The Big Cheese

The bar at the Hano Grand Resort was all polished wood and soft amber light, the kind of place Guzma wouldn't have been caught dead in a few years ago. But here he was, slumped at a corner table with a beer he'd been nursing for the better part of an hour, his hoodie swapped for something slightly less conspicuous—a black jacket with red tape over the old Team Skull logo, because Hala had given him that look when he'd shown up in his usual gear.

The event was some kind of inter-regional mixer, Alolan kahunas rubbing elbows with elites from all regions

"Networking," Hala had called it. "Building bridges."

Guzma had called it something else entirely, but Nanu had just leveled him with that flat, unimpressed stare—the one that said he'd seen worse, dealt with worse, and wasn't about to put up with Guzma's shit—and so here he was. Nursing a beer. Hating every second of it, and counting the minutes until he could leave without getting a lecture.

He took a swig of his beer, eyes wandering the room, bored. 

Hau was there, all grins and easy energy, and Kiawe with his permanent scowl, and Olivia draped in crystals and warmth. But there were others, too—faces he recognized with a sour twist in his gut. The Sinnoh crew. Gardenia with her weird hair, Volkner looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, Flint with that stupid fiery afro, and Cynthia, all cool elegance and knowing eyes. He'd met them all once, back when you were still together. You’d introduced them, and he'd told you afterward that he hoped he never saw them again. They'd rubbed him the wrong way—or maybe he'd rubbed them the wrong way. Same difference.

Then he heard you laugh. That laugh—bright and sharp and unapologetic, the kind that cut through noise like a blade. He'd know it anywhere. He'd heard it in his dreams for months after you left, waking up with his chest hollow and his fists clenched.

His head snapped up so fast his neck cracked, eyes searching for your form. 

And there you were—different, but the same. Your hair was black now, streaked with bleach, nothing like the natural purple he'd run his fingers through a hundred times. Your eyes caught the light wrong, teal instead of pink, and he wondered when you'd changed them. Why you'd changed them. But your smile—that was exactly the same. The way you tilted your head when you listened. The way your fingers tapped against your glass.

You were beautiful. You'd always been beautiful. You were exactly as he remembered.

The memories hit him like a wave, sudden and vicious. The night you'd ended it. The way you'd stood in the doorway of his room in the Shady House, your bag already packed, your expression unreadable. "I can't do this anymore, Guzma." The anger that had surged through him, hot and blinding. The things he'd said—things he couldn't take back, things that still curdled in his gut when he thought about them too long. The way you hadn't even fought back. You'd just looked at him with those pink eyes—teal now, he reminded himself—and walked away.

He'd told himself he was better off. He'd told himself you were the problem. He'd told himself a lot of things, and none of them had ever felt true.

Your laugh rang out again, bright and unguarded, and Guzma's gaze snapped back to the present. Flint had said something—some stupid joke, probably—and Volkner was smirking, his hand resting on your arm in a gesture that was probably friendly, probably nothing, but Guzma's vision went red at the edges anyway. His grip tightened on his beer bottle until his knuckles went white.

He forced himself to look away. To breathe. To remind himself that he had no claim on you anymore. That he'd lost that right a long time ago.

The group dispersed eventually. Hau dragged Kiawe toward the buffet table. Olivia wandered off to accost Cynthia about something, her heels wobbling dangerously. Gardenia and Flint got into some kind of animated debate about Grass-types versus Fire-types, and Volkner drifted after them, looking vaguely amused. And you—you stayed at the table, alone, scrolling through your phone. 

Your other hand tapped against the table. 

Tap, tap, tap. 

A restless rhythm. An anxious one.

Guzma knew that rhythm. He knew what it meant. You needed a smoke.

He downed the rest of his beer in one long swallow, the bitterness coating his throat, and pushed himself to his feet before he could talk himself out of it. His heart was pounding—which was stupid, he was Big Bad Guzma, he didn't get nervous—but his palms were sweating and his mouth was dry and every step toward your table felt like walking through quicksand.

He sidled up beside you, close enough to smell your perfume—different from what you used to wear, but still you underneath it, still familiar. You didn't look up. Your thumb scrolled lazily across your screen, your other hand still tapping that anxious rhythm against the tabletop.

He cleared his throat.

Nothing. You kept scrolling.

He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly feeling like an idiot. What was he supposed to say? Hey, sorry I was a massive jerk? Hey, I've thought about you every day since you left? Hey, I'm trying to be better, but I don't know if it's working?

He cleared his throat again, louder this time. "Uh. Hey."

You looked up.

And the world stopped.

Your eyes—teal now, bright and unnatural and so fucking beautiful—met his, and for a long, breathless moment, neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved. The noise of the bar faded to a dull hum, the lights dimmed to nothing, and there was only you, only him, only the years and the hurt and the wanting stretching between you like a live wire.

-----

The Hano Grand Resort bar was all warm amber light and the low hum of conversation, the kind of upscale venue that made you feel both out of place and right at home. You'd dressed for the occasion—something sleek, something that hugged your curves and showed off the ink winding around your body—and you were ready to drink good drinks, laugh at bad jokes, and maybe sneak out for a smoke or two when the opportunity presented itself.

When you'd first arrived back in Alola from Kalos, you'd been braced for impact. Every corner turned, every familiar face in a crowd, every flash of white hair in your peripheral vision—you'd been waiting for the inevitable collision. But it hadn't come. Days passed. Then a week. You'd visited your sister Lilium at her perfume shop, and she hadn't mentioned him. You'd walked the streets of Hau'oli City, and he hadn't appeared. It was like the universe had decided to give you a clean break, a fresh start, and you'd started to believe—foolishly, perhaps—that you might actually get through this trip without seeing him.

And now here you were, scanning the crowded bar for an empty seat, and your eyes snagged on a lone figure in the corner like a hook through silk.

