#ex lovers

You nodded. You smiled when you remembered to. Your body leaned away even when your eyes didn’t. Every time he laughed, your chest tightened just a little, like muscle memory didn’t get the memo that things were over.

When someone pulled you into another conversation, you felt relief and guilt at the same time. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. You could feel him watching anyway.

Keeho stayed cool until you left.

He stayed cool all the way home. Told himself it went fine. That you were fine. That he was fine. He replayed his own jokes and winced at half of them, congratulated himself on the other half. He told himself the tight feeling in his chest was just leftover adrenaline.

Then evening came. Quiet. Phone face down on his desk.

It buzzed.

Your name lit up his screen like it had been waiting.

It was nice seeing you again today.

Keeho picked up his phone immediately. Too immediately. Fingers already moving before his brain caught up.

Yeah, it was nice. Hope you got home safe.

Sent.

The message whooshed away, and the room felt very still.

“Idiot,” he muttered, staring at the screen like it might apologize to him. He dropped the phone onto the desk and leaned back, eyes on the ceiling.

Three months. He had survived three months. He had trained himself not to reach for you when something funny happened, not to open your chat when he felt tired or proud or lonely. He had convinced himself that distance was proof of growth.

And then one text, and his heart reacted like nothing had changed.

He grabbed the phone again. Read your message. Read his reply. Wondered if it sounded too eager. Wondered if you noticed how fast he answered. Wondered if you were overthinking it too, thumbs hovering, heart doing something stupid.

He hated that he cared. He hated that seeing you uncomfortable earlier had hurt more than he expected. Hated that all the jokes in the world hadn’t erased the fact that he missed you in a quiet, aching way.

Another buzz.

Nothing. Just his imagination.

Keeho sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, smile gone now.

He missed you. That was the truth. No punchline, no clever framing. Just a feeling that sat heavy and familiar in his chest, like it had been waiting patiently for him to slip.

And he wondered, not for the first time, if you had felt it too.

☁︎Theo☁︎

Theo sat on the edge of his bed with his back against the wall, phone heavy in his hands like it had gained weight just to spite him. His room was quiet in the way that made thoughts louder. No music. No distractions. Just the soft hum of the air and the glow of his screen.

He scrolled slowly.

The gallery opened like a door he should not have unlocked. At first, it was easy. Screenshots. Random photos. Blurry shots of food and notes and nothing important. Then your face appeared. Then both of you.

He paused only for a second before pressing delete.

One photo disappeared. Then another. You at a café, smiling at something he said but could no longer remember. Deleted. You half asleep in his hoodie, hair a mess, eyes soft. Deleted. The two of you reflected in a mirror, shoulders touching like it was the most natural thing in the world. Deleted.

His thumb moved steadily, mechanically, like if he kept the rhythm his chest would not cave in. Each photo vanished with a small confirmation that felt far too final.

He told himself it was necessary. That holding onto these things only slowed healing. That moving on required proof, some visible act of letting go. He swallowed hard and kept going.

Memories slipped in anyway.

You laughing quietly so you would not wake anyone up. You reaching for his hand without looking. You listening when he talked, really listening, like his words mattered more than the noise around you.

Theo exhaled through his nose and scrolled faster.

His finger hovered over your name in his contacts by accident. He backed out immediately, heart jumping like it had been caught doing something wrong. For a moment, he imagined pressing call. Imagined hearing your voice say his name again. Imagined pretending it was casual, that he just wanted to check in.

His thumb trembled.

He locked his phone and set it face down on the bed, staring at the wall until the urge passed. When he picked it up again, he did not open his contacts. He went back to the gallery. Back to deleting.

Photo after photo vanished. The album thinned. The past became lighter, emptier, quieter.

Then he reached a selfie.

It was taken on a day he remembered clearly. You both leaned into the frame, faces close, eyes slightly squinted from smiling too hard. You looked happy in that effortless way that never felt posed. He looked softer than he ever allowed himself to look anywhere else.

Theo stared at it.

His thumb hovered over delete and stayed there. Seconds passed. A minute. He zoomed in without meaning to. Saw the way your cheek pressed against his shoulder. The way his eyes were fixed on you instead of the camera.

His chest tightened.

He imagined the photo gone. Imagined never seeing this version of you again. Not the real you, just this frozen moment where everything had still been okay.

His thumb lowered, then stopped.

Theo sighed quietly and let the phone rest against his palm. He did not make excuses. He did not justify it as sentimental or harmless. He simply acknowledged the truth.

He liked this picture. He liked who he was in it. He liked who you were together.

He backed out without deleting it.

The rest of the photos stayed gone. The album felt sparse now, like a room after moving boxes out. But that one image remained, tucked away among the emptiness.

Theo locked his phone and placed it carefully on the nightstand. He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, chest rising slowly.

He did not text you. He did not call.

He just let himself keep one quiet thing.

☁︎Jiung☁︎

Jiung filled his days until there was barely room to breathe. Morning workouts that left his muscles burning and his mind blank. Long hours in the studio, headphones on, pen moving fast across paper like if he stopped writing the thoughts would catch him. Late nights with friends where he smiled too wide and laughed too loud and said all the right things.

“I’m good,” he told everyone. “Really. It was necessary. Made me stronger.”

He said it so often it started to sound like a slogan. He lifted heavier. He wrote brighter melodies. He talked about growth and lessons and timing like he had read the manual on how to be okay.

People nodded. Some smiled. Some exchanged looks when he turned away.

Jiung ignored that part.

