pairing: megan skiendiel x masc!bodyguard!reader
info: y/n, katseye's stoic bodyguard, must navigate unspoken feelings when megan’s new relationship brings everything to the surface.
warnings: mutual pining, megan has a bf briefly, fluff
note: yall we almost lost this one thanks to tumblrdotcom's system.. thankfully we didn't! also y/n is lowkey buff as hell
Y/N had never needed to announce her presence for people to feel it.
She stood near the back wall of the rehearsal studio, hands loosely folded in front of her, posture relaxed but deliberate. Even at ease, she looked solid—like something carved rather than built. The girls had grown used to her being there, a steady silhouette against the mirrors, dark clothes blending into the room until something shifted and she moved. Only then did you remember she had been watching the entire time.
Officially, she was there for security.
Unofficially, she had become part of the routine.
The music thundered through the speakers as choreography reset for the fourth time. Sweat slicked across hardwood floors; the air smelled faintly of hairspray and exertion. Across the room, Megan ran the formation again, jaw tight with focus. She was usually sharp—quick to adjust, quicker to recover—but today she hesitated half a beat too long before the turn.
It was small. Most people wouldn’t have noticed.
Megan’s gaze flickered toward the back wall, toward where Y/N stood, as if checking something invisible. The second their eyes nearly aligned, she snapped back into motion.
Y/N didn’t react. She never did. But something in her chest shifted anyway.
When rehearsal finally broke, the girls collapsed into loose clusters across the floor, laughter spilling out in exhausted waves. Y/N moved to sit on one of the storage cases near the sound system, unscrewing the cap on her water bottle while keeping her attention loosely on the room. She didn’t intrude on their conversations, but she absorbed them. It was part of the job—reading tone, watching body language, recognizing tension before it escalated.
That was why she noticed the look Manon gave Megan before standing up and crossing the floor toward her.
Manon stopped directly in front of Y/N, folding herself down without asking permission, elbows propped on her knees. There was a mischievous glint in her eyes that usually meant trouble.
“Can I ask you something,” she began lightly, though her tone suggested she already had.
Y/N lifted one brow, expression neutral. “You’re going to regardless.”
Manon’s smile widened. She lowered her voice, though not enough that it wouldn’t carry in a quiet room. “What exactly is going on between you and Megan?”
The question wasn’t crude. It wasn’t accusatory.
Across the studio, Megan went very still.
Y/N followed Manon’s line of sight before answering, gaze settling briefly on Megan where she sat cross-legged on the floor, pretending not to listen. For a second—just a second—Y/N considered the possibility that there was something to examine there. The way Megan gravitated toward her during breaks. The way she hovered nearby when conversations thinned out. The way she seemed to relax when Y/N stepped closer.
But Y/N had always been practical.
She shook her head faintly. “There’s nothing going on,” she said, voice steady. “She trusts me. That’s it. I look out for her.”
It sounded reasonable. Mature. Clean.
Manon studied her face like she was trying to spot a crack in the surface, but Y/N’s expression remained unreadable. After a beat, Manon hummed and pushed herself back to her feet, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to press further.
Megan’s shoulders had drawn inward slightly, though she tried to disguise it by reaching for her water bottle. She laughed at something one of the others said a moment later, but the sound lacked its usual brightness.
She told herself she was imagining it.
The shift didn’t happen overnight. It was subtler than that.
Megan didn’t stop talking to her. She didn’t stop seeking her out, either. But something tentative crept into the spaces where there had once been ease. A hesitation before standing too close. A flicker of self-consciousness when their hands brushed while passing a towel.
Y/N felt it but didn’t name it.
Then Daniel entered the picture.
His name surfaced first—casual mentions during water breaks, a grin that lingered too long while texting. A few days later, he appeared in person, leaning against the studio doorway with an easy confidence that felt practiced rather than natural.
Y/N clocked him immediately.
Not as a threat—yet—but as someone who wanted to be seen.
He was loud where she was quiet, expressive where she was controlled. He draped an arm around Megan’s shoulders in a way that suggested possession more than affection. Megan smiled, though there was a tightness at the edges that only someone watching closely would catch.
When the girls started teasing Megan about it, Y/N was coiling extension cords near the back wall.
“Wait,” she said after a moment, tone casual but not careless. “She’s seeing someone?”
The question drew a brief silence.
