K1tty

The Met Gala was definitely the latter—a night where she intended to make the entire world stop and pay attention to her visual symphony.

The dressing suite inside the luxury hotel smelled like warm vanilla, velvet, hairspray, and the expensive champagne nobody had bothered touching amidst the pre-show rush. Candlelight glowed along the polished marble vanity, catching on every gold detail scattered across the room like stardust. Garment bags hung from every available hook, shoes sat in careful little rows across the plush carpet, and jewelry boxes lay wide open beside makeup brushes, powders, pins, clips, hair products, tiny trays of crystals, and enough beauty supplies to transform the entire room into a state of controlled chaos. Beyond the suite doors, the hotel buzzed with the nervous, glamorous energy of Met Gala night, a high-stakes gathering of the world's elite. But inside, for one brief, suspended minute, it was quiet.

Deidra stood before the long silver mirror, studying herself with her head tilted slightly to one side as she assessed the bold statement she was about to make.

“Mm-mm. Nope.”

You watched her from a few feet away, already dressed in your custom black tuxedo, trying very hard not to let the laugh escaping your throat disrupt her intense concentration. She adjusted one of the layered gold chains around her neck, moving the heavy, glittering metal with precise, practiced finger.

“Mm-mm. That’s not it.”

Another heavy silence stretched across the golden-lit room.

“Hold up.”

Her hand reached toward the velvet-lined jewelry tray, searching through the glittering options for the exact piece that would complete her vision.

“D,” you said carefully, keeping your tone light and gentle so she wouldn't accuse you of rushing her artistic process.

She glanced at you through the mirror, her striking light blue eyes catching yours against her deep, dark brown skin. “What, baby?”

“You’ve changed that necklace four times.”

“Because none of ’em been right yet.” She looked back at herself. “They had four chances.”

You snorted, the sheer, unapologetic confidence of her answer breaking completely through your attempt to stay composed. She gave you that familiar little eyebrow raise—the one that said she knew exactly how ridiculous she sounded and did not care even a single bit.

“What you laughing at?”

“Nothing. I’m just watching the process.”

“Then watch quietly.”

Deidra had always treated fashion like storytelling, a medium where she could express the raw truth of her journey. One outfit could be a mood, another could be an era, and another could represent an entire chapter of her life.

Tonight’s look was practically a biography.

Her fitted black velvet gown celebrated every curve of her voluptuous figure without asking permission from anyone. The sharply structured, off-the-shoulder corset was covered in shimmering gold beadwork arranged like handwritten lyric bars, while deep crimson satin swept from her waist into an extravagant train that spilled across the floor in a pool of unmistakable Chicago red. Along the outer edge of the train were tiny gold charms: a microphone, a crown, a flame, a cassette tape, and a miniature diary page—little pieces of Deidra’s life turned into jewelry.

A cropped black faux-fur stole rested around her shoulders, soft gray streaks woven through it, while her enormous gold bamboo hoops caught the candlelight whenever she moved. Gold bangles stacked along her left wrist, and layered chains rested against her chest, including the familiar cross pendant you had seen her wear a thousand times. A striking snake-shaped ring curled around her right index finger. Her nails were another story entirely—black, red, and metallic gold, decorated with tiny symbols: a crown, a flame, a dog paw for Vixen, and, on one nail, a handwritten D.

Her natural curls had been gathered into two enormous, high-volume puff ponytails, full and springy, with the gray streaks left visible instead of hidden. Thin gold cuffs, red crystals, microphone charms, and crown charms had been worked through several curls. Resting proudly atop everything was the custom ruby-red crystal headpiece inspired by her favorite slouchy red beanie style. Gold threadwork, red gemstones, and yellow script embroidered “Wild Girl” across the front completed the piece.

She looked in the mirror again, letting her gaze sweep over every detail of her completed ensemble, then slowly smiled. “Okay. Yeah.”

You raised an eyebrow at her sudden declaration of readiness. “‘Yeah’?”

“Yeah.” She nodded, satisfaction settling into her deep, slightly raspy voice, which carried that faint southern twang from her roots. “Now we got something.”

You laughed. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you love it.” She pointed at you with one long, pen-like finger, her mouth curving into a smug little smile. “So don’t complain now.”

“I wasn’t complaining.”

“Mhm. That’s what you always say.”

Before you could answer, one of the makeup artists announced something dramatic about an emergency lipstick shade and disappeared into the adjoining room with the others. The door clicked shut behind them, and an unexpected silence fell over the room…for approximately three seconds.

Then Deidra turned back toward the mirror and reached behind herself, trying to adjust the stubborn shoulder line of her gown. “This part is acting stupid.”

“You want help?”

“Yes. Come fix it.”

You stepped closer, intending to help with the tiny decorative clasp at the back of her gown, but as you did, your own cufflink caught your attention. It had come loose. You frowned down at your wrist and tried to fasten it with your clumsy fingers, but nothing happened. You tried again from another angle, and still, nothing. The cufflink slipped from your slick fingers and hit the carpet with a soft, dull thud.

Deidra paused her movements entirely, then turned slowly toward you, one eyebrow raised beneath the headpiece as she took in your minor wardrobe disaster. “You alright over there?”

“Yeah. I got it,” you said, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity despite the evidence on the floor.

She stared at the gold cufflink resting on the carpet.

“Baby, it is on the floor.”

You sighed. “Okay, I might need a little help.”

“A little?” Her deep-red lips, framed by the subtle, beautiful laugh lines around her mouth, curved into a teasing smile. “You been wrestling that thing for a minute.”

“It’s fighting me.”

“Mhm, sure it is.” She stepped closer, her custom platform sneaker heels making a soft, deliberate sound against the floor as she crossed the gap between you. “Move. Let me see.”

You lifted your wrist obediently. Up close, she was even more breathtaking than the mirror could manage—still impossibly, unmistakably Deidra. Not untouched by time, but more beautiful because she had lived through it. Her faint smile lines appeared when she laughed, and the delicate wrinkles around her eyes deepened when she looked at you with that familiar mixture of affection, confidence, and just enough trouble to keep everybody alert. You loved those details more than you could ever say correctly.

Deidra picked up the cufflink, then took your wrist in her hand. Her jeweled nails gleamed beneath the candlelight. “Hold still,” she murmured.

“You know,” you said, “I was supposed to be helping you tonight.”

“You are helping.”

“I’ve mostly watched you get dressed and lost a fight to a cufflink.”

She looked up at you, amused. “That counts. Moral support is still support.”

You laughed under your breath as she turned the cuff slightly and fastened it with one quick, practiced motion.

CLICK

“There,” she said, giving your wrist a proud little pat. “Now you look put together.”

You stared at the cufflink. Then you looked up at her. “I was about to do that.”

“Baby, no you weren’t.”

“I was.”

“Mhm.” She patted your shoulder in a patronizing but affectionate gesture. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“You’re having way too much fun with this.”

“I am,” she said easily. “You make it fun.”

Then she leaned up on her tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, leaving a faint trace of crimson lipstick behind. “Now come on. And don’t be tripping on them steps.”

You took her hand carefully, mindful of her bangles, her rings, and all the little pieces of history she wore like armor and art. “Only if you promise not to outshine everybody.”

Deidra stared at you for a moment.

“Baby, be serious.”

“You can’t promise?”

Then a slow, dangerous grin spread across her face.

“Boy, no,” she said, her faint Southern twang curling around the word, “I’m not built for that.”

You laughed. “I knew you’d say that.”

“Look at me.” She gestured toward herself, toward the velvet, the red satin, the charms, the crown of crystals. “You really thought I came all the way here to blend in?”

“Fair point.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything, letting the comfortable quiet settle over you both. The candles flickered against the draft, and the city glowed beyond the windows like a sea of diamonds. Somewhere down the hall, someone called for final touch-ups, and the distant hotel noise slowly began to return.

But Deidra’s expression softened…for one quiet second, she was not the rapper, not the fashion icon, not the woman everyone would be photographing in a few minutes. Just Deidra, your wife. She squeezed your hand, her touch grounding you in the middle of all the glamour.

“You ready?”

You squeezed back, matching her grip. “Long as I’m with you.”

A tiny smile touched her lips.

“Then let’s go, baby.”

[…]

The moment you and Deidra arrived at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the air outside seemed to grow thick with anticipation. The heavy town car had barely come to a complete stop before the photographers started calling for her, their voices crashing together outside the glass as lenses adjusted and positions were fought over along the press barricades.

“Deidra! This way!”

“Deidra, look over here!”

“Deidra—one more!”

The sound was almost overwhelming, but Deidra remained perfectly composed, sitting beside you with the calm confidence of someone who knew exactly what she was about to do to that carpet.

Then the door opened, and as you stepped out onto the illuminated pavement and offered her your arm, the photographers immediately noticed that you were standing beside her in your classic tuxedo. The entire atmosphere shifted almost instantly.

“Couple shot!”

“Deidra and her husband!”

“Both of you—right here!”

Within seconds, the standard red-carpet chaos had transformed into a roaring symphony of flashing white lights and frantic instructions, with nearly every camera suddenly pointed toward the two of you.

Deidra emerged from the car with one arm tucked securely into yours while her other hand lightly gathered the side of her extravagant train to keep it from snagging. The cropped faux-fur stole rested elegantly over her shoulders, and her custom headpiece caught practically every flash of light, making the yellow embroidery stand out as clearly as a declaration of independence. Her velvet gown shimmered richly beneath the bright museum floodlights, while the lining of her massive train unfurled behind her in a dramatic, heavy sweep. Every tiny charm along the edge caught the brilliance of the evening whenever she moved.

She lifted her chin as she took in the sheer scale of the crowd, and that signature, confident smirk slowly appeared across her lips. Suddenly, every single camera on the carpet seemed to belong to her. You stayed right beside her, hand in hand, trying to keep pace with the blinding flashes, shouting voices, and impossible amount of attention aimed in your direction.

“DEIDRA!”

“DEIDR—OVER HERE!”

“LOOK THIS WAY!”

“COUPLE SHOT!”

The calls continued from every direction as her train flowed behind her like a majestic scarlet river, and the two of you slowly made your way toward the iconic steps.

You went deliberately, taking your time exactly as promised—no tripping, no stepping on the delicate train, and absolutely no getting separated just because some frantic photographer decided you needed to stand three feet to the left. Deidra seemed completely at ease with the spectacle, occasionally turning just enough for another camera to capture her profile, but when the two of you paused near the bottom of the grand staircase, she leaned slightly closer to you without disturbing her flawless expression.

“You nervous?” she whispered, her lips barely moving to keep her expression perfect for the cameras.

“A little,” you admitted, looking up at the towering steps.

“Good.”

You looked at her in surprise. “Good?”

“Means you care,” she teased, her eyes crinkling slightly with amusement. “Just don’t let it get in your head.”

You laughed, and the tension in your shoulders began to dissolve almost immediately. Deidra gave your hand a reassuring squeeze, her jeweled fingers fitting comfortably around yours despite all the bangles and rings adorning her wrists.

“I got you,” she said. “Stay with me.”

And somehow, that small gesture helped more than anything else could.

The two of you began to climb the steps together in unison. From the outside, it probably looked like a perfectly choreographed moment of high society: a glamorous age-gap couple commanding the museum lights, her scarlet train cascading elegantly behind her, your hand steady in hers, and both of you turning at exactly the right time for the media. In reality, you were trying very hard not to laugh because one of Deidra’s tiny microphone charms had somehow gotten caught against the velvet of her dress.

“You got a charm stuck—” you started, nodding slightly toward her side.

“I know,” she murmured through a perfectly static, dazzling smile. “Don’t start messing with me while they taking pictures.”

“I’m trying to help.”

“Baby, just stand there and look handsome.”

You grinned, defeated by her logic. “That’s all you need from me?”

“For the next ten seconds? Yes.”

You continued up the steps, still holding hands, while the photographers continued shouting for just one more pose. Deidra gave them exactly what they wanted, turning her body slightly so the gold beadwork across her corset caught the light, then looking back toward you with an expression that made it immediately obvious who she was really paying attention to. You could feel the warmth of her hand around yours, steady and familiar beneath all the noise.

Then two butterflies came through the window.

At first, nobody noticed them amidst the bright lights, shouting, and constant movement. One pale-blue butterfly drifted down from somewhere above the flashing cameras and velvet night sky, drawn by the warmth of the scene. It fluttered gently through the cool air, soft and almost unreal beneath the floodlights, before landing delicately on the [h/c] fabric of your hair.

You froze.

Deidra blinked, her gaze shifting toward your forehead. A second pale-blue butterfly floated down from the darkness and settled gently into her curls, right between a gold cuff and one of the tiny crown charms woven through her hair. For one suspended second, neither of you moved. Then Deidra’s eyes widened in pure delight.

“Baby,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Don’t move.”

You looked down at her, trying desperately to keep your head perfectly still. “Why?”

She lifted one finger and pointed delicately toward the top of your head.

You slowly realized what had happened.

“Oh.”

Another massive wave of camera flashes erupted from the press line as photographers finally noticed the unexpected visitors.

“THE BUTTERFLIES!”

“LOOK THIS WAY!”

“DEIDRA—HOLD THAT!”

“THAT’S THE EXACT COUPLE SHOT I WANTED—RIGHT THERE!”

The butterfly resting in your hair opened and closed its wings, while the one nestled among Deidra’s curls did the same. Somehow, impossibly, they matched. The pale-blue wings moved almost perfectly together, creating the strangest and most beautiful little coincidence imaginable beneath the bright Met Gala lights.

Deidra’s mouth fell open in pure wonder before she suddenly started laughing. It wasn’t the polished, practiced little laugh she gave to the cameras, nor was it the cool, composed celebrity smile she used for the public. It was her real laugh—her head tilted back, her eyes crinkled with genuine joy, and her shoulders shaking beneath the heavy faux-fur stole.

“Oh my God,” she said, shaking her head. “You got a whole butterfly in your hair.”

“And you don’t?” you asked.

She tilted her head just enough to see the blue wings in the corner of her vision.

“Oh, Lord.” Her eyes crinkled. “They really gave us matching ones.”

You started laughing too, completely infected by her happiness. Somehow, that candid joy became the photograph of the night. Not the designer gown. Not the crystal headpiece. Not the expensive jewelry. Not the other celebrities gathering around the carpet. Not even the carefully arranged pose everyone had expected from the two of you. It was simply you and Deidra standing on the Met Gala steps, holding hands and laughing while pale-blue butterflies rested peacefully in your hair.

The photographers caught the exact second Deidra looked at you with that huge, completely unguarded grin, and you looked at her as she looked at you. The butterflies stayed, the cameras kept flashing, and somewhere behind the security barricades, an excited fan screamed at the absolute top of their lungs:

“THE BUTTERFLY SWEETHEARTS!”

Deidra immediately laughed even harder at the title, briefly covering her mouth with her free hand.

“Not the Butterfly Sweethearts,” she said. “They already naming us?”

You grinned at her. “That’s definitely going online.”

“Baby,” she said, glancing over her shoulder toward the media pit, “it’s already online.”

“You think so?”

She looked around at the endless, glittering wall of cameras and gave you an incredulous expression. “Look around. We probably been posted five different times already.”

“I think we just became somebody’s lock screen.”

“Somebody’s?” She raised an eyebrow in mock offense. “Boy, we about to be on everybody’s phone by breakfast.”

She wasn’t wrong.

By the time the two of you finally made it inside the grand hall, the photograph was already beginning to spread across social platforms. A fan posted the raw press photograph, then another account reposted it, followed by another, and another. Someone cropped the image into a perfect lock-screen wallpaper. Someone else added digital glitter to the butterflies’ wings. Another person transformed the moment into an oil-style digital painting surrounded by flowers and tiny blue butterflies, while one editor created a soft-blue video with animated wings drifting around the image and placed a dreamy love song underneath.

Then another account posted the photograph with a simple, bold caption:

THE NATION’S BUTTERFLY SWEETHEARTS 🦋

Within minutes, the phrase was trending worldwide.

Deidra stood near the edge of the roaring gala ballroom, staring silently at her phone while grand chandeliers glittered above the room and elegantly dressed guests swept past in impossible gowns. The music and conversation continued around you, but she seemed temporarily oblivious to all of it. You leaned over her shoulder, trying to see what had caught her attention.

“What you looking at?”

She turned the screen toward you.

You stared at the post, then looked at the thousands of comments pouring in beneath it.

“…Okay. Wow.”

“Exactly,” she murmured, still scrolling.

You scrolled through the feed, finding another edit, another piece of fan art, and another video edit almost immediately. One particular illustration caught both of your attention: it showed the two of you standing beneath a pale-blue moon, surrounded by night-blooming flowers, with Deidra’s crimson train flowing dramatically across the ground while tiny butterflies rested in both of your hair.

Deidra stared at the drawing for a long moment before a soft smile appeared on her face.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “This one kinda sweet.”

“You like it?”

“Yeah.” She admitted as she tapped the screen and hit save. “Don’t say nothing, either.”

You watched her save another edit. Then another.

You looked at her with a teasing grin. “You saving all these?”

She gave you a sharp side-eye, though her warm smile never left her face.

“Mind your business.”

You laughed softly, leaning closer as she continued scrolling. “I’m just saying.”

“I’m allowed to like something my fans made.” She slipped her phone into her bag. “They did good.”

Every few seconds, she found another fan-made creation that made her pause. Some were elegant, some were hilariously overdramatic, and some had already turned the accidental butterfly moment into an entire romantic mythology. Deidra pretended to be annoyed by the attention, but you could tell she secretly loved every second of it.

Across the ballroom, roaming cameras still followed her every move. Fashion writers were already calling her look iconic, while fans and social media accounts were calling the entire entrance magical. Somewhere, editors were probably already preparing headlines for the morning, and by sunrise, the image would likely be appearing everywhere: a pale-blue butterfly in your hair, another nestled among Deidra’s curls, her hand in yours, the Chicago-red train trailing dramatically behind her, and your smile directed nowhere but at her.

But right then, standing beside her beneath the Met Gala lights, none of that public adoration mattered nearly as much as the way she quietly slipped her hand back into yours.

Her fingers intertwined with yours, and the familiar warmth of her touch immediately cut through all the noise surrounding you. She looked up at you, her expression softening beneath the glamour and spectacle.

“You know they gon’ be talking about this all night, right?” she murmured.

You looked down at her, squeezing her hand gently.

“Good,” you said. “Let ’em.”

Her brows lifted slightly.

“That all you got?”