He chose optimism like armor. Every ache was progress. Every quiet moment was a chance to improve. He told himself he was better now, lighter, freer. If his chest tightened sometimes when he was alone, he brushed it off as leftover emotion. Normal. Temporary.

That was what he told himself as he pushed open the door to a café one afternoon, earbuds in, playlist upbeat. He ordered quickly, thanked the barista with a grin, picked up his coffee to go.

He turned around.

And walked straight into you.

The impact was small, barely more than a bump, but it stopped time anyway. Your shoulder brushed his chest. His coffee sloshed dangerously. You both froze, eyes lifting at the same moment.

For half a second, the world went quiet.

Then you smiled.

It was soft. Careful. The kind of smile that asked permission before existing.

“Oh,” you said. “Hey.”

Jiung’s heart stuttered, then raced to catch up. He pulled his earbuds out, hands suddenly unsure of where to rest.

“Hey,” he replied. His voice sounded steadier than he felt. He smiled back automatically, muscle memory kicking in like a reflex.

You both stepped back at the same time. Awkward. Polite.

“How have you been?” you asked.

“Good,” he said immediately. “Yeah. Busy. You?”

“Same,” you replied. “Busy.”

There was a pause. Not uncomfortable, just fragile. Like one wrong word could crack it open.

He commented on the weather. You nodded. You mentioned the café being crowded lately. He agreed. Everything stayed safely shallow, skimming the surface of what you used to know about each other.

You looked well. That realization landed quietly and hurt more than he expected.

“Well,” you said after a moment, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder. “It was nice seeing you.”

“Yeah,” Jiung said. “Nice seeing you too.”

Another smile. Another pause. Then you stepped aside to let someone pass, and the moment broke.

He waved once, short and polite, and pushed the door open. Cold air hit his face as he stepped outside. The bell chimed behind him, and just like that, you were no longer in the same space.

Jiung walked a few steps down the sidewalk before stopping.

His hand tightened around the coffee cup. His chest felt hollow, like something had been scooped out without warning. All the noise he had filled himself with went quiet at once.

He inhaled, slow and shaky.

He was not okay.

The optimism slipped, cracked at the edges. No amount of workouts or songs or smiles had prepared him for the way your voice still settled into him, familiar and dangerous. For the way one brief smile had undone weeks of pretending.

Jiung stared down the street, jaw tight, eyes stinging.

Stronger, he told himself again.

But this time, the word did not stick.

☁︎Intak☁︎

Anytime someone brought you up, Intak smiled like it was instinct, like his face had memorized you even if his heart pretended it had moved on. He leaned back, arms crossed, acting relaxed, acting easy.

“Oh, her?” he said once, grinning. “She’s amazing. Always has been.”

Someone joked that you were probably annoying sometimes. Intak’s smile sharpened instantly.

“Not really,” he replied, voice light but firm. “You just didn’t get her humor.”

The room went a little quiet. He did not notice, or pretended not to. To him, defending you felt natural, like breathing. He talked about you like you were still a safe topic, like your name did not pull something tight in his chest every time it left his mouth.

He told himself it was normal. You had ended things on decent terms. You were a good person. Of course he would speak well of you. That did not mean anything.

That was what he told himself.

Later, they all sat sprawled around the practice room, bodies tired, conversation loose. Keeho leaned against the wall, phone in hand, thumb scrolling lazily. Intak watched him from across the room, half listening to someone else talk.

Then Keeho’s face changed.

It was subtle. A pause. A tightening around his eyes. His thumb stopped moving.

Intak noticed immediately.

“What?” he asked, sitting up. “What did you see?”

Keeho locked his phone a little too fast. “Nothing.”

Intak squinted. “That was not nothing.”

“It’s really nothing,” Keeho said, already looking away.

Intak stood and crossed the room in two steps. “Show me.”

Keeho sighed. “Bro.”

“Show me,” Intak repeated, smiling, but his stomach had already dropped. He knew. He did not know how, but he knew it was you.

Keeho hesitated, then unlocked his phone and held it out.

Your Instagram story filled the screen.

You stood somewhere bright, laughing, head turned toward someone beside you. A guy. Tall. Close. Too close for Intak’s liking. His arm was not around you, but it did not need to be. The way you leaned toward him felt intimate anyway.

Intak’s smile disappeared.

His jaw tightened as he stared at the screen, eyes tracing details he hated himself for noticing. The guy’s hand near yours. The ease in your posture. The fact that you looked happy.

“Who’s that?” Intak asked quietly.

Keeho shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably just a friend.”

Intak scoffed. “Doesn’t look like just a friend.”

“It’s one picture,” Keeho said gently. “You’re reading into it.”

Intak handed the phone back, fingers stiff. His chest felt hot, restless, like he needed to move or say something or do anything except stand there.

You were allowed to move on. He knew that. He had told himself that so many times it should have stuck. Still, the idea of someone else standing that close to you felt wrong in a way he could not explain.

“Could be a coworker,” Keeho added. “Or a friend of a friend. You don’t know.”

Intak laughed, short and humorless. “Yeah. Sure.”

He turned away, pacing a few steps, hands running through his hair. Jealousy buzzed under his skin, sharp and embarrassing. He hated that Keeho had seen it first. Hated that you had not thought twice before posting it. Hated that he cared this much.

“You’re overthinking,” Keeho said.

Intak stopped and looked back at him. “No,” he said, quieter now. “I just know her.”

And that was the worst part.

Because knowing you like that meant he knew exactly how easily someone could fall for you.

