did,” you say, a little grin tugging at your mouth.

“Why?”

You shrug, glancing out at the water. “Because you’ve been talking about wanting to for weeks and haven’t had the time. And the paint was just sitting there.”

She takes a step closer. “So you just… did it?”

You nod once, then pause, voice quieting a little. “You let me stay here. You fed me. You don’t complain when I eat the last of the cereal or hog the shower or accidentally steal your hoodie for three days.”

That earns a small smirk from her, but she stays quiet.

“And you help more than you realise with everything. So I figured painting a room was the least I could do.”

There’s a beat of silence between you. Just the faint sound of pool water lapping at the edges and a bird somewhere in the garden. Then she huffs, soft and amused, and you catch the way her mouth fights back a smile. “You’re such a pain,” she says, but it sounds suspiciously like thank you.

You flash her a lazy grin. “You love it”

She rolls her eyes, but it doesn’t reach her because her gaze lingers on you, warm and full of something you don’t need to name. “…You missed a corner,” she says eventually, turning to head back inside.

You laugh. “Liar.”

Her voice drifts back over her shoulder.

“Come see for yourself.”

Your phone buzzes against the glass table beside you. You reach for it lazily, expecting some nothing text and freeze for half a second when you see your agent’s name lighting up the screen.

You sit up straighter in the lounge chair, slide your finger across the screen.

“Hey,” you answer, trying to sound casual, but your stomach’s already tightening.

“Got a minute?” she says, already brisk. “Just came off two more calls. Offers are still coming in.”

"Ok, what we working with?"

“…Yeah, I got the email from Chicago. Loan only, same salary. Portland’s offering more, but it’s still a temp deal,” she says, voice clipped with focus. “Roma wants a full contract, salary’s solid, but the clause structure’s messy. Wolfsburg’s interested but nothing concrete. PSG’s trying to be flashy. Again.”

The sliding door opens, and Alexia steps out. You glance up briefly and your words stall at the back of your throat for half a second and you forget all together what you were doing to say.

Because there she is, again this time in her bikini, low-cut top, sleek black bottoms, hair pulled back just the way you liked. She’s not looking at you, not saying a word just walks over quietly and sinks into the lounger beside yours with her water bottle, like she hasn’t just turned the sun up another twenty degrees.

You clear your throat and try to pull your brain back into the conversation. “Sorry. Right. Yeah. I’ve got… options then.”

Your agent laughs softly on the other end. “You’ve got the whole map of Europe and half the NWSL at your feet.”

You give a dry huff. “That’s not stressful at all.”

There’s a pause. Then your agent says, voice more serious now, “Best offer so far is from Barcelona.” You blink. “They’re not the highest-paying,” your agent continues, “but the fit, the team, the project, it’s strong. They want you long-term. You’d actually play. And they’re being real about it no fluff, they want a meeting with you. I feel what they've offered isn't there best theres room to haggle with them for sure”

You chew your lip, eyes flicking toward Alexia without turning your head. She’s still looking ahead, unreadable behind her sunglasses, but her fingers tighten just slightly on her water bottle like she can hear every word.

“And then there’s Lyon,” your agent adds. “They’ve upped their offer twice already. Crazy money. They want to win Champions League again, and they want you there for it, they think you could be the deciding factor to get there again.”

You lean back against the chair, letting the weight of it all settle over you for a second. The choices. The change. The future.

Your agent’s voice comes steady through the line. “So… want me to book the meeting with Barcelona? They’re asking for a sit-down. Nothing formal, just a talk. See where your head’s at.”

You pause, the silence stretching just a little too long.

Beside you, Alexia still hasn’t said a word. But you can feel her eyes on you now not directly, but in the way her body has gone still. Listening more closely. Waiting, for any clue to what was going on.

You exhale, sit forward, elbows resting on your knees. “Yeah,” you say quietly, but firm. “Set it up.”

“Tomorrow works?”

“Anytime,” you say. Then, without really thinking about it, “I’m here already. Visiting friends.”

Alexia doesn’t react. Not visibly, but you catch the tiny shift in her breath. The twitch of her fingers where they brush the condensation on her water bottle. That faint tightening around her mouth just for a second before it smooths out again.

“Alright,” your agent says. “I’ll confirm and send you the details. You’ll kill it, wherever you go.”

You murmur your thanks, and the line goes dead.

You set the phone down slowly, the buzz of decision still humming through your chest. Then you lean back again, turning your head just enough to glance at Alexia.

And then, softly, without looking at you Alexia asks, “What did she say?”

You glance over. She’s still facing forward, sunglasses on, but her voice gives her away casual on the surface, but too careful. Too not curious to be anything but.

You take a breath. “She ran through all the offers,” you say, watching her. “The best one so far’s Barça, Lyon seem very keen but overall the best ones Barca” Alexia doesn’t move, but something in her shoulders shifts then you add, gentler, “She’s setting up a meeting. Tomorrow.” You study her a second longer, then nudge her foot with yours. “I didn’t say yes.”

She finally turns her head toward you, expression unreadable behind the lenses. “But you didn’t say no either.”

“No,” you admit. “I didn’t.”

The silence between you lingers not awkward, but charged. Then Alexia shifts beside you, pulling her phone into her lap and unlocking it with a swipe of her thumb.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just taps a few times, then angles the screen toward you.

“Pere sent something,” she says quietly.

You lean over slightly to read. It’s the team group chat a flood of messages, emojis, a few memes but right in the middle is a message from Pere:

🔔 Important — for tomorrow. Need a few of you to come in for a club meeting. Nothing mandatory, just a presence. Volunteers only. Won’t take long. Let me know.

Below it, a trickle of responses. A thumbs-up from Aitana. A quick "I can" from Ingrid and Mapi. A few others.

“Pere messaged me directly,” she says after a beat, voice low. “Said there’s an important meeting tomorrow. Asked if I could make myself available.”

You glance at her. Her tone’s different now careful. Like she’s testing the water before stepping in. You tilt your head. “The meeting with me?”

She nods once. “Looks like it.” A pause. “I can make an excuse,” she adds quickly. “Say I’ve got physio or something. If it’s weird. If you don’t want me there.”

You study her the way she won’t quite meet your eyes, the way she’s trying to give you an out even if she doesn’t really want to. You let the silence stretch just long enough to make her start to squirm. Then you smirk. “Oh, so they’re bringing out the big guns for me now?”

Alexia lets out a short laugh, shaking her head, but you catch the small exhale of relief that slips out with it.

“I’m just saying,” you add, nudging her leg with yours, “if this is your club’s strategy to win me over, it’s not subtle.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not strategy, it’s… logistics.”

“Uh-huh. Logistics in a bikini.”

She laughs again, then quiets. More softly now, “Seriously, though. Are you okay with me being there?”

You look at her for a long second and nod. “Yeah,” you say. “and i'm intrigued how they’re going to use you to woo me”

#alexia x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas fanfic #woso fanfics #alexia putellas #woso #barca femeni #barcelona femeni #alexia putellas imagine #woso imagine #alexia putellas x y/n #alexia putellas one shot #fcb femeni

283 notes · View notes

fluentmoviequoter · 2 days ago

Text

A Princess Worth Saving

Part 4 of Bradford's Princess

Pairing: Tim Bradford x younger(24-26y/o)!fem!reader

Summary: Tim misses a call from you in your time of need, and after he saves you, he promises never to leave his princess alone again.

Warnings: angst, robbery, r is held at gunpoint, comfort and fluff, domestically dominant Tim, softie!Tim

Word Count: 4.1k+ words

A/N: Thank you yet again to @nevereclipse for sharing this idea and letting me have so much fun with it. You're a genius and I hope you like this!

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Rules

Tim pushes your front door open, stepping inside with a large gift box in his arms.

“Hi,” you greet, tipping your head to the side. “Do you need help with that?”

“I got it,” he assures you, kicking the door closed. “You look beautiful.”

You roll your eyes even as you smile. As usual, you stand on the couch cushion and wait for Tim to set the box down and approach you. His hands are warm and steady on your hips as you lean forward to hug him tightly.

“I’m sorry,” he says while he pulls you over the back of the couch and into his arms.

“For what?”

You loop your arms around his shoulders, leaning your head against his shoulder as you breathe in his cologne.

“I know I said I would go shopping with you tomorrow, but Lopez and Harper caught a case and need all the help they can get,” he explains, rubbing his hand along your back as he circles the couch and sits. “I offered to work with them.”

“That’s fine, Tim,” you say against his neck. You interrupt yourself to plant a kiss below his ear, then pull back to look at him. “It’s your job. I get it.”

“It shouldn’t come between us.”

“It’s not.” You chuckle at the disappointed look on his face, bringing your hands forward to squish his cheeks until he grunts. “It’s a day of shopping, not our wedding. I’ll be fine.”

“Take my credit card,” he offers, dragging his hands along your waist. “Get whatever you want.”

You lean forward, brush your lips against Tim’s, then remind him, “I already have what I want.”

The mall is just opening as you arrive. The stores are turning on their different music, overlapping in the main walkways as gated doors are opened and lights buzz above you. You’d been looking forward to walking through the stores with your hand in Tim’s, getting his feedback about what you wanted to buy, and enjoying the day with him. You didn’t want him to see how disappointed you were, so you maintained a brave face last night and distracted yourself by kissing him. Now, you try to distract yourself from how empty your hand feels and how strange it seems to not have Tim stationed at your side as a guardian, a lover, and a friend.

Your favorite store is your first stop, and you have a short list saved to your phone of everything you want to look at, try on, and buy. Tim usually looks over your shoulder when you scroll through Pinterest or online sales, pointing out what would look good on you or be a good addition to your home, until he distracts himself by playing with your hair or kissing you until you set your phone aside.

After greeting the college-aged girl working behind the counter, you walk to the back of the store and begin looking through hangers and at displays, practically hearing Tim’s voice in your head as you consider what you like.

Lucy tips her chin up when Tim returns from Angela’s desk. They’ve been looking through witness statements and evidence photos in hopes of finding something they can use to identify the robbery and homicide suspect. He’s robbed several stores in a few short weeks, and during the last theft, he shot and killed an innocent bystander. With the full attention of the LAPD, they suspect he’ll either lay low or keep progressing in violence.

“Is that you?” Lucy inquires.

“What?” Tim sighs as he returns to his previous seat.

“That smell. What is it… rose?”

“Oh. It’s some elixir or something,” Tim murmurs, pushing a case file into his designated ‘unhelpful’ pile.

Lucy smiles, leaning over her keyboard. “Did you buy it for a special someone?”

“She does have her own money and free will, you know,” Tim deadpans. “I don’t just buy her things, contrary to station belief.”

“No, you also get all soft and gooey inside when we bring her up. I can see that you want to smile.”

“What I want is to get back to work so I can go home on time. I was supposed to have today off, Chen.”

“Ah, that’s why you’re grumpy. You’re here with me instead of your pretty princess.”

“Are you done?”

Lucy’s smile droops as she admits, “Yeah, I’m done.”

Less than a minute later, she looks away from an evidence log to inquire, “Why do you smell like her elixir or something?”

“Chen,” Tim warns.

She raises her hands and returns to work, assuming she knows why the scent of your skincare lingers on Tim. If he were slightly less grumpy, she’d ask him how long he’s been assisting you in getting ready.

“Does he always target places that have more than one store?” Tim asks. “Malls, strip malls, outlets?”

“Yes!” Nyla calls from her desk.

“Interesting,” he murmurs, turning to his computer to load a map of Los Angeles.

“Ooh, that color would look so good on you,” you tell a woman staring longingly at a sundress.

“You really think so?” she inquires softly.

“Absolutely! It compliments your hair and skin, and I think your eyes would pop against it.”

“It’s a little… bolder than what I usually wear,” she admits.

You run your fingers along the dress, nodding appreciatively at how it feels. “Try it on. Never too late to wear something new.”

She steps forward and finds her size, smiling at you as she asks a nearby employee to unlock the fitting room. You continue browsing, looking for a sweater Tim sent you a screenshot of last week.

“Are you searching for something specific?” the employee whose nametag says Jenna inquires kindly.

You unlock your phone and find the image as you answer, “This sweater. I saw it online, but I wanted to check in store before I ordered it.”

“Oh, yes,” she murmurs, looking over her shoulder. “I think we moved them to one of the racks over by the register. Let me check for you.”

“Thank you so much,” you call after her, glancing toward the fitting room.

The woman you spoke to before steps out, smiling with the dress draped over her arm.

“And?” you ask.

“I love it,” she admits. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Everyone deserves to wear what they love and feel beautiful.”

She thanks you again before approaching the checkout area, and you text Tim to let him know you’re thinking of him. He had a little longer before work this morning than he does most days, so you enjoyed the extra time together. You sat on the bathroom counter as he did your skincare, and you’ve already decided to surprise him with a homemade dinner tonight, making the most of what was supposed to be an entire day together.

“I found them!” Jenna calls, stepping back into your eyeline. “We have more colors here than that online listing, too.”

“Perfect,” you reply, following her through the store as the mall gets busier.

“Are you sure that’s the same guy?” Lucy asks, leaning closer to the monitor.

“We might be able to answer that if we could see him,” Nyla points out.

Lucy pulls back with a mumbled apology, allowing the others to see what they suspect could be security footage from the first robbery. The jewelry store on the other side of the mall captured nearly a minute of footage facing the targeted store before it moved. In the video, a man wearing a black sweatshirt speaks to the man behind the clothing store counter, then runs out with his arms full of clothes and small items.

“He didn’t look like he had a gun,” Angela muses.

“Progression,” Tim says simply as he clicks the mouse to play another video. “This is from this week.”

This video is blurrier, but it shows the gun pulled from his pants, aimed at the store clerk, and then jerked toward the murder victim now lying in the morgue.

“For a few hundred dollars,” Nyla sighs. “Okay, what else did you get?”

“Possible name,” Tim says, passing a police record over his shoulder.

“We’ll get a warrant,” Angela responds. “Keep looking. And thank you.”

Tim lifts his phone from the desk, smiles, and sets it aside again. Lucy decides not to comment, but she briefly wonders if you have any idea how far gone Tim Bradford is for you.

You open your wallet to pay at the third store you visit, shaking your head when you see Tim’s credit card tucked in front of your ID. Last night, you told him you didn’t need him to buy you anything, though you appreciated the offer. It’s one of the ways Tim shows he loves you, you know, but it’s not necessary. Maybe you’ll use it on one little thing you can both enjoy, like a book or something for dessert.

With another bag hooked on your arm, you enter a store marketing the newest pop culture merchandise and vinyl records. You don’t need anything, and it isn’t on your list, but you’re sure you’ll find something you like or that Tim might enjoy.

“Welcome,” the store attendant calls over the music. “Let me know if you need help or a fitting room.”

“Thank you,” you reply, walking toward the large clearance sign at the back of the store.

As you look through the hangers of graphic tees and patterned hoodies, your gut tells you something is wrong. Since dating Tim Bradford, your instincts have sharpened and begun to sound like him. You move toward the door but hesitate when you see a limited-edition Dodgers jersey. No one enters the store, and the clerk is more than happy to help you get Tim’s size from the wall and even gives you 10% off. Shaking your head as you exit the store, you check your phone before you head to the next store. Now, when you think about missing Tim, you wonder how you managed to go shopping without him carrying your bags before. The thought makes you smile, and you text Tim another short update and reminder that you love him, for more than carrying your bags… and you, when the occasion calls for it.

“Bradford, you got anything?” Nyla asks over the radio.

“Negative,” Tim replies. “Boss said he didn’t show up today and he’s on his third strike. We’ll drive by the house again, check a few stores along the way.”

