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gary “roach” sanderson x female!reader

summary: it starts with a sticky note. a square of yellow paper pinned to the rec room bulletin board, tucked between deployment schedules and a crooked drawing of price’s mustache. it’s blunt, a little rude, and entirely accurate. you laugh. you reply. and the next day, there’s another one waiting for you.

by the end of the week, the board has become something else entirely—a quiet thread of attention passed between two strangers who haven’t met yet, but somehow keep seeing each other anyway

setting: a dusty, too-small base rec room with scuffed linoleum floors, a half-busted snack machine, and a bulletin board cluttered with deployment notices, bad doodles, and fading flyers. the air smells like burnt coffee and vinyl upholstery, always a little too cold or a little too hot.

warnings: lowercase prose, female!reader, strangers to flirtation → something sweet, mute!roach who uses sticky notes + notebooks to communicate, slow emotional build, low-stakes tension, soft humor, mutual noticing, emotionally literate ghost of a man who has jokes and favorites, implied crushes, sticky notes as love letters, roach gets under your skin and stays there

word count: 1.9k

note: i love writing first meetings that feel like the start of something soft—especially when it comes to roach, who doesn’t say a word but still has so much to say. this one's quiet, understated, and full of that moment where two people realize they speak the same language—even if no one else does.

also: i'm always gonna give roach a little field notebook. it just feels right. probably gonna write some blurbs for it too.

my inbox is always open ♡♡

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

you notice it three days into your deployment. a square of yellow paper stuck on the rec room bulletin board—surrounded by the usual chaos of shift schedules, a half-torn flyer for a boxing match, and someone’s doodle of price’s mustache in increasingly cursed forms.

the sticky note is neat but bold. black ink. slightly smudged like the writer pressed too hard.

“for the girl who's shoelaces are always untied, are you okay.” — g.s.

you pause mid-step, caught off guard by the neat little square of yellow pinned to the very center of the rec room bulletin board. your eyes flick over the handwriting once, then again, as the words sink in—quick strokes of heavy black ink, slightly smudged at the edges like the pen was pressed too hard. deliberate. certain.

you blink. and then, suddenly, you're laughing.

you wave them off, but you’re still smiling as your gaze drops—instinctively, inevitably—down to your boots.

your laces are, in fact, untied. again. one is fully trailing across the linoleum like it’s trying to escape the deployment.

“well, shit,” you mutter under your breath, still grinning, “they’re not wrong.”

the note itself is absurd. blunt. slightly rude. but also... spot-on.

and now someone’s watching closely enough to notice?

there’s a strange warmth that creeps under your collar at the thought. curious. amused. slightly flustered.

you pat yourself down for something to write with and finally dig a pen out of your jacket pocket—a half-dried, beaten-up old thing that barely clicks when you try. the ink sputters once against the paper, and you have to angle it just right to get it going. but once it does, you scrawl your response directly beneath the original message with a crooked little smile tugging at your mouth.

"mind your business. but also... no. i’m absolutely not." — y/n

your handwriting is a little messier than theirs—slanted, looser, the ink dragging faintly in places where the pen threatens to give out. but it does the job. the message is clear. teasing, defensive, and maybe just a little self-aware.

you cap the pen with a satisfied little click and step back to admire the absurdity of the exchange. your response sits directly beneath theirs like a reply in a private thread—only this one’s been pinned to a grimy corkboard surrounded by deployment notices and cheap push pins.

a paper conversation between ghosts. one that makes your chest feel oddly lighter.

you tuck the pen back into your pocket, fingers still stained faintly with ink, and cast one last glance at the note before turning away. your boots thump softly across the floor—still untied, still rebellious—and this time, you don’t bother fixing them.

you walk out of the rec room with a grin curling at the corners of your mouth, invisible to everyone else but impossible to suppress. the walls feel a little less cold. your steps fall a little easier.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

the next day, the note is gone.

not torn or crumpled or half-hanging by a corner—just cleanly removed, like someone had come by with purpose and a plan. but in its place, pinned in the exact same spot on the corkboard with a black thumbtack so neat it almost looked military-issued, is a new one.

same square yellow paper. same black ink. same heavy-handed strokes, like the pen had been held a little too tight again.

do you need adult supervision. — g.s.

you snort—loud and unfiltered this time, drawing a side glance from a passing sergeant—but you’re already pulling out your pen. no hesitation. no thought. it’s become automatic now, like answering a text from someone who knows you, even if you’ve never met their face.

