#fyrtarn

Adrian had gotten good at pretending the noise didn’t get to him. Nights like this — when the bar floor throbbed with bass from the speakers and the air carried too much sweat, spilled beer, and cigarette smoke from the alley outside — he found his rhythm. Glasses lined up, bottles cracked open, orders shouted, money pocketed. Efficient. Controlled. If he kept his hands busy, the chaos stayed on the other side of the counter.

But then there was Rina.

Her band had rolled in the way they always did — half swagger, half storm — filling the stage with sound that was less about perfection and more about release. Adrian had watched her set from his corner of the bar without ever admitting to himself he was watching. He knew all of her cues by now: the way she tilts her head when she was about to launch into something reckless, how she always closes her eyes for just a second too long when the guitar hit its peak, like she was somewhere else entirely.

Now she was here, cutting a path through the crowd like she owned the place, eyeliner smudged and guitar strap still hanging loose around her shoulder as if she couldn’t be bothered to put it down. She reached the counter and leaned in without hesitation, already smirking at him like she knew she’d get a rise out of it.

Adrian beat her to it.

❝ 𝐒𝐨. 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲’𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐫. ❞ The words came out smooth, faintly mocking, stealing her favorite jab before she had the chance to land it. His mouth tugged into a half-smile, the kind that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing.

Without waiting for her request, he slid a glass of water across the polished surface, condensation already beading on the rim. He’d learned after the first few gigs: Rina never asked for water until she absolutely needed it, and Adrian wasn’t about to drag her off the floor if she passed out.

❝ 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐡𝐲𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭? ❞ he added, voice pitched low so only she could hear over the music.

For a second his expression softened, quiet concern flickering beneath the smirk, though he covered it quickly by reaching for another bottle.

❝ 𝐔𝐧𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐝 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐭. ❞

       Nia looked half-haunted, half-hysterical, fingers smudged with oil paint clamped around her mug like it was an anchor. She had not slept; her eyes carried the faint shimmer of someone who had stared at a canvas until dawn, coaxing beauty she would never own. And now, across from her, Yura was confessing a sin of biblical proportions. A car. A crash. Her best friend at fault. Nia’s breath caught so violently she nearly choked on air.

       ❝ 𝐀𝐧 𝐌𝟓? ❞ she hissed, the words slicing out in a gasp so sharp it turned three heads at the next table. Her hand flew to her mouth as if to physically hold the horror inside. ❝ 𝐃𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞? 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 — 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐮𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭, 𝐘𝐮𝐫𝐚. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐰𝐲𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐮𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 — 𝐫𝐚𝐰! ❞ Each sentence cracked out louder than the last until she slapped a paint-stained palm flat on the table, smearing faint streaks of violet across the grain.

She tried to steady herself with a sip of coffee and failed, spilling a drop on her shirt. ❝ 𝐆𝐨𝐝, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫, 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮? 𝐍𝐨 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞? 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠? 𝐓𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐨𝐤𝐞 — 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞. ❞ The words were sharp and scolding, but the tremor in her hands betrayed her. She looked ready to faint, to fling herself across the table and shake her best friend until reality bent into something safer.

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               ･ﾟ° ☾ ✧ △   𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒖𝒎 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒂𝒘 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕 𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒉 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒂𝒘𝒅𝒖𝒔𝒕—a reminder of the ongoing renovation. Haru’s footsteps echoed on the polished hallway floor, steady and unhurried, as if each step carried a rhythm of its own. Morning sunlight slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching dust motes that drifted lazily in the air, and spilling gold across the hallway.

He always walked this path, every day: elevator, corridor, the comforting aroma of coffee drifting from the café around the corner. But for the past two weeks, something—or rather, someone—had begun to draw his attention, a subtle tug he couldn’t ignore.

There she was, like clockwork, sitting by the stairs near the window. The space around her seemed to soften, framed by a cluster of leafy plants at the end of the hall. She was small, delicate, yet striking in her quiet focus, absorbed in a booklet she held like a secret. The sunlight caught her hair in brief glimmers, and the corner of her lips curved into expressions he could only guess at from a distance. Every so often, she looked up, their eyes meeting for just a fraction of a second before she returned to her pages. Each encounter was a brief exchange of acknowledgment—polite, careful—but it was enough to leave him thinking long after he’d passed.

Friday morning carried with it a gentle warmth. The air felt crisper than usual, the faint aroma of roasted beans stronger in the café. Haru cradled two cups, the heat from the paper sleeves warming his palms. His usual macchiato, and one for her—though he wasn’t sure if she’d even accept it.

The elevator doors closed with a soft thud, and the ascent to the third floor felt deliberate, measured. He imagined every word he might say, though the moment would inevitably decide for itself. At the top, he slowed his pace. The faint rustle of leaves from the plants, the distant murmur of construction, even the creak of the stairs—all seemed to fade as he approached.

