Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names and recognizable public figures are used in a purely fictional context. This story does not reflect real-life events or relationships. Please do not tag or send this to the real people mentioned. This is storytelling — nothing more.

Content Notes / CW: Single parent stress · teenage conflict · emotional tension · slow-burn connection · airport meet-cute · old-fashioned romance vibes.

Reader-insert format (second person POV).

Author’s Note: This may or may not become a full story. It was just a Valentine’s Day idea that wouldn’t leave me alone, so I wrote it down before I forgot it, and then I figured I’d share it. 🤍

15 Days

The plane moves along the runway with a low vibration that slips into your body and settles there. It doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t fade.

It travels from your feet to your chest like a steady hum, as if the metal were speaking straight to your bones.

It isn’t anxiety. It’s the kind of exhaustion that lingers. The sort that doesn’t disappear with sleep. The kind that clings to your clenched jaw, to shoulders that finally drop when no one is watching, to the habit of functioning even when something inside you has been asking for pause for a while.

You settle by the window. The seat receives you, warm and impersonal. You check your bag one last time — more out of inertia than need — and brush against the hardcover notebook where notes from the lecture still remain.

As if paper could carry what you no longer want to.

You lock your phone and set it face down.

The gesture is automatic, yet you still feel the small hollow it leaves in your stomach — that tiny shift that comes when the thread keeping you available to everyone is cut.

London is waiting. But first, eight suspended hours — a parenthesis in the air.

Eight hours where nothing is demanded of you except quiet existence.

To breathe. To exhale. To inhale again without hurry, as though your body might remember what it was like before living braced all the time.

English literature professor. Twenty-nine. Single mother.

Three quick labels. Neat. Presentable.

Three ways of saying “I’m functional” without naming the rest.

Without mentioning the precise weight you carry in your chest, that pressure no one sees but that travels with you like a second heart.

None of it shows from the outside… except perhaps in the way you breathe: short, measured breaths, like someone who has learned to hold too many things at once — and not let them fall — even when they’re heavy.

Beside you, the seat remains empty a few seconds longer than usual.

It’s nothing, you tell yourself.

And still, you register it the way you register exposed skin — an absence that somehow takes up space.

Then someone pauses. Carefully stows a backpack, as if unwilling to disturb the world — or you — and sits. He doesn’t crowd you. He doesn’t rush.

That detail tells you something before you decide whether it matters. It makes you straighten slightly, your body reacting before thought does.

You don’t look up right away. There’s no urgency.

You’re used to life arriving on its own. And to not waiting for it.

Until you see the book.

Not typical reading. Not for someone his age. Certainly not for a long flight.

And not for someone who moves with that economy of gesture, as though everything were measured: where his elbows rest, how much space he takes, how much he allows.

Everything about him is restrained.

You recognize the edition before the full title. The kind you assign in advanced courses. Fine underlining. Worn spine.

Used. Truly used.

Something in your chest shifts — small enough to irritate you for existing at all.

It isn’t posturing. It’s affection for the object. It’s someone who has actually opened it.

That draws your attention before his face does. And it makes you swallow, as though you’d been caught staring too long.

“Are you serious?” you ask without thinking much. “That? On a plane?”

He smiles faintly, not looking at you yet. The slight curve of his mouth registers as a gesture not meant for you — and still it reaches you.

“It’s the only place where no one expects me to be doing something else.”

You laugh softly. The sound leaves you gentler than intended.

The reply surprises you because it isn’t trying to be clever. It’s honest.

He closes the book, marking the page with a finger so he won’t lose his place, and only then looks up. You don’t recognize him. There’s no instant spark. No cinematic impact.

Just curiosity.

And yet you feel that gaze settle first on your chest before lifting to your face — as if reading something before actually seeing you.

He doesn’t intrude… but he stays. And something tightens between your shoulder blades.

The plane takes off. The city grows small. For a few hours, so do decisions.

Your body feels grateful before your mind does.

A while later, when the silence has grown comfortable, your phone vibrates. Once. Twice. Three times.

Your stomach tightens before you think, because you already know who it is before looking. You sigh before answering, like someone bracing to carry a familiar weight.

“Honey… what happened now?”

Your free hand rises to your neck without noticing, brushing your skin, searching for calm.

The voice on the other end is young. Tense. Too intense for fourteen — still unaware that the world doesn’t always bend, that boundaries are also a form of care.

You argue over something small that sounds enormous: schedules, limits, independence.

The same battles. New vocabulary.

You feel your jaw tighten again as you speak. The air enters measured, nearly counted, because staying calm isn’t a mood — it’s labor.

Careful phrasing. Steady tone. That balance learned the hard way.

“No, love. It’s not a punishment…” “No. I’m not ignoring you. I’m listening.” “Because I’m your mom. That’s why.”

Silence on the other end.

Then a cutting phrase.

The impact is sharp, straight to the chest. You remain still for a second, as if your body needs a moment to register that it’s over.

The call disconnects.