Manon answered this time, slower than usual. “Yeah. His name’s Daniel. They’ve been hanging out.”
Y/N nodded once, adjusting the strap on her duffel bag. “Good for her.”
She meant for it to sound indifferent.
But as Megan crossed the room a few minutes later to grab her jacket, she didn’t meet Y/N’s eyes. Not directly. And that absence felt louder than anything else.
Y/N told herself it wasn’t her place to feel anything about it. Megan was free to date whoever she wanted. Y/N’s role in her life was defined—clear boundaries, professional distance.
Still, when rehearsal ended that night and Megan left early to meet Daniel, the studio felt oddly hollow. Y/N lingered longer than necessary, double-checking locks that didn’t need checking, replaying conversations that had seemed harmless at the time.
She had meant what she said.
There was nothing going on.
So why did it feel like something had just slipped out of reach?
Daniel entered their world gradually, but once he was in it, he behaved as though he had always belonged there.
From Y/N’s perspective, the shift was noticeable immediately—not because of anything overtly threatening, but because of how the air in the rehearsal studio changed when he stepped inside. He was louder than necessary, quicker to laugh, quicker to comment, quicker to position himself physically close to Megan in ways that seemed designed to be observed. He draped his arm around her shoulders not with tenderness but with emphasis, like he was underlining something invisible. Y/N had spent years reading rooms for risk assessment, and Daniel did not register as dangerous. What he registered as was insecure.
The first time Megan properly introduced them, Y/N had already formed an impression.
“Daniel, this is Y/N,” Megan had said, her tone light but her eyes flicking briefly between them as if anticipating friction. “She’s with us. She handles security.”
Daniel extended his hand with a smile that stretched just a little too tight at the edges. He commented on how often Y/N was around, asked if she ever got tired of “babysitting rehearsals,” laughed as though the joke were harmless. Y/N took his hand, met his gaze steadily, and answered evenly that protection was not babysitting and that she was exactly where she was supposed to be. She didn’t rise to the bait. She didn’t need to. The handshake lasted longer than politeness required, his grip firm in a way that tested rather than greeted, and she neither squeezed back nor yielded. She simply held eye contact until he let go first.
That was the first moment he understood that she would not compete.
And that, paradoxically, made him want to.
From Megan’s perspective, Daniel had seemed safe when she first started seeing him. He was expressive in ways Y/N wasn’t. He verbalized admiration freely. He posted her on his social media without hesitation, told his friends she was “unreal,” called her talented in a voice loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. After the quiet ache that followed Y/N’s careful dismissal weeks earlier—the subtle but unmistakable confirmation that whatever she felt was not mirrored—Daniel’s attention had felt like balm. If Y/N saw her as someone to protect, Daniel saw her as someone to desire, and at the time that distinction felt important.
What she had not anticipated was how quickly admiration could curdle into comparison.
It began with small questions asked in passing. Why did Y/N need to sit inside rehearsals instead of outside? Was it standard protocol, or was she just unusually attached to the group? Did Megan really feel comfortable with someone watching her practice for hours at a time? Megan answered lightly at first, explaining that Y/N had been assigned long before Daniel came around, that her presence had become routine, that the girls trusted her. But each explanation only seemed to sharpen his focus.
“She watches you a lot,” he had said one night in the passenger seat of his car, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. “Not in a creepy way. Just… intensely.”
Megan had laughed, brushing it off. “She watches everyone intensely. That’s literally her job.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
He never quite articulated what he meant, and that unsettled her more than if he had.
Back in the studio, Y/N became acutely aware of being observed. Not by strangers—that was something she had trained herself to handle—but by Daniel specifically. His gaze lingered when Megan drifted too close during breaks. His expression tightened when Megan laughed at something Y/N said under her breath. There was nothing overtly confrontational about it, yet it carried a challenge. As if he were waiting for Y/N to overstep some invisible boundary.
Y/N responded by stepping back.
It was subtle at first. She repositioned herself farther from Megan during downtime, kept conversations shorter, answered questions with professional brevity rather than dry humor. When Megan approached her after a difficult run-through, visibly frustrated and flushed from exertion, Y/N restrained the instinct to close the distance between them. Instead of standing beside her, she remained a half-step removed.
“You’re hesitating on the third count,” she had said calmly, hands clasped loosely behind her back. “You don’t usually.”
Megan’s expression had softened immediately at the sound of her voice. “You always notice that stuff.”