you scrawl underneath the new note, your handwriting quick and unapologetic:

desperately. but they keep giving me weapons anyway. — y/n

the ink smudges a little as you cap the pen. you don’t bother fixing it. the mess feels honest.

after that, it becomes a thing.

by day five, it’s no longer just something you notice. it’s something you look for.

you start passing the rec room deliberately—even when you don’t need to be there.

you check the board after breakfast, in between briefings, after the gym when your muscles are loose and your hair’s still damp at the nape of your neck. before lights-out, even if you’re already half-dead on your feet.

and there’s always something new waiting for you.

sometimes the notes are short and dry. biting sarcasm. barely-veiled mockery of your absolutely miserable track record with field rations or your inability to remember your own locker combination.

sometimes they’re oddly thoughtful. quiet observations. questions written in the margins.

“you always leave the rec room at the exact same time.” “what song are you always humming?” “you double check the doors twice. why?”

it’s… disarming.

one time, he leaves a hand-drawn doodle—crude and funny, obviously rushed—of a stick figure tripping over massive cartoon shoelaces, arms flailing, expression manic. written beneath in tiny block letters:

“this is you.”

you laugh so hard you almost choke on your protein bar. you write back:

“rude. accurate. but rude.”

and somewhere in between dodging patrols and cleaning your rifle for the third time that week, it becomes the highlight of your day. not loud. not thrilling. just—steady.

a quiet little thread of humor and attention that anchors you when the rest of the day spins too fast.

you still don’t know who “g.s.” is.

you’ve asked, of course. casually. dropped the initials into a few conversations, careful to make it sound like an afterthought. like you weren’t secretly aching for someone to confirm what you’re already starting to hope.

but no one gives it up.

no recognition. no smirks. no shared looks. just a shrug, a shake of the head, a mumbled “don’t know him.”

it’s like trying to name a shadow.

like flirting with a ghost—one with excellent penmanship, impeccable timing, and the infuriating ability to get under your skin with a single line of text.

a ghost who sees you. and for some reason, keeps showing up.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

a week in, the note moves.

it’s no longer pinned to the bulletin board like usual. instead, you spot it taped—carefully, almost reverently—to the top of the snack machine tucked into the far corner of the rec room. the same yellow paper, still marked with those familiar thick black strokes, pressed just above the faded keypad and blinking red light of the candy selection panel.

your gaze zeroes in on it instantly.

you always buy the red and pink starburst. what’s wrong with orange. — g.s.

you stare at it for a beat longer than you probably should, water bottle tucked beneath your arm, heartbeat doing a little skip like it’s in on the joke too. it’s a dumb question. completely unnecessary. and also? completely valid.

you can already hear your brother’s voice in your head teasing you—“you really have a vendetta against orange candy?”

you mutter something under your breath—mostly a curse, mostly amused—and glance around the room, half-expecting to see someone watching from behind a half-open door or shadowed corner.

but there’s no one. just you. and the dumbest ongoing flirtation you’ve ever let yourself enjoy.

you snag a napkin from beside the coffee machine—slightly crumpled, coffee-stained at the corner—and dig out your pen with hands that are a little too eager. the answer comes easily, like muscle memory.

orange tastes like disappointment and lies. red and pink, are for warriors.

you underline warriors twice for good measure.

then you fold the napkin into a messy triangle and wedge it between the edge of the candy lever and the cracked plastic casing. it sticks out like a secret note passed in class. a dare waiting to be answered.

you step back. linger just a second too long. and then you turn on your heel and walk out of the room faster than you mean to—half-flustered, half-grinning, all nerves.

you don’t know why it feels like your face is warm. but it does.

and you know you’ll be back tomorrow. you’re already wondering what he’ll say next.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

you catch him on day seven.

the base feels quieter tonight—muted, in that post-storm kind of way where the air hangs heavy and the power flickers just often enough to feel like a warning. you’re heading toward the gym, hoodie drawn up over your ears, earbuds in but silent. no music, just the hush of your own breathing and the low hum of white noise to ground you.

your boots strike damp concrete with steady weight, and as you near the end of the hallway—the part where the overhead lights dim out and the walls start to sweat—you turn the corner…

and there he is.

leaning against the wall just past the gym doors, half-draped in shadow, one shoulder braced against the cold concrete column. he doesn’t startle when you spot him. doesn’t flinch or hide the thing in his hand. instead, his head dips slightly, like he already expected you to come this way.

and then you see what he’s holding.

not the notebook you imagined, but something smaller. familiar. a sticky note—bright yellow, balanced on top of the weathered cover of a slim, spiral-bound pad. the notepad is clearly just a backing, something to write against. the note itself is the message. just like always.

