hopeful romantic

The first time Father Jud Duplenticy arrives at Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude, he does not look like Chimney Rock’s idea of a priest.

He looks like a man designed to absorb damage.

Even in black, even with the collar crisp and proper, he carries the shape of his old life in the set of his shoulders, in the careful way he holds his hands as if he’s always, always aware of what they can do. 

Jefferson Wicks runs this parish the way men used to claim land. Not by tending it. Not by loving it. By daring anyone to test where the boundary lies.

He stands at the pulpit with a voice that knows exactly how to make people flinch and then thank him for it. He speaks of sin like he’s describing a storm he can summon on command. He smiles in the same breath that he condemns, and his parishioners lean closer, hungry for the feeling of being chosen to survive the flood.

Wolf in sheep’s clothing, your father used to say, before your father stopped being allowed to say anything at all.

You sit on the outskirts now, Jefferson’s niece in name and burden, watching him build a kingdom out of routine and fear and the promise of salvation with strings attached.

You have been rooting for Jefferson Wicks’ downfall since the day you became his responsibility on paper and his punishment behind closed doors.

No one in Chimney Rock talks about how you became an orphan. They talk around it. They talk about tragedy, aboutgrief, about how God tests families in mysterious ways.

They do not talk about Jefferson’s brother, your father, dying young, sudden, in the kind of way that leaves no room for questions.

You have questions anyway.

You always have.

So when Father Jud gets reassigned here, shuffled in like penance after punching a deacon who deserved it, you recognize something familiar in him right away.

Not the violence.

The constraint.

He tries, at first.

For months, you watch from beyond the churchyard fence as he does the careful work of attempting to win people over. He stays after Mass, asks after the sick, learns names, offers gentle smiles that look practiced in a mirror. He helps mend the fence behind the rectory, sleeves rolled down even when summer turns the air heavy enough to choke on.

He is polite in the particular way people become polite when they are terrified of themselves.

And Jefferson notices.

Jefferson always notices anything he cannot control.

You see it in the way your uncle interrupts him mid-conversation. When Jefferson’s hand settles on Jud’s shoulder just a beat too long, brotherly to the congregation, unmistakably a warning to anyone fluent in power.

You are fluent.

You were raised inside it.

One Sunday in late September, the trees behind the church look like they’ve been set alight and abandoned to smolder. Parishioners spill into the yard after service, clustering the way they always do, orbiting Jefferson’s laughter. He keeps them close. He keeps them loyal. He keeps them small.

You slow your bike as you pass, turning down the narrow side path where the old statue of the Virgin watches over the graves with chipped serenity. 

It's always been quieter there. Truer. The kind of honest the sanctuary has never been for you.

You’re halfway to the small patch of grass where the dead grass is trying to live again when you feel it, that awareness that someone has moved into your space without asking.

You turn.

Father Jud stands a few feet away, hands folded, posture careful. Like he’s approaching something that might bolt. Or bite.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” he offers quietly, like the headstones might overhear.

You lift your chin. “I’m not really a member of the church, per se.”

“Per se?” he echoes.

“I mean, I’m involved by default,” you clarify. “But I don’t particularly enjoy weekly lectures from a man who thinks shouting gets God's point across.”

His gaze drifts toward the knot of people surrounding Jefferson. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that opinion voiced since I arrived.”

"I've got plenty more where that came from," you reply, letting your gaze follow his for half a second. Jefferson's laugh cuts across the yard, bright as a blade. People laugh back too quickly. 

Jud’s mouth tightens. He watches Jefferson with the kind of attention you’d expect from someone studying a storm cloud for signs of lightning.

Then his attention returns to you. He looks at you like he’s deciding whether you’re a sin or a mercy.

Up close, you catch details you’ve been filing away from afar: the faint split at his lower lip, still healing. The way his fingers brush the rosary hidden in his pocket—not for show, but grounding. The pale scars along his knuckles, history that refuses burial.

He clears his throat. “I’m Father Jud.”

“I know who you are.”

“And yet,” he notes, faintly puzzled, “I don’t know you.”

You pitch your voice deeper, a rough imitation. “Hard not to hear about 'the new young priest who thinks he can stroll in and take my church.'”

That earns you his full attention.

“You’re… family,” he ventures.

You laugh, humorless. “That’s charitable.”

“Niece?”

You don’t answer immediately. You watch him instead, watch the way he holds himself in check. The man he keeps contained presses close to the collar—ink just visible at his throat, vows wrapped tight around muscle memory.

You’ve heard whispers, of course. Chimney Rock runs on whispers. Former boxer. A man died in the ring. A priest who hit someone in a church hallway. A man who sought God like God was the only thing strong enough to keep him from becoming what everyone expects.

You decide to give him a truth that costs you nothing.