Guzma.

He looked the same as ever. White hair, black sides, that sharp, angular face that had always been too handsome for your own good. He was nursing a beer, his posture slumped, his expression somewhere between bored and miserable—the exact same expression he'd worn the day you met him, when he'd followed the scent of your weed to your table and invited himself to sit down. He looked older, though. Not in a bad way. There was something different about the set of his shoulders, the way he held himself. Slightly more mature. Slightly more grounded.

He looked good. Hot, even. Attractive in that rough, dangerous way that had always made your pulse quicken.

You bit your bottom lip, memories (which you had no business remembering) flickering through your mind like an old film reel—the way his hands had felt on your hips, the way he'd growl your name against your throat. The way he'd fuck you like he was trying to prove something—to you, to himself, to the whole damn world. The sex had always been good. That had never been the problem.

The problem was everything else.

You shook your head, forcing the memories down. They curdled quickly enough, turning dark. The good times had always been shadowed by the bad. 

You'd wanted stability. You'd wanted someone who could be your anchor, not your storm. And Guzma…was a hurricane. Beautiful and devastating and utterly incapable of being anything else. He'd shown you that, time and time again. The arguments that spiraled into screaming matches. The way he'd lash out when he felt cornered, his insecurities curdling into cruelty. The shoves. The slap that had left your cheek stinging and your heart cracking. The bottle that had shattered against the wall, hurled in a fit of rage, missing you by inches, shattering against the wall behind you. The way you'd flinched and he hadn't even apologized—just stood there, breathing hard, his eyes wild and unseeing.

He'd never threatened your life. He'd never meant to hurt you, not really. But that bottle had been a glimpse of what might happen, what could happen, if you stayed.

And you'd had enough. 

You packed your bags and left, disappearing without a trace.

Your chest tightened. Your pulse quickened. The familiar tendrils of a panic attack curled around your lungs, squeezing.

Smoking had always helped. A joint, a cigarette, anything to take the edge off. But this was a formal event, and you couldn't exactly light up in the middle of the Hano Grand's pristine bar. So you made your way to the counter instead, your fingers tapping against your thigh in that restless rhythm you could never quite control, and ordered something strong.

"You look different."

The voice came from beside you, low and dry and familiar. You turned to find Volkner sliding onto the stool next to yours, his blonde hair as disheveled as ever, his blue eyes sharp despite his perpetually bored expression.

"Volkner." You blinked, genuinely surprised. "You recognized me?"

"You're my friend." He shrugged, signaling the bartender for his own drink. "Your sister might not have seen through the new hair and the eye thing, but I know you better than that."

There was something in the way he said it—a hint of warmth beneath the apathy, a flicker of shared history. You and Volkner had never been serious, but there had been moments. Nights when you'd both needed someone who understood what it was like to feel too much and too little all at once.

The bartender slid your drink across the counter, and you took a grateful sip. The burn was grounding. "It's good to see you."

"You too." He studied you for a moment, his gaze unreadable. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Something like that."

He didn't push. Volkner never did. He just nodded toward a large table near the window, where a familiar cluster of faces had gathered. "Come on. Flint's been talking about you all night. If I have to hear one more story about—"

"Volkner!" Flint's voice boomed across the bar, his red afro bobbing as he waved enthusiastically. "Is that who I think it is?"

You allowed yourself to be swept into the reunion. Flint pulled you into a crushing hug, his warmth infectious. Gardenia clasped her hands together and exclaimed over your new look, her green eyes bright with genuine delight. Cynthia inclined her head with that serene, knowing smile of hers, and Olivia nearly tackled you to the ground in a glomp that sent her heels skidding dangerously across the floor. Kiawe offered a respectful nod, his arms crossed over his bare chest, and Hau—sweet, sunny Hau—threw his arms around you like no time had passed at all.

It was Hau who leaned in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Hey, so, you know Guzma's here, right?"

You stiffened. "I saw."

"He's been, uh—" Hau scratched the back of his neck, his expression earnest. "Gramps has been working with him. Helping him, you know, turn things around. He's actually doing pretty good. Like, for real."

You didn't ask for this information. You didn't want it. And yet it settled into your chest like a stone, heavy and cold. Guzma was changing. Guzma was getting better. For Hala. For the island. For everyone except you.

Why couldn't he have changed for you?

"That's nice," you said, your voice carefully neutral, and took a long drink.

The group dispersed gradually. Hau and Kiawe headed for the buffet, Hau throwing a hopeful glance over his shoulder that you deflected with a small shake of your head. Olivia latched onto Cynthia, chattering about relationships—Cynthia listened with patient amusement, though you caught her murmuring something about how she preferred the company of her Pokémon to the complications of romance. Gardenia and Flint's debate about Grass-types versus Fire-types grew increasingly heated until they decided to settle it with a battle outside, their voices fading as they headed for the door.

Volkner paused beside you, his hand resting briefly on your arm. "You sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine." You forced a smile. "Go make sure they don't kill each other."

He snorted, amused, and drifted after them.

And then you were alone.

You pulled out your phone, scrolling aimlessly through nothing, your finger tapping against the table in that restless rhythm. Tap, tap, tap. The anxiety was creeping back, coiling around your spine, whispering in your ear. You wanted a smoke. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to be anywhere but here, in this bar, in this city, on this island where every corner held a memory you couldn't escape.

You were so engrossed in your scrolling that you didn't notice the figure who sidled up beside you. Didn't hear the awkward clearing of a throat. Didn't notice anything until a voice—rough, familiar, hesitant—broke through the fog.

"Uh. Hey."

Your finger stilled. Your heart stopped.

You lifted your head. 

Guzma stood beside your table, his hand scratching the back of his neck, his dark eyes fixed on yours with an expression you couldn't quite read. Close enough to touch. Close enough to smell—the faint trace of cheap cologne and something underneath it, something that was just him. His dark eyes met yours, and for a long, breathless moment, neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved.

