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A/N: was listening to like i do - ariana grande while writing this. xx
The steps of the Gotham Museum are crowded with reporters, donors, politicians, socialites, and civilians who have come to support the museum’s newest charity initiative, and you stand beside Bruce beneath the glow of the glass entrance, your hand tucked around his arm while he gives the cameras the practiced smile they expect from Gotham’s most eligible philanthropist.
You are wearing something elegant, a dress Bruce had insisted looked beautiful on you despite your teasing about him finding everything beautiful on you, and for a little while, everything feels normal.
Bruce leans closer when the reporters move away, his fingertips brushing lightly against your waist, and you smile up at him. Then you hear it: the crack of a gunshot, followed by another, and another, somewhere several blocks away. The crowd begins murmuring almost immediately, and the security guards exchange tense looks.
Bruce’s expression changes so subtly that nobody else seems to notice, but you do. His jaw tightens, his eyes sharpen, and every bit of the relaxed Bruce Wayne persona disappears beneath the surface. He looks toward the street, listening to something only he seems capable of hearing, and you know before he says anything that Batman is needed.
“Stay with the security team.”
You frown. “Bruce-”
“I mean it. Something is happening a few blocks from here. You. Stay. Safe.”
“You’re going out there though?”
His eyes meet yours, and for one second the mask slips completely. “I need to make sure everyone gets out safely.”
You know that is not the whole truth, but you also know there is no point arguing when he uses that voice. He presses a kiss to your forehead before stepping away, disappearing into the crowd as security begins directing people toward the museum entrance. You remain where you are for several minutes, watching the guards attempt to maintain order while the distant sounds of sirens grow louder and louder each second passing.
Then a shadow moves across a rooftop opposite the museum, followed by a silhouette of a black cape dropping into the alley below. Your heart sinks. Batman is here. Bruce is here. Your Husband has already changed into his suit, and is on his way to take care of the problem.
And somehow, despite knowing exactly what you should do, your feet carry you toward the side street instead of toward safety.
You find him less than a minute later. The fight has spilled into the open, several armed men attempting to flee after some kind of robbery while your husband moves between them with accurate efficiency.
One man is knocked against the side of a parked vehicle, another is disarmed before he can raise his weapon, and the third is running directly toward the museum grounds.
You stop behind a barrier, realizing with a jolt that Bruce has not seen you yet. You should turn around, let the police handle this. You should do exactly what Bruce told you to do.
Instead, you see Batman take down one attacker and immediately turn toward another, and you notice something he doesn’t.
A fourth man is standing several yards behind him, partially hidden in the darkness, raising a handgun with both hands. Your heart slams against your ribs.
You don’t think. You don’t hesitate.
You simply run.
“Hey!”
Batman turns at the sound of your voice, and his expression changes instantly.
“Get back!” but you keep running. “What are you doing? Get down!”
But there is not enough time, and this man fires his gun. You reach Bruce at the exact same moment the bullet leaves the weapon, and your body moves between them before either of you can stop it. The impact tears a gasp from your lungs and sends a violent shock through your abdomen.
For one second, you remain standing purely because your body hasn’t yet realized what has happened. Then your knees buckle, and all you can feel now is how Bruce catches you.
“No.” his voice is different now. Not Batman’s voice. Not Bruce Wayne’s public voice. It is simply your husband’s voice, raw and terrified. “No, no, no. Hey baby, look at me.”
You try to breathe, but your breath catches painfully, and Bruce lowers you carefully to the pavement while immediately pressing his gloved hand against the wound. Blood is already spreading beneath his fingers.
And a part of you hates that he has to witness this. Bruce had to witness the death of his parents, and witnessing yours just feels like a slap to the face from the Universe. But another part of you doesn’t regret it. Because who saves Bruce if not you?
“I’m okay, fuck.” you manage, though your voice sounds weak even to yourself.
“You are not okay.” he presses harder, his other arm supporting your shoulders. “Stay with me. Please. Stay with me.”
“Are you hurt?” your fingers curl around his wrist. Wouldn’t it be smarter to focus on you rather than your husband, who is literally Batman.
Bruce stares at you in disbelief. “You just took a bullet for me and you’re asking if I’m hurt?”
“You’re okay, though?”
“Yes,” his voice cracks. “I’m okay because you got shot.”
The sirens arrive almost immediately, and the paramedics rush toward you while police officers secure the scene. Bruce initially refuses to move, continuing to hold pressure against the wound until a paramedic kneels beside him. But then he remembers that he is still in his Batman suit. But then again, he could care less. His wife needs him more now.
“Sir, I need you to let me take over.” a paramedic tells him.
“She was shot in the abdomen.”
“We can see that. I need you to move your hand.”
“She needs surgery.”
“We don’t know that yet.”
Bruce looks furious at the answer, but the paramedic remains calm. Can’t he see the blood escaping your body? The same blood that is supposed to be inside your body, not out on the cold concrete.
“We need to assess her first. We’re going to control the bleeding as much as possible, establish IV access, monitor her vital signs, and get her to the trauma center. If she has internal bleeding, the hospital will deal with that.”
Bruce finally moves his hand, allowing the paramedic to replace it with a trauma dressing while another medic places monitoring equipment on you. Your blood pressure is low enough to concern them, and the team immediately treats you as a potentially unstable penetrating abdominal trauma.
They establish two large-bore IVs, draw blood for laboratory testing and crossmatching, give oxygen, and begin cautious fluid resuscitation while preparing for the possibility that you will need blood products.
Nobody promises Bruce that you will be fine. Nobody gives him the comforting lie he desperately wants. Instead, they work quickly and with a lot of focus, because the most important thing is getting you to definitive care.
“Can I come with her?”
“No, sir.”
“She took a bullet for me. So I think I should be there in case she wakes up so I can thank her.” lie. Lielielie. He’s your husband, and he feels like if he lets you go, you will disappear. It almost feels like his heart will explode because it beats really fast, and his brain starts screaming at him for letting this happen in the first place.
Why do people he loves the most always get hurt?
“I understand, but we need room to work.”
Bruce leans over you as the paramedics prepare to lift the stretcher.
“I’m right behind you.”
Your eyelids flutter. “You promise?”
“I promise. Always.”
The ambulance doors close, leaving Bruce standing in the street with blood on his hands.
He gets to the hospital before the ambulance does. Even though he had to change out of his Batman Suit. But don’t ask him how many traffic rules he broke.
One moment he is outside the museum, and the next he is forcing his way through the emergency department doors with the same desperate focus he uses when the city is falling apart around him.
The trauma team brings you directly into a resuscitation bay, cutting away the damaged clothing around the wound while nurses attach monitors and establish additional access. Bruce follows until a nurse steps directly in front of him.
“You have to stay outside sir.”
“I’m going in.” Bruce tries to enter, but the nurse blocks his way.
“You can’t.”
“That’s my wife. My wife is currently fighting for her life, and you expect me to stay outside?”
“I know but-” he cuts the nurse off immediately. God, he can’t believe she’s not letting him see you??
“She was shot.”
“I know.”
“You need to let me stay with her.”
The nurse’s expression softens, but she doesn’t move. “Sir, I need you to understand that there are multiple people working on her right now. You being inside will not help us treat her. It might cause more harm than good.”
Bruce looks through the doorway. And the last sentence is when he breaks down. He is already the reason why you got shot, so he will not be the reason why they fail to save you.
A female physician is performing a focused ultrasound examination. Someone is drawing blood. Another nurse is preparing transfusion equipment. You are surrounded by people, your face pale beneath the harsh emergency-room lights.
Then the physician says something that makes Bruce’s blood run cold.
“Free fluid in the abdomen.”
The room changes. Fuck, not good.
The trauma surgeon is called.
Your blood pressure remains unstable despite initial resuscitation, and the team makes the decision quickly.
Because you have penetrating abdominal trauma, evidence of internal bleeding, and hemodynamic instability, waiting for an extensive imaging workup could delay definitive treatment. The surgeon explains that you need emergency exploratory laparotomy to identify and control the source of the hemorrhage.
Bruce hears the word surgery. Everything inside him goes cold, and for a second it feels like the world has gone quiet. “I’m going with her.”
The nurse blocks him again. “You cannot enter the operating room.”
“I need to be there.”
“You cannot. I’m sorry.”
“She’ll be scared. She- ugh- no, please let me hold her hand.”
The nurse looks directly at him “She won’t be alone. We will be there.”
Bruce’s jaw tightens. They’re still not him.
“She’ll wake up and wonder where I am.”
“We’ll tell her you’re waiting.”
He looks through the doors one last time. “Tell her I didn’t leave. Not even for a single second. ”
“We will.”
The operating room doors close which leaves Bruce alone. For the first time in his life, there is nothing he can punch, chase, investigate, threaten, or solve. Nothing he can solve with money. Nothing Batman can solve. This is entirely in fate's hand, not his.
He sits in the corridor with his elbows resting against his knees, staring at the floor while the blood on his wrist slowly dries. Thankfully nobody questions him.
He cannot stop replaying the moment in his head. The gun rising. Your voice shouting for him. Your body moving in front of him. The sound of the shot. The weight of you collapsing into his arms.
It should have been him.
It should always have been him.
He has spent his entire life building himself into someone who can take a hit meant for another person. He has trained until his body has become armor, built technology capable of surviving explosions, learned how to anticipate weapons before they are fired, and spent years convincing himself that if he was careful enough, fast enough, smart enough, he could keep the people he loved out of harm’s way.
And tonight, the person he loves most has nearly died because she was trying to protect him. Why didn’t he see the other person, hiding in the shadows when he is the shadows.
When the surgeon eventually comes through the doors, Bruce stands so quickly that the chair scrapes against the floor.
“She made it through surgery.” Bruce doesn’t breathe. “We found significant internal bleeding and repaired the injuries caused by the bullet. She required blood transfusions, but we were able to control the hemorrhage. She’s stable at the moment.”
Bruce’s eyes close. “Is she going to wake up?”
“She should, but she’s going to be closely monitored. She’s had major abdominal surgery, so there are still risks of infection, bleeding, and other complications, and recovery will take time.”
“Can I see my wife?”
The surgeon nods. “Once she’s settled in recovery.”
Bruce doesn’t wait another second. When he finally enters the recovery room, he almost doesn’t recognize you.
You don’t look like your usual self beneath the hospital blankets, pale and exhausted, with IV lines running into your arm and monitors quietly tracking your heart rate and oxygen saturation. There is a dressing over your abdomen, and your breathing is slow and steady as the medications keep you comfortable. Bruce approaches the bed as though the slightest sudden movement might break you.
He takes your hand. Even if it feels forbidden for him to touch you, he still does. Because he needs proof that you’re actually here.
Then he sits, and he waits.
Hours pass and eventually, your eyes flutter open.
Bruce immediately lifts his head. “Hey my love.”
“Hey.” your voice is barely audible.
“You’re awake.” He laughs once, but it sounds more like a breath breaking apart.
“Apparently.”
He carefully leans forward and kisses your forehead. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“You looked really scared.”
“I was terrified.”
You study his face for several seconds. He looks exhausted. Exhausted in a way he never has never looked before. There are shadows beneath his eyes, his hair is messy, and there is still a faint trace of dried blood on his cuff.
“You stayed here the whole time.”
“I promised.” You squeeze his hand weakly. “Good.”
“I should have known there was another shooter.”
“Bruce.”
“I should have gotten you away from there. I should have taken the bullet for you.”
“Bruce.” He finally looks at you, and he sees your tired but gentle expression.
“Youre blaming yourself for something you couldn’t control.”
His jaw tightens. “You got shot because of me.”
“I got shot because I love you.”
“You shouldn’t have had to.”
“I know. But Bruce please understand this… You protect Gotham on a daily basis, but who protects you? I, as your wife, promised I’d protect you too. And I didn’t mean only mentally, but also physically.”
You shift slightly, wincing when your abdomen pulls, and Bruce immediately reaches toward you. He doesn’t know how to respond, because what do you mean someone loves him enough to sacrifice themselves. “Don’t move.”
You smile faintly.
“Okay hubby.”
“Hubby?” he lets out a soft and tired laugh.
“My overprotective husband who I love very much.”
Despite himself, Bruce almost smiles. “I’d marry you again if I could.”
You laugh softly, and Bruce immediately smiles because hearing that sound is the first thing that has made his chest loosen all night. He carefully climbs into the chair beside your bed, resting his forehead against your hand while you gently run your fingers through his hair. He stays there until your eyes begin to grow heavy again, and when you finally drift back to sleep, his hand remains wrapped around yours.
This time, he lets himself breathe. Because you’re still here.
Summary: Waking up in an empty bed again results with you taking a trip to the rooftop of your building, searching for your boyfriend in order to pull him out of his grief.
Pairing: Dick Grayson x gn!Reader
Word Count: 1.3k
Content Warning: Angst, grief, hallucijason, cursing, dick blaming himself, no use of y/n, second person, not beta read, no pronouns used but written with fem!reader in mind
A/N: someone take mitski away from me because this was the result of me listening to her new album on repeat... but as always, I hope you enjoy <3
"I'm sorry," a sob cracks through the air. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you."
Sitting on the edge of the rooftop barely holding himself together, was your boyfriend- Richard Grayson. One of his legs is dangling over the edge, while the other is pulled against his chest. He's staring at the spot next to him in horror, apologizing to the air.
