meg

★ PJO

seeing red (luke castellan x reader)

while fighting monsters, something snaps and luke is the only one to break through and bring you back

stains you can't wash out (luke castellan x reader)

you’ve always stood by luke’s side, through bad and good. but there’s one time being by luke’s side was the worst thing you could do.

sinking loneliness (luke castellan x reader)

you can’t help but feel lonely in camp half blood. despite being surrounded by your siblings and other demigods, you feel forgotten and alone in a world you don’t have much hope in or for

hold me steady (luke castellan x reader)

you get hurt and luke doesn't know what to do. what can he do except watch and wait while others are able to help you?

★ TWILIGHT

in the woods somewhere (jasper whitlock x reader)

when the Major comes out to play, you have to run and hope he doesn't find you

alone together (seth clearwater x reader)

your boyfriend doesn't realise his own strength. it doesn't usually bother you until you realise that he's leaving something more permanent with his hugs

a different version (seth clearwater x reader)

a quiet beach boy, a few unshared details, an ancient rivalry and the reveal of all things

for always (seth clearwater x reader)

seth pulled away, but you can't go without your best friend for that long so it's only a matter of time before all is revealed

★ STAR WARS

slipping through my fingers (obi-wan kenobi x padawan!reader)

Obi-Wan has to let go of his padawan as she grows up and out of his protection and teachings

empire now (ben solo x reader)

you’ve spent every day since the temple attack searching for Ben Solo. he disappeared that night, no body found, no trace

talk (anakin skywalker x reader) [eurydiceandorpheus!au]

the greatest love story ever told, that's simultaneously the most tragic

★ MC(E)U

jackie and wilson (matt murdock x reader)

Matt and you get drunk which leads to the contemplation of future life decisions

swan upon leda (daniel sousa x reader)

you would wait years for him and he would do the same for you

devil town (erik lehnsherr x daughter!reader)

Erik didn't realise he was a father, but as soon as he did, he became the best one

waiting for the end (charles xavier x reader)

you're seeing him in stranger's faces despite not even knowing his face, there’s just a tingle in your mind that says you do (or at least did)

★ OTHER

from eden (will graham x sister!reader)

Will tries to protect his sister from himself and his life, only to push her even closer to it

in a week (finnick odair x reader)

nothing calms Finnick like the feeling of your hand in his

like real people do (spencer reid x reader)

an undercover mission reveal some deep secrets between the two of you

angel of small death and the codeine scene (rebekah mikaelson x reader)

Rebekah was like the drug you couldn't resist. There was only her and to her, there was only you

Very late.

"Benedict?"

His brother looked up from his tea. "Hm?"

"Have you seen Y/N this morning?"

A chorus of shrugs followed.

Eloise snorted. "She is either asleep or out in the garden again with her bugs."

"Or she's pinning one to the wall of her bedchambers again."

Green-thumbed Y/N Bridgerton, who loved to go out into the garden and see all the insects around London. She much preferred Aubrey Hall for that fact, the countryside had far more species of butterfly.

Anthony sighed. "Someone go and get her, we've got plans as a family today."

Y/N had just arrived back through the servants entrance, dress muddy at the hem, one sleeve torn and the skin beneath it scratched. There were scraped running along both arms and hands, a bruise blooming somewhere near your hip and your ankle protesting every step you took.

To be fair, the morning had started as a brilliant idea. It just hadn't ended as one.

You'd often go for walks very early in the morning, before the fog has a chance to lift, often with a stablehand to act as chaperone. This time, you'd gone without and with plans to go far further than before. The Bridgerton's gardener had given you a tip for a patch of flowers in Hyde Park that had swarms of butterflies all around.

You'd just wanted to see it.

Then a new species you never gotten to see in person appeared and you'd gotten to chasing around to see it better. One misplaced step down the bank later and you'd landed painfully on your side and tumbled the rest of the way into some bramble bushes. Nothing was broken... you hoped. You just had to survive breakfast.

You'd lasted exactly thirty-seven seconds.

"Morning mother," in a changed dress and slightly fixed hair, you hobbled into the dining room. It was harder to hide the limp than you thought but there were only a few steps where you weren't hidden by the table or able to lean on something.

Anthony watched from across the room. "Sister."

"I am perfectly well, thank you brother."

"I hadn't asked you yet." He slowly spoke, heads turned to watch him, "How are you this morning?"

You froze. "Perfectly well. How is everyone?"

Anthony watched you as you started to eat, lowering his own teacup. "Where have you been this morning?" His voice was like ice, not so much a question as a demand.

You shrug, "Nowhere."

"You are limping."

"I was walking."

"You are limping while walking." He pressed.

"I was trying something new." You reason, catching eyes with Benedict who was hiding his smile. "Clearly I won't try that again."

Anthony was not amused. He also didn't the ruse you had tried to set up for him. He stood from his chair, paying no mind to the scraping sound it called or the attention it attracted from the other members of the family.

"My study. Now."

You found your gaze narrowing, "I'd rather not."

"There are still leaves in your hair. Study. Now."

You don't even try to hide the limp in your gait this time, glaring daggers into the back of Anthony's head. Benedict smirks into his meal as you go off to get reprimanded, forever the little sister of his that seems to love trouble.

The study door closed with a boom behind you, the romo within silent and waiting. Anthony folded his arms, the picture of authority. Your face remains indignant, a rebellion in your eyes.

"What on earth have you been doing?" His voice was laced with abrely contained fury.

You shrug, not realising how seriously Anthony was taking it all. "I haven't done anything wrong!"

"You disappear before dawn, you return late for breakfast, you lie to us all and pretend you slept in, there's mud and leaves tucked into your hair, you're limping and you weren't chaperoned. What if you had gotten hurt even worse? If you couldn't get back to Bridgerton House, what then? How dare you do this to Mama, to me?"

You laugh at his, in your opinion, misplaced anger. "So I should require permission every time I wish to leave the house."

"You should require a chaperone." Anthony pressed. "And I wouldn't worry about that anytime soon. Your forbidden from leaving these grounds, I will have a servant at your side at all times to ensure this."

"Anthony!" You stared. "I need air. You cannot trap me here, it's suffocating."

"You need sense."

She scoffed. "I have plenty."

He motioned to your limp and the leaves and all the remnants of your adventure. "You need the sense not to run away from home for what? Bugs?" He runs a hand down his face, "Colin was right, for once."

"What?"

"You went out chasing bugs. It's childish. You're meant to debut in a year or too, maybe I should delay so you can mature. A suitor will not be forgiving."

"They're not bugs!"

He scoffed, "Is that all you have to say in return?

"It was an accident, I usually have a chaperone. It won't happen again."

"To right. You got hurt."

This argument was going nowhere. "I tripped."

"You should be more careful. Use you head!"

"I did!"

"Then use it better!"

You flinched at his sudden shout. Anthony noticed. But the fear that had settled in his chest since discovering you'd vanished had finally spilled over.

"You could have broken your neck," he said more quietly.

"I didn't."

"You could have died."

"I didn't."

"You are entirely missing the point."

"No, you're missing mine!" She stepped forward despite her ankle. "I cannot breathe in this house."

Anthony blinked.

"Everyone watches me." She gestured wildly. "If Mama isn't asking where I am, it's Eloise. If it isn't Eloise, it's Hyacinth. If it isn't one of them, it's you."

"Because we care."

"I have nothing that doesn't also have one of you. Forgive me for wanting a tiny something for myself."

His jaw tightened. "I am trying to protect you."

"I am not father! And you certainly aren't."

You could snap steel with the sound of silence. Anthony's face changed from thunderous to wounded, you were breathing hard angry tears threatening to fall.

"You're not my father." You repeated. "And you never will be. Father loved my butterflies, he always gave me the best books to identify them and showed me the best places around Aubrey Hall. He cared."

Your voice broke.

"He cared about my butterflies and he loved me for them, never tried to keep me inside and away from them."

Anthony looked as though you'd struck him. And for one horrible second, you wanted to take it all back, then stubborness won. Anthony had to hear it, had to understand what went through your mind.

Outside the study, the brothers that had been eavesdropping froze, waiting for Anthony's response.

You turned for the door, turning you back to him and catching eyes with your father's portrait.

Anthony found his voice, "Y/N, do not walk away from me."

You reached the door.

"Y/N."

Your hand touched the knob.

"Don't you dare slam that-"

The sound of the door echoed through the house and Benedict and Colin jumped from their hiding place around the corner. One looked at the other, "She's dead."

"Anthony will bury her alive."

The Bridgerton House walked on tiptoes. Anthony replayed your words, the truth being that he never wanted to replace Edmund, never needed to take that place in your heart from him. He had just been trying to keep this family afloat, to do what was right for his name and keep everyone safe.

Perhaps his attempts had fallen misguided.