☁︎Soul☁︎

Five months had passed since she was the one who ended it, five months since Soul had learned how quiet heartbreak could be. He carried it silently, tucked between schedules and rehearsals, letting time do what it could. Tonight was supposed to be loud enough to drown everything else out.

The club pulsed with light and sound, bass crawling up the floor and into his bones. Soul danced with the others, movements loose, sharp, a little reckless. Someone handed him a drink. Then another. Laughter blurred at the edges, neon streaking across the room like color spilled too fast.

He was almost okay.

Then Jongseob grabbed his wrist.

Soul leaned in so he could hear him. Jongseob did not say anything. He just tilted his head toward the bar.

You stood there.

The room narrowed instantly. Sound dulled. Light softened. You wore confidence like it had grown into your skin since the last time he saw you. Hair different. Smile the same. Soul’s chest tightened, attraction rushing back without asking permission.

“Oh,” someone said behind him. “No. Absolutely not.”

“She’s here?” Keeho added, already shaking his head.

Soul barely heard them.

“I’m going to say hi,” he said, voice calm, like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

Hands grabbed his arm. Someone protested. Jongseob muttered something about bad ideas and worse timing.

Soul stepped forward anyway.

He wove through the crowd, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the music. When he reached the bar, he stopped just behind you, close enough to feel your presence, not close enough to touch.

“Hey,” he said, grin sliding easily into place.

You sighed, like you had expected him, like you had known this moment would come. Then you turned, and your face softened into a smile.

“Hey,” you replied.

For a second, neither of you spoke. The air between you hummed, familiar and dangerous.

“You look good,” Soul said, eyes flicking over you before he could stop himself.

You nodded, accepting it without flinching. “Thanks. You do too.”

He smiled wider without meaning to, something warm and unmistakable slipping through. You noticed immediately.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you said, but there was no heat in it. Just a warning wrapped in humor.

Soul chuckled, lifting his hands slightly. “Like what? I’m just standing here.”

“Mm,” you hummed, unconvinced.

He leaned against the bar. “Can I get you a drink?”

You raised your glass slightly. “I’m good. I’m paying for my own drinks tonight.”

Soul nodded, impressed despite himself. “Respect.”

He stayed. He did not crowd you. He did not push. He just looked at you, eyes soft, expression open, like five months had not taught him how to hide it better.

You felt it. He knew you did.

A faint blush crept into your cheeks. You lifted your drink in a small salute. “It was nice seeing you.”

Soul nodded slowly. “Yeah. It was.”

You turned to leave, weaving back into the crowd. Soul stayed where he was, eyes following you longer than he should have, chest aching in a way that felt almost hopeful.

Then you stopped.

You turned around once more, catching his gaze. You smiled at him, quick and bright, like a secret.

Soul smiled back before he could think.

As you disappeared into the crowd again, he exhaled, hand tightening around his glass.

This was not over.

He felt it settle in his chest, certain and steady, like a door left deliberately unlocked.

☁︎Jongseob☁︎

Jongseob did not announce his heartbreak the way others might have. He folded it inward, tucked it between beats and lyrics and schedules. He stayed busy on paper. Always working. Always thinking. From the outside, it looked like focus. Discipline. Maturity.

Inside, it was loud.

His thoughts kept drifting back to you no matter how hard he tried to anchor them elsewhere. A melody would spark, and suddenly he remembered the way you used to hum without realizing it. A lyric would land too close, and he would stop writing altogether, staring at the page like it had betrayed him.

He replayed everything.

The moments he spoke too fast. The times he chose logic when you needed comfort. The silences he assumed were fine because you did not complain. He broke things down like a problem to be solved, like if he examined it carefully enough, he could arrive at a different ending.

He told himself it was for growth. For learning.

But sometimes it just hurt.

One afternoon, the city moved slowly around him. Traffic noise, footsteps, conversations blending into a steady hum. Jongseob walked without much direction, headphones in but no music playing, lost in thought.

Then he saw you.

You stood across the street, sunlight catching in your hair, posture relaxed in a way that made his chest tighten immediately. You looked real. Unfiltered. Not a memory softened by time, not a version shaped by regret. Just you, standing there, alive in the same world as him.

Jongseob stopped walking.

He watched you like he was afraid the moment would disappear if he blinked. The way you shifted your weight. The small expression on your face as you checked your phone. Everything about you felt achingly familiar and painfully distant all at once.

He felt the yearning settle heavy in his chest, deep and slow. Not desperate. Just honest.

You did not notice him.

Part of him was grateful for that. Part of him ached anyway.

He imagined walking over. Saying your name. Apologizing better this time. Saying everything he had practiced in his head late at night when sleep refused to come. He imagined you listening, imagined the outcome in a dozen different ways.

None of them felt safe.

You moved slightly, adjusting your bag, turning your head as if you sensed something. Jongseob’s heart jumped into his throat.

When you turned around, his body reacted before his mind could catch up.

He stepped back. Then another step. He turned sharply, blending into the flow of people like he had never stopped moving. He did not look back. He did not give himself the chance to see if you had noticed after all.

He walked faster than necessary, breath shallow, chest tight.

Jongseob told himself it was better this way. That some feelings were meant to be carried quietly. That wanting did not always mean reaching.

Still, as he disappeared down the street, your image stayed with him.