your heart gives a little twist. recognition. warmth. anticipation.

his gloved hand moves carefully, marker gliding across the square with quick, sure strokes. the ink presses heavy in places, as if he’s bearing down more than necessary—writing not just to be read, but to be felt.

he finishes. peels the note from the pad in one smooth motion. and when you stop a few paces in front of him, breath caught somewhere in your chest, he steps forward and holds it out to you.

no words. no awkwardness. just quiet, practiced intent.

his helmet stays low. balaclava pulled up to his nose. only his eyes visible—dark and steady and watching you with something unreadable in their depths. not guarded, but waiting.

you take the note from him, fingers brushing lightly against his glove. it’s warm at the corner, where he’d been holding it, and smells faintly of sharpie, field soap, and something crisp and paper-thin. your heart is suddenly too loud in your ears.

you glance down and read:

if this counts as flirting, i hope you’re the type to flirt back. — roach

your breath catches. not in shock—more like relief. like the quiet momentum of the past week finally folding in on itself. something gentle unspooling in your chest.

you glance up again and really look at him.

roach.

the name you’ve heard in passing. in mission briefings, in muttered stories that always sound more like legend than fact. the kind of presence that lives in the corner of a room—never loud, never boasting. just efficient. focused. unshakable.

and now here he is, holding nothing but a yellow sticky note and the kind of stillness that makes it hard to breathe.

you fold the note gently—like it’s fragile, like it means more than a square inch of paper should—and slide it carefully into the back pocket of your jeans.

then you smile.

not wide. not smug. just warm. steady. the kind of smile that knows.

“i am,” you say, voice soft but sure. “you’re lucky.”

his eyes crease at the edges, barely—but enough to change the shape of the moment.

then he taps the edge of his notebook once, then again. a full stop. a promise.

message received.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

He’s sixteen the first time he sees you. It’s the very end of the summer holidays and he’s skulking around Uncle Bang’s house as you visit with your Grandpa Fujiwara.

He hears the greetings, the happy voices of people who haven’t seen each other in years, ringing out, watching, hiding behind the corner of the hallway.

“Ooh you were this high,” Bang levels his hand with his hunched hip, “when I last saw you [Your name]-chan!”

You turn and laugh, your face finally visible, your eyes bright, your laugh infectious. Garou can’t take his eyes off you.

“And how’s this old rascal of yours been keeping?” Bang nods in the direction of his old friend.

“You know, the same as always,” you smile, ignoring Grandpa’s heavily creased, thunderous eyes, his threatening fist to Bang.

“Who ya calling old, you old fart?!” He bellows at Bang.

“Grandpa, you ARE old,” you roll your laughing eyes.

“Come, come,” Bang ushers you two into the house while Garou slips silently out the back, missing his next words, inviting you two to stay tonight to watch the training and for dinner.

You’re seated politely at the back with Uncle Bang and Grandpa as Bang’s pupils file in, complete the customary greetings, bowing.

Garou sneaks a glance in your direction. There’s no mistake, your face is just as pretty as earlier today. He wouldn’t say he’s nervous but he starts to feel the blood pounding in his ears. Why are you here? And why are you watching?

“every state of your life is a chance to negotiate and/or make peace with your fate”

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gary “roach” sanderson x male!reader

summary: you're late to a mission briefing. not by much—but enough to make ghost glance up. and across the room, you spot him: roach. dirt still on his gloves, balaclava pulled tight, not taking notes. just signing quietly to himself like the words live better in his hands. so you sign first. and it begins there.

setting: a cramped, sweltering mission briefing room deep in the heart of a tf141 base. folding chairs scrape against dusty concrete, the air thick with worn gear, old coffee, and recycled sweat. overhead lights flicker with that faint electric hum. half the squad’s nodding off or whispering. the projector’s too loud. maps are half-unreadable. it’s hot, close, heavy. warnings: lowercase prose, male!reader, soft-flirting, background ghost annoyance, subtle mutual interest, sign language as connection, roach doesn’t speak, beginnings of something

word count: 0.7k

note: this one means a lot to me. i really wanted to write a quiet kind of beginning—not loud or dramatic, just something warm that slips in under the noise. i think roach deserves soft moments like this, where someone sees him before they hear him. and maybe it’s nothing yet. maybe it’s just the start. but something about that unspoken spark between them—yeah. that’s the good stuff.

also: ghost definitely clocked all of it. he’s just choosing peace. for now.

my inbox is always open ♡♡

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

you’re late.