You smiled. “Let them talk. I’m standing here with my wife.”

For a second, Deidra just looked at you. Then her expression softened.

“Yeah,” she said, squeezing your hand. “You better be.”

[…]

You and Deidra made a quiet, strategic escape from the glittering, high-energy after-party long before the clock struck midnight. It was not because the event had been a disappointment or lacked glamour in any way. Rather, the evening had been absolutely perfect, filled to the brim with beautiful people draped in extravagant designer clothes, music playing far too loud to hold a real conversation over, and endless compliments flowing your way.

Photographers and high-profile guests alike were still desperately trying to catch Deidra’s attention from every conceivable angle. Everyone wanted to snag a picture with the legendary rapper artist, and nearly every person in the venue stopped to gush about how incredible she looked after seeing the viral butterfly photograph on their phones. But eventually, the overwhelming noise of the grand ballroom grew to be too much, prompting her to lean close and whisper in your ear.

“Baby, I love everybody in here,” she said, glancing toward the crowded dance floor, “but I need some fries. Like, now.”

You smiled. “That’s the signal?”

“That is absolutely the signal. Get me outta here before somebody else asks me to take a picture.”

That was all the convincing you could possibly need to make a quick exit from the star-studded venue. The very moment the heavy door of your luxury hotel suite finally clicked closed behind you, Deidra let out the most dramatic, soul-cleansing sigh imaginable.

“Lord, thank you.”

She immediately kicked off one of her heavy, custom platform sneaker heels, sending it sailing through the air in a blur of crimson and gold.

The first shoe landed with a soft thud right near the edge of the plush velvet sofa. Almost instantly, the second platform heel flew several feet away in the opposite direction, nearly reaching the glass surface of the coffee table. You stared down at the discarded footwear, raising an eyebrow at her sudden burst of energetic relief.

“That was graceful,” you teased, your voice dripping with playful amusement.

Deidra gave you a warning look, her eyes flashing in the dim room. “Don’t start.”

“D, you just launched a shoe across the room,” you pointed out with a quiet chuckle.

“I been in those heels for six hours.” she countered defensively as she flexed her toes with a groan. “I earned that throw.”

“You wore them because they completed the look,” you reminded her gently.

“No, baby,” she corrected, flexing her aching toes with a deeply relieved groan. “I wore them because I was committed to suffering for the look.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” you asked, thoroughly amused.

She considered it for half a second.

“…Yeah. Pretty much,” she stated with total conviction.

You laughed softly as she made her slow, dramatic way toward the large velvet sofa and flopped onto the cushions with a heavy sigh. “I am done,” she muttered, letting her head fall back against the armrest.

“But you survived the Met Gala,” you reminded her, stepping closer to her side.

“Barely, honey, my feet are filing a complaint as we speak,” she grumbled playfully as she let her head fall back.

“For what it’s worth, you looked incredible tonight,” you said sincerely.

“Oh, I know I did,” she replied instantly with her signature, unshakeable confidence.

Then, her fierce expression softened just a little bit, revealing the warmth beneath the public persona.

“But thank you, baby. I know what you mean,” she added in a much softer, tender tone.

Her custom black velvet gown was still mostly intact, though the dramatic, heavy crimson train had been gathered carefully around the plush sofa cushions and now pooled across the carpet like a spill of Chicago red. Her cropped faux-fur stole rested over the nearby armchair, while her jeweled, diary-shaped clutch sat safely on the dark wood of the coffee table. She still wore her oversized gold bamboo hoops, most of her layered gold chains, her stacked bangles, and the headpiece, though it had tilted slightly to one side after the long hours of celebrating.

She still looked incredibly glamorous, but she also looked completely exhausted and wonderfully, undeniably herself. Deidra curled her voluptuous figure up comfortably beside you on the sofa, immediately pulling her glowing phone out of her clutch to check the internet. The bright blue light of the screen illuminated her skin as she began scrolling through social media.

“Baby, look at this,” she suddenly gasped, her deep voice filled with surprise.

“What happened now?” you asked, leaning in closer to see her screen.

She turned the glowing screen toward you, her finger pointing at a newly uploaded video.

Someone had already made a stunning, stylized edit of the two of you standing together on the iconic Met steps.

A soft, digital glitter drifted elegantly over the high-definition image, and digital pale-blue butterflies floated across the screen in a graceful loop. The video shifted into slow motion at the exact moment Deidra had thrown her head back to laugh, while a dreamy, slowed-down R&B love song played beneath elegant gold script. The glittering text across the screen read:

they found each other in every lifetime.

You stared at the beautiful tribute for a quiet moment, feeling a sudden wave of warmth in your chest. Then you looked over at Deidra, who was biting her bottom lip in a futile attempt to hide her growing smile.

“Don’t laugh,” she warned, though her voice lacked any real bite.

“I’m not laughing,” you replied softly.

“You are. I can see it,” she insisted, nudging your side.

“I’m serious,” you admitted honestly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “That’s actually sweet.”

Her defensive expression softened almost immediately at your gentle tone.

“You think so?” she asked quietly, her eyes looking up at you with rare vulnerability.

“Yeah,” you murmured, wrapping a comforting arm around her velvet-clad shoulders. “They got one thing right.”

“What’s that?”

“You and me.”

She settled comfortably against your side, resting her head against your chest as your arm held her close.

“They callin’ us the nation’s butterfly sweethearts now,” she murmured, watching the comments roll in.

“I saw,” you answered, kissing the top of her headpiece.

“You think it’s corny?” she asked, looking up to gauge your reaction.

You looked down into her striking blue eyes, admiring the soft laugh lines around her face.

“I think it fits,” you whispered, squeezing her shoulder.

Deidra let out a rich, raspy laugh—the beautiful kind of laugh that made her entire face light up with genuine joy.

“You so gone over me,” she teased.

“I’ve been gone over you,” you admitted.

“Mhm, as you should be.” she said, her voice dripping with playful satisfaction.

She continued scrolling through her phone, enjoying the endless stream of positive attention. There was another beautifully timed butterfly edit, followed by another popular fan account reposting the high-quality photographs. After that came a stunning digital painting, which depicted the two of you standing hand-in-hand under a pale-blue moon, surrounded by lush flowers and tiny, glowing wings.

“Aww, look at this one,” she cooed, showing you the fan art.

You leaned over her shoulder to get a better look. “That’s beautiful.”

“They made my hair look good, too,” she noted, examining the stylized curls.

“Your hair did look good,” you pointed out honestly.

She glanced up at you with a skeptical but pleased expression. “You just saying that.”

“I’m telling the truth, D,” you insisted, matching her gaze.

“Well, keep telling it,” she teased, her smile widening.

You laughed softly as she resumed her scrolling, her amusement growing with every creative post she encountered.

Then, her eyes widened as she gasped loudly.

“BABY,” she practically shouted, grabbing your sleeve.

“What?” you asked, startled by her sudden excitement.

“ Look at this right now!” she insisted, thrusting the phone directly in front of your face.

Someone had lovingly hand-drawn the two of you as tiny, stylized cartoon characters wearing crowns, butterflies, and matching red-and-black gala outfits. Deidra’s cartoon self featured massive, springy puff ponytails, oversized gold hoops, and a hilariously exaggerated, miles-long crimson train. Your cartoon self was depicted with a confused expression and a single, fat, pale-blue butterfly sitting directly on top of your head.

You burst out laughing at the adorable absurdity of the caricature. Deidra joined in instantly, her deep, raspy voice echoing off the high ceilings of the suite.

“Why they got me looking this dramatic?” she demanded, pointing at the dramatic cartoon expression.

“Because that is your face,” you managed to say through your laughter.

“My face does not look like that.” she gasped, wiping a tear of amusement from her eye.

“It does when you’re judging somebody.”

She leaned closer to inspect it. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“Just a little?”

“Don’t push it.”

She laughed so incredibly hard that her chest shook, forcing her to temporarily put the phone down on the cushion. For several wonderful minutes, neither of you did much of anything besides sit there laughing together in the quiet room. There were no flashing camera lenses, no shouting reporters, no red carpets to navigate, and no heavy public expectations to meet. It was just the quiet hotel suite, the warm golden glow of the candles, and the two of you finally enjoying a peaceful moment alone after one of the biggest nights of her career.

Then, a polite, rhythmic knock sounded at the heavy suite door. You rose to answer it, and Deidra immediately sat upright on the sofa when she saw the massive room service cart rolling into the room.

“Oh, finally,” she sighed, her eyes widening in anticipation.

Her hungry gaze swept across the impressive, comforting spread of food. There was a large plate of [F/F1] and hot wings dripping with buffalo sauce and served with extra ranch, alongside a towering pyramid of both [F/F2] and golden, crispy french fries. Next to that sat a platter of yummy [F/F3] and perfectly fried chicken, and [F/D] and a tall glass of sweet iced tea. And, sitting carefully in the absolute center of the tray, was a tiny, custom white cake decorated with elegant pale-blue buttercream.

Two delicate, edible blue sugar butterflies rested peacefully on the top of the frosting. Deidra stared at the beautiful dessert in silence for a brief moment. Then she looked up at you, her face breaking into the biggest, brightest smile you had seen all night.

“See?” she asked, pointing excitedly at the custom cake. “Even the cake knows we cute.”

You laughed warmly, rolling the cart closer to the couch. “The universe has good taste.”

“You damn right it does,” she agreed, her confidence returning in full force.

She immediately reached for a silver fork, ready to dive in.

“Hold on,” you said, reaching into your pocket.

She stopped her hand mid-air and narrowed her eyes at you suspiciously. “What?”

“I need a picture,” you explained, unlocking your phone.

“A picture of the cake?” she asked.

“A picture of you,” you corrected, pointing the camera at her.

She gave you a hilarious, highly suspicious little squint. “You better not put me online looking tired.”

“You don’t look tired. You look beautiful.” you assured her with a soft smile.

“Baby, that is a sweet lie,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “But it is still a lie.”

Still, she willingly leaned over the beautiful cake to pose for you. She managed to get a tiny speck of pale-blue frosting on one of her fingers almost immediately, holding it up with an amused gasp of surprise.

“See? Look at this. I’m already making a mess,” she laughed.

You quickly lifted your phone—

Still aiming your phone camera at her as she lifted a forkful of cake toward her mouth, you smiled.

“Say cheese!”

Deidra’s eyes widened the second she realized you were about to take the picture.

“Baby—”

And snapped the perfect photo before she could mid-react.

A soft click echoed through the quiet suite.

The candid image appeared on your glowing screen, capturing her essence perfectly. Deidra was laughing, her curls slightly loosened from the long evening, though both of her magnificent puff ponytails were still incredibly voluminous. Her headpiece sparkled beautifully beneath the soft suite lighting, while her bold red lipstick had softened just a bit around the edges. Her gold hoops framed her face, her cross pendant caught the warm lamp light, and a tiny smear of pale-blue frosting rested on her finger.

There was no glamorous red carpet beneath her feet, and no photographers were shouting her name into the night. There was no perfect, calculated pose designed for the public eye. This was not the polished, untouchable version of Deidra Boone meant for media headlines and high-fashion magazines. This was simply Deidra—happy, tired, laughing, and completely yours.

Deidra looked at you in disbelief, then glanced at the frosting on her finger.

“You really took it while I had icing on me?”

“You looked cute.”

She reached out her hand to grab your phone. “You better let me see it.”

You handed it over and let her see the screen.

She studied the candid picture for a long, quiet moment, and her playful smile turned incredibly soft.

“That’s actually really cute,” she murmured.

“Yeah, it is,” you agreed.

“You should post it,” she suggested, handing the phone back.

You immediately locked your phone screen and set it face down on the coffee table. “No. This one stays with us.”

She looked at you in genuine surprise, her brow furrowing slightly. “Why?”

You looked at the phone, knowing the photo was safely tucked away inside the device.

“Because not every good moment needs an audience,” you explained softly.

For once in her life, Deidra did not have a witty comeback or a joke ready to deflect the emotion. The city lights glowed brightly beyond the vast suite windows, and somewhere outside, the busy streets of New York kept moving. Millions of people online were still sharing that viral photograph of the two of you on the Met steps, making creative edits, writing captions, and deciding what the blue butterflies symbolized. But inside the quiet sanctuary of the suite, she simply reached out and took your hand in hers.

Her thumb brushed lightly over the gold cufflink she had fixed for you before the long night began. “You know,” she said quietly, her deep voice dropping to a gentle murmur. “I’ve had a lot of big nights.”

“I know,” you replied, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

“And I’ve had people love me in a lot of ways,” she continued, her blue eyes reflecting the candlelight. “Fans, family, people in my life.”

You turned your body toward her fully, giving her your undivided attention. Deidra looked down at your joined hands, tracing the line of your knuckles with her jeweled finger. “But being loved by you,” she continued softly, “Feels different.”

You stayed quiet, giving her space to say what she needed to say.

“It’s peaceful,” she said, looking back up into your eyes, “Even when everything else is loud.”

Your throat tightened with deep emotion at her vulnerable confession.

She looked back up at you, her eyes reflecting the warm candlelight.

“You make me feel like I can take all this off—the gown, the jewelry, the whole image—and still be enough.”

You lifted her hand gently to your lips and kissed her knuckles, being careful around her heavy rings and bangles. “D, you could be in an old T-shirt, some sweats, hair wrapped up, fussing because the fries got cold,” you said with absolute certainty, “and you’d still be the prettiest woman in the room to me.”

She blinked rapidly, refusing to let herself cry and ruin her remaining makeup.

Then, she playfully nudged your shoulder with her elbow.

“Okay,” she said, a small chuckle escaping her lips. “That was smooth.”

“I meant it,” you insisted.

“I know,” her smile returned, softer and more tender than before. “That’s why it worked.”

She leaned in close and kissed you gently. It was a slow, warm, and deeply private kiss. It was the kind of kiss that did not need flashing camera lights or a thousand cheering people watching to become completely unforgettable.

Later on, the hot fries slowly started getting cold on the tray. The untouched bottle of champagne still sat chilling in its silver bucket in the other room. Deidra’s extravagant Met Gala look was now half on and half off, and the custom butterfly cake already had a missing corner because she insisted she deserved the first bite “for being the reason the butterflies showed up in the first place.”

She picked up her glass of sweet iced tea and leaned back comfortably against the soft sofa cushions. “You know what?” she murmured, looking over at you.

“What?” you asked.

She nodded her head solemnly as she contemplated the evening. “I think we did alright tonight.”

You smiled, pulling her closer to your side. “Just alright?”

“Yeah, we did,” she affirmed.

A quiet, comfortable pause settled between you.

“We did real good,” she added with a proud grin.

“We did,” you agreed.

“We looked good too.”

“You looked amazing.”

She shook her head. “No. We looked good.”

You smiled. “Yeah. We did.”

She proudly raised her glass of sweet tea in the air. “To the butterfly sweethearts.”

You lifted your own glass, clinking it gently against hers. “To us.”

“Exactly,” she said, settling against your side. “To us, baby.”

And beneath the soft, warm lights of the hotel suite, with two little blue sugar butterflies sitting on top of a half-eaten white cake, the two of you quietly celebrated a magical night that neither of you would ever forget.

A/N: (None)

2:03 A.M.

“Fantastic..”

You sighed and rolled onto your side, the quiet rustle of the mattress loud in the stillness of the room.

Helena was still awake too.

You could tell immediately.

The bedroom was dark except for the faint glow coming from the hallway, and Helena was sitting against the headboard with her knees slightly drawn up, looking through one of her old recipe notebooks.

She had clearly been awake for a while.

Her charcoal-gray sleep shirt hung loosely around her, soft and faded from years of washing. The shirt had a small, nearly worn-away print of an angry snake across the front, though she would always stubborn-facedly insist it was only because the cotton was comfortable—not because she actually liked the design. The sleeves had been pushed halfway up her forearms, exposing the pale, faint silver scars on her hands and wrists.

Her dark burgundy lounge pants were roomy rather than stylish, patterned with tiny, understated cocoa beans stitched in muted brown thread. They were tied securely at the waist with a drawstring she had undoubtedly checked twice before bed. Helena hated anything restrictive while trying to sleep, especially when carrying the weight of a difficult day. She favored clothing that felt warm, familiar, and easy to move in, should she wake from a nightmare or decide to wander downstairs to pace the quiet floors.

And, naturally—

She was barefoot.

Her mother's gray pinky ring was still on her finger, reflecting the dim hallway light.

She was rubbing her thumb against the smooth metal absentmindedly while reading, a soothing habit she fell back on whenever her emotions began to rise.

Her heavy, oversized black cardigan was wrapped tightly around her shoulders despite the fact that the room wasn't particularly cold. Worn-in and comforting, the fabric smelled faintly of cocoa butter, chamomile, and the homemade vanilla conditioner she used to keep her silver-streaked, copper-brown bob healthy and shining. She pulled it on whenever insomnia kept her awake, wrapping it around herself like a protective shield against the quiet hours before sunrise.

You watched her for a moment, admiring the soft, almost milky glow of her pale skin in the dim light. Underneath her eyes, deep dark circles betrayed her frequent, restless battles with her own mind—the complex web of her OCD and BPD that kept her thoughts spinning.

“Can't sleep?”

Helena didn't even look up from her notebook.

“No, cariño.”

A beat.

“Obviously.”

Her voice was raspy and slightly gravelly, carrying that deep, authoritative weight that left no room for dismissal, though to you, there was always something deeply alluring and soft hidden within its dry, sarcastic tone.

You smiled.

“Thought so.”

She turned another page, her left hand moving with the practiced, meticulous precision that made her such a brilliant artisan.

“Don’t start with me.”

“I wasn't going to.”

“Mm. You were thinking about it.”

“I was thinking about making you some tea.”

That made her pause.

She glanced over, her striking indigo-blue eyes catching yours. For all her gruff, defensive armor, those eyes held a vulnerability she only ever allowed you to see.

“…Chamomile?” she asked, her subtle Venezuelan-Italian accent thickening slightly in the quiet of the bedroom.

“Probably.”

Helena narrowed her eyes.

“Probably? That’s your answer?”

“You're the chocolatier. I'm the husband,” you teased softly, rolling closer to her. “By all accounts of life experience and kitchen mastery, you're supposed to be the one with the tea expertise.”

“I make chocolate. Properly, I might add,” she muttered, though she was already subconsciously tapping her fingers against the leather of her notebook—a restless sign that she was listening, that she was letting her guard drop just a fraction.

“And tea.”

“I make tea because I am awake at hours no decent person should be conscious.”