⸻

the text comes in just as you’re halfway through your morning coffee.

toru: your daughter tried to feed me shampoo. again.

you stare at the message for a beat before laughing into your mug.

you: maybe she’s trying to improve your hair care routine.

toru: rude. my hair is already flawless. this is sabotage.

toru: also, bring coffee when you come. the good kind :3

you can almost hear the mock injury in his tone through the screen, and it’s enough to make your chest ache with the kind of fondness you wish you didn’t still feel.

and just like that, your morning softens. it’s always like this with him. the little things, the easy of it all. you’d think after everything, it’d fade. but it doesn’t.

co-parenting with gojo satoru was… unconventional. the kind of arrangement that shouldn’t have worked — two people with too much history, too much chemistry, and one tiny human who somehow inherited all of your stubbornness and all of his chaos. and yet, it did work. somehow, the universe hadn’t imploded yet.

by the time you arrive at his apartment — sleek high rise, all glass and clean lines, the kind of place that looks too modern for a man who leaves cereal boxes open and never remembers where he puts his shoes — he’s already left the door unlocked.

you step inside to the familiar smell of pancake batter and sugar, and the distant sound of your daughter giggling. the living room’s flooded with sunlight, the city glittering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

the kitchen’s a mess — flour dusted across the counter, syrup dripping down a cabinet handle, one of his socks (just one) hanging from the edge of the couch for no discernible reason, one of your daughter’s stuffed animals sitting beside a stack of jujutsu reports.

“hey, mama!” she beams, batter on her cheek.

“hi, sweetheart,” you say, pressing a kiss to her head before your eyes shift to gojo. “what’s this?”

he spreads his arms wide. “breakfast. obviously.”

you blink at the absolute war zone around him — flour on the counter, syrup dripping from the edge of the table, and a frying pan emitting a suspicious sizzle.

“looks more like a massacre,” you deadpan.

he gasps. “such cruelty, this early in the morning?”

you shrug. “i speak the truth.”

gojo grins, leaning a hip against the counter. “you know, most people would say thank you for making breakfast.”

“most people don’t have to clean it up afterward,” you say, but your voice is soft, your smile unguarded.

he’s wearing a loose white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, and for some unfair reason, he looks good — effortless, comfortable.

“you look like you just rolled out of bed,” you comment.

“i did,” he replies, smirking. “we can’t all wake up looking like cover models.”

“oh, right. because you do.”

“you said it, not me.”

he watches you as you move — reaching over to wipe syrup from your daughter’s hand, rinsing a cup in the sink. his gaze lingers longer than it should.

“you didn’t have to come so early,” he says, breaking your thoughts. “we were about to head out to the park.”

“you and her?”

he nods. “yeah. figured she’d tire herself out before nap time. she’s been asking about you, though.”

“she has?”

he nods again, eyes glinting. “asked me why i didn’t live with mommy anymore.”

you freeze for a moment, then manage a small, strained laugh. “what’d you tell her?”

“that mommy kicked me out because i snore.”

“you don’t snore.”

“don’t ruin my credibility,” he says, smirking again. “i’m the tragic exiled dad now.”

“you’re ridiculous.”

gojo leans against the counter, looking as you cross the kitchen, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “you look nice, by the way.”

“i’m in sweatpants,” you mutter.

“yeah,” he says easily, grin widening, “nice ones.”

you give him a look, one brow raised. “are you flirting with me right now?”

“what if i am?” he asks, stepping closer. the space between you shrinks until you can feel the heat of him, the smell of coffee and faint cologne. his voice drops to that teasing low timbre that always gets to you — the kind that shouldn’t sound so intimate, but does.

you tilt your head, smiling now, the sarcasm curling in your tone. “then that’s disgusting. we have a child.”

he laughs — a low, amused sound that fills the kitchen. “and chemistry,” he says, smirking wider, “don’t forget that part.”

“you’re impossible.”

“and yet, you’re smiling,” he points out, his grin boyish and victorious.

you shake your head, fighting the way your heart jumps. “you’re a menace.”

“a charming one,” he says, before turning back to the stove as if he didn’t just make your pulse trip over itself.

you move to rinse the bowl in the sink, and he’s right there beside you, far too close, reaching for a dish towel he definitely doesn’t need.

he’s always close — like gravity bends around him a little differently, like the space between you is just another thing he can manipulate at will.

“so,” he starts, casual, like you’re not hyperaware of his arm brushing yours, “you free tonight?”

you arch a brow. “why?”

“thought maybe we could do movie night again. you, me, her. she’s been asking for it.”

“she always asks for it,” you point out. “you’re the one who makes popcorn with half a bag of sugar.”

“exactly,” he says, completely unashamed. “that’s called being the fun parent.”

“you’re the unhinged parent,” you correct, but your tone is soft, fond.

he smiles at that — a real one this time, not the usual cocky grin, but something smaller, warmer. “maybe both,” he murmurs.

you hate the way your chest tightens.

you tell yourself it’s for your daughter — that you linger after she’s already packed, that you clean his kitchen and fold his disorganized laundry because you want her to have stability.

but it’s more than that. it’s the way he hums when he makes coffee, the way he knows exactly how to make her laugh so hard she hiccups, the way he still looks at you sometimes like he remembers what it felt like to love you… and maybe still does.

the morning unfolds in that quiet, familiar routine — the three of you eating pancakes (slightly burnt, but still good), your daughter talking with her mouth full while gojo pretends to take her seriously. she giggles every time he sticks syrup on his nose just to make her laugh, and you catch yourself thinking, this feels too easy.

you stay longer than you should. you always do.

while your daughter colors on the living room floor, you find yourself tidying up his place, wiping down counters, picking up toys from the floor, tucking one of his shirts into the laundry pile. you tell yourself it’s out of habit — not because it feels like home.