“Yes,” you confirm. “I’m his niece. I assume you’ve been briefed on avoiding me and my renegade opinions.”

Something in Jud’s expression softens. Not pity.

Recognition.

“I can’t say I have.”

“That’s new,” you admit.

“You’ve been here long?” he asks.

“All my life,” you reply. “Against my better judgment.”

“You don’t have to stay.”

The thought is almost sweet. Naive, but sweet. You don’t fault him for it.

“You’re new,” you point out. “You still think leaving is a matter of walking.”

His throat works. “Maybe,” he concedes. “I still believe in clean exits.”

The way he says it—confessional, almost—pulls something tight in your chest.

“You won’t win them,” you warn, nodding toward the crowd.

“I’m not trying to,” he answers evenly.

“You are,” you insist. “I’ve watched you try for months.”

“I’m trying to know them,” he corrects. “That’s different.”

“Not here,” you say. “Knowing them means earning trust. Trust means bending to him.”

“And you?” Jud asks.

“I don’t bend.”

He holds your eyes, and something like relief flashes there again, quick as a match strike. Then it fades, replaced by that careful priestly composure. Like he’s remembering what he’s supposed to be.

“What do you do, then?” he asks softly.

You let your gaze drift past him, to the church, to the stone steps worn down by generations of obedient feet. To the heavy doors that swallow people whole.

Then you look at Jefferson.

Your uncle turns, almost as if he senses it, and his eyes land on you from across the yard. His smile doesn’t change, but his gaze hardens a fraction, the way it always does when you step too far out of line.

He lifts his hand in a gesture that could be a wave to anyone watching.

To you, it’s a command.

Jud sees it too. You can tell by the way his jaw locks. By how his hands clench and release, forced back into obedience.

You lean a little closer to him, just enough that your words won’t carry.

“I wait,” you murmur. “I watch. And I pray for the day he finally chokes on his own holiness.”

Jud goes still.

For a moment, the priest disappears.

What looks back at you understands violence as language. A man who’s spent years translating himself into something forgivable.

Then the collar settles again.

“That’s a dangerous prayer,” he cautions.

“It’s an honest one,” you counter.

“You’re different,” he admits. “From them.”

“I’m not faithful,” you reply.

His gaze holds yours. “I’m not convinced.”

Jud’s mouth presses into a thin line, like he regrets letting that slip. 

You smile, small and unrepentant.

“I’m too far gone, Father Jud.”

You straighten, offering him one last look—one that asks nothing of him and promises even less.

“Well,” you add, light as a shrug, as if you haven’t just planted a thought that could take root and refuse to die, “welcome to Chimney Rock.”

You step back before he can answer. Before he can choose which version of himself is permitted to speak.

Your bike waits where you left it, half-hidden near the path. Rust freckles the chain. The basket hangs crooked from years of uneven ground. You swing a leg over and settle your hands on the grips—familiar, steadying.

You push off. Gravel murmurs beneath the tires as you follow the narrow track away from the graves, past the statue, past the place where the truth feels lighter.

By the time you reach the road, the bells begin to ring.

Late. Always late.

The sound rolls out behind you, hollow and insistent, chasing nothing at all.

Jud listens until the last echo dissolves.

Only then does he breathe.

He doesn’t follow. He knows better than to test himself like that. Instead, he commits the path to memory—the bend of the grass where tires passed through, the turn swallowed by trees, the shallow dip in the ground worn down by repetition.

Later—much later—he will walk it alone.

He will tell himself he’s checking the grounds. Learning the parish. Fulfilling a responsibility entrusted to him.

He will stop where you stopped. He will pause where you paused. He will look toward the road and feel the absence you left behind, shaped like a question that hasn’t learned how to speak yet.

He will think about timing.

About how God has always favored it—late bells, misplaced people, conversations that arrive exactly when they shouldn’t.

He will wonder, not for the first time, whether humor is one of God’s quieter indulgences.

And he will pray.

Not for absolution.

But for the chance to hear your voice again—somewhere less watched, less sanctified—where honesty is allowed to breathe.

The bike is wrong for him.

That’s what you notice first.

It’s too small, too ordinary, the kind of thing that belongs to a teenager or a retiree who still believes in routine. It creaks faintly as Father Duplenticy pedals through the center of Chimney Rock, collar open at the throat, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms that look like they were built for breaking things, not ringing bells.

The sun is on its way down, draining the color out of Main Street one storefront at a time. Porch lights are flickering on. The air has cooled in that deliberate way that feels like an invitation rather than a warning.

You’re out for no particular reason. Just walking. Letting the day finish itself.

You’re halfway along the block when you spot him.

He sees you at the exact same moment.

His foot drags against the pavement until the bike wobbles to a stop beside you. Wind rattles the flags outside the hardware store. Somewhere down the street, a screen door bangs shut, the sound echoing too loud in the lull between day and night.