You grinned.

“Exactly.”

She stared at you, her sharp, observant gaze lingering on your face. Her BPD and OCD often made her struggle with trust, keeping a defensive distance from the world, but in the quiet safety of your shared room, the tension in her broad, sturdy shoulders began to melt.

Then—

A tiny smile.

Barely there, curving the faint lines at the corners of her lips.

But you caught it.

“You’re deeply annoying,” she murmured, her voice dropping to a soft, affectionate purr.

“You married me.”

“Obviously, I was suffering from a brief but catastrophic lapse in judgment.”

You laughed quietly, the sound warm and low in the dark room.

Helena rolled her eyes, but she closed her recipe book with ritualistic care and set it on the nightstand. Still, she shifted her weight slightly, adjusting her position against the headboard to make a clear, welcoming space beside her.

You took the hint, sliding closer to wrap your arms around her, letting the soothing scent of vanilla and cocoa butter envelop you both as the restless night finally began to soften.

[…]

You eventually abandoned the idea of sleeping. The restless energy of the middle of the night had settled into the room, making the prospect of lying under the sheets feel more like a chore than a comfort.

Instead, the two of you migrated downstairs, the wooden steps creaking softly under your feet.

Helena still kept her heavy, oversized cardigan wrapped tightly around her shoulders, holding the fabric closed with one hand as she descended. With her hair slightly tousled from the pillows and her dark circles catching the faint ambient light of the hallway, she looked like someone who had been dragged out of bed by insomnia and had decided to make it everyone else's problem.

You grabbed a bundle of soft blankets from the linen closet, while Helena went straight for the kitchen to prepare the tea.

While the kettle began its slow, quiet hum on the stove, you opened the pantry to grab snacks to accompany your late-night watch.

Helena immediately complained about the snacks. She stood by the counter, hands resting on her hips over her lounge pants, her eyes scanning the colorful wrappers you had laid out.

“Why, exactly, did you buy these?” she muttered, her gravelly voice carrying a mix of genuine disdain and playful exhaustion.

“Because they're snacks,” you replied easily, tossing a bag onto the kitchen island.

“They’re terrible. Appallingly terrible.”

“You haven't even tried them.”

“I know.”

“You can't know that,” you said, leaning against the counter and looking at her with a raised eyebrow.

“I can, actually.”

“You're judging a snack based on its packaging.”

“Look at it. The packaging is suspicious,” she declared flatly, gesturing to the bright, neon-colored bag with a look of culinary offense that only a meticulous, professional chocolatier could muster. To Helena, presentation, ingredients, and quality were a science; anything mass-produced in a loud wrapper was an affront to her senses.

You looked at her, letting the silence stretch between you.

She looked back, her posture defensive but her eyes softening just a fraction under your gaze. “…What are you looking at?”

“You're impossible.”

“And yet, somehow, you’re still here.”

“Unfortunately.”

She gave you another tiny, fleeting smile—the kind that barely touched her lips but warmed her entire expression, letting you know that her sharp-tongued grumpiness was just her comfortable way of showing affection.

“Good.”

That one word, spoken so quietly and softly, caught you off guard. It was a rare, vulnerable admission from her, a quiet reassurance that despite her prickly defense mechanisms and her struggles with trust, she truly wanted you by her side.

You didn't say anything, not wanting to break the fragile, sweet gravity of the moment.

Neither did she. She simply adjusted her pinky ring, her thumb smoothing over the metal as she let out a quiet breath.

Instead, Helena turned toward the television in the living room, effectively changing the subject as she walked over to the sofa, her bare feet making no sound on the rug. “Pick something already.”

“Anything?” you asked, following her and tossing the blankets over the cushions.

“Within reason, tesoro,” she warned, wrapping her heavy cardigan tighter around herself as she curled her legs up onto the couch, her knees drawn up to her chest.

“Comedy?”

“No.”

“Horror?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Action?”

“No. Next question.”

“Romance?”

Helena slowly turned her head and looked at you, her gaze flat and unamused. “…Absolutely not.”

You laughed, sitting down beside her and pulling the warm blankets over both of your laps. “You're the one who secretly likes old romance movies.”

Her eyes widened slightly, a faint touch of color rising to her pale cheeks. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I don’t.”

“You cried during that one,” you teased, nudging her shoulder with yours.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“It was a two-hour movie, Helena.”

“Very dusty in here,” she insisted, her Venezuelan-Italian accent clipping the words defensively as she refused to look at you.

“Inside the house?”

“Terrible ventilation. Criminal, honestly.”

You couldn't help laughing at the sheer, stubborn commitment to her excuse. Helena’s outer shell was so tough, yet inside she was incredibly sensitive and deeply emotional—a beautiful contradiction you loved more every day.

Helena crossed her arms, trying to look stern, though the tiny tug at the corner of her mouth gave her away.

“Just pick the movie before I lose my patience.”

[…]

Eventually, the movie marathon became background noise. The flickering blue light of the television cast long shadows across the living room as a classic black-and-white film played quietly, ignored by both of you.

The two of you were sitting close together beneath a heavy, warm blanket when you suddenly pulled out your phone, the screen illuminating your face in the dim room.

“Wait.”

Helena glanced over, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watched your thumb scroll rapidly.

“What?”

“I found something.”

“That sentence has never, in history, ended well,” she muttered, her gravelly voice dry and laced with affectionate suspicion.

“A mug cake.”

She stared at you, her face flat and deadpan, as if you had just proposed rewriting her entire professional menu.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, no, no— You may stop asking now. The answer is no.”

“It's supposedly easy,” you urged, shifting closer so she could see the screen.

“That is what people say immediately before they ruin perfectly good ingredients,” she countered, wrapping her oversized cardigan tighter around herself as if shielding herself from the very concept of microwave baking.

You showed her the video, the cheerful background music of the social media clip muted as the quick-cut instructions played out.

Helena watched silently, her analytical eyes tracking every single movement of the hands on screen. Her expression was that of a master artisan observing a crime.

The recipe seemed simple enough.

Flour, sugar, cocoa powder, milk, a little oil, mix, microwave, done.

Helena looked entirely unimpressed, her nose wrinkling in a faint display of disgust.

“That isn't chocolate.”

“It's a mug cake,” you argued, your voice full of amusement.

“It is chocolate-flavored regret in a cup.”

You laughed, the sound echoing softly in the quiet, cozy house.

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Helena.” You gave her your best pleading look, knowing exactly how to nudge past the defensive walls she built around her meticulously structured world.

She sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling as she let out a long, defeated breath. She absentmindedly touched her pinky ring, a small surrender in the face of your persistence.

“…Fine. But if this goes badly, I am blaming you.”

[…]

The kitchen became a disaster zone within minutes.

It was not because you were particularly terrible at cooking, but mostly because Helena was a professional chocolatier. To her, working with cocoa was not a casual late-night activity—it was a precise science, a sacred craft governed by strict standards, and she could not help but bring that meticulous, control-oriented OCD mindset into the process.

Which meant she immediately started correcting absolutely everything you did.

“You put far too much cocoa powder in this,” she muttered, her gravelly voice sharp as she watched you scoop the dry ingredients into a ceramic mug.

“The video said—”

“I don't care what some video said.”

“You're supposed to follow the recipe, Helen.”

“I know how to follow a recipe.”

“You literally just said you don't care about the recipe,” you pointed out, holding the spoon mid-air with an amused smile.

“And I don’t care about their recipe,” she corrected flatly, her eyes fixed on the slightly uneven mound of powder in your hands.

She stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the cold kitchen tile, and firmly took the spoon from your grip. “Move.”

You stepped aside with a quiet chuckle, raising your hands in mock surrender.

Helena immediately took over, measuring everything with absurd, professional precision. She leveled off the flour, adjusted the sugar, and measured the liquid ingredients down to the last drop, her fingers working with a familiar, practiced grace.

You watched her carefully, leaning against the counter.

She was entirely in her element now, even at two in the morning, even exhausted with dark circles under her eyes, and even dressed in her comfortable sleepwear.

Her movements were incredibly practiced and precise, born from decades of running her own chocolate shop. She stirred the thick mixture inside the mug, her gaze intense and focused.

Suddenly, she stopped.

She looked down into the mug, her brow furrowing.

She stirred it again, slower this time.

“…This looks very wrong,” she murmured, her voice carrying a rare note of genuine irritation.

“You said you knew what you were doing,” you teased, leaning in to look over her shoulder.

“I do know what I am doing.”

“Then why does it look like that?”

“Because you're distracting me,” she deflected quickly, her subtle Venezuelan-Italian accent growing a bit more pronounced as she tried to maintain her cold, authoritative exterior.

“I haven't even said anything.”

“Your presence alone is distracting.”

You grinned, stepping closer and letting your shoulder brush against hers. “That's romantic.”

“Don't push your luck,” she muttered, though she didn't step away, her thumb quickly brushing against her pinky ring as a tiny, hidden smile threatened to break through her grumpy facade.

[…]

Into the microwave it went, the heavy glass door clicking shut.

You both stood there watching the mug rotate under the harsh, yellow internal light. Helena had her arms folded tightly over her chest, keeping her heavy black cardigan wrapped secure. You had your hands on your hips, leaning forward slightly.

Neither of you spoke, the only sound in the quiet kitchen being the low, rhythmic hum of the microwave.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

You pulled open the door, a small puff of hot, slightly burnt-smelling steam escaping into the air. The mug cake looked…well, it looked bad. Very bad. It had risen unevenly, forming a spongy, cratered lump that looked remarkably dry and completely unappealing.

Helena stared at it with the critical, horrified eye of a professional chocolatier. You stared at it. The cake seemed to stare back at both of you.

“…Oh.”

Helena slowly leaned closer, inspecting the culinary disaster with absolute disbelief.

“No,” she whispered.

You tried your absolute best not to laugh, pressing your lips together. “It's not that bad.”

“It looks like something used to repair a sidewalk,” she retorted flatly, her gravelly voice deadpan.

You burst out laughing, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet house. Helena quickly covered her mouth with her hand, her pinky ring catching the bright kitchen light. She was trying desperately not to smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You made this,” she accused, pointing a scarred finger at the mug.

“We made this,” you corrected.

“I did most of the work,” she argued, trying to distance herself from the crime.

“And yet somehow—”

“Don't,” she warned, though her shoulders were already starting to tense with suppressed amusement.

You laughed harder at her stubbornness, the sheer absurdity of the late-night baking session washing over you. Helena’s strictly guarded defenses finally broke. A tiny, completely involuntary snort escaped her lips.

She froze, immediately looking deeply offended at herself.

“…Don't you dare,” she threatened, pointing at you.

“You laughed!”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I coughed,” she insisted, her Venezuelan-Italian accent clipping the words defensively.

“That was not a cough.”

“It was.”

“You snorted, Helen.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

Helena stared at you, trying to maintain her signature cold glare, but her cheeks were flushed. Then she looked back down at the sad, dry mug cake sitting on the counter.

“…Madonna. It really does look terrible,” she admitted softly.

With that, you both started laughing. It wasn't the polite, quiet kind of laughter you might share in public. It was the exhausted, ridiculous, completely unhinged kind of laughter that only happens when you are both running on almost no sleep in the dead of night.

Helena had to lean against the counter, her broad shoulders shaking beneath her oversized cardigan. She wiped at the corner of one eye, her BPD-driven anxieties and OCD-fueled frustrations completely melted away by the joy of the moment.

“Oh, Dio…” she breathed, a beautiful, genuine smile finally taking over her face.

You smiled back at her, your heart swelling. In that moment, the ruined mug cake didn't matter, and the ridiculous recipe didn't matter. The fact that it was past two in the morning didn't matter at all.

You were simply there together, sharing a perfect, laughing mess in the middle of the kitchen.

Eventually, the laughter subsided into comfortable, lingering giggles. Helena looked down at the ruined, dry mug cake sitting on the kitchen island, then over at you, and finally glanced up at the microwave clock.

2:47 A.M.

She let out a soft, defeated sigh.

“I want ice cream.”

You blinked, caught completely off guard by the sudden pivot.

“…Now?”

“Yes.”

“You're serious?”

“Very.”

“You just made a mug cake,” you pointed out, gesturing to the lukewarm culinary disaster sitting between you.

“And?” she challenged, raising her chin.

“And you're replacing it with ice cream?”

“The mug cake has betrayed me, and I will not forgive it,” she declared flatly, her gravelly voice full of mock betrayal as she gave the mug a final, dismissive glare.

You laughed, shaking your head at her stubborn logic. “Okay.”

Yielding to the late-night craving, Helena moved to prepare for the quick trip. She slipped her heavy cardigan off her shoulders and tossed it over a kitchen chair, replacing it with an oversized black zip-up hoodie that she pulled over her sleep shirt. The hoodie was soft and slightly faded, zipped only halfway up, with sleeves so long and roomy that they fell down to cover most of her scarred hands.

She stepped into a pair of dark cocoa slip-on flats adorned with worn bronze accents, preserving her hatred for restrictive footwear while keeping her feet protected from the cold convenience store floors. Her pinky ring, as always, remained securely on her finger.

She grabbed her keys from the counter and held them out to you, her eyes locking onto yours with an affectionate, commanding gaze.

“You're driving.”

“Yes, ma'am,” you smiled, taking the keys from her covered hand.

“And we're getting stracciatella.”

“Of course.”

“And chocolate. Real chocolate.”

“Obviously,” you chuckled, opening the front door to let the cool, crisp night air wash over you.

“And don't get some ridiculous flavor,” she warned, her subtle Venezuelan-Italian accent wrapping sharply around the words as she stepped out onto the porch.

“You mean like—”

“Don't,” she snapped playfully, cutting you off before you could even finish the sentence.

[…]

The streets were almost completely empty, stretched out before you under the amber hum of the overhead streetlights. The familiar neighborhood roads looked vast and foreign in the silence, devoid of the usual daytime traffic and hurried pedestrians.

There was something strangely peaceful about being outside at that hour. The city felt entirely different—quieter, softer, as if the sharp edges of the world had been blunted by the dark. It was as though everyone else had temporarily disappeared, leaving only the two of you to navigate the quiet night.

Helena sat beside you in the passenger seat, the dashboard light casting a soft, cool glow over her face. Her oversized hoodie sleeves covered most of her hands, leaving only the tips of her fingers peeking out.

She looked exhausted, the deep dark circles under her eyes more prominent in the dim light of the cabin. Her hair was slightly messy from the pillows, and her heavy eyelids fluttered as she fought off the lingering weight of her insomnia. Yet, despite the fatigue, she seemed calmer than she had been upstairs, her usual restless anxiety giving way to the steady hum of the car engine.

She looked out the window, watching the quiet storefronts roll by.

You glanced over at her, taking in her profile, before returning your eyes to the empty road.

“You okay?”

“Mm.”

“You sure?”

“Yes,” she murmured, her gravelly voice carrying a soft, quiet depth in the enclosed space of the car.

A comfortable, quiet pause settled between you, filled only by the soft click of the turn signal as you navigated a corner.

“…Thank you,” she said suddenly, her subtle Venezuelan-Italian accent wrapping warmly around the words.

You smiled, keeping your eyes on the road.

“For what?”

“For coming with me.”

You reached over across the center console, letting your hand find hers. You gave her fingers, soft despite the faint kitchen scars, a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

She looked down at your joined hands. Her thumb instinctively brushed over the cool metal of her pinky ring, a habitual nervous gesture that now felt remarkably peaceful.

Then, she quietly squeezed your hand back, holding on with a gentle strength.

“Don't make it sentimental. I will leave you here,” she mumbled, looking back out the window to hide the faint blush rising to her cheeks, though she didn't let go of your hand.

“Wouldn't dream of it,” you replied, your grin widening.

“Good.”

[…]

The convenience store was almost completely empty, save for the bright, buzzing fluorescent lights overhead and the quiet hum of the commercial refrigerators. Helena, with her hands tucked inside her oversized hoodie, walked with quiet purpose. She made a direct line toward the back of the store, heading straight for the freezer aisle.

She pulled open the heavy glass door, a wave of frosty air rolling out over her sleepwear. Her eyes scanned the rows of frozen tubs with intense focus, looking for something that met her high standards. She paused, her gaze locking onto a specific shelf.

Then—

“There.”

You followed her gaze, stepping up beside her as she pointed with a sleeve-covered hand.

“Stracciatella?”

“Yes.”

“You look like you just found buried treasure,” you teased, leaning against the cold glass of the neighboring door.

“I did,” she said flatly, her gravelly voice deadpan.

You reached into the freezer and grabbed the carton, but before you could place it in your basket, Helena held out her hands.

“What’s the expiration date?” she demanded, her meticulous, control-oriented nature showing itself even at three in the morning.

You turned the container around, showing her the stamped date on the bottom.

“Fine,” she nodded approvingly, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she accepted that the quality met her standards.

Amused by her thoroughness, you turned back to the freezer and grabbed another container from the shelf.

She looked at it and instantly frowned. “No.”

“You haven't even seen it yet.”

“I know you far too well.”

“It's chocolate hazelnut,” you revealed, turning the tub so she could read the label.

Helena paused, her stubbornness warring with her deep, professional appreciation for classic Italian flavor pairings. She stared at the tub, her thumb absentmindedly smoothing over her pinky ring as she calculated the quality of the ingredients.

“…Put it in the cart before I change my mind,” she muttered, looking away.

You smiled, placing both tubs into the basket. “Yes, chef.”

Helena shot you a sharp, dry look. “I'm not a chef.”

“Chocolatier.”

She let out a soft, amused breath, her subtle accent rounding the word as she turned toward the checkout counter. “Better. Still not good, but better.”

[…]

By the time you got home, it was nearly 3:30 A.M. The living room was exactly as you had left it, peaceful, quiet, and wrapped in warm shadows. The old romance movie was still paused on the television screen, capturing a frozen black-and-white frame. On the kitchen island, the failed mug cake sat abandoned, a dry and crumbly monument to your late-night kitchen disaster.

You bypassed the kitchen entirely and headed straight for the couch, pulling the heavy blanket over your laps. The ice cream carton was opened between you, cold and inviting under the dim living room lights. Two spoons. One carton. No plates, and absolutely no dignity—just the two of you indulging in a quiet, private rebellion against the clock.

Helena ate slowly, her hair swaying slightly as she dipped her spoon into the cold stracciatella. The cool sweetness of the ice cream seemed to soothe her, but the long, exhausting hours of insomnia were finally catching up. Gradually, her head began to droop, her heavy eyelids fluttering as she fought a losing battle against sleep.