You found him like this more times than you cared to admit. It'd often be closer to midnight, but not quite the early mornings he found comfort in. When the episodes started, they began with him getting out of bed and splashing his face with cold water. Then if it didn't work, he spent twenty minutes in the kitchen attempting -and failing- to drink a glass of milk. Once he had enough of the grounding techniques all the resources he'd looked for had given him, he'd drown in his guilt while walking out the front door.
Usually, you gave him half an hour, sometimes he just needed the fresh air to calm down. There were a few times he'd walk back in after fifteen minutes with tear-stained cheeks. You'd lift the blanket without question, and he curled into your for the rest of the night. He never admitted it, but you knew he got claustrophobic in his own body when the grief hit him. He was never skilled at crying in front of anyone, even you, so you gave him some privacy. A chance to self-regulate.
Some nights however, you joined him if you were too worried to give him space. You genuinely tried to let him have the moments he needed alone. Yet, when your boyfriend of three years spends every nights thrashing in bed and screaming apologies in his sleep, it's difficult to let him wander to the roof by himself. He may have spent his life trying to catch everyone, but who would catch him?
After thirty minutes passed without him returning to the apartment, you had to go get him; because it only meant one thing.
He was hallucinating.
The guilt of being off world mixed in the bowl of not being able to save his little brother, created a recipe that almost killed him. You'd watched the love of your life collapse in on himself with grief, and not be able to do a thing about it.
Every day was a battle to keep him from losing himself and to cope, his body started creating hallucinations of the poor boy.
Dick told you about it sometimes. He'd sit on the rooftop and see the smile of his little brother, always with wings and a halo, because Jason Todd was an angel from the heavens. The hallucinations would start like the normal Jason; a regular conversation about school or books or complaining about Bruce, and then it would shift into something darker.
The ghost of Jason Todd would ask why Dick didn't save him? Why was his duty to the Titans more important? Why did he let him die? Why did he leave him alone in Gotham? Why didn't he avenge him?
They were the questions that Dick racked in his head over and over again. You recognized them as the reasons he used to blame himself.
Carefully, the stars watch you close the door that leads to the stairs behind you. With a soft click, you turn around to see his whole body being to convulse with sobs. You didn't think it was possible, but your heart hurt in the cage of your ribs while watching him. It throbbed with a pain that had no antidote.
One of the worst parts about losing Jason, was learning to live after. While his life may have met an untimely end, none of yours did. You all had to get up, and continue going about your days; carrying on at work, making lists for the grocery store, getting stuck in rush hour traffic, calling your friends, paying bills.
Because unfortunately, the Earth still spun and the Sun still burned, even as the brightest star made his abrupt return to the sky.
It was sick and twisted. One final "fuck you" the universe sent your way, as if you hadn't gone through enough.
Dick doesn't hear you as your steps grow closer to him. The soft slap of your shoes on the roof don't reach him, while his mind works against him in the form of the late boy wonder. At one point in the few steps it took to reach him, he must've felt your presence over the storm of his emotions. Because when you settle next to him on the ledge, he's not surprised.
You take a careful seat, the cement was as rough as it was three nights ago when you were last here. Your hands grip the edge as you tune your body to him. He's hunched over, shielding his face from the world, almost in the innocent way a child does when they play hide-and-seek for the first time. If he doesn't see the world, then it won't perceive him.
A few minutes pass in that state. You allow him to get all the tears out, emptying his system before you make a move. The moment his sobs turned dry, you move a hand to his back, rubbing feather light circles through the cotton t-shirt.
"Dick, honey," your words are quiet in the break of a new day.
He doesn't say anything back, but when his body leans in to you, it's the only response you need.
Your arms find a way around his shoulders, caging him in the safety of your embrace. His face remains buried in the palm of his hands, attempting to preserve the river of memories in them. He hasn't glanced back at the spot on the ledge that's haunting him yet, and you take it as a small win. Your half tempted to keep his head in his hands just so that he won't.
Trying to find another way to ground him, you bury your face in his hair as a distraction. Pressing small kisses to the side of his head, to give him something else to focus his thoughts on .
He keeps repeating variations of broken "I'm sorry's" into his fingers. Your eyes squeeze shut with his. These nights were never easy to watch. His irises went from the bubbly blue you fell in love with, to a hurricane gray with no eye in sight. Witnessing him break was a curse in of itself. It wasn't controlled, it wasn't healthy, and it wasn't pretty.
Because when Dick Grayson broke, it was into a million pieces.
The first time he did, he was convinced you were going to leave him. That you wouldn't stay for a side that wasn't charismatic, that the idea of him being a complex person was too much for you. So when you made him a glass of strawberry milk and sat with him in his nightmare, he broke down even harder.
"It's not your fault." you whisper into his ink-colored curls.
You're not sure whether or not he heard you over the hell he's experiencing behind his eyes, but you don't stop.
"It's not your fault." you try again to no avail.
You learned early on that the nights were always the hardest for him.
"It's not your fault." one of your hands travels up to his hair, brushing through it.
His better memories with Jason were in the wake of patrol, with a burger on a rooftop or a giggle fit in the cave.
"It's not your fault." he sobs harder.
Jason Peter Todd was the first brother Dick ever had, and he let him down.
"It's not your fault." his hands leave his face to wrap around you like a lifeline.
The life and death of Jason Todd was something that he would never forgive himself for, even if he only ever tried to make it better.
"It's not your fault." he buries his face in the crook of your neck and clings to you like you'll blame him too.
If his grief meant you had to spend every night helping him find a light in the darkness, than so be it.
"It's not your fault."
Because it was finally time for someone to catch Dick Grayson.
after six months of saying goodbye to your husband, gyro zeppeli, he comes back to you with a tired face, a bag full of cash and a friend of his, johnny joestar. you can't do anything but accepting him into your home while you try to find out what happened in that race ꒰ ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ
cw: mdni, the dialogue in italics is italian, johnny and reader centered, voyeurism, a very emotionally constipated reader (kinda tsundere i guess?), age gap (5-6 years), hurt/comfort, miscommunication, yearning, johnny is a crybaby, mentions of cheating, fluff, very intimate moments, happy ending
word count: 16k words
You spend your days tending the house, keeping everything organized and clean to not go insane. You try not to think every time about where your husband is, if he’s safe, when he is coming back or if he’s coming back. Every once in a while, you receive little updates on the race, you can still see your husband’s name in the ranking, but now the race is over and he should be in the boat on the way home. You like to think that the journey is taking more than expected and that he’s fine. But something in your chest doesn’t sit right, maybe it’s all the people in your town telling you that your husband is definitely dead and that he’s not coming back, but you have the sense that when he appears through that door he’s going to be a changed man.
You leave every night to the city center, heels clicking the rocks on the ground and skirt swaying with every step. Your usual bar waits for you, your new repertory of songs that you have mastered because you have nothing else to do ready and your voice warm. Your public is always the same people, you don’t like to think they are your fans, but more some sort of admirers of your voice. You know that if it wasn’t for your voice, they wouldn’t give two damn about you. You also use the moments when you sing to forget about everything, about your missing husband and the whispers of the people who say that he’s either dead or he has abandoned you.
You try to not miss him too much, he was loud and obnoxious, disorganized and he reeked of blood after hours working at the hospital. Oh but he loved you. He confessed to you when he was seventeen and you were eighteen, he tried to act cool about it but he was a nervous wreck that ended the confession with “Please, go out with me.” And you did, because he was adorable, you still haven’t regretted that decision.
You dated for a whole year before marrying where he court and pursued you before asking for your hand and marrying in the church of the city. His life was dedicated to two things: his job and you. He left early in the morning for work, always preparing a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice for when you wake up. Coming back before dinner, he insisted on you waiting for him to prepare dinner so you could cook together, his chest pressed to your back while you watched the pasta while he cut the garlic and onions so your fingers don’t smell bad after cooking. And even if he was exhausted from a whole day of working, he still walked you to your bar and stayed your whole performance sitting on the closest table to the stage, looking up at you with shiny eyes full of devotion.
You were his whole world, he couldn’t imagine a life without sleeping by your side, waking up without the warmth of your thighs wrapped around him was a burden the whole race. He missed your touch as much as you missed his. He’s counting the days on the boat to finally arrive at his home, he can picture your face, the smile making your eyes small and how you will jump to his arms even if he stinks. What worries him just a little is his companion sleeping by his side, he can’t imagine your reaction to the complete stranger, an American, arriving with him. He doesn’t know if you’re going to accept him or doubt him in any way.
Johnny is a kind man, Gyro knows it, he reminds him of you in some way. How he follows him and looks at him with pure adoration in his eyes. He never expected to grow this fond of the man, even less bringing him back to Italy. But there was no way he was going to leave Johnny alone after everything they did together, and Johnny accepted immediately when Gyro offered to go back with him.
Gyro didn’t talk about you a lot to Johnny, he told him he wanted both of you to get to know each other well, without him spoiling anything.
He kept himself slightly hidden behind Gyro’s tall frame, leaning in his cane when he knocked on the door twice. Johnny watched the scene closely from a distance, how your gaze lit up when you saw Gyro, your whole world narrowing to just him. You screamed, leaving the cup you were drying on the little table and jumping straight to his arms. Gyro stumbled back a step, wrapping his arms around you instantly, hugging you nice and tight.
“Stupid bastard, I missed you so much!” you screamed, hitting his back still in the hug, you kept your eyes closed, not even noticing Johnny yet.
“I missed you too, my love. Every goddamn day,” Gyro answered, kissing your cheek and then easing the hug to put you back on the ground. He pressed his forehead with yours, leaning for a long and needy kiss.
“You stink,” you mumbled in the middle of the kiss, making Gyro bark a laugh. That’s when you finally opened your eyes, your gaze going instantly to Johnny, pressing his lips together and trying not to look at the hot kiss you just shared. “Love, there’s a strange man on our porch.”
You blinked at the young man standing a few steps behind Gyro, one hand tight around the handle of his cane, the other fidgeting with the hem of his beanie, not sure if he should tip or just disappear into the dirt. The light caught on the pale strands of his hair and the sharp line of his jaw. For a second your brain refused to process that there was an actual stranger on your porch while your husband’s mouth still tasted like salt and the long months without you.
Gyro’s arm stayed around your waist, but you could feel the way his fingers flexed against your side, a little nervous. He cleared his throat.
“This is Johnny,” he said, switching to English suddenly. “Johnny Joestar. We rode the race together. He saved my life more times than I can count, and I… well. I invited him to stay with us for a while. Is that alright?”
Johnny’s blue eyes flicked up to meet yours for half a second before dropping to the wooden boards under his boots. He was visibly younger than you, tired in a soft and fragile way that made you uncomfortable. You stared at him a moment longer, then turned back to Gyro. The words came out before you could soften them.
“Well, it’s not like we can send him back to America. He just arrived.”
Gyro’s shoulders eased a fraction, relief flickering across his face. You didn’t miss the way Johnny’s grip on the cane tightened, knuckles going white.
The house suddenly felt smaller, your private world that you had kept clean and waiting for Gyro alone now had an extra pair of eyes in it. An unknown American man who limped and smelled slightly better than Gyro.
Gyro’s hand slid up your back, rubbing slow circles after noticing you were getting nervous. “I know it’s sudden, but he has nowhere else to be.”
“Does he?” you questioned, lifting your eyebrows to see his and Johnny’s reaction.
“Yes, amore. I trust him with my life. He will not be trouble.”
Johnny finally spoke, his southern accent curling around every word. “I can sleep in the stable if it’s better. Or find a room in town. I don’t want to impose, ma’am.”
The polite way he said ma’am only made the whole situation stranger. You looked at him again, really looked. The way he leaned on the cane, the slight unevenness in how he stood, the careful way he kept his weight off one leg. Pretty, yes. Almost unfairly so, with those long lashes and the soft pink of his mouth. But pretty did not equal welcome. You had spent months imagining Gyro walking through that door and sweeping you off your feet, not bringing home a handsome stranger who needed looking after.
Gyro squeezed your hip. “I will show him around. You can wait for me upstairs if you want. I will come to you as soon as he is settled.”
You shook your head immediately. You hated the thought of leaving them alone, of missing even a second of Gyro after all this time.
“No. I’m coming with you.”
Gyro’s eyebrows rose a little, but he didn’t argue. He nodded, then stepped aside so Johnny could come closer to the threshold. You stayed right at Gyro’s side, one hand still fisted in the back of his coat.
Johnny limped forward slowly, cane tapping against the wood. You watched every movement. He was careful with his boots and his shoulders stayed slightly hunched, expecting to be told to leave at any second.
“Thank you for having me,” he whispered, bowing his head at you. “I promise I won’t be in the way.”
You didn’t answer right away, instead you looked at Gyro, searching for any sign that this was temporary, that Johnny would be gone in a week and the house would belong to the two of you again. But Gyro gave you a tired smile and leaned down to press a kiss to your temple.
“Come on,” he said gently. “Let me show him the guest room. Then I am all yours.”
You followed them inside, the door closing behind the three of you with a soft click that felt far too final. The house smelled like the lemon oil you had used that morning on the floors and the trace of the big orange tree in your yard. You kept your eyes on Johnny’s back as Gyro led the way, his coat hung a little loose on his frame, his free hand brushed the wall every few steps for balance. You hated yourself for thinking that he’s a pretty man when all you wanted was your husband and the sound of only two people breathing in the dark.