“It’s what I’m here for.”
The answer had been technically true. It had also felt like a retreat.
Megan sensed the change before she understood it. She felt it in the empty spaces where Y/N would normally stand during cooldown, in the absence of quiet commentary after particularly strong performances. There was nothing cold about Y/N’s behavior, nothing rude, but there was a new restraint that made Megan hyperaware of herself. As though she had done something wrong without realizing it.
The truth, though neither of them articulated it, was that Y/N had begun drawing lines for her own protection.
It wasn’t that she disliked Daniel. It wasn’t even that she distrusted him entirely. It was that she recognized the pattern forming beneath the surface. She had seen similar dynamics before in different contexts: someone feeling threatened by proximity they could not control. And the easiest way to defuse that threat was to remove herself as a variable.
She stopped lingering after rehearsals unless necessary. She redirected Megan back toward the group when their conversations drifted too personal. She maintained a professionalism so clean it bordered on impersonal.
From Daniel’s perspective, that should have been reassuring.
Instead, it infuriated him.
Because distance did not erase the way Megan looked at Y/N.
He noticed it most during moments Megan forgot to monitor herself—when she tripped over choreography and instinctively sought Y/N’s reaction, when she delivered a flawless sequence and scanned the back wall for approval before anyone else’s praise registered. The validation she wanted did not come from him first. It came from the silent figure near the mirrors who nodded once, subtle but meaningful.
One evening, the tension that had been simmering beneath Daniel’s composure finally breached the surface.
“You light up around her,” he said abruptly while they sat on his bed, the city dim beyond the window.
Megan frowned, genuinely confused. “Around who?”
She stared at him, irritation rising. “If you’re going to accuse me of something, at least be clear.”
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration overtaking restraint. “You look at her like she’s permanent. Like I’m… temporary.”
The words startled Megan because they struck closer to something she had been trying not to examine. She opened her mouth to argue, to reassure him, to dismiss the comparison entirely—but the certainty she needed did not materialize quickly enough.
From that point forward, Daniel’s insecurity stopped being theoretical. It became reactive.
He showed up unannounced more frequently. He inserted himself into conversations he previously ignored. He made a point of kissing Megan in visible spaces, of positioning his body between hers and Y/N’s whenever possible. Each act was framed as affection, but the underlying intent was territorial.
Y/N watched the pattern solidify with growing concern.
Not because she felt personally threatened, but because escalation always followed possessiveness unchecked. She began quietly preparing for confrontation—not seeking it, but anticipating it. She adjusted her awareness, tracked Daniel’s emotional fluctuations, measured the way his jaw tightened when he believed no one was looking.
Megan, caught between them, felt the pressure building without fully understanding its source. She resented Daniel’s fixation, yet she also resented the fact that she could not wholeheartedly deny his claims. There was something unresolved in her chest every time Y/N entered a room, something that had nothing to do with protection or professionalism.
She had told herself that dating Daniel proved she had moved on from whatever misguided hope had once flickered. But hope, she was discovering, did not extinguish on command.
The Tuesday everything fractured began like any other rehearsal day. Megan arrived early, determined to shake off the tension that had followed her all week. Y/N was already there, speaking quietly with staff near the entrance. When their eyes met, the exchange lasted no longer than a second—but it carried more weight than either acknowledged.
Across the room, a door handle turned harder than necessary.
And Daniel, having reached the limit of his tolerance for uncertainty, decided he would no longer be the one waiting for answers.
The sound of the door hitting the stopper reverberated through the studio louder than the music had moments before.
It was not the kind of entrance that could be mistaken for accident.
From Y/N’s vantage point near the equipment table, the shift was immediate and physical. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. One of the girls startled, water bottle tipping onto its side. Megan’s spine went rigid before she even turned around, as though her body recognized the tension before her mind could process it. Y/N straightened slowly, not abruptly, not in alarm—but in readiness. She had learned long ago that escalation fed on reaction. Control, on the other hand, starved it.
Daniel stood just inside the doorway, chest rising too quickly, eyes scanning until they locked onto her.
There was no greeting. No attempt at politeness.
He had come here with a purpose.
From Megan’s perspective, dread bloomed low and heavy. She knew that look. She had seen it in smaller flashes over the past week—when she answered a text too slowly, when she laughed at something she couldn’t fully explain, when she failed to reassure him convincingly enough. But this was different. This wasn’t irritation. This was humiliation curdling into anger.