“You look like you’re considering pretending you didn’t see me,” he observes.

“It would make my life significantly easier,” you reply.

“And why’s that?”

You glance away, more habit than avoidance, letting your thoughts line up. “Well. For starters, I don’t believe in God much anymore. Or higher powers in general. So prolonged conversation with the newest reverend of my family church feels… counterintuitive.”

His expression stays neutral. Attentive.

“Second,” you continue, “you work under the man who’s made my life a living hell since I was eight.”

Jud blinks once.

“And third,” you add, lighter now, “my uncle has eyes everywhere. And those eyes have mouths.”

Jud stares at you, visibly recalibrating. “That is… considerably more context than I was prepared for on a weekday evening.”

“I warned you,” you smile. “I’ve got range.”

His gaze flicks instinctively to the windows lining the street. To reflections. To the quiet corners where people linger just long enough to watch. You catch it immediately. He scans the way you do.

“Noted,” he murmurs, tipping the bike so it rests against his hip. “You walking with intention, or am I free to interrupt?”

“I was headed nowhere important.”

“Good,” Jud says. “So was I.”

You fall into step beside him without discussing it. The sidewalk feels narrower with the two of you sharing it, the town suddenly aware of the two of you occupying the same stretch of pavement. He moves carefully, as if aware of every inch of space he occupies. You move like someone who learned early how to pass through unnoticed.

“You walk like you’re trying not to be seen,” Jud comments after a moment.

You don’t look at him. “I walk like I live here.”

“Fair,” he allows. “I’m still learning which streets belong to which version of people.”

“Main Street’s for people who want an audience,” you tell him. “Side streets are for people who don’t.”

He hums, thoughtful. The bike clicks softly as he rolls it along beside him. “That explains why I feel like I’m doing it wrong.”

“You are,” you say easily. “But you’re new. There’s a grace period.”

“How long does that last?”

“Until you offend someone important.”

You walk another block in companionable quiet. The smell of oil and butter drifts out as you pass a cluster of restaurants.

Jud inhales. “That smells… incredible. Unholy.”

“That’d be Lila’s,” you say. “She fries everything like God isn’t watching.”

His mouth twitches. “Is it good?”

“It’ll take years off your life. So, yes.”

He nods, committing that to memory. “I’ve been living on parish casseroles.”

“That explains the haunted look.”

“They mean well,” he says diplomatically. “But there are only so many interpretations of cream-of-something.”

You tilt your head. “You looking for food recommendations, Father?”

“Jud,” he corrects gently. Then, after a beat, “And… yes. Places where I can eat without it becoming a conversation.”

You consider that. The way he asked it. The care.

“Alright,” you decide. “Ground rules. Basically, avoid anywhere on Main Street that displays scripture in the window.”

“I can work with that.”

“No places where people will trap you to talk about their nephew’s gambling problem.”

“A tragedy, but fair.”

“And nowhere Jefferson holds court.”

His jaw tightens, barely perceptible. “Understood.”

“Also nothing fancy,” you add. “You’ll stand out.”

“I already do.”

“That’s different.”

You point ahead. “There’s a diner two streets over. Booths, not tables. Great for hiding. Best pancakes in town after six, when the church crowd’s home judging each other.”

Jud’s smile is warm now. “That sounds… ideal.”

“Can I ask you something?” you say.

“Anything.”

“Do you still drink?”

The question lands between you, heavy but unashamed.

Jud doesn’t dodge it. “Yes.”

“How much?”

“Enough,” he answers. “Not as much as before. More than I should.”

You nod, satisfied. “Good.”

He frowns. “Good?”

You start walking again. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’re thinking too hard,” you tell him. “Which means I’m about to make a terrible decision.”

Jud watches you for half a second, then follows.

Il Diavolo’s sits at the edge of town like a secret people pretend they don’t keep. The sign flickers. The windows glow amber. It’s late enough that the parking lot has thinned to a couple of trucks and a motorcycle slouched against its kickstand, exhausted.

Inside, the bar smells like spilled whiskey and old wood. No Jefferson loyalists. No church regulars. Just Nikolai, who never asks questions, and a jukebox humming low like it knows better.

You slide onto a stool. Jud takes the one beside you, careful, like the furniture might tattle.

“Father—” you start.

He looks at you like you’ve just committed a misdemeanor.

“Jud,” you correct, bowing your head with exaggerated reverence. “This is Nikolai, proprietor of this fine establishment. Nikolai, this is what your bar would classify as the Antichrist if it were feeling dramatic.”

Nikolai laughs, already reaching for glasses. “Welcome in. I know what you’re having,” he points at you, then eyes Jud. “You though? Water? Tea? Something repentant?”