You noticed the slow, heavy rise and fall of her broad shoulders under the heavy cardigan.

“You're tired.”

“No.”

“You're falling asleep.”

“No, mi amor.”

“Your eyes are closed.”

“I can hear you, you know,” she muttered defensively, though her gravelly voice was barely a whisper.

You smiled, wrapping your arm securely around her waist to pull her closer.

“Sure.”

She grumbled something entirely unintelligible under her breath, her Venezuelan-Italian accent slurring sleepily into the quiet room. A few minutes later, she leaned her weight against you, searching for the familiar warmth of your body. Then she leaned a little more, her defenses crumbling completely under the weight of her exhaustion.

Until eventually—

Her head rested comfortably against your chest, burying itself slightly into your shoulder. Her deep, rhythmic breathing became slower, matching the steady beat of your heart. Her shoulders relaxed completely, the lingering tension from her OCD and BPD melting away into the quiet of the night.

The hand holding her spoon went entirely limp, her fingers slipping away from the metal, though her pinky ring still glinted softly in the dark. You carefully reached down and took the spoon from her grasp before it could fall onto the blanket.

“Helena?”

. . . Nothing.

She was asleep. Finally. After another long, restless night where her mind had run in exhausting circles, peace had finally found her. She was finally asleep in your arms, safe and warm against your chest as the first faint hints of dawn waited just beyond the horizon.

You carefully adjusted the heavy blanket, pulling it higher to tuck it securely around her shoulders. Her heavy, oversized cardigan was still wrapped snugly around her, trapping her warmth against you. One of her hands, small but marked with the scars, rested gently against your chest. Her pinky ring caught the faint, flickering light from the television screen, gleaming softly in the quiet room.

You looked down at her face, studying the soft lines of her features in the dimness, before gently kissing her forehead. This was the woman who spent so much of her life pretending she didn't need anybody to survive. She was the woman who could be incredibly stubborn, bitingly sarcastic, fiercely defensive, and sometimes downright impossible. She had built massive, impenetrable walls, guarding her fragile heart like it was the most valuable, easily broken thing she possessed.

And yet—here she was.

She was sleeping peacefully against you, her breath warm against your collarbone. She trusted you completely, letting her guard down so entirely that she could drift off right in your embrace. You gently rested your cheek against the top of her head, inhaling the lingering, soothing scent of vanilla and rich cocoa butter that clung to her hair.

For once, there was absolutely no noise. There were no sharp arguments, no obsessive worries, and no chaotic recipe disasters to fix. The persistent insomnia that plagued her night after night had finally lost its grip. There was only a beautiful, tranquil quiet.

You felt completely safe, wrapped up in the stillness of the early morning. Somehow, holding her close to your chest made the entire house feel a little warmer. Your own eyelids gradually became heavier as the sheer exhaustion of the night finally caught up to you.

You decided to stop fighting the encroaching sleep. You pulled the blanket just a little higher, wrapping the two of you in a cozy, secure cocoon. The television continued playing quietly in the background, casting moving shadows across the walls. The open carton of ice cream sat forgotten on the coffee table, slowly softening.

The horrible, hallowed mug cake remained abandoned on the kitchen counter, a funny memory for the morning. And sometime around 4:00 A.M., you finally fell asleep too. Helena remained curled safely in your arms, her breathing slow and even against your chest.

For one rare, beautiful night, neither of you had to be anywhere. Neither of you had to fix anything or struggle to find peace. You just had each other, and in the quiet dark of the morning, that was more than enough.

Italian vocab:

tesoro = Darling

mi amor = My love

A/N: …I thought I lost my ability to make oneshots.

You sat on the edge of the living room couch, watching your wife. Even on her day off, the doctor was a workaholic, peering through her glasses at a medical journal. Her long hair was out loose, and the delicate eyeglass chain caught the soft afternoon light. She looked every bit the authoritative, strict doctor she was, but to you, she was simply the center of your world.

"So," you said, wearing an overly innocent smile as you looked at her. "I had an idea."

Margaret looked up from the medical journal she had somehow still been reading, her dark green eyes narrowing slightly behind her lenses. The faint wrinkles around her eyes and mouth deepened with her habitual skepticism.

"And somehow, I’m already concerned," she murmured, her deep, rich voice carrying that dry, authoritative tone you loved so much.

[…]

Margaret stood in the bedroom doorway wearing her usual white lab coat over her knit sweater dress. The thick, breathable fabric clung to her wonderfully curvy, overweight frame, accentuating her full chest. Her stethoscope hung familiarly around her neck, and she was even wearing her flat shoes with the cushioned insoles. Folding her arms across her chest, she stared at you with a completely deadpan expression.

"Honestly, I cannot understand you sometimes..." she deadpanned, her slight New Yorker accent flaring up just a bit in her dry delivery.

She took a step into the room, the faint scar lines across her mature face softening only slightly as she looked at you. "You said you wanted a doctor-and-patient roleplay. This is what I wear at the hospital every day, sweetheart. So why are you sitting there looking disappointed? This is precisely what you asked for."

You blinked, sitting completely shirtless on the bed mattress, suddenly feeling very underdressed compared to her fully professional attire.

"Yeah, that's the plot..." you mumbled, rubbing the back of your neck.

She raised an eyebrow, her glasses slipping a fraction of an inch down her nose.

"Like... okay, you're a real doctor," you explained, giving her your absolute best puppy-dog smile. "But this is a roleplay. I don't need a real consultation, babe. Let's spice it up a little!"

A heavy, comfortable silence filled the room as Margaret simply stared at you, her expression unreadable.

"You men really do have the most unimaginative fantasies," she finally remarked, her sharp wit cutting through the quiet air.

"We're just simple creatures," you pleaded, leaning back on one hand.

Another long pause stretched between you two, the tension playful but thick.

"Sooo...?" you prompted gently.

Margaret pinched the bridge of her nose with the practiced exhaustion of someone who had spent over twenty years dealing with impossible patients and stubborn interns. She let out a long, dramatic sigh that rustled the papers in her lab coat pockets.

"Give me five minutes," she muttered, turning on her heel.

[…]

The bedroom door clicked open once again.

Margaret had finally traded her heavy knit dress and professional lab coat for an attractive nurse-like costume consisting of a fitted halter-neck mini dress in a classic medical color palette of crisp white and vibrant red. The dress has a deep, plunging V-neckline that flows into a halter style, and she ties the thin red straps behind her neck; the neckline and halter edges are outlined with slim red piping.

On the front of her upper bodice, there is vertical ruching that runs from the bottom of the V-neck down to her mid-torso, giving her dress a soft, form-fitting texture. Over her left breast, she wears a circular red patch with a bold white cross emblem in the center.

The skirt of her dress falls into a short, straight hem that shows off her legs; the simple cut keeps the focus on her curves and the bright details. Near the lower left hemline, her dress has a small side slit.

On her head is a classic nurse’s cap headband. The cap is made of structured white fabric with a softly curved crown and a pointed front panel; the shape echoes traditional nurse headwear and sits neatly above her forehead. At the front peak, she shows off a bright red circular emblem with a white cross in the center, and the upper edge of the cap is traced with a thin red border. The cap is attached to a slim, flexible white headband that slips over her hair, which was hold up into a high bun; it holds the piece in place comfortably while she moves.

Around her neck, she wears a simple toy stethoscope. The stethoscope is made of lightweight, bright red plastic; it rests against her chest without weighing her down. It has a U-shaped headset with clear, soft ear tips, and a flexible red tube that drops from the Y-connector to a flat red circular chestpiece. It was a costume she had unearthed from the very back of an old Halloween storage box years ago, and it clung snugly to her soft, voluptuous curves. Without saying a single word, she walked over to the bed with a slow, confident stride, sat directly on your lap, and crossed her arms.

The tiniest hint of amusement tugged at the corner of her lips as she looked down at you. "Well? Is this better?"

Your eyes widened instantly at the sight of your gorgeous, curvy wife. "So much better."

She snorted, a soft, genuine sound of amusement escaping her. "Mm. I knew that would do it."

"You absolutely did," you grinned, immediately wrapping your arms securely around her soft waist.

Margaret shook her head, trying—and failing—not to let a full smile break through her strict exterior. "I spend my days saving lives, you know," she muttered, her sarcastic tone returning, though her green eyes danced with warmth. "And yet, apparently, this is what gets the strongest response out of my husband."

You laughed, pulling her closer against you. "I married the smartest woman I know."

"Hm," she hummed, tilting her chin up.

"And the prettiest," you added.

"...Go on," she teased dryly, leaning into your touch.

"And the funniest."

"Well, I suppose your condition is showing signs of improvement," she whispered, her voice softening into that comforting, reassuring register she reserved only for those she deeply cared about.

She leaned her head forward, resting her forehead gently against yours, finally letting herself relax completely after a long week of hospital shifts. You could smell the faint, comforting scent of coffee and fresh donuts that always seemed to linger around her. A deep, comfortable silence settled over the room as you both held each other.

The peace lasted until Margaret's eyes flicked over to the bedside clock.

"We have, at most, ninety minutes before Patrick remembers he forgot his favorite dinosaur at home," she noted with a sigh.

You let out a dramatic, exaggerated sigh of your own, tightening your grip on her. "Our appointment is running out of time."

"Ah, yes. The many joys of parenthood," she murmured.

She smiled then—a small, genuine one that only her family ever seemed to earn, For one brief moment, Margaret was not Dr. Margaret Lawson, the stern physician with a waiting hospital.

She was simply your wife.

Before you could make another joke, she leaned in and kissed you.

It began softly, almost tenderly cautious, as though she were letting herself forget the clock, and the kids waiting to return through the front door. Then her hand slid to the back of your neck, steady and warm, and the kiss deepened. Her weight settled comfortably against you, the bright-red toy stethoscope caught cold between your chests.

You smiled against her lips.

“Don’t get too pleased with yourself,” she murmured, though the amusement in her deep voice gave her away.

“Too late,” you whispered.

Margaret gave a quiet, long-suffering sigh—the one that said she had absolutely married an impossible man—then kissed you again anyway.

A/N: (None)

. . . Silence. Only the quiet hum of the refrigerator answered her, which naturally made her panic climb to a fever pitch.

You, meanwhile, were sitting at the dining table, halfway through paying the monthly utility bills.

“H-Honey… she’s gone! Dispersa! Completely gone!” Holly stood in the archway, her soft, curvy frame trembling slightly. Her messy waves were even more untidy than usual from her frantic pacing. Her oversized circular reading glasses were perched precariously on top of her head, completely forgotten.

You didn’t even look up from your calculator. “Under the couch?”

Holly gasped dramatically, her blue eyes widening behind a light flush of rosy pink that crept over her freckled cheeks. “You don’t know that! She could’ve been rabbit-napped, amore! What if someone snatched our little pastry?”

Five seconds later, the dramatic theories were temporarily paused. With a soft groan of her tired joints after a long delivery route, Holly was down on her knees, peeking beneath the dusty clearance of the sofa. The knees of her comfort pajamas pants pressed into the rug.

“...Cannoli?” she whispered into the dark.

. . .Nothing.

Her blue eyes grew wider, reflecting genuine, heartbreaking distress. “She’s really gone...”

That was when she scrambled up, dusted off her knees, and turned toward you with the most pleading expression imaginable. Her lips trembled slightly, and she clasped her bruised, paper-dry hands together.

“Please help me look, amore! I-I can’t find her anywhere!”

You pointed a pen toward the television stand. “Did you check there?”

“Yes! First place!”

“Under the bed?”

“Yes, I crawled all the way under!”

“Laundry basket?”

“Twice! I practically dumped the whole load of socks onto the floor!”

She waddled over to the dining table with that gentle, heavy fullness that made her look so warm and motherly. She clasped both of your hands in hers, giving them an exaggerated, desperate shake. “Please, amore… My heart cannot take this! What if she’s frightened somewhere?”

“I’m busy, Holly. I need to finish these bills.”

“Pleeease?”

You stopped writing and looked up at her, eyebrows raised. “...Holly.”

“Pleeeeeeease,” she stretched the word out, her slight Italian accent wrapping around the vowels like a warm hug.

“...You’re using the voice.”

She blinked innocently, her rosy cheeks puffing out. “...Maybe. Just a tiny bit.”

You sighed the long, deep sigh of a husband who knew he had already lost this argument to his bubbly wife about ten minutes ago. You set your pen down on the electric bill. “...Fine.”

Holly beamed so brightly as she quickly pecked your lips, you would have thought you had just agreed to buy her a castle in Tuscany. “Grazie! Oh, grazie, tesoro mio!”

The search party begin. The two of you searched the entire house together, a process made significantly longer by Holly’s natural tendency to collide with stationary objects when excited. Within the span of ten minutes, she managed to trip over the edge of the hallway runner, stumble into the doorframe, and accidentally bump her shoulder into a floor lamp.

“Oopsie daisy, little wobble! Sorry, Mr. Lamp,” she murmured quickly, patting the metal pole as if it had feelings, before resuming her frantic quest.

You searched the bedroom closet. You searched behind the shower curtain in the bathroom. You checked the pantry, where Holly briefly got distracted by a box of chocolate-covered cookies before remembering the mission. You checked behind the heavy living room drapes.

Twenty minutes later, you stopped in the middle of the den. Your eyes caught a subtle movement.

“...Honey.”

“Yes? Did you find something? A clue? A little paw print? A ransom note, maybe?” Holly gasped, rushing over and nearly tripping over her own house-slippers.

You slowly pointed beneath the bottom fabric of Holly’s recliner.

Two glossy, dark, mischievous little eyes blinked back at you from the shadows. A tiny pink nose twitched. Curled into a perfect, velvety, creamy-beige and caramel-swirled loaf was Cannoli. The Holland Lop rabbit looked entirely pleased with herself, her long floppy ears resting comfortably against the carpet.

Holly froze, her hands flying to her hips. “...Cannoli.”

The rabbit twitched her whiskers, completely unbothered.

“...Young lady,” Holly said, her voice dropping into her best attempt at a stern maternal tone.

As if she knew the game was over, Cannoli hopped out from under the chair in her signature, clumsy little zig-zag pattern, her cotton-puff tail bouncing cheerfully. Holly immediately dropped to her knees, scooping the round-bodied rabbit into her plush, soft arms with an enormous, dramatic sigh of relief.

“Don’t you ever scare Mommy like that again! Che spavento! I thought a hawk got into the chimney!” Holly coddled the rabbit close to her chest, right against her pearl necklace. Cannoli responded by giving a couple of gentle, wet licks to Holly’s wrist, right over a small band-aid.

“I know, I know...” Holly murmured, her sternness instantly melting into pure, adoration-filled mush. “You just wanted a cozy little hiding spot, didn’t you, my sweet little pastry? Yes, you did!”

You folded your arms, leaning against the doorframe with a faint, amused smile playing on your lips. “...So...”

Holly looked up from her rabbit cuddling, her messy brown bangs falling over her forehead. “Mm-hm?”

“Still think she was kidnapped by a highly organized rodent-snatching syndicate?”

Holly looked at you with absolute, deadpan seriousness. “For about fifteen minutes, yes! It’s a very dangerous world out there for a plump, delicious-looking bunny!”

“...Holly.”

“What?”

“Next time this happens...”

“Yes?”

“I’m checking under the furniture first. And only under the furniture.”

Holly nodded enthusiastically, her laughter finally bubbling out—loud, open, and utterly infectious as she stood up, cradling Cannoli like a baby. “That’s a wonderful, logical idea, amore! Very sensible, very practical—and we’ll still check the pantry, just in case.”

The next week...

Cannoli hid under the coffee table.

Holly still panicked, crying out to the heavens that her precious baby had been stolen.

And somehow, despite your solid rule, you still ended up searching the entire house with her anyway.

Italian Vocab:

Mio Dio = Oh my god

Dispersa = Missing

Amore = Love

Grazie = Thank you

Tesoro mio = My darling

Che spavento = What a fright

A/N: It was just a random short 2AM thought.

• Gotham expected a professional team-up, but instead they got one legendary veteran heroine and one rookie who was trying very hard not to stare.

• You were chasing Babyface after the prison breakout when he and his goons managed to get away, and you landed dramatically, spread your wings, and pointed heroically as if the whole situation was still under control.

“Tch..they got away… but I’ll have them back here in no time with the superhero services of Blue Beetle and— sorry, I don’t think we’ve met,”

you said, before finally looking over at the woman standing nearby.

There was a pause. Then another. And then your brain completely stopped working.

“Uh… nice hair,”

you managed, not because it was the best compliment you could think of, but because it was the only word your mind had left.

• Star Crusher blinked once, then snapped her fingers in front of your helmet.

“Ahem.”

You still didn’t react, still too stuck on the fact that she was real and standing right there, so she snapped again.

“Careful, rookie.”

Then she turned toward her Star Bike and, with the faintest hint of dry amusement, said,

“These boots were made for squashing…”

She glanced back over her shoulder.

“…bugs.”

• You smiled like she’d just written you a love letter.

“Yeah. Cool,”

you said, sounding way too sincere for someone who was supposedly still functioning normally.

The Scarab immediately logged, in the driest tone imaginable,

Host's judgment has been compromised.

• When she flew off and invited you to keep up, you didn’t move for five whole seconds, just staring after her like your entire operating system had stalled. “Scarab… did you see her?” you asked at last, still not quite recovered.

The Scarab chirped its affirmative response, and you let out a breath that sounded a lot more honest than you probably intended.

“Yeah. In a very distracting way.”

After a long, very confused pause, the Scarab gave a dramatic electronic wolf whistle, and from that point on it made protecting the host from enemies only slightly less of a priority than protecting him from his own terrible decisions.

• Everyone noticed. Calculator noticed. Babyface noticed. Even the random crooks noticed. Meanwhile, you genuinely believed you were being subtle, which would have been impressive if you had been even a little bit subtle.

Every time Star Crusher landed, you looked like someone had just witnessed a solar eclipse.

“Host heart rate increasing,”

the Scarab reported.

“I know.”

“Blood pressure elevated.”

“I KNOW.”

“Visual tracking locked on Star Crusher.”

“I KNOW!”

After a while, the Scarab stopped giving medical reports altogether, mostly because they happened every single time she showed up.

• She wasn’t mean, just unimpressed in the way only someone like Star Crusher could be unimpressed. To her, you looked like another rookie, another impulsive young hero, and probably another person she was going to have to rescue before the night was over.