“Daniel,” she said quickly, crossing the floor before anyone else could speak. “What are you doing?”
His attention remained fixed on Y/N.
“You,” he said, voice sharp enough to slice through the room.
The word carried accusation without context, and that was what unsettled Megan most. There was no conversation here. No private disagreement spilling over. This was something he had decided would happen.
Y/N rose to her full height without haste, setting the coiled cable she’d been packing into its case before turning to face him properly. She did not step forward, but she did not retreat either. The distance between them remained deliberate—close enough to intercept, far enough to avoid physical provocation.
“Is there something you need?” she asked evenly.
The calmness in her tone only aggravated him further.
“I’m sick of this,” Daniel snapped, gesturing vaguely between her and the room, as though the dynamic itself were a visible object he could point to. “I’m sick of you pretending like you don’t know what you’re doing.”
A quiet ripple moved through the girls behind Megan. None of them spoke, but their awareness sharpened. Y/N registered their positions automatically, calculating proximity, exit routes, the angle of Daniel’s stance. He wasn’t armed. He wasn’t intoxicated. He was emotional—and that, in some situations, was just as volatile.
“I don’t know what you think I’m doing,” Y/N replied, voice steady, “but if this isn’t rehearsal-related, we can step outside.”
The offer was strategic. It removed the audience. It gave him an out.
“No,” he said, taking a step closer. “We’re not doing this outside. I want you to hear it.”
From Megan’s vantage point, shame and anger tangled together. She moved instinctively to grab his arm, but he shook her off without looking at her, and that small act—public, dismissive—sent something cold through her chest. This was no longer about insecurity. This was about control slipping away.
“You think you’re subtle?” Daniel continued, eyes locked onto Y/N. “You stand there acting like you’re above everything, but you’re always there. Always watching. Always waiting.”
Y/N’s expression did not change, but internally, something sharpened.
“Waiting for what?” she asked.
“For her,” he shot back, finally gesturing toward Megan. “You think I don’t see it? The way she looks at you? The way she runs to you every time something goes wrong?”
The accusation hung in the air heavier than any raised voice.
Behind him, Megan felt her pulse spike—not because the claim was entirely fabricated, but because it was being dragged into light without her consent. She had not sorted her feelings. She had barely allowed herself to name them. And now they were being weaponized.
“This isn’t the place for this,” she said, voice lower now, more controlled. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
But Daniel wasn’t listening to her anymore.
He was watching Y/N’s face for a crack.
Instead, she studied him with an almost clinical focus, as though assessing not the content of his words but the instability beneath them. “You’re upset,” she said calmly. “That’s understandable. But you’re directing it at the wrong person.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Oh, so it’s my fault?”
“I didn’t say that.” Her tone remained maddeningly measured. “I’m saying that if your relationship has issues, they’re not caused by my job.”
The word job was intentional.
Daniel let out a harsh laugh. “Your job? You think this is about security?”
From Megan’s perspective, the moment stretched unbearably. She could see the calculation behind Y/N’s eyes—the way she was holding herself back physically even as the accusation grew more personal. And she could see the humiliation building in Daniel as his attempt to provoke a reaction failed.
He wanted jealousy. Or defensiveness. Or guilt.
He was getting composure.
“You want to know what this is about?” Daniel pressed, voice rising. “It’s about the fact that my girlfriend is in love with someone who doesn’t even have the decency to admit it.”
The word love detonated in the center of the room.
For a fraction of a second, silence swallowed everything.
From Y/N’s perspective, that was the moment the confrontation shifted.
Not because of Daniel’s accusation.
But because of Megan’s reaction.
She wasn’t outraged. She wasn’t laughing it off. She wasn’t immediately denying it.
And something inside Y/N clicked into place with quiet, devastating clarity.
Daniel saw the flicker of realization cross her face and mistook it for victory.
“Yeah,” he continued, emboldened. “You didn’t know? She talks about you constantly. You’re the standard. You’re the comparison. I’m just the placeholder until you decide you want her.”
The absurdity of the claim almost pulled a disbelieving breath from Y/N—but she restrained it. Instead, she exhaled slowly, processing not the insult but the implication.
Megan had never said them.
Megan had tried to bury them under something easier.
And Y/N had helped her do it by pretending not to notice.