“Okay. Keep us updated.”

Tim sets the radio in the console, slowing as he nears a strip mall less than three blocks from the suspect’s job. It looks normal, people come and go freely, so he continues driving.

“Where do you think he is?” Lucy asks.

“Laying low,” he replies. “He isn’t a cold-blooded killer; he shot someone, so he’s probably letting that cool off before he pulls another job.”

“Isn’t it weird that he doesn’t take much? That he hits stores and malls with lower-end prices?”

“He’s targeting places he’s more likely to get away with robbing,” Tim says. “They’re not as likely as say a jewelry store to have cameras or to prosecute. Insurance pays out, they write it off. That’s why a shooting throws such a major wrench in his plan.”

“Interesting,” Lucy hums. “Hey, there’s another mall a block east of here, if you want to check it out.”

Tim nods, hitting his blinker to turn off before they check his house.

“Good morning,” you greet as you enter a men’s clothing store.

“Morning,” the teenage boy behind the counter replies. “Everything is 25% off today, and clearance is buy one get one for a dollar.”

“Awesome. Thank you!”

“Sure. My name’s Dustin, let me know if you need anything.”

You nod, moving slowly along the right wall, looking for something Tim would wear. He spoils you with gifts, and though it isn’t your preferred love language (not like it is for him, at least), you like getting him small things and spending time with him while he enjoys it.

This is the busiest store you’ve been in today, but you attribute that to the sale and the fact that it’s nearing lunchtime. Four men browse the clearance racks while two more talk about colors and debate which items to try on. You smile at the only other woman in the store, who taps her finger back and forth between two different sizes, like she’s trying to remember what size she needs to buy.

“Sir, that door needs to stay open,” Dustin calls. “Mall policy.”

The door clicks closed, and you turn just as the hoodie-wearing man slides the lock into place. “Everybody stay calm, and this will go a lot smoother and faster,” he says.

You step backward, your eyes widening as you drop your bags and fumble for your phone. The woman beside you ducks behind the closest rack, whispering to whom you assume is a 911 dispatcher. One of the men makes a discreet call, holding his phone against his leg. Your first idea isn’t 911, however. After you tap Tim’s name, you pull a shirt off a display table to drape over your wrist and hide your ringing phone.

“Nobody move!” the man demands, raising a gun above his head. “Empty the register.”

Dustin nods as he fumbles with the control on the tablet beside him. The woman beside you ends her call abruptly when the intruder walks toward the back of the store. Tim’s voicemail plays, muffled beneath the shirt as you attempt to end the call. Before you can move your other hand, the man rips the shirt away. His fingers wrap cruelly around your wrist, tugging you closer as he displays your phone to the other shoppers-turned-hostages.

“You see this?” he yells. “Stupid! I said stay calm and stay where you are.”

You turn your head away from him, his voice too loud in your ear, and his touch painful. He twists your arm sharply, causing you to drop your phone onto the table your thighs are pressed against. You quickly forget that your arm is suspended over your head and pulled back painfully when the cold barrel of a gun is pressed against your temple.

“Don’t do what she did,” the man says, quieter now, as his chest heaves against your side. “How’s that register coming?”

“It’s open, but we haven’t been to the bank yet this week or anything, so there isn’t much,” Dustin rambles.

“Well, that won’t do. What should we do about that?” he asks, leaning too close to you as his hand twitches on the gun.

“If he moved out yesterday, he was probably upset about the shooting, right?” Lucy asks, returning to the shop after an unhelpful conversation with the suspect’s former roommate.

“That’s one possibility,” Tim replies, closing the door too hard. His phone lights up, and he furrows his brows when he sees a missed call from you. He wasn’t gone long, and you rarely call when he’s at work. As he prepares to call you back, dispatch radios an alert of a robbery in progress.

“The mall,” Lucy sighs. “Think it’s our guy?”

Tim is no longer concerned about that. He hits the lights and sirens, yanks the gear shift into Drive, and steers the shop into a tight U-turn to speed toward the scene. It’s not just any mall, it’s the mall you are in. Tim decides not to call you back, his adrenaline pumping as his mind threatens to show him the worst-case scenarios.

“Tim,” Lucy grunts. “Easy.”

He doesn’t reply, blowing through a red light as he nears the mall.

“What store?” he asks.

Lucy opts not to argue. She raises the radio to ask where exactly the armed suspect is, then tells Tim. He follows the signs toward the entrance closest to that store, pulling up onto the curb before he pulls his gun from his side and leads Lucy inside.

The mall is evacuating, so people are running out toward their cars, some screaming while others shove people and displays aside carelessly.

“Where?” Tim barks at a security guard cowering behind a table in the food court.

“Straight through this archway, and then right,” the man answers, pointing weakly with his stun gun.

“Put that away before you hurt someone,” Lucy demands.

She follows Tim as they enter the archway. He clears the corner, then moves quickly but carefully toward the closed door separating him from you and a man with a gun.

“Tim, think about this first,” Lucy pleads.

“I am,” he assures, ducking to look through the windows covering the front of the store. “One armed at the back of the store,” he tells her. “One civilian behind the counter.”

“And the door is locked,” Lucy adds, nodding toward the heavy metal rod holding the door in place.

“Back up,” Tim requests.

He stays low and shoots through the glass panel beside the door. It shatters as his shot echoes, but he doesn’t care about the noise as he climbs through the opening, his gun aimed at the thief.

Tim swallows and moves his gun an inch to the left when he sees that the man has a hostage. He reminds himself that he can’t remember it’s you, not if he wants to ensure you go home safely with him. For now, he’s Tim Bradford, the cop, not Tim Bradford, the man with a princess in need of saving. A cruel voice in his head points out that you might not be in this situation if he’d answered your call, but it’s too late to think like that.

“LAPD,” Lucy yells, taking her position beside Tim. “Put the weapon down and let me see your hands."

The man shakes his head and moves behind you, his gun at your temple and his other arm around your neck. You keep your eyes on Tim, your teeth grinding together painfully as you dig your fingers into your palms.

“Out,” Tim demands. Dustin rushes out through the broken window, disappearing around the corner as the two men closest to the entrance follow after him.

“Let the other hostages go,” Lucy encourages. “Then we can talk.”

“Sure,” the man says. “Everyone behind me can go.”

The rest of the customers take that invitation, running as fast as they can out of the store. Then, you’re left alone with a crazed gunman who didn’t get what he wanted, and two cops who don’t have a clear shot. Tim nods to you, nearly imperceptibly, but you don’t know what it means. Is it a promise he’ll save you, a command to do something?

“It’s over,” Tim says. “Let her go, and this goes much smoother for you.”

“I lost everything,” the man behind you replies. “It’s been over.”

You look at Lucy, then quickly turn your eyes to the left. She narrows her eyes slightly, so you move your fingers away from your palm. She tips her head quickly, then adjusts her grip on her gun.

“Bradford,” she murmurs softly. “Derecha.”

At that, you pull to your left, gaining less than a foot of freedom before the man tightens his grip on your neck. Or tries to. Tim takes the opening, firing at his chest. His arm falls away as you stumble back toward Lucy, who holsters her gun and steps toward you.

“Cuff him, Chen,” Tim says, taking her place. He pulls you into his arms, tucking your face against his chest as you cling to his uniform. You hear Lucy talking into her radio, but you’re so relieved to be with Tim that you don’t listen. Within a few minutes, you’re being led away from your boyfriend and escorted into an ambulance. The paramedics tell you it’s just a quick check of your vitals, but you watch the mall parking lot outside as they work, ignorant of what they do as you wait until you can return to Tim.

“I understand,” Tim tells Wade. “Can I go now?”

Wade sighs as he signs off on Tim’s statement. He nods, then walks toward the sergeant interviewing Lucy. Tim turns toward the line of ambulances parked in the handicap spaces, but he doesn’t know which one you’re in.

You’ve been waiting beside a police car for the last minute and a half, watching Tim's back. So, when he turns away from his watch commander and is alone, you don’t hesitate to run toward him. He doesn’t see you coming, yet still manages to catch you in his arms. Relief floods into him, seeping into you where you’re pressed against him.

Tim clings to you, one arm secure around your waist, while the other hand raises to your shoulder to brush your hair away from your face.

“Get out of here, Bradford!” Angela yells when she sees you in his arms. “Take her home!”

Tim takes you to his home, though you spend enough time at each other’s places that the lines are beginning to blur. He pats your hip after helping you change, a silent instruction to sit on his bed. You obey, watching his back as he disappears into the bathroom. You haven’t spoken yet, aren’t sure where to start, but being this close to Tim is the only way you think you’ll be able to deal with what you’ve been through.

When Tim returns, he has a wet cloth and a bottle of lotion. Your bags from the mall are still in Tim’s trunk, but he placed a book, a drink, and your favorite snack on the nightstand for you, so you have more than everything you need.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Tim says, standing between your legs. He sets the lotion beside you, then hooks his finger beneath your chin to lift your face.

“I was scared,” you whisper. “But when you got there, I knew everything would be okay.”

Tim nods, frowning as he observes the bruise on your forehead and the redness of your neck. He dabs the cool washcloth against your injuries, then gently wipes the rest of your face. When he’s content and convinced that you're comfortable, he steps away to put the cloth in the sink, but he’s back at your side in mere seconds.

Tim helps you get comfortable in his bed, reclined against pillows with everything you need in reach. He picks up the lotion as he joins you in bed, passing you the remote. After you turn on your favorite movie, Tim takes your hand. He squeezes a drop of your favorite lotion into your palm, closes the tube against his leg, and rubs his thumb over your palm, spreading the lotion with a relaxing pressure and his usual reverence. He uses both hands to massage you, moving the lotion down your fingers as you relax beside him. Every second he touches you is calming, and you’d be content to stay here forever, you think.

“Thank you,” you say as he finishes with your other hand.

“I should have answered the phone,” he replies. “I’ll answer next time.”

“It’s not your fault, Tim. You saved me. That’s more than I’d ever ask for.”

“You’re going to be okay?”

“I am,” you assure him. “Mostly because you’re here, and I’m not alone.”

Tim smiles, kisses your hand, and invites you to recline against his side. Comfortable under his arm, you can feel his heart beating as he drags his fingers up and down your arm.

“You’ll never be alone,” he promises. “Everything and everyone that you face… your enemies have to contend with me, and I’ll never be far. I won’t miss another call.”

“I love you,” you say, turning your face toward his. “I love you so much, Tim.”

“I love you,” he promises, kissing you gently as he tugs you impossibly closer.

You might be Tim’s princess, but he will always be more than a prince. He’s a knight, a protecter, a pamperer, and that's just the surface of who he is. He’s yours, he’s the love of your life, he’s a constant, and you will be by his side no matter what.

“I was going to buy you a gift,” you murmur, “but something came up.”

“Gifts are my job,” Tim argues. “Besides, this is more than enough for me.”

You chuckle, then pull Tim’s shoulder. He understands what you’re inviting him to do, and he slides down in the bed to hook his arm around your waist and rest his head on your chest.

“Angela wants to know when you’re up to meeting everyone,” Tim says against your sternum, growing heavier against you as you run your nails along his back.

“I was always ready,” you remind him.

“You met Lucy today, that’s enough for now.”

“Whatever you say.”

Tim slides his hands along your waist as he reaches up to kiss your jaw, then he relaxes again, and your memories of being scared disappear as you find comfort in Tim Bradford, growing happier each day you are lucky enough to be his princess.

#tim bradford x reader #fluentmoviequoter bradford's princess #tim bradford x fem!reader #tim bradford x y/n #tim bradford x you #tim bradford fic #tim bradford the rookie #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford #tim bradford fluff #the rookie x reader #the rookie abc #fem!reader #hanna writes✯

152 notes · View notes

messenger-of-babel · 2 days ago

Text

First Fallen

Summary: Jason's first snow back, but you wouldn't know that. (Jason Todd x reader)

Word Count: 1.5K

Notes: I feel like I'm constantly trying to defend the fact that I'm not dead so please take my apologies, a fic I dug up from the Christmas event last year (stopped due to emergency), and my four hours of sleep.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"Slow down, you need to put your jacket on." Jason grumbles, eyeing you busying around his room. He follows a step behind you like a disgruntled parent, hands hovering in case you trip over something.

"But it's snowing!" you chirp back excitedly, casting a glance to him over your shoulder. "We need to get out there and enjoy it before it goes all slushy."

When you send him that smile his breath stutters in his chest, and it pulls a grin from his own lips. It makes his brain short circuit, the way that you look at him like that. The way that you looked at him, it was like he had never disappeared. Like he hadn't left you alone and grieving. You looked at him like he was still as free spirited and snarky as he used to be, the kid that gave Bruce Wayne and Alfred an equally frustrating headache (even though he still did at times). Like he had never died, or what you had thought, been put in a witness protection program. You didn't question where the muscle suddenly came from when you hugged him, or how he grew a full head taller than what he was last. You never commented on the green in his usually blue eyes, or the white in his hair that never washed out.

He knew that you'd seen the scars across his back and down his arms, and the burn pockmarks left on his hands and shoulders, but you still kissed along the skin like it had never been marred. There was so much change in this one bedroom that now felt too young for him, but your smile was the same that he remembered.

You were there sending him that same damn smile.

"Snow ain't going anywhere, sweetheart." he says back, helping you sling one of his jackets over you and funnel your arms through the sleeves.

"Yeah, but still." you protest, sending him a pout before pecking him on the cheek. "Come on, grumpy, let's go." you pat his arms and reach down for his hand, his fingers interlocking with yours on instinct.

"You don't have gloves," he points out as you begin to lead him out of the room and into the manor hallway.

"Don't need them." you say, eyes still forward but you raise your linked hands together. "Your hands are warm enough."

"What if I let go?"

"Then don't." you tease back, dragging him to the front door.

The snow falls gently outside, and you race forward without fear, footfalls crunching with each step that you take. He watches as you track marks through the fresh white carpet, beaming all the while. The white powder is slowly starting to decorate your hair, covering the oversized sleeves of the jacket. He watches you from the doorway, laughing to himself as you trip over your own feet and stumble in the snow, racing around like a child and taking large handfuls of it. Once your hyperactivity has worn off, he pushes from the doorframe, shaking his head as you return. He takes your hands back into his, bringing them to his mouth to blow warm air into them.

"Told you, you needed gloves." he scolds, the biting temperature of your frozen digits bleeding into the warmth of his palms.

You don't say anything as he heats up the frozen fingertips, you just stare at him with that soft gaze.

"What?" he huffs, lips tilting and making the scar at the corner of his mouth twitch.

"Come outside with me." you say softly, folding your hands so you can take his in yours instead. "Come enjoy the snow."

His smile tilts downwards a little. He isn't against it really, he's just more surprised than anything.

"Nah, I'll stay here sweetheart, you go enjoy. I'm cold enough to last another lifetime."

However the defiant gleam he loves so much takes over your eyes, and you tighten your grip on him. Wordless and with a clenched jaw you tug at his hands, leading him step by step outside. He feels a shiver rush over him as the chilled breeze darts across his exposed skin, biting into the flesh of his hands and the tips of his ears.

"It's cold." he says, tone warning but it only makes you smile wider.

"of course it is, smartass. it's snow."

you pull him a good distance from the door, the warm light from inside hitting your backs. you watch as the scar on his lip dips down slightly in a frown, his eyes reflecting the glow as he looks over his shoulder towards shelter.

You would never tell him this, but you thought he looked beautiful right now.

There was something angelic about the curves and contours of his face, the slight sheen of red making its way over his nose. He grumbled anytime you called him a name, whether that was beautiful or handsome or cute. Any form of endearment was merely brushed off with a shake of his black mop and a wave of his hand. So, you kept it to yourself, eyes flitting over him soft and reverent. So lost in trying to capture the picture in your mind that you were unaware of your hand tightening in his instinctually.