not by much—just a few minutes past the start—but it’s enough to turn ghost’s head mid-sentence. he doesn’t stop the briefing, doesn’t call you out, but his gaze lingers for a moment too long. one eyebrow lifts under the brim of his cap, and you can practically hear the unspoken you’re lucky i like you behind his mask.

you nod in apology and slide into the nearest empty seat near the back, clutching a thin stack of mission papers against your chest. the room’s already packed, boots scuffing against concrete, pens scratching along the margins of printouts.

a few low murmurs ripple between squads. the air is thick with heat and the smell of worn gear and old coffee, like every other too-small room on base.

and that’s when you see him.

across from you, seated straight-backed at the edge of the long table, posture almost too still to be relaxed. his uniform’s still dusted with dirt and ash, a few darker stains dried into the seams of his vest. gloves on. helmet secure. face hidden behind a balaclava that only leaves his eyes visible—dark, sharp, and unnervingly alert.

you’ve seen him before, at a distance. roach. one of the task force’s ghosts, in a sense. not the masked lieutenant, but something just as quiet, just as deadly. the kind of soldier who doesn’t need words to leave an impression.

and he’s not taking notes.

you notice his hands first—gloved fingers twitching slightly beneath the table, forming quick shapes in a fluid, practiced rhythm. at first, you think it might be a nervous tic. but no—there’s intention behind it. structure. familiarity.

he’s signing. not to anyone. just quietly to himself, like a second layer of thought.

your chest pulls tight for a moment. it’s small, almost silly, but that flicker of recognition twists something inside you. most people wouldn’t notice. hell, most people don’t.

but you do.

you’re not sure when you started leaning forward. not far—just enough to make sure your movement wouldn’t be threatening. your voice stays quiet, low enough to not interrupt ghost’s rundown of the perimeter plan. you catch roach’s attention gently with a slight movement of your hand, then sign:

“you caught all that, or need a quick translation?”

for a second, he just stares at you. eyes unreadable behind the layer of tactical gear and shadow. like he’s not sure if you’re messing with him. then his head tilts slightly, and he signs back:

“you sign?”

you nod once, lips twitching upward. “my little brother’s deaf. been signing since i was nine. got good at it fast. had to—he’d drag me into every fight with my mum so i could translate his sass.”

his shoulders shift—the barest laugh, maybe. his eyes crease at the corners, and though his mouth is still hidden beneath the mask, you know he’s smiling.

then he signs something quick. too fast to catch every word, but you definitely recognize 'ghost' and 'pain in the ass' somewhere in the blur. your hand comes up instinctively to smother a laugh, but it still breaks through—loud enough that ghost falters mid-sentence and throws a brief glare in your direction.

you shake your head and wave him on. it’s nothing, your gesture says. keep going.

roach nudges your boot under the table a second later. not hard. just enough to get your attention again. when you glance back over, he’s already flipped open a small, spiral-bound notebook from one of his vest pouches. it’s old—edges soft and curling, half-filled with shorthand, map sketches, and notes written in cramped handwriting. he scribbles in the corner of a blank page, then turns it toward you.

“you’re the only one here who’s ever signed first.” “i like you already.”

you blink. caught off-guard. the words are simple, but something about them hits deeper than expected. you look up from the page, then back to him.

his gaze doesn’t waver.

you tap the notebook gently with your knuckle, then sign slowly—clearly this time, making sure he doesn’t miss it:

“good. ‘cause i’m not going anywhere.”

and he doesn’t just smile.

he beams.

eyes crinkling, breath catching ever so slightly behind the fabric of his mask. not a sound leaves him, but the room feels warmer anyway. like something quiet just cracked open between you both.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

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john “soap” mactavish x gn!reader

summary: you didn’t ask for a partner. didn’t want one, didn’t need one. especially not him—grinning in the doorway like he owned the air, too loud, too cocky, all sharp edges and swagger. but soap wasn’t so easy to shake. he cracked jokes you refused to laugh at. brought snacks you refused to take. said you’d warm up to him eventually—and worst of all, he might’ve been right.

setting: dim briefing rooms and desert skies. crates and jerky by the transport. a humming plane cabin where sleep comes slowly and silence says more than words.

warnings: lowercase prose, gn!reader, slowburn, reluctant partnership, emotional tension, soft banter, quiet introspection, mutual growing respect, subtle attraction, soap is emotionally intelligent beneath the chaos, reader is guarded, beginnings of trust, found partnership

word count: 1.5k

note: for the ones who didn’t want to let anyone in—until someone didn’t ask permission. for the loud ones who see through the silence. for when connection doesn’t spark, but simmers.

my inbox is always open ♡♡

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

the briefing room smells like old coffee and stale tension—just another grey-walled corner of command where names get paired and lives get promised to missions no one really walks away from clean.

you’re already seated when price walks in, steady as ever, the scuff of his boots announcing him long before he speaks. he’s got a file tucked under one arm and that look in his eyes—measured, unreadable, like he’s handing you something heavier than paper.