Nearer the evening, he stood outside your bedroom door, watching the flicker of a dim candle under the doorway. He knocked once, not really expecting an answer.

"...Y/N."

Nothing greeted him, not even the clatter fo something being thrown at the door or a disgruntled command to go away.

"I know you're awake." He hesitated. "...Please."

The word was so quiet you nearly missed it. Anthony rested his forehead against the door. "I should not have shouted."

Nothing.

"I frightened you. And I am sorry."

The lock clicked. The servant in your room with you standing guard by the door and finally relentign after a nod from you.

Anthony pushed the door open an inch, slinking his way into your room.

You looked miserable, truly. Eyes red and papers scattered. You'd been changed and bathed since the study, mud washed away like it was never there. Your room was in a state, the only untouched things being a pile of books he recongised from Aubrey Hall and your picture framed canvases with pinned butterflies in them.

You sat curled in the middle of the bed, eyes red. One knee was pulled awkwardly against the bed because moving an inch hurt. Anthony noticed the bandage you'd stubbornly done for yourself, bunched and wrapped all wrong.

His expression immediately shifted. "...May I come in?"

She nodded. The room stayed quiet. He whispered something quiet to the servant who hurried out of the room to gather supplies for him.

He approached you akin to a wounded animal you were about to put out its misery.

The servant returned with a washbasin, fresh cloth and bandages and a pot of ointment that any Bridgerton was given after a scrape.

"I'm fine."

"I know." He sat beside her anyway. "But just... let me?"

He held out a hand. She hesitated before extending her injured ankle.

Anthony carefully unwound the makeshift bandage. His face hardened.

"Y/N..."

"It isn't that bad. I cleaned it."

"Does it hurt?"

There was a scrape along your shin, matching ones of each palm where you'd tried to catch yourself. The worst was the ankle, tender to the touch but not out of place. He'd call a doctor in the morning to check.

You made a non-commital hum, hissing as soon as his fingers brushes swollen skin. He worked gently, cleaning away dirt with practiced care.

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

Working in silence, the only sound being the drip of water from his cloth and the methodical breath as he worked.

"I said awful things." She swallowed. "I didn't mean..."

"I know." He wrapped a fresh bandage around her ankle. "I also know why you said them."

She looked away.

"It's okay, I miss him too."

Four small words broke the floodgates and along with pain, you couldn't stop the tears from falling. Anthony set everything aside and opened his arms. You buried yourself against him just as you had when you were six years old after scraping your knee in the gardens.

"I know I'm not Father," he murmured, smoothing her hair. "I could never be. But I promised myself I would take care of you all. Sometimes I do not go about it in the best way, but-"

"You mean well." You murmur against his chest.

"I do. I try."

"It looks stunning on you dear." His voice was laced with admiration, unable to take his eyes off you. "You’ll fit in with all the admiral’s wives if you’re not careful."

"Pete-"

He grins wider, if that was even possible. "Tell me I’m wrong," he dared.

"Pete-"

"Hmm?"

You shake your head at his attitude and his absolution in his beliefs, the concrete fact to him that you’ll stand out in any room you’re in, that you shine brighter and better that women ranked higher than you in the pillar of navy wives. "Stop talking."

"Yes Ma’am."

His antics continue in the run up to the ball, even after you’ve decided on your dress and practised your hair for the day. Pete continues to shower you with praise and affection, all in a bid to boost your confidence and show his love.

You’d spent the afternoon getting ready meticulously, banning Maverick from your side of the bedroom and from getting anywhere near your vanity, lest he try and get involved and sneak a kiss before your lipstick dries. He takes far less time to get into his Navy dress uniform and comb through his hair until it’s calmed down.

"I’m ready!" You called out to Pete from the bedroom, smoothing down the front of your dress and double checking the fastens on your shoes.

There’s a scuffle as Pete hurries from where’s he’s been waiting downstairs to see you at your best. He catches sight of you at the top of the stairs, looking like a true princess and for a moment he thinks he can’t breathe.

He never used to understand what Goose meant when he talked about Carol, the pure unadulterated love that they shared and the trust that flowed so freed between them. He never understood how anything could top the feeling of flying a jet as fat as it could go high in the sky and feeling the way your body was pressed against your seat so much until you suddenly felt weightless.

He understands it all now. It was the same way he understood it when he first saw your face, when you walked down the aisle towards him, and once more now as you stand at the top of your staircase stabbing straight into his heart.

"How do I look?"

It was asked quietly, almost self-consciously.

Pete answers honestly, a reverence in his tone that comes out hushed and sweet. "Absolutely stunning."

Pete is dressed immaculately, uniform steamed and creased in the perfect places. It makes him look far smarter than normal, but you have to admit that the flight suit has its personal charm (especially slung around his waist). The sight almost makes your mouth water, reminding you of your wedding and the best days of your life.

"I love you," you reply quietly, taking the final step to press into his arms, careful not to crease either your own outfit or his.

Pete presses a gentle kiss against your lips, careful to not smudge or transfer anything. "Let's go, before I can't bring myself to leave and let others see you so perfect."

Time ticks on as you say your hellos around the edges of the ballroom, hooked onto Pete's arm. Three glasses of champagne later, Pete slips away for a moment, leaving you in the capable hands of Goose and Carol. He's not gone for long enough to miss him, just enough to do what he needed to.

A gentle intrumental song spreads throughout the room, the orchestra up on the stage moving in synchronised movements with their intruments and each other. It takes you a moment to realise but when you do, the tears can't help themselves from springing.

It's your wedding song, the same song you'd had your first dance as husband and wife to.

You turn to Maverick, meeting the eyes that were already fixed to you, "Was this you?"

He straightens with a slight nod, fixing his stance until it's perfect and offering a hand to you, "Will you give me a dance Mrs Mitchell?"

"I'd love nothing more."

Your hand slips into his because it belongs there as he leads you onto the dance floor, hand wrapped possessively and warming around your waist. Your own hands rest one in his and one of his shoulder, fingertips ever so slightly brushing the shorter hairs at the nape of his neck.

The pair of you rock from side to side, Pete moving occasionally to spin you.

"I could stay like this forever, just you and I."

He smiles, the one from ten years ago, when you’d met. "I’d loving nothing more." He replies, repeating your words back to you.

That kind of phonecall wasn't unusual between the pair of you. For almost two years, you'd existed somewhere between friendship and relationship. There were no labels. No expectations. No rules.

Well, there was one rule. You were both free to see other people.

At the time, it had seemed like the perfect arrangement.

Rose travelled constantly: press tours, filming, fashion catwalks, award shows. Half of her life existed in airport layovers and hotel rooms.

You had your own career, your own friends, your own life. And whenever your schedules aligned, you'd find each other.

Sometimes it was dinner. Sometimes it was movie nights. Sometimes it was falling asleep tangled together in a bed neither of you officially shared. And in the morning, one of you would leave and continue your lives.

Easy. Simple. Casual.

The first sign that something was changing was a missed phone call. Then another, and another. She flicked onto her texts, having to scroll just to find your name. The last message? Three weeks ago.

Usually there was something, a voice message, a hru, a random picture. Something. Instead there was nothing.

She checked your socials out of habit, just wondering. Maybe you'd been busy, a new project, a string of engagements, meetings. The latest story was you walking across the screen, a stunning sunset behind you, geotagged downtown.

Rose felt herself frowning. You hated downtown. It was full of pretentious prats trying to fit in and thinking they are.

A day later, Rose was waiting on her flight when a notification came through, an instagram story from you.

A picture of cocktails, three glasses.

A blurry restaurant, a couples table, two plates with a bottle of wine.

A hand that's not yours, perfectly manicured nails resting across yours.

"What the-"

Rose felt this dropping feeling in her stomach, a tightening she didn't have a reasoning for, a feeling she shouldnt have. She clicked off the story.

Then clicked back.

She found herself staring for far longer than she should have, the story moving her on before she's ready. The only thing she could use to explain the simmering feeling was jealousy.

And she had no right to feel jealous. It was ridiculous for her to be feeling jealous about you. You were allowed to date, that was literally the point. Rose wasn't yours. You weren't hers. That had always been the point.

The stories didn't stop, no that Rose was checking, of course not. It shouldn't have mattered. But it did, more than she'd ever admit.

Your name flashed across her screen one Tuesday evening. Rose's heart jumped so violently she nearly dropped her phone.

"Hey, stranger."

Your voice was softer than she remembered but it sounds thick, like you're coming down with a cold or have been crying. But it's still so warm and familiar.

Dangerous.

"Hey."

A small silence settled between you.

"I was wondering..." you started carefully.

"Yeah?"

"I've got a free weekend."

Rose closed her eyes, trying to block out the intoxicating sound of your voice. You were calling her, you were choosing her. But all she could think about was that woman, the stories, the dates, the momentary time where you weren't choosing her.