“you know,” he says from the doorway, arms crossed as he watches you, “if you keep cleaning like that, people are gonna think you live here again.”

you glance up, meeting his gaze.

“someone has to make this place livable.”

he grins. “oh, so you miss living here?”

“i miss organization.”

“that’s code for me,” he says, standing up, stretching lazily.

you glance over your shoulder, and there’s that look again — soft, like he’s memorizing something he’s afraid to lose.

“you’ve got that look,” you say.

“what look?”

“the one you get before you say something stupid.”

“ah,” he nods solemnly, stepping closer, “the romantic one.”

you snort. “that’s debatable.”

he grins, but his voice dips, quieter now. “you ever think about it?”

“about what?”

“us,” he says simply. “trying again.”

the words hang there — fragile, dangerous, warm.

you turn to face him fully, your heartbeat picking up. “satoru…”

he smiles faintly, though there’s something vulnerable beneath it. “don’t make that face. i’m not saying we need to. just… wondering.”

you exhale, slow, your hands gripping the counter behind you. “you don’t just wonder about things like that.”

“don’t i?” he asks softly, stepping close again, close enough that your knees almost touch. “because i do. every time you’re here. every time you laugh at something i say, or clean my kitchen like it’s still yours.”

your lips part, but the words don’t come out.

he leans forward, resting his elbows on the counter beside you. “i miss it, you know. us. the late nights, the arguments about who got up for her bottle, even the way you’d steal my blankets.”

you meet his gaze, that stupid, unfairly beautiful gaze that’s always felt like a universe all on its own. “you’re doing that thing again,” you whisper.

“what thing?”

“making it hard to breathe.”

his grin softens. “then you still feel it too.”

the silence stretches between you, heavy and tender. your daughter laughs from the living room, calling for him, and it breaks the moment like sunlight through water.

he straightens up, rubbing the back of his neck. “so about move night. you’re staying?”

you should say no. you should draw that line. but instead, you nod. “fine. one movie.”

“one movie,” he repeats, smiling like he’s already won.

later, the three of you sit on the couch, your daughter fast asleep halfway through the film. gojo’s arm stretches across the backrest, just behind your shoulders, his fingers occasionally brushing your hair. the city lights paint the room in gold and blue, and his breathing evens out beside you.

he glances down, voice low. “see? feels right, doesn’t it?”

you don’t answer, but your silence says enough.

because it does.

maybe the world keeps giving you reasons to drift apart, but somehow, you always end up right here — in his apartment, your daughter between you, the chemistry still burning quietly between words.

The first time James Potter had kissed you, it was on the porch of your countryside cottage. The night was warm, the air alive with cicadas, and the stars stretched endless above you. His lips tasted of stolen honey, of summer recklessness, of promises whispered too young to fully understand.

Back then, he had been just James. Not the heir, not the prince, not the boy carrying a crown heavier than stone. Just James—laughing, loud, a little arrogant, and hopelessly in love with you.

But time had a way of changing things.

When the King’s health waned and the court’s eyes shifted toward James, the castle swallowed him. And because he couldn’t bear to let you go, it swallowed you, too.

At first, you told yourself you could adapt. You wore the silks, you learned the dances, you sat through banquets with your back stiff and your smile plastered in place. James’s hand was always at the small of your back, steady and reassuring, and you thought—maybe that was enough. Maybe love could anchor you to marble floors and gold ceilings.

But nights were the worst. You’d lie awake, staring at the canopy overhead, suffocating under velvet sheets that didn’t smell of apple fields or firewood smoke. The castle was beautiful, yes—but beauty didn’t mean belonging.

Your twin sister, on the other hand, thrived here.

Where you stumbled over the endless rules of etiquette, she learned them with ease. Where your tongue felt clumsy around noble flattery, hers was sharp and silver. She laughed with courtiers, charmed visiting lords, wore gowns like she had been born for them. And more than once, you caught her eyes drifting—always, always—toward James.

It hurt. But what hurt worse was knowing she fit in ways you never could.

And you loved her. She was your other half, even when her smile cut like glass. You couldn’t despise her for wanting James, not when you were already failing at giving him what he deserved.

The thought grew like a thorn inside you: she would be better for him. She would shine as queen where you only withered.

So when James hinted—eyes alight, voice soft—that he was planning something for the upcoming ball, your heart dropped. You knew what he meant. You knew what he would ask. And you knew your answer had to break him.

That night, before the ball, you had pulled him aside. “Take her instead,” you said, forcing steadiness into your voice. “She loves the life I don’t. She’ll… she’ll do better tonight.”

James had stared at you like you’d grown another head. “What are you talking about? You’re the one I want beside me.”

But you had pressed, whispering lies through clenched teeth, “Please, James. For me.”

And because he loved you, he agreed—though confusion darkened his gaze.

Now, hours later, the ball glittered around you. And James, finally breaking, dragged you into the shadows, his hand shaking with a mixture of anger and hurt.

“Why her?” he demanded, chest heaving. “Why would you send her with me?”

You couldn’t answer. Not with words. The guilt painted itself across your face, and James—brilliant, perceptive James—read it all.

His eyes widened, and his voice cracked. “No. Don’t tell me…” He staggered back a step, shaking his head. “You don’t want this. You don’t want me.”

“James, I do—”

“You don’t want to be my queen,” he cut in, each word like a blade. “You don’t want to stand beside me, to rule with me. You’ve been pulling away and I—I was too blind to see it.” His laugh was hollow. “God, I thought you were nervous, I thought you just needed time, but you never wanted it at all, did you?”