Jud doesn’t hesitate. “Whatever she’s having.”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Nikolai raises a brow, clearly delighted, and pours two whiskeys.

Jud watches the amber settle. “I was not expecting this.”

You lift your glass and clink it lightly against his. “Forgive me, Father.”

“None required,” he replies, taking a sip without breaking eye contact. “Though I feel grossly underprepared.”

“So,” you say, setting your glass down, “you’ve been getting to know the devoted followers of our lord and savior, Monsignor Wicks. Tell me about them. I’ll let you know where you’re wrong.”

“You’re testing me?” Jud chuckles.

“Nikolai,” you call, not looking away from him, “another for our esteemed guest.”

You turn back, smiling sweetly. “Consider this me showing interest in your church.”

He lifts his glass in your direction. “You mean yours. It does run in the family.”

“Touché,” you laugh, warmth blooming in your cheeks. “Careful, Jud. You’re learning how to survive here.”

He takes another sip, eyes cutting to you over the rim. “I was under the impression survival here required obedience.”

You smile. “Only if you plan on staying.”

“Well,” he says, too casually, “suddenly the future here doesn’t feel quite so bleak—”

He stops.

You raise a brow, openly enjoying yourself now. “Oh?”

He exhales, scrubbing a hand over his face. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Interesting,” you reply. “Because it sounded very much like what you meant.”

He closes his eyes. “I meant the town.”

“Mmhmm.”

“The assignment.”

“Sure.”

“Not you.”

You lift your glass again. “Of course not.”

He opens one eye, resigned. “You’re enjoying this.”

Immensely.

A few drinks in and the two of you are laughing harder than the situation warrants, but the bar’s nearly empty now, so it feels victimless.

“Okay—okay,” you brace a hand on the counter, steadying yourself. “So. We’ve covered Vera. Covered Cy. Doctor Nat, God rest his optimism. Simone. Lee…” You pause, shaking your head. “Lost cause. But, as you say, God works miracles.”

Jud’s head drops forward like it’s suddenly too heavy for his neck. He tries valiantly not to laugh. Fails immediately.

“I still can’t believe he’s building a moat,” you wheeze. “A moat. Around his house.”

“You didn’t hear that from me,” Jud mutters, shoulders shaking. “I am actively betraying multiple vows by telling you this.”

“You’re not violating HIPAA,” you counter. “You’re fine.”

Nikolai appears with what is clearly the final round. Jud taps the bar with two fingers like he’s officially out.

“Alright,” you say, squinting in concentration. “Who did we miss?”

“Mmm.” He takes a decisive swallow and sets his glass down with intent. “You.”

You choke a little. “Me?”

“Yes,” he says, entirely too pleased with himself. “You.”

“You haven’t gotten to know me at all,” you protest, suddenly feeling far too visible.

Jud wipes his mouth with a napkin, calm as ever. “Disagree. You told me you’d been watching me for months. What made you think the attention wasn’t mutual?”

You open your mouth.

Then close it.

He points at you, triumphant. “Exactly.”

You recover, lifting a hand in surrender. “Alright. If you know me so well, then by all means—” you gesture broadly to the empty bar, “—take the floor.”

Jud leans back on his stool, studying you like this is a sermon he’s been drafting in the margins of his mind.

“Careful,” he says lightly. “You asked.”

He rolls the glass between his palms, watching the ice fracture, buying time like a man who knows he’s about to step somewhere thin.

“Alright,” he says finally. “Strictly observational. No inside knowledge.”

“Obviously,” you nod solemnly. “This is a peer-reviewed study.”

He snorts despite himself.

“You’re never where you’re expected to be,” he starts. “Not in church, not at parish events, not standing where someone with your last name is supposed to stand.” He glances at you. “But you’re always nearby. Close enough to see what’s actually happening.”

You lift your brows, inviting him to continue.

“You show up late when you do come at all. Slip in. Sit near the exits. You leave before anyone can corner you.” A pause. “You listen more than you talk. Which tells me you don’t trust first impressions.”

“That’s generous,” you say.

“I’m not done,” he replies mildly. “You never sing. You don’t bow your head when everyone else does. But you know exactly when to stand, when to sit, when to move. Muscle memory.”

He takes a sip.

“You take the long way around town. Side streets. Back paths. You pass the church without stopping like it’s a landmark, not a destination.” A beat. “You bike like someone who doesn’t expect the road to make room for her.”

“That feels personal,” you murmur.

He shrugs. “I notice patterns.”

“You notice me.”

“Yes,” he says, simply. Then, quieter, “From a distance.”

He sets his glass down with care. “You laugh at inappropriate moments. You don’t laugh when you’re supposed to. You smile like it’s a decision, not a reflex.” His eyes meet yours. “And you don’t pray like someone who’s lost faith.”

Something tightens in your chest.