The noise of the bar faded to a dull hum, the lights dimmed to nothing, and there was only him, only you, only the years and the hurt and the wanting stretching between you like a live wire. 

The world narrowed to the space between you. To the years and the hurt and the wanting. To everything you'd left behind and everything you'd never quite been able to let go.

-----

The hotel room door slammed shut behind you, and then you were on him—hands fisting in his jacket, mouth crashing against his, your back hitting the door as he pressed into you with a groan that vibrated through your entire body. He kissed like he was starving. Like he'd been starving for years. His hands were everywhere—your hips, your waist, your hair—and you were tearing at his clothes, shoving his jacket off his shoulders, yanking his shirt over his head.

He did the same to you, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of your blouse, his breath hot and ragged against your throat. "Fuck, Caly—"

"Shut up." You pushed him backward toward the bed, and he went willingly, his knees hitting the edge of the mattress and buckling. He fell onto his back, pulling you with him, and you straddled his hips, your hands splaying across his bare chest.

And then you paused.

He was different. Still lean, still wiry, but there was more definition now—muscles that hadn't been there before, a solidness that surprised you. Your fingers traced the lines of his chest, his stomach, the curve of his shoulders.

"Damn, Guz. You been working out?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.

He smirked up at you, that familiar, infuriating smirk. "Something like that."

"What the fuck does that even mean."

"Hala's got me doing farm work." He said it like it was nothing, but there was something in his voice—a flicker of pride, maybe. Or embarrassment. "Planting berry trees. Taking care of 'em. Diggin' holes, weedin’, haulin' dirt, all that crap. All around Melemele."

You went still. Hau's words echoed in your head. 

So it was true. Guzma—Big Bad Guzma—was planting trees. Was turning over a new leaf. Was becoming the man you'd always hoped he could be, just not for you.

"You like it?" His voice cut through your thoughts, low and teasing. His hands slid up your thighs, gripping your hips. "The muscles, I mean."

You shook yourself out of your stupor and scoffed, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you. "Don't get cocky, bug-boy."

"You're blushin’."

"I am not—"

"I think you do." He sat up suddenly, one arm wrapping around your waist, and flipped you onto your back with a fluidity that made your head spin. He loomed over you, his eyes dark and hungry, his smirk widening. "I think you like it a lot."

You didn't answer. You couldn't. Because he was already kissing you again, already peeling away the last of your clothes, already lowering his mouth to your stomach.

His lips traced the sinuous lines of your tattoo—Quiznos, your shiny Rayquaza, your pride and joy. The dragon's head rested just above your sternum, its ears flaring beneath your collarbones, its body coiling around your ribs, your hips, your left thigh, the tail ending in a delicate curl mid-thigh. Guzma kissed every inch of it, slow and reverent, like he was memorizing you all over again.

"Have I ever told you how much I love this tattoo?" he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and damp. Guzma kissed every inch of it. Slow. Reverent. Like he was memorizing you all over again. “It’s so fucking sexy.”

You hummed, a smirk curving your lips. "Quiznos is the most magnificent beast in any region, and don't you forget it. Shiny Rayquaza—do you know the odds of that? One in four thousand and ninety-six, and he's mine. He's flattened champions, torn through entire teams without breaking a sweat, and he looks damn good doing it." Your fingers threaded through his white hair, tugging just enough to make him grunt. "Of course I needed to memorialize him. He's a legend. So am I."

His mouth moved higher, finding your left breast. He sucked hard, his tongue circling your nipple, and you gasped, your back arching off the mattress. He didn't stop, teeth grazing the sensitive peak before traveling upward, over your collarbone, along the curve of your shoulder—and then he found it.

The Team Skull logo. Purple ink on your skin, the lines fresh and crisp, the color vibrant. A recent touch-up. A permanent mark.

He went still.

"You kept it," he breathed, his voice rough with something that sounded almost like awe.

"Of course I kept it."

"But I thought—after everything—" He swallowed hard, his thumb tracing the edge of the logo. "Mine were fake. Stickers. You always gave me shit for that."

A laugh bubbled up from your chest, low and teasing. "Yeah, well. Someone had to commit. And I always had more balls than you when it came to needles."

His jaw tightened. His eyes dropped back to the tattoo, and something in his expression shifted—darkened, heated, broke open. "Looks like you got it touched up not too long ago."

"I did."

He didn't ask why. He didn't need to.

A sound escaped him—half groan, half growl—and then his mouth was on the tattoo, teeth sinking into the purple ink with a ferocity that made you cry out. He bit down hard, marking the mark, claiming what had always been his, and your hands flew to his hair, fisting in the white strands as pleasure and pain blurred into one electric, devastating sensation.

He pulled back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark and wild and full of something that looked almost like desperation. You looked up at him, your chest heaving, your lips parted, and you saw it all—the desire, the want, the years of yearning that had never quite gone away.

He positioned himself between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your slick entrance, and for a moment he just looked at you. Like you were the only thing in the world that had ever mattered.

"Caly—" he started, his voice rough and breaking.

You reached up and pulled him down to you, your mouth crashing against his, and he thrust into you in one long, deep stroke that made you both groan into the kiss.

The first time you'd slept with Guzma—back when you were still new, younger, still figuring each other out, still burning bright and fast and reckless—it had been raw. Physical. A collision of bodies more than a connection. He'd fucked like he battled: aggressive, dominant, chasing his own high with a single-minded intensity that left you satisfied but never quite...full. It had been good. It had always been good. But it had never been like this.

Now, he moved inside you with a rhythm that was still rough, still desperate, but there was something else beneath it. Something that made him pause when your breath hitched, that made him slow when your fingers clutched at his shoulders, that made him watch your face with an intensity that bordered on reverence.