"Hey." Jason manages to snap you out of your daydream. "What are you thinking about?"

Blood rushes to your face and warms your cheeks. Your brain flips into overdrive, thinking of how to play it off. "Nothing." you bite out a bit too quickly. "Just this."

Without thinking about it you crouch to the ground and grab fistfuls of fluffy snow, crushing it between your fingers before grabbing the back of his hoodie and shoving in down his back.

Jason, who had been too curious to respond in time, screams as the cold snow hits his back. His hands reach for the back of his hoodie to flap it, trying to create space between the snow and his back. He whirls away from you, huffing when he empties the flakes from the bottom of his jacket.

"You brat." he grins back, dropping to the ground for a second before flinging a handful of loosely packed snow at you. You shriek as it collides on the side of your head, smattering the cold particles through your hair and down your neck. "Jason!" you scold, hands coming up defensively but grinning widely.

"Don't 'Jason' me," he grins, covering the distance to wrap his arms around your waist and spin you. "You're the one that started it."

smiling you lean back, taking in the glimmer of his eyes as they look back down at you. They were warmer than they had been before, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something behind those blue irises, something behind the curtain you were blocked off from.

"You make me feel alive again, you know that?" he breathes out. Your smile falters slightly but you keep it up.

"You make it sound like you were dead," you scold slightly, whacking him playfully in the chest. "Trust me, if you were dead, I'd be the first to know about it. I'd be inconsolable." you giggle, the downturn of his lips and the sad flicker in his eyes going unnoticed by you.

He knew that you knew about the scars but chose not to say anything. He had no shame in showing you those, the lines and bruises that you traced so reverently with your fingers and sealed lips. It would be a silent ritual between you both, except in those few times where you'd mumble under your breath how strong he was, how strong he must be to endure whatever he was keeping from you. But one thing he would never tell you was that those scars you so gently praised as a symbol of his strength, murmuring quietly of his survival, were the opposite. When he looked at the mirror he didn't see the evidence of a survivor, and his heart ached at the idea of trying to tell you that those scarred over wounds had in fact claimed him.

So, for now he'd settle with you in his arms, grinning up at him like the world revolved around him. He'd forgive the snow dusting his hair if it meant he got to stare into those glimmering eyes of yours for just a moment longer, withstand the biting cold if it made your nose crinkle more often.

"Merry Christmas, babe." he murmurs silently, voice full of a heavy warmth as he places a soft kiss on your forehead, looking out at the rest of the gardens gradually succumbing to the winter blanket.

It may not have been his first snow with you, but as he held you in the garden, he couldn’t help but feel like a stranger reliving his own memories again.

#messenger of babel #fanfic #dc comics #dc #dc x reader #ririresurrection #hopefully #dc fanfic #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd x you #jason todd imagines #red hood x reader #red hood #red hood x you #red hood angst #red hood dc #sorry for the absence

134 notes · View notes

onlyheluvsme · 14 hours ago

Text

⇢ ˗ˏˋshe's got a boyfriend anyway࿐ྂ

˗ˏˋellie angst!!´ˎ˗in which ellie is in love with her best friend — mdni, lowercase intend, f!reader, slight angst, mentions of: comphet, b*yfriends, m*n, sad pining ellie*ೃ༄ pls leave reqs!!

ellie had met you when she joined her school’s astronomy club. with the group only having two girls, her and you being both of them becoming friends was quick.

soon enough she was bringing you by after school, first stopping by for five minutes, then it became ten, then twenty, until you had stayed for dinner completely. her dad absolutely adored you, finding your constant care and worry for her adorable.

what you never realized in your quickly blossoming friendship was that ellie didn’t see you as a friend. from the moment you walked in late to that astronomy meeting with rain soaked hair and a complaint of a careless driver and a puddle, she was hooked.

you sat next to her that day, introducing yourself with the brightest and sweetest smile she had ever seen. she stammered and almost forgot to introduce herself back to you, getting caught in the movement of your soft lips.

you were the drug she needed to fall asleep every night; not being able to close her eyes till your “gnite <3” came through. ellie went through her day wondering what you were thinking, what you were seeing, how you felt. it was impossible to keep you from the forefront of her mind.

yet it didn’t matter, you weren’t and would never be hers.

“so, wheres this kid takin’ you again?” joel asked you, passing the mashed potatoes to ellie who had deflated at the words. jesse, your boyfriend, was taking you away for the weekend.

ellie kept her eyes down onto her plate, suddenly with a lost appetite.

“oh! jesses taking me to santa barbara” you smile at joel, ellie cant help but roll her eyes into her dish.

dinner continued, you and joel carrying most of the conversation, ellie only chiming in when addressed. she was first to stand and grab the plates, chair screeching against the wood,

“should probably get you home soon” she said shortly, your eyebrows raised as you helped her pick up the leftover food from the table.

joel caught the change in ellie long before you did, the way her entire being almost shut down at the sound of his name. he kept quiet though, knowing that asking her if she was alright would only lead to red cheeks and an annoyed, ‘yes! shut up!’.

therefore he stayed quiet, letting the two of you work it out yourselves, watching you both from the sink.

after clearing off the table with ellie, where she did not look at you once, you grabbed your school bag and she took her keys,

“bye joel! see you soon! thanks for dinner!” you call from the door, ellie on your feet.

“bye kiddo! be safe!” he calls, ellie grumbles under her breath, lightly pushing you out the door, locking it behind her.

the two of you walk to her pick up, slight tension evident in the air. you throw a quick glance in her direction, seeing her face in a slight frown.

she opens the passenger door, stepping back to give you room. with your bag slung over your shoulder you slip past her and plop into the seat.

before she closes the door you stick your hand out,

“wait” you say, making her pause her movements on hand on the door, the other by her side. she stares up at you slightly shocked, slightly apprehensive.

“have i-have i done something?” you ask nervously, eyes slowly starting to glisten. the slight crack in your voice, the light tears beginning to form on your waterline, the sweet face you give her, ellie breaks.

“fuck” she says to herself, all sense of anger leaving her body at the sight of your anxiety. it was so fucking impossible to stay mad at you. ellie steps into the passenger side, hands finding yours,

“no! fuck- sorry! you didn’t do anything” she brushes her fingers against your cheek, quickly pulling them away when she remembers herself. that you’re not hers to touch.

“i’m just tired from today,” she settles on, not revealing the true reason for her behavior. you just stared at her, knowing her well enough to know she was lying.

“i promise” she says, close to a whisper as she stares back at you, capturing every inch of your face knowing she would be aching to see it all weekend and won’t be able to.

“okay” you relent, knowing she won’t tell you, and hoping she feels better by the time your back. you give her a reassuring smile and she nods, pulling back but pausing to give you an odd look before buckling your seatbelt and closing your door.

you huff out a breath as she rounds the car and enters from the drivers side. ellie throws you a glance as she settles into her seat, sticking the key in the ignition.

even though she knew she wouldn’t have you this weekend, she felt grateful for these moments. you in her car, currently wearing her sweater, sneakered feet on her dash. she liked to pretend during moments like these that you were a couple, casually and proudly living side by side.

she put the car in drive, pulling out of her driveway and started to your house. ellie debated at first, if she should bring your trip up. she knew the topic would bother her but she couldn’t help her curiosity, she always wanted to know what you were doing.

the drive was silent for a few minutes, the only sound coming from the low playing music on the radio until she finally gained the courage to break the silence,

“so uh, is he picking you up tonight or tomorrow” ellie asks. you look over at her, the sight almost too much for a second. ellie’s thighs spread comfortably, tattooed hand casually holding the wheel, a loose t-shirt with the sleeves and most of the sides cut off with only a sports bra underneath. you look away quickly, you shouldn’t be having these thoughts.

“uh.. tonight actually” you get out, staring at the road ahead of you. ellie flicks her eyes over to you and back to the road multiple times, she was hoping it was tomorrow, needing one more night of knowing you’re near.

theres a split second where ellie debates making a u-turn back to her house, debating if she should just take off from jackson with you. fuck this is making me crazy.

“great” she says between gritted teeth and holds a angry shake of her head back. ellie has no reason to be angry, you had him had been together long before she met you. she had no right to stake any claim on you, and yet from the moment she woke up to the second she went to sleep you were the most precious person in her life.

“yeah, yeah” you utter, frowning as you watch your block approach. you didn’t want to leave yet, still wanting to spend time with her.

ellie slowed onto your block and pulled in front of your house. neither of you moved, just wanting a few more minutes. you broke the silence together,

“i should probably get inside”

“don’t go”

you let out sad sigh, eyes squeezing shut. ellie looked over nervously,

“what- uh- what if something happens and he-” ellie stammers out, turning in her seat to face you. your tense shoulders stay foward, scared you might cave if you looked at her. you have a boyfriend goddamit.

your parents would kill you, maybe throw you to the curb if you walked in with her. so you kept your eyes forward,

“i’ll see you on monday el” you rasp, finally turning to look at her and almost breaking at the sight of her crushed face.

you lean in and place a kiss on her cheek, it shouldn’t be special since you did it every time you said bye to her. this time however felt different as you pulled back and found her eyes closed, a blissful look on her face.

“yeah i’ll see you…” ellie says forcing her voice not to shake from disappointment. from the fear she may never get to kiss and hold and love the one person who makes her heart fucking stop. her eyes remain closed as she soaks in the feel of where your lips were pressed.

that is until she feels soft fingers gliding against her lips and she is more fearful to open her eyes than sad. you only allow yourself a second, a millisecond to gloss your pointer and middle finger against the plush of her pink lips. just one touch and you jumped out of the car like a mad woman. feet quickly taking you up the front porch stairs and through the door before ellie could fully open her eyes again.

ellie’s eyes open to find an empty car, barely having registered the slam of the passenger door and your hasty departure. her fingers found her lips, attempting to mimic the feel of your fingers but hers felt more calloused where yours were soft. not enough.

her head turns to your closed front door, fingers still lightly against her lips,

“be safe, my girl” she says to the door, knowing shes still going to text you later to be safe. ellie put the car back into park after a minute of watching your pacing silhouette through the curtain.

she turns the music off completely, not in the mood for anything for the rest of the weekend. an ugly pit settled into her stomach and she knew it wouldn’t relent till you were back on monday.

ellie drove home that night quickly swiping the tears from her eyes before they could fall. all she could think about was that you would be back, that she would go back to her pretend moments with you tucked into her side. he couldn’t take those from her too.

[ellie masterlist]

#luluwrites ✧₊⁺#luluwritesellie⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚#ellie williams angst #ellie angst #ellie x reader #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams tlou #ellie tlou #ellie williams #ellie williams fanfic #ellie the last of us #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams fluff #e

76 notes · View notes

sheluvsjasontodd · 1 day ago

Text

Patching You Up

18+ MINORS DNI

This is my first post, I'm kinda nervous and still trying to figure out how to use Tumblr lol.

Synopsis: Red Hood stumbles into your apartment, injured, in the middle of the night. It’s been 4 years since Jason died, and you have no idea he’s alive.

At 1:20 a.m., your apartment is completely silent and dark. You are asleep in your bedroom when suddenly a loud thud hits the wall connecting the living area. Your eyes shoot open at the unexpected noise, and you quickly rise from your bed. Pushing the blankets off your lap, you quietly step toward your bedroom door, the knife you keep in your nightstand drawer tight in your grasp.

Slowly turning the knob, you crack the door open, squinting into the living room in an attempt to make out the source of the noise. Due to the limited view, you can’t see much and are forced to blindly creep out of the room to confront the intruder. Carefully exiting your bedroom, you walk into the living room, back sliding against the walls as you go, knife still in hand. Turning the corner, you see a tall figure propping their body up against the wall with one hand, breathing heavily.

Slowly approaching behind him, you inch closer, ready to attack. Just as you are about to swing a fist at the back of his head, he swiftly turns around and catches your wrist.

“Who do you think you’re swinging that at?” he says, looking at the knife in your hand.

“You?” You respond with a look of surprise that your hand has been so easily restricted. Now that he is turned around, you’ve gotten a closer look at him and you recognize his dark hair, leather jacket, and red helmet as the famous Red Hood.

“What-” you stutter, “What’re you doing here?”

“It’s been a rough night,” he shrugs.

“And that led you to my apartment? I don’t even know you. Are you being chased?” you start to fire off questions.

“Aw, you don’t recognize me, I’m hurt,” he says sarcastically, his voice modulated through his mask.

“R-recognize you? Why would I recognize you?” you stutter.

He then releases your wrist and moves his hands toward his face, removing his scarlet helmet. Your eyes widen as he lifts his gaze to meet yours, and you take in his familiar facial features.

“J-Jason?” you whisper.

“Miss me?” he raises a brow.

“But- you were…” You cut yourself off, “How?”

“Long story,” he grumbles.

You wrap your arms around his broad figure with a thud, burying your face into his leather jacket. He takes a second to react, he was never the affectionate type even before he died. After a few seconds of you squeezing him tightly, he brings a hand to the back of your head to pet your hair gently. You lift your face from his chest to meet his eyes.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” you whisper.

“I know.”

The two of you stay like that, just looking each other in the eyes for a moment. Slowly, your gaze trails to his lips, then down the rest of his seemingly larger body before you notice that his jacket sleeve is torn and his arm is bleeding.

“Oh my god, Jason, you’re bleeding!” you say, grabbing his wrist and trying to examine his arm in the darkness of the living room.

“I’ll live,” he grumbles.

“No, this needs to be cleaned. Come in here.” You order him around, dragging him into your kitchen, flicking the light switch on.

In the new lighting, you get a better view of him. He was much taller than he was when the two of you were 15, a lot broader, more muscular. His face was sharper and scarred, and his hair now had a small white streak. You guide him to stand with his back against the island counter and begin to peel off his jacket gently.

“Aren’t you supposed to buy me dinner before this?” He jokes.

“Knock it off, Todd,” you reprimand him as you turn away to grab the first aid kit from your cabinet. Of course, your first aid kit is equipped for more than the average household accident, as you grew up fighting crime in Gotham alongside the Bat-family.

You start to apply gauze to the bleeding gash in his bicep in an attempt to control the blood flow. You apply light pressure to the wound as you stack piece after piece of gauze until they are no longer being soaked through. After the bleeding had been controlled, you removed the gauze and began to clean the area with an alcohol-soaked rag. He makes a slight hissing noise that would’ve likely gone unnoticed by anyone else but you.

“Sorry,” you mumble, looking up at him.

“Don’t- be sorry,” he grits.

You drop your head back down, quickly wiping away the last bits of smeared blood and looking at the gash again.

“I um- I really think you might need stitches, this is a pretty deep cut-” you start to mumble.

“Just do it.”

“Me?”

“I know you can do it I’ve seen you do it before,” he sighs, sounding almost annoyed at your hesitation.

“I- I know I can I just…”

“y/n” he grumbles.

“Fine,” you sigh, reaching into the kit to grab the necessary tools. Before he died, Jason always hated needles and getting stitches. He couldn’t even bear the thought of it. As you begin to sew up the large cut in his arm, you expect him to have a bad reaction, but instead are met with utter silence and stillness. After a few minutes of silent stitching, you knot the last bit and cut the excess.

“Done,” you whisper.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, pushing off the counter and stepping around you.

“Where are you going?” you ask as he grabs his jacket.

“Home.”

“But I- you can’t just show up here after you’ve been dead for 4 years, expect me to just stitch you up and be fine with you leaving!” you yell after him, following him to your front door.

“I shouldn’t have come here.”