Tears blurred your eyes. “I love you,” you whispered, voice trembling, “but I don’t love this life. I never have. And one day, that will ruin us both.”

His face crumpled. “So what? You’d rather throw us away than try? You’d rather hand me over to your sister like I’m—like I’m some crown to be passed around?”

The words cut deeper because they were true.

“I can’t be your queen, James,” you forced out, your heart breaking with every syllable. “And she… she wants it more than anything. She wants you. Maybe she can be what I can’t.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Finally, James’s shoulders straightened. He looked every inch the prince now—cold, distant, untouchable. “I was going to propose tonight,” he said, voice stripped of all warmth. “I was going to give you my mother’s ring.”

You closed your eyes, pain shattering through you.

“But I see now,” he continued, his tone cutting, “you were never choosing me. You were choosing freedom. A cottage and fields over a crown. And I…” His jaw clenched, his voice broke for just a second. “I can’t make you stay where you don’t want to be.”

His hand brushed yours one last time—just a ghost of the boy he’d been, the boy who once kissed you under starlight. And then he turned, walking back into the golden blaze of the ballroom, leaving you in the shadows.

And for the first time, you realized: you hadn’t just lost James. You had lost everything.

The years hadn’t dulled the countryside. The fields still breathed in shades of green, the cottages leaned into one another with quiet warmth, and the air still carried that clean, sharp bite you’d never found in the castle’s suffocating halls.

You’d rebuilt your life here. The rhythm of planting, of tending, of mornings filled with sunlight and evenings filled with birdsong. It wasn’t perfect—you still dreamed sometimes, still woke with your chest aching from the memory of a crown prince’s laugh—but it was yours.

And then, one autumn afternoon, fate turned cruel.

You were walking the dirt path toward the village when the sound of hooves thundered behind you. A patrol. Knights, armed and sharp-eyed, their banners snapping in the breeze. You stepped aside to let them pass, your basket of apples digging into your hip.

And then you saw him.

James.

Five years had only sharpened him. His shoulders broader beneath his riding coat, his jaw set with the weight of command. The crown didn’t sit on his head tonight, but it was etched into the way he carried himself—every inch the king he’d been meant to be.

Your breath caught. His eyes swept the road, careless at first, until they landed on you.

Hazel met yours.

The world stilled.

You swore you saw it—the flicker of recognition, the way his lips parted as though he couldn’t believe you were standing there. The same boy you had left in a ballroom, broken, years ago. Except he wasn’t a boy anymore.

For a heartbeat too long, neither of you moved.

Then James tugged on the reins, slowing his horse until he was level with you. The knights ahead rode on, unaware, but the two closest lingered, watchful. He ignored them. His gaze was locked on you, like it had been carved into him to never look away.

“Y/N,” he said at last, your name cracking from his lips like it had been waiting there, dormant, all these years.

Your throat went dry. “Your Highness.”

His jaw tightened at the title. Once, you had whispered his name like it was a prayer. Now you bowed your head like he was a stranger.

“Five years,” he murmured, studying you. “And you’re still here.”

You clutched your basket tighter. “Where else would I be?”

His eyes flickered—pain, regret, something unspoken. He looked away, scanning the horizon as though it could shield him. “You look well.”

The words cut, because they were polite, empty, the kind nobles exchanged at stiff dinners. But his voice—God, his voice betrayed him. Low, rough, aching.

“And you,” you managed, though your chest burned, “you look every bit the king they said you’d be.”

That made him laugh, bitter and sharp. “King.” He glanced back at you, hazel eyes darker now. “Is that what you see?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

The silence stretched, heavy with all the words left unsaid—I miss you. I still love you. Why didn’t you stay?

Finally, James leaned down slightly, his voice soft enough only you could hear. “Do you ever think of it, Y/N? What we might have been?”

Your breath hitched. The truth clawed up your throat, but you swallowed it. Because yes—you thought of it every day. But the years hadn’t changed the truth. You weren’t meant for his world.

So you lied. “No.”

His eyes searched yours, desperate for a crack in your armor. And maybe he found it—the guilt, the longing—but he didn’t call you out. He only nodded once, as if sealing something inside himself.

The knights ahead called back, urging the prince to move. James straightened in his saddle, his hand tightening on the reins. For a moment, he looked like he might say more. That he might dismount, might demand answers, might tear open all the wounds you had both carefully stitched shut.

But he didn’t.

“Good day, Y/N,” he said instead, his voice breaking on the word.

And then he rode on, the thunder of hooves pulling him farther and farther away, until he was only a blur of red and gold against the fading horizon.

You stood alone on the dirt road, the apples bruising in your basket, your chest hollow.

Five years, and nothing had changed. The crown was still between you.

james pov

The village square should not have drawn him like this. Not when his council waited with questions and his court buzzed with suitors eager to secure a crown. And yet, here he was—riding through banners of autumn leaves and woodsmoke, claiming it was for “inspection,” when every knight in his retinue knew better.

He wanted to see you.

He told himself it was chance, that the patrol needed to pass through this route anyway. Lies, all of them. His eyes found you before his boots even touched the ground.

You.

Bent over a stall, hair lit gold by lanternlight, laughing quietly with the old breadseller as though the world had never changed. His chest clenched so hard he nearly forgot to breathe. Five years, and you still stole the air from his lungs.

The villagers swarmed him, bowing and whispering titles, but their reverence slid off his shoulders. He barely heard them. All he saw was you.