"You good?" His voice was wrecked, barely more than a growl, but the question was genuine. His hips stilled, buried deep inside you, and he braced himself on his forearms, his forehead nearly touching yours.

You nodded, breathless. "Don't stop."

He didn't. But he didn't rush, either. His thrusts were deep and deliberate, angled in a way that made your toes curl and your back arch off the mattress. One hand slid down your body—over your ribs, your stomach, the curve of your hip—until his thumb found your clit, circling it with a pressure that was almost too much, almost perfect.

"Like that?" he asked, and the fact that he was asking—that he cared enough to ask—sent a jolt of heat through you that had nothing to do with the physical.

"Yes—fuck, Guzma, right there—"

He kept going. Steady. Relentless. His thumb worked you in tight circles, his cock hitting that spot deep inside you with every stroke, and you felt the pressure building—hot and tight and inevitable. Your hands fisted in the sheets, pulling them so hard that you popped two of the corners off the mattress, your head thrown back, your breath coming in sharp, broken gasps.

"Come on," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. "Let go. I got you."

You shattered.

The orgasm ripped through you like a wave, your body clenching around him, a cry tearing from your throat. He fucked you through it, his rhythm finally faltering as your climax triggered his own. He buried his face in your neck, a guttural groan vibrating against your skin, and you felt the hot pulse of his release spill inside you, his hips jerking with every spasm.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant crash of waves beyond the window. He was still inside you, still draped over you, his weight grounding you in a way that felt dangerously close to comfort.

Then he rolled off, collapsing onto his back beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes. The sheets were a lost cause—tangled and damp and half torn from the mattress. The room smelled like sex and sweat and the faint, lingering trace of his cologne.

"So," he said, his voice hoarse. "How long you in Alola for?"

The question hung in the air, deceptively casual. You stared at the ceiling, your heart still pounding, your body still humming with the aftershocks of your orgasm. "Depends."

"On what?"

"On how I'm feeling." You kept your voice carefully neutral. 

He was quiet for a moment. Then, hesitantly: "You think you might be free? To, uh. Catch up?"

You turned your head to look at him. His arm was still over his eyes, but his jaw was tight, his free hand fidgeting with the edge of the sheet. He looked vulnerable in a way you'd never seen before. Uncertain. Like he was bracing himself for a blow he knew he deserved.

"Guzma." Your voice was firm. "I'm not interested in getting back together."

He flinched. It was small, barely perceptible, but you saw it—the way his jaw tightened, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Yeah," he said, and his voice was steady, even if his eyes weren't. "Yeah, I figured. I just—" He took a breath. "I just wanna catch up. As old friends. That's all."

You studied him. The sharp lines of his profile. The way his chest rose and fell with each breath. The faint scar on his shoulder that you'd never asked about. Part of you wanted to say no. Wanted to get up, get dressed, walk out of this hotel room and never look back. It would be easier. Safer. The old Caly would have done it without hesitation—leave before you're left, disappear before you can be abandoned.

But the old Caly hadn't just had the best sex of her life with a man who'd actually made sure she came first.

You thought about the way he'd touched you. The way he'd asked if you were okay. The way he'd looked at you like you were something precious, something he was terrified of breaking again.

"Maybe," you said finally. "I'll consider it. Depending on how the second round goes."

He lowered his arm, his dark eyes finding yours. The smirk that spread across his face was pure Guzma—cocky, infuriating, devastatingly attractive. "Second round, huh?"

“Guzma, I swear to—”

He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, his gaze trailing down your body with obvious intent. "Ride me," he said, his voice dropping to that low, rough register that made your stomach flip. "I wanna see your face this time."

You raised an eyebrow. "That so?"

"Yeah." His hand found your hip, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your skin. "I wanna watch you fall apart. Wanna see those pretty eyes when you come on my cock."

Heat pooled low in your belly. Against your better judgment—against every instinct that told you to run, to protect yourself, to leave before you got in too deep—you swung your leg over his hips and straddled him, feeling him already hard again beneath you.

"Second round," you murmured, bracing your hands on his chest. "Impress me."

The Shady House was never quiet, but tonight the usual chaos of Team Skull's headquarters had been muffled to a dull, distant throb—Guzma had kicked everyone out hours ago, threatening grievous bodily harm to anyone who disturbed him. The grunts had scattered like Rattata, and now it was just the two of you, tangled in his ratty sheets, the air thick with smoke and sex and the sticky Alolan heat.

Your purple hair was a mess, tangled and sweaty, and your pink eyes were half-lidded with that particular bliss that only came from good weed and better sex. You'd already gone a few rounds. Your body was pleasantly sore. The sheets were twisted somewhere around your ankles, and you couldn't be bothered to fix them. Guzma was propped up against the headboard beside you, equally naked, equally wrecked, a beer in one hand and that stupid smirk on his face.

"Happy birthday," he said, not for the first time tonight, and you snorted.

"You already said that." You reached for the joint on the nightstand—well, nightstand was generous, it was a milk crate flipped on its side—and lit up, taking a long, slow drag. The smoke filled your lungs, warm and sweet and laced with something that made your skin hum. You held it for a beat, then exhaled toward the ceiling. "But thanks. Best birthday I've had in a while."

Guzma watched you, dark eyes tracking the movement of your lips. "Yeah, well. Don't get used to it."

You laughed. "Wouldn't dream of it." You took a long drag, held it, exhaled toward the ceiling. The weed was good—Lillium's special blend, the one she'd been perfecting for months. It hit different tonight, though. Smoother. Sweeter. With an edge that made your skin hum and your thoughts go syrupy.

"Hey," you said, turning your head to look at him. Your pink eyes glittered with mischief. "Remember the first time you smoked this stuff?"