And suddenly pride was speaking louder than her heart.

"Oh."

The enthusiasm immediately drained from your voice. "If you're not busy, we could-"

"No, I just..." Rose swallowed, then lied instead. "My publicist has got things I need to film this weekend, it's all planned out already."

"Right."

The disappointment in your voice made something twist painfully inside her. "Maybe another time."

"Yeah."

The call ended.

Rose stared at the screen and immediately regretted rejecting you, begging for the phone to start ringing again so she can take it all back at the sound of your breath.

Another time never came, not from you. Days turned into weeks, the occasional text disappeared completely and the insta stories came to a pause. For the first time in two years, Rose genuinely didn't know what was happening in your life.

It drove her insane.

She lasted three weeks until she broke. In between filming projects, bare minimum obligations and far too much free time where she should be relaxing. She spent most of her free hours overthinking about you.

She was sitting on her kitchen floor with takeout she'd barely touched when she opened your contact. Before she could talk herself out of it, she pressed call. It rang, once, twice, three-

"Rosie?"

The nickname nearly knocked the air from her lungs. There was noise behind you, gentle music, the kind you'd have in the background of a restaurant.

You sounded happy, her brain jumped to you being out with the mysterious woman.

"Hey."

"Everything okay?" You asked it so honestly.

She just missed you. Missed hearing your voice, missed being your first call, missed being important. "Yeah, all good. What are you up to?"

You laughed. "I'm out at the moment, if you were wanting-"

"Out?"

"Yeah."

"Where?"

The noise around you seemed to fade. Your voice became quieter, confused. "Rose- Why do you wanna know?"

Because I'm jealous. Because I miss you. Because I think I might have ruined everything.

Instead she laughed, a hollow, brittle sound. "It's nothing, was just wondering." Rose hated how defensive she sounded. "Forget it."

You paused down the phone, a few breaths echoing. "I'm out with my cousin."

Rose blinked. "What?"

"My cousin." You laughed softly. "She's visiting, only in the city for tonight."

"Oh."

The tension immediately left her shoulders, which somehow made everything worse. Why did she care? Why did hearing you weren't on a date feel like she'd just been handed another chance?

"Right."

You were quiet for a second. "I should probably get back."

"Oh." The disappointment escaped before she could stop it.

"I'll talk to you later?"

"Sure."

The call ended.

Two days later, there was a knock at Rose's door. She frowned, pulling herself from her couch, not expecting guests. She reached the door, peering through the peep hole.

You.

Standing there with your hands shoved into your pockets, looking nervous.

Rose felt her breath catch, pulling the door open, "Hey."

"Hey."

For a moment neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.

"Can I come in?"

Rose stepped aside immediately. You wandered into the apartment like you had a hundred times before. But this felt different, everything felt different.

You sat on the edge of her sofa. Rose remained standing.

Waiting.

You looked up and the expression on your face nearly broke her heart. So small and uncertain and bordering on hurt.

"Do you hate me?"

The question landed like a punch.

"What?"

You laughed weakly. "It's a stupid question."

"No-"

You looked away. "It just feels like you do."

Rose stared. You continued before she could stop you.

"I called you weeks ago."

Guilt immediately flooded her chest.

"And you said you had plans. But-"

"I lied."

You froze. Rose swallowed.

"I didn't have plans."

"Oh."

"I was being an idiot."

A sad smile pulled at your mouth. "Yeah. We both were."

The agreement stung.

You rubbed your palms together. Looking down at the floor. "I thought maybe things had changed. That I'd done something, that you'd known."

"What do you mean?"

"There was somebody."

Rose felt her stomach drop. The woman, of course.

"For a while." Every word felt like glass.

"And?"

"It didn't work out in the end, something was missing."

Rose hated how relieved she felt, hated herself for it.

"I liked her." The relief vanished. "But every date felt wrong."

Rose couldn't breathe.

"Why?"

You smiled sadly, taking a moment to gather it all. "Because she wasn't you."

You looked away first, embarrassed, like you'd revealed too much.

"Anyway." You stood. "I just needed you to know."

The words collided in the middle of the room. Neither of you speaking, neither of you moving. Finally, Rose stepped forward, getting closer and closer until she's crouched in front of you.

"I hated seeing you with her."

Your eyes widened. "What?"

"I hated it." The confession came rushing out. "I hated every photo. Every story. Every stupid dinner." Rose shook her head. "I was jealous."

You stared at her, completely speechless.

"So when you called..." Rose looked away. "I wanted you to chase me."

Your mouth fell open. "Rosie-"

"I know."

"No, because that's genuinely the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

Despite everything, Rose laughed. And suddenly you were laughing too. The tension cracked apart. Months of misunderstanding finally collapsing under the weight of honesty.

Neither of you stepped away, you were still standing close. Close enough for Rose to see the hope returning to your eyes.

"So..." You tilted your head. "You don't hate me?"

Rose smiled, just for you. "Never."

Your answering smile was brighter than she'd seen in months. "Good."

"Good?"

You nodded. "Because I'm still pretty obsessed with you."

And this time, when Rose kissed you, neither of you pretended it was casual.

It didn't matter that there was a higher commander standing on the base watching you greet the triumphant Maverick's return.

Pete grinned, teeth flashing like that would fix everything. "I got to Mach 10, didn't I? Thought you'd be happy for us, sweetheart."

"Don't call me that." It came as a reflex, the shutting down of whatever bullshit Pete would try to spin to you. "You could've gotten us both court-martialled, do you know that? You're damn lucky we've been requested elsewhere."

His stunt could've gone so wrong, ended in his death, and ruined the careers of every Navy man and aviator involved at any level. He remained unable to see the further consequences of anything he did and does.

The man frowned at your words, head tilting in question.

"A commander inside arrived to shut it down and issue a redirect assignment for me, you, and Hondo. And even he's not happy about it. Means it's come from even higher," you answered.

Even higher meaning Ice.

The ride back towards Top Gun was spent apart, much to your pleasure. Once you'd arrived, your duties drove the pair of you apart, Mav returning to his beloved sky and you working out the mission details behind the scenes. They didn't need you to run comms or directives, meaning no need to be interacting with Mav, just focusing on what was important.

You were somehow convinced to join the squad's aviators at the Hard Deck, Maverick taking up the job of introducing you officially.

"Aviators! This is my wife-"

"Ex-wife."

"My Y/N," he finished sweetly, barely acknowledging your interruption.

The group gathered around the pool table looked between the two of you with varying levels of confusion.

"You got married?" Rooster blurted, mainly in disbelief.

You swear you can feel the headache coming. "Oh, for God's sake."

"Twenty years," Maverick answered proudly.

"Eighteen."

"Best eighteen years of my life."

Your eye twitched. "Mitchell."

"What?"

"You are actively proving why we got divorced."

A chorus of choked laughs erupted from the group. Phoenix outright snorted into her beer. And Mav grinned, that stupid grin, the same grin that got him out of trouble as a lieutenant, the same grin that convinced you to go on a second date, the same grin that made you marry him at twenty-four despite every warning sign known to mankind, the same grin that still makes your stomach do things you'd rather not examine.

You hated that grin.

"C'mon, sweetheart."

"Don't."

"Sweetheart."

"Mitchell."

"Sweetheart."

You sighed, long and deep. "I'm going to kill you."

"You've been saying that for fifteen years."

"Seventeen."

"See?" he said, pointing at you. "She still remembers everything."

"Because trauma leaves lasting impressions."

The room erupted again. Hangman nearly spat out his drink. Rooster was openly staring now. "Wait," he said. "Is this real? Do you two actually hate each other or is this like flirting?"

"No," you answered immediately.

"Yes," Maverick answered at the exact same time.

You glared at him. He grinned. Again. God. You should have let him get arrested after Mach 10.

The Hard Deck eventually settled into something resembling normal, mostly because you deliberately moved to the opposite side of the bar. Unfortunately, Pete Mitchell has never understood the concept of boundaries. Or personal space. Or divorce.

You'd barely made it ten minutes into a conversation with Phoenix and Bob before he appeared beside you like a particularly persistent ghost.

"Hi."

"No."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"Maybe."

"Then no."

Phoenix watched the exchange like it was live entertainment. "You two always like this?"

"Worse," you answered.

"Better," Pete said.

You rolled your eyes. "Pete."

"What?"

"You have an entire bar full of people to annoy."

"Yeah."

"Go annoy them."

"I like annoying you."

"See?" You pointed at him before turning back toward Phoenix. "This. This is exactly what I dealt with for eighteen years."

Phoenix nodded solemnly. "Honestly?"

"Yes?"

"I get why you divorced him."

"Thank you."

"Hey!" Pete looked genuinely offended.

