🪽

“I’ve got nothing.” You placed your hands to the back of your head, slugging back at your desk chair with a groan. Even after hours of thinking about your next issue, nothing came to mind. Utahime leaned over, peeking at the blank screen, watching as the cursor blinked. “Oh sweetheart, you’ve got writer's block?” You nodded, poking your tongue against your cheek. 

“I just wish I could write about something other than how to properly wax your armpits, or how to lose weight in 5 days. There’s real world problems out there that I would love to bring awareness to.” 

“Yeah well, this is a chic magazine, not a political magazine. Once you have your career and you’re out of this hell hole, write all about what you want.” Utahime reasoned. She was right, this wasn’t a job, it’s just a club that writes for the school. 

“Where’s Miwa when you need her?” Your voice came out in a whine, slamming your fingers at your keyboard. Utahime glanced around the room, looking for the familiar blue hair. “She’s late. The meeting began over half an hour ago.” 

She sighed, stepping back when you pushed off your desk. “Look what came into my mail this morning.” You grumbled. Utahume’s ears perked up, reaching for the envelope. Inside were two tickets to the world cup. USA versus Paraguay, middle seats, perfect view. “Woah ho-ho, what are these?” 

“Remember that editor from the sports magazine I had a drink or two with last week? Guess he mistook my kindness for flirting or maybe he really appreciated me being the sweet girl I am.” 

“Must be nice.” 

You both turned to the voice behind you, making you and Utahime jump in fear. 

“Miwa! Jesus.” Your hand grabbed onto your chest, feeling your heartbeat accelerate. There were dark circles underneath her eyes and the ruined mascara evidence of tears. “What happened to you?” 

“What didn’t happen?” She sniffled, dragging his hand over her stuffy nose. “He dumped me. Oh my god, he dumped me.” 

“Get her a cigarette.” Utahime whispered. You hurriedly digged into your purse, taking out the box of cigs, handing them over to Miwa. “You guys didn’t make it past two weeks.” You hit Utahime’s stomach with your elbow, making her wince. 

“I know. And it was the best goddamn week and a half of my life.” 

“What even happened girl?” You opened up your arms to comfort her in a hug that she happily accepted. “I don’t really wanna talk about it.” 

You nodded, rubbing her back. 

Then, she broke down again. “He said I was ‘too much’ and I didn’t understand because I thought everything was going great! It was great and I blew it all up because I moved too quickly.” 

“What do you mean?” Utahime rested against the desk after trying her long hair into a ponytail in hopes of escaping the hot weather. “Don’t tell me you said ‘I love you’, that’s common sense.” She snickered. 

“Well..” 

“Miwa.” You and Utahime scolded. 

“The sex was really beautiful!” Miwa added, as if that made matters better. “And I cried and I said it, it just slipped out!” 

“That’s why he ended it?” 

“I think. Or maybe it was because of the amount of times I called him while he was “busy” or y’know, it’s probably because I’m fat.” 

“You’re not fat.” Your voices came out in unison once again. As you continued scolding Miwa for her poor choices in the ephemeral relationship, a lightbulb turned on inside Utahime's head. She clapped her hands in order to get your attention. “There it is. There’s your page.” 

“My page?” 

“Uh huh. Think about all those girls on this campus who are struggling just like Miwa. Ones that have problems hanging on to relationships. You can write about these classic mistakes most women do that drive men away.” 

You stood up straighter, all kinds of ideas popping into your head. “That’s not bad at all. I can ‘date’ a guy and see how long it takes until he snaps.” 

Your friend nodded, squealing. “Yes!” She clasped her hands with yours, jumping up and down. “It’ll be titled ‘How to lose a guy in 10 ways..” Utahime looked over to her fourth wall, moving her hand to the side to picture the title. 

Miwa blew her nose loudly, reminding you that she was still here. 

“How about ‘How to lose a guy in 10 days?’ That’s the total you guys were together right?” You cringed when Miwa threw her used tissue on your desk. “Yes, that’s right.” 

“Perfect. Now all that’s left is to find the guy.” 

The windows in the classroom were open, letting the slight breeze pass in. Outside, a whistle blew along with some yelling. “I can’t focus with all the chatter, what’s even going on?” You all made your way towards the window, peeking out. The soccer team was lined up, some doing reps while others stood by, discussing some very serious matter. 

“They’re getting ready for an upcoming game.” You leaned forward, hair blowing all over the place. The field was buzzing with energy, cleats full of the freshly cut grass. Miwa walked away, crying once again. “I saw him just now.” 

“Oh my god Miwa.” Utahime followed after her. 

You stayed put, skimming through the small crowd until someone stood out. His white hair almost blinded you from the sun’s reflection. The guy was tall and well built, you could tell even from a distance. “What about him?” 

“Who?” 

“Number 10.” 

Utahime immediately groaned. “Oh absolutely not. He’d drive you insane before you even got to try your little experiment first.” 

“Do you know him personally?” Your eyes never left him. 

“Satoru Gojo. Went to high school with him, worst guy ever. He never knows when to shut up.” You finally left the window, deep in thought. “Then I guess I’ll be the one to change him up.” 

⋆˚꩜｡

The team was still outside having practice games, taking turns shooting at the net. A boy with hair thrown up into a bun kicked harshly only to miss, earning a groan from others. “Yo man, it’s like you've got two left legs!” 

“I’ll shove them both up your ass if you don’t shut the fuck up.” 

Yikes. You lingered a moment before going over to the bleachers. There he was, standing with both hands on his hips, getting ready to catch the ball. 

“How do you plan on talking to him?” Miwa leaned over to whisper into your ear. You hushed her, about to scold her for her attempt at whispering when suddenly, the ball came flying directly at you, hitting you straight in the face. 

A sharp pain struck across your nose, making you bring your hands up to cover it. 

“Oh my god!” Miwa’s voice jumped an octave, grabbing your arm to gently tug it off your face. “Hold on, let me see!”

Another voice appeared, one that was breathless and panicked. “Shit, I’m so so sorry! Are you okay? I have a super bad aim today for some reason.” Your eyes widened when they met him, it was Satoru, looking down at you with a worried look on his face. 

He was even more oddly beautiful up close. 

“Uh.. it’s fine.” You managed out. 

“Are you sure? You don’t look fine.” He chuckled, wiping the small drop of blood that dripped out your nostril. “That’s gonna leave a bruise.” If it wasn’t for your article, you would've punched him repeatedly to break his nose. “I’m sorry again.. Uh I can go get you ice-”

“No, no it's fine, seriously.” 

Miwa gave you a look, one that was urging you to ask him for his number or anything. “You can make it up to me some other way..” Your words slipped out suddenly. Satoru’s brows lifted. “Yeah? What way are we talking here?” 

A grin was slowly morphing its way onto his face. 

“.. By taking me out.” 

“Out?”

“On a date.”

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“Good.” You hummed with a small nod, stifling a yawn and forcing your eyes to stay open. 

“You should sleep.” You blinked at Doflamingo’s words and after a moment you pouted slightly. “What?”

“Do I look that bad?” You asked with a small huff.

“Not bad, just completely fucked.” Doflamingo grinned smugly when you rolled your eyes and your pout deepened.

“And you look completely fine.”

“It’s not my fault my stamina is better than yours.” He chuckled, looping his arm under you to pull you closer. Doflamingo settled you to lie against his shoulder and kept his arm loosely around your waist. You stubbornly clicked your tongue but still settled into the new position without any hesitation. You knew your lack of energy was the only reason you’d both stopped.

“My stamina was better than this though.” You grumbled, watching as he used his strings to pull the covers closer. Absently you reached out, your finger lightly skimming the nearly invisible thread. It seemed as long as it wasn’t directly being used as an attack against you, it would remain tangible and soft yet strong; not bladed like when it had cleanly cut through the hand of the man who’d foolishly tried to touch you. “Even before I got sick…I haven’t trained in so long. I’ve gotten lazy.”

“Stop worrying needlessly, okay?” Doflamingo told you, watching you idly play with the string. You would slowly curl your fingers around it and release it, lightly pluck it to make a soft, dull sound before going back to toying with it. “Remember the doctors told you your energy would still take time to recover.”

“Yeah, they also said nothing ‘too strenuous’ remember?” You laughed before tilting your head back to smirk at him. “Don’t think they’d approve of breaking the bed.”

“That’d just be their jealousy talking.” Doflamingo grinned, arching his finger to make the string you’d been absently playing with to weave in-between your fingers and finally loop around your wrist. Curious about the extent his power would be allowed on you, he twitched his fingers again and watched your limp, unresisting hand lift into the air. You could have pulled your arm back had you wanted to but it seemed you were just as curious as he was. He zeroed in on how the thin creation of his Devil Fruit pressed against your skin without biting into it or slicing it. When you let out a small yawn Doflamingo lowered your hand once more to settle again on his chest, the string still looped around your wrist. “You should still maybe consider sleeping though.”

“Careful, if people hear they might think you’re concerned.” You teased but despite your words the truth was you were thoroughly drained and only fighting off sleep through sheer willpower. Your eyes were getting heavier by the second.

“Nah, purely selfish motivations, I promise.” Doflamingo chuckled before whispering low in your ear. “I need you fully rested mi alma, because I’m not finished with you yet. Not by a long shot.”

When you woke the next morning you rolled onto your back and yawned, stretching out your limbs lazily. Without any further prompting or warning your hands were captured on either side of your face and you slowly opened your eyes to meet Doflamingo’s grinning face. You stared at him with a lazy smirk shaping your lips. Slowly you lifted your leg to hook it around his waist, pulling him closer. Your lips lightly brushed against his as you asked. “Did you get any sleep?”

“Of course I did,” Doflamingo grinned down at you. “But because of you I had to suffer so many filthy dreams.” Your smirk grew and he captured your lips at last. Just like last night and the previous kisses shared the immediate pull and hunger for each other took hold. Before you could deepen the kiss any further Doflamingo teasingly pulled back, biting your lower lip to draw a soft moan from you. “Just torture.”

“If it was so awful, why didn’t you wake me?” You asked, pulling your hands free with ease. Locking one hand into the hair at the base of his neck you settled the other on his chest, fingertips barely grazing against the defined muscle, slowly traveling lower while keeping your gaze locked on the gleaming red of his glasses.

“Would have loved to but I made a promise, remember?” Doflamingo explained smoothly, drawing his hands under your thighs and pulling you closer before lowering his head to bite along your jaw until his lips stopped at your ear. “But you’re awake now and I can’t wait anymore.”

Neither could you. Together you both closed the last amount of distance between your bodies, Doflamingo thrusting into your welcoming body once more. The night before still rang sharp and seductive in your mind and body but feeling it again only seemed to heighten what you were feeling now. The raw, unbridled and addictive pleasure that Doflamingo brought you was unlike anything you ever experienced before and coursed through your blood, consuming everything until it was the only thing on your mind. 

Doflamingo wasn’t faring any better than you. The more your warmth enveloped him, the more your moans and pleasured breathy words of praise and encouragement filled his ears, the more you drew him to you and made him shut out everything else. Now though he felt his selfishness and conflicting thoughts begin to surge; he wanted more of you, more of this but at the same time he hated the feeling of his control and mind being so clouded and at risk. Still even with that in his mind, he was not going to stop, not now, not when you felt this good and cried out his name so sweetly. Doflamingo continued to drive into you, with you continuing to match his thrusts. Groaning out, Doflamingo anchored his hands firmly against your thighs and pushed your legs forward, driving them closer to your chest to reach even deeper causing you to clench tighter and moan in his ear, eyes rolling to the back of your head. 

Your high crashed over you hard with Doflamingo’s following immediately after, the two of your riding out the aftershocks in sync. Breathless you blinked and focused on Doflamingo’s face and smirked. “That enough to tide you over?”

“Tide me over?” Doflamingo repeated with a chuckle while you relaxed against the sheets comfortably. His fingers skimming lightly against your jaw.

“We can’t stay in bed all day and I certainly don’t want to stay in this particular bed or estate any longer than we need to. Do you?” Doflamingo laughed loudly at your question and looked around at the shattered remnants of the bed. You did have a point. Even though it was relatively early in the morning he knew the others in the family would still be sleeping off their hangovers. Last thing he wanted was to make any more conversation with the host of the party. Though he was still definitely going to destroy that ugly fucking statue on the way out.

You leant against the railing of the Numancia Flamingo watching as crates were loaded on board, apparent gifts and shares of profit for Doflamingo from your ‘esteemed’ host but truly you assessed they were given in thanks for not merely killing him. Some of them you saw were originally for the host but hastily re-gifted in order to gain some sort of additional favour with the temperamental Warlord. A lot of it looked to be a luxurious mixture of items but you definitely heard the clink of coins and jewels from a couple boxes. Some looked to be too securely closed to be anything other than weapons. Finally the last two boxes came on board, a small crate of premium vintage wine from the North Blue and then largest was the crate containing the severed head of the golden statue. 

Your lips quirked in amusement as you recalled the host’s rapidly paling face at Doflamingo’s loosely veiled request for it to ‘remember a stellar party.’ With a sigh you cast a final glance at the island. You didn’t know what to expect to find when you were arriving at the island and a lot of the party’s offerings had been just what you imagined and also exceeded your expectations-both in good and bad ways- but the development between you and Doflamingo had definitely not been on the cards. You looked down at your wrist, your fingers gently skimming over the string still secured around it. As you absently continued to do it you overheard the calls that the ship was finally leaving the dock and you glanced up, catching yourself by surprise to find yourself excited to be returning to Dressrosa after your short time away.   

Noticing the clouds overhead were changing a dim grey you anticipated that the rain wouldn’t be too far away and decided to go inside to the family’s group room. As you stepped into the room you saw the others already opening the crate of wine from the North Blue and settling in for the first day of travel. Doflamingo took the first glass and took his seat on the sofa. As you moved to take a seat beside Doflamingo you paused in surprise to see Diamante pour the second glass and offer it to you without any hesitation or snide comment. You quickly recovered and took the glass. “Thanks.”

Clearing your throat you sat down beside Doflamingo, immediately settling against him as his free hand was placed firmly on your hip. You took a sip of the wine and licked your lips as the sweet, indulgent taste flooded your mouth. Everyone was of the same sentiment in relishing the drink. “This brings back memories, huh Doffy?”

“Yeah, lost count of how many bottles of this brand we’d shared over the years there.” Doflamingo chuckled as the nostalgia hit him. “North Blue seems a lifetime ago.”

“You started in the North Blue?” You asked curiously, turning your head to look at the man you were lounging against. Apart from the many rumours and gossip that had circulated in the Marine base and the small hushed whispers in Dressrosa’s palace there was still a lot about the man you didn’t know. Doflamingo was always upfront with you when you’d ask about his criminal activity but it was never in your thought to ask him anything personal. Mostly because you didn’t feel like it was anything you needed to know.

“I was just a kid but yeah that’s where we started, way back when.” Doflamingo answered casually before taking another sip while you softly laughed, catching his attention. 

“It’s strange but the only thing I can think of for the kid version of you is with a gun. It’s oddly cute.”

“You’re not far off.” Diamante laughed, the only one in the room who had the memory of Doflamingo as a child. Baby 5 and Gladius didn’t come along until much later. “Cute yes, but he was still our fearless leader.”

For the next while you listened to stories of different adventures from the Family that they shared with Doffy. You couldn’t tell for certain if everything was completely accurate or if they were embellishing certain aspects in order to keep their King in a positive light. Then again, this was Doflamingo they were talking about so it could have been told with every detail unchanged. Then the enjoyable atmosphere broke when Baby 5 was in the middle of her story and the wine in her system had hindered her awareness of what she was saying. “- and then Cora-”

The second the word was out of her mouth she gasped, hands clamping over her lips as if trying to force the words back inside. Her eyes widened and terror shone in her frozen gaze locked on Doflamingo. At the same time Diamante and Gladius tensed, panic and uncertainty shaping their features. You frowned slightly. You’d never heard ‘Cora’ mentioned before and you’d certainly never seen the others react so viscerally in their fearful anticipation of Doflamingo’s reaction to something before. 

Everyone in the room refused to so much as breathe or blink as they watched and waited. The sweet taste of the wine that lingered in their lips turned cold and sour the heavier the air felt. Except you. You remained patient and relaxed, gaze steady and curious as Doflamingo swiftly drained the remaining amount of wine in his glass. He swallowed and with a sharp flick of the wrist the glass shot across the room-purposely whizzing a hair’s breadth passed Baby 5’s cheek- and smashed against the wall. In the same motion, Doflamingo was on his feet and leaving the room, the door shutting with a click but had the others flinching like it was a crack of a whip. You blinked once and finished your own drink before calmly setting it to the side and got to your feet. With a sigh you walked to the shared room you had with Doflamingo and entered it to see him standing at the drinks table, jaw heavy set and shoulders rigid. 

You slowly shut the door behind you as you stepped further into the room, keeping your eyes firmly on Doflamingo, calmly assessing him and taking in his movements no matter how small. He didn’t look your way but he knew you were there but right now he was only fixated on the two bottles in his hands. You walked until you stood beside him and reached forward. “Don’t.”

The single word was uttered like a low growl and you cocked your head to the side, the only visible acknowledgement to his voice and without any hesitation you continued to reach out until your fingers wrapped around the bottle in his left hand and pulled it from him. With the cool glass neck in your hand you turned and walked to the plush sofa, dropping yourself into it and taking a sip. Doflamingo turned his head to finally look at you. “You’re not going to ask?”

“Just like you told me the other night,” you began simply while licking a stray drop of sharp alcohol from your lip as the memory of your nightmare came back. “Talk about it if you want or say nothing at all. It’s your choice.” 

Doflamingo gave a noncommittal hum, undecided about what option to pick. With a sharp sigh he looked to the bottle you left him with and brought it to his lips, gulping the sharp, burning liquid down until the final drop. 

With a harsh breath, Doflamingo slammed the empty bottle onto the table with a bang and roughly rubbed his face. He shrugged off the feather mantle on his shoulders and let it fall against   the armchair before taking the short strides until he was at the sofa you lounged silently on. His hand reached for the bottle but you moved it out of his reach. Your eyes slowly slid up to meet his heavy stare still shielded by his glasses and you smirked at him. Doflamingo’s fingers arched and the string around your wrist tugged lightly, trying to coax your hand into offering the bottle to him. Slowly you moved your hand towards him but quickly changed your mind and brought the bottle instead to your lips and took a plentiful drink.

Doflamingo’s grin stretched and he stooped down, settling on the sofa in front of you and caging you in. Bracing one hand beside your head the other reached for the bottle once more, his head tilting in curiosity on what you’d do next. You stared at him with only the steady calm that you were capable of. Your fingers curled around his wrist beside your head and the other hand finally offered the bottle to him by lazily tilting the lip of the bottle forward but keeping the bottle itself closer to you. If Doflamingo wanted it he’d have to move closer. The grin on his face grew and he indulged you, drawing closer. 

At the same time your fingers around his wrist began to move across his forearm in absent patterns. Tiny movements coupled with playful smile, it seemed like nothing but Doflamingo knew what you were doing. It all seemed light and simple but under the surface, under your silent, unwavering stare it was all calculated. It wasn’t about the bottle or the teasing fight over it, it was all a distraction. You were a distraction for him, offering him something else to turn his attention to. Doflamingo’s face hovered over to yours, closed his hand over the bottle and pulled it from your unresisting hold. For a second you expected him to take a drink of the liquid but instead he used his strings to set it back on the drinks table. His fingers trailed up your now empty hand, over your arm and shoulder until it finally tucked under your chin, leading you to close the gap just a little more. 

Your lips ghosted over his and you leant in to peck a quick and by far the most civilised and boring kiss against his lips. Doflamingo grinned and shook his head. Your eyebrows rose and leaned in once more, pressing another kiss to his lips, a little longer than before. When you pulled back Doflamingo chuckled and shook his head once more. With a playful huff and roll of your eyes you sat up, settling your hands on Doflamingo’s chest and gently pushing him back. You settled on Doflamingo’s lap and kissed him once more. 

Your lips still held the sweet taste of the North Blue wine and sharpness of the random bottle of whisky you’d plucked from his hand but underneath it all Doflamingo tasted that earlier addiction stir in his blood. Settling his hand on your lower back and threading into your hair, he kissed you back and deepened it while pulling you flush against him. Doflamingo allowed your warmth, touch, and touch to envelop him. Only this morning he’d worried about the risk to his sense of control but now he let it go, and let it pull his mind away from the thoughts and memories he’d pushed so far deep into the dark he’d almost fooled himself into believing they couldn’t touch him anymore. For as long as you could hold out for, for as long as you were physically able to distract him and keep those deep, looming, heavy shadows in his head at bay he’d take all you could give. Then, just like before he’d force them back down into the depths and bury them where they could never touch him again. 

That had been the plan anyway. As Doflamingo slept that night the images that flashed in his mind struck him again and again. All making his muscles coil tighter and tighter until every fibre of his mind and body felt like his own strings, tight and sharp enough to cut the air itself. Doflamingo’s mind flickered through the memories like a tormenting picture book, each image of one person and one person only, every time the picture changed it was laced with the sound of a gun cocking and firing, the bang of the shot echoing. The final picture was of that bloodied snow, black feathers and his brother’s pain filled glare and the smile painted on his face. The final shot rang out and Dofalmingo snapped awake. Body tensed and chilled with a fresh sheen of sweat he didn’t get from the more enjoyable time he’d spent with you just hours previously. 