Gyro glanced over his shoulder at you, he could feel the war going on inside your chest. You forced a small smile for him and kept walking, already counting the minutes until Johnny was behind a closed door and Gyro’s arms were around you again, alone at last.
Your husband started showing him around your home as if he was a seller, talking about how you and him redecorated the kitchen with Portuguese tiles and how big the yard is, perfect to relax and spend the evening doing nothing. Then he opened the room next to yours, where Johnny will stay until who-knows-when. It’s a simple bedroom with a private bathroom, a nice bed and a wardrobe. After months of sleeping in the ground, a bed was the most beautiful thing Johnny has ever seen in a while.
“Make yourself at home, Johnny. Have a bath and then we’ll have dinner in an hour.” Gyro told him, before closing the door behind him after giving Johnny a long gaze.
He takes your hand in his, pulling you inside your own room and locking the door. He looks around, nothing has changed in it, it’s like he never actually left.
“Don’t pout at me,” he said, rubbing his thumb against your lower lip.
“I’m not.” You shook your head, pulling away from his dirty finger and nail. “I hate speaking in English.”
That made him laugh as he started peeling off layers of sweaty clothes. You had the instinct to turn around instead of helping him, your face facing the wall until he realized, tapping on your shoulder.
“What are you doing?” He crooked an eyebrow, his face peeking from your side. “Are you shy now?”
Your eyes stayed fixed on the pale wallpaper even though every part of you wanted to turn around and drink in the sight of him after so many months. You yearned for the time the smell of him was always in your nostrils, the time you used to find strands of his hair in your clothes.
“Maybe you wanted privacy,” you mumbled. “I thought… I don’t know. Maybe you needed a minute alone.”
Gyro’s laugh was quiet and warm against the side of your neck. He stepped closer until his chest brushed your back, still half dressed, the fabric of his undershirt damp and wrinkled.
“Privacy?” he repeated, the word itself sounded ridiculous to him. “Don’t be silly. What I want is my wife to watch me strip and help me bathe. I’ve been dreaming about these hands on me since the boat left America. You think I’m going to waste time being modest now?”
You finally turned, his eyes were bright, tired but so full of you that it hurt. He tugged the last of his shirts over his head and dropped it on the floor without care, standing there in just his trousers, waiting for you to look.
So you did.
He was thinner. The hard lines of muscle you remembered from the mornings you used to press kisses along his arms were softer now, less defined. His shoulders were still broad, but the strength that used to make the fabric of his coats strain was quieter, worn down by the race and the long journey home. You reached out without thinking, fingertips brushing the side of his ribs, counting the faint shadows between them.
“You lost weight,” you whispered.
Gyro’s hand covered yours, holding it there against his skin. “I know. Starvation and running for your life will do that. But I’ll gain it back quickly. You’ll see. You’ll fatten me up with all that pasta you make and I’ll be back to throwing you over my shoulder in no time.”
The joke landed soft and you huffed a tiny laugh even as your eyes stung. He was still so him. Still trying to make you smile while standing half naked and travel-worn in the middle of your bedroom.
You stepped away just long enough to start the bath, turning the rusty taps until warm water began to fill the old copper tub. Behind you, you heard the rustle of him pushing his trousers down, the quiet thud of boots kicked aside and the clink of his belt hitting the floor. When you glanced over your shoulder he was completely bare, stretching his arms above his head with a low groan that made the muscles in his back shift under pale skin. You tried not to stare too obviously, but it was impossible. He caught you looking and grinned, the same boyish smile that used to get him out of trouble when he was seventeen and trying to steal kisses behind the hospital.
“See something you like, Miss. Zeppeli?”
“Shut up,” you muttered, but your cheeks were warm and he knew it. You tested the water with your wrist, added a little of the lavender oil you kept for special nights, then turned back to him fully. “Come here before the water gets cold.”
He walked over without shame, completely at ease in his own skin even after months of hardship. You helped him step into the tub, one hand steady on his elbow, the other braced against the edge. He sank down with a long, grateful sigh that seemed to come from the very center of his chest. Water sloshed gently against the copper sides. Steam curled up around his face, softening the tired lines around his eyes.
You knelt beside the tub, sleeves rolled up and dipped a soft cloth into the water. When you started washing his shoulders he leaned into the touch like a man starved for it, eyes half lidded, a quiet hum vibrating in his throat.
“Missed this,” he murmured. “Missed you. Every night I closed my eyes and tried to remember exactly how your hands felt. Never got it quite right.”
You dragged the cloth slowly down his arm, careful around the new scars you didn’t recognize yet, the ones the race had left behind. His skin was warmer now, the tension slowly melting under the heat and your careful strokes. You washed his chest next, circling the cloth over the place where his heart beat steady and alive under your palm. He watched you the whole time, the devotion in his eyes never leaving his face.
“You’re staring,” you said quietly, a little smile tugging at your mouth.
“I’ve earned the right,” he answered. “Besides, you’re prettier than any view I saw from San Diego to the ocean. Let me look.”
You shook your head, laughing under your breath and reached for the soap. The scent of lavender mixed with the clean smell of his skin as you worked the lather through his hair, fingers gentle against his scalp. He tipped his head back into your hands with complete trust, eyes closed, water dripping from his lashes.
For a little while the house felt like it belonged only to the two of you again. You forgot about the stranger in your guest room, about how much time has passed and you could only think about taking care of Gyro and going back to the life you had with him.
Gyro reached up at one point, wet fingers finding yours in his hair, holding on like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real.
“I’m finally home,” he whispered, to himself.
And you leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to his damp forehead, heart aching with how much you had missed him and how fiercely you intended to keep him.
Your thought quickly came back to your head while you massaged his scalp. You hesitated for a second, thumbs pausing at his temples.
“Can I say something about the American staying in our house now?”
Gyro’s laugh was immediate, he didn’t open his eyes, just smiled because he had been waiting for it.
“Go ahead,” he said. “I knew it was coming. You’ve been holding that face since the porch.”
You exhaled through your nose and kept washing, fingers sliding through the soapy strands. “I don’t think he and I are going to get along. He’s a stranger. And I’m a busy woman. I have my routines. I clean the house a certain way, I cook at certain hours, I leave for the bar at the same time some evenings. Having someone else here… he’s going to break all of that. I can already feel it.”
Gyro hummed, the sound thoughtful. He reached up with one wet hand and caught your wrist gently, keeping your fingers in his hair.
“He will help you with everything,” he said, voice soft but firm. “Johnny is not the type to sit around and make messes. He will fold the laundry if you ask, he will set the table, he will even try to cook if you teach him, though I warn you, the man burns water.”
You shook your head, already pushing back. “That’s not the point. I don’t need help. I need–”
“You need your husband home and your house the way it was,” Gyro finished for you, finally opening his eyes. “I know. But listen to me.”
He sat up a little straighter in the tub, water sloshing around his waist, and took both of your soapy hands in his, his thumbs brushed over your knuckles.
“You two have to get along. He’s important to me, more than I can explain in one bath. He could have left me for dead more than once and he didn’t. So he’s staying. And I need you to try.”
You ignored the way he talked about him, too fond, too protective. You pulled one hand free to rinse the soap from his hair, pouring warm water carefully over the crown of his head so it wouldn’t run into his eyes.
“He looks young,” you said at last, quieter. “How old is he?”
Gyro tilted his head under the stream of water, watching your face. “He’s turning twenty later this year.”
“Gyro. He’s practically a kid, I can’t get along with him. What am I supposed to talk about with a nineteen-year-old American?”
Gyro’s mouth twitched, fighting a smile even though the conversation was serious. He reached up and wiped a bit of soap from your cheek with his thumb.
“You talk to him the same way you talk to me,” he said. “Or you don’t talk at all at first. Just give him a chance. He’s quieter than he looks, and he already likes you, even if he’s too shy to say it. He kept asking about the woman waiting for me in Italy the whole way across the ocean.”
You dropped your hands on the edge of the tub and stared at the wet strands of his hair clinging to his forehead. The idea of sharing your mornings, your kitchen, your quiet evenings with a near-stranger who was barely more than a boy didn’t feel right in your chest. You had waited so long for Gyro to come home. You had imagined weeks of just the two of you, catching up on every missed touch and every half-finished conversation. Not a third pair of footsteps in the hallway.
“Please,” he whispered. “For me. Try. If after a month you still can’t stand the sight of him, we’ll figure something else out. But I don’t think that’s going to happen. You’re better with people than you pretend to be.”
You closed your eyes, breathing in the lavender. Somewhere down the hall a floorboard creaked, Johnny moving carefully around the guest room, trying not to make noise. He felt bad about listening to your whole conversation, even if he didn’t know a word in Italian, he could hear his name come out of Gyro’s mouth in a soft breath, and then your scoff. He understood his place as an intruder, but still, knowing that someone openly despises you and has a whole language you don’t understand to talk shit about you made him feel bad. He wanted to like you, but he didn’t think he had to make an effort.
You opened your eyes again and met Gyro’s gaze.
“Fine,” you whispered. “I’ll try. But if he leaves mud on my clean floors, I’m throwing both of you out.”
Gyro’s laugh was bright and relieved. He kissed you once, quick and grateful, water dripping from his chin onto your dress.
“That’s my girl,” he said. “Now finish washing me before I turn into a prune. And then maybe you can help me find something clean to wear that still fits this skinny body of mine.”
You rolled your eyes, but your hands were already reaching for the cloth again, softer this time, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little under the weight of his request.
The dinner was quiet, Gyro tried to talk about little memories from the race, but he found himself realizing that half of the memories from it were far gone. His adrenaline levels through the whole journey were spiking, making the four months they spent on the road a total messy blur. You also ate in silence, too lazy to talk in English and not in the mood to hear Gyro telling you that you should try for Johnny. The American simply complimented the food you and Gyro prepared, looking more at Gyro than you, because he was scared of your gaze, but you didn’t understand it that way.
Johnny insisted on washing the dishes and cleaning the table, saying that it is the least he can do, you reluctantly left the kitchen after Gyro showed him where you keep everything. You two walked upstairs together, fingers laced and vibrating with excitement after spending all day desiring him.
You barely made it through the bedroom door before Gyro kicked it shut behind you. The lock clicked under your fingers and then his mouth was on yours, desperate and tasting faintly of the wine from dinner. You kissed him back just as hard, hands already yanking at the buttons of his clean shirt, the one that hung a little loose on his thinner frame. Months of missing him poured out of you in the way your tongues met, in the hungry sounds you both made against each other’s lips.
“Fuck, I missed you,” you breathed between kisses. “I missed you so much.”
Gyro groaned into your mouth, walking you backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed. His hands were everywhere at once, pulling your dress up over your hips, dragging it off your shoulders, tossing it somewhere across the room. You helped him shove his trousers down, both of you clumsy and impatient, skin finally meeting skin in the warm lamp light. He was already hard against your stomach and the feel of him after so long made your thighs press together.
The second you were fully naked he dropped to his knees right there on the floorboards, hands spreading your legs open, starving for the sight of you. He pressed a reverent kiss to the inside of your thigh, then higher, then higher still, until his mouth found you hot and wet and aching.
The first slow drag of his tongue made your head fall back against the mattress with a broken moan that filled the whole room.
Gyro licked you thoroughly and perfectly, the way only he ever did. His hands held your hips steady when your thighs started to shake. He groaned against you, the vibration traveling straight up your spine and you couldn’t keep quiet. Another moan spilled out of you, louder this time, fingers twisting in his golden hair.
He pulled back just enough to speak, lips shiny, breath warm against your cunt.
“Quiet, love,” he whispered. “Johnny might hear.”
You looked down at him, chest rising and falling fast. “I don’t give a fuck.”
After months of empty nights and cold sheets, the idea of being quiet for anyone felt impossible. Gyro’s eyes darkened at your words. He dove back in without another protest, tongue flat and slow and so good that your next moan cracked right down the middle.
Down the hall, Johnny had gone straight to his room after the dishes, meaning to give the married couple their privacy. He had sat on the edge of the bed for a while, boots still on, trying not to think about the way Gyro had looked at you all through dinner, the way your fingers had stayed laced with his on the stairs. Then the sounds started.
Soft at first. A muffled laugh. The creak of a bed. And then your voice, clear and needy, moaning Gyro’s name like a prayer.
Johnny’s face burned. He should have covered his ears, he should have gone downstairs or outside or anywhere else. Instead he stayed frozen, listening to the wet and filthy sounds of Gyro’s mouth on you and the way you couldn’t seem to stay quiet. His cock twitched hard in his trousers without permission. Guilt flooded him but his hand still drifted down, pressing against the aching length of himself through the fabric.
When he finally freed his cock it was already leaking. He bit his lip hard, stroking slowly at first, trying to be silent, but every time you moaned loud enough to carry through the walls his fist tightened and sped up. He could picture it too clearly: Gyro on his knees, your thighs over his shoulders, the same devoted look in his eyes that Johnny had seen directed at him a hundred times on the road. The thought made his hips jerk up into his own hand.