You stare at the phone longer than necessary. Swallow. Release the air slowly. Your shoulders drop a fraction.

As though something invisible has slipped from your grip — something that still carries weight.

“Yes… I love you too, sweetheart,” you whisper to the screen, though she can’t hear you.

Your voice is softer than you’d like. As if something shifted your center.

You lower the phone. Rest your head against the seat. Close your eyes for just a second — any longer and it might show.

“Great. You managed to make her hate you… again,” you murmur, disappointed in yourself.

No drama. Just exhaustion. You learned to phrase it like a private joke so you don’t unravel. So you don’t feel the knot climbing your throat every time arguments end like this — the knot that arrives afterward, when no one’s watching.

“She doesn’t hate you,” he says beside you, voice low.

He says it the way someone sets something simple down. Not trying to fix your life.

As if speaking from memory rather than theory.

You look at him.

“She’s just pushing,” he adds after a brief pause. “Testing whether… whether the edge is there.”

He doesn’t speak of “limits” as theory. He talks about “edge” as something tangible — something you can touch. Something you test with your fingers.

“Oh, really?” you ask, meeting his gaze. “How do you know?”

He runs his finger along the book’s edge without looking at you, as if he thinks better when his eyes are busy elsewhere.

“Because that’s what it sounds like.”

The simplicity of that disarms you more than any elaborate explanation.

He pauses again. Glances at your phone — not out of curiosity, but as if acknowledging its weight.

“And because you…” he begins, then stops for a second. “You didn’t hang up.”

He doesn’t praise you. Doesn’t package it as virtue. He simply names it.

“Your job isn’t to win,” he continues, softer now. “It’s to stay.”

He says it plainly. As fact.

Not “to endure without breaking,” not something pretty and polished.

Just: to stay. The hard part. The painful part. The part no one applauds.

Something loosens in your chest first. Then your throat.

“Do you have kids, or do you just say that because you babysit your nieces and nephews once… every three months?” you ask, sharp by reflex. Defense.

He doesn’t take offense. Just nods, as if recognizing the trap.

“Yes. I have one. And three nephews,” he says. “But that’s not why.”

He holds your gaze a second longer than usual.

“I’m saying it because… I know that voice.”

He doesn’t say, “I was difficult.” He doesn’t make himself the example.

He gives you just enough to understand he isn’t inventing this.

“And I’ve watched good parents think they were failing when… they weren’t,” he adds, as though that part angers him.

That unsettles you more than you’d like to admit.

You blink, composing yourself. Look at the book between his fingers like someone reaching for a railing.

“That’s not common reading,” you say, shifting the conversation to firmer ground. “I teach it.”

Now he looks at you with genuine interest. You notice it in the small gesture: he leans slightly toward you. Not much. Just enough.

“You teach literature?”

“I do. University level. Undergrads.”

He lets that settle. Really looks at you this time — not in a way that weighs, just… measures.

“You don’t look tired enough to survive undergrads.”

You huff a small laugh. “Give it time.”

A corner of his mouth lifts.

“That makes sense,” he says after a beat, tapping the edge of the book lightly. “I had a feeling anyone who recognized this edition would have something worth saying.”

They talk for hours — not the way people usually talk on planes. No resumes. No polished versions of themselves. No selling.

They move from subject to subject with the ease of people who aren’t trying to win anything. Time softens, as if the flight has become a room separate from the world.

“People think reading is escape,” you say at some point, “but most of the time it’s the opposite. It’s confronting things you don’t make time to think about.”

He nods slowly, thumb resting on the book’s edge. The gesture feels strangely intimate, as though he’s been doing it for years.

“That’s why people prefer summaries. Or someone else’s highlighted lines.”

“Or someone telling them what to feel,” you add. “What to think. What to hate.”

He smiles faintly — not amusement. Recognition.

Warmth rises lightly in your chest, not because of the topic — but because of how easy this feels.

“Yes,” he says. “Pre-chewed.”

They sit in silence for a few seconds. Not awkward. Productive. As though both are finishing thoughts internally.

Without noticing, they breathe in sync.

“And doesn’t it exhaust you?” he asks then. “Carrying so much. Thinking so much.”

It doesn’t sound academic. It sounds personal. It reaches you before you can shield yourself.

“Yes,” you answer plainly. “But not doing it would exhaust me more.”

He says nothing. Watches you turn the plastic cup between your fingers. Watches you breathe before answering, like someone who has learned to ration strength.

You feel seen — and for some reason, that carries weight.

“That makes sense,” he says at last. “Some people function better with real weight. Not simulations.”

They keep talking. Sometimes about literature. Sometimes about choices never made. Sometimes about small things that shouldn’t matter — and yet do.

At some point he stops reading. You stop checking your notebook. Neither comments on it.

It just happens.

As if the body decided first.

When the pilot announces descent, the interruption feels physical. Not a notice — a rupture. A sharp tug in the chest, as if someone cut the thread of that separate room.

You look out the window. He looks at you.

Tension hangs between you, held by everything that hasn’t been said.