His body felt heavy and he stared at the ceiling in the dark. Silently he cursed Baby 5’s uttering of his brother’s title, cursed his own mind for betraying him and allowing it to have become so weak as to allow himself to feel haunted by his brother’s spirit after all this time. His fingers trembled before he fisted them tightly against the sheet under him. Doflamingo looked at you as you lay sleeping beside him, no longer lying on his chest. He must have subconsciously pushed you away in his sleep in reaction to his plagued dreams. For another moment as he let his breath calm again he studied your peaceful but exhausted face. Slowly he reached out.

You woke suddenly and disoriented. Blinking with a frown you shuddered as you suddenly felt the cold creep along your bare skin. A heavy yawn built in your chest as you blindly reached out while your eyes tried to fight off the haze of sleep and adjust in the dark. “Doffy?”

Your tired voice mumbled out his name and you frowned to not hear any response or sense any movement. With a sleepy groan you rolled onto your side and managed to push yourself up to see the bed was empty. Rubbing your eyes you sluggishly dragged yourself out of bed and grabbed Doflamingo’s shirt from the floor. Quickly you pulled it on for some sort of cover as you left the room and went to the shared lounge. Leaning against the doorframe the last of your sleep-heavy daze fell away to see it was empty. Confused you climbed out onto the deck and approached the subordinate of the Donquixote pirates currently at the helm. You watched the man flinch in surprise at your appearance. “Where’s Doflamingo?”

“Um…not here.” The helmsman reported, shifting nervously and keeping his gaze solely on your face. “He didn’t tell me where he was going because um…I don’t need to know. But he flew off about thirty minutes ago. Don’t know when exactly he’ll be back but he did say something about seeing us in Dressrosa.” You listened with a blank expression. After a few seconds of heavy silence you nodded once and turned, heading back to bed. As you closed the door behind you, you let out a scoff. “See you in Dressrosa.”

------

Not to mention that your mind has been rather preoccupied with the empty void that haunts you in the audience. Your thoughts always move back to him, wondering if he’s okay and has been keeping with his schedule. It pains you to still care for him when you damn well that he has most likely not even thought about you at all.

You miss him but he hasn’t even bothered to show up to any of your shows. He’s probably busy with work, anyways. He’s always busy with work. Maybe it was a good thing you left his home — a place you used to consider your own home — while his job kept him…occupied. At least the resentment that built up in your heart had the chance to dissipate, even if it was a minuscule amount.

It didn’t help either that Sylus hasn’t even bothered to call or text. Not even a whisper of his voice in your ear before you step out onto the stage. He was your biggest supporter, or so you thought. But in the days that followed your argument — the same one that left you a crying mess in your old apartment, knees hugged to your chest, wondering why your boyfriend couldn’t attend a single show — you felt indifference take control of your body, causing you to go numb. 

Your back straightens as soon as there is a knock on the door. Tremors overtake your hands. The familiar shake of anxiety and pre-show jitters. You have performed the show with flawless execution for its month long run. Eight shows a week with one day off — Monday, to be exact — and you are finally starting to feel the ache in your bones and head from the constant exposure of the stage lights and same demanding screeches of powerful dialogue that shakes the audience to their core.

Your character’s anguish masks your own. What was that saying again? That life imitates art? You tried to ignore that feeling, that the words on the page didn’t reflect the same torment that you feel towards your relationship with Sylus. That the married couple in the play are not indicative of your relationship with Sylus and that the two of you can somehow find a way out of the fog.

The door creaks open. Your gaze flits to the stage manger’s reflection, their black clothing and headset catching your attention. They don’t even have to say a word. You simply nod and watch as the door closes behind them, leaving you behind in the deafening silence. Your ears ring. The dull ache behind your eyes grows in size but you ignore the feeling, pushing through as you bring yourself back up to your feet.

A slow exhale leaves your mouth. You close your eyes, trying to settle your nerves.

Breathe in. Hold. Open your eyes. Exhale.

Dark bags hang under your eyes. The sunken in look from your lack of sleep and constant worry over a man who simply hasn’t bothered to support you. Sylus has claimed that Onychinus and his work has kept him away from seeing you on stage. Well, that’s what he told you when you first came home after opening night. After that, it’s been complete silence on his end. It’s not like you made an effort to reach out either, but you truly do not believe that it should be you to be the one to mend the bullet hole that ripped your heart in half.

You know that you are bound to face him sometime soon. At least it won’t have an effect on your ability to act like a tired and worn out wife who wishes to have a better life for herself. It’s not like he’ll be sitting in the seat you have reserved for him every showing. The empty seat pushes you towards desperation, towards a place of agony that only a woman in pain could feel. 

You breathe in one last time. Your lungs burn as you hold in the breath. You exhale. Slow and timid. Your nails dig into the palms of your hand, rough enough to draw blood. A quick turn on your heel, feet carrying you towards the door. You push through with tears brimming your eyes and a new found determination lit up in your heart to make this the best performance of the play’s run — even if it is the last show.

Excitement bubbles throughout your body. A smile has been etched into your face ever since you woke up that morning. Despite the bed being empty beside you, you are determined to make today a great day because, you guessed it: it’s your opening night!

The play that you have dedicated so many endless nights and weekends to is finally here. The play has been a blessing to you. While Sylus worked and dealt with business deals for Onychinus, you were ready to take that shot in the dark and audition for the show. Turns out, they loved the devastation that you brought to the character. The raw authenticity of heartbreak and resignation showed through the tremor in your voice, the way your hands shook on stage as if you were truly the one contemplating divorcing your husband.

You would never do that, though. You love Sylus with your entire being. There is no way in hell that you are letting him go.

Your phone vibrates on the side table. You reach for it without looking, fingers curling around the device as you bring it to your face. Sylus’s name graces the screen. There is a flutter in your heart at the sight. You quickly openly up the messages and toss your hair out of your eyes, the smile on your face faltering once you read his words.

Work has me busy today. I’ll see you later tonight.

That’s okay. You know that he’ll be at the Orpheum Theater when the doors open. If anything, your boyfriend will be the first one through the doors with an extravagant bouquet of flowers in his arms, subtly bragging to all of those with ears that his lovely partner is in the play — and as the lead no less!

I hope work goes well! I can’t wait to see you tonight! I saved you the best seat in the house! I love you!

Your fingers dance across the screen at lightning speeds, a small chuckle bubbling on the inside of your chest. The phone is tossed to the side and you spread yourself across the king sized bed, arms and legs spread out as far as you can reach. An excited squeal leaves your body. You kick and punch the air as your laughter fills the room. A surge of anticipation — the kind that leaves the tips of your fingers tingling from excitement and joy and happiness.

Sylus is finally going to be able to see you perform. He is finally going to watch you in something that isn’t humiliating, like that smoothie commercial you booked where you were dressed up like a pomegranate, and you can feel the anticipation blossom inside of your body.

The thought itself excites you! For Sylus to see you on stage. It has you smiling throughout dress rehearsal, all throughout an interview the theater scheduled with you and your co-star, and you even found yourself smiling right as the theater doors opened.

The familiar buzz of excitement fills the theater. The audience slowly pours into the theater. A low hum is heard in the air. Quiet and indistinct conversations heard as the nicely dressed people make their way towards their assigned seats, the red material of the chairs calling their names, beckoning for them to move forward and closer to the stage.

The ensemble cast giggles and talk amongst themselves as you and your co-lead take your place on stage behind the deep red curtain. The two of you sit on a couch, one that looks like it has seen better days. Your knee bounces up and down. The remnants of your anxiety showcased in the erratic movement trapped in your legs.

“Nervous?” The man beside you asks.

You stiffly nod, forcing a smile across your face while you play with the hem of your costume’s skirt. The rest of the ensemble cast remain tucked away in the wings, watching as the curtain trembles, ready to be lifted for the first show of the play’s runs — and your career. Just to the side, you notice as the house lights breathe. One moment it’s bright, the next it’s dark, signaling the beginning of the show.

You close your eyes one last time, slowly inhaling as much air as you possibly can. The slight tension in your muscles slowly vanishes. The quiet creak of the curtain being raised forces you to open your eyes, back straightening as you and your scene partner ready yourselves for the beginning of the play.

The director wants you to stare straight ahead, to peer into the spotlight that illuminates your bodies. You force your gaze away, though, and allow yourself to look in the direction of Sylus’ reserved seat.

The director was so excited when you came to her with the news of your boyfriend requesting the best seat in the house. You had talked him out of sitting in a box seat for your first performance, claiming that box seats are for the rich who do not truly care for art. If Sylus wants to be a true connoisseur, then he needs to sit in the center of the theater, to sit among other people and to allow himself to be fully immersed in the story’s plot.

You frequently spoke of Sylus to the rest of the crew of ensemble. Let’s be real: you told anyone who was willing to listen about your relationship with Sylus. Every single person who works on the play built an image of him inside of their minds, ready to meet the man who has their leading lady so deep in love that she can barely focus whenever he sends a message. Sylus had become someone that the cast and crew were looking forward to meet and invite into the life of the theater — even the owner of the theater wished to meet him to try and secure new funds for their next play.

The curtains raise and the sly smile is wiped off of your face. The character’s persona is draped across your body, your mind making that switch into taking on the character’s life. Your eyes remain fixed on the seat. The one place in the theater where the sound and view is the best.

Your body goes cold. The air in your lungs is yanked free from your body. It is as if you have just been body slammed into a cement wall. A quiet ring forms in your ears. The terrifying sound of disappointment and whiplash deafens you even as your co-star speaks out his opening lines.

The chair is empty.

Tears brim your eyes and your force your gaze away from the sight, blinking away the tears as you take your cue to stand and address the crowd. You’re stuck, though. The words remain trapped on your tongue, the bitter taste of being letdown and frustration spreading across your mouth. An iron ball forms in your throat. You’re unable to force it away, to swallow the weight that forms in your neck.

“I’ve been married to Dean for five years.” Your voice shakes as if you are the character herself, bearing your soul to the audience to see under the lights of the stage. “And in those five years, he has let me down five times.”

The rest of the show goes as smooth as the last few dress rehearsals. You push through the stabbing pain in your heart, ignoring the way your body feels like it is being ripped open from the inside out. The ache in your throat grows but you force it away whenever you have to speak, forcing the words out of your mouth. It is only when you exit off into the wings of the stage that you allow yourself to crumble, your face breaking as you try to hide your tears. The makeup artists desperately try to save your makeup, helping talk you through the warfare that has formed inside of your heart.

It was only a matter of minutes before you were pushed back onto the stage again, forcing a smile onto your face as you pretend to be happy in a loveless marriage. You ignored the empty space in the audience. The seat you had reserved for him. With every turn and flick of the head, you are always so tempted to stare at the space. You force your mind to stay on task, to proclaim the lines that have been bestowed upon you but all you want to do is go home — not to his — and cry into your pillow until your body gives out.

Where the hell is he? What excuse can Sylus give to you that can make up for the fact that he isn’t here in the audience. What could he possibly say that can dispel the tremor in your heart, the burning ache that has tightened around your throat. Is he truly preoccupied with work?

Or has he found a comfort in the hunter he met when Onychinus’ path crossed the Hunter Associations?

The play continues and you numb the feeling of sadness that formed in your heart. While your voice remains bright and vibrant, showcasing the character’s emotionality and the devastation that she feels, you remain calm and collected under the mask. You trick the audience into think that you, the actress, take your job so seriously. That you are a professional who isn’t on the verge of having a breakdown onto the stage.

You sit on stage right. Your eyes try not to stare at the empty seat but the temptation of pain and angst is just unbearable. Slowly but surely, your eyes move inch by inch — moving mere millimeters — towards the space. An older couple sits on the left side of the chair while on the right is a burly man who looks as if he is about to pop out of his tailored suit. You suck in a breath while your scene partner recites his lines with ease, walking across the stage while you remain isolated on the couch.

“All I wanted was for the party to go well,” you say in response, picking at the fabric of your skirt.

“Nobody cares about the damn party,” he exhales loudly. You glance at the actor, replacing his face with Sylus’. You watch as he moves around the fake kitchen, slamming the cabinets shut and tossing the silverware across the countertop. He turns around and you swear you see the red shade of your partner’s eyes in him. A sharp inhale has you clutching your chest, turning away from the man. “Nobody cares about you, quite frankly. Always trying too hard but it will never be enough.”

“Dean, please,” you choke back the tears.

“When will it be enough for you?” The actor’s eyes meet your glossy ones. His fingers curl around the edge of the fake countertop, knuckles white.

Your bottom lip trembles. You slowly push yourself up to your feet, a sudden lightness overtaking your body as the lights begin to dim on the other sections of the stage. You face the audience. A single tear runs down your cheek, the ticking time bomb of your own cache of despair ready to explode.

“I don’t love you anymore.”

The words make your ears ring. Although they fell from your lips, it feels so surreal to even speak them aloud. To even say the damned phrase when your heart is in shambles. The feeling of falling out love is overwhelming. While you still hold onto the hope that your worst fears won’t come true, they still scratch at the back of your mind. Slowly countering the defenses that you have established to protect yourself.

That’s when the tears begin to fall. You allow yourself to breakdown and sob for all to see. You try to fight when away, furiously wiping your eyes and capturing the tears on your fingers. The once perfect and thick makeup begins to streak. The black mascara runs down your face, your fingers now black.

It was supposed to be an emotionless speech. One about your character finding peace and solace in her husband’s disinterest. That she has finally broken free from the spell that the man had placed on her. His final words being the straw that breaks the camel’s back. The accumulation of your stress and frustration have into fruition, taking the form of salty tears that land at your feet.

You can feel the character’s pain. When you first read the script, you were curious as to how horrible a man could be to the woman he claims to love. You wondered why he would step out on his wife, to find comfort in a younger and prettier woman. Why he would berate the woman who has remained so loyal and faithful then turn around and convince her that it was her fault for not keeping him interested.

You’ve seen her before. Just in passing, a fleeting moment in Sylus’ garage where their loud laughter suddenly faded as soon as you entered the room, tired from that day of rehearsals. Sylus introduced you. His ruby eyes remained on her, though, his lips curling up into a ghost of a smile. It made your body go cold. You remembered her smile, how it was so infectious it made you want to grin despite her closeness with your partner.

She’s younger too. Of course, she is. Just a couple years but still…her youthful spirit has yet to be crushed like yours. She wore pretty clothes and her perfume was intoxicating; spiced vanilla with an underlying scent of everything that you are not.

Is that the case with Sylus? Is he not interested in you anymore? Has that hunter from the Association finally turn his head away from you?

You collapse to the ground, legs unstable and feeling like jelly. Sobs take over your body. The familiar sharpness returns to your heart. It turns rotten.

You listen to the audience’s cries from the stage as you remained hunched over, your tears soaking into the floor beneath you. The crowd remains quiet as you cry and choked out the words. You covered your face and muttered quiet apologies to yourself, continuing with the speech. You sniffle and wipe the snot away from your nose while you speak on the devastating nature about loving a man who simply doesn’t care.

Silence falls over the auditorium. No one dares to move while you slowly recover, your arms and hands shielding your face from the blinding lights. The silence causes you to shiver. Slowly, you look up from your hands, staring into the darkness of the auditorium. In the front row, you can see the glossy sheen to the audience’s eyes.

The stage lights go black. You feel your tears stop. The lights no longer warm your skin. The audience’s applause fade and you are left alone as the stage crew and ensemble gather around you. They lift you to your feet and praise your performance. Even the director is astonished with your work, commenting that the tears added a hefty gravity to the scene that they never could have imagined.

You smile at them but quickly excuse yourself to your dressing room. The door closes with a quiet click of the turning lock. The lights remain off, the light from the outside world spread across the floor. Your back remains pressed against the door. Deep and heavy breaths cause your head to go dizzy. You push away from the door and rip the costume off of your body, tossing the fabric to the side as you gather your belongings and post-show clothes. Quickly putting them on, you sneak out of the dressing room and slip free from the back stage door, just barely missing the crowd that rushes to see you.

His face is not among those in the crowd. Another knife to the heart. Another notch in the grievances that you are about to file against your partner.

You tear your gaze away, tears streaking down your cheeks as the shrieks and cheers from the audience pierce your ears. You don’t look back, though, and instead push forward as fast as you can, finding your nearby car.

The drive to the N109 Zone is silent. You focus on the road, barely paying attention to the turning street lights and stop signs. You recklessly brake at the last second and swerve in and out of the lanes, just barely missing cars that you are about to collide with.

Danger and fury runs through your veins. Instead of the familiar heat of frustration, your anger is ice cold. Indifferent. Intolerant of how Sylus has fallen away from your grip these last few months.

Maybe you should have seen this coming. All of the signs are there, right?

While you were off parading as a different person, your boyfriend became acquainted with his new connection at the Hunter’s Association. She was the one who took your place by his side when rehearsals ran late. She was the one who took your spot on the back of his motorcycle. She was the one who took his attention away from you.

You shove away your emotions, forcing your feet to carry you inside of Sylus’ skyscraper. The elevator quietly dings with every passing floor, the nausea inside of your stomach becoming overwhelming. The doors slide open and you step out, looking around.

The lights are turned off. The click of your shoes is faintly heard as you move deeper into the main living space. The sound of a woman’s laughter causes you to stumble. You hold onto the wall for support, placing your bag onto the floor.

A chill overtakes your body. Goosebumps form on your skin. The hair on your arms and back of your neck stand up. You sulk closer towards the sound, listening to Sylus as he chuckles at a joke she said.

You peer at the two of them from the corner, remaining as hidden as you can. They sit beside each other on the living room couch, a feast of takeout food laid out before them. The smell causes you to drool. The lights are off, the only light source coming from lit candles — which are yours, by the way — that are scattered throughout the room. They sit close to one another, their arms brushing against each other as they laugh and share food, leaning in to whisper something into their ear as if they aren’t the only ones inside of the Onychinus skyscraper. Sylus faces you while she faces away. You stare at her back, the long and black hair that cascades down her back. She wears stealth clothes, ones that you recognize from the Hunter’s Association’s ads that play all over Linkon City. You go still, unable to move as you sneakily watch.

“Are you sure that it’s okay that I’m here?” she asks. Her voice is as sweet as honey. 

“Of course,” his voice is as husky as you remembered it to be, “there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

A tender smile is spread across Sylus’ face. You want to slap it off and scream in his face. You want to yell and scream, to hit him and make him feel the same exact emotional torment that he has put you through.

You slowly draw in a breath. The heat from the anger you once felt is gone. Ice takes over your body, freezing your heart. You can’t even feel the beats. The air is drawn out from your lungs. They burn, the only hint you have to let you know that you are still alive.

Is this how your character felt? Is this what complete and utter betrayal look like? Is this how it feels to watch as the love of your life slips free from your fingers, dropping into the palm of a woman who probably doesn’t even know who the true Sylus is. Would it be ignorant of you to think that nobody will know him like you did? Would it be ignorant to think that this new reality you find yourself in is one that you do not wish to be a part of anymore?

This is how your relationship dies. With the smell of spiced vanilla and two bodies close together under the dim candlelight.

Tears run down your cheeks. You don’t have the energy to stop them from falling. Turning on your heel, you walk away, heading in the direction of your shared bedroom with Sylus. Your footsteps are no longer quiet or sneaky. You walk with the confidence of a determined woman. The determination to leave this place — and the man you thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with — behind.

You shove the door open with more force than you intended. The wood slams into the wall, the sound echoing across the floor. You swear you can hear Sylus and her’s laughter die as soon as you step foot into the bedroom. You don’t really care, though, and head towards the closet. Your fingers curl around the handle of a suitcase. You toss it onto the bed, the case splitting open, empty and ready to be used.

Shirts. Pants. Dresses. Tights. Socks. Bras. Underwear. Pajamas.

Whatever you come across, you toss it into the suitcase. You don’t even bother to fold the clothes, allowing them to knot together as the pile grows higher and higher. White noise fills your head. There’s ringing in your ear. You don’t even hear Sylus when he walks into the bedroom, too tunnel visioned to notice him. You turn around, a pair of slippers in your hands. You collide with Sylus’ hard chest, the man resting his hands on his hips as you barely look up at him.

“I asked you what you’re doing.” There’s annoyance in his voice. Irritation, even.

You don’t even look up at him, stepping around his frame as you toss the slippers into the suitcase. There’s movement in the doorway. The figure is gone before you can catch it. Eh. Whatever. You’re leaving anyways. It simply is not your problem anymore.

“I’m talking to you,” Sylus says. He groans and watches as you brush past him again. He snatches your wrist in his hand, his fingers hot against your skin. You try not to wince or flinch. The single look he gets of your face makes him pause. The streaked and ruined makeup. The way your fingers are covered in the remnants of red lip stick and black mascara from your efforts to wipe your face clean. It makes his heart ache at the sight, the man wanting to reach for you and bring you into his embrace just like he has always done when you needed him to be there. Oh, the irony. “What’s wrong? Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving,” you breathe the words out, “I don’t belong here anymore.”