“You pray like someone who’s angry,” he finishes. “Which tells me you still believe someone’s listening.”

The space between you hums.

Jud clears his throat, suddenly aware of himself. “That’s… all I’ve got. Observationally.”

You stare at him for a long second.

Then you let out a breathy laugh. “You forgot one.”

He tilts his head. “Did I?”

“Yes,” you say, leaning in just enough to tip the balance. “I’m excellent company.”

His mouth curves before he can stop it.

“Observed,” he admits.

You slide off your stool, already reaching for your wallet. You tap the bar once, twice.

“Put his drinks on mine,” you tell Nikolai.

Jud straightens immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Too late,” you reply sweetly. “Consider it my contribution to the church.”

His jaw works. “I can’t let you—”

“You can,” you interrupt. “And you will.”

Nikolai grins and closes out the tab without a second thought.

Jud trails you toward the door, still visibly off-balance, then finally exhales. “Thank you.”

You hum, noncommittal.

Outside, he shoves his hands into his pockets, hesitates like he’s deciding which rule he’s allowed to break next. “Well,” he starts, “the least I can do is walk you home.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I want to.”

You consider him for a beat. “Alright. On one condition.”

He lifts a brow. “Which is?”

“That you don’t lecture me about my life choices.”

His mouth twitches, helpless. “I don’t think I’m in a position to lecture anyone tonight.”

You slow as you reach your small, unassuming house. Jud’s gaze lifts to it, surprise flickering across his face, unmistakably sincere.

“Well,” you say, drawing in a breath, suddenly aware of the moment, “this is me.”

“It’s nice,” he replies, the porch light catching his expression and warming it.

“Thanks. I bought it a few years ago,” you admit. “Once I finally saved enough to stop living in the rectory.” A beat. “It took me a while to fix it up, but it keeps me busy.”

“You did all this yourself?” His attention sharpens, respectful now.

You nod.

“I—uh,” he scratches at the back of his neck, and the collar shifts just enough for the edge of a tattoo to peek through—still indistinct, still a mystery. “I’m actually a woodworker.”

You smile. “That explains why the fence behind the rectory finally got repaired after years of falling apart.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “I do a little more than fences.” Then, stumbling slightly over his own courage, “If—if you ever need help with anything around here, you can let me know.”

You look at him, caught off guard by the gentleness of the offer.

“I will,” you say, meaning it.

He seems to realize all at once that he’s lingered too long. His shoulders shift, retreating. “I should probably get going.”

As he turns, you stop him.

“Father Jud?”

He pauses, then turns back.

“It’s been a long time,” you admit, choosing honesty over ease, “since I’ve had someone like you here. Someone who isn’t already tied to him.”

Jud nods once. “I don’t have many friends,” he says quietly. “Occupational hazard.”

A laugh escapes you, light and unexpected.

“Then maybe,” you say, careful but hopeful, “we should be friends.”

“Friends,” he repeats, testing the word.

“Neither of us has many allies in this town,” you go on. “And I’m not interested in being alone in it anymore.”

He considers that longer than necessary.

Then he nods.

“I’d like that,” he says. “I think… I could use one.” A pause. “And—please. Call me Jud.”

You smile. “Goodnight, Jud.”

“Goodnight.”

You turn toward the house, aware of him still standing there until you reach the door. You don’t look back—but you know he waits until the light clicks on inside.

Only then does he turn away, walking back down the road alone, carrying something new with him.

Not a vow.

Not a confession.

It was already a little later in the day, you had taken some time to yourself after your conversation with Ken, but better late then never.

By the time you pulled up to the beach in your pink convertible, the sun was already beginning to set and there was no one to be found.

You groaned in disappointment. Had everyone really gone home?

It was fine. After all, you had gotten used to being alone. It couldn’t hurt to hang out for just a little while.

You got out of the car and stepped down the sand dunes down to the beach, setting your bag down and sitting down next to it. You felt weird though- almost as if you were being watched? No, that was impossible. There was no one here!

You could only sit still for a little while before paranoia began to set in. You kept hearing sounds, almost like whispers, but convinced yourself it was just your imagination. You stood up, about to turn around and head back to your car when suddenly a voice shouted, “NOW!”

You were frozen in shock as confetti and the sound of noisemakers filled the air, and barbies and kens emerged from seemingly nowhere - behind trees and cars and buildings, and at the very front of the crowd was Ken - and well, another Ken, holding a giant banner that read,

WELCOME BACK BARBIE

In a matter of seconds, you were surrounded by your fellow barbies, being hugged, and petted and told how much you had been missed by them.

“Surprise!” President Barbie said excitedly.

“We’re so glad you’re feeling better!” said physicist Barbie.

“What .. what is this?” You smiled, dizzy with both joy and confusion.