Something fell short. You both know it. Not confession. Not promise. Just that clear, uncomfortable sense that time ran out.

He thinks fifteen more minutes might have shifted something. He doesn’t know what. He only knows he doesn’t want to lose it.

And you feel that without him saying it.

When the plane lands, you don’t exchange numbers. You don’t suggest it. He doesn’t ask.

That’s new too.

And it brings a strange relief, as if for once no one is asking for another piece of you to guarantee you exist.

They say goodbye in the aisle. The space between you feels larger than it should. You walk in opposite directions, each step carrying different weight… and then, almost at the door, he stops.

“Wait.”

His voice is stronger than before. Not loud — but enough.

You stop.

The word hits your chest first. You startle slightly. Air catches for half a second. You turn slowly, already reciting your number — by habit, by reflex, by the script of how this goes — when he lifts his hand.

“No,” he says, firm but calm.

His open palm hangs between you like a gentle boundary. He steps closer, just enough so you can hear him without stepping forward yourself.

“I don’t want your number.”

He doesn’t explain. Just states it.

As if refusing to enter the expected script of the world.

Silence stretches. He looks around — not for someone, but for the place. The door. The direction. As if fixing coordinates.

You stay there, uneasy, expectant. You feel your pulse in your temples, steady and insistent.

“This is going to sound strange,” he murmurs.

He doesn’t laugh to charm you. He laughs like someone aware he’s about to do something improper — and unable to stop himself.

For a second he looks like he might withdraw. Then he meets your eyes, and that slight shift changes the temperature in the air.

“I’ll wait for you here,” he says.

A pause.

As though the rest of the sentence catches in his throat.

“Right here. This same door. This same spot.”

He marks it with his gaze. The exit. The crowd. The exact place where you stand.

“In fifteen days.”

There’s no arrogance in the way he says it. There’s intention.

Not fate. Not romance.

Intention.

“Because you said you travel, right?” he adds, almost shyly. “And… so do I.”

He doesn’t say “frequent travelers.”

He keeps it simple. As if resisting decoration.

The smile takes a second longer than it should to appear. But it does. Not because it makes sense — but because part of you has already chosen to believe him.

You feel it in your chest before thinking, a warm pressure.

“Here?” you say, skeptical. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you just asked for my number… or gave me yours?”

The question comes out soft, careful — as though you don’t want to break the strangeness.

“Yes… that would be easier,” he admits.

He shrugs lightly, aware it sounds unreasonable and still unwilling to retract it.

“But… I like it when something doesn’t arrive already solved.”

“Oh. You like challenges,” you say, tilting your head.

The word lingers on your tongue a moment longer than necessary, as if you’re measuring its edge.

You bite your lower lip. He twists his mouth. Finally, you both laugh — a little awkward. Not broad laughter. The brief kind that surfaces when neither wants to retreat first.

“You’re definitely… unusual,” you say at last, unable to stop yourself.

The sentence escapes before filtering. Then the laughter loosens your throat.

He shakes his head, as if that isn’t entirely accurate. Silence again. He exhales too long, adjusts his backpack strap, avoids your gaze… and that tightens something in your stomach.

He isn’t leaving. He’s searching for a way to stay without looking like he wants to.

Then he looks up at you.

“And you are…”

He pauses, searching for the word. You see him swallow.

He thinks longer than he should. He could say “interesting.” He could say “different.” He chooses something else.

“Unexpected,” he says at last, with genuine honesty.

The word comes out lower than intended. Almost caught.

He doesn’t explain it. And when he looks at you again, there’s something slightly awkward in him: a subtle stiffness in his shoulders, a fraction of a second where he seems exposed — and not entirely comfortable with having crossed that line.

As if he’s said too much and can’t take it back.

You feel it too. Your pulse rises to your throat. You know that if you let it sit there, the silence will grow too large.

“I’m glad I met you too,” you reply, steering the moment toward safer ground. “Are you sure you don’t want my number?”

“Sure,” he says without hesitation.

He steps a little closer, as though sharing a secret. The distance now minimal.

“Because I don’t need it. We have a date, don’t we?”

He says it fully aware of how absurd it sounds. He exhales through his nose, trying to sound normal.

“I mean… I know you’ll come, because you said you travel often. And because you strike me as someone who keeps her word.”

There’s confidence in it — not arrogance. Instinct.

And that’s what unsettles you: not the sentence, but the certainty behind it. As though he already knows you somewhere you haven’t visited yet.

Your chest vibrates. The response slips out before you decide.

“You seem very confident…”

Your pulse rises to your throat. Your stomach tightens — not entirely unpleasant, not entirely comfortable either. A quick rush of adrenaline moving through you.

It isn’t nerves. Not exactly flirting either. It’s something else entirely. Something unarranged, its intensity neither fading nor settling. Something neither of you names — and yet something is happening between you.

You break the silence before it becomes too real.

“I mean, you’ve only known me eight hours…” you add, more to soften the intensity than to actually question him.

As if words could loosen the pressure in your chest.

He shakes his head slowly.