“Leaving?” He’s baffled, a light scoff leaving his mouth. He waits for you to show him  a sign — any sign — that this is some kind of overreaction. That you are waiting for him to stop you before you can step foot out of the base’s doors.

You keep moving, though. Your movements are robotic at best. There is no emotion on your face as you continue to shove your belongings into the suitcase. He watches, as still as the period after a brutal and deadly battle. You continue to move, packing away the life that you had built together, purposefully leaving behind the items and clothes that he happily bought for you.

“What’s going on?” Sylus asks, bewildered. “Did I miss something?”

“No,” you shake your head, venom prominent in your voice. “You wanted to be here, remember? There’s no other place you would rather be.”

The way you throw his words — words that were never meant for you, by the way — right back into his face make Sylus pause. His red eyes scan your face, trying to silently peel back the layers of your mind to see what it is that he has done wrong. His lips pucker, eyes narrowing. So you know that his Hunter friend is here. Did you misinterpret the situation? Did you think that there were traces of romance and affection in his actions?

“Talk to me,” Sylus says, his eyes fixating on you. “Tell me what happened.”

“You didn’t show up,” you say.

You casually shrug as if this is common information, as if Sylus abandoning you is now a common occurrence. Wasn’t it you who decided to act? To give yourself away for months for an audience of people who don’t even know who you are? He follows you as you walk to the bathroom. The cabinets are opened up and you pluck your hair care products and skincare regimen into your hands, walking back out just to dump them into your bag.

“What didn’t I show up for?” He asks, truly confused as to why you are suddenly holding this grudge against him.

“My play, Sylus,” the words are as bitter as your voice, “you missed my play. Not like you would care anyways since you’d rather be here with her instead of supporting your fucking girlfriend—”

“So you’re jealous,” Sylus comments, “that’s what this is about?”

“Jealous?” you turn around and stare at him as if you were just struck by a bolt of lightning. Your body feels as if it was. A tingling sensation spreads across your skin and you are sure that if you were to touch him, he would explode from the electricity of your fury. “You think I’m leaving over jealousy?”

“Isn’t that what this is about?” he shakes his head, already ready to dismiss this whole argument.

“You missed opening night, Sylus.”

“No,” the white haired man shakes his head, taking a step closer to you, “I didn’t. That’s next week.”

“It was tonight.”

His body goes cold. He opens his mouth to say something, red eyes piercing into yours. You swear you can see the vibrancy and color fade when he finally realizes. You wait a couple more seconds for him to speak but he says nothing. You scoff.

“I got a standing ovation, by the way,” you comment as you step towards the bag. You zip it up, using as much effort as you can to close the stuffed bag. “The director called me a visionary. Said my performance of a wife scorned felt real.”

“Babe…”

“Who knew that my boyfriend ditching me for some woman he met a few months ago would be the perfect motivation to have a breakdown on stage? Not me,” you laugh. Actually laugh. It’s both bitter and angry, the sound ready to snap like your emotions. The bag is zipped shut and you push it onto the ground, lifting the handle.

“I didn’t ditch you,” Sylus tries to reason. It only makes you laugh.

“Didn’t you?” you are quick to counter, an expert on keeping him accountable. “I thought you were dead at some point. Your empty seat made me think that one of your business deals went wrong. So I rushed home as fast as I could to come see you but you,” you let out a bitter laugh. One that is filled with anger and resentment. “You just had to be with her. So yes, Sylus. You fucking ditched me.”

You turn and stare at him, your gaze sharp enough to kill. Sylus easily meets your gaze, allowing the blade of your fury to rest along his neck. His expression softens, the weight of his guilt finally resting upon his shoulders. He only wishes that you would gift him the weight of your anger so that he may hold it for you, even if it means giving you just one minute of peace where the sins of his actions don’t poison your blood.

“I…” you begin but fall quiet. Your fists ball at your sides, nails digging into your palm. The pain grounds you, the stinting feeling of torn flesh rooting you into the earth. “I needed you tonight, Sylus, and you weren’t there. Ever since I was cast, you drifted away. You found comfort in another—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” His red eyes burn into yours, his own anger and passion coming into play. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence. I have not found comfort in another woman.”

“Do you really believe that?” you whisper. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that you paid more attention to her than me?”

“Yes! Because it’s the truth!” Sylus raises his voice, his emotions getting the best of him.

The man has fought so hard to remain in control. Control of his life, the world around him, his emotions. Sylus has always managed his own expectations — and disappointments — by controlling those around him. He used people and tossed them to the side when he no longer needed them. He would never do such a thing to you. He can’t even fathom how you can believe that when he has done everything in his power to keep you happy.

It’s his fault, though. Sylus’ wishful thinking of you being happy, of living your life on the stage, was not in vain. He wanted to try and clean up Onychinus’ problems before your show’s time came. Sure, he got distracted by an interesting woman, but he never would have dreamed of tossing you to the side in favor of her. At least, that’s what he thinks. The poor man doesn’t even realize that the woman he has replaced you with has already gotten a hold of his heart. The one thing he swore that nobody else — other than you — would touch.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, rolling your eyes.

“I’m not the one who made up an elaborate plot in her head about something that isn’t true!” Sylus says, waving his hands around.

“Isn’t it?” you ask, trying to keep your voice and body as steady as possible. “You were here. With her. I was there where you weren’t. You claim that you feel nothing for her but when I came home…you looked at her like you once looked at me.”

Your words are like a knife in his heart. It causes him to exhale, the air being knocked free from his chest. His eyes gloss over, your accusations growing more and more true as you build your case against him.

“When I first got the role, you were excited for me. You even said that you couldn’t wait to see me on stage,” you laugh again but this time it’s softer. Sadder. The acceptance of your crucified relationship finally settling in your stomach. “I believed you when you said that I was going to be great. That I was going to fulfill my dreams and that you were happy to watch. I want to believe you now but all I can see is a man I used to love. All I see is an honest man who has turned into a liar right in front of my eyes.”

Silence hangs between you. Your breathing is slow, controlled. Sylus’ is erratic. He takes a step forward but you draw back, placing more distance between the two of you. You look him up and down once, taking in his appearance.

He wears a nice button down dress shirt. It’s white, a color that he rarely ever wears but you noticed that he puts on a whole lot more when she’s around. His pants are the fancy tailored ones and his shoes are shined so well that you swear you can see your reflection in. Your gaze flickers to his hands. He isn’t wearing the ring you got him, the one you bought to match the one he slid on your finger. A promise that the two of you will be together forever…it has vanished from his fingers. It makes you want to cry all over again. How could he have not seen the signs?

“Why didn’t you show up?” you ask.

“What?” Sylus breathes out.

“Why didn’t you show up?” you ask him again, doubling down.

“I didn’t think that it was today,” he begins but he quickly shuts up when you shake your head.

“No,” your eyes darken. “What was the reason for not being here tonight like you said?”

“Did I say that?”

“Sylus!” you yell his name, the word echoing across the top floor of his skyscraper. “Stop! Why weren’t you there?!”

“She needed me.” The answer leaves him before he can stop it. He whispers the short sentence. Oh, how he regrets even saying it in the first place. “She needed someone.”

“I needed someone too,” your voice cracks under the pressure. The tears begin to fall from your eyes, rolling down your cheeks in hot and salty streams. “I needed my boyfriend to share this night with me. To celebrate my accomplishment.”

“It’s not like that,” Sylus dares to step forward, swallowing the lump in his throat, “she needed help with a job—”

“Does nobody else work at that damn fucking Association?! Why does she need my boyfriend to help her?!” you yell, silencing him. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath to try and steady your nerves. “I’m done, Sylus. I’m leaving, okay? Don’t even bother trying to talk to me again.”

You grab the handle of your suitcase, tearing your gaze off of him. The more you look at him, the angrier you get, and that is the last thing you need. You take a step towards the door. His voice stops you.

“Don’t go,” Sylus says, resting his hand on your shoulder, “please don’t leave me.”

“You already left me, Sylus,” you say with a resigned sigh. “And take your damn hand off of me. You don’t get to touch me anymore.”

“Let’s talk it through,” he says, “please?”

Sylus reaches out for you again. He grabs your wrist, drawing you back towards him. What he didn’t anticipate, though, is the way you swing your hand towards him, your palm connecting with his cheek. A stinging sensation spreads across his face. A red imprint begins to form on his face, the lines of your fingers etched into his skin. You don’t even feel guilty about it.

“You haven’t even said sorry,” your voice cracks, the palm of your hand stinging. Tears flow from your eyes. The drops fall to the ground after they roll off your cheeks. You don’t bother to catch them or to wipe them away. You let them fall. “No apology for missing my opening night. No apology for choosing her over me…it’s cruel, Sylus. You’re cruel. We’re done. Don’t come near me.”

The couch is uncomfortable. It has been since last week when your co-star broke it during rehearsal. He thought that jumping on it would be a good idea — as if it ever is — and now here you are, sitting on a spring that pokes directly into the place where the sun doesn’t shine.

You crack your neck and knuckles, exhaling all of the air that’s in your lungs. You don’t even pay attention to your fellow actor. There’s too much on the line, especially since it’s the last show of the play’s run in Linkon. After this…you have no idea what you’re going to do. What you do know, though, is that you’re finally going to find the happiness that you deserve.

Especially since the stage is now forever stained from your one-sided breakup with Sylus.

The creak of the curtains forces you to look up. The blinding lights are familiar now. The stinging sensation makes itself at home behind your eyes while you blink, waiting for your cue. You slowly stand. Your eyes adjust to the bright lights, the people in the crowd now coming into view. Sylus’ empty seat — one that you asked to remain reserved for him, for what reason, you’ll never know — is just to the side. You stare at it whenever you need the emotional push, to throw yourself into your sorrows for the crowd to watch. Your soul laid bare on the stage while your tears burn down your cheeks, hands outstretched towards the crowd as if they can save you from drowning in your depression.

The seat isn’t empty though. You blink a couple of times, wondering if it was just the trick of the light or if someone actually dared to sit in the spot.

It’s Sylus.

His red eyes meet yours through the darkness and just for a moment — a second so brief you barely catch it — it feels as if it is just the two of you inside of the theater. It feels as if there is no crowd, no audience watching as you freeze on stage. It is just you and him. Nobody else.

You swallow the iron lump that has formed in your throat. The pressure is immeasurable, the mass dragging along your esophagus. It makes you want to throw up, to cry and throw yourself on the ground. To let the wooden stage swallow you whole so you can disappear from life without even having to say a word or lift a finger.

“I’ve been married to Dean for five years.” Your voice is stronger this time. More resolute. There is no shake in it just the emotionless motivations of a she-devil, of a woman scorned…of an emotionally battered woman who is too tired to show how she is truly feeling. “And in those five years, he has let me down five times. This is the story of how Dean and I fell in and out of love.”

You force your gaze away from Sylus, turning around as the play continues as if this isn’t happening. You settle yourself as you cross the stage, linking your arm with your co-star’s, forcing a smile onto your face.

Admittedly, you are distracted. Sylus’ white hair and red eyes always catch your attention. Hell, it’s how you noticed him in the first place when you showed up to some random auction. You were bored out of your mind and was just ditched — ironic, right? — by your date who left you to pay the bill at the restaurant. You wandered around the N109 Zone, finding your way into a fancy art exhibit where a silent auction was taking place. The auction was dimly lit but Sylus still managed to stand out like the devil in the night, his appearance subconsciously luring you closer and closer until you stood beside him in front of a painting that depicted a war torn field. Dragon bones were laid out in the middle of the painting and hanging in the sky is a bright star, one that burns as brightly as he once said you did.

You shake your head, forcing the memory out of your head as soon as it even formed. The world of the story moves all around you while you remain stagnant on the stage unable to move as the character of Dean makes a move on another woman right in front of you. The actors on stage stop mid-movement. A spotlight is turned on, the light directed at you. You stare directly at it, gaze slipping to your ex-partner.

“This was the first time Dean betrayed me. It was five years ago. He took me to some party on his campus. Told me that he needed to talk to his friends and that I should wait for him out front. Little did I know, he had his tongue shoved down another woman’s throat. His friend felt bad for me. He texted me a picture of it. It didn’t make the pain hurt any less. That was the alcohol’s job.”

The crowd laughs. Sylus doesn’t. His gaze remains on you and you alone. He follows your shadowy figure as you cross the stage, walking off as this so called Dean and his first affair have their time to shine. A look of detestment flashes across his face at the sight. Dean and his temporary lover, if you could even call it that, fall onto the couch, their movements exaggerated.

Is this what you thought he was doing with her? Could you really think of him as a man who would ever betray you like that?

Dean and the woman kiss. Sylus shudders. He closes his eyes, just for a brief moment, before he hears your voice again. His eyes open immediately after, watching as you stand in the middle of the stage while the set is changed behind you.

“I broke up with him. I was the fool, though, for thinking that he could change. I took him back not even a month later. The bed was cold without him…I missed his warmth and the way he held me in his arms.” Your eyes move back to Sylus. He sucks in a breath, hanging onto every word. “I missed the security he gave me. The sweet kisses as he vowed to me that he would never be swayed again. I was just a kid in love, could you blame me?”

His heart lurches inside of his chest. As the play continues to unfold in front of his eyes, the more and more Sylus sees himself in Dean, the villain of the story. He can’t even begin to imagine why your character would put herself through all of that pain and suffering, of watching the man you dedicated your life to slip free from your grasp. To sit and stare as he plays mind games right in front of you, claiming that what she said is ludacris and that he would never do such a thing.

And to think that he said the same to you.

Sylus sinks into his seat. Roses sit at his feet, a bouquet made special just for you. He labored over it for hours, wondering if you would even accept the roses — or any flower for that matter! Would you accept him? Let him apologize and say sorry for the things he didn’t even say. His heart feels like it is about to fly out of his chest, ready to crumble under the pressure of you and your judgment. Whatever you decide to give him, whatever you decide to yell or scream at him…he knows that he deserves it. He deserves it all.

The play goes on. Sylus is completely enamored by your acting, the way you are able to show a bright smile to the new “friends” Dean introduces to you all while looking like you are ready to fall apart at a moment’s notice. He is infatuated with the way you lay your soul onto the stage for all to see. The way you treat him and everyone else with a casualness an old friend would have. It makes him feel welcome despite feeling an immense amount of dread overtake his body the more and more he sees how the men in your character’s life continue to let her down over and over again.

Sylus can’t believe that he allowed himself to treat you this way. He can’t believe how easy it was to lie about work, to offer his time to some measley Hunter that could barely remember what his favorite wine is or if he prefers a rifle to a pistol. He can’t believe that he allowed himself to create distance between the two of you, that he didn’t pick up on the silent cues you gave him when you tried to bring him back into bed for five more minutes of cuddles, the way you tried your best to stay up for him after a long day of rehearsal knowing that those ten minutes of conversation were enough to keep you invested in your relationship.

Sylus is mad at himslf for being the maker of his own destruction. That he is the only person responsible for pushing you away.

“Love is like a drop into the misty depths where either a bed of clouds or rocks wait for you at the bottom,” you begin, capturing his attention all over again. “It is a leap of faith. A shot in the dark that the person you have let into your life is the one who is supposed to make you happy.”

You take your time in walking across the stage. The play has reached it’s ending. Dean’s relationship with your character has evolved into a loveless marriage. Three years together. Three years of time wasted. You can’t help but relate to it, the feeling of your own time being robbed from you. It angers you more than it should.

“I wish there was a warning sign,” you look down at your feet, the tears already forming in your eyes, “because when I hit the bottom, it felt worse than what I imagined death to feel like.”

You raise your head. Your eyes meet Sylus’ in the crowd. His lips are parted ever so slightly, the man sitting on the edge of his seat. You just wished he looked like this a month ago and not now. It counts as something, you suppose.

“I used to think that Dean loved me. I used to think that there was a piece inside of me who always saw the good in him…that he wasn’t a man who used people at his disposal just because he felt like it. You know, I have stayed up so many nights wondering why he would do this to me. So many nights lost when I could have been asleep and on the nights I did sleep, the dreams were filled of a life without him. I berated myself for dreaming of such things…that only a horrible person could ever dream of a life away from the one who made them the happiest. Does that make me horrible?”

Sylus wants to answer. He wants to be the one to reach out and bring you into his arms, to keep you in his life for as long as he can. He wants to be the one to dry your tears, to be the man you deserve to have in your life. He can’t help but wonder if you, too, had dreams about leaving him while you laid in bed beside him…in his arms.

“Honey!” your co-star cries out. You remain stagnant in the middle of the stage, unable to look away from Sylus. “Clean this up! If I have to do damage control over your outburst at the party, then I refuse to be the one to clean.”

“I just wanted the party to go well.” Tears begin to roll down your cheeks, the lines forever burned on your tongue.

“Nobody cares about the damn party,” the actor slams the cabient.

The wood rattles. You close your eyes, the audience feeling the same fear as your character. The actor quickly rushes to your side, grabbing your jaw with his hand. He yanks it towards him, his face dangerously close to yours. Sylus quietly gasps with other audience members.

“Nobody cares about you, quite frankly. Always trying too hard but it will never be enough.”

“Dean, please!” you recite the lines with desperation in your voice.

“When will it be enough for you?”

“I don’t love you anymore!”

The words echo throughout the theater. The actor who plays Dean slowly exits the stage. The lights begin to dim, a single spotlight focused on you. The characters from the show line up behind you, their bodies barely visible as cries begin to overtake your body. Your hands clutch the area over your heart, the sounds of your sobs and cries filling the theater. The people in the audience begin to cry with you, gently patting away the tears with a pocketed handkerchief.

“I just wanted to be loved!” you cry out, your voice both pained and desperate. “I just wanted to be someone worthy of love! To be someone worthy of being treated like a first choice, not the second. I let him consume me. I let his desire and lust control my life and scrutinized myself for being the reason he didn’t love me anymore. I don’t even know who I am anymore!” 

Your cries grow louder and louder. Sylus tears up himself, unable to bring himself to look away as you crumble to your knees.

“Why me?! Why did you have to choose me?” You yell, looking up to the audience. Sylus sits in the wake of your gaze, trapped. “Why did you have to be the one who ripped my heart to shreds? I don’t understand! Please! Why am I not worthy of your love? Why am I the one who has to suffer for your mistakes? It’s not fair! It’s not fair!”

Your voice cracks, the scream of your anguish chilling Sylus to his core. He sits back into his seat, all of the air drained from his body, breathless as you slowly rise to your feet, the tears never ending. Your eyes find his again, the tremor in your body easing.

“I hate myself because of you.” The sentence slices through Sylus’ chest. “I hate myself for loving you…for making up excuses time and time again on why you are so cruel to me. I hate myself for allowing you to hurt me. I hate myself for not leaving earlier. I wish…I wish that I could bring myself to hate you, but I can’t. I don’t think I ever will.” You pause. You take a shuddered breath and close your eyes, allowing the warmth of the spotlight to envelop you like a hug. “Maybe we are right for each other. We are the only people I know who are miserable…who love to live in misery and wallow in our sorrows. Is it bad to say that I want more? That I need more?”

You laugh. It’s bitter. A reflection of how you feel on the inside. Unfortunate, but true.

“Maybe I’m not one of those people. Maybe I’m not built to live a happy life. Is it ironic that I now realize that I don’t want to be the third person in our marriage? That I want to be treated better than you have ever treated me. Is it bad to admit that I wish the old you would come back to me? The same one that held me when my dog died. The same one that was there for me when I graduated from college…” you go quiet, staring into the distance. “My aunt used to tell me that hindsight is a privlege to have. She used to tell me that in the real world, not many people are able to get a second chance like I have. She held my hands the night your affair was exposed.”

You hold your hands out in front of you, staring at the palms. Makeup and tears stain your skin. A reminder of the true storm that destroys your mind. A frown overtakes your face.

“She held me close,” your voice lowers but the microphone picks it up, loudening your whispers, “and told me that the next time I have the chance to run, I should take it. That I will regret not rushing towards happiness that I deserve and that the road will only get tougher and tougher the longer I put it off…Hey Dean? Do you remember that joke you always said? The one that used to make me laugh till I was breathless? You said it recently and…I found myself unwilling to play along anymore. I don’t love you anymore, Dean…I don’t know if I will ever again.”

Sylus has never known what it felt like to be nervous. Ever since he was born, he has never felt what people describe to be “erratic butterflies” that flutter in your stomach. He has heard many accounts from people — especially those who was succumbed to bullets from his guns — about fear and anxiety. The emotions are so foreign to him. Even when the two of you began to date, Sylus knew that you were the one for him. That it was going to be you and him against the world. He never felt those fluttering butterflies in his stomach until now.

He waits outside of the backstage door. People from the audience stand outside alongside fans. He keeps his distance, wanting you to have your moment before he eventually destroys it. The man glances down at the roses. Nausea begins to overtake his senses. He tries to steel his nerves, to make the sensation go away and leave him alone. It doesn’t, though. He deserves it.

The metal doors swing open and people cheer and yell out your name. You exit with a bright smile on your face, waving to them as flashes of lights pop off. He sighs, shaking his head as he turns on his heel, ready to walk away. Sylus isn’t even sure if he is ready to face you yet. How could he? You poked a hole into his lies, exposing him. He wasn’t even aware of what he was doing to you…the way his words and indifference slowly killed you while you were making something for yourself.