She respected courage, not recklessness, and watching you stare at her in the middle of an active mission definitely wasn’t helping your case. At one point, she even found herself wondering, with quiet disbelief: ‘Does he always do this?’

• While Star Crusher questioned Calculator, you were standing about ten feet away and not paying attention at all. Calculator was sweating under the pressure of the restraints as she tightened them with calm, dangerous precision and told him, “It’s your job to know. And it’s my job to squeeze it out of you.”

You, meanwhile, were too busy watching her hair move in the breeze to register much of anything else.

“She’s so mysterious… and her hair is really nice,”

you muttered, which made Calculator stare at you in a “Dude—I’m literally being interrogated.” disbelief.

• When Babyface revealed Warehouse X, you were still trying to work out a strategy and had barely started,

“Wait for my signal—”

before Star Crusher cut you off by flying right past you.

“Sorry. Caution doesn’t beat momentum,”

she said, and then she was already in the fight, launching herself into battle without waiting for another word.

You let out a sigh and muttered, “…Fair,” even though you were already watching her work. It was honestly breathtaking—every movement efficient, controlled, and completely without wasted effort, exactly like the legends had said. Unfortunately, that only meant you got distracted again.

• Your antennae twitched, and when you looked up, Star Crusher was already flying through the air with a trail of cosmic energy behind her. She narrowly avoided an attack, which sent you into a panic, and you shouted, “NO!” before blasting the robot yourself so it couldn’t reach her.

Your brain, of course, immediately supplied a much more romantic version of events, complete with her landing gracefully, smiling warmly, and saying,

“Oh, Beetle… you’re my favorite~ Duck,”

before you started smiling dreamily and asking, “‘Duck’…? Wait, you mean—?”

Meanwhile in reality was less flattering. Star Crusher was glaring hard and shouting,

“Duck, you idiot! Duck!”

but it was already too late. BONK—one robot sent you flying, and the last thing you saw before everything went sideways was her rushing toward you anyway, annoyed and still trying to save you. Then another blast hit her too, and afterward you felt absolutely awful, because she had gotten hurt protecting you, and she was definitely not happy about it.

• After getting re-conscious, Babyface managed to chain-trap the two of you together inside an hourglass while sand poured down around you and he and his goons made their escape, which somehow felt like both your dream and your nightmare at the same time. Star Crusher slowly turned toward you with a completely flat expression and gave you a look that could have frozen a comet.

“‘Way to go’, rookie,”

You rubbed the back of your helmet and, in a moment of breathtaking sincerity and terrible timing, admitted,

“Sorry. But your hotness just caught me off guard.”

. . . Silence.

“…Did you seriously just say that?”

Even the Scarab powered down its speakers out of pure embarrassment. Star Crusher just sighed, clearly deciding that whatever happened next, it would have to wait until both of you survived long enough to have the argument.

“We’ll discuss this after we survive,”

and somehow that sounded like a warning.

• Star Crusher didn’t waste time once the hourglass trap sprang shut around the two of you. She immediately tested the seams of the glass cage, found the weak point in the frame, and used a compressed burst of cosmic force to crack the top edge just enough to give you both room to move before the sand could bury you.

You followed her lead by catching the falling sand in a gravity pocket, slowing its drop for just long enough to keep the chamber from collapsing inward. Then, working in sync, she widened the opening with a precise pulse while you used your wings and the Scarab’s thrusters to force a narrow escape path. You got out first, then she slipped through right after you.

And after you escaped the hourglass trap, Star Crusher folded her arms and fixed you with that same unreadable, unimpressed look.

“I work faster alone,”

she said, clearly deciding that was the safest conclusion after the whole sand-filled disaster.

You immediately shook your head.

“No, we’re a team. I’ll do better.”

She studied you for a long moment, then gave the smallest nod. “…Fine. Stay focused.”

“Yes, ma’am—”

“Don’t call me ma’am.”

• Babyface’s attack on Gotham’s crime summit turned the whole place into chaos almost instantly, with buildings shaking, civilians running for cover, and explosions lighting up the streets. For the first time all mission, you stopped staring, stopped blushing, and stopped daydreaming, slipping into full battle mode while the Scarab confirmed that your focus had finally returned.

You fought smarter, not harder, reconfiguring the suit on the fly and releasing a targeted electromagnetic pulse that disrupted Babyface’s stolen equipment, shut down his suit, and left him completely helpless. The Tweeds accidentally blasted each other in the confusion, Mrs. Manface was quickly disarmed, and Babyface ended up crying in the middle of the street, which would have felt satisfying if the whole thing hadn’t still been a mess.

Nearby, Star Crusher was handling one of Babyface’s goons with smooth, controlled precision, moving like she had already mapped out every angle of the fight before it even started. She caught his strike, shifted her weight just enough to throw him off balance, and sent him crashing hard into the pavement without wasting a single motion.

“Not bad, Beetle..”

She said, glancing your way with the faintest trace of approval.

Coming from her, that single compliment hit harder than winning ever could.

• While she was busy fighting off one of the goons, she still thought you were reckless, but not in the thoughtless way she’d expected from some rookie show-off. The more she watched, the more she noticed that you always shielded civilians first, never abandoned teammates, and apologized when you messed up instead of trying to pretend you hadn’t.

She also saw that you learned from your mistakes, adjusting fast and carrying the lesson into the next part of the fight. And whenever she was genuinely in danger, you stopped joking immediately, all the nonsense falling away the second it mattered. Those were the moments…that showed her the real you.

• As the police took Babyface away, Star Crusher sat on her Star Bike with her helmet tucked beneath one arm, looking calm in that infuriating way of hers like the whole night had already been filed away in her head. You expected another lecture, or at least a reminder about focus, but instead she held out a folded piece of paper and told you,

“You did good, Blue. Call me sometime.”

You just stared for a few seconds, completely unable to process that she was handing you her number like it was the most normal thing in the world. “You mean… your number?” you finally asked, and a tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she put her helmet back on.

“Until next time, Beetle.”

Then she disappeared into the night, leaving only fading blue-white streaks across the sky. You looked down at the paper in hand, then back up, then back down again like it might vanish if you blinked hard enough, and the Scarab flatly concluded that the host appeared nonfunctional.

“I GOT HER NUMBER!”

you shouted, and after a three-second pause the Scarab quietly replied:

Congratulations, Host. Please refrain from walking into traffic while celebrating.

• She still calls you "Beetle" instead of your full hero name. And you secretly think it's the greatest nickname you've ever been given.

• The Scarab never lets you forget your first compliment. Every so often, it replays an audio recording of you saying, "Uh… nice hair." just to embarrass you.

A/N: (None)

At the same time, you noticed someone approaching your studio door and thought, ‘Uh-oh… I think I’m about to get chewed out.’

But the moment Lacy stepped inside, her irritation quietly disappeared. Instead of chaos, she found a breakdance instructor soaring effortlessly through the air, every flip and landing controlled with the same discipline she demanded from her own dancers.

When the demonstration ended, you smiled sheepishly and rubbed the back of your neck.

"Oh, yeah—absolutely. My bad. I’ll turn it down, ma’am."

you said after she politely asked, "Could you lower the music a little, please? The mirrors upstairs are vibrating so much I’m worried they may crack."

Lacy simply nodded.

"Thank you. I appreciate it."

Neither of you realized it then, but by the time she walked back upstairs, she wasn't thinking about the music anymore... and you certainly weren't thinking about getting scolded. Instead, you both found yourselves quietly wondering about the instructor from the other studio who understood movement in a way that felt surprisingly familiar.

• She absolutely did not expect the loud breakdance instructor downstairs to be… polite. Respectful. Patient with children. Apologetic. Incredibly humble. It completely throws her off.

• Meanwhile…you’re internally having a crisis.

Because the beautiful substitute ballet instructor—the one who walked downstairs looking ready to end your career—has the calmest voice you’ve ever heard.

Low, steady, like she’s measuring every word before it leaves her lips. No sharp edges, no performance, just quiet certainty that somehow cuts through the noise in your head better than any beat drop ever could. You catch yourself turning the music down without thinking, just so you can hear her talk again.

And that’s when you realize: you’re not worried about getting yelled at anymore. You’re worried about saying something stupid in front of her.

• Unfortunately for you, your nightmare came true.

The “Beautiful— I mean your dancing! Ballet is beautiful!” incident earlier?

It lives rent-free in both of your heads. Forever.

• Your male students never let you forget it.

Ever.

One of them casually says, “Hey, Mr. Y/N, beautiful day today.”

The entire class bursts into laughter.

You immediately know what they’re referring to. Groaning, you toss a beanie at the offender’s head, but you’re smiling despite yourself.

“Real funny. Ten push-ups for the comedian.”

• Lacy pretends she has no idea why you’re suddenly turning bright red. She absolutely knows.

• She’s amused by how expressive you are. You wear every emotion on your face—no filter, no guard, just raw, unfiltered reaction. Excited? Everyone knows. Your whole body lights up, grin splitting wide, eyes crinkling like you’ve just won something. Embarrassed? Painfully obvious. Your ears go pink, your hands fly to your neck, and you start talking twice as fast, like speed might bury the moment. Proud of a student? You look like a parent watching a graduation—chest puffed, eyes shiny, clapping louder than anyone in the room.

• Lacy, on the other hand… could probably win an award for the world’s most unreadable expression. Her face stays calm, composed, almost sculpted—like she’s holding an entire conversation behind her eyes without letting a single word slip. Until—she smiles. Then everything softens.

• Watching each other teach becomes a habit. Not spying. Just… “passing by.” Very frequently.

• She’ll quietly stand in the doorway for a minute or two. Watching you encourage nervous students. Watching you celebrate tiny improvements. Watching you laugh whenever someone accidentally spins in the wrong direction.

• You do the exact same thing upstairs. Except you’re fascinated by… how unbelievably precise she is.

• She barely raises her voice. She doesn’t have to. The room naturally settles whenever she speaks.

• Meanwhile, your studio sounds like: music thumping deep enough to rattle the water bottles, laughter bursting in waves between drills, sneakers squeaking sharp against the polished floor, kids cheering over every near-miss and clean landing, someone—probably your loudest student—yelling at the top of his lungs, “He got it!”

• She eventually admits, over lukewarm coffee in the hallway between sessions,

“Your classes are rather louder than I prefer.”

You immediately apologize. Again. Hands up, half-laughing, half-mortified, already mentally vowing to swap the bass-heavy tracks for something softer.

Then she quietly adds, eyes flicking toward the open door where your kids are still cheering over a wobbly handstand,

“Still… your students always leave smiling.”

That compliment stays with you for weeks. You catch yourself replaying it during warm-ups, when a kid nails their first freeze, when the room erupts in that specific kind of joyful noise you’ve worked so hard to protect.

Likewise, a few days later, you tell her—voice low, like you’re sharing something sacred—

“Your students stand taller after every class. Not just physically—all of them. You can see it.”

Lacy pauses for several seconds. Longer than usual. Her fingers still on the strap of her bag, her breath catching just slightly before she lets it out. Because compliments about her teaching mean more than compliments about her performances.

• Neither of you thinks your own dance style is “better.” Instead… you’re constantly defending the other’s.

Someone says breakdancing isn’t “real dance”? Lacy calmly dismantles that opinion. Someone says ballet is boring? You practically launch into a TED Talk.

• You become the first person who convinces Lacy to try a headspin.

She eyes the mat like it’s personally offended her, ties her hair back with that same tight, practiced motion she uses before every rehearsal, and lowers herself down with the caution of someone defusing a bomb. You crouch nearby, ready to spot, grinning like you’ve just talked a saint into skydiving.

It lasts approximately… half a second.

Her shoulders tense, her balance shifts a fraction too far, and she immediately sits back up, hair slightly mussed, cheeks flushed, dignity intact but severely tested.

“…Never again,”

she says, deadpan, brushing imaginary dust off her palms like the attempt never happened.

In return, she teaches you pirouettes.

You step into the center of the ballet studio with the confidence of a man who’s landed backflips in front of crowds, convinced this will be easy. She positions your feet, adjusts your hips, reminds you to spot—“eyes on one point, Y/N, don’t let them wander”—and you push off.

You somehow manage to spin… completely the wrong direction.

Your arms flail, your foot clips the barre, and you stumble out of the turn with all the grace of a dropped grocery bag.

She laughs—actually laughs—the kind that makes her shoulders shake, her hand flying to her mouth like she’s trying to contain it, amber eyes crinkling at the corners. The students stare, because they’ve never seen Miss Valerose laugh that hard—never seen her composure crack into something so bright, so unguarded.

Your response? “Hey!” you protest, pointing at her like she’s the one who just failed. “I was upside down yesterday! This one’s way harder!”

• The kids start making bets. Which instructor will accidentally end up teaching the other’s class first?

It eventually happens.

You substitute for one of her beginner stretching sessions. You walk in expecting gentle music and slow movements. Instead, you spend forty-five minutes holding positions that make your calves scream, explaining why a “neutral spine” matters while your own back stage-whispers rebellion. You catch yourself humming breakbeat rhythms under your breath to keep from dozing off during the slower stretches, and the girls exchange glances like they’ve never seen someone try so hard to be still.

She substitutes for one of your beginner rhythm exercises. She steps onto your floor in her usual wrap top and leggings, arms crossed, watching you demo a basic bounce. Then you hand her the speaker. For the first ten minutes, she’s composed, correcting foot placement with quiet precision. By minute twenty, she’s clapping on the off-beat, shouting “Again!” with a fierceness that startles even your loudest student, and somehow—without meaning to—she’s leading a freestyle circle where everyone’s laughing too hard to care about perfect form.

Both of you survive…barely.

Lacy gains an entirely new appreciation for your endless energy. By the end of class, she’s leaning against the mirror, hair slightly loose, voice lower than usual.

“I think… I need tea,”

she admits, like it’s a confession.

You gain an entirely new appreciation for ballet posture. Everything hurts. Even muscles you didn’t know existed.

• She catches you slouching exactly once.

Exactly once.

You’re leaning against the doorway post-class, arms crossed, watching your students pack up, when she passes by—silent as always. Without saying anything, she gently taps your shoulder. Raises two fingers. A quiet, wordless correction.

You immediately straighten your back.

Somehow… months later… you’re still doing it, even when she isn’t around.

• She loves how naturally you connect with children. Especially the shy ones—the kids who hover at the edge of the circle, arms crossed, eyes darting like they’re waiting for permission to belong. You somehow convince them that making mistakes is part of learning.

• You admire how she notices details nobody else sees. She’ll watch one of the female ballet students run through a routine, arms loose, expression unreadable, and then step forward with that quiet precision of hers as she gently adjust the angle of her wrist by no more than a few degrees. And suddenly, an entire movement looks completely different.

• Creative disagreements? Absolutely. Arguments? Rarely.

They usually sound like:

“The music needs more punch.” “It needs a little more space to breathe.” “More energy. Give me more drive.” “A little more restraint. Let it settle.”

You’re standing in the center of the shared studio, arms gesturing wildly as you explain why the drop should hit harder; she’s by the speaker, fingers resting lightly on the volume dial, countering with that calm, measured tone of hers about letting the silence do some of the work. Your students peek in from the doorway, whispering bets on who’ll blink first.

Five minutes later… you somehow combine both ideas into one incredible routine.

• She’s fascinated by your improvisation.

The way you can take a broken beat and turn it into a new language on the spot—how you let your body answer the music before your brain catches up. You’ll throw in a spontaneous freeze mid-phrase, or flip a simple step into something no one saw coming, and she watches like she’s seeing choreography being born in real time.

You’re fascinated by her structure.

The way every movement has a reason, every pause a purpose. She builds routines like architecture—clean lines, deliberate weight, nothing wasted. Even her freestyling has a hidden logic, a quiet internal count that keeps everything grounded.

Eventually… the two styles start influencing each other.

• She begins experimenting with freer movement.

It starts small—a looser wrist here, an unexpected sway there, a moment where she lets a phrase run long just to feel where it lands. Her students notice first. “Miss Valerose, that wasn’t in the combo,” one giggles after she adds an unplanned flourish to a port de bras. She doesn’t correct it, as she just smiles, faint and fleeting, and says,

“No… but it felt right.”

You become noticeably more controlled.

Your transitions sharpen. Your freezes land cleaner, held a beat longer than before. You start building silence into your routines, letting the music breathe instead of rushing to fill every gap. Your students exchange glances when you demo a sequence with that new, deliberate precision—like they’ve never seen you move like this.

Both of you quietly credit the other.

• Coffee breaks become… long discussions about dance.

Not gossip. Not drama. Just… movement. Music. Teaching. Students. Performance memories.

You find a corner table near the studio’s small café, two mugs steaming between you, and the conversation flows like choreography—natural, unforced, always finding its next step. She tells you about her first time on a real stage, how the lights felt like heat and the silence before the music started was louder than the applause after. You tell her about the kid who cried after landing his first headspin, and how you nearly cried with him.

She sketches movement pathways in the condensation on her cup, tracing lines with her finger like she’s still mapping routines in her head. You tap rhythms on the table, unconsciously marking beats as you talk about timing, phrasing, the difference between dancing on the music and dancing inside it.

Sometimes neither of you realizes the studio is empty until the janitor politely reminds you it’s closing time. Again.

• Your students notice before either of you does.

One whispers, loud enough to carry over the beat, “Mr. Y/N smiles more when Miss Valerose is here.”

Another replies, just as quiet, “Miss Valerose smiles more too.”

It’s true. You catch yourself grinning mid-correction when she walks past, like your face has its own agenda. And she—usually so composed, so measured—lets her guard slip more often now. A soft laugh during warm-ups. A lingering look when you demo something new.

The kids exchange glances, smug as if they’ve solved a mystery. They start “accidentally” leaving the door between the studios cracked, just so you can both hear each other’s music.

• Ikki, one of the ballet female students, comes completely convinced the two of you should choreograph together.

Her reasoning?

“Ballet goes way up!” She points dramatically toward Lacy, arm stretched high like she’s summoning the ceiling.

“Breakdance goes way down!” She points toward you, finger jabbing the floor with absolute certainty.

“So when you put them together—” She throws both hands into the air, spinning in a wobbly circle like she’s conducting an invisible orchestra. “EVERYTHING!”

The room goes quiet for a second. Then you burst out laughing, and even Lacy’s composure cracks—just a little, just enough for her shoulders to shake as she presses her lips together.

Honestly… not the worst logic.

• Your first collaborative showcase surprises everyone.