He fucked his fist in time with the wet sounds coming from your room, shame and want tangled so tight in his chest he could barely breathe. Your moans got higher, more desperate, and Johnny’s wrist worked faster, the head of his cock slick and red. He came with a choked sound, spilling over his fingers while he listened to you fall apart for your husband.
In your room Gyro didn’t stop. He licked you greedily through every wave of it until your legs trembled and your voice went hoarse. Only then did he climb back up your body, mouth wet, eyes shining with pure, selfish satisfaction.
“Still don’t give a fuck?” he asked, already lining himself up between your thighs.
You pulled him down into another messy kiss and wrapped your legs around his waist.
“Not even a little,” you whispered against his lips. “Now fuck me like you mean it.”
Johnny couldn’t believe how you two kept going for a whole two hours, he heard you cum and moan in many different ways, now being a little bit unbearable instead of arousing.
You and Gyro ended up falling asleep from exhaustion, cuddled up with you half on top of him, legs tangled and without bothering to take care of the running cum coming out of your pussy to his thigh.
You know Gyro would leave early in the morning and that you would have to face Johnny alone, so now you try to sink into Gyro’s body, maybe tomorrow morning you will melt together and he can’t physically leave you.
But tomorrow arrives sooner than you expected, leaving you an empty feeling of nervousness of getting out through the door and seeing Johnny with his messy bed hair and kind smile, telling you good morning.
You quickly wash your face and dress in a simple blouse and dark long skirt, opening the door and going down the stairs to find the house empty. It was past ten, so apart from limping, he was also lazy.
You walk into the kitchen and freeze at the sight of two freshly squeezed orange juices. One for you, like Gyro always did. And one for Johnny. Your first thought was pure spite. You could pour one of them down the sink. Or better, drink both yourself and leave the empty glasses on the counter. But as you reached for one of the glasses the soft tap of a cane sounded behind you.
“Good morning, Miss Zeppeli.”
Johnny was careful with his voice, afraid of startling you. You turned slowly. He stood in the doorway, hair still messy from sleep, one strand falling over his forehead.
“How did you know I liked orange juice?” he asked, a hopeful smile tugging at his mouth. “Thank you so much.”
The words landed wrong. You stared at him, the glass cold under your fingers. He thought you had made it for him. The assumption sat between you like a third person in the room, heavy and awkward.
You forced your face into something that might pass for politeness. It felt stiff.
“I didn’t,” you said. “Gyro always leaves one for me. Now he leaves two, I guess.”
Johnny’s smile faltered for half a second, then he recovered, nodding like that made perfect sense. “Oh. Still, it’s really kind of you not to throw it out. I haven’t had fresh juice in months.”
He limped further into the kitchen, careful not to drag his feet on the clean tiles you had scrubbed yesterday. His eyes flicked to the second glass and then back to you, waiting for permission he hadn’t been given. You took a slow sip from your own glass just to have something to do with your mouth. The juice was perfect. Sweet, a little tart, exactly the way Gyro made it. You watched how Johnny leaned into the counter to catch the glass and then he sat down at the table in the kitchen.
“You didn’t have to do the dishes last night,” you said after a moment. “I can handle my own kitchen.”
Johnny looked up at you. “I know. I… wanted to help. Gyro said you keep a busy house. And I’m already imposin’ enough. Least I can do is not make more work.”
The sincerity in his voice only made everything worse. You didn’t want sincerity. You wanted him to be rude or anything that would give you a clean reason to dislike him without guilt. Instead he stood there looking earnest and a little nervous.
You set your glass down harder than necessary. The sound of it against the wood made him flinch slightly.
“Gyro will be back around midday,” you said, changing the subject because looking at him was starting to feel like work. “He went to the hospital early. You can… do whatever. The yard is fine. Or the guest room. Just don’t track dirt inside.”
Johnny nodded quickly. “Yes, ma’am. I was thinking maybe I could sit outside for a bit.”
Silence stretched. You could hear the clock on the wall ticking. Somewhere outside a bird called.
Johnny cleared his throat. “Did you sleep alright?”
Your ears burned. The memory of last night, of how loud you had been, of the fact that the walls were thinner than you had remembered, crashed over you. You turned toward the stove just to have somewhere else to look.
“Fine,” you answered, too quickly. “We both slept fine.”
“Good,” he said softly. “That’s good.”
You opened a cupboard and started pulling out ingredients for breakfast you didn’t even want, just so your hands had something to do. The familiar motions of cooking helped steady the restless feeling under your ribs. Johnny stayed where he was, without moving or talking, simply existing to remind you that your private life was no longer private.
After a long minute he spoke again, voice even quieter.
“I’m really grateful you’re lettin’ me stay, Miss Zeppeli. I know it’s sudden. But I’ll stay out of your way as much as I can. Promise.”
You cracked an egg harder than you meant to. The shell broke unevenly. You wiped your fingers on a cloth and finally glanced at him over your shoulder.
“Just call me by my name,” you said. “Miss Zeppeli makes me feel old. And you’re already living under this roof, formalities are pointless now.”
Another stretch of silence. You mixed the egss with the milk with more force than necessary. He shifted in his seat, the cane tapping once against the floor.
“Would it be alright if I took the juice outside?” he asked at last. “I don’t want to get in your way while you cook.”
“Take it. Drink it. Whatever.”
He picked it up carefully, both hands wrapped around the glass. “Thank you.”
You kept your eyes on the mixture until your wrists ached, listening to the uneven sound of his footsteps and the cane as he made his way toward the back door. The kitchen felt both emptier and heavier once he was gone.
Through the open window you could hear him settle into one of the chairs under the orange tree. The same chair Gyro used to sit in on the evenings, reading or talking to you while you fold laundry together. Now Johnny occupied it, sipping the juice you hadn’t made for him, existing in the space that used to belong only to the two of you.
You pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes and exhaled slowly through your nose. You had promised Gyro you would try for one day. You could do that. You could be slightly nice. You could survive breakfast and the morning and the long stretch of hours until your husband came home and reminded you why you had agreed to any of this in the first place.
Outside, Johnny feels a little more convinced that he’s going to get you to like him, at least just a little bit.
You kept yourself busy doing laundry. Johnny stepped inside about half an hour later, empty glass on one hand. He set the glass in the sink without being asked, rinsed it and dried it with the towel next to the sink. Then he turned toward you, lingering near the counter, he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to come closer.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked. “I don’t want to just sit around while you’re working.”
You paused, your eyes dropped to the cane leaning against his side, then climbed back up to his face. The look you gave him was longer than polite. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His shoulders tensed almost immediately.
“It’ll get better every day,” he said quickly, a little too fast. “I just need to get used to walking again. That’s all.”
That made you frown. Get used to walking again? You wiped your hands on a cloth and studied him for another second, curiosity sparking under the irritation you still carried. You hadn’t planned on caring. You still didn’t want to care. But the phrase stuck.
You turned back to the counter and reached for the jar of sugar you kept for baking.
“I was about to make cookies,” you said. “You can help if you want. Sit at the table so you don’t stand the whole time.”
Johnny blinked, surprised by the offer, then nodded. “Alright. Thank you.”
He moved to the wooden table near the window, you brought over the mixing bowl, the eggs, the butter you had left out earlier and set everything within his reach. For a while the only sounds were the soft scrape of the wooden spoon against the bowl and the distant birds outside.
You cracked an egg into the mixture and watched him from the corner of your eye. It was less tiring for you if he mixed everything, you can see his strong arms under the loose shirt. He did as you told him, mixing the wet ingredients first, then slowly adding the flour while you cut a chocolate bar.
After a minute you spoke again, keeping your voice even.
“What did you mean by getting used to walking again?”
Johnny’s hand stilled on the whisk. He looked up at you and for a second you saw something careful and assessing in his blue eyes. He read you easily. You could tell. Whatever answer he gave next was chosen on purpose.
“I used to be paralyzed,” he said simply. “From the waist down. In the race things changed, I can walk now, but it’s still new. The cane helps while my legs remember how everything works.”
The knife in your hand stopped moving. You stared at the dough instead of his face, the information landing heavier than you expected. Suddenly the way he moved, the careful placement of every step, the way he leaned on the cane, all of it rearranged itself in your mind. The irritation you had been carrying since yesterday morning felt uglier.
Johnny noticed the shift in your expression immediately. He set the whisk down and rested both hands on the edge of the table.
“You don’t have to look at me like that,” he said. “Don’t pity me, I don’t need it. I’m walking, that’s more than I had for a long time.”
You forced yourself to meet his eyes again. The guilt was still there, but you refused to let it soften your voice completely.
“I wasn’t pitying you,” you answered. It came out sharper than you meant. You exhaled through your nose and tried again, gentler. “I didn’t know. Gyro didn’t say.”
“He wouldn’t,” Johnny replied. “I asked him not to make a big deal out of it when we got here. I didn’t want you thinkin’ of me as someone broken the second you opened the door.”
You added the sugar to the bowl and pushed it toward him so he could keep mixing. Your fingers brushed the edge of the bowl near his and both of you pulled back a little too quickly.
“Well,” you said after a stretch of silence, “you’re not broken. You’re just slow. And you’re in my kitchen, so keep mixing until it looks right.”
A surprised smile tugged at the corner of Johnny’s mouth, he picked up the whisk again.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Right. Sorry.”
You stopped yourself from asking what exactly happened for him to end up paralyzed, you imagine the story to be something traumatic that he really doesn’t want to relive, so you start forming the cookies to drop in the oven, now waiting in silence, sitting side by side with Johnny. He glanced toward the open window, eyes following the distant rooftops that peeked over the garden wall.
“I’d love to go into town sometime,” he said. “Naples looks lovely from what little I’ve seen. I want to get to know it more.”
“I have to go tomorrow for groceries,” you said. “The market near the port. I go every week.”
You left it there on purpose. From the corner of your eye you could see Johnny’s hands playing with the dirty whisk. A fly buzzed near the window. Somewhere down the street a cart rattled over the stones.
You exhaled through your nose and finally glanced at him.
“You can come with me,” you said, words harsher than you expected, but at least they were out. “If you want.”
Johnny’s head lifted immediately, he nodded without hesitation.
“I’d like that,” he said. “Thank you. I’ll try not to slow you down.”
You turned back to the tray, arranging the last of the cookies with more focus than necessary. “Just wear comfortable shoes and you’ll have to be a little careful, the streets near the market aren’t even.”
“I will.”
You swallowed.
“And then I can show you around town, I guess.” You shrugged, not looking at him. “The market can get loud but apart from that it’s a very calm place.”
Johnny shook his head. “I’ve been in louder places. And Gyro is always talking about how it’s the best town in the world.”
You almost smiled at that, but it didn’t quite reach your mouth. “Gyro talks too much.”
“Yeah,” Johnny agreed softly. “He does.”
You checked the time on the clock above the door.
“Cookies will be ready soon,” you said. “Don’t burn your tongue when you try one. They’re hot.”
Johnny’s mouth curved just a little. “I’ll be careful.”
You nodded once and turned to start cleaning the mixing bowl, keeping your back to him so you wouldn’t have to look at the gratitude still sitting on his face.
Johnny understood one thing from Naples’ town center, the people are indeed loud and not quite fond of people who don’t speak Italian. And you giggling by his side instead of helping him wasn’t the best, as well. So when you two arrived home, three bags full of groceries and other stuff, Johnny flopped by the chair in exhaustion.
“I need to learn Italian,” he muttered.
“You do,” you nodded, starting to take the fresh groceries from the bags.
He searched for your eyes and when you looked at him, he tilted his head. “Would you teach me?”
“Absolutely not,” you said immediately. “I’m not your teacher.”
“Just some words. I can’t keep standing there like an idiot while people talk around me.”
You set a bottle of olive oil down harder than necessary. “You do need it. That doesn’t mean I’m the one who has to teach you.”
Johnny leaned forward, resting both forearms on the table. “Please. Just a little. How to ask for things at the market and how to say thank you without soundin’ like a tourist.”
You shook your head, opening the cupboard to put the flour away. “Ask Gyro when he gets home. Or buy a book. I’m busy.”
“You’re already helping me,” he tried again. “This would be the same. I promise I won’t be a bad student.”
“No.”
“I’ll practice every day. You won’t even have to sit with me long.”
“Still no.”
Johnny went quiet for a moment. You could feel him watching you while you moved between the table and the shelves. When you turned back to grab the bag of potatoes, he stood up carefully and stepped closer than he had all day.
Before you could move away he reached out and took both of your hands in his.
His palms were warm, a little rough from the race. The touch was sudden enough that your breath caught. Johnny’s fingers curled gently around yours and he looked up at you with a pout that made him look even younger than twenty.
“Please,” he said. “Just enough so I don’t embarrass myself every time I leave the house. I’ll be good. I swear.”
The closeness hit you like cold water. His face was too near. His hands were too warm. The kitchen suddenly felt smaller. You pulled your hands back fast, almost stumbling a step toward the counter. Your heart was beating harder than it should have been for something so small.
Johnny’s eyes widened. He let go immediately and raised both hands in the air like he had burned you.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I shouldn’t have… I didn’t mean to startle you.”
You wiped your palms against your skirt without thinking, as if that would erase the feeling of his skin. Your face felt hot. The tension that had been sitting between you all morning sharpened.
For a few seconds neither of you spoke. Johnny stayed where he was, looking genuinely regretful.