The reaction would almost be funny if it wasn't coming from a fifty-something naval captain who still behaved like a teenager.

"You all act like I'm difficult."

The entire table stared at him. Even Bob. Especially Bob.

Pete looked around. "Okay. Maybe a little."

"A little?" you repeated.

"A moderate amount."

"A moderate amount?"

"A statistically significant amount."

You escaped outside twenty minutes later, mostly because if you spent another second around Pete Mitchell, you'd end up committing a felony. The evening air was cool, quiet, and peaceful for approximately thirty seconds. Then the door opened behind you.

You didn't need to turn around; you knew exactly who it was.

"Go away."

"No."

You closed your eyes. "Pete."

"Y/N."

"You have the emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old."

"I've been told sixteen."

"By other sixteen-year-olds?"

"Probably."

The silence stretched. You stared out toward the dark ocean. Eventually, he moved beside you. Not touching, not crowding, just standing there, for once.

"Are you still angry?" he asked.

You laughed. Actually laughed. "Still?"

"Yeah."

"Pete, you crashed a twelve-billion-dollar aircraft."

"Technically it crashed itself."

Your head snapped around. "That's your defence?"

"It wasn't a very good plane."

"Oh my God."

"It exploded."

"Because you pushed it beyond operational limits."

"Which means the limits were wrong."

"Which means you're insane."

He smiled. "You used to like that."

Your chest tightened immediately, unexpectedly, dangerously. You looked away first. "Yeah. I used to."

His smile faded. The shift was subtle, but you see it. You always see it.

"Used to?" The question hung between you.

You hated that it hurt. After all these years, you hated that it still hurt.

"You know why we divorced."

His jaw tightened. "Yeah."

"Then don't."

"Don't what?"

"Do this."

"Do what?"

"This thing where you pretend nothing happened."

His eyes lowered. For the first time all evening, Pete looked tired. Not playful, not reckless, not infuriating, just tired.

"You left."

You let out a disbelieving laugh. "I left?"

"You did."

"You gave me divorce papers, Pete."

"After you moved out."

"After I spent two years practically begging you to choose something other than your goddamn plane." The words came out harsher than intended, years of resentment cracking open all at once.

Pete flinches. Actually flinches. "You think I wanted that?"

"I don't know what you wanted."

"Bullshit."

You stared at him.

Pete shook his head. "You always knew exactly what I wanted."

"No."

"Yes."

"No, Pete." The anger returned fast, hot, and painfully familiar. "You wanted the Navy."

His expression hardened. "You knew that wasn't true."

"You chose it anyway."

"I chose flying."

"Exactly."

The silence that followed felt unbearable. The ocean crashed somewhere below. Music drifted faintly from inside. Neither of you moved.

"That's not fair," he said quietly.

"Life isn't fair."

"You knew who I was."

"And you knew who I was."

His jaw clenched.

You continued before he could interrupt. "You knew I wanted a husband." The words hurt more now than they did years ago. "You knew I wanted a family. You knew I wanted someone who'd actually come home."

"Y/N-"

"No." You shook your head. "No, because every time I asked for more, you looked at me like I was asking you to stop breathing."

His face crumpled, just for a second, just long enough to make your chest ache.

"I loved you." The words left him instantly, like they were waiting. Like they never stopped waiting.

"I know."

"I still do."

Your breath caught. Damn him. Damn him for saying it. Damn him for making your heart react. Damn him for still having that power.

"Pete."

"I mean it."

"Stop."

"I never stopped."

"Stop."

His voice broke. Actually broke. "I never wanted anyone else."

You stared at him. The years fell away. For one horrible moment, all you could see was the man you married, twenty-four years old, smiling at you beneath California sunlight, promising forever. Promising impossible things. Promising things he genuinely believed he could keep.

"You don't get to say that now."

His eyes shined. "Why?"

"Because we're divorced." The word landed heavily, brutally. Divorced. Not separated. Not taking a break. Not figuring things out. Done. Finished. Over.

Pete looked away, like hearing it still hurt. Maybe it did. Good. Maybe you were cruel. Maybe you wanted him to hurt. Maybe you wanted him to understand what it felt like waiting years for him to come home, waiting years for him to choose you, waiting years for promises that never arrived.

"You know," he said eventually, voice rough, "I never took the ring off."

Your stomach dropped. "Pete."

"Still have it."

"Stop."

"Every deployment."

You closed your eyes. "Pete."

"Every mission."

"Please."

"I kept thinking you'd come back." The admission sounded pathetic, heartbreaking, human. You hated it. You hated that it makes tears sting your eyes.

"You idiot."

A weak smile pulled at his mouth. "Yeah."

"You absolute idiot."

"Been called worse."

"You waited years?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

Pete looked at you. Really looked at you. The way he used to. The way nobody else ever has. Like you're the only person in the room, the only person in the world.

"Because you were my wife."

Your laugh comes out watery, broken. "Ex-wife."

"My favourite wife."

You groaned immediately. "Oh my God."

"There she is."

"Pete."

"You smiled."

"You ruined the moment."

His grin returned, small, tentative, but there. "That's my specialty."

You shook your head despite yourself, despite everything, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips.

Pete noticed instantly. Of course he did. His entire face brightened like he'd just won the lottery. Like Mach 10. Like every impossible thing he'd ever chased.

And for the first time in years, you didn't immediately walk away. You probably should. You definitely should. But standing there beside him, listening to the ocean and the distant music drifting from the Hard Deck, you find yourself lingering. Just for a minute. Just one.

Pete seemed to recognize the significance of that. For once in his life, he didn't push. Doesn't joke. Doesn't chase. He simply stood beside you, close enough to feel familiar, far enough to respect the damage.

And somewhere between the silence and the sea, you realized something terrifying: the divorce had ended your marriage, but it had never quite managed to end the love.

Honestly, you feel far too close to it.

Svetlana tears her eyes from Rose to you, frown deepening. “Malyshka, you are pale.”

“Can someone explain why this feels like I’m being psychologically tortured? Am I in a nightmare all of a sudden?” You could feel your breathing quicken, the panic rising higher and higher and tightening in a not-so-comforting weight around your chest.

“She kissed you.” Svetlana says it plainly, eyes fixed on Rose. “And you kissed her back.”

Your face burns immediately. “Sveta-“

Rose straightens slightly, eyes seeking yours, one hand reaching to hold yours and the other reaching back to hold Svetlana’s. “It’s not a problem.” She speaks your name so softly you almost don’t recognise it. “It’s okay, you don’t have to panic, just breathe.”

The room goes quiet. You brace yourself for the jealousy, for Svetlana to shut down entirely the way she always did when emotions got too close to the surface. Instead, she studies Rose with unnerving calm.

“You assume something we did not say.”

You frown, still not understanding, “Which is?”

“That you have to choose.”

Svetlana stands near your dining table in all black and gold and sharp edges, composed in the way that always drew you in despite yourself. Rose stands barefoot in your kitchen wearing one of your old hoodies, soft around the edges, looking at you like she’s trying not to hope for something.

They are so painfully different and somehow, standing here together, they fit. It’s worse than if they hated each other because there’s something else underneath all of this now. It’s curious. It’s a magnetic force pushing and pulling you close and closer until you’re stuck.

Svetlana stepped further into the apartment, resting one shoulder against the counter opposite Rose like they’d unconsciously mirrored each other. “You look at us like we are ultimatum.”

“Who taught you that word?”

“You are beautiful,” Svetlana interrupts simply, like it’s fact. “People will want you.”

Rose’s eyes flick between the two of you carefully, like she’s stepped into a conversation with subtitles missing.

“Is it so surprising that both of us do?”

Your head remains reeling, the feelings only growing and the panic staying right where it landed.

“Malyshka…”

“You should hate each other.” You whisper.

Rose clears her throat. “Would that make this easier?”

“Oh my god,” there’s no other words you can conjure, nothing you can think to say all the thoughts swirling in your brain like a hurricane. “You like each other.”

Rose chokes at your starkness. Svetlana’s brows lift slightly, though she doesn’t look nearly as alarmed.

“You flirt terribly,” she tells Rose.

“You are literally the most intimidating woman I’ve ever met.”

“And yet you keep speaking.”

Rose opens her mouth, closes it again. You watch the flush spread slowly across her cheeks and realise with dawning horror that she’s not denying it. Rose points at Svetlana incredulously. “Have you looked at yourself?”

Svetlana was practically preening herself, smiling so sweetly at Rose, and then at you.

“Are we really going to do this?” Rose asks tentatively, stepping closer to both of you.

You hum, lips parting subconsciously as Svetlana also took another step forward. They’re in your space, they’re all over you, you can feel their breaths against your skin from a meter away, the thrum of your heart threatens to give you away, feeling ten times louder than its echo in your head.