You moved through the square like you belonged to it—the way children tugged at your hands, how neighbors leaned in to ask your opinion on where to set the firepit or how to time the levy petition. And they listened when you spoke, followed without hesitation. That grace, that quiet command—it was nothing the court could ever teach.

God, you looked like a queen.

But not his. Not yet.

Rain broke suddenly, silver needles against the lanterns. People scattered for cover, and in the chaos, he saw you dart across the slick stones, arms full of baskets. Too quick.

“Wait—”

Too late. You slipped, hit the ground with a sharp cry. James’s heart stopped. He was there before thought caught up, dropping to his knees in the mud, hands closing around yours.

“Careful,” he breathed, scanning you with frantic eyes. Blood welled at your palm, bright against your skin. Rage sparked in him—at the rain, at fate, at every damned thing that had kept him from holding you for five long years. “You’re bleeding.”

You tried to pull away, always too stubborn. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” His grip tightened, desperate to keep you near, just for a moment longer. Your pulse fluttered beneath his thumb, frantic as his own. You looked up then, rain streaking your cheeks, lips parted—and for one wild heartbeat, it felt like he was twenty again, kissing you on a porch under starlight, no crown between you.

But then your voice broke through, brittle and shaking:

“You don’t get to look at me like that anymore.”

It gutted him.

He swallowed hard, jaw locking, but the truth clawed free anyway. “And yet I can’t stop.”

Your eyes flashed, pain and longing tangled into something he couldn’t name. The rain thickened, drumming against the earth, a storm closing around you both. He leaned closer, voice dropping to the confession he’d buried for five years:

“I never stopped.”

Your breath caught. He saw it, felt it—knew you heard the truth. But then someone called your name, pulling you back into the square. You tore from his grip like it burned, leaving him kneeling in the mud, his hands empty, his chest hollow.

James rose slowly, rain plastering his hair to his forehead, his cloak heavy with water. Around him, villagers bustled and knights pretended not to stare. But all he could see was you retreating, moving farther from him with every step.

He had waited five years. What was a little longer?

Still, as he mounted his horse again, he swore his heart had never ached so sharply. Because for the first time in years, you had looked back at him—and it had felt like home.

The nights had become unbearable. The stillness of the village pressed in on you, the creak of wood and the faint smoke from dying hearths only reminding you how long the hours stretched.

Your bed felt too wide, too quiet. So you walked. Sometimes past the well in the square, sometimes down the dirt path that led toward the fields, sometimes just around the cluster of cottages, letting the cool night air numb you. It was easier than lying awake, drowning in thoughts you had buried years ago.

The first time you ran into him, James was leaning against the stone rim of the well. His arms were crossed, his face caught in shadow, but you could see the tension in his jaw even from across the square. He didn’t look surprised to see you, only tired, like he’d been waiting.

“You always did hate sleeping,” he said, voice low, careful. You froze, sharpness rising to your tongue before you could stop it. “And you always did like waiting for me to prove you right.” The words landed between you like a blade. You should have walked past him, but you didn’t. He should have let you go, but he didn’t.

The next night you stumbled on him again, this time near the fields. He was walking slowly along the fence, head bowed, shoulders stiff. “You could stop following me,” you muttered as you passed, though your steps slowed against your will.

He gave a short laugh, more bitter than amused. “You could admit you’re relieved every time you see me.”

The edge in his voice made your chest tighten, though you tried to ignore it. You bickered, sharp words traded like old weapons. But as the minutes slipped by, the barbs dulled. His voice grew quiet, almost unsteady, when he asked, “Do you remember the river?”

The memory struck like an arrow. The river in midsummer, when you were seventeen, sneaking away with nothing but a basket of bread and cheap wine.

Daring each other to jump from the high rock, surfacing with laughter so loud it startled the birds. James’s hair plastered to his forehead, his grin boyish, his lips tasting of riverwater when he kissed you.

You had to turn away from him now. “Don’t,” you whispered, throat tight. But he only stepped closer, the night wind carrying the warmth of him toward you. “I can’t stop remembering. That’s the curse, isn’t it? Every time I look at you, it’s all still there.”

After that, the nights kept folding you back together. You tried to keep your distance, but he was always there—at the well, by the barns, at the edge of the fields. Sometimes the words sparked fights, but more often they unraveled into something quieter —a rhythm that was almost easy.

One night, crouched together in the dirt road outside the bakery, you found yourself laughing at some ridiculous story he told. The sound startled you, almost foreign after so long.

James stared like he wanted to catch the laugh in his hands and never let it go. “Gods,” he murmured, voice rough, “I missed that.” Your chest burned, and you had to look away.

The closeness became unbearable. It came to a breaking point one night when he cornered you outside your own door, the lanternlight flickering across his face.

“Tell me you don’t still feel it,” James said, hand braced against the doorframe, so close you could feel the heat of him. “Tell me you don’t still love me.”

His eyes were fierce, almost desperate, begging you to shatter the silence. For one dizzy moment you nearly closed the space between you, nearly let yourself fall. But fear won.

You shoved past him, whispering, “I can’t,” before the truth slipped out. The look in his eyes as you fled nearly broke you.

The choice was stolen the night the bell rang. Its clang split the village in two, urgent and shrill. Raiders. By the time you reached the square, people were screaming, flames licking the thatch of roofs.

You didn’t think. You grabbed the nearest child and pushed them toward safety, then another, dragging people from doorways, from the smoke. Heat seared your skin, ash stung your eyes.