Finally you exhaled through your nose and muttered, “Fine. Just a few words. And only when I have time. Don’t expect daily lessons.”
Johnny’s whole face brightened, the pout disappearing into a relieved smile. “Really?”
“I said a little,” you repeated, already turning back to the groceries so you wouldn’t have to keep looking at him. “Don’t make me regret it.”
“I won’t,” he promised. “I promise.”
Two weeks pass easily, you and him settling in a morning routine of having breakfast together, learning a few Italian words and then doing stuff around the house. In your head, you still don’t like him, you don’t trust him with your secrets or worries, you just talk to him to give him orders or scold him when he does something incorrectly. Johnny can’t appreciate enough that, at least, you are talking to him. You try to make Johnny walk around a little more than expected so his legs don’t get sore from being seated all the time. Gyro didn’t know it was happening because every time he arrived, both of you felt distant with each other, his presence making you unnecessarily nervous, maybe even a little bit scared of the possible jokes if he learns that you two kind of get along. So Gyro arrived home to a warm dinner, a grumpy wife and a quiet friend.
“Why don’t we share a wine tonight?” Gyro suggested after bathing, arriving into the kitchen while you and Johnny were cooking silently.
“Choose a good one, amore,” you told him as Gyro went down the wine cellar to grab a bottle of wine.
You pulled three glasses out of a cabinet and Johnny quickly stopped chopping vegetables to shake his head. “I can’t drink.”
“What do you mean you can’t drink? Were you an alcoholic?” you asked. Johnny started being fond of your harsh way of speaking to him.
“N-No. I’m nineteen, I can’t drink,” he said again, thinking that you would understand him. You were as confused as before. “I can’t drink until I’m twenty-one.”
“That’s so dumb. Is that an American thing?” He slowly nodded, lowering his gaze to play with his thumbs. You clicked your tongue and shook your head. “You’re in Europe now, Johnny, get used to it.”
After Gyro comes back with the wine, it’s the first time that he saw you two getting slightly along. You were making fun of how red Johnny gets after a few glasses of wine while you are giggling in Gyro’s lap, also poking his cheek.
The night goes easy after that, laughing together and talking about nonsense. When you leave to use the bathroom for a moment, you hear them laughing in the distance and when you come back, you can see Johnny’s head on Gyro’s shoulder, with Gyro’s arm hugging his back, maybe too low on his back, his fingers teasing the waist of Johnny’s pants.
You blink, thinking the worst, but when Gyro notices you he quickly moves Johnny away to focus only on you. You understand that you definitely read the situation wrong, Gyro is all over you now, pulling you into his lap, his cock is even half-hard from you, and showering you with kisses on the cheeks and neck.
That night Gyro fucks you deeper than ever.
The next morning, you ignore the soreness in your body after getting up at almost 12 p.m, going down the stairs to not find Johnny in the kitchen nor in the living room. Finally, you go through the back door to find him in the yard, kneeling in the ground fixing some soil.
“What are you doing to my garden?” you scream, startling him that he lost balance on his knee for a second.
The sun is right on top of him while he’s only wearing a tank top and some pants, he covers the brightness with his palm to look at you.
“I woke up early so I went to the market to buy some seeds,” he tells you with a smile on his face as you walk towards him. “I’m planting strawberries.”
“You went to the market all by yourself?”
“Yup.”
“Mhm. Okay,” you nod slowly, eyeing the half lifted soil and the strawberry seeds waiting to be planted. “You’re going to ruin the drainage if you dig too deep. And strawberries need space, you’re crowding them.”
Johnny looked down at his work, then backed up at you with a sheepish smile. “I’ll fix it.”
You watched Johnny fix the soil slightly, exactly how you told him. You exhaled through your nose and glanced toward the kitchen door. Your stomach had started to complain the second you stepped outside.
“I’m going to have some breakfast,” you told him. “Don’t make a mess of the rows.”
Johnny pushed himself up carefully, using the cane for balance. A faint wince crossed his face when he straightened fully, but he hid it quickly. He brushed dirt from his knees and took a step closer.
“Can I eat with you?” he asked.
You blinked at him. “Didn’t you have breakfast already? You were up early enough to go to the market.”
He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, leaving a faint smear of soil near his collar. “I was waiting for you.”
You stared at him for a second, then turned toward the house without answering. After a few steps you heard the soft tap of his cane following you across the yard. Silly boy, he must be starving.
Inside, you moved on autopilot, pulling out bread, a bit of cheese, the last of the ripe tomatoes from yesterday’s market run. Johnny hovered near the table until you nodded at the chair across from yours. You set two plates down and took your seat. For a while the only sounds were the soft scrape of knives and the distant hum of the street beyond the garden wall. Johnny ate slowly, eyes flicking up to you every so often like he was still checking if he was allowed to be there.
Then you noticed the skin along the tops of his shoulders and the back of his neck had turned a deep, angry pink. The sun had caught him while he was kneeling in the dirt. The longer you looked, the clearer it became. His ears were red, the tip of his nose glowed. A patch near his collarbone where the tank top had slipped looked especially burned.
Johnny must have felt your stare. He shifted in his chair, then reached up to touch the side of his neck and immediately hissed under his breath.
“You’re burned,” you said.
He grimaced, cheeks coloring further under the existing sunburn. “Yeah...”
“You were out there for hours with no hat and no shirt sleeves.” You tore a piece of bread, trying not to sound like you cared too much. “That’s going to hurt tonight.”
Johnny poked at the tomato on his plate, ears growing even redder. “I’ll live. I’ve had worse.”
“Worse doesn’t mean smart.” You stood up, crossed to the cupboard and pulled down the small jar of aloe you kept for kitchen burns. When you set it on the table in front of him he looked almost startled.
“Turn around,” you said. “And take the shirt off.”
Johnny’s head snapped up. His eyes widened a little. “What?”
You shook the jar in your hands. “You’re not going to reach the back of your neck properly and you’ll miss half of your back. Turn around.”
He hesitated only a second longer, then carefully pulled the tank top over his head. The fabric dragged across the burned skin and he sucked in a quiet breath through his teeth. You took the jar from the table, unscrewed the lid and stepped behind his chair.
His back was pale everywhere the sun hadn’t touched. He was covered in freckles and hard muscles. You noticed a scar on the lower back, the shape pretty similar to a star. The contrast of the pale skin made the burn look even angrier. You scooped a little of the cool gel onto your fingers and started at the base of his neck, spreading it in careful strokes. Johnny’s shoulders tensed at the first contact, then gradually eased as the aloe sank in.
“You’re so pale,” you whispered, working the gel across the worst of the redness. “You have to be more careful. This is going to peel if you’re not lucky.”
“I wasn’t thinking,” he said. “The sun felt nice at first.”
You kept your touch light, fingertips gliding over the heated skin without pressing too hard. He was nice to touch, your fingers wanted to dig deeper into his skin, run your hands against the muscles in his arms. He was flexing without noticing, even. And you wondered what his front would look like, he had a very grabbable waist and probably his chest was hard and his stomach a little soft. Bet he had little pink nipples.
“You’re being nicer to me.” You blinked fast, the softness of his voice taking you out of your train of thoughts. You didn’t answer anything, but you rubbed the gel with a little more pressure, your idea wasn’t to be nicer to him, in fact, you wanted to make him feel bad enough that he would leave your house.
“I also like being around you,” he added, daring to sound shy.
You finished the last of the burn along his left shoulder and closed the jar with a loud sound. You didn’t like the honesty of his voice, he even turned around to look at you over his shoulder, blinking fast and waiting for your reaction.
“Same,” you said simply.
A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t say anything else.
Three months pass faster than you expected, your mornings (and now afternoons because Gyro is taking more shifts at the hospital) with Johnny have become something that you enjoy rather than you put up with. You’ve noticed his curiosity spiked over the most mundane things, what soap is best for laundry or how to make coffee the right way. He’s also getting better at Italian, in his own way, he knows his basics and the people from the market find it now more endearing than amusing.
He’s also better with his walking, now it looks like he’s using the cane more for aesthetics than for actually needing it. Johnny ended up telling you the whole story about his accident, how he was a famous (you doubted that) jockey and that his own ego was the one who made him end like that.
“I was also pretty famous with the ladies,” he told you at some point. You knew damn well he was trying to show off.
“Oh really?” You opened your eyes so wide, acting so surprised. Then you squinted your eyes, doing a few calculations in your head. “You said your accident was two years ago, right? You were too young to be famous with the ladies.”
He scoffed, rolling his head to the side. “I was old enough.”
“You were seventeen.”
Johnny went quiet. His smirk slipped off his face and he stared at the table for a long second, fingers tightening around the edge of his now designed coffee cup. You kept drying the plate in your hands, pretending not to notice the way his shoulders had gone still.
“Yeah. I guess I was,” he said lower.
You set the plate down and leaned against the counter, watching him from the side. “You don’t have to look like I insulted your whole bloodline, I’m just saying you were young. Most boys that age are still figuring out how to talk to girls without tripping over their own feet.”
Johnny let out a short breath that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so hollow.
“Hearing you say it like that makes it sound different,” he admitted. “I was seventeen, running around acting like I knew what I was doing.” He stopped for a moment to think. “Fuck, practically I was community dick.”
“Woah, hey. You don’t have to say it like that,” you quickly intervened, stopping his own thoughts. “People do stupid things when they’re hurt and young. Especially when they’re young.”
Johnny’s cane leaned against the wall near the door, barely used these days. He looked older than the boy who had first stepped onto your porch, but right now the years seemed to fold backward.
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “You make it sound reasonable.”
“It’s just true.” You crossed your arms loosely, still watching him. “And for what it’s worth, you don’t have to keep trying to impress me with stories about how many girls wanted the idea of you. I already know you’re capable of being annoying without the help of a reputation.”
That pulled a real, if small, huff of laughter out of him.
“You really don’t care about any of that, do you?” he asked.
“About your past conquests? Not even a little.” You pushed off the counter and reached for his empty cup. “I care that you don’t burn the food and that you stop leaving dirt on my clean floors. The rest is just noise.”
Sometimes you wonder why Johnny still hasn’t asked about your job, he sees you leave the house late at night, maybe an hour after having dinner. Sometimes Gyro goes with you, other times you go alone, but you come back too late that he’s already dead asleep in his bed. He’s too shy to ask you, thinking that his curiosity about you might be the reason you kick him out, but he wants to know. Ever since he arrived, he wanted to know you. After four months with Gyro, Jonny knows most of his manners and typical phrases, he can even predict what he’s going to think. But after three months with you, he never knows in which ways you’re going to answer him. He craves for your validation when he does something well, running to tell you about how his strawberries are growing perfectly, but he also enjoys when you talk harshly to him, your dry humor and tight words, telling him to do better.
He can’t help but to imagine things that make him feel so bad about himself. Your body is always on his mind, he craves your touch even if he’s never felt it. Just a graze of your hand against his or your hand cradling his cheeks. He would give anything to lay his head on your shoulder after a tired day. But the guilt overpowers him. You’re still a married woman, married to the man he considers his best friend of some sorts. You and Gyro are a family, and he’s the one intruding. So if you never initiate contact, he never will.
After that conversation with you, it takes Johnny some time to be vulnerable with you again, scared that you call him a cry baby (and that he’d like it). But one morning, you’re resting on the yard, the two matching rocking chairs you bought for you and him next to each other while Johnny told you about some birds that went through the sky, in a moment of silence, he told you:
“Tomorrow’s my birthday.” He said it in a whisper, hands folded in his lap and eyes shy to look at you.
You turned your head immediately, controlling yourself to sound too excited. “Yeah? Do you usually celebrate it?”
He shrugged his shoulders, lifting his hand to run a hand through his short hair. You were the one who usually cuts it for him, he says that you do it better than him.
“Not really.”
“Would you like to?” you asked, lifting your eyebrows and giving him a simple smile.
The rocking chair creaked softly under him as he pushed it back and forth with one foot. His eyes stayed on the birds still drifting across the late morning sky, but you could tell he wasn’t really watching them anymore.
“I guess,” he said at last.
You kept your face calm, the same simple smile still sitting on your mouth, but inside your chest something settled firm and clear. You were absolutely going to celebrate it. Quietly if you had to. Properly if you could. The thought of Johnny spending another birthday treating it like an ordinary Tuesday sat wrong with you.
“M’kay,” you said, rocking your own chair a little, “we’ll see.”
Gyro came home later than usual, the sky already turning the soft purple of early evening. He smelled like the trace of the cigars he sometimes shared with the older doctors on the back steps. Dinner was simple: pasta, the last of the good bread, a little of the cheese Johnny picked up. You mostly listened to them talk, filing away the way Johnny’s ears still pinked when Gyro ruffled his hair in passing.
After the dishes were done and Johnny had excused himself to his room with a quiet goodnight, you and Gyro went upstairs together. The bedroom door clicked shut behind you. Gyro immediately pulled you in by the waist, pressing his face into the side of your neck with a tired sigh.
“Missed you,” he mumbled against your skin. “The hospital is full of people who talk too much and none of them are as pretty as my wife.”
You smiled and let him walk you backward toward the bed. Once you were both settled under the sheets, you spoke as casually as you could manage.
“Johnny’s birthday is tomorrow.”
Gyro’s eyebrows lifted, he turned his head on the pillow to look at you properly.