“What’s stopping us?” Svetlana says it so easily, like it’s all normal and nothing is weird and nothing is strange and worst of all, like she’s done it before.

The panic you’d been feeling is suddenly replaced with doubt, the trepidation curling tighter until it can no longer be separated from want. Because you do want to kiss them both, that’s the horrifying part. And they’re telling you you don’t have to choose, they’re saying you can love them both the way they will love each other and you. But it’s new. And new is always scary.

You look between them helplessly, at Rose’s flushed cheeks and quiet hopefulness, at Sveta’s cool confidence masking the tension behind your decision. They wait for you.

“We’re really doing this?”

Svetlana scoffs lightly, “Do you not want to kiss us both?”

“No!-“ The denial comes out too quickly. “That came out wrong.”

Rose bites down on a smile. “A little.”

“I mean no, that’s not the issue.” You point vaguely between them. “The issue is that this is insane.”

Svetlana’s mouth curves slightly. “Most interesting things are.”

“That is not comforting.”

Rose steps closer first this time, careful enough that you could stop her if you wanted to. Her fingers brush yours again, tentative at first before threading properly through your hand when you don’t pull away. The contact steadies something in you immediately, grounding and warm.

Then Svetlana moves too. She stops directly in front of you, close enough that the familiar scent of her perfume wraps around your senses and drags up every memory you’ve spent months trying not to drown in.

“Malyshka,” she murmurs. “Look at me.” Her hand comes up slower than Rose’s had, giving you every opportunity to refuse. Fingertips brushing lightly against your jaw. “You think too much,” she says quietly.

“You don’t think enough.”

Rose snorts beside you. Svetlana ignores her completely. You glance toward her and find her already looking at you. Soft. Open. Terrified in the exact same way you are.

“What if this ruins everything?” you whisper.

Rose exhales slowly. “What if not trying ruins it more?”

Svetlana hums, already decided. “I am deciding to be brave.”

That catches you off guard enough that you stare at her. Brave. Not confident or fearless, or any of the things you’d assumed Sveta was. Rose seems equally affected by it because her expression softens immediately, shoulders dropping slightly like she’s seeing Svetlana clearly for the first time instead of just the impossible, untouchable model she’d built up in her head.

But warmth is blooming in your chest now despite yourself, overtaking the panic inch by inch.

Rose squeezes your hand once. “Can I kiss you again?”

Your breath catches, the feeling in your chest is indescribable.

Svetlana watches you carefully, expression unreadable but soft around the edges now. “And me?” she asks quietly.

Your eyes drift shut for half a second as you laugh breathlessly into the impossible.

“You are both going to kill me.”

Rose smiles first, bright and helpless and fond. Svetlana’s smile follows slower, but somehow even more devastating. “No,” she says softly. “I think maybe we are going to ruin you a little.”

The present tense doesn’t fly over your head. It implants upon your skull and makes you feel dizzy and nauseous. Svetlana had been talking about you, to Rose. Rose had been talking about you, to Svetlana. It was too much to compute.

“Did- Did you like her?” You’re asking out of personal curiosity and a bit (a lot) of secret jealously, driven by the need to know and a desire for it to be true.

She thinks for a moment, considers the options and the look on your face, the hopefulness in your eyes. “She was very intense. I- I don’t really know what I like but she was nice enough.”

You take a chance, why not. “Maybe you need to get some experience, find out what you do and don’t like. Find out who you do and don’t like.”

The cryptic look on her face confuses you. It’s a mix of something you can’t quite recognise with questioning eyes and a small smile that is asking you to look deeper.

“Yeah.”

One word. Only a one-word answer to reply to your philosophical question that could’ve changed everything.

“Alright.”

Svetlana Vetrova returns to your life.

There’s no fanfare, no alarms that ring. But flowers. Your favourites, hand-delivered to your apartment in a vase that you immediately recognised because you bought it together on a trip to Milan. There’s no note, there never is with her.

Rose stares at the arrangement from where she’s sat at your kitchen island, coffee growing cold between her hands. You stare too.

“Well,” Rose says eventually, voice painfully light. “That’s ominous.”

You laugh, but it catches halfway out of your throat. Because of course Svetlana would do this. Disappear for months. Reappear without warning. Slot herself back into your life like she’d never left at all.

You hate how your pulse reacts to it. Rose notices, of course she notices.

“You gonna text her?” she asks carefully.

You don’t answer immediately. Your fingers trace the edge of the counter instead, eyes fixed stubbornly on the flowers like they might suddenly explain themselves. “I don’t know.”

And that’s the truth. Because things had become… complicated lately. Not with Svetlana. But with Rose.

It had happened slowly enough that neither of you could pinpoint where it started. Somewhere between late-night phone calls and shared drinks on balconies after events. Somewhere between Rose falling asleep against your shoulder during movie nights and the way you’d started looking for her first in crowded rooms.

Somewhere between almost: almost touching, almost saying something, almost noticing the way Rose looked at you until it became impossible not to.

The flowers sit between you both like a ghost.

Rose exhales quietly, setting her mug down. “She always liked dramatic gestures.”

You smile despite yourself. “You have no idea.”

“Oh, I think I’m starting to.”

Your gaze flickers up to hers. There’s something strange in her expression. Not jealousy exactly. Not bitterness. Something sadder. More resigned, like she knows how it will all end and it won’t be in her favour.

You suddenly become hyperaware of how close she’s standing to you in the kitchen. Of the sleeve of her sweater brushing your arm. Of the fact that Rose has started feeling terrifyingly easy to be around. Dangerously easy.

“She came back fast,” Rose murmurs.

“She’s just trying her luck.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

The air feels thick suddenly. Rose looks down at the flowers again before speaking, quieter this time. “Do you still love her?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Because the answer is yes. But it’s also complicated now in ways it never used to be. Because another question has started existing underneath it. A worse question. One you’ve been trying very hard not to touch.

Can you love someone and still want someone else?

You shouldn’t pursue Rose, she hasn’t had experience with female attraction, it wouldn’t be fair. Or would it be fair? To show her all it can be before her view is tainted by a rubbish girlfriend who won’t take care of her the way you can.

Rose watches your silence unfold in real time.

Something flickers across her face before she smooths it away with practiced ease, actress-perfect. “That’s okay,” she says quickly, too quickly. “You don’t have to answer that.”

But you want to. You want to answer honestly. You want to say yes, I love her. I probably always will. You want to say but lately I think about you too much. You should say it all.

Instead, you whisper, “Rose…”

Her eyes lift to yours instantly. And there it is again. That thing between you, that neither of you has touched yet because touching it would make it real. There’s the same thought in your mind that you should reach out before it disappears forever.

Rose has been begging for the change since she came to you the night her and Shane broke up, the night where you showed her what her life could be if she branches out all what and who she could love.

Her eyes cast down to your lips, your eyes doing the exact same thing.

The space between gets smaller and smaller until there’s nothing left to say, only feelings that you don’t want to go away and you wish would stay forever. Svetlana is the furthest thing from your mind as the heat from her skin burns into yours, a reminder of what was right in front of you.

“Rose,” your voice comes out low, a warning before you give up on thought. “Are you-“

“Shut up and kiss me.”

Her response doesn’t even have time to leave her lips before you’re diving the short distance forward and pressing against her. It’s a softness you should’ve expected, a perfection you’d always noticed.

Best of all, you slot together like you were made, lips brushing against lips and your tongue diving forward into her mouth. Rose lets out a whining sound, a breathy response as her hands dance out and land along your sides, wrapping around and holding on tight.

She pulls back for air, her mouth opening to say something when a sharp knock cuts through the apartment before either of you can move.

“Ignore it.” You immediately respond, your own hand moving to cradle her face and bring her eyes back to you.

Another knock follows, firmer this time. It’s almost familiar, the pattern and the pressure ingrained into your brain. You recognise it for who it is just as Rose looks at the door and back at you.

“You should answer that.”

Your heart drops.

It feels like a rock falling off a cliff and the hands wrapped around your waist retract and pull backwards. Rose doesn’t even look wounded, that’s the worst thing, she looks resigned with a spark of hopefulness in the depths of her eyes.

You stand too quickly, your pulse soaring, loud enough that you barely hear your own footsteps crossing the apartment. And as you slip the door open, Svetlana Vetrova stands on the other side looking devastating.

Dark coat. Dark eyes. Gold jewellery glinting softly beneath the hallway light. She looks like she’s stepped out of one of her campaigns and directly into your fucking bloodstream.

But it’s the expression on her face that undoes you, because she looks nervous. You know the slight tension in her jaw. The stiffness in her shoulders. The way her hands flex once at her sides before stilling.

Her gaze lands on you first and softens immediately, then shifts past your shoulder. To Rose.

Both your lips and still swollen, faces flushing red and only growing warmer at the feeling of being observed. Something unreadable flashes across her face, taking in the sight before her.