Guzma groaned, tipping his head back against the headboard. "Fuck, Caly, not this again. Do we gotta talk about that?"

"Oh, we absolutely gotta." You rolled onto your side, propping yourself up on one elbow, the joint still balanced between your fingers. "You were so fucking gone. Couldn't even keep it together. Came in like thirty seconds—"

"I did not—"

"—and then you moaned Plumeria's name, right in the middle of it.," you said, delighting in the way he cringed. "While you were still inside me. And we’d just met that day. What the fuck kind of first impression was that?”

His jaw tightened, a flush creeping up his neck. "I told you, I was outta my mind on that shit. Didn't know what I was sayin'.” 

“Mmhmm…”

"You seemed pretty good at it," he muttered.

"I'd had practice." You offered him the joint, and he took it, your fingers brushing. "But look at you now. Three rounds in and you're still conscious. My little grower."

He shot you a glare that had no real heat behind it as he took a drag and handed the joint back to you. "You done?"

“Oh, Plume, yeah, fuck—'"

"I didn't say it like that, damn!"

"You absolutely did." You blew a smoke ring at him, watching it dissolve against his chest. "And then you passed out. Just—" you snapped your fingers, "—gone. I was so pissed at the time I couldn’t even finish myself off. But that’s okay. I'm not mad about it anymore. Plume is hot as fuck. We hooked up a few times after that, you know. Too bad she’s not into guys."

Guzma's eye twitched. "Yeah. I know." 

And so did Plumeria. That girl never hesitated showing her disgust at him when she thought he’d been thinking of banging her. And she took every opportunity to remind him how much better she was at pleasing you. Little shit. 

You grinned, all teeth. "Good."

He glared at you. "You're a real piece of work, you know that?"

You grinned, unrepentant. "You love it."

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like agreement, and you took another drag. You stretched, deliberately slow, enjoying the way his eyes tracked the movement. "This batch is different, by the way. Smoother. Sweeter. What'd Lily put in it?"

Guzma's expression shifted—something sly and self-satisfied creeping back in. "She added somethin' special. For the birthday girl."

You paused, the joint halfway to your lips. "Oh, she did, did she?" You took the drag, held it, let it curl through your lungs. "What'd you have to promise her? Your soul?"

Guzma's smirk faltered. He shifted, suddenly very interested in the joint between his fingers. "Nothin'."

"As if." You sat up, crossing your legs beneath you. "Lily doesn't give anyone anything for free. Not even me, sometimes, and I'm her favorite test subject. So what was it? What'd she make you do?"

He looked away, mumbling something unintelligible.

"What was that?"

"I said—" He glared at you, jaw tight. "I sold her my firstborn, alright?"

You snorted, smoke escaping your nose. "Bullshit. Lily doesn't want kids. She's too busy expanding to Kalos." You tapped the ash off the end of the joint, studying him. “Next!”

"Fuck—fine! She wanted me to apologize."

"For what?" you said, offering him the joint again. 

He shot you a look, and took it. "For staring at her tits that one time."

You howled. "Oh, fuck, I forgot about that! You were so scared, I thought you were gonna piss yourself!"

"Your sister’s intense. All I said was that they were nice! It was a compliment!” He threw his hands up, nearly losing the joint. “And then she threatened to feed me to her Salazzles."

"She's five-foot-four. But yeah, she’s got nice tits. Her girlfriend thinks so, too."

"She's terrifying,” he said, unamused, before taking a drag, “And she's your sister, so that tracks."

You were still grinning. "Fair enough." You pursed your lips, scrutinizing him for a moment. "Fine, since you won’t tell me, I’ll just guess.” You pointed a finger at him. “You agreed to be a test subject for her new product line. The one she's been developing for distribution in other regions."

The look on his face told you everything, and he took another drag.

"Knew it." You grinned, triumphant. "She's gonna have you trying all kinds of crazy shit.” 

"She said it'd be worth it." 

You snorted. “Yeah, well I hope you're ready." You reached for the joint, but he held it away, taking another long drag. "Hey. Share."

"Say please."

"Fuck off."

He grinned, all teeth, and took one final pull before handing it back. You brought it to your lips, but before you could inhale, his hand was on your thigh, rough palm sliding up, thumb pressing into the sensitive skin where your leg met your hip. His hand slid higher, his thumb brushing the edge of your tattoo—Quiznos, your shiny Rayquaza, coiled and gleaming across your ribs. 

"She wanted to make sure your birthday was special."

Something in your chest tightened, but you didn't let it show. Instead, you took another drag and blew the smoke toward him, watching it curl around his face. "It's already pretty special. You kicked out your whole gang for me."

"Yeah, well." He shrugged, but his eyes were soft. "You're worth it."

You didn't know what to do with that, so you didn't do anything. Just kept smoking, letting the silence stretch, your body warm and loose and buzzing.

Guzma shifted beside you, rolling onto his side, his hand sliding from your hip to your waist. He leaned in, pressing his lips to your shoulder, then your neck, then the corner of your jaw. Slow. Deliberate. His breath was hot against your skin.

"You ready for another round?" His voice was low, rough, the question more of a growl.

You took your drag, held his gaze, and blew the smoke directly into his face.

He sucked it in—inhaled you—and then blew it back in perfect rings, one after another, each one dissolving against your cheek. Show-off. You coughed, waving at the air, and he barked a laugh that was cut short when your fist connected with his chest.

"Asshole."

"Your asshole." He caught your wrist before you could hit him again, pulling you forward until you were straddling his lap, the joint forgotten in the ashtray. His hands found your hips, grip tight enough to bruise, and he leaned in, mouth brushing yours. "Happy birthday, by the way."

"You said that already."

"Sayin' it again." He kissed you, slow and deep, tongue sliding against yours, tasting of smoke and beer and something uniquely him. When he pulled back, his eyes were darker, pupils blown wide from the weed and the want. "Lily helped me set some stuff up. Nothin' fancy—I ain't got the cash for fancy—but I wanted it to be good. For you."

You blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity. "Guzma…"

"Don't get all mushy on me." He kissed you again before you could respond, one hand sliding up your spine, the other gripping your ass, pulling you closer until you could feel him hardening beneath you. "Just—lemme make you feel good, alright? That's all I want."

You could have said something sharp, something deflecting—it was your default, your armor—but the weed had softened your edges and the way he was looking at you made something ache in your chest. So instead, you just nodded, and let him lay you back against the mattress.

What followed was slower than the previous rounds—less frantic, more deliberate. He kissed his way down your body, mouth lingering at your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your breast. When he finally pushed inside you, it was with a groan that sounded almost pained, his forehead dropping to yours, breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Fuck," he breathed, hips rolling in a steady rhythm. "You feel so good. Always so good. I don't—" He cut himself off, burying his face in your neck.

"Don't what?" Your voice came out shakier than you intended, fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Don't deserve you." The words were muffled against your skin, almost lost in the sound of your bodies moving together. "I know I'm—I know I fuck up. I know I get mean. But you're still here. Why are you still here?"

Because no one else ever stayed. Because you were scared of being alone. Because sometimes, when he looked at you like this, you could pretend the bad parts didn't exist.

"Because it's my birthday," you said instead, deflecting, and he huffed a laugh against your throat.

"Don’t fucking lie to me, Caly."

"Because you're good in bed."

"Heh, yeah, I am. But not the answer I’m looking for," He thrust deeper, drawing a moan from your lips. "Tell me. Please. Just—just once."

The pressure was building, that familiar coil tightening low in your belly. His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and you gasped, back arching off the mattress.

"Because—" The words caught in your throat. "Because I love you, asshole. Even when you're awful. Even when I'm awful. I love you."

He made a sound—broken, desperate—and kissed you hard, tongue and teeth and something that might have been a sob. "I love you too," he gasped against your mouth. "Love you so much it's stupid. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. The best thing. I'm gonna—fuck, Caly, I'm gonna—"

You came together, bodies locked tight, his name tearing from your throat, his face buried in your neck as he spilled inside you. The world narrowed to the heat of his skin and the weight of his body, and to the way he kept saying your name like a prayer. And for a long moment there was nothing but the two of you, tangled and trembling and alive.

Afterward, he spooned you from behind, his arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck. You'd found another joint and lit it, the smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. Guzma cracked open a beer, the hiss of the can loud in the quiet room. He took a drink before setting it on the floor. 

"I love you," he said again, his voice muffled against your hair. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

You took a drag, held it, exhaled. "I know"

He snorted. "Cocky bitch."

"You literally just said it seconds ago. Anyway..." You turned your head, just enough to catch his eye. "I love you too. Even when you're a mean asshole."

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his arm tightening around you. "Happy birthday, Caly."

The sterile hum of the L&D ward in Alola's biggest hospital was a far cry from the riot of color and noise outside, but inside your room it was all tense, focused quiet and the staccato beep of the fetal monitor. You gripped the handrail of the bed, jaw clenched against the pain, refusing to cry out as another contraction rolled over you—hot and sharp and relentless. You'd been through worse. You'd handled worse. You'd handled Guzma, hadn't you? 

But Hala was there anyway, his huge, warm hand enfolding yours, thumb stroking slow circles into your skin—solid, grounding, his presence as steady as the islands themselves. You hadn't asked him to come. You hadn't asked anyone. But they'd shown up regardless, and some part of you—the part you'd never admit to—was grateful.

Hau sat on the window ledge, fidgeting with nervous energy, his usually bright smile tinged with worry. Molayne, all quiet curiosity and gentle reassurance, lingered at the monitors, utterly fascinated by the steady pulse of your baby's heartbeat. And Olivia, radiant and a little awkward in her high heels, sat at your other side, close but not touching—she'd learned quickly that you weren't the type for unsolicited affection.

But the one person you'd actually wanted there wasn't there. Not that you were surprised. You'd learned a long time ago not to expect people to stick around.

The contractions were coming faster now, each one a wave that left you gasping, knuckles white on the bedrail. Hala pressed his large, warm hand to your back, voice soft in your ear. "Deep breaths now. You're doing well. That's it—let it pass." He pressed a cool cloth to your brow, his other hand bracing your back, and though his bulk was intimidating, every movement radiated gentleness.

"Where is Guzma, anyway?" Olivia asked, half teasing, half genuinely concerned. "Bit late for cold feet, don't you think?"

Molayne, still fiddling with the fetal monitor, answered, "We sent him a message, but—well, he's not here yet."

Olivia made a face, arms crossing. "Typical. Honestly, after everything you've told us—"

"Drop it, Liv," Your voice came out sharper than you intended, but you didn't apologize. You never did. "He'll show or he won't. I'm not holding my breath."

Hala spoke up, gentle but firm. "How are things between you two? Truly? I know he's been… struggling, lately."

You managed a dry laugh, but it twisted, pain and something sharper threading through it. "Struggling is one word for it." You shifted against the pillows, your teal eyes—surgically altered years ago, a gift to yourself—flickering toward the window. "As the due date got closer, he got distant. Started saying he'd mess up, that he'd just end up like his old man. I told him that was bullshit, but you know Guzma. Once he gets something in his head…" You trailed off, jaw tightening. "Then he started picking fights. Saying things. Nothing I haven't heard before." The memory of those words—sharp, ugly, hurled in frustration—stung more than any contraction. "He missed my last few appointments. That's why I asked you to come with me instead. Figured it was better than going alone."

Olivia reached for your hand, then hesitated. You grabbed hers instead—briefly, a quick squeeze—before letting go. "I'm fine," you said, preempting whatever comfort she was about to offer. "I don't need him. I don't need anyone."