“Sylus.”

A shock of life flashes in his stomach. The butterflies are dead, the man turning around to look down at you. You stand in front of him with crossed arms and a scowl, annoyance written all over your face. You raise an eyebrow, glancing down at the flowers.

“These are for you,” Sylus extends the flowers in your direction, hoping to whatever god is out there that you’ll take them. You don’t. You just stare at the red petals, the white baby’s breath scattered into the mix. “You…you were phenomenal tonight. Truly…you made me cry. I didn’t think it was possible for me to.”

“Why are you here?” you ask, cutting straight to the point. It takes Sylus aback. The butterflies come back.

“I wanted to…” his voice trails off. He clears his throat, trying to dispel some of the awkwardness that remains in his body. “We need to talk.”

“Do we?” you counter.

“Yes,” Sylus’ lips press into a thin line, amused. “There are things I have to say to you.”

“What if I don’t want to hear it?”

“Then I’ll leave,” he says. He means it, too. “I will leave you alone for the rest of your life if you want me to. I know that I have been an asshole and you have every right to be angry with me…at least let me drive you home. It’s snowing. You shouldn’t be walking out on your own.”

“Fine.”

Sylus’ eyes widen ever so slightly, his surprise on full display for you to see. Your roll your eyes at the sight, taking the flowers from him. Your gaze drops down to his ring finger. The black ring you got him sits there, the spot no longer vacant like it was before. And yet…you feel nothing.

You follow Sylus as he walks you towards his car. He stands close to you, shielding you from the harsh wind as snow flakes fall onto your flowers. You barely have a grip on them. The flowers are ready to fly away with the wind at any given moment, to be lost in the city of Linkon. Sylus wouldn’t blame you for letting them go. He knows that the flowers are a shot in the dark, a poor attempt to see that smile on your face because, well, you always smiled whenever he brought you flowers after a long day of work. Seeing your grin was like a shot of espresso that revitalized him after business deals gone wrong.

Oh, how he misses that smile.

He opens up the passenger side door. You let out an exasperated huff. He assumes that you rolled your eyes at him, too. You smack the flowers into his chest, slowly lowering yourself into the seat. Once your foot is inside, Sylus places the roses — which you immediately toss into the basckseat — and closes the door behind you, jogging to the other side of the car and gets inside. The car comes to life and heat from the vents help melt some of the icy tension in your body.

“Feel okay?” Sylus asks. You hum in response.

The man drives the car away from the theater, putting as much distance between the two of you and the damned place as possible. The drive is quiet, a song about heartbreak plays over the radio. You don’t pay attention. Instead, you stare outside of the car window, watching as Sylus drives through the empty streets. Snowflakes hit the foggy window. You tap your finger against them, letting the heat from your body melt the icy designs.

Sylus watches you from the corner of his eye. The butterflies have returned to his stomach. He ignores the feeling and clears his throat, the car coming to a slow stop at the red light.

“Can I take you somewhere?” Sylus asks. It’s another shot in the dark. One that he hopes you’ll take.

“Fine,” you mutter under your breath, keeping your gaze fixed out of the window.

Sylus nods once and turns left, heading away from the city and towards the river. You barely pay attention, opting to stare out at the snowy landscape. The lights of the city slowly disappear, the car taking you up the side of the city where there’s a lookout of the city. Minutes pass and the car finds itself in a parking spot, the tall man slipping free from the car. He moves to your side and opens up the door, offering you his hand. You ignore it and shove your hands into your jacket pockets, stepping away from him and towards a bench that overlooks Linkon City.

You sit down and Sylus takes his spot beside you. The silence from the car is replaced with the quiet sound of the wind, snowflakes flying past your face. You hug your arms close to your body, slightly shivering. Sylus is quick to wrap a scarf around your neck, the warmth from his hands lingering in the fabric. You contain an eye roll, quietly thanking him before the silence takes over once again.

“Sylus,” you exhale his name, steam from your breath evaportating in front of your eyes, “now is the time to talk.”

“I miss you.” He stares straight ahead, just barely seeing the look of shock — or is it disgust — on your face. “I also want to say…I’m sorry.”

“Is that all?” you ask.

“No,” he shakes his head, finally turning to look at you. “I want you to know that I heard you loud and clear. I heard you a month ago when you left and…I heard you during the play. I’m sorry for pushing you away. I…I don’t know what else to say or how to make things better between us but I miss you. I missed you the moment I let you step through that door. I never should have.”

The silence is less ugly now. At least you can breathe again, the cold air keeping you wide awake and alert. It even helped alleviate the strain behind your eyes. Dark gray clouds hang low in the sky. If you were to ask Sylus, he would bring one down to earth for you.

“I told her to never contact me again. I gave her information to someone else in Onychinus that she can turn to when she needs help,” he continues, answering the questions that pop into your mind. “I want you. Not her. I should have made that very clear and prioritized you.”

“No shit,” you mutter, looking down at your bare hands.

“Do you hate me?” he asks. You hesitate to respond.

A piece of skin pokes up beside your nail. You glare at it, a scowl overtaking your face. With the tips of your nails, you slowly peel it back. Your finger stings but the ice cold air numbs the pain almost instantly. Sylus sighs and places a hand on top of yours, stopping you from doing it any further. You turn to look up at him, to yell at him to let go and to not touch you, but as soon as your eyes meet his red ones: you’re a goner.

“You hurt me,” you whisper, voice cracking.

“I know,” he nods. He swallows the lump that formed in his throat. “And I know that there is nothing I can do or say to erase that pain. You have every right to be mad at me. Hell, I’m angry at myself for not seeing it any sooner.”

“Okay.” You nod, unsure of what else to say.

“I want you back in my life,” he quietly pleads. Sylus’ voice feels small. You have never seen him like this before. It’s…confusing. “I…I haven’t been sleeping well. Not since you left. Is it selfish of me to ask you to come back?”

“Yes,” you immediately respond.

Sylus bites back a frown, tearing his gaze away from you and towards the snowy Linkon skyline. Your eyes move to the line of his nose. The way the corner of his lips tug downward into a frown no matter how hard he tries to keep it away. You finally notice the bags under his eyes, the way his posture is slouched instead of its perfect state. You divert your gaze, gnawing at the inside of your cheek.

“I haven’t been sleeping well either,” you reply. Sylus’ head snaps to look back at you.

“Really?” he asks. You nod.

“It’s more of a…how can I sleep knowing that the man I was in love with chose everyone else over me kind of thing,” you say. You ignore the way Sylus’ expression breaks, the way his guily presents itself across his face. “I miss you, Sylus, but…”

“I know,” he finishes your sentence for you. He reaches out and gently moves your hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. You tilt your face to look at him. He lowers his voice, “I promise to be better. Just…give me another chance. Please.”

“I don’t know,” you shake your head, holding back the tears. “Can I trust you?”

“Yes,” he gushes.

“How will I know that you’re mine and not…theirs?” The question barely comes out as a whisper and yet it is all Sylus can hear. “I don’t know if I can go through that heartbreak again.”

“You won’t have to,” he takes your hands in his and pull them to his chest. Right where his heart sits, to be exact.

Your eyes meet his and you can see the gloss over them, the way he is holding back every urge to cry and show his vulnerability. You know that this is hard for him. To show his emotions in a way that is not anger or through death. You finally take off the final mask that Sylus wears. His soul is on a silver platter for you to take. For you to keep and protect until the end of time.

“I love you. There is nothing else that I know to be more true than the fact that I am in love with you and thet I have been so fucking blind to just how happy you make me,” Sylus says. You hang onto every word, subconsciously leaning towards him. “I regret every single choice I have made in the last months. If I could go back and do it all over it again: I would. It’s what you said in the play…hindsight is a privlege. It is a privlege that we have. That we can take for ourselves.”

“Sylus…”

“You can trust me,” he continues, “you know you can. It’ll be just the two of us. I promise.”

The wind whips around your bodies. One of Sylus’ hands leave yours, finding its way to your cheek. You lean into the warmth, closing your eyes as the memories flood back to you.

Everything went sour in a matter of months. Before that, the two of you were rock solid. You were happy. The two of you share memories that nobody else will have access to. You remember all of the countless nights you stayed up waiting for him, sleep ready to take you over just as he walked through the bedroom door. You remember all of the times he brought you flowers and kissed your cheek, claiming that you are the most beautiful woman in the world. You remember all of the times Sylus held you when you cried. He has been there for you through thick and thin…is that something you’re willing to give up?

“I’ll come back,” you open your eyes. A smile begins to form on his face. It fades when you begin to speak again, “but we need to take things slow, okay? One day at a time.”

“One day at a time,” Sylus repeats. His eyes drop down to your lips, his eye glowing at the sight. Your hands flatten against his chest, feeling his unsteady heartbeat before they slip up and around his neck. The man pulls you closer, his touch light and gentle. “May I kiss you? Please?”

He asks as if he’s been starving for years. You nod, fingers slipping into his white hair, his lips connecting with yours in a slow and tender kiss. You sigh into his lips, hungry for more. The man gives it to you but he gently takes your left hand away from his neck, bringing it down to your laps.

“Sy,” you whine, earning a smile from him.

A cold sensation slips up your ring finger. You gasp, surprised by its presence. You look down and see a dark silver band wrapped around your finger with a black rock sitting in the middle. It looks similar to the ring you bought Sylus. The same one that he’s wearing right now.

“What…”

“This is my vow to you,” Sylus gently places his finger under your chin, tilting it back up so that you look at him. “My vow that my heart belongs to you and you alone. I know things will take time between us but…I need you to know that this,” he taps the top of the ring, sending chills down your spine, “is what my future looks like with you.”

“Do you mean it?” you ask, mouth suddenly dry. He nods.

“I meant every single word. I’m yours. Completely and utterly yours.”

The scientist pursed their lips. “I’m not seeing a way to replicate this at our current level of understanding. Most of the blood we gathered was used for testing, and to use the remainder for trials that might not yield acceptable results would be unwise. As it stands, a change like this would have to happen in vitro. Altering an adult genetically would be far too expensive and risky.”

Ardmore shook her head, hearing all the wrong words. Unwise, risky? The whole operation was risky. Colonizing an alien planet was risky. It should be no problem for the team to take on another risk, or why else were they out here?

“That’s not good enough. We need the people alive today to be in a position to live here when the time comes.” She said firmly. “Not their children, or children’s children. I want solutions, not excuses.”

The scientist sighed. “Yes, General. We will work on it.”

“Good. I’ll get around to securing some more blood.” With that final word, Ardmore left the research labs. 

Jake Sully was a traitor to humanity and of course, he had raised another. If she had it her way, and she will have it her way, she would have both of you behind bars. But not before you served your purpose to humanity’s cause.

. . .

Jake's knee bobbed with a mind of its own. His ankles screamed out for a moment of rest, but the ache was overshadowed by the pain occupying his gut.

It'd been a day since Norm told him Tarsem was coordinating your rescue efforts and a day of radio silence. Dawn threatened to turn over yet another twenty-four hours without any news of your safety. The sun bled into the sky, scattering hues of pink and purple to chase away the night, but the beauty of the morning was lost on the Sullys.

For once, Jake was thankful for the Metkayina's distance. He didn't know how long he could keep up with his usual jolly appearance when he didn't know if his daughter was trapped or dead, if his successor was trapped or dead, or if his people would have to mourn another leader.

Aside from the crackle of the fire, the marui was quiet. The kids sat still for once, their burning questions festering under their skin and eating away at their sanity. They knew all they could do was wait to hear from Norm—that Jake and Neytiri wouldn't even be able to answer the questions they had—but the desire to ask remained.

Lo'ak, like his siblings, was restless. But like everything about Lo'ak, his feelings often manifested through action, whether it was a good idea or not. With one last look to ensure his parents weren't looking, he shot up to his feet and slid over to the exit.

"Stop." Neytiri's ears followed Lo'ak's path of motion before her head turned. Her gaze was curious rather than harsh, though it didn't seem like it when she scrutinized her son. "Where? Where do you have to be that is not with your family at this moment?"

Lo'ak sighed, ignoring his siblings' exasperated expressions. Neteyam didn't bother to pass him a scolding look, but he did dig his wrists into his eyes as if that would spare him from the sight of Lo'ak failing another interrogation. After all this time at Awa'atlu, he was more than acquainted with secondhand embarrassment on behalf of his brother's rash actions and recklessness.

Lo'ak simply responded, "Out."

"It's almost nightfall." She crossed her arms, unconvinced. "What do you need, out?"

"I can't stay here, just waiting to hear something," Lo'ak scoffed. He was angry—at himself, his father, the world, everything and everyone, and it coursed through his veins like poison, sucking hope dry. "If Norm hasn't got back to us now, maybe it's because—"

"No," Jake snapped, rising from his seat. It was no secret he was at his wit's end with Lo'ak—no matter what he said, the boy insisted on rebelling. Why couldn't he just sit still and listen?

Jake was afraid to accept the answer: Lo'ak was exactly like him. It was an odd dilemma that could only come from experiencing parenthood; if he was disappointed in Lo'ak for traits that came from him, was he disappointed in himself? Was he failing to save his son from the same recklessness that branded irreversible trauma onto the threads of his life?

He wanted to make his kids' lives better; instead, he was all too aware of his failure to do so.

Jake sucked in a slow breath as he regulated his initial response. "Don't say things you don't mean; you're angry and afraid. We all are, son."

"Dad—"

"Sit down, Lo'ak." Jake crossed the room to guide Lo'ak back to the fire. "You can't run when things get hard. We need to be there for each other in times like this."

"Be there for each other?" Lo'ak shook his father's hand off his shoulders. "You know who needed us 'in times like this?' Y/N. But we walked out on her for—for what? Dad, our family is still in danger. Nothing changed! We're just too far to do anything about it, and now she might be—"

"I said stop. You think I don't know that?" Jake cocked his head to the side, holding back the dam of guilt threatening to make a bad situation worse. "Huh? You think I—"

Lo’ak’s ears flattened against his head and Jake’s gaze narrowed, registering the shift in attention. No—recognition. Of what, Jake wasn’t sure.

He heard it the second time—a roar that sounded like home; a sound reminiscent of days up in the floating mountains, surrounded by sky terrors and wonders alike. Jake’s focus swept the room. The other three kids burned holes into Lo’ak’s head with their pointed stares, to which Lo’ak nodded once.

“What is it?” Jake’s hand found Lo’ak’s shoulder, turning him to face him.

“Tell him, Lo’ak,” Kiri whispered. Lo’ak couldn’t meet her gaze before Neytiri stepped between them, her shoulders squared.

“That was not an ilu. Or ikran,” she began, tilting her head, her steady glare chipping away at his stubborn resolve. “You know something. What do you have to tell us?”

“That…” Lo’ak’s eyes lifted. “Our sister is alive. And she's here.”

. . .

EARLIER

You and Tarsem had returned to High Camp around the afternoon, alerting no one to your presence. 

Tarsem’s touch lingered on your body. The streaks of the paint he had dragged on your skin had dried under the sweltering sun, cracking as you bent this way and that. He watched you as you stuffed more supplies into your bags, entranced by the way the beads swayed with your movement. 

“And if they don’t keep you?” He asked.

You chewed on your lip. “I’m not safe here. Whether the reef people accept me or not, I can’t stay here. Maybe I’ll find somewhere nearby their new village to wait out the worst of this manhunt.”

Tarsem dragged his feet closer, stopping behind you. He nudged his nose against your cheek. “What of your father? Shouldn’t you tell Norm?”

“I’ll stop by and see them. All of them.” You sighed. “You can tell Norm after I leave. But don’t let him make any calls.”

“As you wish.” He smiled. “And what of me?”

You huffed a fond laugh, turning to give him your full attention. “What of you?”

“You’re leaving me behind,” he clarified teasingly, “I’m wounded.”

You snickered and hugged him tight. “You have much to do at home, where you belong. Running a clan should keep you busy enough to forget me.”

“You don’t plan on returning?”

You thought for a moment. “Not on purpose.”

Tarsem made a soft noise. “Now you really wound me, yawne.”

“Tarsem…” You pulled back with a knowing smile. “I’m in this chapter of my life where I don’t know where I’m going. All I have is the hope that the Great Mother will reveal all in time, just as she did with Katir. To stay here where I could be captured and used to fulfill their sick schemes would be foolish, tìyawn (love). You said it yourself, too: you also have responsibilities that don’t promise a future. That doesn’t mean I won’t always keep you right here,” you held your hand over your heart. “close to me.”

He was silent. You hoped he understood what you were trying to say.

Eventually, he laughed softly with a shake of his head. “As always,” he hummed, “you are right.” He leaned forward and kissed your cheek. “As you hold me close to your heart, I will do the same for you. You always have a home with me should you ever return.”

You smiled gratefully, pulling him back into an embrace. You breathed in deeply, memorizing his scent, how he felt under your hands, and how it felt to let him go. Literally and figuratively. 

“Take some of those proposals from the trash, hm?” You suggested.

His lips quirked up. “Maybe.”

You kissed him softly before mounting Katir, whispering goodbye. He did the same and remained on the perch long after you left. 

. . .

PRESENT

Lo’ak led his family through the waters. The Metkayina people didn’t spare them much attention even though they left the village with a horde of ilus. The family cut through the sharp waters beyond the reef. Lo’ak was eager to be in the lead, keeping the details close to his chest so his parents could see it for themselves—see you and what you’d become with their own eyes.

“There,” Lo’ak’s hand lifted to the distance. Sparks of biolumenesence peeked out from behind a rock. Long, narrow wings blotted out stars until they refolded with a low growl. 

“Lo’ak,” Jake hissed, “Are you—”

“I’m sure, I’m sure!” Lo’ak insisted, diving below a cresting wave and resurfacing. “Come on!”

He was the first to jump onto the rock, nearly slipping and cracking his skull open. He called your name over the rushing waves, the grin on his face seeping into his words. 

The towering stormglider turned to Lo’ak, bending its neck to refamiliarize itself with the boy’s scent. When the rest of the family arrived, it planted its forelegs firmly into the ground and shrieked at the new strangers. Jake yanked Lo’ak behind him, shielding his daughters. Neytiri held her hand to block Neteyam from surging forward, shooting a confused look at Jake.

“What the hell is this, boy?” Jake threw over his shoulder, keeping his gaze trained on the stormglider.

“Woah, woah, woah,” A soft voice underscored the stormglider’s low snarl. 

Jake’s blood ran cold. He blinked, eyes darting through the night rapidly for some hint that it was really you he was hearing and not the echoes in his head. You sounded tired. The bright girl that always occupied his memories felt distant. 

His own fault. 

The stormglider backed down under your hands. Jake’s chest tightened in anticipation, wondering—would you push him away if he tried to hold you, even now?

You emerged from the shadow of Katir’s wing. The moonlight graced your damp skin, the constant crash of waves soaking your hair. You toyed with the beads on your garments almost childishly, chewing on your lip while trying to pick apart every single expression you were met with. 

“Y/N,” Neytiri whispered, stepping forward experimentally. Her eyes were wide, swinging between you and your winged companion.

Lo’ak was the first to push past his family, screaming, “You’re okay!” He crashed into you, pulling you in tightly. “We thought you were dead!”

You grunted as he dropped his weight, laughing hoarsely and patting his back. 

“Thank the Great Mother, you’re okay,” Kiri’s voice was tearful, worming her way into the embrace. Tuk’s giddy laughter was next, leaping onto her siblings and joining the pile. 

Neteyam inched forward with a wide smile on his face. He shoved his siblings aside and pulled you into a hug. “We leave for a few months and you almost get yourself killed.”

“Now you know how it feels to worry,” you shot back, grateful their playful moods distracted you from the lump forming in your throat. You could feel him tremble in your arms and you hoped he didn’t pick up the same from you; one more word and you might break down.

Your siblings parted from you when Jake cleared his throat. 

You stood straight the moment you locked eyes with him, blinking back the tears you knew were coming. All your anger seemed foreign to you; as much as you tried, you couldn’t bring yourself to hate him, not when you faced something worse than death and you leaned on his memory for comfort.

This was Jake—the only father you’ve ever known. The two of you were a team before anyone else came into the mix. 

You wanted to feel like a team again. 

He sauntered forward, swiping at his nose. He put his hands on his hips. “Can’t keep out of trouble, huh?” He chuckled breathily. He didn’t hide his nerves very well.

“Jake,” Neytiri scolded. She approached you, slinging her bow around her torso and holding your face in her hands. “You are safe, that is all that matters.”

“I was getting to that,” Jake retorted, smiling softly. Neytiri allowed him to take her spot in front of you but kept her arms around your shoulders. “You’ve…I see you’ve been up to some things.”

You could tell he was gearing up to something profound and cut him off. You didn’t want to talk about the elephant in the room. Spoiling this happy scene with old baggage would be silly. You were fine, he seemed fine. There was no need to talk about it. Right?

You glanced over your shoulder. “This is Katir.”

Thankfully, Jake was as bad of a communicator as you were. He didn’t push back when you rerouted the conversation. Somehow, that made you feel worse.

“How?” Neytiri asked softly.

“We didn’t bond like you would,” you explain. “Sacred seeds wouldn’t stop bothering me until I traveled into his territory. We fought for a bit, then I healed his wounds.” You smile over your shoulder at your stormglider. “He hasn’t left my side since, even though he’s had so many opportunities to run off.”