“No wait,” you say catching his wrist before he can grab the door knob. “I just got you back, you can’t just disappear on me.”

“I can’t- I can’t be a part of your life y/n,” he sighs.

“Why?” you ask desperately.

“Because I’m not who I was before, when we were kids.”

“Neither am I.”

“It’s not the same.”

“I know that I just-”

“Y/n.”

At this point, your heart is pounding in your chest, afraid for him to disappear from your life again. The two of you are only inches apart, looking into each other’s eyes. “Stay,” you whisper.

Your quiet request snaps something in him, and he roughly grabs your face and presses his lips against your own. Quickly responding to his gesture, you kiss him back, hands tangling into his short, dark locks. He turns the two of you around and pushes your back into the door with a light thud as he easily lifts you, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He then begins to trail his wet kisses down the side of your jaw and onto your neck. He quickly finds a vulnerable spot that makes you let out a quiet squeak and focuses there.

“Jason-” you whisper breathily, dropping your head back onto the door as he continues to attack your neck, progressing to your collarbone.

“Hm?” he mumbles against your cold skin.

You grip tighter to the hair on the back of his scalp, slightly tugging on it, earning a small groan from him. He grips the underside of your thighs tightly as he moves away from the door and walks you over to your couch, gently laying you down on the soft grey cushions before climbing over top of you. He immediately resumes his trail down your neck, now gently tracing a finger along the bottom edge of your t-shirt.

“Can I take this off?” he asks softly, searching your eyes for any trace of hesitation.

“Yes,” you let out a breath.

He then slides his large hands beneath your oversized shirt, rubbing up and down your bare sides before grasping the edge of the fabric and gently tugging it off of your torso, leaving you in pajama shorts and a bralette.

“So beautiful,” he whispers against your jaw.

You blush a little, thankful for the dark lighting. His fingers trail down your body until they reach the top of your thigh. He lightly traces circles there, watching your facial expression become increasingly desperate.

“Please,” you breathe.

“What?” he teases your thigh again.

You let out a small whimper in response. Communication has never been your strong suit, which has become increasingly evident as you progress through adulthood.

“I need you to tell me what you want y/n,” he mumbles against your neck.

“You,” you whisper back.

“Mm, I see.”

You look down at his fingers expectantly, waiting for him to touch you where you need him. Slowly, he slips his fingers into your shorts, touching you through your panties.

“God, you’re soaked,” he almost moans as he feels the wet patch on your soft underwear. He moves his fingers to rub your clit in circles making you let out a soft cry of his name. This urges him to push your shorts down and carefully remove your panties before he continues to pay attention to the sensitive area.

“Oh fuck,” you gasp, involuntarily bucking your hips toward his hand, wanting more.

“So needy,” he teases.

“Jay, please.”

“You sure?” He asks, pulling away briefly to examine your face for any sign of doubt or hesitation.

“Very sure,” you pant, eyes flicking between his own and his lips.

Just like that, his lips are back on yours, locked in a passionate, rough kiss. After a few seconds, he pulls away to remove his shirt, revealing his toned upper body. Your hand gravitates toward his abs, softly running up and down them, admiring his sculpted figure.

“This is new,” you raise a brow teasingly in reference to his defined muscles.

“We’re not kids anymore,” he simply shrugs before continuing.

Quickly, both of your remaining clothes are shed and tossed across the room.

“Jason…” you mumble, breaking eye contact.

“Yeah?” he whispers back, stopping his actions.

“It’s just that I-” you pause, “Well, I’ve never really done this before.” You admit, nervous that he would react badly.

“Wanna know something?” he hums back. You can feel his slight grin against your shoulder.

“What?”

“Neither have I,” he reveals, placing a light kiss on your collarbone.

“You’ve never-”

“Nope.”

“O-Okay,” you nod, releasing a breath.

“You still want to do this?” he asks, gently running his thumb back and forth on your hip.

“Yes.”

With that, he connects his lips back to yours and drags his hand to massage your breast.

“Jason, please-” you whine.

“I know, I know,” he says sympathetically, as he moves to grab your hips, lining himself with your entrance. Slowly, he pushes himself inside you, taking his time to let you adjust to the feeling. You release your grip on the couch cushions, moving your hands to his back once he's in. You reopen your eyes and lock them with Jason’s.

“You okay?” he whispers, his tone much more gentle than it was 30 minutes ago. You give him a simple nod and slide your hand from his back to his hair, pulling his head into your neck.

“You can move now,” you quietly inform him.

With your permission, he pulls out almost completely before slowly rocking his hips back into yours. You gasp at the first thrust, causing him to pause for a second, ensuring you’re okay before he continues his gentle pace.

After a few minutes, you’ve gotten used to his size and any pain has subsided into pleasure, and you want more. “Harder-” you gasp, your lips pressed against his shoulder as he hovers over you.

“Are you- are you sure?” he stutters, still trying to hold back, afraid to hurt you. All it takes is your small, reassuring smile and a quick nod for him to fulfill your request. He moves his hands down to grip your hips, slightly lifting them from the cushions, as he presses into you harder and faster. You instantly let out a moan that brings a small grin to his lips as he feels more confident.

“F-fuck y/n..” he grumbles into your ear, sending a shiver down your body.

“I’m not gonna last much longer-” he starts.

“It’s okay,” you cut him off, “I’m close too,” you nod desperately. You then reach your hand down between your bodies, finding your clit with your middle finger. The sensations of your fingers along with his thrusts are almost too much for you to handle, you squeeze your eyes shut, panting.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispers. “Always been such a good girl, huh?” he teases you, somehow driving his hips even harder, pushing you over the edge. You let out a whimper, your legs shaking vigorously as your hand slips away, and you finish around him. His release quickly follows, and he quickly pulls out and finishes on your bare stomach. He collapses, his large body enveloping yours on your small couch.

“You feel okay?” he whispers into your warm shoulder.

“Mhm,” you hum. “You?”

“Never been better,” he replies, you can feel the smile that’s formed on his lips.

The two of you lay there on the couch for a bit, not talking, not moving, existing in the comfortable silence.

After a while, you begin to run your fingers through his slightly sweaty hair and whisper, “We should probably get cleaned up.”

“Probably,” he mumbles back sleepily, making no effort to get up. And neither do you.

#jason todd #jason todd/reader #jason todd x reader #red hood #red hood x reader #jason todd smut #red hood smut #fanfic #oneshots

64 notes · View notes

primrosechronicles · 1 day ago

Text

"I Fear He might be Beast.. or a Troll."

A Telemachus x Princess!Reader requested by: @oleevee

Summary : You a Princess is scared, for you do not know who identity of your fiance. Word Count : 1135 Credits to @bernardsbendystraws for the dividers Taglist : @its-mia1 @asrainterstellar @eternalsams Part 1

OKAY– He’s not a creep.

You breathe out a sigh of relief once your back has met the wooden door of your bedchambers. It's… nice to know your future husband isn’t like one of those nightmares you have heard so much about.

You mentally check off the list of characteristics labeled “Nightmare Husband”.

A kind man… check

A rude man? Definitely not.

Arrogant? Doesn’t seem to be.

Entitled? … To be tested.

Gods, you really have to get to know him.

A long breath leaves your lungs as you slide down the door, clutching the warm blanket he had given you. You wrap the blanket around your person; it's… soft, big and thick… and it smells like him too– wait.

What?

It was one fucking encounter! You’re acting like a lovesick fool already?! You grasp on the flesh above your heart, it’s almost as if Lord Eros himself gave you one of his more… potent arrows.

You facepalm, you didn’t smell the blanket on purpose… it just happened to be near your nose!

Standing up, you sit before your vanity, staring at your reflection. Slightly messy hair, blue blanket, tired eyes—an image of utter chaos. “I really should get to bed,” you mutter to yourself.

✰ ✰ ✰

You wake up and squint, your eyes greeted by the radiance of Apollon's light, in response you throw the blanket the Prince gave you over your eyes, you may marvel at Lord Apollon’s domain later— now you should get some sleep…

You inhale deeply—sniff, sniff—oh gods, no. Are you sick?

You try to breathe through your nose again and instantly you feel the mix of snot and very dry boogers in your nose.

You throw the blanket off of you and raise your palms toward the sky, catching the warmth of sunlight in your hands.

“Lord Apollon, god healing

PleasehealmeIamsupposedtomeetwithmyfuturehusbandandIhavetobewellinorderto–”

Click! Creaaaak… Your head immediately snaps toward your door and you see— “Your Royal Highness!”

He politely smiles while standing in your doorway. “Just Telemachus.” He corrects you.

“Ah–” sniff “My Apologies—” “Are you sick?” he asks.

“No, no! I’m completely—ahhhchoo!” The sneeze bursts out of you before you can stop it. You hurriedly wipe your nose, mortified. “I’m so sorry you’re seeing me like this,” you say, cringing.

Telemachus chuckles, his eyes twinkling with a gentle fondness. “It’s no problem really I’ll get a healer for you, but for now—let me take care of you.” ✰ ✰ ✰

After calling for one of his servants to fetch a healer for you, he gets to work.

First, he asks you to sit up to fluff up your pillows.

Second, he tucks you in– really tightly that you can’t move.

Third, he opens the window to let air in.

And fourth, he brings you sweet-smelling tea.

It’s really sweet, you think to yourself. His actions make the whole arranged marriage situation feel a little less nerve-wracking—and being in the same room with him doesn’t feel so intimidating anymore.

The door creaks, you and Telemachus look at the door. It’s the medic… and his mother?!

You and Telemachus stare at them, They stare back… cough

The medic bows slightly and begins approaching with practiced seriousness. “My prince, please allow me to tend to the princess. I’ve brought the necessary remedies and a full diagnostic scroll—”

Telemachus steps in front of you like a guard dog who’s read one medical scroll. “Ah—thank you, but I’ve already made her quite comfortable. Rested. Cared for. Hydrated. She drank the tea.”

“The tea?” the medic repeats with a squint. “You gave her tea?”

“Yes,” Telemachus says, chest puffing up a little. “From the royal herbarium.”

“Was it measured? Calibrated? Blessed by the temple of Hygieia?”

“…It smelled nice.”

The medic exhales slowly like a teacher who’s just been told someone used olive oil as a cure for a fever. “With all due respect, Your Highness, administering unapproved concoctions may cause imbalances in the humors—”

“She had phlegm!” Telemachus fires back. “I saw it! There was definitely phlegm!”

“Phlegm must be treated by balancing the cold and wet with hot and dry—do you even know if the tea was warming or cooling in nature?”

“I know it had thyme in it,” Telemachus says defiantly. “Thyme is medicinal!”

“Thyme is decorative if not steeped properly!”

You blink between the two of them, unsure if you should intervene or grab popcorn.

Telemachus’ mother watches the exchange with a hand over her mouth, trying (and failing) not to laugh.

The medic sighs and gently gestures for space. “Prince Telemachus. I trained for ten years in Corinth. I have dissected fifteen cadavers. I once removed a bee stinger from a nobleman’s lung.”

Telemachus crosses his arms. “Well, I have changed the damp cloth on her forehead three times. She even said I was sweet.”

“That is not a medical credential.”

“Well maybe it should be!”

At that, the Queen finally bursts out laughing, covering her face with her shawl.

You peek out from your blankets and mutter, “I feel… healed by the sheer tension in this room.”

The medic straightens, clearly affronted, and turns to you. “Princess, I insist on examining your pulse.”

“And I insist,” Telemachus says, eyes narrowing, “that you go examine the temperature of your own attitude.” Queen Penelope gently places a hand on Telemachus’ shoulder, her lips twitching with restrained laughter.

“My son… please,” she says, voice soft but amused. “I know you mean well—and the effort is adorable—but perhaps it’s time to let the trained professional do his job.”

She clears her throat delicately, but her eyes are sparkling. “Before you accidentally prescribe her mint leaves and warm hugs as a cure for congestion.”

Telemachus stands up. “But mother–” he argues with his mother while she covers her mouth with her shawl to conceal her amusement.

You smile. This family is nice—strange, but nice. There’s a quiet rhythm to them, like a song you don’t fully know the words to but want to hum along with anyway.

You glance down at your hands, thumb brushing a small thread at the hem of your borrowed tunic. The truth is, you barely know your husband. You’re not sure what it means to belong in a story like this, pulled from one world and stitched into another. There's fear in that, more than you'd ever say aloud.

But you look at Penelope’s eyes, sharp and kind. You feel the space she’s made for you at this table, the warmth of food you didn’t ask for. You watch Telemachus—awkward, earnest, trying too hard—and something in your chest softens.

You may not know your husband. But you’re starting to believe you’ll be safe here. And maybe—just maybe—the prince sitting across from you is someone you’d like to know.

Even if he talks too much. Even if he blushes every time you catch him looking. Lady Hera, Thank you.

A/N: this is prolly my last fic for epic the musical. writing burnout is crazyyyyyyyyy

#telemachus x reader #x reader #x you #epic the musical x reader #epic the musical

51 notes · View notes

theshiniestgemstone · 21 hours ago

Note

would you do almost like a part two (2) to that request you got for the reader not having any family so jesse walks her down the aisle instead?

I was thinking that the reader is giving birth to ruthie, but the only person around to take her to the hospital is jesse. maybe the baby is like a month early and gideon is a few hours away at some important church thing and amber is out as well, so jesse gets a call from the reader asking for help and he’s like “I thought I was finished taking women to the hospital to give birth!”

I'm so soft for Jesse having a soft spot for his daughter in law fr.

Read the wedding fic here and about what I think their relationship is like here!! <3

Jesse can't even remember the last time he had the entire house to himself.

Pontius left after lunch, half-heartedly muttering that he'd be back in a few hours, only to send a text that he'd be home in the morning. Amber and Abraham were on the other side of the state at a wrestling competition for the littlest Gemstone. You and Gideon had long since moved out, one step closer to your own family. Gideon was off in Phoenix at a conference, taking up a few main slots to talk about the Lord to ministers nationwide. Jesse had been in his shoes once and trusted him enough. Still, Eli and Kelvin joined him.

Amber had your due date circled on the calendar since you announced your pregnancy. The family was ecstatic at the beginning of a new generation. Eli even sat Jesse down just like he did when they found out Amber was pregnant with Gideon, only this time he shared grandfatherly advice, mostly just reminders that Gideon would need him most now with a little one on the way. A guide to help him transition into fatherhood, reminders that it's not about him or even his wife anymore.

Jesse's eyes lingered on the due date just about a month away. He and Amber were going to help out for the first few weeks, taking care of laundry and dishes. They hadn't run it past you or Gideon, but Eli and Aimee Leigh had done it for them when Gideon was a newborn and they were going to carry on the tradition. He finished his late night sandwich, the one Amber never let him enjoy because if there was one thing she hated it was crumbs.

He settled into his side of the bed, turned on The Godfather and cleared his throat to begin his best Marlon Brando Impression.

"That I cannot do." Jesse scratched his chin. "We've known each other many years and this is the first time you came to me for counsel. I can't remember the last time that you invited me to your house for a cup of coffee, even though my wife is the godmother of your on-"

He jumped at the sound of the doorbell, cutting him off in the middle of his favorite monologue. He set his plate to the side and reached for the gun he kept in the nightstand. He tucked it into his pocket before making his way down the hall carefully. "Who the hell-"

The doorbell rang again, followed by insistent knocking. He peeked through the little window, spotting you on the doorstep. He ripped the door open.

"What-"

You were shiny in the moonlight, legs trembling. "I need you to drive me. My water broke."

"What?" Jesse asked, already reaching for his keys. "How did that happen?"

You groaned lowly, gripping the railing on the stairs. "This isn't really time for stories," you breathed out.