When she finally spoke, her voice was lower.
“Listen carefully,” she said. “If she has unresolved feelings, that’s a conversation you should be having with her. Not me.”
Daniel stepped forward again, invading space now, frustration bleeding into recklessness. “Don’t act like you’re innocent in this. You think I don’t see the way you look at her?”
The irony almost twisted into something bitter inside her.
“You don’t know what you see,” Y/N replied.
Behind them, Megan felt the ground shifting beneath her carefully constructed denial. Hearing it said aloud—hearing someone else name the thing she had avoided—made it impossible to retreat into ambiguity. She looked at Y/N not as her bodyguard in that moment, not as the steady presence against the wall, but as the person she had once hoped might look back at her differently.
And now Y/N was looking at her.
Daniel followed the line of sight between them and something in his expression broke. The confrontation he had imagined—a messy explosion that would expose betrayal and justify his anger—had turned into something worse.
“I’m done,” he said suddenly, the fight draining as quickly as it had flared. He looked at Megan then, not with rage but with wounded pride. “I’m not competing with someone who doesn’t even try.”
Megan’s throat tightened. “Daniel—”
“No,” he interrupted, stepping back toward the door. “You don’t get to make me feel crazy for noticing what’s right in front of me.”
The accusation lingered as he turned and pushed the door open again, the echo of it ringing long after he was gone.
The studio remained silent.
From Y/N’s perspective, the most dangerous moment wasn’t the confrontation itself. It was the aftermath. Emotional fallout was unpredictable. She turned her attention first to the girls, ensuring no one was shaken beyond repair, offering a quiet directive to take five minutes outside.
Within seconds, the room cleared until only she and Megan remained.
The air between them felt heavier than the confrontation had.
And for the first time since she had taken this job, Y/N didn’t know which role she was supposed to step into.
Or something else entirely.
The studio felt different once the door stopped vibrating.
Silence lingered in layers, settling into the mirrors, into the scuffed floorboards, into the hollow space Daniel’s anger had left behind. For a moment, neither of them moved. The fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead, absurdly ordinary in contrast to what had just unfolded.
Y/N stood where she had been when he left, shoulders squared but no longer rigid. She had faced physical threats before—drunken strangers, overzealous fans, situations that required quick reflexes and calculated force. This had been something else entirely. Emotional volatility carried its own kind of unpredictability, and what unsettled her most wasn’t Daniel’s outburst.
It was the truth embedded inside it.
Across the room, Megan remained near the center of the floor, arms wrapped loosely around herself as though bracing against a draft that didn’t exist. Her expression wasn’t devastated in the way someone freshly broken up might be. It was exposed. As if something she had carefully shielded had been turned outward without warning.
Y/N forced herself to move first—not toward Megan, but toward the door. She locked it quietly, more out of habit than necessity, then returned to the room with deliberate steps. She stopped several feet away, maintaining distance that felt suddenly fragile rather than professional.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
The question sounded insufficient the second it left her mouth.
Megan let out a breath that almost resembled a laugh, though there was no humor in it. “That depends,” she replied softly. “Are you asking as my security guard or…?”
She didn’t finish the sentence.
Y/N felt the weight of it anyway.
For weeks—maybe longer—she had hidden behind the structure of her job. It had been easy to reduce everything to protocol, to proximity, to professional obligation. Protect. Observe. Intervene when necessary. It was clean. Defined. Safe.
But Daniel had dragged something undefined into the open and left it there between them.
“I’m asking as someone who doesn’t want you blindsided,” Y/N answered carefully.
Megan searched her face, and this time there was no audience to deflect for, no boyfriend to placate, no teammates hovering nearby. Just the two of them and the echo of accusations neither had refuted quickly enough.
“You didn’t deny it,” Megan said finally.
The words weren’t confrontational. They were almost fragile.
Y/N held her gaze. “He wasn’t talking to you when he said it.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Silence stretched again, but it wasn’t hostile. It was charged.
From Megan’s perspective, this was the moment she had both dreaded and unconsciously wanted. She had spent weeks trying to prove—to Daniel, to herself—that whatever feelings lingered were manageable. That they were admiration misinterpreted, attachment born from proximity. But when Daniel had said the word love out loud, her first instinct hadn’t been denial.
It had been fear that Y/N would reject it again.
And that realization terrified her more than the breakup.