It isn’t ballet featuring breakdance. It isn’t breakdance featuring ballet. It’s a genuine conversation between two completely different dance styles.

The stage is split—half warm wood, half cool matte black—and you start on opposite sides, movements mirroring each other from afar. Then she steps forward, all long lines and suspended breath, and you answer with a low, grounded sweep that cuts through the silence she leaves behind.

Power meeting precision. Improvisation meeting discipline. Explosive movement meeting elegant stillness.

• After the performance… the audience gives a standing round of applause.

The sound rolls over the stage like a wave—clapping, cheering, footsteps stomping in rhythm. You don’t bow right away. You immediately look toward Lacy.

She looks toward you at the exact same moment.

Her hair’s slightly loose from the routine, her chest still rising fast from the final sequence, but her eyes—those steady, honey-amber eyes—find yours without hesitation. For a heartbeat, the noise fades. It’s just the two of you, center stage, breathing in sync like you’re still finishing the last phrase together.

Neither of you says anything. You don’t need to.

The performance said enough.

A/N: (None)

“—my fault. You okay?” “No… fue mía. I wasn’t looking.”

She smiled, easy and unbothered. You found yourself smiling back before you even thought about it, the rain still tapping steadily around you. Neither of you lingered on it, just two artists avoiding the weather—but something about the moment stayed.

While you waited for the rain to let up, the conversation just… kept going. It started small—colors you liked, brushes you hated—but somehow drifted into museums, favorite artists, and why unfinished paintings sometimes felt more honest than polished ones. She spoke like someone who didn’t bother filtering her thoughts, and you found yourself answering just as openly. At some point, the rain stopped. Neither of you noticed right away.

After that, the coffee shop became your meeting place. Not planned, not labeled—just something that happened. Some days you painted side by side, barely speaking. Other days you sat with coffee, talking about everything from technique to things that had nothing to do with art at all. Time passed without either of you keeping track of it.

Then one day, you showed up grinning like you couldn’t hold it in. You told her about New York—the program, the acceptance, the future you’d been working toward. She congratulated you without hesitation, proud in a way that felt steady and real. Still, there was something quieter underneath it she didn’t say out loud.

In New York, you kept in touch the only way that felt right: letters. Handwritten, uneven, filled with sketches in the margins and small details you didn’t want to forget. She sent some back the same way, sometimes with pressed leaves or little painted shapes tucked into the envelopes. It worked, for a while.

But eventually, the distance settled in. Her studio grew quieter at night, with only Mancha curled nearby as she painted, the space feeling bigger than it used to. And you—surrounded by everything you thought you wanted—started noticing what was missing. Galleries didn’t hold your attention the same way. Views felt unfinished. You kept catching yourself wishing she was standing next to you, saying something blunt and oddly specific about the colors.

It took time to admit it, but once you did, the decision felt simple. New York had given you what you asked for. It just wasn’t where you wanted to stay. So you went back—not because you failed, but because somewhere along the way, home had shifted without you realizing it.

• From the very beginning, the first thing Dayana notices is your hands—stained with layers of dried paint like you stopped caring where the color ended and your skin began. The first thing you notice is her grip on a bundle of brushes, more than anyone reasonably needs, held like they’re an extension of her. Neither of you bothers with the usual questions. You already know. Instead, it comes down to something simpler.

“What do you usually work with—oil or acrylic?”

That’s how it starts. While everyone else in the café talks about deadlines and routines, the two of you fall into a conversation that stretches without effort—color theory, texture, the way certain shades feel more than they look. Time slips. At some point, you realize you’ve missed your bus.

You don’t really care.

• Painting with Dayana is… unexpectedly calm. There’s no pressure to talk, no need to explain what you’re doing or why. You just work. The room fills with soft music, the faint smell of paint, and the quiet rhythm of brushes against canvas. Time stretches in a way that feels easy instead of empty.

Sometimes neither of you says anything for long stretches—ten, twenty minutes, maybe more. It doesn’t feel awkward. Just… understood.

Then, without warning, she leans slightly toward your canvas, eyes narrowing.

“Claro… a little more yellow.”

You pause, glancing at her, unsure.

Five minutes later, after adjusting it, she’s right.

• She has a habit of circling your easel when she’s thinking, slow and uneven, like she’s studying it from every possible angle. Sometimes she’ll stop behind you, sometimes off to the side, sometimes so close you can feel her presence without her saying a word. At first, you try to follow what she’s doing. Eventually… you stop questioning it.

• Sometimes she’ll just… take one of your brushes without saying anything, mid-thought, like it was always hers to begin with. You notice, but you don’t stop her. A few minutes pass, and she hands it back just as quietly, already focused on something else. It’s covered in colors you weren’t using.

• She doesn’t let anyone touch her favorite brushes. Not even for a second. If someone tries, she notices immediately. Except… you. The first time she hands you one without thinking, you don’t even realize what it means. She does.

• You inspire each other without really trying. It happens in small moments, in the way you work side by side without needing to explain anything. She teaches you how to let go a little—how to lean into emotion, to stop worrying about whether something is “correct,” to trust what your instincts are already telling you. With her, rules start to feel optional. And you bring her new things in return. Techniques she hadn’t considered. Materials she wouldn’t have picked up on her own. Artists she’d never bothered to look into, but ends up thinking about longer than she expected. It never feels like competition. Just… growth.

• Sometimes you’ll sit down with the same view, the same light, the same exact landscape in front of you. You start at the same time, work in the same quiet rhythm. By the end, the paintings couldn’t be more different. And somehow… that’s your favorite part.

• At the coffee shop, the baristas stop asking after a while. They already know what you’ll order, already expect you to settle in for hours. They’ve seen it enough times—coffee going cold, sketchbooks appearing without a word, the two of you slipping into your own quiet world like everything else just fades out.

• Half your napkins end up covered in quick sketches without you even thinking about it. You leave them behind, crumpled or forgotten. She doesn’t. One day, completely casual, she says,

“Tengo la servilleta… from the first day. I kept it.”

…You almost choke on your coffee.

• In New York, your letters slowly become… something more than letters. Tiny watercolor borders start appearing along the edges. Fold-out sketches, little painted fragments tucked inside, doodles filling every bit of empty space.

Dayana writes exactly how she speaks—honest, direct, never trying to soften anything.

“El estudio… está demasiado callado. I don’t like it.” “Mancha tiró la pintura… inside my shoe. I’m still wearing it.” “Extraño discutir contigo sobre los azules. You’re still wrong, by the way.”

You send back pieces of the city in return. Rooftops at sunset. Museum corners. Crowded sidewalks that still somehow feel empty.

She pins every single one to the wall in her studio.

• Mancha takes to you faster than anyone expects. She’s usually particular, a little distant with new people. Not with you. The first time you’re in the studio long enough to settle in, she just walks over like it’s already decided, circling once before curling up beside your feet while you paint, like you belong there. Dayana notices, and she just doesn’t say anything about how much that means to her.

• Months later after going back to your hometown, you step into her studio like you never really left, the familiar clutter, the smell of paint, the soft light filtering in exactly the way she likes it. She doesn’t notice you right away. She’s focused, brush moving slowly, completely lost in it.

“You still use your clothes as a rag, or did you finally upgrade?”

It slips out before you can overthink it. Everything stops. She goes still, like even the air shifted. Then she turns, slow at first, and then all at once—eyes locking onto you like she’s not sure if you’re real or something she imagined.

“…Regresaste. You came back..”

You smile, softer than you expected to.

“I said I’d take you to New York. I meant that.”

There’s a small pause, just enough for the weight of it to settle.

“…But it turns out I’d rather be here. With you. Painting.”

She doesn’t let you finish anything else. The distance between you disappears in a second, her arms wrapping around you without hesitation, paint and all. It’s not careful, not composed—just tight, grounding, like she needs to confirm you’re actually there and not about to disappear again. For once… she doesn’t say anything blunt or sharp. She just holds on.

• The age gap? It isn’t something either of you tries to hide or explain away. People notice. Sometimes strangers assume she’s your mother. There’s always that brief pause—just long enough for the assumption to hang there.

Then the two of you glance at each other, faintly amused, like you’re sharing the same unspoken thought. And just keep walking, with your hands still linked.

• What matters is how easily the two of you fit, like none of it ever needed explaining. Art turned into something steady. That turned into something closer. And somewhere along the way, without either of you marking the moment…it became home.

• She calls you… “Mi artista,” like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You call her… “My favorite masterpiece.” She rolls her eyes every single time, like she’s already decided it’s ridiculous before you even finish saying it. And yet… she never tells you to stop.

• Somehow, it never stays on the canvas. She reaches past you, distracted, and ends up dragging a streak of blue across your cheek without even noticing at first. You laugh, catching her wrist lightly before she can move away, and press a small mark of green onto the tip of her nose. She freezes, eyes narrowing just slightly, giving you the most unimpressed look she can manage…then, without a word, she reaches for more paint and does it again—on purpose this time.

• Neither of you ever cared about perfection. Not in paintings, and not in people. It’s the uneven lines, the layered colors, the accidental marks that stay—that’s where things start to feel real.

There’s one piece in her studio she never lets go of. It’s not her best work. Not the biggest, not the most refined. Most people wouldn’t look at it twice.

But she does.

It’s the first canvas you ever worked on together, back when you were both just trying to stay dry from the rain and ended up staying instead.

Somewhere in a small, half-covered corner, both of your signatures are still there, buried under layers added later without thinking.

Every now and then, someone asks why she keeps it—why she won’t sell it, even when better pieces have come and gone.

She just smiles, something softer than usual, and says,

“Porque ahí empezó… my favorite story.”

Spanish Vocab:

“No… fue mía.” = “No... it was mine.”

“Tengo la servilleta…” = “I have the napkin...”

“El estudio… está demasiado callado.” = “The studio... is too quiet.”

“tiró la pintura” = “threw the paint..”

“Extraño discutir contigo sobre los azules.” = “I miss arguing with you about the blues.”

“Porque ahí empezó…” = “Because that's where it started...”

A/N: (None)

• The first thing that attracted you wasn’t her appearance, but the way she could become completely absorbed in her work, as if the whole world narrowed down to whatever experiment was in front of her. You’d be walking beside her and she’d suddenly stop in place, staring off for just a second before quietly saying, “…Ah—wait,” then pulling out her notebook and scribbling three pages of notes so quickly it was almost impressive, and you’d just stand there watching her with a soft smile because, honestly, you thought it was adorable.

• You had the biggest crush on her, and you were absolutely terrible at hiding it, not because you were obvious, but because you somehow became even quieter around her than you already were; the moment she complimented your research, your brain just stalled completely, like every thought had been wiped clean at once. She’d glance up from her notebook with that soft, observant look of hers and say,

“This is… very well done, Mr. L/N… truly.”

and you’d freeze for a beat too long before forcing out, “…” then another pause, then,

“Yeah. Thanks, Ms. Miura..”

in the smallest voice possible, while she would probably just tilt her head a little and notice the way your ears went warm.

• Hayami assumes you’re simply shy, completely unaware that she’s the reason why. So she doesn’t press you about the quiet little pauses or the way you seem to go still whenever she’s near.

• She constantly forgets to eat, so without ever saying a word, you start leaving food outside her office like it’s the most natural thing in the world: a sandwich one day, soup the next, coffee in a cup she’ll probably forget to drink until it’s lukewarm, fruit arranged neatly on a napkin when you have time to be careful. You never leave a note, never sign your name, never make it into a big gesture; it’s just food, quietly waiting for her the way she quietly waits for her own thoughts. Eventually, Hayami notices the pattern, pausing in her office doorway with her glasses in hand as she murmurs,

“…Who has been leaving these…?”

and you only offer her a small, stubborn smile because you refuse to tell her, even when she looks at you with that soft, suspicious little tilt of her head.

• The two of you make an incredible team: she catches the tiny details no one else would think to notice, and you pull those observations into the bigger picture until everything suddenly starts to make sense. Together, your discoveries happen much faster than either of you expected, and it becomes almost normal for both of you to stay after work until midnight discussing theories, tracing connections, and building on each other’s ideas. Halfway through one of those conversations, neither of you even realizes everyone else has already gone home.

• You always remember how she likes her coffee, where she misplaced her glasses, when she’s skipped lunch, and when she’s overworking herself, so it becomes second nature to quietly step in before she even asks. She notices all of it, of course, but she just assumes you’re naturally observant, never once realizing that every small detail you keep track of is really because you’re paying attention to her.

• The first time a spider appears in the lab, it happens quietly, almost unnoticeably, descending on a thin thread near the edge of Hayami’s workstation. She notices it immediately. But instead of reacting, she goes completely still, her pen hovering mid-note, her breath barely there. Her eyes track it with precise, careful focus before she speaks, soft and controlled,

“…Mr. L/N…? Could you—just for a second…?”

There’s the faintest hesitation in her voice, like she’s trying not to disturb the moment, or the spider.

You look up instantly. One glance is enough. Without a word, you step over, calm and steady, and handle it with practiced ease, quick, gentle, and without fuss. You grab the nearest empty sample container from the bench, rinsed clean but still faintly labeled from a previous experiment, and slide it carefully beneath the thread where the spider hangs. It sways slightly. You pause, waiting for it to settle.

Then, with steady hands, you lift the container just enough so it lands safely inside, with no sudden motions and no panic. Your other hand moves just as carefully, slipping a thin lab card over the opening to seal it without trapping a leg.

““I’ve got it,” you murmur under your breath, more instinct than intention.

For a moment, you study it without judgment, small, harmless, simply in the wrong place.

You turn back to Hayami briefly, giving a small “done” nod.

Then you walk it to the window, crack it open, and tilt the container just enough for the spider to crawl out on its own terms. You don’t shake it loose, you wait.

It takes a few seconds, and you don’t rush it.

When it finally disappears outside, you close the window quietly and set the container back down.

There’s a small pause after.

Then, she exhales as her shoulders drop just slightly, and when she looks at you again, there’s a quiet warmth in her expression, something soft breaking through her usual restraint.

“…Thank you… I appreciate it.”

she says, almost under her breath, as if the words are meant more for the space between you than for the room itself. Because she so rarely shows that kind of reaction so openly, that tiny smile becomes the one thing you find yourself thinking about for the rest of the day, and eventually your favorite part of the entire week.

• Hayami has a habit of quietly lingering in doorways before entering a room, so when you’re carrying a stack of research binders one morning and almost bump into her, she immediately steps back and murmurs,

“Oh—I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to be in your way…”

before you even get a chance to react. You just smile and reassure her, “No worries,” and from then on, you instinctively slow down whenever you see her hesitating at a doorway.

• Every morning, you arrive at the lab just a few minutes before Hayami, not because you have to, but because you already know the little routine she’ll walk in with: her notebook hugged close in one hand, a mug of vanilla coffee in the other, and her safety goggles somehow perched on top of her head without her noticing at all. It becomes such a familiar sight that one day, when she steps inside looking as focused as ever, you simply lift a finger and point upward, and she pauses, blinks, and reaches up to touch them.

“…Oh… I see.”

she murmurs, with that tiny, embarrassed little expression she gets when she realizes what she’s done again, before adding,

“…Ah… they’re on my head again, aren’t they…?”

You can’t help but quietly laugh, and after a second, she does too.

• Whenever Hayami becomes excited about a new idea, she starts talking much faster, words tumbling out with the kind of energy that makes her usually soft, careful voice turn bright and animated in a way you almost never get to hear. You never interrupt her, though; you just listen with your full attention, even if she’s been explaining molecular structures for twenty straight minutes, because watching her light up like that makes your whole day.

• She apologizes constantly,

"Sorry… I—didn’t mean to..." "I’m sorry for interrupting… please continue…" "Sorry… I hope it’s okay that I ask…" "Ah—sorry… I was thinking out loud again..."

Always with that soft, instinctive little “Sorry,” whether she’s interrupting, asking a question, or just thinking out loud in the middle of a sentence, and after hearing it enough times, you start answering every single one the same way without even having to think about it: “Don’t apologize for asking.” The first time you say it, she goes very quiet, almost startled by the kindness in it, and then she looks at you like she’s trying to hold the words carefully in her mind because it’s one of the kindest things anyone has ever said to her.

• Hayami often leaves sticky notes everywhere, so every now and then you’ll discover one on your desk with her neat handwriting on it, usually saying something like,

“Could you… remind me to check Sample C at 3:00…? I may forget…”

The funny part is that she forgets she left it there entirely, which means that when exactly 3:00 comes around, you quietly remind her anyway.

• You secretly keep a small box in your desk, and over time it ends up holding all the tiny things Hayami accidentally leaves behind: a pen, a notebook clip, a measuring ruler, spare safety goggles, even a packet of tea she meant to take with her. She only realizes it after enough time has passed, and when she sees the collection, she lets out a quiet, amused little huff before joking,

“…I think my things have decided they prefer you over me…”

• During long research sessions, Hayami unconsciously hums while working, and at first you don’t even notice it because it just becomes part of the background of the lab, as familiar as the soft rustle of papers or the occasional click of her pen. But now, if the humming suddenly stops, you immediately look over, because by then you’ve learned that the silence usually means she’s gone completely still and is staring at the ceiling, completely lost so deeply in thought.

• She once asks you to proofread an email before she sends it, and when you look it over, you notice she’s rewritten the same sentence five different ways, clearly trying to make it sound perfect even though it already does. You glance up and tell her, “It was good the first time, Ms. Miura,” any she blinks at you for a moment before hesitantly asking,

“…Really…? You mean that…?”

When you answer, “Really,” she looks visibly relieved, gives you a small smile, and finally presses “Send.”

• You know exactly when Hayami is about to forget lunch, because it always starts the same way:

“I’ll eat… just after I finish this calculation…”

then a little later,

“Just—after one more sample… then I will…”

and somehow, before she realizes it, the whole afternoon has passed and she’s looking up with a blank little pause before admitting,

“…Ah… I seem to have… forgotten food entirely…”

Without saying a word, you just slide a lunch container onto her desk, and she looks up at you with quiet surprise before softening into a grateful smile and saying,

“…Thank you, Y/N… that was very thoughtful.”

You only shrug and answer, “Thought you might need food first. Science goes better that way,” which earns you that small, fond expression she gets whenever she realizes you’ve been looking out for her all along.