"Just let me get my wall-"

"NOW!" You shouted. "Or I'm driving that damned golf cart myself."

Jesse's face dropped, following behind you. One hand held yours as he helped you waddle down the stairs and to the car. You held onto him as you sat down.

"Don't you need bags or somethin'?" He started to ask.

"Jesse, I will pop your grandbaby out in this seat right fucking now," you seethed.

He rushed around to the other side of the car. He drove as calmly as he could, silent and focused on the road.

"Nothing else to say?" You said. "I'm sorry for snappin' at you."

Jesse chuckled, speeding through a yellow light. "I thought I was done driving women to have babies. I've been through this three times. I know when it's time to keep my mouth shut."

You sucked in a breath, gripping the side of the seat during another wave of pain. "I should go into labor more often then." You relaxed, running a hand over your bump. "Still, I'm sorry."

"This ain't nothin'. Amber threw a shoe at me when she was pregnant with Gideon."

"Really?"

"We were young," he said, smiling at the memory. "Had a black eye for weeks. She threw up on me twice with Pontius. With Abraham... you know, that one was the easiest. An hour tops. Just think that you're doin' this shit backwards."

You shook your head. "No fucking chance I'm doing this again."

He laughed at that one, a soft ha as he turned into the parking lot of the hospital. "I'll leave you at the door, park the car, call Gideon on my way in. Then I'll be right by your side until Gideon gets here, okay?"

You felt the tears in your eyes as you opened the door. "Thank you, Jesse."

"Anytime, sweetheart. Now go."

You smiled sheepishly. "I can't stand up."

"Damn this low car," he muttered. He unbuckled himself to round the car to help you stand. He gave you a quick hug, sending you off with a pat on the back. "I'll be right there. You've got this."

Jesse didn't lie when he said he'd stay there until Gideon could make it. He stood on the other side of the curtain when the doctor first checked your dilation. He brought you ice chips and called Gideon every ten minutes, texting him each update.

"Boy must be gettin' his beauty sleep," he joked when Gideon missed the fifteenth phone call.

Even when Amber and Abraham arrived, blinking with fatigue and still in their pajamas, a medal slung around Abraham's neck, Jesse stayed. When it came time to push, Amber stood on your left, Jesse on your right. Gideon was on his way, still stuck on a plane.

Ruthie was born, wailing loudly as the nurses carried her over to the examination table. He wiped his tears as he and Amber stood beside you until they brought over the swaddled newborn. Jesse gasped softly as you ran a gentle finger over her chin.

"She looks like Gideon."

Amber blinked back tears. "She does. So much."

You cried for a while, holding your daughter close as the nurses poked and prodded at both of you. Jesse still didn’t leave. Not when the nurse checked your blood pressure, not when Amber stepped out to call Gideon, not even when the lights dimmed and the room fell into that strange, quiet hum hospitals settle into at the tail end of miracles.

He stayed in the chair next to your bed, elbows on his knees, watching you rock the tiny bundle in your arms as though you’d been doing it for years instead of minutes.

You glanced over and caught his eye. “She’s so small.”

He smiled gently, resting his hand on the foot of the bed. “They come that way. Then they grow teeth and start demanding juice boxes and their own Spotify accounts.”

“She has a dimple,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over her cheek. “Just one.”

“Gideon’s got one too,” Jesse said. “Shows up every time he lies.”

You smiled down at Ruthie. "Got you figured out already." You looked at him. "Would you like to hold her?"

Jesse pretended to think about it. "I think Gideon should be the first to hold her."

It was fifteen minutes later when Gideon burst through the door, wild-eyed and breathless, still in a wrinkled hoodie and carrying his carry-on bag over one shoulder. He stopped dead when he saw you, then Jesse, then the baby in your arms.

You smiled sleepily. “You’re late.”

Gideon didn’t answer. He just crossed the room, kissed your forehead, and looked down at Jesse.

“You wanna hold your daughter?” Jesse asked, voice hoarse.

Gideon nodded, hands trembling slightly as you passed the tiny bundle over.

“She looks like you,” Jesse said again, and stepped back to give them space.

And just like that, the baton passed.

lil bonus because i can't help myself

Jesse thumbed through the mail he hadn't checked in days. Bills, coupons, and credit card advertisements. He paused on the cream colored envelope. He opened it with one finger, eyes skimming the card inside.

There, printed on soft cream cardstock, was a photo of Ruthie. She was swaddled in a sage green blanket, eyes barely cracked open, a faint smile curling her lips like she already knew something the rest of the world didn’t. Her tiny fist peeked out from under the wrap, knuckles dimply and delicate. Her lips pursed like Gideon's, a wrinkle over her brow just like yours.

Below the photo, in delicate gold script, it read:

Ruthie Leigh Jessie Gemstone Born 6lbs 12 oz | 19.5 inches Welcomed with love by Gideon & Y/N

Jesse blinked once. Then again.

He read her full name a second time.

Then a third.

A slow breath left him as his chest tightened, not in pain, but in something far softer, deeper. He didn’t say a word when Amber asked what he was looking at, just quietly stood up, walked to his home office, and slipped the announcement into a silver frame. He placed it just behind his desk, beside an old photo of his kids as toddlers, right where he could see it every day.

#gideon gemstone #answered asks #gideon gemstone x you #gideon gemstone x reader #gideon gemstone x fem reader #the righteous gemstones #gideon gemstone fanfic #the righteous gemstone #fanfic #jesse gemstone #jesse gemstone x reader

43 notes · View notes

concretejunglefm · 11 hours ago

Note

”SPREAD UR LEGS AND FINGER URSELF WHILE LOOKING AT ME SO I CAN SEE TGE PLEASURE” and stepbro noah PLEASEEEEE IW ILL DIE! also hi boo ilu GUESS WHOS 21 and no day was yesterday and this would like such a cute lil present fr😫byeeee 😗💗

HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY BB! congratulations on now being legal to drink in us, though all I can think about is how stepbro!noah will have even more fun with that and the intox kink 🤭

CW: includes mentions of stepcest, masturbation, dirty talk, voyeurism.

NSFW'ish below the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.

When Noah stumbles into your room, you should’ve known it wasn’t an accident. There are never accidents with him.

Instead, you’re met with a smug smirk stretching across his face, while you scramble to settle the warm flush rising in your cheeks and calm your racing heart after being caught at such an inappropriate time.

“What the hell do you want?” you huff, keeping the covers tightly drawn over your exposed lower half. Beneath them, your legs remain partially spread, your cunt dripping and throbbing with the ache of not finishing what you’d started.

“Just came to see what you were doing. Guess it’s pretty obvious,” Noah drawls, his long, tattooed fingers dragging lazily along the doorframe.

He stands there casually, like he hasn’t just barged in at the worst possible moment. You want to yell at him to get out, but before you can, he’s speaking again. “Please. Don’t let me stop you.”

“What?” you scoff, shaking your head.

It didn’t take much to piece together what you’d been doing, and the worst part is how much he seems to enjoy it. How entertained he is by catching you like this.

“I’m not—” you start, but your words die in your throat as he steps fully into your room, shutting the door behind him with an audible click. Like that’s your signal to keep going.

“What?” he taunts, a wicked curl to his lips. “Fucking yourself on your fingers?”

His tongue slips out to wet his lips, and you hate the way heat coils in your belly at the sight. At the sound of his voice. At the sheer nerve of him.

If you could scramble back any further, you would, but you’re already pressed tight against your pillows. When you draw your knees up, you can feel the slickness between your thighs, the pulse of your arousal matching the pounding of your heart.

He leans over the edge of the bed, hands pressed to the mattress, eyes locked onto you with unmistakable hunger.

“Spread your legs and finger yourself,” he murmurs, voice low and coaxing. “Look me in the eyes so I can see your pleasure.”

You scoff, eyes wide, disbelief etched into your features. Surely he can’t be serious? But he is and you know it, especially when his fingers curl around the edge of the covers hiding you and begin to inch them down.

“Come on, baby,” he croons, voice dripping with filth and fascination. “I want to watch you play with your pretty pussy.”

When the covers finally fall away, your first instinct is to snap your thighs shut, but the position you’re in does little to conceal you, instead, it enhances the view. Your glistening folds on full display, arousal painting your skin like an invitation.

“Look at that,” he breathes, eyes drinking you in. “Already so wet just from being told what to do.” His voice dips into something darker. “Now why don’t you be a good girl and show me?”

#anon ask 💕#bad omens fanfiction #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian smut #bad omens smut #noah sebastian blurb #bad omens blurb #stepbro!noah #noah sebastian x reader #tw: stepcest #concretejunglefm fics

38 notes · View notes

fratboykate · 1 day ago

Note

The cliffhanger with Kate in the bathroom - angsty perfection, I love it 👌

Can’t wait for the next update!

You didn't have to wait that long :) Here's 9.6k of pain lol. Again, heavy chapter blah blah. You know what you're signing up for at this point lol.

---

"Oh my god.” Yelena drops to her knees so fast she knows she’s bruised them. “Kate!” No response. “Kate, wake up!”

Nothing. Her hands shake. Her voice breaks.

“Call 911!” Yelena screams at her father.

Alexei is already moving. His voice bellows from the hallway, shouting into the receiver. Russian accent thicker than usual as he stumbles over the address and apartment number, voice rising with panic.

“Ambulance! I need ambulance!…My daughter, she…she is not…eyes closed. Not waking up. Please. Please.”

Yelena doesn't register him despite his volume. All she hears is Kate’s breathing. Her chest rises, but it’s uneven. Almost imperceptible. Shallow weak gasps that get fainter with each one. Rattling. Like something inside is broken. Her body’s slack. Heavy. Her lips are too pale. Edges turning blue. She leans over Kate, slaps her cheek hard. Once. Twice.

“Wake up! WAKE UP!”

Yelena grabs her jaw and tilts her face back, trying to expand her airway. No response. Yelena surveys the room. Sees the painted picture. The powder smeared across the counter. The residue under Kate’s nose. The layer of the same substance on a MetroCard. Her lungs constrict.

“What did you take?! What did you fucking take?!” Yelena shouts, voice almost unrecognizable.

There’s no response. Not even a hint of movement behind closed eyes.

“She is…yes. Not awake. We found her on floor.” Alexei barks into the phone, pacing now.

Melina rushes down the hallway, chasing after a runaway Maks who is sobbing while beelining for the bedroom. She clutches Sonny tight, shielding her eyes as she runs after the boy. Alexia pushes past her grandmother and yanks Maks back before he can fully get into the bedroom.

“Let me see Mommy! Let me see!”

Melina stands in front of them both, snaps.

“No! Stay back.” Melina hisses, blocking the hallway and turning them both around.

“Why is Mommy on the floor?! Why won’t she wake up?!” Maks screams while flailing against Melina’s arm, trying to run into the bedroom.

“Mama!” Sonny tugs on Melina’s jacket, wailing so loudly her tiny voice pierces through the chaos.

The commotion by the bedroom door steals Yelena’s attention. She catches a glimpse of Alexia hovering under the doorframe, face pale as chalk, eyes wide, locked on her mother’s body slumped on the floor. Melina pulls her back before she can take another step.

“What’s happening?” Alexia asks.

“Stay out there!” Yelena shouts. “Do NOT come in here!”

But it’s too late. Alexia’s already seen it. Her Mommy’s still body. Her Mama hovering over her.

Yelena turns back to Kate.

“Kate! Can you hear me?”

Kate doesn’t move.

“Is she breathing?!” Alexei yells before putting the dispatcher on speaker, phone trembling in his hand, voice shaking for the first time in Yelena’s life.

Yelena’s hand finds Kate’s neck. A pulse. It’s there. Somewhat.

“Barely!”Yelena shouts. Her fingers tremble as they press harder against Kate’s throat. She can’t feel anything solid. Nothing reliable. Just faint thumps that come too far apart. Irregular. Slowing.

The voice from the phone is calm. Terrifyingly calm.

“Ma’am, is her skin warm to the touch?” The dispatcher’s asks. Flat, clinical.

“Yes!” Yelena barks. Then she checks again. Touches her all over. And realizes... “No! She’s clammy. Cold.”

Then, like a curtain dropping mid-scene…a noise. Kate gurgles. Her chest heaves once. Shudders. Then…nothing. It stops moving.

“No.” Yelena’s voice is a whisper. Then louder: “No. No. No no no no. Kate!”

Yelena freezes. One second. Two. Her ears are ringing. Her hands go to Kate’s chest.

“She is not…She is not breathing!” Alexei roars.

The dispatcher’s voice comes sharp now.

“Ma’am, listen to me. You need to begin CPR. Is she on a flat surface?”

“Yes,” Yelena grits. “Yes. MOVE!” she barks at Alexei.

Alexei backs up. Yelena forces Kate fully flat onto her back. Tilts her head again. Seals her mouth over hers. Two breaths. Her hands go straight to Kate’s sternum.

Yelena positions her hands at the center of Kate’s chest. Starts pressing down. One. Two. Three. Four. She counts out loud. Her arms shake.

“Begin compressions. Put the heel of your hand on the center of her chest, right between the nipples. Other hand on top. Interlock your fingers. Push hard and fast. You need to compress two inches into her chest.”

“I know what I’m doing!” Yelena yells, frustrated. She's already doing it. One. Two. Three. Four. Her arms lock. Her shoulders drive downward.

Yelena’s vision blurs. Her hair is falling into her face. Kate’s ribs give under her palms with too much ease. The cracking sound they made a few compressions ago…Yelena knows what that means. And she’ll hear that sound for the rest of her fucking life.

“Keep compressing,” the dispatcher says. “Count out loud.” Yelena does. “Thirty compressions. Then two breaths. Tilt her head back, pinch the nose…”

“I KNOW!” Yelena snaps again, tears breaking loose as she leans down, presses her mouth to Kate’s. “Come on. Breathe. Come on.”

Still nothing. Kate’s chest doesn’t move on its own.

Another round. Thirty compressions. Two breaths. Thirty more. Yelena’s shaking. Her shoulders burn. Her knees are on fire. She doesn’t stop.

“Where's the ambulance?!” Yelena screams at no one.

Somewhere down the hall, Sonny is shrieking at full volume. Maks screams, asking a million questions a minute. Alexia says nothing. She’s sat on the floor, knees to her chest, arms wrapped tight around herself.

Melina is trying to keep it together, but even she’s shouting at Alexei, asking how far the paramedics are.

The dispatcher says: “They’re en route, ma’am. You’re doing great. Keep going.”

“GET THE FUCKING AMBULANCE HERE. She’s DYING.” Yelena snarls. She leans in, breathes into Kate’s mouth. Once. Twice. Checks again. Nothing. "FUCK."

Kate is motionless. Pale. Beautiful and…so goddamn gone. Her arm twitches suddenly. For a second, Yelena thinks it’s something. Then it’s nothing again. Nerve misfire. Muscle memory. Her body tricking her.

Another thirty compressions.

“We have kids, you idiot. You don't get to do this. You don’t get to leave them…You don’t get to leave me.”

More compressions. Her palms slide. Sweat. Panic. Maybe blood. Doesn’t matter.

“Ma’am, can you feel a pulse?”

“No. She’s not breathing!”

The dispatcher finally changes tone. Pointed now.

“They’re nearly there. You need to keep her blood moving.”

“I got you,” Yelena whispers through gritted teeth. “I got you, you stupid fucking asshole. You don’t get to do this.”

“Make her wake up, Mama. Mama make her wake up.” Maks keeps repeating.

“You hear that? WAKE UP.” Yelena mutters. She’s sobbing now too. Doesn’t realize it until the tears start falling onto Kate’s skin.