Rose stands slowly from the kitchen island, suddenly looking very aware of herself. Her sweater hanging off one shoulder because she slept here after too much wine and too many almost-confessions neither of you finished. Her hair is mused from where her hand had dragged through it, chest heaving with breathes she hadn’t caught up on.

Svetlana takes all of it in within seconds. “Did you get my flowers?”

You blink once, and pause before you answer, unsure of exactly why she’s here. “Yes.”

Rose makes a strangled noise somewhere behind you, like she cannot believe this conversation is real. Svetlana’s gaze flicks toward her briefly again before returning to you with laser focus.

“I did not realise you had company.”

You close your eyes for half a second because of course this would happen now. Of course the universe would choose this exact moment to become unbearable.

Rose’s gaze sharpens, “Am I unwelcome now?”

Svetlana steps inside without waiting to be invited, Rose watches her like she’s tracking a predator, Svetlana watches her back with equal intensity and you watch the whole interaction like a stalker, admiring, observing.

“No.” Svetlana smiles, a genuine one, the one that makes Rose feel warm and loved and- “It’s nice to see you again Rose Landry.”

“Svetlana.”

You stand in the middle of them with your heart threatening to claw its way out of your chest because for the first time since the breakup, since Rose, since all of this mess started unravelling, you realise you can’t choose what you want anymore.

And that is far more terrifying than losing either of them.

Rose recognises it for what it is, though. It’s a controlled expression that gives away nothing while pretending to give everything.

But what’s worse, is that up close and personal Svetlana is beautiful.

With Rose’s recent discovery, she’d been thinking and accepting far more than she had ever felt before and let herself understand what it all meant. She’d seen the campaigns, the runways, the magazine stills. She’d seen it all and none of it could compare to how absolutely stunning Svetlana Vetrova was in person.

It was infuriating.

And maybe a little bit dizzying. There was an intenseness in the way she existed in front of the camera and in front of the eyes, like she was made to be gazed upon, made to be admired and worshiped and-

Rose was getting off the point.

The point was that Sveta had broken your heart, almost the same way you’d broken hers, but Rose was loyal to your and your friendship and she cared about keeping you safe. Especially from the siren call of your lost love.

“Did not think you would come tonight.” Svetlana begins, voice smooth and accent curling around the words in a way that makes them feel heavier than they should. They bleed into Rose’s ears like treacle, tempting her to give in and submit to whatever Svetlana wants.

Rose, instead, lifts a shoulder and matches her casual tone, “It’s an industry event. I was invited.”

The Russian’s gaze drifts over her, slow, assessing. It rakes across her dress, settling along her figure. It’s not unkind. It’s almost… admiring. “Yes you do.”

There’s something in the way she says it that makes Rose feel like she’s being sized up for more than just a red carpet. The event hums around them, low music, clinking glasses, voices layered over one another, but it feels distant. Like everything has narrowed down to this one conversation neither of them had planned to have.

“You are friend of hers,” Svetlana continues.

Rose doesn’t flinch. “Yeah.”

Her eyes narrow, staring back. “Close friend.”

This is a question. Even if it doesn’t sound like one.

Rose meets her gaze, steady. “Yes.”

There’s something that flickers across Svetlana’s face then. It was quick, something not dissimilar to irritation, or curiosity, something a little bit in between.

“She used to talk about you.” She says after a moment.

Rose feels her stomach twist before she can stop it. “She did?”

Svetlana nods once, only once. “You were… important. She liked you.”

The words land strangely. It’s not covered in warmth or softness or care, like you would’ve said them. It’s just plain facts.

Rose exhales a quiet breath, willing her legs to keep her upright and crossing her arms loosely like it might anchor her in place. “You sound like you don’t like me because of that.”

Svetlana tilts her head slightly, studying her. “I do not sound like anything.”

That almost makes Rose laugh. “Right,” she mutters. “Of course you don’t.”

A staffer passes between them and for a second it breaks the tension, glasses offered, both of them taking one out of habit more than anything else. When the space clears again, they’re still standing there, still looking at each other.

“You are actress,” Svetlana says, like she’s ticking boxes in her head.

“Last I checked.”

“And model,” she adds.

Rose nods. “Sometimes.”

Svetlana hums again, taking a slow sip of her drink. “She likes that.”

Rose’s brows pull together slightly. “Likes what?”

“The way you move,” Svetlana says simply. “The way you are on camera. She said it is… easy for you.”

She shouldn’t care. Rose tells herself not to care, not to think about it, not to personalise the words and take them to heart. But there’s something about leaning and hearing your descriptions of her through Svetlana, filtered through her voice, that does something.

“She watches your work,” Svetlana adds, almost as an afterthought.

Rose lets out a small, disbelieving laugh and settles to tell herself that Svetlana is making fun of her. “Shut up.”

“I do not joke.” She insists. “I tell you the truth, she used to drag me to watch a new movie of yours.”

The conversation almost feels like two co-parents comparing what their child had done since they last saw them. It felt like a shared space between Rose and Svetlana, of them sharing you.

Rose shifts her weight slightly, glass clinking faintly in her hand. “You don’t seem like the type to sit around watching films.”

Svetlana’s lips twitch, just barely. “I do not.”

“Then why do you know so much about it?”

Sveta doesn’t really have an answer to that, just a rueful look as she moves to walk away. It tears a hole in-

Rose won’t let her. She follows the model as she weaves through the crowd to fins their seats inside. She already knows that her and Svetlana are sat beside one another, her assistant had warned her of her neighbours before she came in.

Sveta sighed as she saw Rose following her, then seemed to give up and turn back to continue their conversation.

“She cared about it.”

Oh.

Rose looks away for a second, jaw tightening before she can stop it. There’s something almost cruel about how simple that answer is. Of course she would know. Of course she would pay attention.

Of course Svetlana Vetrova, perfect Svetlana Vetrova, could still recall what you cared about despite not being together for months.

“She talked about you too, you know,” Rose says after a moment, glancing back at her. “When you were together.”

Svetlana’s gaze sharpens slightly. “Yes?”

“Yeah.” Rose nods. “Not in detail. Not… like that. But-” she shrugs. “You came up.”

“What did she say?” There’s something different in Svetlana’s tone now. Still controlled, still even, but there’s an edge under it. Something that sounds a little too much like wanting.

Rose hesitates. Because the truth is messy. Because the truth sounds a lot like she didn’t know how to love you the way you wanted and she never stopped anyway. Instead, she settles on something safer.

“That you were hard to read,” Rose says.

Svetlana lets out a quiet breath that might be a laugh. “That is not new.”

“And that she loved you,” Rose adds, before she can stop herself.

This time, there’s no hiding it. Svetlana goes very still, the noise of the room seems to drop out completely, like someone’s turned the volume down on the world around them.

For a second, Rose sees it. The crack. It’s small and controlled but there, breaking apart what Svetlana had been telling herself to forget or ignore.

“She did not say that.” Svetlana replies flatly. There’s no emotion behind it, or more accurately, there’s all the emotions she can’t truly convey. It’s a quiet declaration, less certain than what she’d always assumed before.

Rose holds her gaze, “She said it more ways than one.”

They’re not circling each other anymore, not standing in opposition. They’re standing in the same space, looking at the same thing from different angles.

The realisation that they’re not all that different terrifies both women because it goes against most of what they’ve been told to feel and think. Rose had already dismantled so much of her heart to open it further and Svetlana had learned never to be scared of what or who she was.

“You think you know her,” Svetlana says slowly, it’s almost asked as a question but there’s an underlying threat through it.

Rose takes initiative and steps even closer. “I think I know enough.”

Svetlana studies her for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes.

“I think,” she says carefully, “you know what she shows you.”

Rose huffs a quiet laugh. “And you don’t?”

Svetlana doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she takes another sip of her drink, gaze drifting somewhere just past Rose’s shoulder like she’s looking at something far more complicated than the woman standing in front of her.

“I know,” she says eventually, “what she does not say.”

Rose’s grip tightens slightly around her glass. “Yeah?” she murmurs. “And why is that?”

Svetlana narrows her eyes, “Because she is more like me than she wants to think. It’s why we work.”

“Worked.” Rose corrects before she can stop herself, then kicks internally for her comment.

The words settle like a challenge.

Svetlana rises to meet it, “Maybe she’s found someone else to work with, hm? Is that what you suggest Rose Landry?”

Rose throws caution to the wind and climbs even higher. “Maybe she’ll find someone. Maybe I’m looking for someone different, someone who works well with me.”

There’s even less space between them than before, the few inches of height difference forcing Rose to gaze upwards. She’s not complaining.

Svetlana smiles, a real smile this time, leaning down to whisper into her ear. “Maybe you’ve found it.”