“Okay, quiet down everyone!” Ken shouts, and the crowd hushes.

“Barbie,” he says chivalrously. “We wanted to show how much we care about you,” he smiles, and you blush.

“So, in honor of your return to the Barbieland party scene, we decided to throw you the best. Beach Party. EVER!” he yells, and the crowd cheers.

Your hand is over your mouth in shock as the girls around you giggle excitedly.

“So?” Are you ready?” President Barbie asks, and the crowd anxiously waits for your answer.

“YES!”

The crowd screams with excitement, and the party begins!

The party was spectacular, and continued to be as the night went on. Everybody - and I mean everybody - had shown up to celebrate. Even Weird Barbie was there, and Mermaid Barbie and Merman Ken would pop out of the water every now and then to wave to you and the rest of the partygoers.

You were sitting with a group of other barbies, gossiping and sipping on imaginary tropical drinks. “So who’s idea was this party, anyways?” you ask.

“Oh, it was Ken’s, actually!” says Diplomat Barbie, nodding towards where he sat in the distance.

Really? Ken had planned all of this .. for you?

“He .. he did?”

“Yeah!”

“Of course, we were eager to help!” President Barbie chimes in. You smile to yourself.

Meanwhile, Ken sat on a quiet corner of the beach with a few of the other kens, just chatting about horses, when his eyes fell upon you. He gazed in awe of how the other barbies fawned over you like you were some sort of princess. That was fair, you definitely looked like one, he thought. It was then, when he noticed a beauty in you that he hadn’t noticed before. Huh, he thought.

“Uh, Barbie?” Author Barbie asks.

“Hm?” you smile.

“There’s one more thing,” she says, handing you a pink envelope, which smelled of vanilla. You accept it, holding it for a second, confused.

“Barbie couldn’t make it tonight, but she left this behind for you before she left,” President Barbie says softly.

“Ah,” you reply.

You immediately knew which Barbie she had been referring to.

Stereotypical Barbie, or Blondie, as you called her, had left for the real world a few days earlier. She had been one of your best friends in Barbieland, if not your very best, and though you had supported her in her decision to leave, you already missed her horribly.

“We meant to give it you sooner, but.. we weren’t able to because, well, we didn’t see you much these past few days…” Doctor barbie says, looking at you sympathetically. “But we thought now would be a good time!”

You nod in understanding and open up the envelope to find the note written inside. You pull it out, and after a deep breath, you read.

Dear Barbie,

I’m writing this as I’m getting ready to leave for the real world, and I want you to know a few things. One, don’t you worry, I’ll be back to visit! And more importantly, two, I want you to know how perfect and amazing you are! You’re one of my very best friends and I am going to miss you so so much. You are kind and beautiful, just as any barbie should be, and don’t you ever forget it. Don’t let any ken or any barbie bring you down, ever. Keep making Barbieland a better place, the way I know you can, and know that I will do my best to do the same in the real world. I love you so very much!

Lots of love,

Blondie <3

P.S. Keep an eye on Ken for me. Maybe you two can keep each other company ;)

You blushed at the last sentence. What on earth did she mean by that?

Nonetheless, you appreciated the kind words from your best friend, and put the note back inside its envelope and slipped it into your beach bag. You decided to get up and clear your head a little, and bid goodbye to the other girls, heading down to stand by the plastic waves alone. You thought of Barbie’s letter, especially that last sentence. She couldn’t have meant…No! Absolutely not. But that must’ve been what she meant! No, don’t flatter yourself! She probably just meant in a friendly way! But the wink.. the wink! That wink had to be suggesting something!

You were so lost in your own thoughts that you didn’t sense the presence behind you. Not until he tapped you on the shoulder, and you turned around to face Ken himself.

Without thinking, you manage to stutter a “H-Hi Ken!”

“Hi Barbie .. you feeling okay? Is it the party? Are you overwhelmed?” he asks sweetly.

“No, no! I’m sorry. It’s just, you just.. startled me there.” you reply, calming your voice down. “The party’s great, actually. I heard you planned it, is that true?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he nods shyly.

“How long have you been planning this? There’s no way you could have pulled this all together in just a few hours!”

He says nothing, just mock-shrugs and smiles.

“Oh my god, really? But how?”

“I have my ways,” he smirks.

“Ken… you really went through all of this.. for me?”

“Of course, Barbie,” he blushes. “After all, you deserve it. And I figured it was the least I could do to make it up to you. To all of you.”

You grin from ear to ear, pulling him into a hug.

“I knew you hadn’t changed.”

After pulling away from your hug, Ken had an idea. Though you had already reassured him that he was already enough, that he didn’t have to do anything to impress anyone, including you, he figured there was no harm in trying. Just for fun.

“Hey Barbie, wanna see something cool?” He says excitedly.