Yelena doesn’t stop. Can’t. Every time she breathes into Kate’s mouth, it feels like breathing into a corpse.

Another round. She breathes again. Hard. The taste of vodka and something chemical hits the back of her throat.

Then…Boots. Voices. Radio squawks.

“EMS! Where is she?”

“Back here!” Melina shouts.

Two paramedics storm down the hall. Another follows, wheeling the stretcher. The room explodes into motion. Yelena never stops doing compressions.

“What happened?” the taller one asks.

“She overdosed. I think.” Yelena blurts out.

“Do you know what she took?”

Yelena shakes her head so hard her vision spins.

“Coke. I think. I’m not sure. But I don’t know…She was breathing. Then she wasn’t. I’ve been doing CPR…”

“Ma’am, step back.”

“I’m not…” Yelena doesn’t.

“Step back!” one of them orders as another physically pulls her back.

They move like they’ve done this a thousand times. One drops to his knees, takes over compressions. Another cuts Kate’s shirt open, slaps defib pads to her chest. A third pops the Narcan cap, sprays once, twice, up her nose.

“Pulse?”

“Still absent. Charge to two hundred.”

“CLEAR!”

Yelena’s back hits the wall. She can’t stand. She slides down, barely aware that she’s sitting on the floor.

Kate’s body jumps. No pulse.

Yelena can’t breathe. She stares at the tile. Her palms burn. Her eyes sting. Her arms feel like they’re going to fall off.

“Three hundred.”

“CLEAR!”

Another jolt. Still nothing. Another spray of Narcan.

Yelena finally breaks. She covers her mouth with both hands to stifle her sobs. Alexei is in the hallway, holding Maks and Alexia tight. Melina presses her lips to Sonny’s hair.

“CLEAR!”

Then…Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Got something. Weak. Holding.”

The beeping sound punches through the air like a miracle. Yelena almost collapses with it.

Then Kate coughs. Wet. Violent. She jerks forward, vomiting brownish bile onto the tile. One of the paramedics is already there, rolling her onto her side, sweeping her mouth with gloved fingers, making sure nothing blocks her airway.

“She’s trying to breathe. Reflexive. That’s good.”

For half a second, there’s something that almost feels like hope.

Then Kate's body spasms. First her foot kicks. Then her shoulder. Then everything at once. She seizes. Violently.

Yelena jumps back instinctively as Kate’s limbs whip outward. Her head knocks against the cabinet under the sink with a sickening thud.

“Seizure!” the medic closest to her barks.

“Roll her! Roll her. Secure the head!” The second paramedic catches Kate’s skull just before it cracks again, cradling it in one hand, keeping it from slamming the floor.

“Time it. How long has she been seizing?”

“Fifteen seconds.”

“She’s tachy as hell,” another adds, already digging in the supply kit.

Kate’s body jerks uncontrollably. Her spine arches. Her legs kick out like she’s being electrocuted. Her jaw clenches tight. Froth builds at her lips.

“Bag her,” the lead medic orders.

The oxygen bag comes out. The mask is over her face before Yelena can blink. It’s breathing for her now.

“She’s hypoxic. O2 saturation’s in the tank.”

“Push midazolam?”

“No time.”

Her arm is yanked out. A needle goes in. IV solution flushes through the line. They're already hooking up a portable monitor, threading wires through the torn neckline of Kate’s shirt, sticky pads pressed to her ribs and collarbone.

“She’s peaking. Thirty seconds in.”

Kate's arms flail again, her fists clenched so tight her knuckles go white. Her eyes roll back. Nothing but white under fluttering lids. Yelena’s frozen. Helpless.

“MAMA!” Maks’ voice from the hallway.

Melina's yelling something about closing the door. Yelena doesn’t move.

“Ma’am, she can hear you. Talk to her.” One of the medics glances up.

Yelena crawls forward.

“Kate. Kate, come on. I’m here. We’re all here.”

Kate doesn’t react. Her back lifts off the floor again. She jerks so hard the medic has to grab her shoulders.

Then it stops. Abruptly. The shaking ends. Her body collapses, limp. The silence is deafening.

“She’s postictal. We’ve got about sixty seconds before her airway's gone again.”

“Load her.”

The gurney is pulled in. They lift her up. Quickly. Methodically. One tightens the restraints at her wrists and ankles while the other keeps the mask on.

“Get that bag secured. IV’s in. Monitor’s reading weak but present.”

One of the EMTs looks back at Yelena.

“Are you riding with us?”

“Yes.” Yelena stands so fast her knees crack.

They move.

As they pass the living room, Melina reappears. Sonny still in her arms, face red from crying. Alexei has a distraught Maks on his hip. Alexia stands silent, hands over her ears, trying to drown out the screaming.

“We’ve got them. Go.” Melina urges her.

Yelena doesn’t speak. She’s already running. The stretcher barrels out the door. Yelena follows, doesn’t look back.

Behind her, the sound of her children screeching and exclaiming gets fainter with each step.

Yelena climbs into the ambulance, knees throbbing from the tile, hands still shaking from the CPR. The medic slams the doors behind her. The whole rig jolts as they peel off from the curb, tires screaming against asphalt. Sirens on. Lights spinning. Red and blue strobe through the narrow cabin in hard, violent pulses.

Kate lies on the stretcher. Strapped down, oxygen mask fogging up with shallow breath. She's pale. Her skin has that gray undertone Yelena’s seen on bodies before. On morgue tables. In labs. Not on her wife.

Yelena swallows, trying to force the bile back down. Her whole body vibrates with adrenaline. She slides into the seat next to Kate’s head, clamps both hands around the rail. The medic sits across from her, eyes flicking between the portable monitor and the IV bags swinging above them.

Kate’s hand, what she can reach of it under the blanket, is gelid. Unnaturally so. Yelena grips it anyway. Because, for the first time in her life, she’s terrified she’s going to lose Kate for good.

Kate twitches once. A jerk. Barely noticeable. Then harder. Her body goes stiff, heels slamming against the stretcher's metal frame.

The monitor blips, then flatlines for a blink, then comes back. Irregular. Slow.

“Shit. She’s crashing again. BP’s dropping,” the medic says, snapping into motion.

“No, no, no…” Yelena whispers, blood icing over.

Kate convulses hard, body thrashing against the restraints. One leg kicks free. Slams the inside wall of the rig so hard it leaves a dent. Her teeth grind together. Her eyes flutter. Then roll back.

“Seizing again,” the other medic barks, already prepping a syringe. “Pushing two of naloxone.”

The needle plunges into the IV line. The medics brace her limbs. One hand to her head, keeping her from smashing her skull on the rail again. It’s efficient. Brutal. Controlled mayhem.

After what feels like an eternity, the seizure breaks. But so does everything else. Kate goes still. No twitch. No movement. The line flattens.

“Start compressions!”

The medic doesn't hesitate. She climbs onto the stretcher with practiced speed, straddling one knee beside Kate’s hip. Hands to her chest. Presses down with force. One. Two. Three. Four. They count. It’s clinical. Ruthless. Efficient.

To Yelena, it looks like brutality. Horror.

Kate’s already broken ribs cave under the pressure. Her head lolls. There’s a smear of blood slipping down her chin from where she bit the inside of her cheek.

The rig keeps speeding toward the hospital.

Yelena’s fingers dig into the seat rail.

“Pulse! Weak, but there.”

“Stabilizing. Keep the O2 high-flow.”

Yelena sways with the next turn, but she doesn’t let go of the rail. Doesn’t blink. Her eyes are locked on Kate’s face. A face that looks almost unfamiliar now. Too still. Too pale. Like the woman she’s loved for two decades is buried under someone else's skin. Her mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

“…Is she gonna die?” Yelena whispers, voice raw.

The medic doesn’t sugarcoat it. Doesn’t lie.

“We’re doing everything we can.”

Yelena nods, throat burning. But her hand reaches for Kate’s again. Frigid, limp, and unresponsive beneath the thermal blanket.

Yelena grips it anyway, like she can warm Kate back to life through sheer willpower. And then, because silence feels more dangerous than noise, she speaks. Soft at first. Barely audible over the sirens and the beep of the monitor.

“I hate you so much right now. And I need you to wake up so I can tell you how fucking pissed off I am. We had a deal. No drugs. We agreed…you stupid, selfish, self-destructive asshole.” Yelena squeezes her hand. “You promised. We had a deal, Kate.”

Kate doesn’t move. Yelena leans forward, her forehead brushing Kate’s temple through the oxygen mask. Her own breath fogs the plastic.

“You better make it. Do you hear me?” Kate’s chest rises. Barely. “You better make it, Kate Bishop.”

The ambulance takes another harsh turn. The hospital is close now. The medic’s prep handoff notes. Calling vitals out to someone on the radio.

Yelena presses her mouth to Kate’s ear, voice trembling.

“You need to wake up because I’m not done yelling at you yet.”

And she’s not. Not by a long shot.

The instant the ambulance doors fly open, the noise multiplies. Voices shouting over one another, the hiss of oxygen, the screech of wheels over concrete. Yelena squints against the morning glare, still clinging to Kate’s hand as the paramedics roll her out.

“Female. Thirty nine. Overdose. Found unresponsive. CPR initiated on scene. Two rounds of naloxone. Seizure activity during transport. Vitals are unstable. Pulse weak and thready.” The lead medic barks to the trauma team as they race toward the ER doors.

They wheel Kate through automatic glass doors. Yelena follows, her heels slapping the tile floor. Nurses and doctors peel off to meet the gurney. One grabs the chart. Another adjusts the oxygen mask.

“Patient name?”

“Katherine Bishop,” Yelena rattles out, breathless.

“Relation?”

“I…” She swallows. “I’m her… I’m…” She doesn’t know what to say. Wife? Is she? Partner? Not really. “…Her emergency contact?…No. I’m her wife. Her wife.”

The trauma nurse barely glances at her.

“Date Of Birth?”

“October 16, 2002.”

“Is she allergic to anything?”

Yelena shakes her head.

“You’ll need to wait here.”

“No. No…Why?!”

“We’ll update you as soon as we can.”

Yelena’s hand is peeled off Kate’s. Just like that, the gurney disappears around the corner and through swinging doors marked “TRAUMA 1.”

Yelena stands there, alone in the fluorescent hallway, unable to move. Her body feels foreign. Her mouth dry. A smear of something….Kate’s blood? Her own sweat?…dries on her wrist.

Yelena looks around the room. The moment the silence settle sin, her legs buckle. She lowers herself into one of the bolted plastic chairs, numb and shaking.

It’s been less than an hour since she found Kate on the bathroom floor, not breathing. Her kids are probably still crying. Her parents probably haven’t stopped pacing. She left them with chaos and sprinted headfirst into more of it.

She rests her elbows on her knees and buries her face in her hands.

The taste of adrenaline is still in her tongue. The echo of compressions still in her arms. The image of Kate lying on the floor burned behind her eyelids.

A whimper escapes her. She reaches into her bag. Riffles through. Finds her phone. Her hands are shaking so hard she almost drops it. But she manages to dial a number and bring the phone to her ear.

“Hi.” Susan answers, cheery. “How’d it go? Please tell me that dumbass didn’t do something stupid in court again.”

Yelena swallows a sob.

“Is Josh with you?”

“No. He’s at work.” Susan catches up to the weirdness in Yelena’s voice. “What’s going on?”

“Suze…I’m…God…Maybe you should call Josh. Have him come home and then call me.” Yelena is holding back sobs.

“No. What happened?”

“I don’t want…Call Josh and then call me, okay?”

“Where’s my sister?”

Yelena regrets calling Susan. She’s too far along. She shouldn’t have called. She should’ve called Eleanor. Or Derek. Or…no one. But not Susan.

“Yelena…”

“She OD’d. She…”

“What?!”

“I found her…She…”

“Is she alive?! Tell me she’s alive.”

“Barely. I’m at the hospital with her and…”

“Where?”

“Presbyterian.”

“I’m coming.”

DAY ONE ER - Trauma

Yelena sits in a hard-backed chair in the ER waiting room, elbows on her knees, hands pressed against her mouth like they’re holding her face together.

Susan is beside her, motionless. Pale. One hand clutched to her belly, the other wrapped in a death grip around a paper coffee cup she hasn’t touched.

They made the mutual decision not to call Eleanor or Derek. It's not like Kate would want them here anyway. She doesn't have a relationship with Derek and the one with Eleanor is borderline non-existent. Kate would hate them if they brought anyone else into this, but especially her parents.

It takes over an hour after the ambulance arrives before anyone says a word.

A trauma physician steps in, stripped of coat and gloves, still in blood-smeared scrubs. He looks young. Too young. But his face is lined with something heavier than age.

“Family of Katherine Bishop?”

Both women stand so fast their chairs screech. Yelena’s voice is sandpaper.

“I’m her…We’re family. I’m her…I brought her in.”

The doctor nods once. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t offer hope too soon.

“She went into cardiac arrest in the trauma bay. Cocaine-induced myocardial infarction. That’s a heart attack caused by the overdose.”

Susan sways slightly. Yelena doesn’t move.

“We got her back.”

Yelena exhales. Labored. Loud. Like her lungs forgot how.

“She’s intubated and sedated. We’re giving her supportive ventilation. She aspirated when she was seizing. There’s fluid in the lungs so we’re also treating for pneumonia.”

Susan makes a strangled sound. Yelena leans back onto the wall behind her.

“Her vitals are fragile but holding. The CPR in the field…it cracked some ribs. That’s normal, but it’s painful. We’re managing her pain while she’s sedated.”

Yelena’s voice is low. Flat. Barely human.

“Is she going to wake up?”

“We’re monitoring brain activity,” he says gently. “We’ve done imaging. There’s no visible swelling or hemorrhage. That’s good. But with cardiac arrest, the first seventy-two hours are the most critical.”

Susan lets out a sob and covers it with the heel of her palm.

“Can we see her?” Yelena asks.

“Not yet. Let us stabilize her first.”

He leaves. Just like that.

The silence afterward is oppressive. Worse than sirens. Worse than crying. Just this…breathless, anticipatory nothing.

Yelena doesn’t sit again. She stares at the double doors, wondering if any of it had actually happened. Wondering if she was about to be told none of it mattered. That the brunette on the other side of that hallway…the one who’d broken her heart, and almost didn’t survive it…wasn’t going to open her eyes again.

DAY TWO ICU: Room 514

The machines are louder than Kate.

That’s the first thing Yelena notices when they finally let her in yesterday. She walked in expecting to hear something…anything…from the woman she loves, even if she pretends she doesn’t anymore. But all she got was the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator and the steady beep-beep-beep of the monitor beside her bed. Nothing has changed since.

Kate’s face is slack. Pale in a way that’s almost translucent. Tubes down her throat. A cannula taped to her cheek. The bruising from the CPR is already spreading across her chest. There’s a bag of fluids running into her IV. Three, actually. Antibiotics, pain meds, something else. One of the nurses tried to explain but Yelena didn’t hear most of it.

She takes the chair by the bed without asking. Pulls it close. Sits.

Kate doesn’t move. Yelena swallows around the lump in her throat and speaks.

“You look like shit.”

It’s the first thing she’s said out loud all morning. Her voice cracks in the middle of it.

No response, obviously.

There’s a bandage on Kate’s arm where they tried to start a line and missed. Another on the back of her hand. Her fingers twitch once in her sleep. Not enough to mean anything. Yelena watches machines help her breathe and wonders how the fuck they got here.

“How long were you doing it?” she asks the quiet room. “And when were you going to tell me?…I should've known. Should've seen it.”

No answer. Yelena can't help the tears that overwhelm her. They don't stop coming for a long time.