“Is that so?” he said. “And you’re telling me this because…?”
You flicked his bare shoulder. “I’m just mentioning it. In case you forgot.”
“I didn’t forget.” His grin widened, poking your nose. “But you’re clearly thinking about something.”
“Shut up.” You rolled your eyes, but your fingers were already tracing idle patterns on his chest. After a moment you spoke again, softer.
“It would be nice if you took the day off. We could spend it the three of us together. I was thinking we could take him to that restaurant near the water. He still hasn’t been.”
Gyro was quiet for a second, studying your face in the low light. Then he leaned in and kissed the corner of your mouth.
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll send a note to the hospital first thing.”
“Good.”
Gyro’s arm tightened around you. “You’re soft on him.”
“He’s living under our roof,” you corrected. “Birthdays are easy to do right.”
“Mm.” Gyro didn’t argue. “I like seeing you and Johnny get along.”
You huffed a soft breath against his chest. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. You’re using that stupid tone of yours.”
Gyro smiled against your temple. You could feel the shape of it. “I’m glad. That’s all I’m saying.”
You and Gyro woke before the sun had fully cleared the rooftops. You both moved quietly so the floorboards wouldn’t give you away. Gyro tied an apron around your waist from behind and immediately used the opportunity to press a long kiss to the side of your neck. You swatted at him with a floury hand.
“Focus,” you muttered. “We have maybe an hour before he wakes up.”
“I am focused,” he said against your skin, but his hands had already slid under the apron to rest on your hips.
You pushed a bowl into his chest. “Mix.”
He laughed under his breath and finally obeyed, though every few minutes he found a new way to distract you. A flour thumbprint left on your cheek. A quick squeeze of your waist when you reached for the sugar. A whisper about how the morning light made your collarbones look especially kissable. By the time the small cake was in the oven you were both dusted in white and slightly out of breath from trying not to laugh too loud.
Decorating took longer than it should have. You stood side by side at the counter trying to decide whether the little pile of strawberries from Johnny’s own plants looked better on top or arranged around the base. Gyro kept stealing the berries to feed them to you, you were in the middle of gently arguing that he was going to ruin the symmetry when the soft tap of bare feet sounded in the hallway.
Johnny appeared in the doorway with his pajamas still on, the oversized shirt hung loose off one shoulder and sheet marks on his cheek. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, and for a second you thought, unhelpfully, that he looked almost painfully cute like that.
Gyro crossed the kitchen in three long strides and pulled Johnny into a hug before the younger man could even finish rubbing his eyes.
“Happy birthday, Johnny,” Gyro said, bright with genuine affection.
Johnny made a startled sound that turned into a quiet laugh as he melted into the embrace. Gyro held on longer than a casual birthday hug usually lasted, one hand firm between Johnny’s shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of his head. Johnny’s arms came up slowly around Gyro’s middle, face tucked against the older man’s shoulder. They stayed like that for a long moment, swaying just a little while you watched them. When they finally pulled apart, Johnny’s cheeks were pink and his eyes a little brighter than before.
You stepped forward, gave a small nod and held the plate out.
“Happy birthday,” you said.
Johnny looked at the little cake, then at you, the smile that spread across his face was disbelieving. He took the plate carefully, fingers brushing yours for the briefest second.
“You didn’t have to,” he whispered.
“It was Gyro’s idea,” you answered.
Gyro furrowed his eyebrows, looking at you in confusion. “No, it wasn’t. It was entirely your idea, actually. I barely helped.”
Your face went hot so fast, you hated the idea of Johnny seeing you flustered. You shot Gyro a sharp look and muttered, “You’re an idiot,” under your breath, but it came out loud enough for both of them to hear.
Johnny’s eyes moved between the two of you, the little cake still balanced carefully in his hands. You suddenly found the opposite wall very interesting and kept your gaze fixed there, ears burning.
Gyro, of course, was not finished. “You silly woman always trying to play down yourself. I kept getting in the way and you still finished the whole thing. Why pretend it was me?”
“Because you’re talking too much,” you answered, still refusing to look at Johnny. “It doesn’t matter whose idea it was. Just eat the goddamn cake.”
Johnny’s voice came soft from behind Gyro, trying to look for your eyes. “You made this for me?”
You gave a short, stiff nod at the wall. “It’s a small one. And I used all your strawberries, so.”
Gyro laughed under his breath and finally took mercy on you, clapping Johnny lightly on the back. “She’s shy about it. Happens every time she does something nice and gets caught.”
“Gyro.”
“What? It’s true.”
You risked one quick glance toward Johnny. He was still looking at the little cake, a faint pink sitting high on his cheeks. The sight only made your own embarrassment worse. You turned back to the counter and started rearranging the plates with far more concentration than the task required, pretending the heat in your face was only from the oven that had been off for twenty minutes already.
The rest of the day is calm until the night, Gyro insists on doing the house chores while you and Johnny sit in the backyard in the same chairs as always. He doesn’t mention your shyness or anything about it, he just stays by your side like any other day. A few hours after a nice nap, you tell Johnny and Gyro to get ready to go out.
“Where are we going?” Johnny asked, head tilted.
Gyro comes behind you, hugging your waist. “We’re going to show you our favorite restaurant in town, Johnny boy.”
The evening air over Naples carried the salt of the sea and the faint sweetness of late-blooming flowers as the three of you left the house together. Gyro walked in the middle, one arm loosely around your shoulders, the other occasionally brushing Johnny’s back to guide him around uneven stones. Johnny had dressed carefully, the clean shirt you had ironed for him that afternoon sitting neatly on his frame, hair still a little damp from the quick wash he had taken before leaving.
The restaurant sat near the water, its small terrace open to the bay, Gyro spoke to the owner in a way of someone who had been coming here for years and soon the three of you were seated at a corner table where the view of the water was best. Johnny took the chair facing the sea, eyes wide as he watched the distant lights of boats moving across the black surface. You sat beside Gyro, close enough that his knee rested against yours under the table.
Plates arrived carefully: fresh bread still warm from the oven, olives glistening with oil, fish cooked simply with lemon and herbs, pasta that tasted of the sea and summer. Gyro ordered wine for the table and made sure Johnny’s glass stayed full enough to keep the pink in his cheeks without pushing him past comfort. Conversation drifted easily at first, Gyro filled the silence with stories from the hospital that made Johnny lean forward. You were sipping maybe too much on your glass that you let the two of them just fill the space, until you began to notice the way they filled it.
It was in the small things. Gyro’s hand lingered on the back of Johnny’s chair, his shoulders relaxed the moment the older man’s voice directed anything toward him. When Johnny struggled for a moment with a word in Italian, Gyro supplied it without thought. Their eyes met often, each time the contact lasted a fraction longer than friendship usually required. Gyro’s smile when it landed on Johnny carried a particular softness you had only ever seen directed at you before.
You watched them over the rim of your glass, the realization did not arrive all at once, it gathered slowly until it was impossible to ignore. The easy way their bodies angled toward each other even now, across a table meant for three. Something in the space between them felt lived-in, familiar in a way that went beyond the months of shared travel and the weeks of shared roof. You could see the shape of nights you had not been part of, conversations that had happened on long roads, silences that had meant more than silence.
Your stomach twisted, but you weren’t angry or jealous. An uncertain nausea that had nothing to do with the food and everything to do with the sudden rewriting of the last three months. Everything you had watched between them rearranged itself under this new light.
You set your glass down carefully and folded your hands in your lap, fingers pressing against one another until the knuckles lightened. Across the table Johnny laughed at something Gyro said and Gyro’s eyes crinkled at the corners in fondness. The sight sent another slow wave through your stomach, neither sweet nor bitter, simply present and impossible to ignore.
“Johnny,” you called him down the stairs while you went back to your room, leaving the door open and sitting on the bed with one leg crossed over the other.
“Coming!” he quickly answered, appearing in your doorway but not entering your room before you allow him to.
“You can come in,” you nodded, eyeing the chair right in front of where you were sitting.
The door stayed open behind him, he stood near the chair you had indicated, hands loose at his sides but not relaxed. You watched him for a moment, the silence stretching long enough to make him feel uncomfortable. His eyes were flicking on and off your face, not knowing what to do, the longer you stayed quiet, the more the color seemed to drain from his cheeks.
Finally he lowered himself into the chair, he kept his spine straight, both feet flat on the floor and hands folded in his lap. You let another full minute pass.
“Have you and my husband ever been intimate together?”
Johnny lost his breath at that moment, he walked into a trap he always knew was there but never expected to spring. His eyes widened. You could see him weighing the choice in real time: lie and risk being caught, or tell the truth and face whatever came next. Johnny’s hands had curled into loose fists on his thighs, he looked everywhere except your face.
“Yes,” he said at last. The word was barely more than a breath.
“Would you be intimate with me too?” you asked. “Or are you just attracted to men?”
Somehow, that question was even worse than the first time
“I’m… attracted to women too,” he managed. “I am. But I don’t know if I’m attracted to you. You’re- You’re Gyro’s wife.” My ex lover’s wife, Johnny wanted to say. “That changes everything.”
You nodded again.
“You can leave.”
It took him a full second to process the dismissal. Then he stood too quickly and backed toward the door without turning his back fully on you. His eyes stayed on your face the entire way, wide and uncertain, as if he expected the permission to be revoked at any second.
At the threshold he hesitated, mouth opening like he might say something else. Nothing came. He only gave the smallest, jerky nod and stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door softly shut behind him.
Johnny barely made it to his room before his legs threatened to give out. He immediately pressed his back against it, his heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his temples and in the tips of his fingers
Of course you found out, he doesn’t even know why he’s surprised.
He dragged both hands down his face, walking and locking himself in his room. He could still see you sitting on the edge of the bed, your last words to him looping in his head. You can leave.
What did that mean?
Was he supposed to pack? Were you going to kick him out? Was Gyro going to look at him tomorrow with disappointment? The thought sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through his stomach. His bad leg ached from the tension. He ruined everything you and him built together. The moments shared with you felt like a dumb memory, a dream that never happened. All of it felt like it was already slipping through his fingers, turning into something he would only be allowed to remember from a distance.
His mind raced through every possible consequence. Maybe you would ask him to leave tomorrow, maybe Gyro would choose you without hesitation (of course he would, you were his wife) and Johnny would be left standing on the porch with his cane and his suitcase with nowhere else to go. The idea of walking away from this house, from the two people who had somehow become the center of his world, made his chest seize so tightly he had to press a hand over his mouth to keep a sound from escaping.
He thought about the nights on the race with Gyro, the desperate acts in the dark that they never spoke about afterward. He had told himself it was temporary, that it would stay on the other side of the ocean. But then Gyro had brought him here, into this house, into the orbit of the woman who owned Gyro’s heart completely and Johnny had been stupid enough to start wanting things he had no right to want.
Johnny heard the front door open and close.
He stayed frozen, listening. No voice called out. No one came to check on him. You had simply left. The realization sent a fresh spike of panic through his chest. His mind immediately supplied the worst possibilities: you were going to the hospital. You were going to tell Gyro everything. You were going to ask him to choose. Johnny pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until colors burst behind his lids, but it did nothing to stop the spiral.
Meanwhile you walked through the darkening streets with your arms wrapped tightly around yourself. The hospital was only a short distance from the house, close enough that Gyro could come home for meals when his shifts allowed it. You knew his schedule by heart, he would be in the small courtyard behind the main building, smoking or simply sitting with his face tipped up to the sky.
You found him there exactly as expected, the moment he spotted you his whole face lit up and a bright smile spread across his mouth.
“My love–”
You stopped him with both hands against his chest before he could pull you in, pushing him away.
“You’re– Gyro, I know,” you muttered. You hit his chest once, not hard, just enough to release something sharp and painful that had been building since the conversation with Johnny. Your eyes burned, you tried so hard not to cry that the effort made your throat ache. “I know what you and Johnny did on the– the race.”
Gyro’s expression changed in an instant, he caught your wrists gently but firmly, holding them against his chest so you couldn’t pull away or hit him again.
“Calm down,” he said, keeping his voice steady.
“I don’t want to calm down, Gyro!”
“I never stopped loving you. Not for a single second. Do you hear me? Not once.” His thumbs brushed over the inside of your wrists. “I brought Johnny home because I wanted the three of us together. Because I love him too. I know the way you look at him. You like him, right? Don’t lie. I know my wife.”
“Why does it matter? He doesn’t like me.” You got rid of his grip, hitting his arms once again.
Gyro’s brows drew together, genuine disbelief crossed his face.
“That’s not possible.” He shook his head. “I’ll talk to him. Whatever he told you, whatever made you think that–”
“Gyro, he told me that he didn’t like me because I’m your wife. That’s all. Please, I don’t- I don’t want to see him anymore.”
“Let me talk to him, my love, please. You can stay here with me the rest of the morning, and then I’ll talk to him while you walk around town.” He tried to get closer to you again, but everything in your body wanted to reject him.
“No, I don’t want to leave you alone with him in my house. Who knows what you’ll do,” you said, trying hard to sound disgusted.
Gyro smiles bittersweetly. “I won’t do anything without you, my love.”
“You already did! In that stupid race!” Your throat cracked at the end, making you look away.
Gyro’s face tightened but he stayed right there in front of you, close enough that you could see the faint eyebags under his eyes from too many shifts.