Neytiri was quiet, her eyes drifting between you and your father. “I knew it—our very own slotsyal makto. These things happen for a reason.”

You beamed up at her and she returned the smile, squeezing you gently. She noted, “You feel different.”

You sucked in a sharp breath. “A lot happened.”

Lo’ak swiped at your beaded garments disapprovingly. “What’s all this?”

“What’s what?” You maintained a neutral expression but heat crawled up your neck. 

Neteyam circled around you with a narrowed gaze. “Who made these for you?”

“Stop interrogating her,” Kiri snapped, pursing her lips. “It looks great, sister. And I’m sure whoever made it is great as well…” she teased.

“Kiri.” You hissed, warmth blooming across your face.

“No, no, I want to hear the answer.” Jake leaned closer, poking your side. You yelped, shuffling back into Neytiri to escape his tickling fingers. “Is that— is that paint?”

“I—”

“Oooh, you’re in trouble!” Tuk sang, jumping up and down. “You’re courting someone!”

“Eugh,” Lo’ak gagged. “You’ve been so busy, bro, slow down. Gross.” Neteyam scrunched his nose up beside him.

“Guys.” You whined, withering from embarrassment. You knew they’d make some comments about your new look, and you expected them to read between the lines. Much to your discomfort…

Jake squared his stance, glancing at Neytiri. “That’s paint for sure.”

“I can see that,” Neytiri deadpanned.

“You're not gonna say something about this?” Jake mumbled incredulously. “Don’t you remember when we played with paint?”

“Played?”

Jake gave her an exasperated look.

Neytiri laughed softly. The sound sparked warmth in your soul and a smile of your own. It’d been so long since you heard her laugh freely. 

“I remember just fine.” She promised, amused. Light danced in her eyes. “You should remember your daughter is a young woman.”

Jake scoffed, rolling his eyes at his mate. He tugged you from her embrace and led you off to the side conspiratorially. “Don’t listen to her. You’re my little girl, always.”

The declaration hit you harder than you expected.

“How about you tell me who your little friend is?” Jake continued.

You cleared your throat, swiping roughly at your nose and mumbling your answer.

“Huh?”

“Tarsem… might have helped me settle back into High Camp.” You spoke up, avoiding his gaze.

“No way.” Lo’ak snorted. “How did—”

You shot him a glare and Netyam elbowed him in the side, as if he wasn’t trying to hide a smile himself. 

Jake was eerily quiet, nodding slowly. He opened his mouth to speak his mind but thought better of it, tilting his head. “...Huh.”

“Nothing crazy happened,” You lied. “We just hung out.”

“Huh.” 

You rolled your eyes playfully when your siblings giggled behind their hands, ducking out from Jake’s arms.

“Hey, I’m not gonna say anything.” Jake protested, holding his hands up in surrender.

“That always fixes things,” you muttered venomously. It’s like all you do now is run away.

You saw him deflate in your periphery and winced. You said you’d leave it alone, the voice in your head reminded you, but your impulse was quick to ignore your conviction. Your eyes made their way around your family’s awkward expressions before snapping to Jake. 

“Sorry, I—”

“It’s okay,” he held up his hand, ironically validating your point. “It’s fine.” 

Neytiri took charge, changing the subject for the second time that night. “You can’t return to the forest.”

Your eyes finally left your father, clearing your throat as you collected your thoughts. “I know. I’ll fly around until I find a good enough campsite and… go from there.”

“No!” Tuk cried, dashing to your side and stomping her foot. “No, no, no! She has to stay.”

“Yeah.” Lo’ak nodded. “Dad, you can ask them to let her stay, right?”

Your heart thundered in your chest; no matter the conversation, it always came back to you, Jake, and the question of whether he would fight for you.

Katir’s head shot up abruptly, startling the family out of the building tension. His wings flared. Your family parted to let you through to him. You held onto his crest and shushed him.

“What’s wrong?” You whispered. 

Katir snorted roughly, and then you heard it—skimwings cutting through the waves and their riders howling in warning. Metkayina warriors hurtled towards you, weapons brandished. They leapt off their mounts onto the rocks, sinking low in a squat as they studied the new stanger in their midst.

“Woah, woah,” Jake stepped between them, “Let’s all take a minute, okay?”

“Jake Sully, you are out late tonight,” A broad man emerged from the squad, a woman of equal threat flanking him. “Up to no good?”

“Tonowari, Ronal,” Jake greeted them hurriedly. “This—”

“You bring another sky person to our home?” Ronal hissed, and you mustered all your courage to avoid shrinking under her glare. “You test our benevolence.”

“I know, I know,” Jake grabbed your shoulders and brought you forward. “But this isn’t just any sky person, this is my first daughter. Born on Pandora, and I’ve practically raised her since. She brings no metal weapons, no metal transport.” 

Tonowari and Ronal scrutinized you. You met their stare without fear, finding your voice.

“I don’t mean to trouble you,” you started, donning apathy as a costume. “I’m passing through to see them and I’ll be on my way.”

“No!” Tuk whined, earning a sharp shh! from Neytiri. “No, Mom, do something! Please, she came all this way!”

“Hm.” Ronal held her chin high, addressing Jake. “We would have avoided interrupting your reunion if your creature hadn’t given our scouts reason to be concerned for our safety.” She jerked her head in Katir’s direction.

“Not mine.” Jake said, pointing to you. “Hers.”

You felt the weight of the entire squad’s attention. They leapt from their perch and surrounded you. Ronal shooed Jake from your side as she bent to assess your person. Her husband was not far behind, staring up at Katir curiously. Their domineering stances ignited a growl in Katir’s throat, hot air spewing from his nose as he crawled forward to protect you. The Metkayina withdrew from your space.

Ronal, however, remained unbothered. “Impossible,” she whispered, spinning you around. Her cold fingers found the base of your neck and your lack of a kuru. 

Katir surged forward to deal with her, but you caught his snout before he did something irreversible. “What did I say about eating people?”

Ronal watched you struggle with your stormglider and how the animal heeded your words and commands. Na’vi built relationships with their companions, beginning with the first bond in their youth. You and this stormglider could not have possibly performed tsaheylu and yet a relationship, respect, existed. She and Tonowari exchanged looks.

Neytiri’s prideful look was not lost on Ronal, either. 

“Look, I know I ask a lot.” Jake came up to Tonowari, joining them in watching the Sully children pet and coo at Katir. Jake’s gaze lingered on your back as he spoke. “And I’ll respect whatever it is you decide. But this is my little girl. I don’t wanna split my family a second time. She’s a good kid.”

“And if we refuse?” Ronal asked.

Jake’s eyes shifted between her and her husband. “We’ll leave. Find somewhere that will take us. All of us.”

Tonowari raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Really.” Jake said without hesitation.

"Hm." Tonowari pursed his lips and nodded, finding no faults in Jake’s logic.

Ronal took one look at him and knew he was about to try and convince her to allow you to stay. She sighed and saved him the trouble. “Will it ever end?”

Tonowari huffed. “While Toruk Makto is around? Unlikely.”

Ronal’s eyes swept over the family. Her voice rose to recapture their attention. “Your human may stay. Until she finds somewhere suitable to live… should she choose to do so.”

Your heart swelled. You locked eyes with your father and when he smiled, you smiled back before you could stop yourself. 

Tuk leapt onto your back, her giddy squeals like music to your ears. One by one, your other siblings piled around you, adding warmth upon warmth to the fire in your stomach. Neteyam squeezed your shoulders, his laughter joining Lo’ak’s ramblings.

“You’re gonna be so useless.” Lo’ak giggled. “You’ve gotta learn how to breathe, and how to swim for, like, three hours straight.”

Your cheeks hurt from smiling. “You gonna teach me?”

“Yeah, I’m the best at it anyways.”

“Liar,” Kiri jabbed, rolling her eyes.

“I am.” Neteyam cleared the record, failing to budge when Lo’ak shoved him indignantly.

You laughed softly and your soul sang, this is what I’ve been waiting for, this is what I’ve been waiting for. 

Ronal turned away, retreating to the water with her scouts. Jake shook Tonowari’s hand with a sincere thank you. The latter smiled warmly before following his wife back to the village. 

Neytiri pulled Tuk off your back and let her hands run through your hair affectionately, like she was getting used to the feeling again after so long.

“Told you you’d end up here as long as I had something to say about it, didn’t I?” Jake approached the family huddle, brushing hair from your face.

You shook your head.

He grinned fondly. “I didn’t? You sure?”

You shook your head again despite your smile, insistent upon being stubborn.

He rolled his eyes, pulling you against him. When he welcomed you into his arms again, he welcomed you back home.

. . .

thanks for reading and sorry for my hiatus

“Is everything alright?” The soft whisper made Jake smile.

“Yes, baby. I'll see you later.” He rubbed his cheek against yours.

“Be careful.”

While the boys were out training, the girls decided to take care of the baby ilus with Tsireya. On the other hand, you decided to help Ronal organize the dishes for the communal dinner. After finishing your part of the work, you decided to continue with some accessories you had started making for your children a few days earlier. The most entertaining part was mixing elements of Metkayina culture with Omatikaya culture, because you respected and loved the essence of your new home, but you didn't want anyone in the family to forget their roots.

“Hey baby.”

Your mate walked fast towards you, almost making you drop Neteyam's anklet. Jake positioned himself behind you, encircling your body with his strong arms, pulling you close to his chest.

“Hey.” You giggled. “You scared me.”

“Sorry.” He whispered, sniffing your freshly washed hair. “I just missed you today.” His mouth traveled down from the crown of your head to your neck.

“Baby, It was only a couple of hours. It's not the first time you've gone out to train with the boys. Are they okay? Or are you hurt?”

“Everything's fine. It's just that I missed you so much." He squeezed you tighter, making you laugh.

“Mom? Dad?” Your oldest son came in carefully. “It's time to eat.”

Jake snorted, pouting as Neteyam came out again. That expression reminded you of when you first started the relationship, back in the early years when he was on Pandora.

When everyone gathered in the communal dining room, Jake sat closer than usual. Your knee brushed against his thigh, making him smile every time you approached Tuk, who was sitting on his lap. Jake loved looking at your face, so tender and sweet, when talking to your youngest daughter, helping her with her fish.

“What?” You whispered when Tuk wasn't paying attention.

“You are gorgeous.” He made you blush.

“Mama, can I have more of these?” When Tuk pointed at the yovo fruit, you immediately stood up and went looking for more.

Most of the na'vi were sitting already, but there were some others standing in a line, waiting for more food. You didn't know where the Yovo plate was, so you looked around the table that held the food for the whole clan.

“More yovo fruit?” A deep voice asked, it was the warrior first in line.

“Yes, sorry, I was just looking for it.”

“No, it's okay. Let me help.” The warrior gently took the plate from your hand. He placed a generous amount of fruit on it without complaint. Then he handed it back to you with a smile. “I see Toruk Makto has a large family. It's better if you take it, we eat a lot here.”

“Thank you.” You made a respectful gesture, smiling, and returned to where your family was. Surprisingly Jake was looking in the direction of the table.

“Do you want something else, Ma Jake?”

“No, it's okay. Come here.”

When you sat in the spot next to him, Jake asked Tuk to sit next to her sister with the plate full of yovo. But first, he took a little bit for your own plate.

“Open your mouth.” He asked softly.

“Huh?”

“C'mon, open your mouth. Tuk loves yovo fruit because her mom does.”

“Jake, everyone will stare at us.”

“So? That's better, that way they will know how much I like to spoil my mate.”

With red cheeks you finally opened your mouth. The na'vi in front of you giggled when Toruk Makto wiped your lips. Jake smiled proud, and ate some fruit too. Inside, you felt like a teenager discovering new things with him, but that didn't stop you from feeling a little embarrassed. Even if no one else looked at you with disapproval, Jake's actions made you nervous —in a good way—.

“They are doing it again.” Lo'ak complained, drawing out the last syllable.

“Let them be.” Neteyam pushed him playfully.

“Gross.” Kiri smiled.

The eclipse fell in Awa'atlu. Darkness enveloped the Sully children as they settled on their sleeping mats. You kissed everyone goodnight, except for Neteyam, who was sitting in the middle of the marui.

“Is something wrong, Ma eveng?” You asked, caressing his face. The gentleness with which you spoke to Neteyam made him feel warm. He was about to answer, but his father was quicker.

“I asked him to keep an eye on his siblings while we're gone."

“While we're gone?”

“Yes. Let's take a walk.”

After you asked Neteyam if he was okay with staying up a little late —he said yes—, you took Jake's hand and followed him through the plants of familiar land. That part of the island reminded you of home. You always liked to come and hunt, take a break from everything or pass time with Jake when chores were done.

“Ma Jake.”

The way you pronounced his name made Jake's knees shake. He almost tripped when you called for him, worried and curious. You gently pulled his hand, making him turn towards you.

“I know something is wrong. You have been acting weird, more affectionate. Don't get me wrong, you know I love that side of yours, but I can't help but feel like you are not telling me something.”

“Yeah… Well, you might be right.”

“What is it?”

He gently pulled you closer. His hands traveled from your wrist to your shoulders. The caresses felt different. Of course there was desire, but above all that was a need for something deeper. Jake pressed his forehead to yours and you closed your eyes, enjoying the closeness.

“It's just…” He whispered, squeezing tick skin under his fingertips. Under the light of the eclipse, you couldn't see the crimson color that adorned his expression, but you did notice a shy smile and his ears pointing backward. “You know… it's one of those days.” Jake said, stopping in every word, as if he was afraid to say them out loud.

“One of those days?”

“Well… prior to those other days. When I just want to be with you.”

Suddenly, sharpening all your senses, you finally realized what he meant. How could you not have noticed it before? Were you so busy with clan duties that you didn't notice what date it was?

“Wait a minute… is that why you were so clingy? Touching me and kissing me? Even feeding me in front of everyone?”

“About the last part… I just wanted to mark my territory.”

“Mark your territory?”

“That warrior was smiling too much at you.” He rolled his eyes.

“You are unbelievable.” You chuckled, stepping a few steps back, not enough to let go of his hands. Just enough so he could see your playful smile. “Yawne, you acted like a teenager all day!”

“I know!” Jake hid his face in the hollow of your neck, giggling. “That's why I didn't tell you before!”

“So what now? What does my lovely mate want? Huh?” You asked, running your fingers through the strands of hair.

“I want you close.” Each word was spoken carefully, trying not to tell the surrounding trees something so intimate that only he and you could know. Jake stopped joking, filling the air with sincerity.

“We are already close.” You whispered too.

“I want you closer.”

Jake lifted his face, and with those golden eyes shining between his bioluminescent freckles, he studied you intently. You shuddered. Before you could answer, he touched your face as if you were the most fragile thing in the entire universe. Jake tilted his head. A gesture you knew perfectly well meant danger, but given the situation, you knew he was just trying to ask for permission.

You rubbed your nose against his cheek, closing your eyes to savor the sensation. Jake responded with a small sigh that indicated he felt relaxed. You knew his past and his story, so it was important to you that he felt safe, loved.

“I hope you know you can tell me every time you feel like this.”

“I know.”

“Then show it next time.”

“Sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

Jake squeezed your body a little bit tighter and then kissed your mouth. His lips touched yours with pure love, making you feel dizzy. Jake played with your tongue just enough so you could feel your knees go weak too. But he was there to catch you if you stopped breathing and fell next to him. However, Jake wouldn't let you touch the ground before you took refuge in his arms. A lot more kisses later, he guided you towards the trunk of a tree. You both sat down, him with his head on your chest and you with your arms and legs wrapped around him. A soft hand stroked his back and hair until soft purrs were heard. His long eyelashes were beautiful and his nose twitching slightly was so cute.

After a few minutes, you closed your eyes to sleep too, hoping you could wake up in time to go back and not leave the children alone in the morning.

You never imagined your life would turn out like this, married to Rafe Cameron, the infamous Kook prince of the Outer Banks, with a beautiful three-year-old daughter who lit up every room she entered. Rosie Rose Cameron was your world, a tiny bundle of curls and giggles with Rafe's piercing blue eyes and your smile. She was the reason everything had changed for the better, or so you thought. Your relationship with Rafe hadn't always been a fairy tale. Back when you first met him, during those wild summer parties on Figure Eight, he was a storm in human form volatile, addicted, and drowning in the expectations of his father, Ward Cameron. You were the opposite, the quintessential good girl, raised in a modest Pogue-adjacent family but with enough charm to cross into Kook territory without raising too many eyebrows. You volunteered at the local animal shelter, baked cookies for neighbors, and always saw the best in people, even when they didn't deserve it. Rafe didn't deserve it at first. His rages scared you, his cocaine-fueled nights left you in tears, and more than once, you'd walked away, swearing it was over.

But then he quit. Cold turkey, after a particularly bad episode where he nearly lost everything, including you.

"I can't do this without you," he'd confessed one rainy night on the docks, his hands trembling as he held yours.

"You're the only good thing in my life." From that day forward, things brightened. The Outer Banks sun seemed warmer, Rafe threw himself into the family business, Cameron Development, with a focus that surprised even his sister Sarah. And on the very day you found out you were pregnant with Rosie, staring at that positive test in the bathroom of Tanneyhill, your hands shaking and he'd dropped to one knee in the garden, a diamond ring glinting in the twilight.

"Marry me," he'd said, his voice raw with emotion. "Let's make this real. For us. For the baby."

You'd said yes, tears streaming down your face. The wedding was private, just family and a few close friends on the beach at sunset. Sarah had been your maid of honor, beaming as she adjusted your veil.

"You're the sister I always wanted," she'd whispered, hugging you tight. From that moment, she became more than a sister-in-law; she was your confidante, the one person who understood the Cameron without judgment.

Having Rosie changed Rafe in ways you never thought possible. The man who once punched walls in frustration now spent hours building sandcastles with his daughter on the beach, his laughter echoing as she toddled after seagulls.

"She's my dream come true," he'd murmur at night, pulling you close in your shared bed at Tanneyhill.

"A little girl who looks just like her mama." You'd watch him cradle her during storytime, his large hands gentle as he turned the pages of her favorite book about mermaids and pirates. Fatherhood suited him; it softened his edges, made him strive to be better.

But these past two months, Rafe had been distant, snapping at small things, burying himself in work calls late into the night, and vanishing for hours on his yacht without explanation. You'd chalked it up to stress. The real estate market in the OBX was booming, and with Ward gone, Rafe carried the weight of the family empire on his shoulders. When you'd broached the topic of expanding your family a few weeks ago, casually mentioning how cute it would be for Rosie to have a sibling he'd shut down.

"Not now," he'd said, his tone sharper than intended.

"Rosie's only three. I don't want her feeling left out. And honestly, I'm not ready for that chaos again." His words stung, but you pushed them aside. You were the good girl, after all a patient, understanding, always putting others first.

That morning, everything changed. You stared at the pregnancy test in the bathroom mirror, the two pink lines staring back like a secret you weren't sure you could keep. Your heart raced with a mix of joy and fear. Another baby. A little brother or sister for Rosie. But Rafe's words running in your mind Not ready. His strange behavior gnawed at you, those unanswered texts, the way he'd come home smelling faintly of saltwater and something else you couldn't place. He's just busy, you told yourself. Stressed. You'd wait for the right moment to tell him. Maybe in a few weeks, when things calmed down.

Rosie tugged at your sundress, her big eyes sparkling. "Mama, can we go see Auntie Sarah? I made a picture!" She held up a crayon masterpiece, a blob of colors that vaguely resembled a boat on the ocean.

You smiled, kneeling to her level. "Of course, sweetie. Auntie Sarah will love it."

Truth be told, you missed Sarah too. Life as a mom kept you busy, but Sarah was your lifeline, she’s a fellow outsider in the Cameron world who understood the pressure of being tied to it. She and John B. had their own place now, a cozy beach house on the Cut, but she still visited Tanneyhill often.

The drive to Sarah's was short, the salty breeze whipping through the open windows of your SUV. Rosie chattered nonstop from her car seat, singing made-up songs about dolphins and ice cream. You laughed, but your mind wandered to the tiny life growing inside you. How will Rafe react? You parked in Sarah's driveway, the house's weathered wood and hanging plants a stark contrast to Tanneyhill's grandeur. Sarah swung open the door before you could knock, her blonde hair tied in a messy bun, wearing cutoff shorts and a tank top.

"Y/N! Rosie-posie!" Sarah scooped Rosie up, spinning her around.

"Look at you, my little artist! What's this masterpiece?"

"It's a boat, Auntie! Like Daddy's!" Rosie beamed, thrusting the paper forward.

Sarah admired it dramatically. "This is going straight on the fridge. Come in, you two. I just made lemonade."

Inside, the house smelled like fresh lemons. You settled on the couch while Rosie toddled off to play with Sarah's collection of seashells. Sarah handed you a glass, her eyes sharp as she studied your face.

"You look... different. Everything okay?"

You hesitated, then blurted it out. "I'm pregnant."

Sarah's eyes widened, then she squealed, pulling you into a hug. "Oh my God! That's amazing! When did you find out? Does Rafe know?"

"This morning," you admitted, pulling back with a small smile.