“No. I’m not usually this confident,” he says, already running a hand through his hair, as though he needs to dishevel himself to appear less certain.

He rubs his temple, grounding himself.

“And I don’t usually do this.”

He laughs again — this time brief, more breath than sound.

His hand gestures vaguely between you. The air thickens.

“But honestly… I don’t want to spend fifteen days texting you and sending emojis like a teenager. I’m too old for that.”

He pauses. Draws a deeper breath, as if admitting something long held back — and with you, strangely, possible to say without embarrassment.

“It’s frustrating…”

And he isn’t just talking about messages. He’s talking about distance. About what dissolves when everything becomes a screen.

His eyes brighten slightly — not with excitement, but with relief. As if speaking it aloud freed him from something.

“I don’t have social media,” he adds. “I don’t use those… smart devices.”

He shows you his old phone, nearly outdated. He holds it like something that betrays him and protects him at once.

You laugh again, because you thought your phone was old — and beside his, yours looks modern. The laugh shakes your chest.

He laughs too.

Then silence returns. Not awkward. Expectant.

And even though it’s brief, it feels suspended.

Neither wants to move first.

They hold each other’s gaze while the surrounding noise dulls — the world lowering its volume a notch. Their breathing falls into rhythm without trying.

“I like how it used to be,” he finishes, softer now. Slower.

His voice drops a register and runs down your spine, unhurried, like a touch that lingers.

“If this is going to happen, it’ll be old-fashioned. No WhatsApp. No Instagram. No Facebook. None of it.”

He lists them like public enemies. As though removing them leaves only what matters.

The sentence hangs between you.

And doesn’t fall.

This…

The word lingers on your lips. You clear your throat. The sound vibrates in your chest — contained, brief. You need to shift the scene somewhere breathable.

Humor. That one you know.

“So let me get this straight… you want to communicate like it’s the Middle Ages?” you say, amused, glancing at the book. “What’s it going to be? Smoke signals… or carrier pigeons?”

Your voice lowers slightly at the end. You sound different to yourself. Closer.

You notice it in the way he looks at you. You hold each other’s gaze more deliberately.

And that’s when you notice the blue of his eyes — which for a moment don’t seem quite so blue, as if the color shifted with the light… or the choice.

The tension doesn’t disappear. It reshapes.

No longer surprise.

Choice.

“Now I see why you like reading this… you’re very medieval,” you add. “I like that.”

You admit it like dropping a coin into a fountain without knowing if there’s a wish attached.

Now it’s his turn to clear his throat. The gesture awkward. Human. He exhales. Looks around, searching for an exit that doesn’t mean leaving.

His feet don’t move. His body doesn’t follow the goodbye.

“Trust me…” he says at last. “I have a feeling we’re going to see each other again.”

The sentence lands slowly. Not persuasive. Offered.

“I don’t know… I just feel it,” he adds.

A small pause. Enough for something to tighten in your chest.

“I have to go,” he says, and the scene fractures slightly. “By the way… my name’s Tom.”

He says it almost at the end, as if understanding he can’t disappear without leaving at least that. He offers his hand. You take it.

The formal greeting ends… and still he doesn’t move. As if the decision has been made, but the body hasn’t accepted it yet.

Then you realize you haven’t said your name.

“Oh. Y/N,” you reply. “And… I have to go too. They’re waiting for me.”

You look at each other. Then at the world. No one moves first.

And in that strange space, a quiet certainty settles. It moves through you — from head to stomach — as though your body signs something before you do.

“So here… in this exact spot,” you say, scanning the area as if memorizing a map. “I’ll see you… in fifteen days… Tom.”

You say his name for the first time.

And in that instant, it changes something.

Makes it real.

The sentence settles inside you, warm in your stomach. It stays.

You linger there a second longer.

No touch. No closeness.

And still the space between you feels charged, dense — as if something invisible is holding you still.

“Yes. Here. Right here. Good night… Y/N,” he replies.

He nods slightly. Barely visible.

You mirror it.

Then he turns. One step. Then another.

Halfway across, he pauses. Doesn’t turn fully — just enough.

One last look.

No smile. No words.

He tightens the strap of his backpack and leaves.

You remain there, motionless, feeling your body take a second longer than usual to react.

Only then do you draw a deeper breath.

And you know — without needing to say it — that the fifteen days have already begun.