You'd spent your whole life being alone. It was easier that way—leave before you're left, disappear before they realize they prefer your absence. But the baby… the baby was different. It wasn't something you'd chosen, or even wanted. Hell, last you thought, you couldn't even get pregnant, being sterile and all that. But here you were, ready to pop, about to bring another life into the world, even if Guzma couldn't get his shit together.

"I thought we were ready," you said, voice flat. "Guzma seemed more open to the idea once it sank in, but maybe I misread the situation. Maybe keeping it was a mistake." You blinked back the sting in your eyes, refusing to let the tears fall. "But it's too late for that now. This baby's coming whether we're ready or not. And I'll keep them, no matter what he decides."

Hau's face hardened with rare seriousness. "Hey, don't say that. Even if Guzma flakes, you have us. Me, Hala, Olivia, Molayne—even Nanu, if you need him. We're your family too. That baby's got more aunties and uncles than they'll know what to do with."

You blinked, something catching in your throat. You swallowed it down. "Yeah," you said quietly. "Okay."

The door swung open and the doctor swept in, checking your dilation with brisk, practiced hands. "Almost there," she murmured, prepping the room, drawing out trays, readying the bed. The room was a flurry of movement—nurses prepping, Olivia and Molayne gathering their things to give you space.

Then, the door banged open and in stomped Plumeria, her wild hair a riot of pink and yellow, her face set in lines of annoyance. She was pushing Guzma ahead of her, his hands jammed in his pockets, looking like a delinquent hauled into the principal's office.

“Sorry we’re late,” she said. 

The doctor blinked. "And you are…?"

Plumeria jerked her thumb at Guzma, voice dry as desert sand. "He's the dad. I'm the aunty. She shoved Guzma forward, her glare daring him to move another inch without saying what he needed to say. "Well? Got something for her, 'big man?'"

Guzma shot her a glare, then shuffled his feet, hands jammed into his pockets. When his eyes landed on you—sweat-soaked, tired, and guarded—they softened slightly, all the bravado leaking out. You saw the war in his eyes: fear and regret, shame and hope. You'd seen that look before. You'd seen it right before things got bad the first time.

Plumeria elbowed him, hard. "C'mon, Guz. Say it."

He snapped at her, "Fuck, back off, Plume—" but then his attention locked back onto you, the fight draining from his shoulders. "Look…Caly, I been a real piece of shit. Worse than that. I got scared—scared I'd mess up, scared I'd be like him. You know how my old man was. I don't wanna mess this up, mess you up, or the kid, and I started thinkin' I'd ruin everything. So I bailed, and I took it out on you, and you didn't deserve none of it. I'm sorry, alright? I wanna do better. For you. For the kid. I'm here now. And I ain't runnin' no more."

You stared at him, your expression unreadable. You'd heard apologies before. You'd heard promises. And you'd learned, the hard way, that words were cheap. But there was something in his face—something raw and terrified and real—that made you pause.

"We'll see," you said, your voice cool but not unkind. "You're here now. That's a start."

Olivia's eyes narrowed, but Hala smiled, pride shining through the lines of worry on his face. "That's all we can ask, son."

Your heart twisted, but before you could say anything else, a sharp, deep contraction tore through you, ripping a cry from your throat despite your best efforts. The doctor checked you again, her eyes lighting up. "We're ready. Let's have a baby."

The others slipped out—Olivia squeezing your hand, Hau giving you a thumbs up, Molayne murmuring encouragement. Plumeria stayed, settling at your opposite side, damp cloth in hand, dabbing your brow.

Hala squeezed Guzma's shoulder, gently guiding him to your side. "Take my place. She needs you." With Hala and Guzma's help, you rolled to your side, with Guzma holding your leg up. But as the doctor counted you through your first push, he blanched, beads of sweat popping on his brow.

Plumeria scoffed, "Don't you dare faint, Guz."

"Shut up. Big Bad Guzma ain't a pussy."

Hala clucked his tongue at the language, but said nothing.

Guzma tried valiantly to hold your leg steady, but when the baby's head started to crown, color drained from his face. He swayed, eyes wide. "Oh, man, I'm gonna—"

"We got a fainter here!" the doctor called out, amused.

A nurse gently took him by the shoulders and steered him to the couch as Plumeria snorted, "Thought you said you weren’t a pussy..."

Hala took over, steady as a mountain, his hands strong and sure. "I gotcha. You don't need to worry about me. Been there for all of my kids and grandkids."

Plumeria stroked your hair, her hand cool and sure. "Almost there, girl. Show 'em what you're made of."

You pushed, groaning, riding each wave of pain, the world narrowing to the blur of faces, the heat, the bright lights, Hala's encouragement, Plumeria's steady grip. Guzma, from the couch, offered hoarse words of support—"You got this, babe. You're tough. Tougher'n me, that's for sure. Show 'em whose boss!"

The room narrowed to a blur of voices and bright lights, the world shrinking to the burning point of your body striving to bring your son into the world. And then, in a rush, it was over—the doctor catching your son, holding him up, the air filling with his first wail. Hala gently lowered your leg and helped you roll onto your back, and the doctor placed your baby on your chest, slick and perfect and so, so small.

"Would the father like to cut the cord?" the doctor asked, brightly.

Guzma blinked, bewildered. "Cut the what now?"

Plumeria rolled her eyes, marching over to haul him up. "Cut the cord, stupid. It's tradition."

Guzma looked like he might faint again. "Uh, maybe I'll just… look at him instead," he mumbled, drifting to your side, wide-eyed and awestruck. Plumeria did the honors, snipping the cord with a practiced flourish.