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               ･ﾟ° ☾ ✧ △   𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕, except for the soft hum of the movie playing on the TV. Warm light pooled across the polished wooden floors, brushing against the dark blue couch, the spines of books stacked on shelves, and the leaves of potted plants that leaned lazily toward the dim glow. Small mementos from his siblings—scattered notebooks, a ceramic figurine, a folded drawing tucked into a frame—filled the space with the sense of a home carefully built over years. The faint aroma of popcorn mingled with lingering scents of dinner and the subtle musk of aged wood, grounding the room in quiet familiarity. Outside, rain pattered softly against the tall windows, the rhythm blending with the low murmur of distant traffic.

Soo Jin sat on the couch, a glass of soda sweating lightly on the coffee table. His gaze lifted when the front door clicked open. Yura stepped inside, shoulders slightly slumped, long hair brushing against her face, dusky eyes carrying the quiet fatigue of the day. He noticed everything: the subtle slump in her posture, the brief pause of her hand on the bag before setting it down, the faint exhale she gave as if shedding the outside world at the threshold.

❛ Long day? ❜. he said softly, voice even and controlled, a small, composed smile at the corner of his lips. He reached for the bowl of popcorn, sliding it toward her. ❛ I got snacks... popcorn... soda ❜.

His attention lingered on her quietly, as it had since childhood—the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the faint tension in her shoulders, the careful steadiness of her movements. Memories surfaced unbidden: walking her home after scraped knees, tying shoelaces, holding her hand to keep her balanced, the little moments that had once defined their bond. Years had passed, but the instinct to watch over her, to notice, remained.

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               ･ﾟ° ☾ ✧ △   𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒊 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒗𝒆, spoon dangling loosely in her fingers. The broth—if it could still be called that—clung to it like stubborn glue, thick and unyielding. The once rich, savory smell had gone slightly smoky, a faint tang of burned garlic mixed with the earthy scent of basil and rosemary from the potted herbs along the windowsill, wrapping the open-concept apartment in a cozy, slightly chaotic warmth.

Dusky light filtered through the wide windows, painting the wooden floors in soft amber and turning the marbled counters into gentle pools of gold. Shadows from the plants and bookshelves stretched lazily across the space, and the soft creak of the floor underfoot made the apartment feel alive in its quiet, homey way.

❛ Hm… I thought it would be… more broth-like? ❜. she murmured, tilting her head as she gave the spoon one last hopeful stir. The thick mixture resisted, stretching stubbornly between spoon and pot. Her fingers brushed the cool marbled countertop, a small comfort against her fluttering nerves.

Romi’s chocolate eyes found Yura, wide and apologetic, and a helpless little smile tugged at her lips. ❛ Maybe… we could order something instead? Or… go out? I can try again another day… ❜. Her hands lifted in a tiny shrug, catching the last of the sunset’s glow, the faint scent of herbs and burnt garlic mingling around them. ❛ I really wanted it to be good for you… I guess I’m better at literature than the kitchen, huh? ❜.

@fyrtarn · / &· 𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐄 · * 

       Oliver collapsed onto the sofa like a man who had been through untold suffering, when in reality he’d only endured Heathrow security and a red-eye flight with a screaming toddler two rows behind him. He let out a loud, theatrical groan, one arm stretched out across the cushions as if claiming the entire piece of furniture for his martyrdom. The other went straight over his eyes.

       ❝ 𝐎𝐡, 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐠𝐨𝐝’𝐬 𝐬𝐚𝐤𝐞, 𝐍𝐚𝐭𝐞. ❞ His voice was muffled, heavy with martyrdom. ❝ 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞. 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞, 𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐠, 𝐥𝐞𝐭’𝐬 𝐠𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 ‘𝐈’𝐦 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲, 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫’ 𝐚𝐜𝐭, 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 ‘𝐧𝐨, 𝐈’𝐦 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲, 𝐬𝐨𝐧’ 𝐛𝐢𝐭, 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲, 𝐰𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐰𝐤𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐡𝐮𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐛’𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐞. ❞

       He peeled his arm back just far enough to give Nate an unimpressed squint, the kind of look only a younger sibling could perfect. ❝ 𝐃𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲? 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧, 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞. 𝐃𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬? ❞

       Oliver turned his head just enough to give Nate a scandalized look, eyebrows arched. ❝ 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐢𝐠 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧? 𝐀 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐲 ‘𝐲𝐨’ 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐚 𝐜𝐮𝐩 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐞𝐚 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐋𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐨𝐧? 𝐆𝐨𝐝, 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜. ❞

       He let his head drop back again, another long-suffering sigh rattling through him. ❝ 𝐍𝐨𝐰, 𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞. 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐚 𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞 ‘𝐝𝐮𝐝𝐞.’ 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐰𝐞 𝐦𝐞. ❞