"And no, not yet. He's been so stressed lately, work, I think. And a few weeks ago, when I mentioned maybe having another kid, he said he's not ready. He doesn't want Rosie feeling sidelined."

Sarah frowned, sitting beside you. "Rafe? Not ready? That doesn't sound like him. He's obsessed with Rosie. But seriously, Y/N, you have to tell him. This is huge news. He'll be over the moon once he processes it. Another little Cameron maybe a mini-you this time."

You nodded, but doubt lingered. "I know. I just... he's been acting weird. Distant. I don't want to add more pressure."

"He's probably just buried in deals. Dad left a mess with the business." Sarah squeezed your hand.

"But trust me, as his sister, I know he'll flip with joy. You're the best thing that ever happened to him."

Rosie bounded back, demanding attention, and the conversation shifted to lighter topics about Sarah's latest adventure with the Pogues, Rosie's preschool antics. You felt lighter, Sarah's enthusiasm infectious. She was the best, always supportive, never judging your choice to stick with Rafe through his worst.

Then Sarah's phone rang. She glanced at the screen. "It's Rafe." She answered, her voice casual.

"Hey. What's up?"

You couldn't hear his side, but Sarah nodded. "Yeah, I can grab that for you. On the yacht? Okay, I'll drop it off." She hung up, turning to you.

"He needs some documents from the house. Forgot them or something. Wants me to bring them to his yacht."

Your heart skipped. This could be the moment. "Let me do it. Rosie can stay here with you. I... I want to tell him about the baby. Surprise him."

Sarah grinned. "Perfect! Go get your man excited. Rosie and I will bake cookies while you're gone."

You kissed Rosie's forehead. "Be good for Auntie, okay? Mama will be back soon."

The drive to the marina was nerve-wracking, your hands gripping the wheel. The yacht bobbed gently in the water, the Cameron family crest gleaming on the side. You grabbed the envelope of documents from Sarah's place, it was some real estate contracts and climbed aboard.

"Rafe?" you called, but silence greeted you. The deck was empty.

As you moved toward the cabin, voices drifted out, Rafe's low rumble and a woman's voice, familiar yet out of place. Your stomach twisted. You crept closer, heart pounding.

"...you have to tell your wife the truth, Rafe," the woman said, her tone insistent. "This can't go on like this."

"I know, Sofia," Rafe replied, his voice strained. "But it's complicated. I never meant for this to happen."

Sofia. His ex-girlfriend from before you, the one who'd enabled his worst habits, the Pogue waitress who'd been a fleeting flame in his chaotic life. Your blood ran cold. You pressed against the door, listening.

"Complicated? I'm five months pregnant, Rafe. With your kid. You can't just pretend this isn't real."

The world tilted. Pregnant. Five months. That meant... two months ago, when Rafe started acting strange. You felt sick, the documents crumpling in your fist.

Pushing the door open, you stepped inside. Rafe shot to his feet from the couch, his face paling. Sofia sat beside him, her hand on a visible baby bump, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders. She looked surprised but not guilty.

"Y/N..." Rafe breathed, eyes wide.

You thrust the envelope at him. "Sarah sent these." Your voice was steady, but inside, you shattered.

He took it mechanically. Sofia shifted uncomfortably.

"Is that yours?" you asked, nodding at her belly. Your tone was ice.

Rafe opened his mouth, but no words came. He just stared, guilt etched in every line of his face.

"Yes," Sofia said finally, her chin lifting. "It's his."

The confirmation hit like a wave crashing over you. You didn't cry, no, not yet. You turned on your heel, walking out as fast as your legs could carry you. Footsteps pounded behind you.

"Y/N, wait!" Rafe grabbed your arm on the deck, spinning you around. Sofia remained inside, out of sight.

You yanked free, fury boiling over. "Don't fucking touch me."

"Please, let me explain." His eyes were desperate, hair disheveled as if he'd run his hands through it a hundred times.

"It was a mistake. An accident. I was drunk, stressed about work. I don't love her, I love you. But I have to take responsibility for this. It's my kid."

Your gaze dropped to his hand, the one that had grabbed you. No wedding ring. He always wore it around you, a symbol of his commitment. But not today. Not here, with her.

"You don't love her, huh?" you spat, voice trembling with rage.

"But I guess you did, Rafe. Maybe you should let her know you're gonna be a single man too, real soon."

His face crumpled. "What? No, Y/N—"

You didn't wait. You stormed off the yacht, tears blurring your vision as you climbed into the SUV. He chased after you, banging on the window.

"Please, don't do this! We can talk!"

But you peeled out of the marina, heart racing. On the drive back to Sarah's, you forced deep breaths, one hand on your stomach. The baby. Don't panic. Stay calm for the baby. By the time you pulled up, your eyes were red-rimmed from silent tears.

Sarah met you at the door, concern etched on her face. "Hey, what happened? You okay?"

"I'm fine," you lied, forcing a smile. "Just... time for Rosie to head home. Nap time."

She searched your face but didn't push. "Did you tell him?"

"Not yet." You scooped up Rosie, who waved her sticky hands, evidence of cookie dough. "Thanks for watching her."

Sarah hugged you both. "Call me if you need anything, okay? Love you."

"Love you too."

Tanneyhill loomed like a prison as you parked. Inside, you set Rosie down with her toys and retreated to your bedroom, the one you shared with Rafe. But it felt tainted now. You pulled out the divorce papers from the safe, ones you'd kept as a precaution during his darker days but never thought you'd use. Sinking to the floor in the walk-in closet, surrounded by his suits and your dresses, you began filling them out. Your hand shook, but determination fueled you. He cheated. He lied. For months.

Meanwhile, at Sarah's house, Rafe burst through the door minutes after you'd left. "Is Y/N here? With Rosie?"

Sarah crossed her arms. "She just left. What's going on, Rafe? You look like hell."

He paced, running a hand over his face. "I screwed up. Big time."

"Tell me."

He hesitated, then spilled it all, the affair with Sofia, the pregnancy, the confrontation on the yacht. Sarah's face darkened with each word.

"Are you a fucking idiot?" she exploded, shoving him. "Y/N is the best thing in your life, and you do this? After everything she's put up with?"

"I know!" he shouted back, but his voice cracked. "I love her. It was a mistake."

Sarah shook her head, tears in her eyes. "She's pregnant, Rafe. She went to the yacht to tell you. That's why she volunteered to go."

The color drained from his face. "What?"

"Yeah. Your wife is carrying your second child, and you just blew up your family for some fling with Sofia? Get the fuck out. Go fix this before it's too late."

Rafe didn't need telling twice. He sped home, tires screeching as he pulled into Tanneyhill. The house was eerily quiet.

"Y/N!" he shouted, bounding up the stairs. "Rosie!"

"Dada! Dada, here!" Rosie's voice piped from the bedroom. He rushed in, finding her on the bed hugging her teddy bear, the one Sarah had given you on Rosie's birth day, soft and worn from years of cuddles.

"Where's Mama, princess?" he asked, scooping her up.

She pointed to the closet. "In there."

Heart pounding, Rafe pushed open the door. There you were, on the floor amid scattered clothes, the divorce papers clutched in your hand, fully signed. Your eyes met his, cold, resolute, tears dried into streaks on your cheeks.

"Y/N..." he whispered, setting Rosie down gently. She toddled to you, oblivious to the tension, climbing into your lap.

You ignored him, signing another line. The silence was deafening, folding the papers neatly and placing them on a shelf where he could see them. Then you stood, lifting Rosie with you.

"Please," he begged, stepping closer. "Sarah told me. About the baby. Our baby."

You met his gaze, the man you'd loved through hell and back. But betrayal cut too deep. "It doesn't matter now."

"It does. I messed up, I know I did. But I love you. I love Rosie. I can fix this."

You laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. "Fix it? You got your ex pregnant, Rafe. You lied for months. No ring today? Were you planning to leave me?"

"No! God, no." He reached for your hand, but you pulled away.

"The ring, I took it off because it was loose, I was going to get it resized. Stupid, I know. But Sofia... it was a few times. Weak moments. It meant nothing. I ended it, but then she told me about the baby."

"A few times," you repeated flatly. "If you're going to keep that baby with Sofia, if you're going to be a father to it then you need to sign these." You nodded toward the papers.

"We're done, Rafe. I'm planning to separate from you. Fully."

His world shattered in his eyes. "No. Please, Y/N. We can work through this. Talk to me. Yell, scream, anything. Silence means you're done, and I can't lose you."

You met his gaze, the man you'd loved through hell and back. But betrayal cut deep. "I need time. Alone."

He nodded, defeated. "Okay. I'll sleep in the guest room. But I'm not giving up."

"There's no need for you to sleep in the guest room," you continued, voice steady despite the storm inside. "Because Rosie and I are going to Sarah's. Tonight."

Rosie whimpered, sensing the shift, burying her face in your neck. You soothed her instinctively, rubbing her back.

"You can't take her from me," Rafe choked out, voice breaking.

"I'm not taking anything from you, even Rosie. You'll see her. But this house, this marriage, it's over if you choose that path." You brushed past him, heading to pack an overnight bag for you and Rosie. Clothes, toys, essentials, your hands moved on autopilot.

Rafe followed, pleading. "I don't want Sofia. I want us. Our family. The new baby. God, Y/N, another kid with you? That's everything I want."

You zipped the bag, slinging it over your shoulder. "Too late. Actions have consequences, Rafe. Being Rafe Cameron doesn't excuse you anymore."

He blocked the doorway, desperate. "Yell at me. Hit me. Anything but leave, please."

You looked at him one last time, the silence your answer, the one he feared most. Then you stepped around him, carrying Rosie downstairs and out to the car. He chased you to the driveway, but you didn't stop. The engine roared to life, and you drove away from Tanneyhill, tears finally falling freely as Rosie dozed in the back seat.

Sarah would understand. Sarah would be there.

Okay, that’s not true — he does. When he has to. When there’s a case file in his hands and you’re just another member of the team he needs to brief — another agent he’s in charge of. When there’s a question about geographical profiling or victimology and you’re the one who can answer it. When he’s assigning roles and has to say your name.

But everything outside of that? Nothing. Cold silence. Controlled distance.

And it killed you.

You wouldn’t even know you kissed him. More than once. Wouldn’t know how his hands felt in your hair, or how he’d said your name like it physically hurt him. Wouldn’t know that there was a moment — no, a string of moments — where he looked at you like you were the only thing grounding him to earth.

Because now? Now he’s pretending none of it ever happened.

And the worst part?

You know he still wants you.

Not in the arrogant way. Not in the I’m-so-irresistible kind of way. No — you know it because you see it. In the way his eyes flicker to you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. In the way his jaw ticks when Morgan jokes too casually with you. In the way he goes quiet when your laugh cuts across the room — his lips pressing into a thin line while his body tenses, almost like he’s trying to stop himself from laughing along.

He wants you. And he’s made that clear before.

But he’s also your boss. Older. Emotionally constipated. A man who shuts people out just before they get too close.

So of course, he made the decision for both of you. Of course, he pulled away, said it wasn’t appropriate, said you needed to keep it professional. Of course, he slammed that wall up between you and iced you out like he didn’t miss you the moment he left.

And now? Now you’re in Florida. The local PD is stretched thin, there’s a suspected spree killer hitting tourist-heavy areas along the I-4 corridor, and you’re operating out of some small, humid precinct where the AC rattles and no one knows how to use a case board.

Hotch pairs you with Officer Pretty Smile — an actual cop, around your age, golden tan, charming, full of casual grins and easy compliments. You don’t even hear most of what Hotch says when he assigns you; you’re too busy fuming at the fact that he’s done it again.

Just like the last two cases, he pairs you with some random officer, keeps you away from the scene, away from the precinct, away from anywhere he might be — in a way, he’s not letting you do your job.

Distanced from the rest of the team, you’re not much help.

How is that professional?

You know the game he’s playing. Avoidance. Distance. Control.

You’re sick of it.

But Officer Pretty Smile — his name’s Ryan — doesn’t seem to mind the stormcloud hanging over your head. He makes it easy to forget, just a little. He’s perceptive, actually listens when you talk, knows when to make you laugh and when to stay quiet. It’s a relief.

He flirts — lightly, respectfully — and you flirt back. Why shouldn’t you?

Aaron’s the one who put this wall up. He’s the one not speaking to you.

You don’t owe him your loyalty if he won’t even look at you outside of a damn case briefing.

The case wraps up after a few days of gruelling profiling, false leads and one late-night stakeout that finally caught your UnSub at a rest stop. You’re debriefing the locals, coordinating transport and starting to pack things up when Ryan walks you out to the parking lot.

He offers you his number, and you take it, pocketing it with a smile that widens when he leans in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. It’s innocent, really. Careful and sweet, but when he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His face stays close, breath brushing against your skin as his eyes lock onto yours.

Then his gaze drops — not just to your lips, but the space between you — like he’s weighing the distance and what to do about it. It takes a breath or two before he meets your eyes again.

He leans in, slower this time, and his lips just barely graze yours. A featherlight touch that barely classifies as a kiss. It’s more of a hesitation. A silent question — do you want this too?

Yes, you do.

You answer by lifting a hand and placing it gently on his jaw, your touch light but certain.

He exhales softly, and his hands move to your waist, holding you like he’s been wanting to all day.

Your lips are so close, a breath away, and just as you’re about to close the gap—

“Agent!”

Aaron’s voice cuts through the humid Florida air like a gunshot, sharp enough to turn heads. It’s not just a call — it’s a warning. A demand. His tone carries weight, and everyone nearby instinctively pauses, glancing over to where he stands near the SUV, his jaw tight, posture coiled like he’s seconds away from snapping.

You freeze.

Where the fuck did he spawn from?

Ryan pulls back, but not completely. His hands stay on your waist, holding you close, as his eyes look over your shoulder.

You, however, don’t turn around — stubbornly refusing to give Hotch the satisfaction of ruining this moment.

He can wait.

He can watch.

You keep your gaze locked on Ryan. On his lips that are a bit further away than before, parted in confusion as he stares at your boss.

Your fingers shift slightly against his jaw — a gentle nudge meant to draw his attention back to you. And it works. His eyes flicker away from whatever intensity Hotch is radiating behind you and settle back on yours.

You lean in, slow and deliberate, and the moment you do, he seems to forget everything else as he leans in too.

And, just like before, just as your lips graze—

“Agent!”

Somehow, his voice is harsher than before — each syllable laced with barely contained fury.

Your hands fall from Ryan’s face and drop to your sides as you sigh, letting your head dip forward slightly.

“What’s his problem?” Ryan murmurs, his frustration mirroring yours as he shoots Aaron a brief, irritated glance before turning his attention back to you.

You lift your head, just enough to meet his eyes again, and mutter, “I don’t know. He’s just—” You wave a hand vaguely behind you. “A hardass.” You pause. “Or an ass. A normal ass. Whichever floats your boat.”

Ryan snorts, nodding as he looks back at Aaron. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You smile, wide and genuine. “Well then,” you say, looking up at him, “duty calls.”

He nods, looking a bit reluctant as he returns your smile and asks, “Will I see you again before you go?”

You hesitate, just for a second, before finally glancing over your shoulder.

Hotch stands by the entrance of the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office — arms crossed, back stiff, jaw tight. His eyes are locked on you like he’s trying to dissect every inch of the moment he just interrupted. He looks furious. Controlled, as always, but furious nonetheless.

You look back at Ryan. “Probably not.”

There’s a brief pause — just a breath of silence — before he nods. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for anything more. Instead, he steps in and kisses your cheek again, soft and quick, like a quiet goodbye. When he pulls back, he lets his hand brush down your arm before stepping away.

You turn without another word, lowering your head as you approach Aaron. With each step, the feeling of his stare on you burns hotter, sharper.

You stop in front of him, standing there for a moment before you glance up.

His blazer is off, his blue button-up clinging slightly to his skin. His sunglasses perched on his nose and his jaw is tight.

You hate yourself for thinking that he looks hot.

You cross your arms, exhaling sharply before saying, “You called?”

He doesn’t waste a second. “Get the scene logs from the officers inside. I want them scanned and uploaded before we leave for the jet.”

His tone is dry, detached. The words hang in the air like a weight that doesn’t match the way he’s looking at you. His expression is stone-cold, all business, and it only fuels the frustration coursing through you.

You blink, your chest tightening. That’s it? That’s the urgent reason he called you out of a kiss like the sky was falling?

It’s a bullshit task. You both know it.

But he’s your Unit Chief. And right now, he’s pulling rank — not for the case. The case is over. Solved.

He’s doing it for himself, and it makes you want to scream.

You bite back the thousand things you want to say, give a tight nod, and walk past him without a glance.

—

On the jet, the tension is unbearable.

Aaron is sitting near the front, a stack of case files spread in front of him that he hasn’t touched since takeoff. He just stares at them, unmoving, like he’s willing them to make him forget.

You’re in the back, headphones on, glaring out the window as your forehead rests against the glass of it.

The others feel it — the tightrope tension stretching across the cabin. No one says a word.

After a while, you can’t help but glance his way, your eyes rolling when you see how he’s glaring at the files in front of him.

He’s clearly seething. The image of you, about to kiss someone else, seemed to be carved into his memory.

If he’d been closer, he might’ve punched the guy. Hell, if he wasn’t so goddamn professional, he might’ve dragged you away himself.

But he didn’t. He waited. He watched.

He hates that he waited.

And now he’s stewing in it.

When the jet lands, everyone moves quickly — eager to escape the static pressure in the air. You stand, grabbing your go-bag before heading for the stairs.

And then — low, sharp, right in front of you:

“Stay.”

He’s still seated, leaning forward slightly, elbow propped on the table. His hand is pressed to his face, fingers buried in his hair while his palm digs into his temple like he’s desperately trying to hold his thoughts together.

His eyes are closed — not from sleep, but something heavier — and despite the jet landing, his papers are still out, strewn in front of him. Clearly, he’d given up trying to read them — or pretending to read them.

His face is taut, shadowed — caught in a quiet storm of exhaustion or thought. Maybe both.

He looks really hot.

Swallowing, you will that thought away.

‘Stay.’ He had said, in a tone that made you freeze — one that left no room for argument.

You hesitate, your grip on your bag tightening a bit as you stare before deciding.

No.

With your lips set in a frown, you start walking again.

Just as you’re about to move past him, though, his hand reaches out to wrap around your wrist.

You tense, his touch making you feel warm and a bit breathless despite your anger.

“I said stay.” His voice cuts through the quiet — steady with an edge that sends a jolt through you.

Shit.

You look down at him, jaw set. “Let go.”

He doesn’t move at first — just lifts his eyes to meet yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. Then he exhales before rising to his feet in a fluid motion. His grip on your wrist doesn’t loosen as he stands over you, shoulders squared.

You falter, thrown by the sudden nearness. “Hotch—”

“Aaron.” He interrupts you, his eyes narrowing as he stares down at you. His tone is sharp, stern like hearing his last name offended him.

“Hotch.” You repeat it, just to piss him off.

If distance is what he wants, distance is what he’ll get.

He stares at you for a second before exhaling, a tired look in his eyes as he says, “We need to talk.”

“Oh, now you want to talk?” Your voice rises a bit and you barely manage to hold back a laugh. “You ignore me for weeks, send me off like I’m a problem you can delegate, and now — suddenly — you want to talk?”

His jaw clenches. “You don’t understand—”

“No. You don’t get to—“

Before you can finish what you’re saying, he uses his grip on your wrist to pull you into him. Fuelled by everything he hasn’t said, it’s not a gentle gesture.

You gasp as you stumble forward, crashing into his chest. Your cheek brushes the soft fabric of his shirt and your hand splayed instinctively against him for balance. When your eyes finally meet his, he’s already looking down at you — jaw tense, eyes dark, your faces now inches apart.

“You were going to kiss him.” His voice is quiet, but the words hit harder than if he’d shouted them.

His grip on your wrist tightens slightly, and for a moment, he closes his eyes. The sight of you both leaning in replays in his mind — the tension in his jaw is visible as his lips press into a line. His expression looks as if the image physically hurt him.

When he opens them again, his eyes lock onto yours, searching, checking to see if you understand the severity of it.

Your lips are parted as you stare at him.

You’re not surprised that he brought it up. You knew it was coming, but the way he says it — the weight in his voice — wasn’t something you were expecting.

His words carried an undertone of pain that make you falter. It’s not just about the kiss, you realise. It’s about everything he’s been holding in.

“You were about to kiss him.” He repeats, slower than before, his eyes still boring into yours.

Hearing the word ‘kiss’ a second time, along with the sudden proximity, had your gaze falling to his lips.

You couldn’t help it.

You looked back up quickly to find his eyes still on you.

A flicker of guilt creeps into your chest — something small, unwanted. Maybe it’s the way his voice quietened when he said it. Maybe it’s the look in his eyes, like he wasn’t prepared for how much it hurt him — you almost kissing someone else.

For a split second, you start to feel bad.

But it doesn’t last.

Not when you remember the last few weeks — how he’s iced you out, kept his distance like you didn’t matter, like the moments you shared never happened.

Your jaw tightens and your brows furrow in the way they always do when you’re annoyed.

“Stop.” You say, the word sharper than you intended. Shaking your head, your voice comes out quieter the second time. “Just… stop.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches you — eyes flicking across your face like he’s trying to read you.