A roof cracked and buckled, nearly crushing you as you hauled an old woman free. You coughed until your lungs burned, but still you threw yourself back into the chaos.

A hand seized your arm, yanking you so hard you nearly fell. “What the hell are you doing?” James’s voice roared over the flames. His face was streaked with soot, his eyes wide with fury and fear. “Are you trying to die?”

“I’m saving them!” you shouted, shoving against his chest, trying to break free.

“Not at the cost of you!” His grip tightened as another wall gave way in a rush of sparks and smoke.

He pulled you against him, his body shielding yours as burning timber crashed only feet away. His breath was ragged, his hands shaking where they held you. “Do you think I can lose you again? Do you think I could survive that?”

You had no answer. You could only cling to him as the fire roared around you, the world reduced to heat and smoke and the desperate beat of his heart against your cheek. And for the first time in years, you let yourself believe he still meant it.

The fire crackled behind you, but James’s grip was all you could feel. His chest heaved, hands still trembling as he held you against him.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered, voice raw. “I can’t… I can’t lose you again.”

You pressed yourself closer for a moment, but then pulled back slightly, shaking your head. “I… I can’t,” you murmured.

His eyes widened, searching yours. “You’re here. You’re alive. Don’t push me away now.”

“I’m scared,” you admitted, throat tight. “I… I can’t risk this—us—again. Not yet.”

James’s hands fell slightly, still on your arms, holding you gently. “I’ll wait,” he said, voice low. “I’ll wait as long as it takes. But don’t shut me out completely.”

You looked down, the heat of the fire washing over both of you. “I… I need time,” you whispered.

He nodded, jaw tight, eyes haunted. “I know. I just… I needed you to hear me. That I’ll always come for you. No matter what.”

For a long moment, you both just breathed, the smoke and ash curling around you. The world beyond the fire didn’t exist.

Finally, you let your hand brush against his. A small touch, almost fragile. “I’m… still here,” you admitted softly.

James exhaled, a mixture of relief and heartbreak. “That’s enough for now,” he murmured. “That’s enough.”

And for the first time in years, you felt the fragile thread of trust start to rebuild, even if love still had its walls.

The sun was dipping low behind the hills, painting the village in gold and amber. Smoke and chaos were long gone, replaced by quiet rebuilding and the hum of daily life.

James stood beside you, hands brushing against yours as you handed out tools to villagers. He watched you move—calm, confident, kind—and his chest ached with the love he’d carried for so long.

“You’ve always belonged here,” he murmured, voice soft, almost reverent.

You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “I belong where I’m needed. That’s all.”

He turned to face you fully, eyes searching. “I don’t care about crowns or castles anymore,” he said. “I care about you. I’ve waited long enough. I can’t wait any longer.”

Your heart skipped, and fear mixed with longing twisted in your chest. “James…”

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “I know you’ve been scared. I know you’ve needed time. But I need you to know this: I love you. I’ve always loved you. And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it to you, if you’ll let me.”

Tears pricked your eyes. The walls you’d built around your heart trembled and began to fall. “I… I love you too,” you whispered. “I’ve always loved you. I just… I needed to know it was safe.”

James’s hand cupped your cheek gently, thumb brushing away a stray tear. He leaned in slowly, giving you every moment to pull back, to reconsider. You didn’t.

When your lips finally met, it was soft, tentative, full of all the longing and hurt and hope that had carried you through years apart.

You pulled back just slightly, resting your forehead against his. “I think… I’m ready to be with you,” you said, voice trembling but sure.

He smiled, a mix of triumph and relief. “Then consider this a promise,” he murmured, reaching into his coat. He produced a simple circlet of wildflowers, placing it gently on your head. “Queen of this village. Not because of blood or throne, but because of your heart, your courage, and your people.”

You laughed through tears, reaching up to touch it. “I think I can live with that title,” you whispered.

He drew you close again, and this time the kiss deepened, slow and safe, grounding you both in the life you had fought so hard to protect and the love you had finally allowed to bloom.

The village faded into golden light around you. For the first time, there was no fear, no hesitation, no distance—only the two of you, finally home.

The palace halls were quiet now, sunlight streaming through the tall windows and catching the gilded edges of tapestries. It smelled faintly of wax and flowers, a reminder that this place could be gentle if you allowed it to be.

James walked beside you through the corridors, hand brushing yours, just as it had in the village so many times before. His presence was steady, familiar, and somehow comforting in a way the palace rarely felt.

“You’re sure about this?” he asked softly, glancing at you. “Life here… it’s not like the village.”

You nodded, smiling. “I’m sure. I’ve learned I can carry both worlds now. With you.”

He squeezed your hand, a small grin tugging at his lips. “I never stopped hoping for that day.”

Together, you entered the balcony overlooking the palace gardens. The wind carried the scent of roses and lavender, and the view reminded you both of rolling fields back home.

James lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “Queen, not just in name, but in everything you do,” he murmured, echoing the wildflower crown in the village, this time with the weight of a crown forged in gold.

You laughed softly, leaning into him. “I think I prefer this version,” you said, nodding toward the palace garden, “and maybe a little of the village too.”

He kissed the top of your head, holding you close. “Then we’ll take both,” he promised. “A life with you—fields, village, palace, all of it.”

Even in the grandeur, you felt the same calm and warmth as you had in the village. The love that had endured years of fear, distance, and hesitation was here, alive and steady.

And finally, when he took you into his arms again, it wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t filled with doubt. It was the love you’d both fought to protect—slow, tender, and infinite.