• Whenever the lab has to present findings to visiting executives, Hayami becomes noticeably quieter, the way she always does when she feels put on the spot, and you can see her slip into that careful, overthought rhythm as she adjusts her glasses, checks her notes, checks them again, and then checks them a third time just to be safe. Without drawing attention to it, you naturally step in to explain the technical details whenever she hesitates, filling in the gaps with a calm voice that gives her room to breathe instead of forcing her to rush. Afterward, once the room has finally emptied out and the pressure is gone, she looks at you with that soft, relieved expression of hers and quietly says,

“…Thank you… I don’t believe I could have managed that on my own…”

• You’re one of the few people who recognizes when Hayami is becoming overwhelmed, because she never raises her voice or complains; instead, she just gets quieter, retreating into that careful stillness that tells you she’s carrying too much at once. You notice it immediately, and instead of asking her a dozen questions or making her explain herself, you simply move some of the paperwork from her desk onto yours and say,

“I can take those.”

She looks at you for a long moment, her expression softening with quiet relief, before giving a small nod and murmuring,

“…I would appreciate that… truly.”

• Sometimes, while the two of you are reviewing data together late at night, the silence between you is completely comfortable, with no awkwardness and no pressure to fill the room with conversation, just the quiet sound of keyboards, turning notebook pages, and the occasional soft hum from Hayami as she works beside you. Neither of you realizes how many hours have passed until the lab lights automatically dim for the evening, and when you finally glance at the clock and murmur,

“We should head out.”

she blinks in surprise before admitting,

“Oh… I seem to have… lost track of time again…”

You just smile and say,

“Yeah. Thought so,”

and somehow, walking out of the lab building together after another long day becomes one of your favorite parts of the job.

• You desperately want to tell her every single day, but you can’t, because the fear sitting in your chest has nothing to do with rejection and everything to do with frightening her, with letting her see the part of you (aka the Hulk-) that isn’t gentle or careful or easy to understand. So you keep swallowing the words back down, telling yourself that it’s better this way, even while the thought keeps circling in your head: ‘If she saw what I become… would she still look at me the same way?’

💪 When you’re Hulk:

• Hayami has no idea that you and the Hulk are the same person—to her, they exist as two entirely separate individuals, filed away in different corners of her mind: one a quiet, careful colleague she’s slowly grown to trust, the other an unpredictable force of nature she’s only ever witnessed from a distance. The first time she sees the Hulk in person, everything about the situation suggests she should be afraid—the scale of him, the destruction, the sheer physical power behind every movement—but instead, something in her hesitates. Because as she watches, she begins to notice the inconsistencies. He doesn’t lash out at civilians. He moves around them. Shields them. A collapsing structure doesn’t fall—it’s caught. A frightened child isn’t ignored—they’re gently ushered out of harm’s way with surprising care. Even the damage he causes feels… controlled, like it’s been calculated down to the smallest margin. Almost like he’s choosing where not to hit.

• The Hulk is only calm when Hayami speaks to him, not because of anything supernatural or some hidden power, but because she does something no one else manages in those moments: she never raises her voice. Even when everything around her dissolves into chaos, with police sirens blaring, people shouting, and debris still settling, Hayami remains steady, grounded, observing. While others react to the Hulk like a disaster, she studies him like a pattern she hasn’t finished understanding yet. And then, gently, she steps forward just enough to be heard, her voice soft but unwavering.

“It’s alright… please—there’s no need to panic…”

she says, each word slow, deliberate.

“No one here is trying to hurt you… I promise...”

There’s a pause—brief, fragile—and then, even quieter,

“You’re safe… nothing here will harm you…”

It happens almost immediately—the roaring stops.

Not all at once, but like something being dialed down instead of cut off. The tension in his shoulders loosens. His breathing, once heavy and erratic, begins to slow into something deeper, steadier. The destruction halts—not because he’s forced to stop, but because he chooses to.

And then he looks at her—not past her, not through her, but at her.

There’s something searching in that gaze, something trying to understand, to confirm. Hayami doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. She just watches him the same way she watches everything else—carefully, thoughtfully, as if he’s something worth understanding rather than fearing.

“…Good… that’s… very good,” she murmurs softly, almost to herself.

A long moment passes. Then, with surprising quietness for someone his size, the Hulk lowers himself down and sits. Around them, the world feels like it’s frozen. Emergency responders, bystanders, even trained lab professionals stand in stunned silence.

• If debris begins falling, the Hulk catches it before it can hit the ground, moving with startling speed and control for someone so enormous. And if explosions happen nearby, his first instinct is always to step in front of Hayami and shield her with his own body, even when it hurts and even when he could just as easily focus on himself. She notices that pattern more than she says aloud—the way he protects her first, every single time—and it leaves her quietly unsettled, because she can’t explain why he keeps doing it, only that he always does.

• Hayami doesn’t understand why, but the Hulk never seems truly dangerous when he’s near her; instead of chaos, there’s a strange, quiet restraint in the way he moves, like he’s constantly aware of where she is. More than once, she notices he doesn’t surge ahead with everyone else—he pauses, lingering just enough to make sure she’s following, his gaze flicking back toward her as if checking. Almost like… he’s waiting for her, making sure she isn’t left behind.

• She accidentally reaches toward him one day in the middle of a damaged research facility corridor, her hand lifting without fully thinking it through, and the reaction around her is immediate—people panic, voices rising, tension snapping tight in the air—but the Hulk doesn’t move forward. He freezes completely still. Then, slowly… carefully… he lowers his enormous hand toward her, each movement controlled to an almost impossible degree. Hayami hesitates only for a second before placing her hand gently against one of his fingers, her touch light, observational. And despite everything he is, everything he could do, he doesn’t close his hand—doesn’t dare. Because even in that quiet moment, it’s obvious he’s terrified of squeezing too hard.

• No matter how much control you’ve gained, one fear never truly disappears—hurting Hayami. It lingers in both sides of you, quiet but constant. As Y/N, you worry that if she ever discovers the truth, the trust she’s built with you will fracture into fear; and as the Hulk, that fear becomes something heavier, shaping every movement into something slow, careful, and painfully deliberate. Around her, your strength is no longer instinctive—it’s restrained, measured down to the smallest motion—because the last thing you could ever allow is for that strength to become the reason she gets hurt.

• The Hulk has absolutely no interest in talking to anyone—most people only get silence, or at best a low grunt—but with Hayami, it’s different. If she asks him something, he actually pauses, his expression shifting into something thoughtful as he takes a moment to process the question instead of ignoring it. There’s a visible effort there, like he’s choosing his words carefully, even if they’re simple.

“…Thinking…”

he might mutter after a pause, brows furrowing slightly, before giving a slow, quiet answer like, “…Maybe.”

• Hayami finds herself far more fascinated by his eyes than anything else; while everyone around her fixates on the sheer scale of his strength, the muscles, the destruction, she notices the subtleties—the way his eyes soften in quieter moments, the way they narrow slightly when he’s concentrating, the way they constantly move, scanning and checking to make sure everyone is safe before anything else. It’s those small, almost overlooked details that hold her attention, and without a word, she pulls out her notebook and writes,

“His emotional responses appear… far more nuanced than the reports suggest… I may need to revise my notes…”

• Sometimes she absentmindedly starts explaining her latest research to him, not because she expects him to understand, but because she gets excited and just keeps going; twenty minutes later, she suddenly blinks and goes,

“…Oh… I seem to have been… explaining everything to you… I’m sorry…”

only for him to give a slow nod and answer, “…Interesting,” which makes her nearly drop her notebook because now she’s staring at him thinking, ‘He understood?’

• ‘Whenever Hayami accidentally drops something, the Hulk is somehow already there—surprisingly quick for someone so large. A beaker, a toolbox, her notebook, whatever slips from her hands never quite makes it to the floor before a massive green hand catches it, steady and careful, as though he’s afraid even the slightest force might damage it. Then he gives it back to her with the same caution, holding it like it’s made of glass, and Hayami just stares for a second before quietly taking it back.

• She once noticed tiny scratches covering the Hulk’s hands, and what struck her most was that they didn’t look like the marks of a fight—nothing from battle, not the kind of damage people expected, but the small, honest marks left behind from protecting others during rescues: lifting twisted metal away from wreckage, holding up collapsing walls just long enough for someone to escape, breaking apart slabs of concrete with controlled force to reach trapped civilians beneath. Hayami stared at those marks for a long moment, quietly piecing together what they meant, and without commenting on them or drawing attention to what she’d noticed, she simply prepared a first-aid kit and left it nearby before walking away as softly as she’d arrived. She didn’t say, “I saw what you did”. She didn’t need to. The next day, the kit was gone.

• The Hulk never enters Hayami’s office because the doorway is far too small, and he knows it, so instead he quietly settles outside whenever he needs to see her, making no attempt to force his way in or disturb her work. He just sits there, huge and still, waiting with an almost unnerving patience that somehow doesn’t feel threatening at all. From anyone else’s perspective, he should look like a terrifying monster looming in the hall, but with the way he stays so obediently in place, head angled toward the door, he ends up looking less like a threat and more like an oversized dog politely waiting for its owner to finish working.

• Hayami occasionally forgets she’s talking to someone nearly nine feet tall, and it always shows up in the most ordinary little moments. She’ll glance over without thinking and say, “Could you… hand me that notebook, please…?” as if she’s speaking to someone standing beside her at a normal height, and without any hesitation, the Hulk simply reaches up with surprising gentleness, plucking the notebook from a shelf she could never have reached on her own and offering it back with a quiet, “…Here.” Hayami takes it automatically and replies, “Thank you… I appreciate it.” only to pause a second later, her eyes blinking as the realization settles in. Then, a little awkwardly, she looks up at him and adds,

“…Right… you are… significantly taller than I accounted for…”

• The Hulk absolutely refuses to let anyone interrupt Hayami when she’s in the middle of her experiments, and he makes that very clear without ever needing to say a word. If visitors start crowding too close around her workstation, asking questions or hovering where they’re not wanted, he simply steps closer to her side. He doesn’t threaten anyone. He doesn’t snarl or raise his voice. He just stands there, huge and silent, his presence alone enough to shift the entire mood of the room. And somehow, the moment he does, everyone suddenly remembers they have somewhere else to be.

• Hayami eventually starts noticing something odd: no matter how large the research campus is, no matter how many hallways, labs, and separated buildings stretch between them, the Hulk always seems to know exactly where she is. At first she assumes it’s a coincidence, then a pattern, then one of those strange habits she can’t quite explain, but it keeps happening often enough that she finally mutters, half amused and half suspicious,

“Do you… have some sort of… scientist detector…?”

The Hulk glances at her, then quietly gives the smallest smile before answering,

“…Hayami detector.”

That makes her blink at him for a long moment before she exhales and looks away, clearly torn between concern and fondness as she murmurs,

“I… I’m not entirely sure whether that is… concerning… or… a little sweet…”

• On stressful days, Hayami has a habit of quietly counting in Korean under her breath, the soft rhythm barely audible unless someone is paying very close attention. The Hulk doesn’t understand every word, but he recognizes the pattern almost immediately, and once he hears it, something in him settles. Without thinking, he lowers his own breathing to match her slow, steady rhythm. And somehow, that tiny exchange—her quiet counting, his deliberate breathing—ends up calming both of them at once.

• One rainy afternoon, Hayami finds the Hulk sitting quietly outside the facility, letting the rain fall over him without so much as flinching or moving out of place. He looks almost peaceful there, large shoulders heavy and still, rain running down his face and arms as if he has no intention of going anywhere anytime soon. Rather than interrupt him, Hayami silently steps closer and opens her umbrella over him, only to realize almost immediately that it’s far too small to be of much use. After a brief pause, she tilts it a little and says, a bit helplessly,

“…This doesn’t seem to be helping very much… does it…?”

The Hulk lets out a low, soft chuckle and glances at the tiny umbrella before answering,

“…Umbrella tiny..”

That gets a quiet and genuine laugh out of Hayami despite herself.

• The Hulk learns one of Hayami’s habits surprisingly quickly: she apologizes to inanimate objects whenever she bumps into them, usually so softly that it sounds more like a reflex than a deliberate choice. One afternoon, she accidentally walks straight into a filing cabinet and immediately presses a hand to it, her voice small and polite as she says,

“Oh—… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to bump into you…”

The Hulk looks from the cabinet to her, then back again, as if genuinely considering the situation, before reaching out with one massive hand and giving the cabinet a gentle pat.

“…Cabinet okay,”

he rumbles, very serious about it. Hayami has to turn her face slightly and hide her smile behind her notebook.

• Hayami has a tendency to hum absentmindedly while she works, barely even noticing the sound herself as it slips out whenever she’s deep in thought. One day, after helping with an evacuation, the Hulk is sitting quietly outside the facility when she passes by, still softly humming the same tune she’d been making earlier without thinking. Then, without realizing it, the Hulk hums the melody back—low, gentle, and almost shy in its own way. Hayami stops in her tracks, blinking in surprise, because she never imagined he would remember something so small, let alone answer it. From that day on, she starts catching him humming along whenever she gets lost in her work.

• One day, Hayami quietly says to a coworker,

“Everyone calls him a monster… but… I think he is trying very hard to be gentle… truly.”

and the words settle in the air longer than she seems to realize. You, standing across the lab in human form, hears every word, and for a moment you go completely still. You have to turn away before anyone notices the smile that spreads across your face, small and disbelieving at first, then softer as it lingers. Because for the first time since becoming the Hulk, you allows yourself to believe that maybe—just maybe—if Hayami ever learned the truth, she wouldn’t only see the monster. She might also see the man who has been trying, all along, to protect her.

• Her brain would kick in almost immediately, and instead of the fight scenes, she’d zero in on the music, tilting her head as if back behind the counter. “You hear that bass line?” she’d murmur, then, “That chorus layer real nice, y’know.” smiling at a key change—“Ohhh… that clever, that.” She’d trace the Kpop soundtrack through soul, R&B, gospel, and funk, pleased those older sounds still lived in something so modern. Half teasing, half serious, she’d lean over and say, “If dem ever press this pon vinyl, mi would have people fightin’ over the last copy, y’know.” • Whenever you glanced over, she’d already be smiling—that soft, knowing kind that only showed when something truly moved her. Binti loved watching people pour their hearts into music, and seeing the Huntrix protect others through song hit her deep. “See? Music really help people, y’know,” she’d whisper, squeezing your hand, eyes never leaving the screen. “That’s why mi always tell you… music carry people heart.” In that moment, it was clear: this was exactly why she’d spent thirty years keeping her little record shop alive. • After the credits rolled, she wasn’t done—not even close. For days she’d hum bits under her breath, then laugh, “Baby… what if somebody go an’ make a reggae version a one a dem song, eh?” The next morning, she’d already be telling customers about it from behind the counter: “Don’t mek the animation fool you—it got some real good music in it, y’know.” And if you teased her about becoming a fan, she’d smile, give your shoulder a playful shove, and say, “Good music is good music, darlin’. Nuh matter where it come from.”

Binti had been humming since morning.

Not loud enough to fill the record shop, not enough to interrupt the slow crackle of the record spinning behind the counter, but present—constant, woven into the air like the scent of old vinyl and dust and the faint sweetness of the banana bread she’d baked the night before. It slipped between the aisles as she worked, brushing past stacked crates and leaning shelves, curling itself around the open window where the summer breeze carried pieces of it out onto the street.

Vinyl, stretched out near the speaker, flicked her tail once, then twice, her golden-green eyes following her as she moved. Even she seemed to notice it—the repetition, the rhythm she kept returning to like a thought she hadn’t quite finished.

You noticed it too. You leaned against the front counter, arms folded, watching her as she straightened a crooked row of records with careful, practiced taps—two taps on each sleeve, a quiet ritual. Her bangles chimed softly with every movement, adding their own percussion to the tune she refused to admit she was singing.

“You’ve been humming that all morning.”

“No, I never.”

She didn’t even look at you at first, just slid another record into place, tapped it twice, and shifted her weight to the next stack.

“Yeah, you have.”

That made her glance up, her dark green eyes meeting yours, one steady and the other just slightly off, something she had long since stopped apologizing for, a smile already trying to form and tugging at the corner of her mouth like it had somewhere better to be.

“Baby…” she said, her voice soft and warm, wrapped in that familiar Jamaican lilt, “…it just stick inna mi head, that’s all.”

“Mm-hm.”

“It nuh mean nothin’.”

“Mm.”

Now she narrowed her eyes properly, planting one hand on her hip as her bangles slid down her wrist with a quiet clink.

“Don’t you ‘mhm’ me so.”

You chuckled, pushing yourself off the counter and reaching over to flip the little OPEN sign so it faced outward properly again. It spun once before settling, the glass catching a sliver of sunlight.

“So if I came in next week,” you said casually, like you weren’t about to push her, “and saw that Kpop Demon Hunters soundtrack on vinyl…”

Binti froze, then gasped loudly and dramatically, one hand flying to her chest as if you had just struck her.

“Ohh, don’t you go playin’ with mi feelings like that.”

“Thought it didn’t mean anything.”

“It nuh.”

“You’ve been at ‘Golden’ for, what—three hours now?”

“…Just coincidence, that.”

You stared at her, and she stared right back.

“You did the whole little dance back there in jazz.”

Her chin lifted instantly.

“That wasn’t no dance.”

“Looked exactly like it.”

“Mi was… just stretchin’, y’know.”

“With choreography and everything?”

There was a brief pause, then she broke.

Her laughter burst out of her, loud and full and impossible to ignore, echoing through the shop and spilling right out the open window. It bent her slightly forward, her shoulders shaking, one hand bracing against the shelf as if the joke had physically knocked the air out of her.

Before you could dodge, she swatted your arm with the back of her hand.

“Y’know,” she said, still laughing under her breath, “you twenty-four years younger than me, an’ somehow you the one actin’ like old man, eh.”

“I wasn’t the one pretending not to like it.”

“Mi never say mi didn’t like it.”

“You spent the first ten minutes calling it ‘one of those modern cartoons.’”

“Mi was just bein’ careful.”

“You had your arms crossed the whole time.”

“was comfortable, that’s all.”

“And then you hit me with, ‘Let’s see what all the fuss is about.’”

“Mi was keepin’ mi mind open.”

You doubled over slightly, laughing, the sound of it mixing with the soft hum of the record player and the faint city noise outside. It felt easy—being here, in her space, in the rhythm she’d built over decades. Even now, after all this time, it still felt like stepping into something alive.

Binti shook her head with exaggerated dignity, though her smile hadn’t gone anywhere. She turned away from you, ducking behind the counter with purpose.

“What’re you writing?” you asked.

“Mi just makin’ a likkle note.”

You leaned forward, resting your forearms on the counter as you watched her pull out her worn little notebook—the one with softened edges and pages filled with looping handwriting, half inventory, half thoughts she’d never admit were sentimental.