“Yes,” he said. “I did. I touched him. I kissed him. I held him when we both thought we might not make it to the next town. I’m not going to stand here and pretend it didn’t happen. But it never changed what I feel for you.”
You shook your head, tears finally spilling over despite every effort to keep them back. “You brought him into our home. You let me get used to him. You let me–” Love him. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes. “You let me start caring about him and the whole time the two of you already had this… this thing between you that I didn’t know about.”
Gyro reached for you again, this time you didn’t have the strength to push him away when his hands settled carefully on your arms.
“I brought him home because I love both of you,” he said, meeting your eyes. “Because the idea of leaving him behind made me sick. I thought… I hoped we could figure it out together. All three of us.”
“He doesn’t want me,” you whispered. The admission hurt more out loud. “He looked terrified when I asked. He said he doesn’t know if he’s attracted to me because I’m your wife. So what is there to talk about?”
Gyro’s thumbs brushed slow circles against your skin. “There’s everything to talk about. Johnny says the first half-true thing that comes to mind and then spends the next three days drowning in it. I’ve seen it a hundred times. Let me speak to him.”
You pulled back enough to look at him properly. “Not in my house.”
“Then I’ll talk to him somewhere else,” Gyro offered immediately. “But I need to hear it from him directly. And he needs to hear that this doesn’t have to be a choice between the two of you.”
You stared at the front of Gyro’s shirt, at the place where your hands had pushed him earlier, and felt the fight start to drain out of you in uneven waves.
“I’m so angry at you,” you said.
“I know.”
“And I’m hurt.”
“I know that too.”
You exhaled shakily. Finally you gave a small, exhausted nod.
“Fine,” you muttered. “Talk to him. But if he says he wants nothing to do with me, I don’t want to hear any more about the three of us. I mean it, Gyro.”
Gyro’s shoulders eased, he lifted one hand and carefully wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“I understand,” he said. “Thank you. I’ll find him as soon as my break is over. I promise.”
“Mm. I’ll go to the bar earlier today, then.” You stepped back, wrapped your arms around yourself again and turned toward the street.
Gyro didn’t bother knocking.
He pushed the front door open with more force than necessary and took the stairs two at a time, the residual heat of the argument with you still burning under his skin. By the time he reached Johnny’s door his jaw was tight and his hands had already curled into fists. He didn’t give himself time to think it through. He simply shoved the door open.
Johnny was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He looked up at the sudden intrusion, eyes red-rimmed and wide, that was all the confirmation Gyro needed.
The punch landed clean across Johnny’s cheek.
It wasn’t hard enough to do real damage, but it was solid enough to snap Johnny’s head to the side and send him half sprawling back onto the mattress. Johnny stared up at him in pure shock, one hand flying to his face, already feeling the heat bloom under the skin.
“What the hell?” Johnny shouted.
“Yeah, what the hell is wrong with you?” He stood over him, breathing hard. “You don’t get to talk to my wife like that, man. You don’t get to sit there and tell her you don’t like her when I know damn well you’re crazy about her. So why the fuck would you say that to her?”
Johnny pushed himself up on one elbow, wincing, and tried to find words that wouldn’t make everything worse.
“She intimidates me,” he managed. “Okay? She always has. And I don’t want to impose on your marriage. You’re her husband. I’m just the person you dragged home. I-I can’t look at her and pretend that doesn’t matter.”
Gyro let out an incredulous breath that was almost a laugh.
“You’re stupid. That’s what you are,” he said flatly. “We want you to impose on our marriage. Don’t you see that? That’s why I brought you here. That’s why she’s been letting you into every part of this house. We both want you. And you sat there and made her think she was the only one feeling anything.”
Johnny stared at him, the hand still pressed to his cheek, eyes shining with shame and disbelief. Gyro didn’t move from where he stood, waiting, the anger still present but now tangled with something more exhausted and more desperate.
“Get up,” Gyro said after a moment. “You’re going to see her, apologize and tell her the fucking truth. She’s working at the bar down the street to the left.”
“Gyro–”
“Don’t ‘Gyro’ me, go.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Johnny got up right after that and ten minutes later he was staring at the opened door of the bar, filling himself with courage to get inside and face you. When he entered, there were only a few regulars inside, you were behind the small stage area, bent over a stack of sheet music and a half-organized set list, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned loosely away from your face. You had clothes and makeup there to change your clothes, so you were gorgeous right now.
You looked up the second the door closed behind him. Your expression cooled the moment you recognized him.
“I don’t have time to talk,” you said flatly, turning back to the papers. “Whatever Gyro sent you here to say, it can wait.”
Johnny crossed the floor anyway, he stopped a few steps from the stage. He could have never imagined that you were a singer, but it made his cheeks warm, not from Gyro’s punch.
“Please. I need to—”
“I have to sing in fifteen minutes,” you cut in, still not looking at him. “And I don’t have a pianist. So unless you’re here to magically fix that, I really don’t have time.”
Johnny’s answer came without hesitation. “I know how to play the piano.”
You finally turned fully toward him, your eyes flicked over his face, the fresh bruise, the slightly disheveled state of him, then settled on his hands.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.” He swallowed. “Let me help. And then… after. We can talk. Or you can tell me to leave. But let me do this first.”
Then you gave a reluctant nod and stepped aside, gesturing toward the upright piano that sat against the wall near the stage.
“There’s a short list on top. Nothing complicated. Stay with the tempo and don’t try to show off.”
Johnny sat down, his fingers hovered over the keys for a second before settling. He tested a soft chord, adjusted the bench and looked up at you once.
“Ready when you are.”
You took your place in front of the microphone as the first few customers drifted closer. The bar felt smaller somehow with him there. When you gave the smallest signal, Johnny began to play. The song opened up under his hands, he played with a confidence you hadn’t expected, supporting your voice perfectly.
Every time you glanced sideways you found him already looking at you, his eyes stayed on your face more than the keys, the way his fingers touched the keys sent shivers down your belly. Your voice stayed steady, but your pulse did not while Johnny’s playing grew a little bolder as the song continued, filling the spaces around your words with soft runs that felt deliberate, like he was answering something you hadn’t said out loud.
The song ended. A few people clapped. Neither of you moved right away.
Johnny’s hands rested on the keys, still. You stayed at the microphone, breathing a little faster than the performance required. Johnny spoke first, voice low enough that only you could hear it.
“I’m sorry. For what I said and how I said it. I was scared and extremely stupid” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “Can we talk after the next song? Please.”
“One more song,” you said finally. “Then we talk.”
Johnny nodded and focused on the keys once again, letting the song flow between you two. It pissed you off how you and him complimented each other so nicely, your other pianist was always entering later or earlier than you, Johnny adjusted to your tempo in two songs. It’s unfair. Everything about him is so unfair.
You didn’t wait for the round of applause once the song was over, you quickly took Johnny by his hand and pulled him to the tiny space you have as a backstage, your bodies inches away to be pressed against each other.
“I’m sorry,” he said, already unsteady. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of that to you today. I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never– I don’t know how to want someone who’s already– and-and you’re you, and it’s terrifying, and I keep thinking if I get too close I’ll ruin everything, so I tried to push it away and I hurt you instead and I’m—”
His voice broke. He pressed the heel of one hand hard against his eyes, but it didn’t help. Tears slipped past his fingers anyway, shoulders shaking and all, crumbling right in front of you.
“I love being around you,” he managed. “Gosh, I might even love you. I think about you all the time and I told you I didn’t know if I was attracted to you because I was scared of what it would mean if I admitted it. I’m so sorry, I won’t do it again.”
“Stop crying,” you said, clicking your tongue although your voice stayed soft.
Johnny tried, dragging a shaky breath and wiping his face, but new tears kept replacing the ones he cleared away. You caught his wrists gently, guiding his hands down before wiping the wetness of his cheeks. He stood there and let you clean his face while he kept blinking hard, trying to get himself under control.
“Hearing you say that makes me happy,” you told him quietly.
Johnny’s eyes opened fully, he searched your face for the moment you might take the words back. When you didn’t, his expression crumpled all over again, he let out a wet breath and leaned forward to drop his forehead on your shoulder.
“Yeah?” he whispered.
“Yeah.”
You let your hand cradle his head, fingers running through his light locks as he finally melts in your arms. He’s been craving for your touch for so long, but still, being like this without Gyro makes both of you feel weird. Johnny craves for Gyro as much as he yearns for you, and now that he can have you both, he needs to have you at the same time.
Somehow you understand him, because after a few moments in that position, you whispered: “Do you wanna go back home? I bet Gyro’s missing us.”
“Yes, please.”
You took his hand now, guiding him through the streets of a Naples he now knows perfectly well, but still letting you take him without thinking about anything except your touch.
Of course, Gyro is waiting for both of his emotionally constipated partners, who arrive at the door hand in hand, while he’s spread on the couch flicking through the newspaper before leaving it to the side to focus his whole attention on you.
“Hi,” he waved with his finger, making you roll your eyes. “Don’t do that face, my love. Did you two fix everything?”
You nodded while Johnny answered with a soft, “Yes.”
“Yeah? Did you apologize and hug each other?”
Gyro’s grin widened the second both of you confirmed it. He stretched his arms along the back of the couch, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Good,” he said, drawing the word out. “That’s really good. Hugging is important. Apologies are important.” His eyes flicked between the two of you. “Have you kissed?”
You felt Johnny’s fingers tighten slightly around yours.
“Gyro–” you started, already half protesting.
He held up a hand, still smiling that infuriating smile. “I’m just asking. And, full honesty, I would love to see you two kiss. I’ve been waiting months for this exact moment.”
You opened your mouth to tell him he was being ridiculous, that things didn’t work on his personal schedule, but Johnny spoke first.
“I would love to kiss you,” he said, turning his head to look at you properly. “If you’re fine with it.”
The sincerity in his eyes undid whatever complaint you had been building. You held his gaze for a second, then gave the smallest nod.
Johnny stepped in closer, free hand coming up to rest lightly at your waist and leaned down. The first brush of his mouth against yours was careful, when you didn’t pull away he kissed you again, your hand rose to the side of his neck, thumb resting just under his jaw, he made a quiet sound against your mouth that sent a slow shiver down your spine.
Neither of you seemed inclined to stop. The kiss deepened by degrees, turning hungrier, Johnny’s fingers pressed more firmly at your waist and you tilted your head for him to go deeper, tongues dancing together and exploring each other’s mouth
Somewhere in the background Gyro was still on the couch, but for a long moment he might as well have been in another house entirely.
“Hey, hey,” he said, trying to make himself visible. “I’m happy for you two. But you could include me or something, I’m starting to feel left out. I hate feeling left out.”
Johnny broke the kiss first, though he didn’t go far. His cheek rested against yours for a second, breath uneven, before he looked at Gyro. He held both of his arms up waiting for you two to take them and sit by his sides.
“Well?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Room for one more, or do I have to come over there and make space for myself?”
That made you laugh and you ended up being the first one to take his hand and sit by his side, only for Johnny to sit next to you instead of taking Gyro’s hand.
“Johnny!” Gyro protested, but the American was already hugging you from behind to have your back against his chest.
“You had her for so many years before me, let me hog her for a while,” Johnny bit back, now burying his head on your neck and leaving little kisses on it, making you nothing but a giggly mess.
You managed you grab Gyro’s cheeks between your hands before melting into Johnny and saying:
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summary: tim drake is a good boyfriend. not because he's handsome or smart or kind or a gentleman—though he is all of those things. above everything, he gives you the love you always wished you had as a child
warnings: reader has intrusive thoughts
UNEDITED!
Tim Drake is a good boyfriend. Most of all, he’s healed parts of you you never knew needed to be stitched together.
When you first met him, his childlike sweetness seemed a bit strange. With you—and only with you—he used soft, babylike voices. With you, he strokes your head and would absolutely read you a bedtime story if you said you needed one.
He never raises his voice, he never swears at you.
And the safety you feel around him is almost familial. Like he’s always been a part of you. Like your souls have always been intertwined. The kind of closeness you feel with him is golden, there’s a different kind of safety that comes with being with him.
You feel like a kid.
Really, you feel like a child.
You tell him every single thought you have—the terrible intrusive ones and the dreams in which rainbows come to life.
You feel alive.
Life somehow feels warmer with him around.
And you didn’t realize how much of a safety net he’d become for you until you came to him crying about intrusive thoughts. Bad things, unwanted dirty things, evil thoughts worming their way through the glittering shelter Tim made around your mind.
And he’s there.
And he knows you don’t need him to patch you up all the time. Most of all, you know you don’t need it. If you were by yourself, you’d simply crush your eyes shut and tell your mind to shut up. But when running away from your own mind becomes too difficult, he will carry you the rest of the way.
So here you are, your head against his chest while his hand trails from your forehead as he shushes you.
He wiggles his fingers, kissing your head gently as he talks you through each and every bad thought.
“See? We’re taking all the bad thoughts away.” He pretends to gently pry strings of thought from your mind, then flicks them away. “And I’m gonna put nice thoughts back inside your head, okay?”
He kisses your forehead. “We’re putting in some sweet dreams.” Another peck. “Some smart thoughts—though you have lots of those already, don’t you?”
“I want them anyway,” you giggle, clinging to his shirt.