“You said there was nothing going on,” Megan continued, voice steadier now. “Back when Manon asked.”
Y/N remembered the conversation with uncomfortable clarity. The easy dismissal. The way she had framed it as trust, as responsibility, as something uncomplicated.
She had believed it at the time.
Or maybe she had wanted to.
“There wasn’t,” Y/N said slowly. “Not in the way she was implying.”
Megan’s brow furrowed faintly. “And now?”
The question settled heavily in Y/N’s chest.
She had trained herself to compartmentalize. To evaluate risk before emotion. To prioritize stability over desire. It had not occurred to her that someone might interpret her restraint as indifference. That by stepping back, she had created space for someone else to step in.
“I don’t interfere in relationships,” she said first, because it was true. “It’s not my place.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
The quiet persistence in Megan’s tone made retreat impossible.
Y/N exhaled slowly, a controlled release. “When he said you had feelings,” she admitted, “I realized I never considered that you might.”
Megan’s lips parted slightly. “You never considered it?”
“I didn’t let myself,” Y/N corrected.
The honesty hung there, rawer than anything else exchanged that day.
From Megan’s perspective, something shifted—not explosive, not cinematic, but steady and irreversible. She had spent so long assuming she had misread every glance, every pause, every subtle softening. To hear that Y/N’s distance had been deliberate rather than dismissive reframed everything.
“Why?” she asked quietly.
Y/N looked away briefly, gaze skimming the mirrored wall before returning. “Because it complicates things. Because I’m responsible for you. Because if something went wrong, it would reflect on you before it ever reflected on me.”
Megan took a slow step closer, closing a fraction of the distance. “You think I care about optics right now?”
The certainty in her voice caught Y/N off guard.
Megan continued, more quietly now, “Do you know why I started dating Daniel?”
Y/N’s jaw tightened slightly. “I can guess.”
“I thought if I tried hard enough, I’d stop comparing everyone to you.”
Y/N felt something unfamiliar press against her composure—not panic, not fear, but the destabilizing awareness that she was no longer standing on purely professional ground. Every decision from this point forward would ripple outward. Through the group. Through management. Through headlines that didn’t exist yet but easily could.
“You shouldn’t compare people,” she said, though the response sounded hollow even to her own ears.
“I didn’t want to,” Megan replied. “It just… happened.”
The space between them had narrowed without either consciously intending it. Close enough now that Y/N could see the faint smudge of eyeliner at the corner of Megan’s eye, slightly worn from rehearsal. Close enough to notice the way her hands trembled faintly before she steadied them.
“I don’t need you to say anything you’re not ready to say,” Megan added, voice softer. “But don’t stand there and pretend you feel nothing. Not after that.”
Feeling something had never been the issue.
For weeks, she had framed her restraint as maturity. As discipline. But looking at Megan now—unguarded, hopeful despite herself—she had to confront the possibility that restraint had simply been fear disguised as responsibility.
“I care about you,” she said finally.
The words were measured, but they weren’t distant.
“I care about you in a way that isn’t purely professional,” Y/N continued. “That’s why I stepped back. Not because I didn’t feel anything. Because I did.”
The admission didn’t explode into the room. It settled.
Megan’s eyes glistened—not dramatically, not tearful in a cinematic sense, but bright with something relieved and fragile all at once. “You could’ve said something.”
A faint, almost incredulous laugh escaped her. “I tried.”
Y/N thought back—every lingering glance, every excuse to stand closer, every question that had nothing to do with choreography. She had categorized them as harmless. She had labeled them as familiarity.
She had underestimated them.
Outside the studio door, faint footsteps suggested the others were hovering, uncertain whether to reenter. Reality pressed gently at the edges of the moment, reminding them both that this was not an isolated world.
Y/N stepped back first—not in retreat, but in recalibration. “This doesn’t get messy,” she said quietly. “If we do this, it’s not impulsive. It’s not reactionary because he stormed in here angry.”
Megan nodded slowly, understanding the gravity in her tone.
“I’m not asking for impulsive,” she replied. “I’m asking for honest.”
Y/N studied her for a long moment, then gave a single, decisive nod.
Not with dramatic declarations.
Just honesty—solid and intentional.
And for the first time since Daniel had entered the room, the tension that lingered in the studio felt less like impending conflict and more like the quiet beginning of something neither of them could pretend away anymore.
divider by: enchanthings on tumblr
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