Like he’s trying to profile you.

What happened to never profiling each other? Probably the same thing that happened to being ‘professional’.

“You’re being unfair, Aaron.”

You avert your gaze, unable to hold his anymore. It drops to his chest — the fabric of his shirt stretched a bit beneath your hands that are still resting there. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, slightly faster than it should be.

He has no right to be upset, you think, and it takes everything in you not to say it out loud first. But when you look back up at him, your anger catches fire again, sharp and unforgiving.

“You’re the one who pushed me away.” You bite out, voice low. “You iced me out. For weeks, Aaron.”

Your words land heavy in the space between you, but you don’t stop.

“You told me we couldn’t—” You falter slightly, pain catching in your throat, “—that we had to keep things professional. And then you avoided me. You acted like I didn’t matter.”

His jaw flexes again, but he says nothing.

“And now what?” you continue. “Now you’re upset because I almost kissed someone else? You don’t get to pull me in two different directions like this. You can’t tell me to stay away, and then look at me like that when someone else gets close.”

His hand is still on your waist, his grip on your wrist still firm. He hasn’t let go, hasn’t backed off, and that makes it worse — the contradiction of it. The ache of being wanted but not claimed.

“It’s confusing. You’re confusing.” My voice goes back to being quiet as I lower my gaze again, missing the way his expression softens a bit.

It softens because he knows you’re right.

He can’t argue with you, not really. Not when you’re looking at him like that. Or rather, not looking at him at all. Your eyes are fixed on his chest now, lips pressed together in that tight little frown that always means you’re trying not to show how hurt you are.

He can’t argue with you because you’re right.

He’s being unfair, and the guilt of that realization hits him instantly, swallowing him whole. The weight of his own selfishness also sinks in, making him feel stupid for not realizing how much he’s hurt you.

When the silence stretches for too long, you look up, and your frown deepens when you see how he’s watching you.

“Stop profiling me.” Your voice shakes a bit as you try to yank yourself free of his grip. But Aaron doesn’t let go. His hands stay firm on your waist, like letting go would mean losing something he’s not ready to give up.

It only makes you angrier.

You shove at his chest, hard, but he barely budges. “Let go.” you snap, glaring up at him, but his expression doesn’t shift. He just watches you, jaw tight, eyes unreadable behind the shield of his silence.

That silence cuts deeper than anything.

“You ignored me for weeks!” you shout, your voice rising, cracking with something raw. “You didn’t even look at me. You shut me out like I meant nothing!”

You try again to pull away, like his touch burns. Like the heat of his hands is searing through your skin, cracking you open.

And it hurts him — more than he thought it would. Watching you try to escape him like he’s done something unforgivable — which he has — makes something twist in his chest. He wants to fix it, but he doesn’t know how. Every word you throw at him lands like a blow, and still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go.

He just hurts.

“Let go!” you yell, louder now, fists balled as you push at him again. “I said fuck off, Aaron!”

You look up at him then — eyes blazing, cheeks flushed with anger, your frown etched deep into your face. The fury in your expression is undeniable, and it hits him like a punch.

And before he even realizes what he’s doing — he kisses you.

It comes out of nowhere. Like something snaps inside him, like instinct. It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s angry and desperate and messy—like he’s trying to shut you up and apologize all at once. Like everything he’s been holding back has just erupted, too big to contain.

You freeze at first, tensing against it, breath caught in your throat.

But then you break.

Your hands fist in the lapels of his blazer, gripping hard like you need something to hold you upright. Your lips move against his with the same kind of fury you’d just thrown at him — like this is a fight, too. But somewhere in that chaos, your shoulders slump, and so do his.

Like you’re both exhaling for the first time in weeks.

Like this is the first breath either of you has taken since everything fell apart.

His hands move — one, then both — rising to cradle your face, fingers splayed across your cheeks like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You pull back first, breaking the kiss with a gasp, your breath catching somewhere between his mouth and your own. His grip loosens, and for a second, something like a whine escapes him — soft and involuntary — like he can’t believe you’re already pulling away.

You’re breathless. Lips swollen. Heart racing.

“You’re such an asshole.” you hiss, voice low, hoarse, but still furious.

His eyes darken. “You were gonna kiss him.”

“Stop repeating that!” you snap, but there’s no bite behind it now — just exhaustion and heat and emotion so tangled you can’t separate any of it.

You don’t even think about it — you just lean in again, drawn like a magnet. And this time, he meets you halfway. Your lips part just before they touch, and when they do, it feels like the ground shifts beneath you. Like the jet could be spinning or crashing and you wouldn’t even notice.

It’s slower, deeper — but just as intense. His hands are still on your face, and yours are clinging to him like you don’t trust gravity anymore.

But then he pulls away.

His forehead drops to yours — close, so close — and for a moment you almost let him stay there. But something in you twists, and you turn your head just slightly, breaking the contact. You keep your eyes shut, breathing shallow, your face turned toward the wall of the jet like if you don’t look at him, you can hold onto the last piece of your anger.

His heart sinks.

“I’m sorry.” he says, his voice quieter now. Cracked open. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

You don’t move. Don’t look.

“I— I thought it was the right thing.” he says, and now it’s all unraveling, everything he’s shoved down clawing its way out. “I didn’t know how to handle what I felt for you. I didn’t know if I should. So I convinced myself the best thing — the most responsible thing — was to shut it down. To shut you out.”

He lets out a breath, sharp and rough. “I told myself you’d be better off. That you didn’t need someone like me — someone older, someone who barely knows how to process his own shit, let alone drag you into it. My hours are a nightmare, I’m exhausted all the time, and I have nothing to give you except… this mess.”

His voice softens but doesn’t steady. “And if Strauss found out, she wouldn’t hesitate to pull you off the team. To punish you for something that was always my fault.”

You still don’t speak. Your eyes remain closed.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says again, quieter now, like it physically hurts to say. “But it felt like cutting off my own oxygen. Seeing you every day, hearing your voice, pretending you were just another agent — it fucking destroyed me. Every moment I stayed away, I felt like I was unraveling. But I thought… if I could just hold the line a little longer, maybe I could let you go.”

His voice cracks then, barely above a whisper. “But I couldn’t. I can’t.”

You don’t say anything, and the silence eats at him. He shifts slightly, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to read anything — any flicker of emotion, of softness, of something.

“Please say something.” he murmurs.

There’s no anger in him anymore. Just regret. Just longing.

“I haven’t slept,” he says, after a second. “Not really. Not since I let you go. You’ve been in my head every day. Every night. You walk into the room and I can’t think straight. I hear your voice down the hall and I forget what I’m doing. It’s pathetic.”

Then gently — cautiously — he reaches out, fingers brushing against your chin. He turns your face to him, coaxing your eyes to his.

And when you look at him, he looks wrecked.

There’s exhaustion in his features, shadows beneath his eyes, but it’s the look in them that breaks you: raw, sincere, desperate. Like you’re the only thing anchoring him to earth right now.

“I’m sorry.” he says again, like it’s the only thing he has left to give. Like he means it with everything he’s got.

And he does.

It’s silent for a second.

His eyes search yours, unsure and a little frantic, like he’s trying to profile you again — trying to get an understanding of whatever’s going on in your mind.

He gives up quickly, wanting to find out whatever it is your thinking from you yourself. But just as he’s about to ask, you kiss him.

When you pull back, your hands stay on him, sliding down to his chest where you can feel the rapid, uneven rhythm of his heart.

“I don’t expect you to be perfect, Aaron.” you murmur, voice soft but steady. “I’m not. I barely have my own shit together half the time. And I’m not looking for some ideal version of you — just you. The version that cares too much and thinks too hard and carries everything on his back like it’s his job to keep the world spinning.”

You pause, your eyes searching his, and he doesn’t look away.

“I don’t want anyone else.” you say, more firmly now. “I can’t want anyone else. My heart’s already decided. It’s you. It’s always been you. These past few weeks without you—feeling you pull away, watching you pretend like nothing mattered—that was hell. And if you think I just brushed it off and moved on, you really don’t know me at all.”

You don’t stop there, because you can see it — how he’s still doubting, still not sure what you see in him. So you tell him.

“You don’t even realize how much I see you.” you whisper. “How good you are. You’re strong, yeah, but you’re also… unbelievably kind. You’re the one who makes me feel stable when everything else is a mess. You make me feel safe without trying to control me. You make me feel… things I didn’t even know I was capable of feeling.”

His brow creases like he doesn’t know what to do with that, like it’s too much, too pure.

“And I don’t give a damn about your age. If anything, it makes you hotter.” you add with a breath of a laugh. “It means you’ve lived, you’ve learned, and you listen. You make me feel taken care of in a way no one ever has.”

He’s blinking at you like his brain short-circuited somewhere along the way.

“As for Strauss…” You shrug a little. “She’s not a profiler. We barely even see her. If we keep things professional at work, we’ll be fine. We’re good at this — at keeping calm under pressure. This isn’t gonna change that.”

Then you take one of his hands and hold it tightly, pressing your fingers to his palm.

“All I want,” you say, voice low, “is for you to let me love you.”

Something in him breaks. Or maybe it mends. You can’t quite tell.

His eyes widen just a little, and for a second he just stares at you — like his brain is still catching up. Like the word punched the breath right out of him.

“What?” he asks, the word so soft it’s barely audible.

“I just want to love you, Aaron.” you repeat, quieter this time, like it’s a promise.

His breath shudders out of him, and he leans forward again — not kissing you yet, just resting his forehead against yours, like he needs the grounding.

“I love you.” he says, the words raw and unfiltered. “And I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you next time — really talk. I won’t shut you out again. I won’t let myself forget what this feels like.”

“You better not.” you murmur.

And then he kisses you again.

It’s steadier now. Certain. Like he’s finally, finally giving in to the truth he’s been denying. Like he knows what he wants — and it’s you.

As your lips move together, the world outside the jet fades into the background. His hand moves slowly, purposefully, down your side, and then it shifts, lowering until he reaches into your pocket.

You pull away a little, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Before you can fully process it, he pulls out the small piece of paper — the one with Ryan’s number scrawled on it.

Your heart skips a beat. He saw that?

The thought stings for a second — had he seen everything? You’d assumed he’d stepped outside for some reason and had just happened to catch a glimpse of you two — coincidentally, when you were about to kiss.

But Aaron’s mind works in a different way. He had seen you leave with Ryan, noticed the way you two were talking, the smiles on your faces. And something in him tensed. He didn’t like it. The way you were walking so close, how easy it seemed between you. So he followed, curiosity gnawing at him. He hadn’t meant to — but it felt like he had to know.

You break the silence with a quiet question, still trying to make sense of it all. “You saw that?”

Aaron’s jaw tightens, his face flickering with a flash of frustration, then quickly hardening as he remembers it.

“I saw all of it.” he says, his voice colder than you expected. A wince pulls at his expression as he scrunches the paper up in his hand, turning to toss it in the small bin beside the exit of the jet, the movement sharp and final.

You can’t help but let out a small, amused laugh despite the tension. His reaction, his possessiveness — it’s almost too much to ignore. But then, before he can get too far in his thoughts, you soften and murmur an apology. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

He cuts you off with a question of his own, his gaze still intense as he watches you, his tone now a little guarded. “Were you actually going to kiss him?”

You blink, surprised by the bluntness, but you can’t help the smirk that slips onto your face. “Hey, you’re the one who paired me with him.”

Aaron rolls his eyes, the hint of frustration fading a little, but you can still see the sharp edge to his expression. “From now on, you’re with me for every case.”

You laugh at the thought, shaking your head, but the joke settles in as you reply, “I don’t think that’d help with keeping Strauss off our trail.”

Aaron chuckles, his eyes softening just a fraction, but he doesn’t back down. “I’ll risk it. It’s fine.”

Your laughter fills the space between you, and it warms Aaron’s heart more than he’d care to admit. He’s missed hearing it, hearing you so carefree, even when things feel a little chaotic.

He pulls you a little closer then, wrapping an arm around your waist as if he can’t let you go now that he’s got you. He starts guiding you off the jet with that same quiet confidence he always carries, but there’s something different now — a sense of peace between you both, even if the world outside still feels a little unsettled.

“You’re coming to my place.” he says, his voice low and steady. “I’m making you dinner.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You should be reviewing your role in the plan, the position that keeps you beside Mike and Lucas as the assigned lookout for Hopper while he slips through the burn distraction and descends into the Upside Down. 

Hopper is risking everything by entering the perimeter alone, and you are supposed to be watching the dark behind him for the slightest sign of movement.

Those are the thoughts that should be filling your head. Serious thoughts. Necessary ones.

But they do not.

Your mind is not on the maps or the radios or the tight pull of tension running through the room. It is not on the creature hiding beneath the crawl’s design, or the danger waiting on the other side of the gate.

Instead, your attention keeps drifting to something far less important and somehow far more distracting.

The only movement you can focus on is your boyfriend standing a little too close to his ex.

Steve stands at one of the central tables, rolling his sleeves to his elbows while Nancy points out a small circled note on the map. 

The two of them speak quietly, too close, their heads bent over the same sheet of paper. There is space everywhere in this warehouse, yet they somehow occupy inches between them. Nancy gestures again, and Steve nods along, hair falling slightly over his forehead.

It should not bother you. It really should not.

Nancy is with Jonathan. Steve is with you. These are facts. Clear, simple facts that should repel every insecure thought pressing against your ribs.

But the truth is far more complicated.

Nancy Wheeler carries a presence that is difficult to ignore. She is intelligent, steady, and unflinching in moments when most people would fall apart. There is a quiet precision to the way she moves, as if her instincts have been trained by years of surviving things no teenager should survive. The light catches in her hair, and her expression stays calm even while the room pulses with nerves. She looks like she belongs here, in this place built on tension and fear, as though belonging is something she learned to master long ago.

And she and Steve share years you were never part of. Years shaped in the aftermath of breakups, reconciliations, monsters, and late-night plans that forged a bond no outsider can fully understand.

So when Steve leans over the map, jaw set, eyes bright with that familiar focus he gets before a fight, something shifts inside you. 

A small, unwelcome drop in your stomach. A reminder that no matter how firmly you hold someone’s hand, there are parts of their history you can never touch. Jealousy is a quiet creature;; It slips in without your permission.

You try to focus. You try to breathe. You try to tell yourself there are bigger things at stake tonight than the way Nancy leans in or the way Steve’s mouth curves when he agrees with her assessment.

But the thoughts creep in anyway.

Thoughts you cannot block out, no matter how hard you try.

Thoughts that whisper you are not enough and never will be.

Thoughts that ask why Steve looks so alive when talking to her.

You swallow hard, fingers curling around the strap of your bag. Voices blur around you as Dustin argues about radio channels with Robin and Jonathan sets down another crate of gear. Everything is moving, and yet you feel painfully still, like your insecurity has frozen you in place.

Nancy notices you before Steve does.

Her eyes lift, quick and precise, the way they do when she is already three steps ahead of the room. She gives a small nod in greeting and shifts the map closer to you.

“You made it,” Nancy says, her tone focused but not unkind. “We were just finishing up coverage. You’ll be with Mike and Lucas tonight. Hopper wants eyes on the east access hall while he goes in.”

You shake yourself out of your spiraling thoughts and bring your attention back to the map. “Yeah. I’m here,” you answer, steadying your voice. “Just tell me where you need me.”

Robin waves from the corner, leaning against the table stacked with radios. “Finally. We were just debating who should take the binoculars tonight.”

Mike groans. “It’s not a debate. Someone has to watch the corridor, and I can do it.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but you’re slow. Lucas sees better. He should have them.”

Lucas crosses his arms. “Hey, I’m not that much better—”

Robin spots you glancing up and tilts her head. “Actually, Y/N should take them. You’ve got the eyes for this, not Mike.”

You give a small smile. “Alright. I’ll take them.”

Then Steve finally turns.

It is almost comical how fast his expression changes. One moment he is squinting at the map. The next, it is like someone switched a light on inside him. His whole face softens, the kind of warmth that makes the edges of everything else blur.

“There you are!” he says, as if you’d been gone for hours instead of minutes.

He crosses the room in a few long strides, weaving around Dustin’s equipment pile without hesitation. When he reaches you, his hands settle gently on your waist, thumbs brushing lightly over the small of your back. He draws you close, and you feel the familiar press of his chest against yours, solid and steady, the kind of hug that grounds you without a word.

He leans down just enough to press a soft kiss to your hairline. “Hey. You okay?” His voice is low and careful, carrying the weight of concern in a way that makes your chest feel too full. “Rough day?”

You nod, even though that is not quite the truth. “I’m fine.”

Steve pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “Yeah? You sure?”

You push a small smile onto your face. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

He watches you for a second longer, like he knows something is off but will not push it here in front of everyone. His thumb brushes once against your hip before he steps back.

Behind him, Dustin clears his throat. “Uh, Harrington, six sharp. You and her better not show up late, man.”

Steve shoots him a look and bumps his shoulder up. “Relax, Henderson. We will be here.”

“Six exactly,” Nancy adds. She taps the map again. “We cannot afford timing mistakes tonight.”

“Got it,” Steve says. His hand finds yours without him even looking, like muscle memory, like instinct. “We’ll see you all then.”

Robin salutes with two fingers. “Do not die!”

Lucas mutters, “Seriously, please don’t.”

You squeeze Steve’s hand as he guides you toward the exit, everyone returning to their tasks behind you.

The cool air outside the Square hits your face the moment you step out, a soft bite of Hawkins wind that makes your lungs feel a little fuller. Steve’s hand is warm in yours, solid and steady, and he lifts his free arm to wave back at Robin through the doorway.

“See you later!” she calls, already ducking back into the chaos.

Steve squeezes your fingers once, gentle but certain. “Alright, sweetheart. Come on.”

You follow him toward his car, the familiar rattle of his keys and the soft thud of his sneakers grounding you more than you want to admit. He reaches the passenger door first and pulls it open for you like he always does, a habit that never faded from him no matter how much everything else in your lives changed.

You climb in, settling into the seat that smells faintly like pine-scent napkins and whatever cologne he pretends he does not use. He shuts the door carefully before jogging around the front, sliding into the driver’s side with a small exhale.

The engine hums to life, headlights cutting through the dull late-afternoon glow. As the car pulls away from tge curb, Steve’s hand drifts to the center console, fingers brushing your knee before settling there with casual familiarity.

“So,” he starts, glancing at you briefly before watching the road again. “You’re with Mike and Lucas tonight. Hopper wants you guys covering the rooftop near the military checkpoint.”

You nod. “Yeah. Nancy told me.”

“I know,” Steve says, and there’s a softness in his voice that he cannot hide, even when talking strategy. “But I want you to be careful up there.”

You smile a little. “Steve, I’ve done this almost a hundred times.”

“Still.” He gives a small laugh. “You know how it is. Every crawl gets worse, and Hopper’s plan tonight is insane. And that rooftop has, like, the worst visibility ever. Wind, dust, those busted spotlights. Anything can go wrong, and I can’t have you getting hurt.”

You huff a quiet laugh, because that part is true. “I’ll manage.”

“I know you will,” he says. Then, softer, “But I can’t turn this part of my brain off, alright? The worrying part. I see you out there with Mike and Lucas and my stomach does this… thing.” 

He gestures vaguely, shaking his head with a rueful smile. “I don’t love it. Not when it comes to you.”

Your chest warms, but only for a moment. The quiet returns, the heavy kind that feels like it’s pressing something down instead of letting something breathe.

Steve notices.

He glances at you again, longer this time. “Hey. You sure you’re okay?”

His voice is gentle, not probing, just concerned. It makes the ache in your chest twist tighter.

You swallow, fingers curling faintly against your thigh. “Steve… can I ask you something?”

He nods immediately. “Yeah. Anything.”

You hesitate, watching the blur of Hawkins pass outside the window, all cracked pavement and rusted street signs and the faint hum of a world still pretending it is normal.

Your voice comes out softer than you intend. “Do you… still have feelings for Nancy?”

Steve’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, not dramatically, just enough for you to notice. Just enough to show he heard you clearly, and just enough to make your heart thud against your ribs.

The silence stretches for a beat.

Then another.

And in that space, your thoughts start to spiral, tiny sparks igniting into a tangled web you can’t untangle.

Maybe he does. Maybe he still cares about her more than you think. Maybe all this time, you’ve been fooling yourself, reading warmth where there is habit, taking comfort where there is convenience. 

Maybe you are just the temporary girl, the placeholder he holds close until something—or someone—else feels like home. 

Maybe standing here, beside Nancy, you really do look smaller, like a shadow someone could step over without noticing. Maybe he doesn’t even see you the way you hope he does. Maybe—

Steve exhales, shaky and disbelieving, pulling his gaze from the road long enough to actually look at you.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, the word tender but heavy with something else. “Where did that come from?”

The question still hangs in the air when your voice breaks. You try to blink it back, try to breathe deeply, try to pretend the sting in your eyes is nothing, but your throat tightens and the first tear escapes before you can stop it.

Steve sees it instantly.

“Hey…hey, hey,” he murmurs, worry flooding his voice in an instant. He looks between you and the road, jaw tightening with decision. Then he eases the car toward the side of the street and pulls over.

The engine stays running, but the rest of the world seems to fall still.