On a space Station  owned by JC Jencon in Spaaaaace . Two company lawyers walked down a hallway towards a meeting room

“ Are you sure they’ll get the job done?” The first lawyer asked  

“From what i’ve read on their mission reports  yes I definitely believe they can reclaim our mission assets.” The second lawyer replied as the two walked into The meeting room and saw a Man of Mongolian descent wearing a very fine business suit standing on the left side of a meeting table

“Hello my name is Kingston and i am here o the behalf of my employer.” Kingston said as he walked towards the to JCJ lawyers and put a metal hand out for a shack  

“ Yes we were expecting you I'm Alex Quinton and my associate here is “ Alex said as he took Kingstons hand 

“ Aster Mathew“ Aster said as he took Kingston hand after 

“ Now lets get to business “ Kingston said as he took a seat at the meeting table  

“ Yes lets “ Aster replied as he and Alex sat down

“ So what has caused the JCJ to call the Crusher Corp “

“ Well seeing as you may heard about twenty three years back an exoplanet known as Copper-9. It had a bit of catastrophic Planetary extinction event. Do to a accidental Core collapsing that caused massive amounts of debris to be sent into the planets Atmosphere mixed in with cores rapid lost of heat caused a planet wide Flash freeze     ” Alex said 

“ That is an understatement “ Kingston replied 

“ Well after all human life on Copper-9  was gone. It turned out that all the Worker drones survived the planet flask freeze. An do to their Ai they started making lives of their own. But we needed their A.I’s back. So we sent several squads Disassembly Drones to wipe out the works reclaim the A.i’s and then Die from their bodies over heating do to lack of oil. After that we’d send a recovery team to reclaim the Black boxes of each drop pod and get all our A.I Back” Aster said

“ And everything was going to plan well until team 023 defected killed of their squad leader and then converted several more Disassembly drones after we sent eight  more squads to hand it “

“ So do you know what caused this Robo-rebellion and how main worker and disassembly do we have to deal with?” Kingston asked 

“ 12 disassembly drones and the number of worker drones unknow but we do know three location that house huge numbers of W.Ds  “ Alex said as he turned in a Holo-screen that showed a old oil Rig that had a Metal Dome built around the top of it. Followed by another picture of a Military fortress and the last one show a picture was of a open bunker door and in the picture was dozens of worker drones walking into it with make shift carts made from old cars carrying supplies and other things and looking down on caravan the was a male disassembly Drone and a female worker drones  

“ Who are the two watching?” Kingston asked knowing those two are the leaders just by seeing them

“Those two are the bane of the company . the Disassembly drone is serial designation N and As for the worker Drone we don’t know the audio on are scout drone don’t work on world do electrical interference messing with them. But from what we have collected her name is Uzi and she is the main problem. Do you wish to know more .”

Kingston looked at his desk and saw a blue light turn on “No i clearly know the  targets that’s all we need. Now  with that out of the way. How about our payment and our requests for supplies ?” 

“ Yes two trillion credits, five hundred Worker drones programed for ship repair    two thousand blank slate worker Drones and forty two crates of Tediore fire arms, twenty two crates Dahl fire arms, Ten crates of Vladof assault rifles four crates of S.M.G and two crates Torgue explosives. Is their anything else you wish to request.”

“ No that will be it “

“ I do have to ask why so many blank slaters.?’ Aster asked 

“ One of our commander’s like to be in control of multiple bodies at once the bigger the amount the happier he is. Now if you don’t have anymore question i have work to do “ Kingston said 

“ No and thank you for doing business with us and I wish you good luck on this Mission .” Alex said

“ Good I hope we work together again you do pay us the best “ Kingston asked as he ended the call. Kingston sat alone in his office for a few seconds before a another call rang on his holo-phone and without missing a beat he answered it. Which caused a Older Hispanic man wearing a Combat Vest and thick Cargo pants “ Hello Boss “

“ Hello Kingston it is good to see  the deal gone through?” The Crusher Corp leader said as he had been watching the call 

“ Yes It is  Mr. Bassarisk.” Kingston said 

“ Good I’ve already sent Hive and El Automaton to the world a head of time  “

“ Sir with all do respect Sending two of are most brutal commanders to a simple Exoplanet seems a bit extreme is it not ?”  Kingston asked 

It was in the small hours of a warm night that the doctor found his detective by the window, gazing, dreamingly.

“Holmes?” he said. “Are you not going to bed tonight?”

“Oh, I am… but look at this, Watson. It is a sight to make even the gods wonder.”

The doctor stepped up behind his partner, placing a hand on his shoulder and leaning forward towards the open window. A light breeze was stirring, the houses of Baker Street lay silent and dark, and over the chimneys and desert roof tops of London there hovered a moon so great and golden that one indeed could not but stop in awe in the light of it. Dark clouds danced in front the body, teasing but never daring to cover the whole; and the aura was mightier for it. The two men revelled in silence for some moments. Then Watson spoke again.

“It is difficult to imagine anything evil of this city tonight. Do you suppose the criminal class is sleeping?”

Holmes raised his chin with a little smile.

“Resting, perhaps. Let us hope so.”

He lay his hand on the doctor’s, and together they fell silent again.

Some three miles south-west in the same city, on a rooftop still warm from the afternoon sun, there sat indeed two members of this very class. Thieves they were; but not tonight, except for the stolen moment of each other’s unmasked company. One was holding a cigarette, the small ember bright between his fingers. The other had leaned back against the brick wall, searching the skies in curious contemplation.

“I feel like she is watching over us,” he said at last.

His companion raised his gaze toward the moon, taking another drag.

“Making sure we don’t steal those diamonds of the heavens?” he joked.