It’s softer than she intends, and she half-hopes you didn’t hear it. But the door opens with you smiling on the other side and the raging storm within Rose’s heart and mind is quietened. She’d been wandering the dusk and dark streets waiting for a sign, coming to your door and walking away out of shame or uncertainty, walking everywhere and nowhere only to end up back here.

The door opens anyway.

You look far better than the last time she saw you, still hung up on Sveta and drowning your sorrows in her expensive Russian vodka. Now you look radiant, a light genuinely returned to your eyes. Rose can’t imagine what she looks like through your eyes.

She’s certainly not broken up and crying or anything like that but after an evening of walking, she can’t imagine looking her best.

“Hey.” You answer, slightly surprised but not unwelcoming.

Rose swallows, putting aside all the rampant thoughts in her mind. “Hi.”

There’s a pregnant silence that stretches just a little bit longer than what would be comfortable. A silence filled with the weeks that you hadn’t been able to see one another, caught up in your schedules and your projects and Rose’s new beau.

“Mrs NHL Hollander. How nice to grace my humble abode with your presence.”

Rose tenses, glancing around. “Are you gonna invite me in?” She aims for something light and airy and lands somewhere just shy. “Or am I doing an awkward doorstep thing?”

You pull the door open wider, huffing a laugh. “Come in, come in.”

That small smile you give sticks to Rose like glue, letting her cling to the small sign like it means something other than polite friendship.

Your apartment is different. Clean. There’s no more half-packed boxes or trashed décor that reminded you of Sveta. You’d cleaned and organised and made the space yours and solely yours again.  

She places her purse on the counter like second nature.

“Is everything okay?” You start to ask, then hesitate. “You looked kinda stressed.”

Rose sighed, heavy, the weight-bearing kind of sigh that sits in the air. “Yeah, just a lot on my mind.”

You look at her more carefully now, smile dissipating. “What happened?”

Rose had thought about how to explain all of it, how to tell you things that she wasn’t supposed to say out loud. But she couldn’t hide them from you, not completely.

“Shane and I aren’t seeing each other.”

You blink, hard. “What?” Rose and the NHL’s wonder boy, Shane had been dating very publicly for the past two or three weeks, seen as the perfect couple in the media’s eyes.

“We just weren’t working. It’s better as friends.” She shrugs, like it’s nothing, like the whole situation didn’t change something fundamental inside her. And simultaneously, she mentally jumps off the cliff. “He’s gay.”

“No shit.”

Your response is automatic, a reflection of something you’d been thinking ever since Rose met the guy. You were quite accurate with your queer radar, and Shane Hollander sent it sounding (so did Svetlana’s hockey friend Ilya if you were honest but in a slightly different way).

“No shit?” Rose stands staring.

You cough through the awkwardness, “Sorry, it’s just… he seems kinda gay. He doesn’t date, he’s quite quiet, under a lot of pressure, very quiet in the media, and-“

Rose leaves the silence to hang. “And?”

“He’s got bottom eyes, the begging kind that makes your insides melt.”

She gasped, jumping towards you as you leant back on the counter. “He does! It’s like staring into a doe’s eyes, they’re so dark and deep and soft.”

The space between you two becomes charged, Rose bent across the counter opposite you in her excitement. You’re leant on your elbows, face propped in your hands and watching her.

“You… didn’t know?” You ask her carefully.

Rose lets out another breath. “No, I-“ She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “No. I knew something wasn’t… right. I just thought it was me.”

You push off the counter slightly, crossing your arms. “Rose…”

“I kept thinking,” she continues, words picking up pace now that they’ve started, “if I just tried harder, or if I felt more, or if I was different somehow, then it would click into place, you know? Like everyone always says it does.”

She glances at you then, something sharp and uncertain in her eyes.

“And now?” you ask.

Rose exhales slowly, looking past you, like the answer might be written somewhere in your apartment, tucked between the pieces of a life you’re still putting back together.

“Now I think,” she says carefully, “maybe I’ve been getting it wrong.”

You frown slightly. “Getting what wrong?”

Rose hesitates.

“Everything.”

The realisation that she might be different, or that she wants to be different sits under her skin like a parasite, leeching off her and difficult to ignore or remove. Her gaze flickers to you and stays there.

You stand up straighter, brushing down your clothes of non-existent dust. “Do you want a drink?”

Half a bottle of sprits later, Rose turns to you with an unexpected soberness.

“How did you know you liked girls?”

For a second, you freeze. It’s subtle, easy to miss. But Rose doesn’t. She’s always been good at reading you, at catching things you don’t say out loud no matter how hard you try to hide them.

Your fingers close and open and then close again against the rim of your glass, a nervous tick while you think through your answer. And you don’t answer right away. The question isn’t asked lightly, not asked to be gossiped about. It lands heavy, like she’s placed something fragile in the middle of you and hoping you won’t reach out and break it.

Instead, you take a fortifying sip and let the burn settle in your chest like the ache of the years of memories around the subject.

“I don’t know if there was a single moment.” You admit slowly, voice far quieter than ever before. “Not like a big, obvious thing.”

She watched carefully, catching each micro expression.

“It was more like-“ You pause, searching for the right words. “Realising that I liked girls the way everyone else talked about liking boys. And boys didn’t hold any space in my brain, only other girls.”

“But how do you know?” Rose stares with her brows knitted sharply together.

You huff a small laugh, “I get the butterflies and I dream, and sometimes it’s all I would think about. Svetlana had a way of encapsulating my whole life, that felt like love. People talk about things and some of it’s real and some of it is stupid. But I only ever felt it with girls. I guess I always knew, I always was regardless.”

Rose swallows, “And you didn’t think it was just… friendship?”

You tilt your own head, finally catching up with what she’s really asking. “Friendships don’t usually make you feel like you’re going to lose your mind if they look at you a certain way. Or like you need to be closer to them all the time, because they steady your racing heart and make the world stop spinning.”

Her breath catches, almost imperceptible. But you’re watching her so closely now that you would notice anything. Her gaze drops for a moment before she forces it back up to meet yours.

Oh.

Oh.

You shift slightly, setting your glass down on the coffee table. “Why are you asking?”

There’s no accusation in it. Just curiosity, just care. Rose exhales, long and shaky, leaning back into the couch like something inside her has finally started to give way.

“I just-” she stops, pressing her lips together then tries again. “I keep thinking about things. About… people.”

“People?” you echo.

Her gaze flickers to you again, lingers. “Yeah.”

The word sits between you. You don’t push. Not yet. You just watch her, the way she’s picking at the seam of the cushion, the way her foot taps faintly against the floor like she’s trying to outrun her own thoughts.

“After Shane,” she says slowly, “I thought I’d feel… rejected. Or embarrassed, or something like that.”

“But you don’t?” you ask.

She shakes her head. “No,” she admits. “I feel… relieved. And that’s what’s freaking me out,” she adds with a weak, breathy laugh. “Because I shouldn’t feel like that, right? And then he told me about him being gay. He’d never told anyone that before and it just hit something for me. It made me start thinking.”

You lean back slightly, watching her with something softer now. “That’s not a bad thing.”

Rose goes very still at that. The words settle over her, slow and heavy, like they’re slotting into place somewhere deep inside her whether she’s ready for them or not.

“I just keep replaying things,” she murmurs. “Moments. Feelings I brushed off. And now I’m like, was that normal? Or was I just… ignoring it?”

Your heart is beating a little faster now. You don’t like how easily you can guess where her mind is going. You don’t like how much you want to be wrong.

“Rose-”

“Did it ever scare you?” she asks quietly. “When you started realising?”

You hold her gaze. “Yeah,” you admit. “A little. Feeling different about anything feels scary.”

Her throat bobs as she swallows. Her shoulders drop just a fraction, her eyes soften like she’s standing on the edge of something and considering, for the first time, what it would feel like to just… step forward.

Rose lets out a slow breath, her gaze drifting, just briefly, to your lips before snapping back up like she didn’t mean to do that. Like she didn’t even realise she had. “I like guys.”

Your stomach flips. You pretend you didn’t notice.

“But maybe, there’s something else that I’ve ignored. Do you-” she starts, then stops.

You wait.

She shakes her head, laughing under her breath. “This is so stupid.”

“It’s not,” you say immediately.

She looks at you again, something raw flickering across her face.

“It feels like it is,” she admits. “Like I’m late to something everyone else already figured out.”

You soften slightly. “There’s no timeline for this, Rose.”

“Yeah,” she whispers.

But she doesn’t sound convinced. Not yet.

“Just give it time.”

Ilya flicks on his light, battling with the conflict of his own, the bubbling disappointment of not seeing Shane again and the let down of missing a game of hockey. He expected to come back to a cold and lonely house, not expecting even him to be home this weekend. Instead, when he turns on the light he's met with a smiling Svetlana, dressed in his jersey and already making herself comfortable.