“Uh .. sure? What?”

“Watch this!” he grins, before suddenly disappearing to god knows where. A minute later he returned, carrying his surfboard under his arm.

“Oh Ken, no.. I don’t think you should.. remember last time?” you pleaded.

“Relax, Barbie. I got this,” he says reassuringly, before shouting, “HEY EVERYBODY! CHECK ME OUT!” eliciting an exceedingly large amount of gasps and murmurs for the rest of the party. You even saw Ken’s enemy, Ken, stifle a laugh, and you shot him an angry glare that made even him nervous. Before anyone could stop him Ken was already bolting towards the water.

You covered your eyes, not wanting to see what was about to happen, only to hear cheering and applause. You open your eyes to see that Ken had landed perfectly - and was now surfing the plastic waves.

“Well that’s new!” President Barbie laughs, and you giggle with excitement at Ken’s success. Like a pro he glides back to the shore, a huge grin plastered on his face as the crowd cheers for him. When he’s back on land, he waltzes right up to you.

“Told you so,” he grins, and you nod proudly.

“Oh, Barbie!” he says. “There’s one more thing,” he smiles, before suddenly taking your hand in his. You blush, and he pulls you over to where the other barbies and kens had started a bonfire.

Everyone gathered around the fire in a perfect circle. You sat with the other barbies, and him across the circle from you with the other kens. He sat next to his buddy, another Ken, who was holding a guitar, and you shuddered when he handed it over to him. Uh-oh, you thought, you’d seen this before.

“Barbie, this one’s for you!” Ken yells adorably, holding the guitar in his left hand and pointing his right finger at you. Suddenly feeling very shy, you hide your face in your hands once more, only to hear Ken start playing a very familiar tune. Your favorite song.

You looked up at him, bewildered. You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. You looked through the flames and there he is, belting out a gorgeous rendition of the song you loved so much. The two of you locked eyes, and when you looked into them, you saw everything you needed to see. This was not done for his own pride or ego, no. This was done entirely and solely for you.

The circle is waving their hands back and forth slowly, you’re enchanted by his voice and his eyes and your heart is thumping in your chest with a familiar feeling you weren’t sure you wanted to admit you felt.

Looking into his eyes, you see the same; there is hurt, and regret, but there is also care, and admiration, and that same something.

Something new.

✮⋆˙ To start off, you hated Ken when you first met him.

✮⋆˙ He was loud, annoying, and way too energetic for your taste.

✮⋆˙ Ken took a liking to you the moment you arrived in Barbie Land.

✮⋆˙ He made it his goal to get you to notice and possibly even like him back. So much, that every waking moment was spent trying to impress you.

✮⋆˙ He loved that you played hard to get. (At least he hoped that’s what you were doing rather than genuinely hating him) …

✮⋆˙ “Hey… Check this out” a smirk plastered on his face as he attempted to skate backwards.

✮⋆˙ He fell. Hard. (Just like he was for you)

✮⋆˙ Your first conversation was sparked when he found you at the Park with some other Barbies.

✮⋆˙ He tried walking past you casually, but when you glanced his direction, he froze and turned to you and your friends. Goofy smile and all.

✮⋆˙ “Hey” he said, standing widely with his arms down to either side.

✮⋆˙ You rolled your eyes. “What Ken?”

✮⋆˙ His eyes widened at his own name. “You… know my name?” He said with enthusiasm.

✮⋆˙ One of your friends giggled and you tried holding back your own laugh. “You’re Ken, and so is he” you say, pointing to one of the random Ken’s across the way.

✮⋆˙ Ken followed your finger and scoffed, brows furrowing in frustration. “Well- i’m Ken Ken” He pleaded.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

✮⋆˙ The first time you smiled at Ken, he melted. Tears were involved, he hid them poorly of course.

✮⋆˙ You glanced around the two of you before reaching up to tussle his perfectly combed hair. “Oh, suck it up” you said, attempting to maintain your straight face.

✮⋆˙ It was hard not to smile at him.

✮⋆˙ He brings you gifts all the time

✮⋆˙ When another Ken is attempting to flirt with you, Ken gets extremely jealous. He will pout. A lot.

✮⋆˙ After you warm up to him, he quickly becomes the only person you have any energy for.

✮⋆˙ Other Kens no longer interest you.

✮⋆˙ He 100% continues to try and win you over even when he already has.

✮⋆˙ You are shorter than him, so this gives him the advantage. He often picks you up and randomly spins with a happy laugh.

✮⋆˙ Your nickname from him is ‘babygirl’ or ‘sweet boy’ or ‘sweetie’

✮⋆˙ He comes to all of your events/parties and supports you.

✮⋆˙ He loves being needed. If you need something reached or anything done he is ON it.

✮⋆˙ you are 100% a golden retriever black cat duo.