He turns to you fully. His hands come up, palms open, ready to hold your face or your hands or whatever part of you you will allow him to touch.

“Sweetheart,” he says softly, “what’s wrong? Talk to me. Please talk to me.”

You shake your head, breath catching. “It’s nothing. I just— I’m being stupid.”

He leans closer, eyes earnest and steady. “You’re not stupid. Not even close. Tell me.”

It comes out all at once, messy and anxious, the way secrets sound when they’ve been sitting in the dark too long, refusing to stay hidden.

“I see the way you look at her,” you say, voice trembling, your hands gripping the edge of the table until your knuckles ache. “I see it every time she walks into the room. You light up in this… this way.” 

You take a sharp breath, trying to steady yourself, but it comes out jagged. “And I know she’s your ex. I know you both have history. I know she’s with Jonathan. I know all of that!  But it still feels like I’m… temporary. Like I’m just this placeholder, standing here while you figure out what you actually want —or like I’m someone you care about only in moments, and not the one you choose when it really matters.”

Your chest tightens and your throat burns as the words tumble out. You look down, fiddling with your sleeve, avoiding his eyes for the fraction of a second you dare. 

More tears fall, hot and clumsy, and you rub them away but they keep coming. “I mean, she’s Nancy Wheeler. She’s brilliant and confident and she knows exactly who she is and she’s everything I’m not. And I swear I’m not imagining it because even Jonathan notices too the way you look at her sometimes and—”

“Okay,” Steve says gently, cutting you off in the softest way imaginable.

He unclips his seatbelt. Then he reaches across you and unclips yours.

Before you can even question it, he has his hands around your waist, lifting you carefully and guiding you onto his lap. You settle sideways against him, his arms wrapping around you like he is afraid you might slip through his fingers.

His thumbs brush your cheeks, wiping each tear as it falls. His forehead rests lightly against yours.

“First of all,” he says, voice warm and serious, “I never want to see you cry like this. It makes me feel like some kind of terrible boyfriend. Like the worst one in Hawkins history. And trust me, that list is long.”

A tiny, startled breath leaves you that almost resembles a laugh.

Steve smiles at the sound. “There she is,” he whispers.

His fingers keep brushing your face, soft and steady, as he looks at you with a sincerity that pulls the air straight from your lungs.

He pulls you closer, just enough to feel the press of his chest against yours, hands settling gently on your arms. “I know it’s hard to trust me sometimes, especially with everything that’s happened, with history and past mistakes and people we care about. But none of that changes this. None of that changes how I feel about you.”

Steve leans in just slightly, thumb brushing softly along your jawline. “I care about you. I’ve always cared about you. You’re the one I want. You’re the one I choose. Always. And I’ll make sure you know it every single day, no matter what.”

“I don’t have feelings for Nancy. Not lingering ones, not secret ones, not hidden-in-the-back-of-my-stupid-brain ones. Nothing.” He shakes his head slowly. “I care about her, sure. She’s Nancy. She’s brave and determined and half the reason we’re alive. But I’m not in love with her. I haven’t been in love with her for a long time.”

Your breath trembles.

He continues, voice firm but full of affection. “And do you want to know why? Because I met you.”

Your heart stutters painfully.

“I am in love with you,” he says simply. “Head over heels. Completely gone. I think about you when I wake up. I think about you when I go to sleep. I think about you even when I’m supposed to be thinking about monsters and plans and crawl maps and all the other garbage that keeps trying to kill us.”

He tilts your face up gently, his hands cradling your cheeks. One soft kiss brushes your forehead, another grazes your temple, and then he nudges your nose against his lips in the gentlest way.

“And you want to talk about who has everything?” he says, voice low and teasing, hands sliding to your hips to hold you close. “Baby, you are the absolute hottest girl I have ever seen in my entire life. I mean it. And I’ve worked as a lifeguard, so that’s a statistically significant sample size.”

A small laugh escapes you, breathless and relieved. “Yeah, yeah. Good to hear that you think your girlfriend is hot, Harrington,” you murmur, smiling.

He grins, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the top of your hand, then another to your knuckles. “And you know what?” he says, eyes sparkling, playful and serious all at once. “You’re the only person on this planet who’s ever going to be the mom of my six nuggets.”

Your head jerks back. “Six nuggets?”

He nods very seriously, hands still resting on your hips. “Six. I already have names picked out. Nugget One through Nugget Six. Three boys, three girls—”

You laugh, cutting him off. “Wait, wait—you think I’m actually going to give birth six times?”

Steve shrugs, smug and playful. “Why not? You love me, don’t you?”

You swat his chest. “I love you, but not enough to give you six babies!”

Steve leans in, brushing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Well, if that’s the case,” he murmurs, smirk curling, “we could always practice making babies.”

Your hand flies to his shoulder. “Steve!”

steve harrington masterlist

As you started aiming your bow at the target you heard your father shouting at you, "Concentrate on the target Y/N!"

Your body ran cold with nerves, hoping that you hit the target this time so your father could be proud of you and not yell. You took a deep breath and let go of the bow, the arrow pierced through the air, twirling into the wind, and began making its way to the target. As you watch it you held your breath, hoping that it would hit the center of the tree. As it came in close contact with the tree, instead of hitting the center it grazed the bark on the side of the tree.

As you watched it happen your ears feel flat and your tail began to curl up behind you. You knew that your father wasn't going to let that happen without voicing his opinion, "Y/N! What was that?! That was probably one of the worst shots I've ever seen! You used to be so skilled at this what happened?" Jake said while raising his voice at you. As you listened to his words you couldn't conjure up a response, you didn't want to tell him that it's only when you're around him your skills falter.

"Why can't you be like your brother Neteyam?! He is skilled at everything and you're just... losing everything me and your mother taught you!" As you heard the words escape your father's lips, tears began to well up in your eyes, and your lips quivered. You always felt like your father wanted you to be like Neteyam but for the words to actually hit your ears cut deep within you.

It made you feel a fit of anger towards your father you never felt before, "Well I'm sorry I'm not good enough for you Dad! I-I'm sorry I'm not Neteyam the 'mighty warrior'! I'm sorry that I disappoint you" you yelled as tears trickled down your face. You threw your bow harshly on the ground and began running home, you couldn't stand being in the same proximity to your father anymore.

As your mother was home tending to things that needed to be done she heard your footsteps walking inside. When she turned around to greet you she saw your sad expression and tears rolling down your face, "Ma'ite what is wrong? Are you okay?" Neytiri asked you as she pulled you into a hug. As your mother engulfed you in her warmth it made you feel a little calmer. You began telling your mother what your father said and you told her how you've been feeling about his treatment towards you for the past months.

As Neytiri listened to you explain everything she was upset with Jake. She has been telling him not to be so hard on you and your siblings, and clearly, he hasn't been listening. She hated how he attempted to compare you to Neteyam when both of you are two different people. As she continued to comfort you she saw Jake walking in looking dumbfounded as he heard your sniffles. Neytiri rubbed your back as she gave him an angry glare while mouthing 'Fix it now'.

Jake took a deep breath before making his presence known to you, "Babygirl can we talk?"

At the sound of his voice, you began wiping your tears and turned around to face him. Instead of responding you just walked outside the pod. As Neytiri watched you walk outside she went up to Jake and smacked him on the back of the head, "You better go apologize and make her feel better Jake or I will pluck out your eyeballs" she told him harshly, feeling her motherly instinct to protect her children arise.

Jake nodded his head and began making his way outside and he saw you sitting in front of a nearby pond. As he sat down next to you he hoped that this conversation would go well. As you saw your father sit down you began to apologize, "Dad I-I'm sorry I didn't mean to yell please don't be mad at me"

"Babygirl it's okay, I'm the one who should be apologizing. I shouldn't have said those things to you earlier"

"It's okay Dad"

"No, it's not I shouldn't have tried to compare you to your brother, it was stupid of me. I know I've been hard on you more than your siblings—"

"Yes, you have and it's been making me feel stressed. It's been making me second guess myself even when I do the most minimal task. When I'm training with you I-I just feel so anxious because I don't want to fail you or make you yell. I just wish you weren't so hard on me, I feel so much pressure trying to accomplish your expectations for me" You begin to do your nervous tick, fidgeting with your fingers which Jake notices. It's something you have always done ever since you were a small child when you felt anxious or nervous.

As Jake heard your words his ears pinned to the side of his head, "Babygirl I'm so sorry I didn't realize I made you feel this way. I feel like a skxawng" Jake didn't want to make you feel like you had to be on pins and needles around him, he wanted you to be able to be open with him without feeling anxious.

"My intentions aren't to make you feel this way. I'm only hard on you because I see how much potential you have, I can see you being such a powerful Olo'eykte one day. I'm just trying to push you to your greatness but now see that I should do that another way"

Hearing your father speak so highly of you surprised you, "You think I can be Olo'eykte? You think I could rule the clan?" You spoke almost in a tone of disbelief. You always thought your father saw Neteyam as the next heir of the clan but not you.

"Yes I do, you have a strong heart and that's something you need to be a good leader. You have what it takes" He says as he looks down at you with a soft smile. You knew his words were genuine, you knew your father saw goodness in you but for him to vocalize it made you feel a sense of newly found confidence.

"Do you forgive me, babygirl? I promise I'll change my ways and treat you and your siblings better than what I've been doing lately"

"Yes Dad, I'll forgive you"

"I want you to know that you're not a disappoint, you could never disappoint me" Your father puts his arms on your shoulders and looked at you with eyes that held strong emotions. He wanted you to know that you were perfect to him, that he could never see you in a negative light.

You pull him into a hug, "I love you Dad" You knew everything your father did was out of a good place, even if he tended to show it in the wrong way. You knew his intentions were pure.

Jake wrapped his arms around your small frame while planting a small kiss on your forehead, "I love you too babygirl"

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and if you were being honest, you couldn't help but find the situation slightly comical. your mind fills itself to the brim with memories of falling so deeply in love with one another, but now — now, he's just gone.

"you never have to hide from me," he told you.

his words were doused in honey, every single insecurity that plague your mind began melting away. he wanted to know the real you. not the village's tskarem, not the "golden child" title that the elders bestowed upon you.

he wanted to know you.

he wanted to drown himself in your scent, burn the feeling of your body next to his, he wanted to know the ins and outs of your soul.

"i am just neteyam when we are together. not the clan's future olo'ekytan, not the successor of my father. i am simple and plain neteyam."

the memory brings the smallest of smiles to your lips, yet it does nothing to ease the surge of loneliness that consumes you, your heart. it keeps you up at night, eyes wide open as you replay everything that had let up to this point of your relationship. you were beyond tired having to play this game with him, so you decided to bite the bullet and ask him.

"neteyam are you here — oh, kiri!" you speak out, sending her a sweet smile her way. she returns the gesture, "hi, y/n! he's near the shooting range." she states simply, going back to her weaving.

you thank her before scurrying away. luckily, he wasn't too far and you were able to catch up with him. your hands nervously tremble, wringing themselves out in hopes to stop the shakiness. your strides are slow, but with a few encouraging words, you will yourself to walk up to him.

as if on cue, he turns around and catches you staring. his eyes catch you off guard, sunflower-hued orbs swirling with something you can't seem to put your finger on.

"hey..." you say, tone unsure. the sunlight sparkles, flashing through tiny openings of leaves as they sway in the wind. the mossy floor quiets your footsteps as you get closer, standing next to him wordlessly.

he parrots your greeting before going back to his previous task. he draws his bow, eyeing the target that stares back at him. "have you been well?" you ask hopefully. he shrugs, muttering something about being busy and that he's fine. your lips purse at the lack of communication on his end.

"okay, stop. what is wrong with you?" you ask sternly. your eyebrows scrunch in displeasure, subtly creating space between you and him by taking a step sideways. he looks back at you, surprised at the sudden fierceness to your voice.

he sends you a quizzical look as if he genuinely had no clue what you were hinting at, "i do not know what you are talking about." he states it as if it were a fact.

you roll your eyes at his deflection, crossing your arms irritably. "do not play this game with me," you scoff, sounding like a parent scolding their child. neteyam's eyes downcast shamefully towards the bow in his hands, the seriousness of the situation beginning to crash down on him.

"look, i know you have been having a hard time with your duties, but 'teyam, i'm here for you. there is no need to run away from me, from us —"

"there is no 'us'," he cuts you off, not sparing you a single glance. "there is nothing here. you have absolutely no knowledge of what it takes, what is thrust upon me as the next olo'ekytan. i am forced to love you, a simple clans person who does not contribute a single thing to this village," he grunts out, nostrils flaring in irritation.

"yes, i have my duties but i will not be forced to go through yet another day where you think we are true lovers. so back off." his voice grows angrier with each word. his words resemble a whip, every word that tumbles past his lips begins to hit you again, and again, and again. his breath gets caught in his throat as his face flushes a darker plum color.

your jaw drops slightly, an instant gasp leaving your lips. the tiny noise knocks neteyam out of his defensive state and with every passing second, regret begins to consume him whole.

both of you stay silent for second, just staring at each other in search of how to respond, to no avail. he watches your face morph into one that is more closed off, walls building themselves high as you straighten out your posture before responding.

"my mistake," you swallow thickly, voice almost mocking him in a sense. "i apologize for thinking there was an us. i thought i was speaking to just neteyam, not the chief's son. forgive me for thinking otherwise." your tone is monotonous, gaze meeting his in an intense staring match.

his brows drop, eyes widening as his frown begins to grow deeper. "y/n..." he tries to take a step closer to you, in return you take a step back. you cut off his advances before they can even start. "i am truly sorry for the fact that our entire relationship was a mere inconvenience for you."

neteyam hisses as if you had slapped him across his face, and after everything he had just spilt, he wouldn't be surprised if you actually did so. but there you stand, the sparkle in your eyes dimming. his mouth open and closes, trying to muster up enough words to form a proper sentence. and to rub salt into his freshly cut wound, "was there anything else the chief's son needed to say to me or am i free to leave?" you ask calmly, eyes never leaving his.

his hands twitch nervously, biting the inside of his cheek as he contemplates his next move. "there's nothing else to say on this matter," he mutters.

you nod affirmatively before turning your back towards him. as you begin walking away, neteyam's hands instinctively reach for you, calling your name desperately as the space between you and him grows bigger.

he knew he had messed up, big time.

"that's enough, neteyam." your voice stern, pointing an accusatory finger his way. he continues to watch your retreating form, heart willing him to run after you, yet his brain forces his body to remain deathly still.

⋆ ˚｡ ୨୧ reblogs / feedback are highly appreciated. thank you!

★ diwa's notes. i always write fluff n shit so i decided to change that LOL there might b a pt 2, not sure tho :P

You were perched at the edge of the deep end, legs dangling in, beer untouched beside you. Robin and Dustin were mid-cannonball war. Max and Lucas bickered lazily over pool noodles. Nancy had just walked back from the house with a refill for herself and one for Steve.

Steve, your boyfriend, technically.

Except tonight, something was off.

He hadn’t touched you once. Not even a passing squeeze on your shoulder or a graze of your hand. Not cold, not distant. Just… quiet. Thoughtful.

And Nancy had been near him more than usual. Laughing at something he said. Sitting next to him on the pool steps. It was nothing. It had to be nothing. Everyone knows you and Steve are together, Nancy's in a lond distance relationship with Jonathan, and she's nice to you.

Still, your gut twisted.

You weren’t jealous. Not exactly. Not insecure, either. You knew Steve loved you. He told you often. Held you like it was sacred. But there was always that thing, that little thread that hadn’t quite snapped between him and Nancy Wheeler.

And that’s when you heard it.

You’d wandered inside for a towel, your own still soaked. Passing the sliding glass door, you paused. Not intentionally. Just long enough to hear Steve’s voice.

They were alone on the porch steps. Nancy and Steve, bathed in string light shadows.

“I used to think this would be our life,” Steve was saying. “You and me. Backyards. Pools. Maybe a couple kids running around with floaties and juice boxes…”

You froze. The towel slipped from your arms.

Nancy didn’t say anything.

Steve kept going. “Sometimes I still think about it. Like… maybe if things were different.”

You couldn’t breathe.

The conversation shifted after that. Lightened, turned casual. Nancy brushed it off with a joke. Steve laughed. The music grew louder. Someone shouted for more chips.

And you?

You walked straight back into the yard, dropped the towel, and dove into the pool.

Not to cool off.

To drown it all out.

Like your skin wasn’t burning. Like your stomach hadn’t dropped straight into the concrete below you.

And you smiled when Steve caught your eye across the pool minutes later. When he handed you a drink. When he sat close and made some cheesy joke.

You laughed. You played along.

But you didn’t forget.

You didn’t sleep that night.

You hadn’t confronted him. Not that night. Not the next day.

You hadn’t said anything at all. That pool party. The echo of his voice around the corner of the house, talking about white-picket futures and poolside kids… with Nancy.

But you felt it, the way something inside you cracked open, quiet and sharp.

The worst part was that Steve didn’t even know what he’d broken.

It’d been days since the party. Since the moment your chest hollowed out and you didn’t know what part of your relationship was real anymore.

Now you sat in the passenger seat of his car, the windows fogging slightly from your takeout bags and the heater blowing half-heartedly. The air between you was too quiet. Even the music on the radio felt like it was holding its breath.

You weren’t fighting.

Not yet.

But you were unraveling.

And Steve was oblivious.

“I was thinking,” he said casually, shifting gears as the road curved through the woods. “We should take a weekend trip somewhere. Just get out of Hawkins. Like, I dunno, Chicago or something.”

You hummed.

That was all.

He glanced at you. “You good?”

You nodded. But your fingers were clenched in your lap. Your jaw was tight.

Steve frowned. “You’ve been weird all week. Did I do something?”

“No,” you said, then hesitated. “I mean, maybe. I don’t know.”

“Okay, well… if I did something, just tell me.”

You stared out the window, the trees blurring past like they were fleeing from something.

“I think I’m starting to feel like I don’t know where I stand with you,” you said softly.

Steve blinked. “What?”

“I mean, I’m here, yeah. I’m your girlfriend. We go on dates. You hold my hand. But sometimes it feels like you’re… somewhere else. Like part of you is always still chasing something that doesn’t involve me.”

Steve frowned. “Where is this coming from?”

You finally looked at him, eyes stinging. “Do you ever think about being with her again?”

His hands tightened on the wheel. “Who?”

“You know who.”

He didn’t answer right away. Which was already enough of one.

“I’m not still in love with her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“But you miss her,” you said, voice cracking. “You miss what you had with her.”

Steve exhaled sharply. “I don't…”

“You talk about the future like you already imagined it with someone else first. Like I’m just trying to fill a blueprint that doesn’t even belong to me.”

“That’s not fair,” he said, pulling the car over suddenly onto a dirt patch off the road. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”

You turned to him, voice trembling. “Do you love me, Steve? Or am I just convenient? Because I can’t keep pretending this is okay when I feel like I’m always standing in someone else’s shadow.”

He was quiet. Too quiet.

“I care about you,” he said finally, but it didn’t sound like a promise. It sounded like a confession. A limitation.

You felt something inside you fold in on itself.

“I need more than that,” you whispered.

He looked at you, really looked like he was trying to summon the right thing to say but all he had were half-truths and memories that didn’t belong to you.

“You make it hard to be loved sometimes, you know?” you murmured. “Because you leave the door open. Just wide enough that people think they can reach you, but never wide enough to actually come in.”

Steve flinched, his jaw tightening.

“You act like you're all in,” you continued, “but you’re still holding a piece of yourself back and I don’t think you even realize it.”

He stared ahead, eyes fixed on the dashboard. “You think I don’t want to be this person. That I choose to fuck it all up. But I don't know how else to be.”

And there it was.

The truth. Sharp. Exhausted. Bare.

You nodded slowly, feeling everything and nothing all at once.

“I’m tired of competing with ghosts, Steve,” you said, reaching for the door handle.

He didn’t stop you.

You stepped out into the quiet night. The wind was cold, but it didn’t cut nearly as deep as his silence did.

He watched you walk away.

And still, he didn’t follow.

You’d been gone for five days. Not out of Hawkins, just out of him. Like the version of you that had been wrapped up in his warmth, in his hand holding, movie watching, ride giving affection, that person had vanished the second you stepped out of the car that night.

And the worst part?

He hadn’t gone after you.

He told himself it was because he needed to respect your space. That it wasn’t fair to chase someone when you couldn’t promise anything back. But really? Deep down?

But weeks passed.

Just silence.

And then the silence turned to distance.

He still found your things.

A sweater in the back of his car. Half used cherry lip balm in the glove compartment. One of your earrings under the passenger seat. Small, forgotten parts of you that felt like landmines now.

He thought about the pool party sometimes.

How dumb it was, how reckless to say something like that out loud. To Nancy.

Not because he was still in love with her. He wasn’t. He hadn’t been for a long time. But there was a version of his life he used to cling to like a stupid dream, the white picket fence, six kids, backyard summer version of himself he thought he’d grow into.

And somehow, Nancy had always been the placeholder in that dream. Because she was safe. Familiar. The first heartbreak. The one that left a blueprint in his chest.

But then you came along.

And you weren’t safe. You were real.

You didn’t fall for the Steve Harrington charm package. You didn’t get wrapped up in the story, you wanted to write a new one with him.

And he couldn’t give it to you.