He swears at the intrusion, at the shock of someone else in his home.

"Surprise!" She greets his in Russian, the tension already slipping from her shoulders.

"What are you doing here?" Ilya replies quickly, masking his shock once again and replacing it with stoicism.

Sveta shrugs, stepping closer and trailing a hand from his shoulder to his chest. "You don't have a match so..."

"How do you know?" He's being brash, he knows that but he can't bring himself to care. Sveta would brush is off anyway, forgive him like that.

"It was announced, asshole." Her native tongue slipped so easily from her, twisting through the air and carrying a meaning she could never quite translate into English.

Maybe that's where it all went wrong. Maybe she would blame the whole breakdown of the relationship she still craved on a misunderstanding, a mistranslation of her meanings and a twisting of her words into something they weren't. Maybe she could pretend it was something outside her control that you hadn't even tried to fix or see differently.

"Yes," Ilya was turning the cogs in his brain now. Svetlana was in Boston. Why? "But why are you here? Where's that little girlfriend of yours?"

Svetlana ignores the pang of pain in her chest that his words cause her. She leans even closer, her lips brushing against his jaw. "She left me. Apparently, I am petty and not loving enough and spiteful for her." The second sentence is murmured in English, a reflection of the language it was told to her in, despite not being those exact words. She switches back to Russian, "Do you think I'm petty Ilya? Am I not loving enough for you?"

Ilya can see what she needs, something to forget it all, someone to distract her. She's been that someone for him before. And he wouldn't be lying if he wasn't in the exact same scenario right now.

His mind kept drifting back to Shane fucking Hollander and his stupid freckles and his perfect mouth.

He could use the distraction. "Sveta," He croons her name like you used to, with honey dripping through the words as he closes the gap of their lips. "She is fool to let you go."

Sveta lets herself be lifted onto the counter, to be whisked away into the throes of familiar friendship and joy and pleasure all bounded into one parcel named Ilya Rozanov.

She ignores that through it all, through all the stark differences of you and him, you're the one that stays at the forefront of her mind. The images of you is what brings her to the edge, what relights the spark over and over, endlessly until she can't think anymore and it all fades away.

You've gone for a somewhat different approach. A knock at the apartment door distracts you from the rest of the finest bottle of Sveta's vodka that she had foolishly left behind. What began as full, now barely had 1/3 left.

By the time you've willed yourself to the door and figured out the lock and latch, you're not quite expecting anyone to still be standing there.

Rose Landry, two-time costar and very close friend of yours stands at the other side of the door with a bag of assorted bottles and cartons. As you glance inside the bag, you can see that it's all mixers and no extra alcohol.

"So! I was going to come over here and help you drown your sorrows but it seems you've already beat me to it." She glanced over you, already spotting how your mouth curves into a smile and you're so far gone. "What are you drinking?"

"Sveta left her good vodka, sucks for her." You slur out, leading Rose back into the apartment. "I bet she's already found someone else to keep her warm."

Rose scoffed, already reaching to confiscate the bottle from your reach. "Svetlana loves you. And you love her, even if something happened that made you feel different." She tries her best to comfort you but the words aren't really reaching. "What even happened between you two? Your text was so vague."

"Oh you know."

Rose most certainly did not know.

You wave your hand around the place, gesturing vaguely like the answer is just floating somewhere in the air between you. It isn't.

She shuts the door behind her with her foot, dropping the bag onto the counter with a dull thud. The sound echoes more than it should in the now half-empty apartment, the too empty apartment. Her eyes flick around all the walls, all the corners, all the places where Svetlana Petrova used to be.

"Yeah," she replied sarcastically. "I definitely know. What the fuck happened?"

You laugh, but it comes out all wrong. Too sharp and bitter and hollow and tired. "'S nothing." You try to insist, reaching for where you'd put down the bottle, not remembering that Rose had taken it away. "It was a stupid argument and I said stupid things and then she replied with stupider things."

Your voice slips into a whine as you press your body back into the couch and admit defeat.

"Where's the good vodka gone?"

"You've had enough. Don't do this." She says it softer now, "Don't end it like this."

You look at her, really look at Rose Landry for the first time since she arrived. She’s steady. Grounded. Entirely too present. It makes something in your chest twist.

Rose showed up from a cryptic text about a breakup, not inviting her over or sharing details. She'd come over with mixers and snacks and kind enough words because she knew that would be exactly what you'd need.

“Why does everyone keep acting like it’s fixable?” you mutter. “She didn’t even try to stay.”

That’s not entirely true. And you both know it.

Back in Boston, Svetlana lies curled in Ilya's arms in a house that also feels entirely too big for one person to inhabit. He exhales slowly against her neck, watching a random hockey play by play on the television screen but not paying any attention.

Svetlana, who could easily tell you the score of any MHL game from this year, couldn't even tell you what teams were playing in the match she was currently watching.

Everything about it is familiar.

Her hands know where to go, she knows how he'll react, his own movements are practised, perfect against her skin. It's dangerously easy to fall into something that requires no explanation, no translation, no vulnerability.

She doesn't have to explain herself and Ilya doesn't ask.

But he's also not you.

Her fingers curl tighter against his shirt for a moment and then loosen. Her mind thinks back to you, even if she could fix it all, it would never be the same. She would have to do something different and the mere thought terrified her.

"Are you not watching the game?" Ilya murmurs against her skin, his voice low and knowing.

She almost laughs in response, pushing his face from out of her neck. Of course she's not watching the game, of course she's distracted. "I'm watching the game."

Ilya studies her anyway, tempted to call it out and smirking.

"It is her?"

The question strikes her like a physical blow. Her jaw tightens, just slightly but Ilya can feel the way her body pauses against his.

"She is not relevant."

"You're still in love with her."

Rose states it like it's obvious, halfway through her own tub of ice cream. You're sobering up slightly, wrapped in a blanket and trying to avoid the awkward conversation.

You yank your wrist free from where she's been holding your hand. "Don't." You snap at her, "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Don't act like you know everything."

Rose raises an eyebrow. "I don't know everything, but I know you. You're still in love with her."

It hit closer than you wanted it to, inching back into your corner to create some space between you and Rose's oppressive questions.

"She-" you start explaining yourself, to get the words out of your heart and soul and into the world. Then stop, because how do you explain someone like Svetlana? How do you solve a problem that you didn't see until it was too late? How can you love someone and explain loving someone who feels like winter and summer and the sun and the moon all at once?

"She doesn't say thing," you try again, thinking the words through carefully. "Not properly. And I kept waiting for her to just feel it the same way I do. Out loud. Where I could actually hear it."

Rose watches you carefully. "And she didn't?"

You laugh again, quieter this time. "“She said she cared," you admit. "She said it in her way."

Her way.

The clipped sentences. The careful phrasing. The intensity hidden behind control.

You should've expected carefree admiration and words of affection all the time from her. By virtue of how she was raised and where she was raised, she would never freely express her love like that.

But you were tired of being a secret from your extended friends and your fans. And you were tired of never feeling as though your love was truly reciprocated.

"If she cared, she would be here."

Your chest tightens but Rose just clicks her tongue in response. "And if you cared, you'd go to her, right? Where is she?"

"Boston, gone to see her Ilya."

Rose frowned. "Who else can she go to? Go back to Russia? You want her to go back to Russia?"

"Of course not."

"Then where?"

You huff, finally staggering up from the couch and walking away. "I want her here."

Sveta is very still now.

Ilya has gone quiet too, watching her the way he studies his opponents in a game, reading every micro expression, every shift in movement.

"You should have stayed." He says suddenly, so matter-of-factly.

Sveta blinks, "What?"

"With her," he clarifies. "You should have stayed."

It's not a judgement, Ilya's certainly done worse than walking out after a fight. She looks away, her gaze dropping to the bed beneath them.

"She asked for things I do not give."

Ilya pauses, "Did you try?"

Her eyes flash, sharp. "I do not pretend to be someone I am not."

"No." He huffs a laugh instead. "We both just lose people instead."

Silence fills the room.

"But not each other." She replies slowly.

Ilya sighs, nodding. "Never each other."

Rose steps closer to you now, slower, more careful.

"And what if she did love you the same way?" she asks gently. "Just… not the way you expected?"

You shake your head immediately. "I don't think it would be enough."

But your voice wavers. And Rose notices.

"Really?" she presses.

You hesitate. And in that hesitation, everything unravels just a little bit more.

Svetlana exhales slowly, her composure slipping, not visibly, not to anyone who doesn’t know her. But Ilya knows. It's there. He sees it.

"I do not regret it," she says.

Ilya tilts his head. "Really?"

She doesn’t. Because she can’t. Because in the quiet, in the stillness, in the space where there’s no distraction left, you’re still there.

Always.