Guzma leaned in, studying his son, his voice soft and rough with something like wonder. "He's so small," he murmured, almost to himself. "I mean—I knew he'd be small, but…" He reached out, hesitant, and brushed a fingertip against the baby's tiny fist. "We made this—I mean, you made him. You grew him. Inside you. That's…that's insane."

You stared down at the baby—your son—taking in the scrunched-up face, the downy hair (which looked faintly lavender), the way his miniature fingers curled and uncurled against your skin. It didn't feel real. None of it felt real. You'd never wanted this. Had never pictured yourself here, in this bed, with a baby on your chest and Guzma hovering at your side like he was afraid you'd both disappear.

But he was here. And he was yours. And you understood, with a cold, clear certainty, that you were responsible for him now. This tiny, helpless thing that you'd made, that had come out of your body, was going to need you for everything. Food. Shelter. Protection. You'd spent your whole life looking out for yourself, and now there was someone else. Someone who didn't have a choice.

"Yeah," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "Guess I'm a mom now. Weird."

Guzma snorted, but his eyes were still fixed on the baby. "Yeah. Weird." He paused, then added, quieter, "You sure you're okay with this? I know you never…I mean, you said you didn't want…"

"I didn't." You cut him off, but your tone wasn't harsh. Just honest. "I never wanted kids. Thought I couldn't have them. And then this happened, and I had to figure it out." You looked down at your son, at the way his tiny chest rose and fell, and something fierce and protective settled in your bones. Not maternal, exactly—more like the feeling you got before a battle. The knowledge that something was yours to defend. "But he's here now. And he's mine. Ours. So I'll figure it out."

The afterbirth was delivered. And as the doctor was checking to make sure it was fully intact, you felt a wave of dizziness, a wrongness spreading through you. "Guz…" you said, breath becoming shallow, "Guzma, I need you to take the baby."

Guzma's eyes sharpened, panic flickering across his face. "What's wrong?"

“You need to take him,” you pressed the baby into his arms. "Take him—please—" The world tilted, spots blurring your vision.

Plumeria's voice cut through the haze, sharp and worried. "Hala, that's a lot of blood. Is that… normal?"

Hala's face tightened. "No, it isn't. She's hemorrhaging."

The doctor's voice was tight. "I can't stop the bleeding. Nurse! Get help—now!" Alarms blared, and more medical staff flooded the room. Guzma was swept to the edge, his arms clumsy and stiff around the now-wailing baby, Plumeria pale beside him. Hala went to herd her out out but paused, noticing Guzma frozen, white-knuckled, your son wailing in his arms.

"Guzma!" Hala called out, trying to snap the new father out of it.

But Guzma stood frozen, horror etching every line of his face. The memories slammed into him—every argument, every cruel word, every time he'd shoved or slapped or thrown something, the fear that he'd lose you before he'd even gotten the chance to truly do right by you or your son. His hands shook, the baby's cries rising in pitch.

Hala strode over to the younger man. "Guzma!" he barked, sharp enough to pierce his spiral. "Look at me, son." He took the baby, cradling the tiny boy against his huge chest, speaking low and steady as chaos churned in the background.

Guzma's voice cracked, raw and desperate. "I can't lose her, man. Not after what I've done, what I've said. I told her I wouldn't run anymore—"

"Listen to me, Guzma. This isn't your fault," Hala said, voice low and steady, grounding Guzma as he teetered on the edge. "Complications happen, but it doesn't mean it's your fault."

Tears streaked Guzma's cheeks, his breathing ragged as he watched the medical team work. "Hala, if she—if she dies, I got nothin'. I can't do this, man. Not alone. I don't know how. I can't do this without her, Hala. I was such a fuckin' idiot."

Hala shifted the baby and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to do it without her. And you don't have to do it alone. You got us, son—all of us. It takes a village, you know that." He shifted Guzma's son in his arms, and gently began to bounce him, soothing him. "Remember planting those berry saplings in my garden? How you worried they wouldn't take root, that you'd mess it up? Sure, some of them got messed up. But you still got your hands dirty and cared for them. Those saplings grew strong, didn't they? And you didn't do it alone, did you? Well, this boy—your son—he's your sapling now. And we'll help you raise him, all of us."

Guzma's breathing slowed as Hala continued. "You're scared. I get it. But your love, and your strength, and your stubbornness—that's what that boy needs. And your girl…she's strong. She's a fighter. Tougher than you, I'd wager. I got faith in her, and in you." He continued to bounce your son, who was starting to settle.

The medical staff worked, voices urgent but focused. You hovered on the edge of consciousness, the world reduced to the sound of the medical staff around you and the steady drone of machines. Then—at last—a note of triumph in the doctor's voice. "There! The bleeding's stopped. Get the transfusion ready, just in case, but she's stable."

Guzma's knees buckled, relief tearing through him so fierce he nearly wept. The doctor crossed to him, her mask lowered, her eyes soft. "She's going to be alright, sir. And, congratulations—you're a father."

Hala beamed, gently passing Guzma his son. Guzma clutched the baby, staring down at his tiny, perfect face, and then looked at you, pale but alive, your teal eyes fluttering open as you drifted back toward him. He leaned over, pressing a trembling kiss to your forehead, his voice a rough, fervent promise.

"I'm here, babe. I'm gonna do right by you. By both of you. I swear it."

You looked up at him, exhaustion pulling at every limb. The baby was warm against your chest, Guzma was close enough to touch, and for once, you didn't push him away. But your voice, when you spoke, was steel wrapped in velvet.

"You better," you murmured, your teal eyes locking onto his. "Because if you ever pull that shit again—the shoving, the slapping, the throwing things—I'm gone. For good this time. I'll take our son and disappear, and you'll never find us. No more chances. No apologies. I'm not going through that again, and I'm sure as hell not letting our son grow up around it."

Guzma held your gaze, something raw and terrified flickering behind his eyes. He didn't look away. Didn't make excuses.