“No, I mean like a guardian – protecting us. And you wouldn’t, by the way.”

The other man turned his head with a mischievous smile. His snow-white hair glistened ever so slightly in the moonlight.

“You don’t believe I would if I could?”

The younger man met his gaze confidently, eyes glittering.

“I know you wouldn’t.”

As his companion turned his gaze back with a content smile, the man moved to put an arm around him and rest his head against his shoulder.

“You’re quite right, of course,” the older man said after a moment of silence. “But what a wonderful thing to possess.”

The other pressed him closer.

“But don’t you see?” he whispered. “They are already ours.”

Persona 5 x Final Fantasy XV 

Takes place in an AU where Japan is a Lucian region. 

He doesn't have much of an opinion on the Phantom Thieves. He knows that they're there, and he keeps tabs on them because of the news that they're stirring up, but other than that he doesn't have any strong feelings.

Would low-key get very jealous of your teammates, because you have to spend almost every waking hour with them. He's a prince, so it's natural that he was very spoiled as a child, and even though he doesn't show it very much, he can get very childish. 

He once became a very salty bae because you were on the phone with Makoto and you called her "Queen." You've never called him your King before, and wouldn't it make more sense if you did??

On the other side, your friends wouldn't believe you if you said your boyfriend was Noctis. Since Noctis goes to a completely different school, they didn't even think that your "boyfriend" was real. The Phantoms just thought that you said you were taken to shoo away people who tried to hit on you.

When Ryuji finally asks for a name to this boyfriend of yours, you would casually say Noctis, and the Phantoms would just think that you're being cheeky.

You wouldn't do anything to correct them or insist that your boyfriend wasn't just a figment of your imagination.

When you finally get them to meet, they would just stare at Noctis completely starstruck.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names and recognizable public figures are used in a purely fictional context. This story does not reflect real-life events or relationships. Please do not tag or send this to the real people mentioned. This is storytelling — nothing more.

Content Notes / CW: Single parent stress · teenage conflict · emotional tension · slow-burn connection · airport meet-cute · old-fashioned romance vibes.

Reader-insert format (second person POV).

Author’s Note: I’m still not sure if this will become a full story… read at your own risk. It started as a Valentine’s Day idea that wouldn’t leave me alone, so I wrote it down before I forgot it — and then I figured I might as well share it. 🤍

It wasn’t impulsive.

That’s the first thing he tells himself when the plane touches down and the vibration of landing finally settles in his body.

It wasn’t some teenage gesture, nor a cinematic romantic impulse. It was an adult decision. At least that’s what he keeps repeating as he walks down the airport corridor, and again as he collects his suitcase, and again when the automatic doors slide open and London’s damp air greets him the way it always does: grey, familiar, undramatic.

Nothing changed.

And yet, something did.

He leaves the airport with that strange sensation of having left something suspended in midair. It isn’t nostalgia… not yet. It’s something else. A nameless expectancy. A semicolon lodged in the middle of his chest, refusing to loosen.

A taxi. The door shuts with a dull thud.

“Home?” the driver asks.

“Yes,” Tom replies. “For fifteen days.”

He doesn’t know why he says it like that. As if it were an agreement signed with someone who isn’t there.

The taxi moves forward. Familiar streets, predictable traffic lights, the world settling back into place as if nothing happened. He takes out his phone. It vibrates almost immediately.

“You home?” Robert’s voice says before Tom can even greet him.

“For fifteen days.”

“Brilliant. Come to the bar.”

He smiles. It’s always like this. The world doesn’t wait — it summons.

As the taxi keeps moving, the phone doesn’t stop: messages from his agent, one coordination overlapping another, a reminder about something he agreed to weeks ago. A text from his mother asking if he landed safely. Another from someone suggesting coffee “when you’ve got time.”

He doesn’t answer everything. Today, only what matters.

He looks out the window. He seems the same. Functional. In motion. But something shifted on that plane, and he isn’t quite sure what.

He stops home only to drop the backpack, change his jacket, look at himself in the mirror for a second — as if checking he didn’t imagine what he remembers.

Then he goes back out.

The bar is full, not crowded — alive. Conversations overlapping. Laughter. Glass clinking.

The group is already there.

Robert lifts his glass as soon as he sees him. Sam gestures from the table. Marcus takes up too much space, as always. Bobby and Jamie are arguing about something that could be work, football, or politics — with them, the subject hardly matters.

“Thought you’d go straight to bed,” Jamie says.

“Me too,” Tom replies, sitting down.

He orders a beer. The first sip settles him back into his body.

They talk about projects moving too slowly, others collapsing without warning. About relationships that don’t work but don’t end either. About children growing too fast. About that shared feeling of always arriving late to something no one can quite define.

He laughs at the right moments. Stays quiet at the others. Observes. Speaks just enough.

And then—

“Fuck,” Marcus mutters suddenly, lowering his voice. “Mate. Don’t turn around.”

“Why?”

“Just… don’t, Tom.”

Tom turns anyway. Everyone does.