The nurse comes in around ten. Introduces herself. Changes the drip bag. Checks the monitors. Jots down a few things.

“She’s holding. Lungs are still wet, but she’s responding to the antibiotics. Fever’s low-grade.”

“Brain?”

“Too early to say. But there’s no sign of swelling. She flinched during her neuro check this morning. That’s something.”

Yelena nods. Watches her finish. Doesn’t ask anything else.

Susan shows up around noon with two coffees and a look on her face like she’s aged ten years overnight. She doesn’t ask how Kate is. Just sinks into the corner chair and presses the coffee into Yelena’s hands.

“She always said if she went out, it would be loud. But I didn’t think she meant like this.” Susan whispers after a while.

“She’s not out. Don’t say that.”

They don’t speak again for a long time.

Yelena doesn’t leave Kate’s side except to use the bathroom. Her parents are with the kids. Susan’s husband is on standby to take her home if she needs to lie down, but she won’t. They rotate shifts. Quiet, tired bodies in an ICU room. Waiting.

Waiting for the moment when the breathing tube comes out. Or the machines stop beeping. Whichever comes first.

DAY THREE ICU: Room 514

Kate’s fever breaks at 4:19 in the morning.

Yelena knows because she was still awake, curled like a question mark in the impossibly uncomfortable ICU chair, arms folded tight across her chest, watching the numbers cycle across the monitor. Thirty-seven-point-one. Down from forty earlier.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Just stares at the new number like it might suddenly reverse itself, like Kate might spike again and all of this will start over. She only blinks when the nurse comes in, gives her a tired smile, and checks Kate’s vitals.

“Still stable. Good sign.” The nurse offers with a smile.

Yelena only nods. The nurse knows better than to push for conversation.

By sunrise, Susan’s back. Bleary-eyed and pale, hair pulled into the kind of bun that screams second day of not showering. She smells like hospital hallway coffee and the same sweatshirt from yesterday.

“Did she wake up?” Susan asks, eyes darting to the bed.

“No. Not yet.”

Susan exhales. Drops into the second chair.

They both sit there in silence for a long time. Then, eventually, quietly:

“You think she’s gonna be pissed when she wakes up and sees us sitting here like two haunted ex-wives?”

Yelena snorts despite herself. “One of us is the ex-wife.”

“Not yet. She made sure of that.”

"If she didn't want to go through with the divorce, she should've just said so. This was a bit much." Yelena tries levity. It works. Susan chuckles. “She’s gonna be pissed about the tube.”

“She’ll rip it out herself if no one beats her to it.”

“Would've already tried if she was awake.”

A beat. Then Susan says, “Do you think she remembers anything?”

“No.”Yelena says it too quickly. Too definitively. And then: “I hope not.”

Because if she remembers what happened before she hit the floor…if she remembers going down being aware that the kids were in the living room, the coke on the counter, the idea that she might be leaving them alone…then waking up might be worse than staying asleep.

—

The ICU attending comes in around noon.

“Brain activity’s normalizing. Scans were clean. That’s good.” She tells them, flipping through Kate’s chart.

“But?” Yelena asks.

The doctor glances up. “But she went without oxygen for a significant amount of time. More than once. She then had a heart attack. A major one. The aspiration pneumonia isn’t nothing either. She’s still in danger.”

“But she’s off the edge?” Yelena presses. Hopeful.

“She’s on the edge,” the doctor corrects. “But her vitals are holding. That’s a good sign.”

Susan crosses her arms.

“So when does she wake up?”

“Unclear yet. Her body’s still processing everything. And we’re keeping her sedated until her respiratory numbers improve.”

Yelena swallows. Her throat’s dry.

“When does the sedation stop?”

“If her numbers are steady, she might start to get weaned off this evening.”

Yelena nods. Doesn’t thank the doctor. Simply waits for the door to close.

—

That night, Yelena stays again. After the last round of vitals. After the last nurse checks the monitors and dims the lights. The sedation drip is low now. Tapered. If Kate’s body is ready, she’ll start to wake up on her own.

Yelena watches her. Inhales sharply. Then leans forward.

“You need to wake up.”

Silence. Yelena leans closer. Brushes a stray hair from Kate’s forehead. Her fingers tremble.

“You need to wake up because if I have to sit in this chair one more day smelling like dried tears and antiseptic, I will lose my mind.”

Still nothing.

“I’m so mad at you. But you don’t get to die and make me do this alone.”

She waits. Then…Kate’s brow twitches. Barely there. But it’s the first real sign of anything. Yelena straightens in the chair, blinking fast.

“Come on. Come on, Kate Bishop."

No response. Just the rhythmic beep-beep-beep and the hiss of the oxygen. But still…a twitch. It’s not much. But it’s enough.

DAY FOUR ICU, Room 514

It starts with a cough. Violent. Wet. From deep in her chest.

Yelena jerks upright, coffee sloshing out of the hospital cup in her lap. She’s halfway to the bed before she even knows she’s moved.

Kate is gagging around the tube. Her whole body arches, bucking against the restraints as she coughs again. A thick, brutal sound that rattles her ribcage. The monitor jumps.

Yelena slams the call button.

“She’s awake! She’s…I think she’s…fuck…Don't pull that tube, Kate."

Nurses burst in seconds later. One goes to the machines. The other leans over Kate, steadying her shoulders.

“She’s coming out of sedation. Vitals are up. Respiratory’s trying to compensate.”

Kate’s eyes are fluttering now. Not fully open, just darting back and forth under heavy lids. Her hands jerk against the restraints. Her face is tight with pain.

“She’s panicking,” Yelena sounds off, her voice catching in her throat.

“She’s trying to breathe on her own,” the nurse says, glancing at the oxygen levels. “Her lungs aren’t ready for that.”

“Then help her!”

“We are.”

Another nurse rushes in with a syringe.

“Fentanyl. Low dose.”

“She’ll stop fighting it in a second. Just stay close.” The first nurse says, gentle.

Yelena doesn’t leave the bedside. Doesn’t move as Kate’s body trembles under the sheets. Her eyes open for half a second, glazed and unfocused, then roll back. The meds hit fast.

The gagging eases. The coughing slows. Kate goes still again. But the tube stays in.

Yelena stays too. Hand on Kate’s wrist. Anchored. Shaking. Not out of fear anymore. Just sheer fucking relief.

—

She wakes up again at 4:11 p.m.

This time it’s slower. No panicked thrashing. Just a furrowed brow. Eyes moving under lids. Then… opening. Barely.

Kate blinks once. Then again. Her eyes are bloodshot. Her skin’s too dull. There’s dried blood around her nostrils and tape burn on her cheeks.

Her gaze lands on Yelena. It’s glassy. Drifting. But it lands. Yelena leans forward, heart in her throat.

“Hey,” she whispers. “Hi.”

Kate blinks again. Slow. Her hand tugs at the restraint. Weak. Uncoordinated.

“Don’t pull,” Yelena utters quickly, grabbing Kate’s fingers. “Don’t. Don’t try to talk, okay? You’ve still got the tube. You’re intubated. You…”

Kate’s eyes widen. Her hand jerks again. Panic rises behind her gaze like floodwater. Yelena tightens her grip.

“I know. I know it’s awful. Just hang on. They’re coming. Just hang on.”

The monitor beeps spike. The nurse returns seconds later. Glances at the screen. Then at Kate. Then at Yelena.

“She’s awake?”

“Just now.”

“Good. Page respiratory. She’s ready.” The nurse presses the intercom button above the bed.

“Can you take it out?” Yelena asks, barely hiding the shake in her voice.

“If she’s stable, yeah. We’ll prep now.”

Kate’s eyes are locked on Yelena. It’s not clarity. Not really. But it’s something. Her lips move. Around the tube. Nothing she can understand. But Yelena knows what she’s saying.

Please.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” Yelena says, pressing her forehead to Kate’s.

—

The extubation is brutal.

There’s suction. Tape. A plastic yawn of tubing that pulls like it’s snagged on bone. Kate gags hard. Gasps. Coughs until she curls in on herself, writhing under the oxygen mask they strap on next.

She’s hardly coherent. Her voice is gone. Her throat’s shredded. But she’s breathing on her own now.

And she’s alive.

—

Later, when Susan comes in, hair wet from a shower, eyes puffy from crying, Yelena barely looks up from the chair.

“She’s awake,” she says.

Susan freezes. “What?”

“She’s still out of it. But she’s breathing. She’s…she’s going to be okay.”

Susan presses a hand to her face, dragging it down slowly. “Thank fuck.”

“She hasn’t said anything.”

“Can she?”

“Not really. But I think she knew it was me.”

Susan sits. Quiet for a long time.

“So what happens now?”

Yelena’s eyes stay fixed on Kate. On the mess of her. On the way she twitches and winces in her sleep.

“I don’t know,” Yelena says. But her voice is steady. Her voice, at least, still works.

DAY FIVE ICU, Room 514

Yelena knows Kate’s awake before she opens her eyes. It’s the tension. The stillness. Like a wire pulled too tight. Her fingers flex. Her jaw clenches. Her breathing changes.

Kate doesn’t speak. Not because she can’t anymore. Her voice is there, if raw, frayed at the edges. But because she’s not ready to hear herself. She’s not ready to be here.

Yelena says nothing. Just sits beside her. Hands wrapped around a hospital-grade paper cup of coffee that tastes like old socks. She’s been there since before sunrise. Only left for a quick shower and to lay eyes on the kids.

Kate opens her eyes.

They’re bloodshot. Ringed in gray. Her pupils are still blown, like her body’s not sure which drug to metabolize first. She looks at Yelena. Then turns her head and looks away.

Yelena swallows the lump in her throat. Doesn’t press. Doesn’t move. Just waits.

A few minutes later, a nurse comes in with vitals and pain meds. There’s a portable toilet chair in the corner now. Kate’s too weak to stand on her own yet, and her ribs scream if she breathes wrong.

“You’re due for acetaminophen, oxy, and your next dose of Levaquin,” the nurse says, checking the IV line. “Youre running a fever again. We’re managing it, but the pneumonia’s holding on.”

Kate doesn’t answer. Doesn’t nod. Barely flinches when the meds hit her vein.

Yelena watches the nurse go. Then leans back. Exhales slowly.

“Your lawyer called. The judge agreed to delay until after you're better.”

Kate doesn’t blink. Still nothing.

“Your parents don’t know,” Yelena adds, softer now. “We didn't think you’d want that.”

Kate shuts her eyes. Yelena finishes the coffee. Tosses the cup in the trash.

“Someone from Child Welfare came by earlier.”

That gets a reaction. Kate’s knuckles go white atop the blanket.

“They’re opening a review…Routine, they said. Anytime there’s an overdose in the home. Especially when the kids are present.”

Kate flinches. Like she’s been slapped. Yelena doesn’t soften.

“They’ll want to talk to you. When you’re lucid. You’re not right now. Not really. But they’ll come back.”

Still nothing. Yelena leans forward.

“And I’m not going to lie for you. Not about this.”

Kate’s lips part…maybe to argue, maybe to beg…but nothing comes out.

“You almost died. In front of our kids.”

Kate turns her head away. But Yelena doesn’t stop.

“Maks asked if you wanted to leave them.”

“I don’t,” Kate rasps. Her voice sounds like she gargled broken glass.

Yelena’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“Then you better start acting like it.”

—

Yelena figured she should give the kids a normal night. Dinner, a movie, bedtime stories. So that night, Susan takes the shift.

Kate’s vitals are better. Still running a mild fever, but her heart’s steadied. Oxygen’s normalizing. The pneumonia’s not gone, but it’s improving.

Withdrawal, though, is hitting hard.

Kate’s skin itches. Her back aches. Her chest feels like it’s on fire. The oxy helps, but not enough. She sweats through her second hospital gown before midnight. Wakes up clawing at the sheets. Sometimes crying. Sometimes angry. Susan stays. Quiet. Unmoved.

Around 2:00 a.m., Kate jerks upright in bed, eyes wide and terrified.

“Where are they? Where are the kids?”

“Safe,” Susan declares.

“Where?”

“Not here.”

Kate’s breathing speeds. Susan gets up. Walks to the bed. Grabs her wrist.

“They’re okay. You’re not.”

Kate starts crying. Real crying. Ugly crying. Chest-heaving, soul-bending sobs that make her ribs throb and her face crumple. Susan sits beside her. Holds her. Lets her fall apart.

“You can’t see them yet. Not until psych clears you. Not our rules. CPS.”

Kate shakes her head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not. And you don’t get to bullshit your way through this.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“You can lie to your wife, but not to me.” Susan’s voice is low. Not cruel. Just honest.

“I don't know if you went out of your way to die that day, but in the back of your mind you knew what the risk was. And you were okay with it. You meant every line. Every drink. Every time you didn’t call. Every lie. You meant all of that.”

Kate looks away, shame crawling up her throat. Susan doesn’t move.

“I know you’re in hell…But you built it. Even after seeing what it did to Deej. You went there. I don't know that I can forgive you for that.”

A long pause.

“I can get better.”

“Can you? I heard him say that too many times…And then I went to his funeral. I will never talk to you again if this happens even one more time. Its not a bluff. It’s a promise, Kate. I will not have my baby around this. Do you understand me?”

Kate nods. But Susan doesn’t believe her. Not yet. And she has no reason to.

DAY SIX ICU Step-Down Unit, Room 534

Kate’s body is quieter today. Less trembling. Less sweating. The fever’s low-grade now. Her pulse holds. The pneumonia still lingers in the corners of her lungs, but the antibiotics are doing their job.

The noise in her head is sharper than the pain.

No more adrenaline. No more coke. Just cold clarity, and the long, aching echo of what she did.

She’s alert enough now for the monitors to feel intrusive. The heart rate, the oxygen, the saline, the antibiotics. Every line into her body is a reminder that she can’t leave yet. That she’s not trusted to be left alone with herself.

At 9:42AM, a woman in a navy blazer and orthopedic shoes steps into her room. Clipboard. Polite but guarded smile. Her badge reads “Dr. Ellen Marks, PsyD – Acute Crisis Psychiatry Unit”.

“I’m here for your assessment.”

Kate nods. Her mouth is suddenly arid.

“You mean the part where you decide if I get to go home or get a vacation in a padded room?”

“Something like that.”

Dr. Marks pulls a chair closer, sits, crosses one leg over the other. Doesn’t open the clipboard yet.

“Tell me about the day before your overdose.”

Kate stares at the IV in her arm. “I don’t remember most of it.”

Dr. Marks waits.

“I had the kids. I gave them dinner. Put them to bed. Then I…got high. Hooked up with someone. I think. Very likely.”

“Do you remember who?”

“No.”

“Do you remember how much you used?”

“No. I wasn’t keeping track.”

Dr. Marks nods.

“Do you remember when you lost consciousness?”

“No.”

“When you last slept?”

“Not really. It was a blur.”

The doctor reads from her notes.

“You were resuscitated by your wife on your bathroom floor in front of your children. You had multiple seizures. Your heart stopped twice. Then you had a heart attack. You aspirated vomit. That caused pneumonia.” Kate flinches. “I’m not saying this to punish you,” Dr. Marks says. “I’m saying that so you understand how close you came to dying.”

Kate nods. Just barely. Her tongue feels like its covered in dust.

“What are you most afraid of right now?” the doctor asks.

Kate swallows. Her voice is paper.

“That I already fucked it all up too bad to fix.”

Dr. Marks finally writes something down. Then looks up again.

“Do you want to die?”

Kate doesn’t answer. Not at first. Then…

“No…I guess I just didn’t care if I lived.”

“That’s not the same.”

“It’s not.”

Dr. Marks clicks her pen shut.