“And we’re gonna seal off your mind so the bad thoughts can’t bother you again.” He taps on your head, dragging his fingers along your skin and making silly sound-effects with his mouth. Like he’s zipping you back up or stitching you together after surgery.
Pretending to remove your bad thoughts isn’t a solution to coping with them, but goodness, it feels nice to be comforted. And sometimes, you don’t need a solution. All you want is someone to just…be there.
He never says your thoughts are irrational.
He never makes fun of the things that go on inside your head, no matter how wild or crazy or intrusive.
“I love you,” you whisper, nuzzling your way into your chest.
“I love you, too.”
He’s not Superman, and you don’t need him to be. You just need him to be sweet Tim, rubbing the bridge of your nose as he lulls you to sleep, securing your bad thoughts away forever.
“I love you” are very difficult words for BRUCE WAYNE to say.
He’s not good with his words, and he is not good with his actions either, but he tries.
The second Bruce starts taking you as his plus one everywhere, or when you start staying at the Manor some nights, or when you finally get to meet his children formally, you know you have started a relationship with Bruce Wayne.
To have a relationship with Bruce is a big deal. Anyone could end up in his bed, naked and satisfied. But not anyone can say they are formally dating him. That’s your privilege.
Still, he has never said “I love you”. Not once.
You love him, and he knows it—you’ve told him many times. In a lazy, honeyed voice right after you woke up. In an enthusiastic voice, full of affection, every time he gives you a new gift he bought for you for no reason at all. Whispered, like a secret, every time you comfort him. Moaned when he touches you…
You love Bruce Wayne, everything about him, without exceptions.
He knows.
But does he love you?
He cares about you—he cares deeply. Your wellbeing is important to him. He often calls you, or texts you to check up on you. He prioritizes you over anything else, even himself.
He admires you, worships you. He never misses an opportunity to compliment you. How beautiful you are, how your dress enhances your beauty impossibly more. For him you’re ethereal, too good to be true, too good to be his.
And he for sure makes you remember you’re dating the billionaire Bruce Wayne. He showers you with presents. But each one has value, meaning, a story behind them. He’s thought each one through carefully before giving it to you. He also takes you to every gala and stays by your side, making sure you’re comfortable with the place and the people.
He cares for you, admires you, and gives you everything you could ask for.
Then he must love you.
But you’re longing for him to tell you. You want to hear those three words come out of his mouth. You want him to confirm it—for your sake and for his own.
And maybe you think that, after all this time with Bruce, you could guess the moment when he’d finally say it. Maybe one day, whispering it in your ear at a gala. One day, moaning as you make love. One day, with a painful physical effort, while you’re by his side after a tough night as Batman.
But not now. Not like this.
“I love you.” His voice has that normalcy not many have the privilege to know, because they only know the charismatic Bruce, but not the relaxed, off guard Bruce you love.
He had cut you off. You were telling him about your day at work, complaining about the people, about how much your body ached from the exhaustion, and meanwhile you were walking around Bruce’s room. While telling your story you had picked up your nightgown from the closet, then walked towards the bathroom to clean your face, then walked towards your bag to pick up something. You hadn’t stopped moving nor talking.
Meanwhile, Bruce was looking at you, following your every movement and listening to your every word attentively. He even hummed in approval at some of the comments you made. And then he cut you off.
You were at the climax of the story, and then he cut you off.
To say “I love you”.
Everything stopped, and suddenly you felt the room fading. It was only you and Bruce.
He had a small smile on his face and his eyes never moved away from your figure, never hesitated.
Then he said it again.
“I love you.” Followed by your name.
Bruce Wayne loved you, and so did you.
And those three words were complicated for Bruce Wayne, until he met you. He just needed to find the right time to say it, so you would believe him.
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𝒪𝓃ℯ 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃ℊ 𝓎ℴ𝓊𝓇 𝓁ℴℴ𝓀𝒾𝓃ℊ 𝒻ℴ𝓇𝓌𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝓉ℴ 𝓇𝓃༯ Going to the Orlando metro area with my man and my best friend.
𝒴ℴ𝓊𝓇 𝒷𝒾ℊℊℯ𝓈𝓉 𝒹𝓇ℯ𝒶𝓂༯ Fulfillment, meaning, and peace. Also to become an actress but also a figure for other black women and guide us till I can't anymore.
𝒮ℴ𝓃ℊ 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉'𝓈 𝓅ℯ𝓇𝓂𝒶𝓃ℯ𝓃𝓉𝓁𝓎 ℴ𝓃 𝓇ℯ𝓅ℯ𝒶𝓉༯ I literally can't choose but artist that I'm rarely gonna skip are: Miguel, Beyoncé, Megan Thee Stallion, Iyla, & Arctic Moneys.
hair color: i have a split dye, one side is my natural brown the other side is pink and green
favorite colors: pink and green (shocker, i know)
favorite drink: big fan of ice water
one thing you love about yourself: my own sense of humor, i genuinely believe i’m the funniest person on the planet
if you could be any animal, what would you be: a chihuahua specifically owned by myself or my husband. we love our little ratdogs 🫶
dream place to visit: i’ve always wanted to go to new zealand, ireland and greece
one thing you’re looking forward to right now: i’m going to the beach tomorrow!
my biggest dream: i’d love to own an animal rescue 🥺
song permanently on repeat: currently summer disease by millington
no pressure tags: @satorusdollie @satorusdreamer @hotties4gojo @satoruined @lunarkyn @oporotheca @iamsoclone @serpenttine @plaguecxlt @siennayaps + whoever would like to join
favorite drink: red bull yellow can, mango juice, or a reaaaally iced bottle of water
one thing you love about yourself: how i make ppl laugh
if you could be any animal: snow leapard because i love felines sm (and my previous print theme ifykyk)
dream place to visit: morrocco! tho i might not be able to handle the heat lmao
one thing you’re looking forward to: making my chicken caeser salad and binge watch with my face mask on
biggest dream: becoming a lawyer
song permanently on repeat: (as of right now) crazy in love remix-- beyoncé
no pressure tags !! : @vianawaits @scissorhvnds @srenique @starr-jazz @stcrgazerlily @gr0und-zer00 @twentytomidnight @arfemiz @fancy-possum @froggibus + anyone who would like to join!
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summary: Kori comes back from a mission and isn’t patient enough to wake you up in the morning :(
warnings: fluff!!! Kinda bad cause I wrote this in a rush!!!
The bedroom door slid open as Kori peeked her head inside the warm dark room, eyes scanning the shadows for a familiar figure.
She quickly spotted the long lump under the covers, not being able to hide the big smile forming in her lips. She squealed and moved forward towards the bed, throwing herself on top of you just to suffocate you with her muscular arms.
“Love! I’m back!” Kori slowly pulled the covers down your head, revealing your face that was now scrunched up from the sudden intrusion on your sleep. You tiredly blinked your eyes open. “Kori…?”
She nodded her head, smiling wide at you as she pressed her nose in the crook of your neck, breathing your scent in. “I missed you so much.”
You let her bask in your presence, one arm lazily reaching behind her to comb through her fiery hair. “Missed you too babe…”
Your girlfriend was finally home from her month-long mission, you were obviously happy. But right now, all you wanted was to go back to sleep. The sudden calmness in her demeanour gave you hope that she had tired herself out, meaning you will probably make up for lost time tommorow in the form of a date.
You felt yourself drift off to sleep before you were suddenly yanked up over her shoulder. “Kori!” You gasped.
She drifted off to the living room with you hanging off her broad shoulder, “Please don’t fall alseep yet sweetheart, I wanted to show you what I got you!”
You figured there was no way out now.
“Fine.”
She squealed and threw you on the couch, then hovered over to her bag to get something and sat down right next to you.
The sparkly stones in her hands clanked against each other as she brought them up to your face. “Look! I got them as I was frequenting space!”
You were entranced by the intricate patterns of the rocks, each different than the other and beautiful in its own way.
“They’re really pretty Kori.” You smiled and she giggled.
Kori started to ramble on about her adventures on the mission enthusiastically while you layed your head onto her shoulder. Her voice blended into the background as you felt your eyes shutter closed once again, body slumping against her side.
“Love?” She only stopped her rambling when she noticed you weren’t responding to her question. Her face softened when she saw your slumbering state.
Oh. Right. You were tired. And she dragged you out of the bed in the middle of the night to show you some rocks.
Kori pouted and cursed herself mentally as she bended over the couch to pick you back up, doing her best not to wake you up again.
“I’m so sorry love.” She whispered, placing a kiss on top of your head. “Go back to sleep.”
Her loving touch soothed you as you unconsciously buried your face further into her neck.
Kori silently flew back to the bedroom, keeping your body in a tight embrace even while she stumbled onto the white sheets with you.
“My sleepy girl…” her gentle words echoes off of the bedroom walls, a warm feeling filling both of your hearts.
Summary: While getting ready to travel with team avatar for Aang's journey to preserve the air bender's culture, you find out that you may or may not have been too loud the night before.
Pairing: Fire Lord Zuko x Fire Lady!Reader
Word Count: 0.8k
Content Warning: minor spoilers for new movie but no plot is mentioned, established relationship, suggestive content mentioned, fluff, slice of life, they're freaks, second person, no use of y/n
A/N: i watched the movie and i'm obsessed please send zuko recs i'm so sat for him. kind of a mess bc i whipped it up in like two hours. as always, i hope you enjoy <3
•───────•°•♡•°•───────•
"And here I thought I packed too much."
Holding your husband's third bag over your head, you hear him scoff while taking it from you. He always had a habit of packing heavy, and it's only gotten worse with age.
Sokka starts to snicker to himself, but quickly masks it with a cough when the Fire Lord sends a look his way.
"Just because we're on a trip doesn't mean our responsibilities disappear." the over-packer attempts to justify his bag filled with scrolls.
"It's like four days, your highness," you finally string your own backpack over your shoulder, climbing up Appa's side, "I think the Fire Nation will just fine."
"And I think you have too much faith in our Grand Chamberlain, my dear." he mutters, wrapping his hand around yours, pulling you onto the flying bison.
Hooking your free hand on the railing of the saddle to push up, Zuko's hands move from your hand to find their favorite spot at your waist. He picks you up with a practiced ease he's used to from the bedroom. Your grip moves to his biceps, steadying yourself as he places you down right in front of him.
Dropping a quick kiss to your forehead, he slips his hand on the strap of your backpack to take it from your grasp. This was the longest you'd ever lasted holding something. He always offered to hold your bags, or just take them.
"Ever the gentleman," you laugh as he throws your only bag amongst his three.
"Only the best manners for my Lady," he hums, his back facing you.
A cheeky grin crosses your face as an idea enters your mind.
"I don't know how true that is, My Lord." you take the ends of his ponytail and wrap them around your index and pointer fingers, "I'm recalling some manners last night that were not necessarily up to par."
He freezes, the words registering instantly. There's an indulgent memory playing from your shared tent behind his eyes. You watch as the back of his neck tints to a color oddly similar to his robe; your grin only grows wider at the sight.
"Darling," he starts dangerously, turning his head sideways to meet your gaze, "correct me if I'm wrong; but I was under the impression you liked it when-"
"OKAY YOU TWO, THAT'S ENOUGH!" Sokka's voice cuts through the air loudly next to you.
Not being able to hold it in any longer, you burst out laughing. Zuko's face now flushes entirely, but he matches your sentiment with a knowing shake of the head.
"I'm sorry Sokka-" you manage to get out between laughs, "he's just so fun to tease."
Sticking his tongue out at you, your husband only adds fuel to the fire of your cackles.
"I swear," he grumbles to himself, "you guys are almost as bad as Aang and Katara."
At that, Zuko snaps his neck in Sokka's direction. It's terribly obvious that a protest begins to form in his throat, only to be shut up by Toph popping up next to you all.
"Speaking of," her voice gets closer as she rises on the stone pillar, "Where is Twinkle Toes? Aren't we supposed to be leaving soon?"
"He was meditating near the new air temple."
"Katara went to go get him a little bit ago," you add onto Zuko's information.
"Oh great," Sokka starts again flatly, "we're lucky if we leave by midnight."
"Ye of little faith, they'll be here soon."
"Yeah sure," he scoffs unbelievingly, "we'll leave on time when Zuko stops pretending he doesn't like it rough."
"Okay that's-"
"Sorry I kept you all waiting!" a cheery voice that could only belong to one man rings from behind the pillars.
Aang doesn't seem to notice that you and Zuko's faces now mirror your nation's colors, Katara does though. She looks to to the other three faces, trying to read the situation before making eye contact with you. Raising an eyebrow, you just shake your head as a response; a silent plea that she won't add to the situation.
Thankfully, she understands and keeps quiet.
Aang continues through the crowd, preparing the others for the journey.
"It's your fault for being loud," Zuko mutters into your ear, moving so his front meets your back.
Twisting your neck to look up at him, betrayal paints your expression. "Correct me if I'm wrong darling," you repeat his words back to him, "but I was under the impression you liked me loud."
The ends of his lips start pulling into something that might resemble a smirk, but he purses them before it can be completed. "I do."
You huff indignantly and he wraps his arms around your waist. Pulling you closer to him, he rests his chin on the crown of your head.
"But I like it better when it's just for me."
•───────•°•♡•°•───────•
A/N: I'm trying something new with making the text small, lmk if yall like it!