“What the hell, Marcus?”

They all look toward the entrance.

“No… sorry,” Marcus says, serious now. “My mistake.”

“You trying to be funny now?” Sam shakes his head.

“Mistake about what?” Robert asks.

Marcus presses his lips together.

“For a second I thought…” He takes a breath, a sip of his beer. “I thought she’d just walked in.”

The noise of the bar continues, but something tightens at the table. He doesn’t say her name, but the pronoun is enough.

“That’s impossible,” Robert says, checking his phone. “She’s not even in London. According to Instagram she’s in… New York.”

“Are you two back together?” Sam asks Tom.

Tom lowers his gaze to his beer.

“I don’t even know if we ever fully ended,” he replies.

The silence isn’t awkward. It’s real. Marcus exhales.

“For a second I was sure. Same way of walking in. Same distracted gesture. Thought the universe was being cruel to you, Tom. Again.”

Tom looks at his glass — not exactly because of her, but because of how easily the past shows up when you lower your guard. The conversation tries to recover.

“It couldn’t have been her anyway,” Bobby says. “She hates this bar. Only came because of Tom. And even if she were in London… it wouldn’t be tonight.”

“No,” Tom agrees. “Not tonight.”

The conversation resumes. And then it happens.

He sees her in profile for barely a second, crossing the back of the bar. The tilt of her head. The way she adjusts her coat. The hair falling in a way too specific to be coincidence.

The world sharpens.

One heartbeat. Two.

He stands abruptly as he sees her walking toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Robert asks.

He doesn’t answer. If he speaks, he’ll lose her. He moves through bodies, tables, noise. Not running — but fast, with an absurd, almost childish certainty.

The door opens. Cold air hits his face.

“Wait,” he says, not shouting.

The woman stops. Turns.

It’s not her.

The resemblance dissolves in a second. Another face. Another age. Another life.

“Yes?” the woman asks.

“Sorry,” Tom says immediately. “I’m mistaken.”

She nods politely and leaves.

The door closes.

He stands outside for a second. Breathes. Runs a hand through his hair. Lets out a humorless laugh.

He goes back in.

The table greets him with a silence that’s too obvious. Robert lifts an eyebrow.

“What was that?”

Tom takes his glass before sitting down, as if he needs the cold weight in his hand.

“Nothing. Thought it was someone.”

“‘Someone’?” Marcus leans forward.

Sam smiles slowly.

“That wasn’t ‘someone.’ That was a very specific someone. Possibly with trauma now.”

Tom exhales through his nose.

“I thought it was the woman from the plane.”

Jamie straightens immediately.

“What woman from the plane?”

Tom rests his forearms on the table, clasps his hands.

“I got back from the States today. Long flight. Shared a row. She didn’t recognize me. I didn’t recognize anything at first either.”

“Right…” Bobby stretches the syllable.

The room’s attention shifts fully to him now.

“She’s an English literature professor. University. Mid-twenties. Single mother. Teenage daughter.”

“A teenager?” Bobby clutches his chest dramatically. “That already sounds complicated.”

“Don’t start.”

“Keep going,” Robert says. “This is getting interesting.”

“They argued mid-flight. Nothing serious. Completely serious. You know how that goes. And… we just talked.”

“How long is ‘just talked’?” Marcus asks.

Tom drinks.

“Eight hours.”

Silence. Then Sam lets out a short laugh.

“Eight hours?”

“Eight.”

“That’s not talking,” Jamie says. “That’s founding an independent republic.”

“And?” Marcus presses.

Tom shrugs.

“We have a date.”

Jamie blinks.

“A date? You? With a complete stranger?”

“Explain yourself, Sturridge,” Sam says.

Tom breathes before answering.

“I told her we’d meet at the airport in fifteen days.”

No one reacts.

One second. Two.

Marcus explodes first.

“You’re joking. Right?”

“No. Why would I?”

“Fifteen days?” Sam spreads his arms. “Your schedule’s so packed you couldn’t see her sooner? You land jet-lagged and come straight to the bar, but for her — diplomatic scheduling?”

“That’s not it.”

“Am I the only one who doesn’t get this?” Marcus asks.

“You didn’t get her number?”

Tom cuts him off.

“We didn’t exchange numbers.”

Silence again. Jamie drops back in his chair.

“Ah. There it is. Wouldn’t be you without the oddities.”

“your hopelessly old-school ways” Bobby adds.

“How are you going to contact her? Smoke signals?” Sam asks.

“Sealed wax letters,” Robert adds.

Laughter. Tom doesn’t smile.

“It’s not funny.”

“Well… a little bit,” Sam says.

Tom exhales.

“There’s nothing extraordinary about it,” he says.

“Then explain what stopped you from doing what any normal man in the 21st century does when he wants to stay in touch with someone,” Sam insists.

“I didn’t ask because she travels as much as I do. It made sense to meet at the airport.”

“‘Made sense,’” Jamie repeats. “Generous phrasing.”

“It would’ve made sense to ask for her number,” Sam counters. “But no. You romanticize the Middle Ages.”