✮⋆˙ He is very emotional and will cry at everything while you tend to hold your feelings back until you can’t any longer.

✮⋆˙ He went from someone you ignored to someone you adore and show your soft side for.

✮ You met Ken at one of Barbie’s parties.

✮ He was slumped over in the corner of the room, his head resting in his hand with a pouty frown.

✮ “What’s wrong?” you asked, nearing him.

✮ He had never seen you before. You were a new Barbie, you wrote poetry, Writer Barbie is what people knew you as.

✮ “Oh you know, doin what i do best” he says unenthusiastically

✮ You frowned and looked around him… he was doing… nothing?

✮ “And that is…?”

✮ This made Ken glance up at you and when he did, his face quickly turned from solemn to shocked.

✮ After that night, the two of you started hanging out way more.

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

✮ Soon you two made it official and threw a party at your dream house to announce it to the other Barbies and Kens

✮ Dating Ken was wonderful. He was this ball of happiness and energy that kept you on your toes.

✮ He often followed you around throughout the day.

✮ When you asked him to move in with you, he cried.

✮ “No freakin way” he said through teary eyes. “This is like… so cool” he said with a glossy eyed smile.

✮ He does face masks with you, and usually gets more enjoyment out of it than you.

✮ You write poems about him, which he also cries over.

✮ He was the first to say “I love you”.

✮ This was said at the beach, while he sang a song and played his guitar for you.

✮ You go on dinner dates all the time, he takes you to the nicest places.

✮ When he is sick, he clings to you, not letting you leave his side. You don’t mind it.

✮ He cried when you two watched the notebook together.

✮ He also cries during most Disney films.

✮ (He cries a lot)

✮ He is the best at cuddling, literally like a single hug from him is enough to soothe all your worries.

✮ 100% male-wife. He lets you pick his outfits out if you want, and he cooks breakfast for you, cleans your dream house while you write, he’s really the whole package.

‹𝟹 After realizing that he is more than ‘just Ken’, he decides to venture to the real world (again) to find out who he is.

‹𝟹 He meets you there, and insists that you come back to Barbie Land with him after you two hit it off.

‹𝟹 You’re the nicest person he’s ever met, you never talk over him, you always share your thoughts with him, and you genuinely love his company.

‹𝟹 Ken isn’t used to this, and he often gets overwhelmed.

‹𝟹 This means he often smiles so much his face hurts, or he’s teary eyed.

‹𝟹 He often fascinatingly admires you while you speak, he will rest his head in his hands and smile at you with heart eyes.

‹𝟹 The first time he opened up to you about how he didn’t know who he was without Barbie (or anyone to base his personality off of) he cried.

‹𝟹 He leaned into you and let you rub his back while he spoke and whimpered through words.

‹𝟹 That was the first night he spent over at your place. (or anyone’s place for that matter)

‹𝟹 The next morning, you made him breakfast (something he’d never had done for him before)

‹𝟹 “What’ll it be?” you asked him when he woke up.

‹𝟹 He frowned. “uh…” a smile shyly made its way onto his face. “Brownies” He said confidently. It was an odd request, but you knew not to question it.

‹𝟹 (btw, he discovers that he really likes brownies)

‹𝟹 You help him find his music taste.

‹𝟹 He loves 80’s indie and Taylor Swift.

‹𝟹 One day, Ken comes to you with a bouquet of flowers. “Hey y/n” he breathes, a huge smile on his face as he hides his hand behind his back.

‹𝟹 He confessed his feelings for you that day, and you returned them … (bc how could you not?)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ ʚɞ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ ʚɞ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ ʚɞ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

(and now, a short thing i wrote where Ken asks if you can match outfits!)

The wind blows the curtains of your cottage. Barbie Land was truly a beautiful place to live. Though you had to make a few adjustments as a human living here, you managed.

Ken was coming over today, the two of you were traveling to the real world to visit your family (something you did together often).

You get up and get dressed; a t-shift with mushrooms and a pair of shorts. Soon, you hear someone at your door, smiling to yourself at the pattern of the knock. It was Ken, the two of you made up a secret knocking pattern (It was his idea) He claimed it would be “Super cool” of you if you agreed.

You open your door and Ken rushes in, he’s wearing a plaid shirt and jeans and you can’t help but check him out as he passes you.

“So I was thinking-“

“Oh boy” you tease.

Ken ignores you and begins toward the stairs leading up to your bedroom.

“What if… we match outfits before we go? It could be like… our thing if you want” he says shyly, a pleading smile plastered on his face.

You chuckle at his enthusiasm and nod. “Sure Ken, that sounds cute” You say, following him to your room.

“Great! I was thinking…. cowboys?”

You open your mouth to speak but he cuts you off.

“AND cowgirls…” he corrects himself.