“I’m recommending in-patient rehab. Twenty-eight days minimum. You need medical detox, and you need accountability. You’ll have to consent to a release plan involving social services. If you want to retain custody, that’s the path.”

Kate nods again.

“I’ll go,” she says.

And she means it.

—

Yelena comes that afternoon.

She doesn’t sit down right away. She stands by the door, arms crossed, looking at Kate like she’s trying to see the outline of the person she used to know.

“Child services came to the apartment this morning. They talked to the kids.”

Kate shuts her eyes.

“Alex didn’t say much. But Maks told them you stopped reading to them. That they were late to school sometimes. That you forgot to pick them up more than once. That your room smells funny and sometimes you talk funny…That there were lots of women coming in and out of the apartment. What the fuck, Kate?”

Kate looks like she’s trying not to throw up.

“They’ve assigned a caseworker. There will be follow-ups. There will be visits. And I told them the truth.”

“What? That I’m a bad mother?”

“No. I would never say that. Because that's not true. I told them you’re a mother who almost died. Who needs help.”

“Do they hate me?” Kate’s voice cracks.

“No. But I don't think they trust you right this second.”

Kate nods. Her mouth twists. She wipes at her eyes and winces. Cracked ribs still make it hurt to breathe.

Yelena finally sits. Stares at her for a long time.

“You’re going to rehab.” Kate nods. “Glad we agree. Because I’m not doing this again. I won’t.”

“I know.”

“No. I don’t think you do. Kate, I have never wanted to take them from you. Those kids adore you. But if this becomes a pattern I will do it. I will go to court.”

Kate looks at her. The smallest spark in her eyes.

“We already did.”

“It’s not funny.” Yelena doesn’t smile.

Kate’s hand trembles against the blanket.

“Do you hate me?” she asks.

“At this very moment? A little…But I love you more.” That might have been too much honesty, but its already out there. So Yelena will deal with it. She leans forward. “I also want you to get better. Because they need you to.”

“I don’t know if I can…Deej never could.”

Seems they're both being radically honest today.

“Then you better figure it out. Because you have one shot left.”

Yelena stands. Heads for the door. Stops.

"You have one thing he didn't have…Me. And you know how stubborn and annoying I can be." Yelena offers a hint of a smile. "I can't fight this for you, Kate. But I will be there if you let me…because if you don’t make it out of this clean then…They don't deserve that…I don't either."

Kate nods. Yelena walks out.

DAY SEVEN ICU Step-Down Unit, Room 534

The nurse checks her vitals at 5:48 a.m.

Kate’s awake before the cuff even tightens around her arm. The rhythm of the hospital has settled into her skin by now: the soft whir of monitors, the rustle of charts, the distant squeak of shoes against waxed tile. There's a kind of sterile intimacy to the routine. It's tyrannical. Ordinary.

She spent weeks in rooms like this when DJ was still alive.

Same IV drip. Same antiseptic smell. Same rhythmic beep of machines keeping broken things alive.

He used to joke about it. Called himself a science project. Told her that rehab was like prison with better lighting. He made her laugh even while dying. Until he didn’t.

Kate lies still, eyes on the ceiling, arm outstretched, plastic bracelet digging into her wrist.

KATHERINE BISHOP DOB: 10/16/2002 ALLERGIES: NKA STATUS: HOLD – PSYCH EVAL COMPLETE, ADMIT PENDING

The last line sits like a brick in her gut.

The shame takes longer to arrive this time. Not because it's gentler. Because it's oversized. Viscous. Like grief after the shock wears off.

She rolls onto her side, careful not to pull at the IV, and sees her phone sitting on the tray table. Powered off.

Kate hasn’t touched it. She doesn’t want to see what’s waiting inside it. The missed calls. The texts. The photos of her kids she hasn’t looked at in over a week. She’s not strong enough. Not yet.

The nurse leaves. Kate exhales. The pain in her chest is different now. Not just the cracked ribs. It’s the weight. Of everything. Of DJ.

She sees him now. Clearly. In the corner of the room, leaning against the sink like he used to when they were teenagers sneaking cigarettes in the bathroom.

“Not so high on that horse now, huh?” Kate imagines him saying. Same grin. Same hollow eyes.

“Fuck off,” she mutters.

But DJ doesn't fade. He’s in the rhythm of the heart monitor. He’s in the smell of bleach on her sheets. He’s in the way her hands shake when she tries to hold a cup of water. He’s in the way she remembers holding his cold fingers at the morgue while their mother wept so hard she retched. He's in the way Kate would kill for a line right now. Or a drink. Just one. Or a nameless girl. Just to settle the racket in her brain. And the jitters. And the headache.

Kate closes her eyes. She wonders if she looked like him. Laid out on the floor. Sickly. Unresponsive. With her daughter’s voice trying to reach her through the door.

Her fingers curl into fists. She wants to holler. But she doesn’t. She stays silent. Because screaming won’t fix anything. DJ screamed for help for years, and no one came fast enough.

She barely made it. DJ didn’t.

There’s a knock at the door. She flinches.

“Come in.”

It’s not Yelena. Or Susan.

It’s a social worker. Youthful. Polished. Kind eyes that don’t look away from the IV bruises or the bags under her eyes.

“Mrs. Bishop. I’m Gabriel. I’m here to go over some next steps before transfer.”

She nods. Doesn’t sit up. He walks in slowly, clipboard in hand.

“Your family has arranged intake for a residential facility. You’ll be transferred tomorrow morning. Forty-five minute drive upstate. Medical detox and a full psychiatric team.”

Kate exhales, her breath rattling in her throat. “That fast?”

“You were on a seventy-two-hour hold. That hold ends tonight. Given the situation, we all believe it’s best if…”

“I get it,” she cuts in. “I know what I did.”

"There will be an interview when you arrive tomorrow. You’ll meet your therapist, your attending physician, and the intake nurse.”

"Okay.”

Gabriel hesitates.

“There’s one other thing. You’ll have a call later today. With Child Protective Services. They’ll want to hear from you directly. Not just your lawyer.”

“Will I lose them?”

Gabriel doesn’t answer right away. Then:

“That depends on what you do next.” He smiles. Professional. “You’re still alive. That’s more than a lot of folks get.”

She nods. He leaves. The room is quiet again. DJ’s gone. But the echo of him is everywhere. She looks at the ceiling. And for the first time in seven days, she cries.

DAY EIGHT Family Services Office, 6th Floor

Yelena hasn’t slept. She probably won’t for a while. She sits stiff in the too-small chair, arms crossed, trying to ignore the kink in her spine.

The CPS conference room feels more like an interrogation box than a child welfare office. Cream walls. Fluorescent lights. Mismatched chairs pulled around a rectangular table, cluttered with legal pads, case files, and water bottles nobody’s touched.

Across from Yelena sits the caseworker assigned to Kate’s file. Early forties, maybe. Polished but not warm. Beside her is a supervisor, glasses perched low, scrolling through a tablet with one finger. Yelena’s lawyer is to her left, perfectly poised, scanning the folder in front of her. Kate’s lawyer is slumped in a corner chair like he’s already preparing to spin this uphill.

A red light blinks steadily on the recorder in the center of the table. The caseworker is the first to speak.

“Thank you for coming in, Ms. Belova. We know this isn’t an easy time. We appreciate you making yourself available.”

“I’m here to do whatever my kids need.” Yelena replies, dry.

The supervisor doesn’t look up. Just keeps scrolling as she speaks.

“Then let’s talk about what happened. On April fifth, your ex-wife…”

“Wife. Still wife. Technically not divorced yet.” Yelena corrects her for some reason.

“On April 5th, Katherine Bishop was found unresponsive at her residence. She was experiencing an overdose. Your three children were in the home at the time. Is that correct?”

“Yes. I was the one who found her. I started CPR. Paramedics took over when they arrived.”

The caseworker scribbles something into her notes, then looks up.

“Has Ms. Bishop ever exhibited behavior in the past that concerned you in regard to the children’s safety?”

Yelena’s answer is immediate.

“No. If I’d known…I would’ve done something sooner.”

There’s a pause. The supervisor speaks next, still without lifting her eyes.

“The purpose of this meeting is to determine whether the current custody arrangement continues to serve the children’s best interests. Given the circumstances…it’s our obligation to reassess that arrangement.”

The caseworker cuts in gently.

“To be clear, there’s no previous CPS record. No domestic disturbances. No history of neglect. That helps. But given the severity of the event…we’d understand if you were seeking a change of custody at this time.”

Yelena meets her gaze.

“I’m not. I think the agreement we have is fair.”

That surprises everyone in the room. Kate’s lawyer lifts his head. Even her own attorney pauses. The supervisor finally glances up.

“Ms. Belova, you understand you’d be within your rights to pursue full physical custody today. We would approve that immediately.”

“I know.”

“But you’re not.”

“No.”

The silence that follows is heavier than the buzzing lights.

“Can I ask why not?” The caseworker presses.

Yelena shifts. Her voice doesn’t rise, doesn’t waver. It just lands.

“Because Kate’s a good mom. This…this was a mistake. A really bad one. But she loves those kids. And they love her. She would never willingly hurt them. Ever. So I don’t think ripping her out of their lives is the answer. She’s agreed to go in-patient. I believe she means it. And I believe the best thing for everyone is to give her the opportunity to recover, without punishing her or the kids in the process.”

There’s another long pause. Yelena’s lawyer jumps in to catch the moment.

“What my client is proposing is a temporary shift. Primary custody with her while Ms. Bishop undergoes treatment. Supervised visitation post-release, assuming compliance. If and when her team and the agency determine it’s appropriate, they’d return to their previous shared arrangement.”

The supervisor studies Yelena for a beat longer than necessary. Then nods.

“That’s…generous.”

“It’s what’s fair,” Yelena retierates.

The caseworker tilts her head, then begins typing.

“We’ll need to formalize the temporary modification. A safety plan. We’ll want documentation from the treatment center. Proof of admission, progress reports. Randomized drug testing. Therapy participation. Parenting classes.”

Kate’s lawyer nods. “She’ll comply. My office will make sure you get all of that in a timely manner.”

“We’ll also need to do a home check,” the supervisor adds, tapping at her tablet again. “Nothing extensive. Just need to verify a safe, stable environment.”

“My home is…much smaller than Kate’s,” Yelena admits, almost embarrased. “But it’s clean. And they have what they need.”

“That’s all we’re looking for.”

“Given Ms. Belova’s cooperation and her willingness to provide consistent, stable care, we’re confident this satisfies the agency’s concerns in the interim, correct?” Yelena’s attorney formalizes the closing.

The supervisor finally sets the tablet aside and folds her hands.

“Alright. We’ll put it in writing. Monitor the situation closely. If Ms. Bishop fails to comply, this arrangement will be revisited.”

Yelena nods, shoulders loosening for the first time since she sat down. But deeper inside, something unknots. Just a little.

If Kate stays clean. If she fights for it. If she wants it. The kids don’t have to lose her.

Not like this.

Not like she lost DJ.

—

Discharge Suite, 3rd Floor

The room is quieter than the ICU. Less machines. Less beeping. But somehow more suffocating. Kate’s dressed now. Hospital-issued sweats and a fresh T-shirt that hangs too loose on her. Her ribs ache when she moves. Her throat is still raw from the intubation. And yet, what she feels most acutely is the weight in her chest. Guilt. Shame. Dread.

A nurse had come in twenty minutes ago and told her her things were on the way. Brought by her…wife.

Ex-wife. Kate corrects herself. Should already be. Soon to be.

The paperwork’s still sitting on someone’s desk. Waiting for signatures. Final stamps. She’ll have to come back from upstate before that stamp ever lands.

There’s a knock. Kate doesn’t move. She knows who it is before the door opens.

Yelena steps in, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She looks tired. Not sleep-deprived. Kate knows that look. No, this is worse. This is emotionally drained but too strong to show it tired.

Behind her is Susan.

“Hey,” Yelena says first, quietly.

“Hey.”

Kate doesn’t know where to look. So she stares at the floor. At the space between Yelena’s shoes and Susan’s.

Yelena walks in slowly. Sets the bag down by the foot of the bed. “I packed what I could think of. Comfy stuff. Your chargers. Deodorant. That shampoo you love.”

“Thanks.”

Susan doesn’t move from the doorway. Kate finally glances at her.

“You didn’t have to come.”

“Yes, I did.” Susan’s voice is steel.

Kate turns to Yelena. Her stomach turns.

“Did you talk to them too?…CPS?”

Yelena nods.

“This morning. So did your lawyer.”

“And?”

“They’re not pulling custody.”

Kate lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Her knees wobble under the thin hospital blanket.

“But…its all conditional. You have to follow the plan. Rehab. Sober living. Check-ins. Random testing. You don’t miss one.”

“I won’t,” Kate lets out quickly.

Susan scoffs from the doorway.

“You better not.”

Yelena shoots her a glance. Susan shrugs like she couldn’t care less about being polite.

“What? I’m not sugarcoating shit anymore.”

Kate’s eyes dart to her sister. After a long beat, she looks at Yelena.

“Thanks for not bringing them. Not letting them see me like that.”

“You don’t thank people for cleaning up messes you made.” Susan adds.

Kate winces. Susan softens.

“I’m mad. But I’m still here. So don’t make me regret it.”

Kate nods. There’s a silence that follows. Not icy. Just full.

“I didn’t mean for it to get that bad,” Kate says, mostly to Yelena.

“I know.” Yelena adds.

Another beat.

“Is Alex okay? She hasn’t responded to my texts.”

“She’s…scared. Hurt.” Yelena shrugs. “My parents are taking them to the therapist twice a week now. Give her time. It'll pass.”

Kate swallows. Her ribs flare when she shifts in the bed.

“Can I write to her?”

“Of course! Kate, I'm not keeping them from you. Right now its just…too soon. I have a meeting with our therapist tomorrow. If she gives the okay, you can call them or FaceTime or write to them. Any time you want. As much as you want.”

“I won’t ask you to bring them up.”

“I wouldn’t anyway. Not yet.”

“Right.”

“But I’ll come. If you're okay with that.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that.”

“And I’ll make sure they know you're trying. That you’re safe. That you're getting better.”

“Thank you.”

A soft knock interrupts them. The transport nurse pokes her head in.

“We’re ready when you are.”

Kate nods. The nurse steps away. Yelena grabs the bag and hands it to her.

“It’s all there.”

Kate turns to Susan.

“Can we get a second?”

Susan nods, steps out. Tension rises. Silence stretches.

“Thanks,” Kate reiterates.

“I just packed a bag.”

“You know that's not what I mean.”

“I know.”

“How did it get this bad?”

“I’m not sure…I watched you die. More than once. I…was pressing so hard that I…I was the one who broke your ribs. I felt them give, Kate. I keep dreaming about it. Us. In that bathroom…We did many things in there. Never thought that would be one of them."

“I keep thinking…I could've died with you believing I hated you. I don't. I just needed you to know that.”

“I knew that.”

“Good.”

Yelena turns to go. Pauses at the door. Then looks back.

“Get better.”

Kate doesn’t speak. Yelena leaves.

Kate has a moment of silence before Susan walks back in. Holding something. She walks up to Kate, sets a folded piece of paper on the tray table. Kate looks at it for a long beat then opens it. An ultrasound photo. Kate’s breath catches.

“That’s your niece. You fuck this up and you don’t get to know her.”

Susan kisses her sister’s forehead. And walks out.

Kate is alone again. But this time, she doesn’t feel abandoned. She feels…accountable. And maybe, maybe that’s the first step.

#kate x yelena #bishova #bishlova #katelena #yelena belova #kate bishop #kyfbaup #kyfbau #answers #sezzys

35 notes · View notes