“Benefit of the doubt,” Bobby says. “Was she not that pretty?”

Tom hesitates a fraction.

“It wasn’t that.”

“Oh good,” Sam says. “That makes it worse.”

Tom’s jaw tightens.

“What if she doesn’t show?” Marcus asks quietly.

Tom shrugs.

“Then it wasn’t meant to be.”

The table erupts in laughter.

“Do you hear yourself?” Jamie says. “How old are you? Fifteen?”

“If she doesn’t show, it doesn’t mean mystical destiny,” Bobby argues. “There are a thousand reasons.”

“Maybe she met another actor who did give her his number,” Sam adds.

“Maybe her daughter got sick,” Robert offers sensibly.

“Flight delayed.”

“She changed her mind.”

“Her cat died.”

Tom listens to all of them. Says nothing.

“Rob, do something,” Jamie mutters.

“Too late,” Robert sighs. “You can’t go back in time and give her your number.”

“You messed up, mate,” Marcus grins.

Tom looks up.

“You could always call every university in London.”

“Hello, I’m Tom Sturridge and I’m looking for a twenty-something literature professor with a teenage daughter who flew in from the States today…” Marcus says, raising a finger.

“Very funny,” Tom replies dryly.

“Posters on lampposts: To the professor I discussed parenting with…” Sam adds.

“Enough. I’m leaving.”

Marcus grabs his shoulder. “Sit down.”

Tom sits again, tone shifting.

“I didn’t ask for her number because I didn’t want fifteen days of sending emojis like a late teenager. I’d rather speak to someone in person. In a café. In a park. Not glued to this thing all day.”

“No one said emojis,” Jamie mutters.

“Leave him,” Robert says.

Tom inhales.

“I didn’t. That’s it. There’s no deeper explanation.”

“So now you’re at the mercy of chance,” Robert says.

“Yes.”

“Those fifteen days are going to be interesting,” Jamie muses. “You’ve known her for hours and you’re already seeing ghosts.”

Tom doesn’t respond.

“She’ll forget in three days,” Bobby predicts. “But on day fourteen you’ll panic and pretend you don’t care.”

“No,” Tom says firmly.

Marcus studies him more closely now.

“What was so different that you didn’t ask for her number?”

Tom thinks. When he speaks, there’s no irony.

“I didn’t have to explain myself.”

That unsettles them.

“Explain what?” Jamie asks.

Tom hesitates.

“Anything. I didn’t have to sell myself. Or justify. Or be interesting.”

Robert nods slowly.

“That’s rare.”

“That’s dangerous,” Sam murmurs.

Tom drinks.

“I’m not making a romantic film out of this. I’m just going to be there. If she shows, good.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then she doesn’t. End of story.”

Robert raises his glass.

“As simple as that.”

“As adult as that,” Tom replies.

Glasses clink.

After a moment, Jamie smirks.

“It’s funny that the only romantic in the group keeps choosing broken characters.”

Laughter.

Tom rolls the glass between his fingers.

“Broken has narrative,” he says at last. “It has trauma, history, contradiction. It’s in constant crisis.”

A pause.

“Integrity, on the other hand… doesn’t shout. Doesn’t victimize itself. It just is. And holding that without dramatizing it… that’s much harder.”

“Are you saying you avoid normal characters because you think you’re a bad actor?” Bobby asks.

Tom shakes his head slightly.

“I’m saying it’s easier to dramatize than to sustain the ordinary without exaggeration. It’s not the same. Playing an explosion is one thing. Making silence compelling is something else entirely.”

Robert watches him more carefully now.

“Most of your characters carry something they can’t hold. Guilt. Power. Obsession.”

“Exactly,” Tom says, leaning forward. “They’re overwhelmed. By desire. Responsibility. Fear. Expectations they never asked for.”

“Or their own intensity,” Sam adds.

Tom nods.

“And that’s comfortable to play. Because the conflict is visible. Outward. In real life… it’s quieter. More boring. More adult.”

Jamie narrows his eyes.

“And her?”

Tom looks up.

“I’m not turning her into anything. Not yet.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“That sounds honest,” Tom corrects. “And rare. And a bit old-fashioned… I think. I don’t know. Maybe I’m talking nonsense.”

Jamie studies him.

“Your eyes lit up. Not like when someone undoes you. Like when something fits.”

Tom doesn’t deny it. He just drinks.

“I didn’t have to be interesting,” he says finally. “Or intense. Or explain why I am the way I am. Which, honestly… is quite liberating.”

Silence.

“That never happens to you,” Marcus mutters.

“Exactly.”

Later, when the bar begins to empty, Tom looks at the door one last time. Not expecting her. Just checking the world is still where he left it.

“You’re not going to bolt again, are you?” Marcus asks.

“No. Lesson learned.”

He pays. Leaves. Cold air. A cigarette.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

He doesn’t take it out.

Fifteen days.

And for the first time in a long while, he doesn’t feel the need to rush the ending.

Next Part