“For what, exactly?”

She flipped it open, licked the tip of her pen, and clicked it once.

“If somebody ever go press that soundtrack pon vinyl…”

She scribbled something down with decisive strokes.

“…mi orderin’ five copies, easy..”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Five, really?”

She paused as her pen hovered.

“…alright, ten.”

Another pause.

Her eyes flicked up to you briefly, catching that look on your face—the one that said you weren’t buying any of this.

“…don’t you look pon me like that.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“‘Cause mi already know dem a go sell.”

There was a quiet moment then. The kind that settled gently instead of pressing in. The record behind you shifted tracks with a soft crackle, and somewhere outside, a car rolled past slowly, music drifting faintly through its open windows.

Then, softer—almost like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud—

“…one a dem not even for the shop, y’know.”

Your grin came back, slower this time.

“You keeping one for yourself?”

She sniffed, lifting her chin with mock offense as she closed the notebook and tucked it back under the counter.

“Mi preservin’ musical history, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“…an’ if it just so happen fi stay upstairs inna mi apartment…”

“And it’s just staying up there, huh?”

“…well then..”

She shrugged, easy and unbothered, though there was something small and honest in the curve of her smile now.

“Good music is good music, darlin’. Nuh matter where it come from.”

Sara

• She’d spend the first ten minutes smiling at you more than the movie, curled against your shoulder, glancing up whenever another bright number lit the screen. “Ay, cariño… mira todo este color..” (Oh, honey... look at all this colour..) she’d laugh, patting your arm. “You picked a movie with demons and music? Conoces demasiado bien a tu esposa.” (You know your wife too well) Before long, the rhythm would pull her in, and she’d start swaying without thinking, decades of living through music making it impossible to resist. Watching performers turn songs into something protective caught her deeper, her smile softening. “Music saving people…?” she’d murmur, almost proud. “Eso sí lo entiendo.” (I do understand that) To her, K-pop stars fighting supernatural threats through music felt less like fantasy and more like a vivid extension of something she’d believed in all along. • The professional musician in her never quite switched off, even amid all the spectacle; she’d pause to admire the Huntrix’s performances, hearing far more than catchy songs. She’d notice the breath control, the emotion threaded through each line, the precision of the stage presence—how every number told part of the story. Every so often she’d lean in, voice low and warm, to whisper, “Escucha esa armonía… ay, qué linda.” (Listen to that harmony... oh, how cute) Even though jazz and K-pop lived in different worlds, she’d still respect the craft, the discipline, the work it took to hold an audience like that. By the time the credits rolled, she wouldn’t be dissecting the fight scenes at all—she’d be talking about choreography, vocal delivery, and just how many hours of rehearsal must have gone into making it all look that effortless. • By the end, she’d have fully settled into the role of everyone’s supportive “music mamá,” instinctively rooting for the girls the moment doubt crept into their voices. Sara had always believed young performers deserved encouragement, so she wouldn’t hesitate to murmur softly at the screen, “No pierdas el corazón, mija,” (Don't lose your heart, mija,) almost forgetting they couldn’t hear her. When one of them pushed through stage fright or something heavier, you’d notice the way she nodded, eyes a little misty, recognizing something of her own years onstage in that quiet struggle. She’d give your hand a gentle squeeze then, her smile soft but certain. “Every performer carries something heavy behind the curtain, cariño.” • After the credits rolled, the movie wouldn’t really end for her—it would spill right into the living room. She’d start humming one of the melodies while clearing the popcorn bowls, then suddenly catch your hand and spin you toward her, turning the space into a tiny concert of her own. “Come on,” she’d tease, that playful grin breaking through, “you’re thirty-five, I’m fifty-nine… and I still dance circles around you, ¿eh?” She’d laugh the second you rolled your eyes, steal one more twirl anyway, the music still alive in her head, before easing to a stop with a satisfied sigh. “Tomorrow morning I’m making café cubano,” she’d declare, pointing at you like it was settled, “And you’re letting me listen to that soundtrack again, ¿okay?”

One afternoon, you walked toward the studio to visit Sara during rehearsal. She had always been the heartbeat of the place.

It was something you felt before you even saw her—before the door fully opened, before the music settled into something recognizable. Her presence lived in the air itself, in the way laughter lingered between takes, in the warmth of the lights, in the quiet confidence that wrapped around every musician lucky enough to play beside her.

Usually, the moment you stepped through those rehearsal room doors, she was the first to notice, always.

Her head would lift like she’d felt you arrive before she heard it, her face lighting up instantly, that radiant, unmistakable smile spreading across her lips as she called out,

“¡Mi amor, ya llegaste!” (My love, you've already arrived!)

Today, she didn’t.

You barely made it two steps inside before the rest of her band descended on you like they’d been waiting.

“There you are—thank God!”

One of the keyboard players moved so fast you almost thought he was going to grab you outright, while the drummer—usually calm, steady—looked like she’d just spotted rescue after hours at sea.

“Finally. We’ve been waiting for you.”

You blinked, caught completely off guard.

“Hey… what’s going on?”

They exchanged a look, not subtle or quiet, the kind of look people share when they’ve already had a full conversation without you.

Then one of them sighed, long, dramatic, and deeply tired, as they dragged a hand down their face like they’d aged five years in a week.

“Please… can you talk some sense into your wife?”

Another nodded immediately in fear.

“We’re literally begging you, dude!”

Your brows pulled together.

“Why? What did I walk into?”

In perfect, silent unison, the entire group lifted their hands and pointed toward the stage.

You followed their gaze, like you weren’t sure you actually wanted the answer.

And you saw Sara as she stood under the warm spill of stage lights, dressed in a soft off-the-shoulder charcoal-gray knit top that draped loosely over her frame, paired with high-waisted, wide-leg black trousers that swayed with every step; a thin metallic belt caught the light at her waist, simple low-heeled sandals on her feet, and her long hair gathered to one side with a deep plum silk scarf. Her headphones rested loosely around her neck, and one hand kept time in the air, her fingers snapping softly with precise rhythm.

“From measure thirty-two again, por favor.” (Please) she called, clapping twice. “No, no—don’t chase the tempo, dance with it. La música no se va a escapar de ustedes.” (Music is not going to escape you.)

She clapped again, sharper this time.

“Again, again—otra vez.” (Again)

The drummer beside you leaned in, lowering her voice like she were about to confess something serious.

“She’s been obsessed with the ‘KPop Demon Hunters’ movie.”

You glanced at her, blinking once, waiting for the part that was supposed to make sense.

“Alright… and?”

“Like… three times.”

You paused, the number not quite landing right.

“‘Three times’?”

“In four days.”

That made you blink harder, your expression finally catching up with the concern in theirs.

“Keeps saying she’s ‘studying the performance energy.’”

Another bandmate pinched the bridge of his nose like his physically couldn’t process it anymore.

“Yesterday she made us run the bridge twelve times—her exact words: ‘If animated K‑pop girls can sing while fighting demons, we can survive one more harmony.’”

You pressed your lips together, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

Across the room, Sara clapped again as she noticed the horns section lag half a beat behind.

“No, no, no, not like that.” she called, her voice bright, encouraging, completely unbothered by the exhaustion around her. “Smile with the note—si ellos te creen, cantan contigo.” (If they believe you, they sing with you)

One of the guitarists leaned toward you, whispering like he were afraid she’d hear him from across the room.

“And now she calls us her ‘idol trainees.’”

Another chimed in immediately, unable to hold it in.

“She brought this homemade coffee this morning and declared it our ‘official stamina potion.’”

“…Okay, but it was really good,” someone admitted.

“It was fantastic, honestly.” another corrected.

“That’s not the point, you idiot!”

You bit the inside of your cheek harder this time, shoulders threatening to give you away.

Before you could say anything else, Sara looked up. And everything changed.

“There you are, mi amor.”

The words lit up the room before she even moved, her entire face brightening, her eyes warming instantly as she spotted you, and without hesitation, without even finishing whatever instruction she had been mid-thought in, she crossed the space toward you fast and effortless, like you were always the first thing that mattered.

She reached you in seconds, wrapping both arms around your waist, pulling you into her with familiar ease before pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“Look who came to visit—my handsome husband..”

You smiled, your hands settling naturally at her sides, grounding yourself in her warmth, her energy—always so alive.

“People are saying you’ve been… really inspiring the whole studio.”

She leaned back just enough to look at you, blinking with exaggerated innocence.

“Have I? De verdad?” (Really?)

Behind you, the entire band groaned in exhaustion. Sara turned her head slightly, peeking past your shoulder with a look of pure, theatrical offense.

“What? I’m motivating them, claro que sí.”

One of the backup singers raised a hand immediately.

“You told us vocal warmups were ‘just like defeating demons while protecting the Honmoon’.”

Sara gasped, placing a hand over her chest.

“Because confidence defeats everything.”

“You had Carlos act like his mic stand was some magic weapon.”

“But look—it helped his posture, ¿no?”

“And you gave us all ‘hero entrances.’”

“Those were excellent hero entrances—de película.”

The room cracked as laughter spilled out, tired, amused, completely unable to resist her.

You just stood there, really looking at her, at the way she carried herself like the stage belonged to her but never in a way that took from anyone else, at the way she poured everything she had into people, into music, into moments like this, at the way her joy was so big it refused to stay contained.

“So…” you started slowly.

She tilted her head, already smiling like she knew exactly where you were going.

“We’re watching that movie again tonight, aren’t we?”

Her grin widened—brighter, softer, somehow both at once.

She slipped her hand into yours, her fingers warm, squeezing gently like she always did when she was pleased.

“Only if we watch Huntrix perform ‘How It’s Done’ twice, ¿eh?”

Deidra

• She’d spend the first fifteen minutes pretending she wasn’t invested, leaning back like she was just passing time, until something clicked and she sat forward, arms crossed, eyes narrowing. “Hold up… these girls hunt demons and got stadium tours? That’s actually kinda hard.” From then on, she’d give small, approving nods every time Huntrix nailed another synchronized fight, still trying to play it cool. But you’d catch it anyway—the steady tap of her foot lining up with the beat—no matter how quickly she tried to brush it off. “I’m just keeping rhythm, baby,” she’d say, not even looking at you. “Don’t start.” • As a veteran rapper, she wouldn’t just listen—she’d start judging every track like she was on a recording panel, each song earning its own running commentary. “Okay… that hook? Catchy.” A beat later, “Bassline clean,” followed by a small nod, “Producer knew what they was doin’.” Before long she’d be reaching for the remote to rewind a performance, wanting another pass at the harmonies, listening closer. “Whoever mixed this soundtrack deserves a raise,” she’d mutter, half to herself. And you’d just sit there grinning, watching her shift from “I’m only watching this for you” to breaking down every arrangement like it was studio homework. • She’d absolutely adore Mira’s confidence while giving Zoey her due respect for pure stage presence, reacting to each in her own way. Mira’s fearless attitude would earn an immediate finger point toward the screen—“See? That’s performer energy”—while Zoey’s effortless charisma would pull a knowing smirk. “Girl knows how to work a crowd.” Before long, she’d be talking about them like promising new artists, balancing praise with that instinctive creative curiosity, already half-imagining what it would be like to collaborate with performers who could match her intensity. • By the time the credits rolled, she’d be pretending she “wasn’t obsessed”… while proving the exact opposite. The room would settle before she casually reached for her diary, like it was no big deal, but you’d already know what that meant. She’d start scribbling lyric ideas inspired by the movie’s mix of music and fantasy, pausing to hum a melody under her breath as it came back to her. When you nudged her with, “Thought you said it was just a cartoon?” she’d flash that signature smirk, bump your shoulder, and shoot back, “Boy… ain’t nobody say cartoons can’t have bars.” And not even ten minutes later, she’d be right back at it, replaying her favorite performances—strictly, of course, “for research.”

Ryan’s name flashed across your phone for what felt like the sixth time that afternoon.

You stared at it for a second, thumb hovering, already knowing this wasn’t going to be a calm conversation. Ryan didn’t call six times in a row unless something had gone very wrong.

You answered anyway.

“Hey—what’s going on?”

“UM—SOMEONE ALMOST SPENT $1.200 ON ONLINE PURCHASES THIS WEEK!?”

You jerked the phone away from your ear instantly, wincing as his voice blasted through the speaker like he was personally trying to break it.

You blinked, glancing down at the massive cardboard box tucked awkwardly under your arm, the edges digging into your side.

“Wait—what are you talking about?”

“I’m fuckin’ serious!” Ryan continued, still yelling. “It’s all from the same Kpop store! Hoodies, albums, light sticks, plushies, posters—WHO IS BUYING ALL THIS STUFF!?”

Your eyes dropped again to the label.

Huntrix Official Merchandise.

Again.

“I—I don’t know, man.” you said slowly.

“You don’t know!?”

“No, I don’t.”

Ryan let out the kind of sigh that sounded like it had been building for years.

“Find out before Deidra starts wondering why I’m calling the bank.”

“…Yeah. Alright.”

The call ended.

You stood there for a moment in the hallway, phone still in your hand, the silence afterward almost suspicious. Then you looked back down at the box.

“…Okay, let’s see here..”

This made box number—

You paused, actually trying to count…and immediately giving up.

“…I lost count at seven,” you muttered under your breath.

Balancing the newest package against your hip, you made your way upstairs toward the bedroom, your steps slower now, more thoughtful.

There had to be a logical explanation. Maybe someone accidentally used your address. Maybe a fan got something mixed up. Maybe—

You pushed open the bedroom door.

“Hey, honey, you in here?”

. . . No answer. You stepped inside, shifting the box slightly.

“Deedee?”

Still nothing.

Then a faint rustling sound came from the walk-in closet.

You frowned slightly, curiosity pulling you forward as you crossed the room. The closer you got, the clearer it became—soft movement, something shifting, the quiet crinkle of plastic.

You reached for the walk-in closet door, opened it, and stopped yourself as your brain took a second, then another.

Because the closet did not look like a closet anymore but like a very specific kind of store, with boxes already opened covering the floor in organized chaos, folded Huntrix merch hoodies stacked neatly like inventory displays, and a shelf that once held your shoes now proudly showcasing three Huntrix plushies arranged.

Huntrix posters were rolled carefully and tied, sitting beside a growing pile of ‘Kpop Demon Hunters’ albums, and right in the center of it all, like she was running the place, sat your wife.

Cross-legged on the floor, swallowed slightly in a Zoey-merchandise oversized satin bomber jacket in deep teal that shimmered toward turquoise under the light, loud with tropical leaves and bright hibiscus blooms; beneath it, a cropped electric-aqua top glinted when she moved, paired with loose midnight navy cargo pants strapped and patched with tiny playful details, chunky platform sneakers kicked halfway off her feet, and a soft lavender beanie dotted with charms resting over her puffs, as she remained completely locked in.

She was delicately sliding Huntrix photocards into protective sleeves, her nails moving with precise care, her expression focused like she was handling priceless artifacts in a museum.

“Yeah… that’s sittin’ right.” she murmured to herself.

“Aight… Mira posted up with Zoey and Rumi…”

She tilted her head slightly, adjusting the Mira plushie by a fraction of an inch.

“Mmh… yeah, that’s clean. That’s balance right there.”

You blinked once, then twice.

“Deidra…?”

She jolted as her head snapped up, her eyes widening when she finally noticed you standing there.

“…Oh. Well—damn..”

. . .Silence. A long, heavy, very aware silence.

Then—

“Hey, baby…”

You didn’t respond right away as your gaze slowly dragged across the room again, taking in the opened boxes, the Huntrix merch, the very clear evidence of what Ryan had been yelling about.

“You wanna tell me what all this is?”

She followed your line of sight, paused, then looked back at you, completely straight-faced.

“…Creative research.”

“…Research.”

“For the music, obviously.”

“For music. That’s what we’re going with?”

“Mhm. Exactly that.”

You shifted the box in your arms and lifted it slightly, just enough for the label to be visible.

“Then why is your name on the order confirmation?”

She froze, actually froze, her entire body going still as if, by not moving, the question might disappear.

“Well now—”

You waited.

“See, what had happened was—”

You kept waiting.

“Look, the site kept throwin’ that ‘customers also bought this’ at me—felt personal.”

You stared at her, blinking slowly like your brain was trying to reboot and failing halfway through, and she gave you a small, sheepish smile.

“And?”

She shrugged lightly. “I mean, I’m not finna disrespect the girls like that—support is support.”

“For $1,200, though?”

She gasped, placing a hand dramatically over her chest.

“First of all, it was $1,196.42—let’s be accurate if we gon’ argue.”

You blinked. “You know the exact total?”

“…I might.”

Right then—

BZZT

Your phone buzzed in your hand. You glanced down.

Ryan

DID YOU FIND THE CULPRIT YET?

You slowly lifted your eyes back to Deidra.

She met your gaze, then very casually and carefully reached behind her back and tried to slide an unopened Huntrix hoodie out of sight.

“Baby…”

“Yeah, what?”

“Put the hoodie down.”

She hesitated. “Baby, that’s limited edition—you don’t just set that down.”

“Deidra.”

“Aight, hold on—hear me out real quick—”

“Deidra.”

“Can I at least keep Zoey? Don’t do her like that.”

You tried, you really did, but the laugh slipped out anyway.

She lit up immediately, pointing at you like she’d just won something.

“HA! There it is!”

“What?”

“You just laughed—oh, I got you now.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Sooo that mean I’m cleared. We good.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“…Had to try it.”

You shook your head, still smiling as you stepped into the closet, carefully navigating around the stacks of half-opened boxes like you were entering a very specific, very expensive obstacle course.

You nudged one aside with your foot, then another.

“So…” you said, glancing around again.

“So?” she echoed, watching you closely now.

“How many more of these are on the way?”

She immediately leaned back slightly, her eyes drifting upward toward the ceiling like the answer might be written there.

“Honey—”

“Mmhmm?”

“How many?”

“Like… three. Calm.”

At that exact moment, your phone chimed and you glanced down.

Your package will arrive tomorrow.

Another chime.

Your package will arrive Tuesday.

Another.

You slowly lowered the phone, staring at the notifications like they might rearrange themselves into better news if you gave them a second longer.

“…Deidra.”

She winced as she slowly tucked the hoodie behind her back.

“Aight—five. Don’t make it a thing.”

You stared, with a slow, disbelieving blink, as she exhaled.

“Okay, maybe six—but you better not snitch to Ryan, I’m serious.”

A/N: (None)