“this one’s yours,” he says simply, nodding toward the doorway.

you turn, expecting someone forgettable. what you get is... not exactly that.

he’s leaned against the doorframe like he built it, dressed in half-zipped gear, forearms bare, a jagged mohawk cutting through the dust in his hair. his grin’s already there, lazy and lopsided, like he knows exactly how obnoxious he looks.

“alright?” he says, voice thick and lilting, "name's soap."

“you.. look like ye’ve got opinions.”

you raise an eyebrow. that’s his opening line?

you don’t answer right away. just glance back to price, silently checking if this is some kind of punishment. it isn’t. worse—it’s real.

“i just prefer working alone,” you say finally, clipped and cool.

it’s not meant as an insult. just a fact. you’ve gotten used to silence, to predictability. to not having to account for someone else's pace or their recklessness. you’ve seen partnerships go sideways—one loud decision in the field, one unchecked impulse, and suddenly you’re writing names on the memorial wall.

but soap doesn’t flinch. doesn’t falter. his grin just gets wider.

“ahh,” he hums, stepping further in, “strong ‘n silent, eh? but pretty, too. dangerous combination, that.”

you blink at him. is he flirting? is he always like this?

“…was that a compliment or a warning?”

“bit o’ both,” he says with a shrug, like the difference means nothin’ to him.

and before you can tell him off or ask what the hell kind of name is soap, he’s already turning toward the exit, shouldering his pack like this is all settled.

“dinnae worry,” he calls over his shoulder, still grinning like he’s cracked some secret, “we’ll be best mates in no time.”

you just stare at his back in astonishment as he walks out. and then—loud, unapologetic, echoing down the hallway:

“brought snacks, too! bribery’s undefeated, aye?”

you don’t even realize price is still in the room until he drops the file on the table with a dull thud.

“good luck,” he mutters, a smirk hiding under his beard. “you’ll need it.”

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

the next time you see him, he’s sprawled out on a crate near the transport zone like it’s his own personal front porch.

the sun’s dipping low, casting the whole base in a haze of gold and rust, turning the concrete soft at the edges. the sky’s bleeding into itself—orange melting into pink, streaks of cloud cutting through like claw marks. the wind’s kicked up just enough to stir the sand along the tarmac, pulling it into little spirals that dance past his boots and disappear.

he’s rolled his sleeves even higher now, forearms dusted with sweat and grit, tattoos catching the light as he leans back, legs stretched out like he’s got nowhere in the world to be. there’s a strip of jerky hanging lazily from his mouth, and the way he chews it—slow and content—makes him look completely untouched by the weight of the mission briefing you just came from.

he spots you before you say a word. his eyes flick up, bright and immediate, and he lifts two fingers in a lazy wave like he’s been waiting for you all afternoon.

“still mad?” he asks, casual as anything, like you’re old friends and the last twenty-four hours haven’t been laced with tension.

you stop a few feet away, arms folded across your chest, spine stiff out of habit. “i wasn’t mad.”

his grin spreads like wildfire. “aye, sure,” he says, dragging the words out in that thick scottish drawl of his. “ye looked like ye were five seconds away from stabbin’ me in the neck wi’ a pen. not judgin’, mind—i’ve earned worse.”

you level a look at him, unimpressed. “still might.”

he laughs—really laughs—head tipping back, teeth flashing in the warm light. the sound is loud and unapologetic, echoing just enough in the open space to make a few nearby techs glance over.

“there they are,” he says, like he’s just uncovered a hidden treasure. “knew ye had a sense o’ humor tucked away in there somewhere. it’s the quiet ones, always.”

you roll your eyes, more out of instinct than anything else, and make a show of stepping past him without so much as a glance. but the corner of your mouth tugs. just a little. just enough that he might’ve seen if he were really looking.

and of course—of course—he’s looking.

he doesn't call it out, though. just lets the moment hang in the air, light and weightless, like maybe he knows not to press. not yet. instead, he shifts on the crate, leans back, and pops another piece of jerky into his mouth with a lazy shrug.

“ye’ll warm up to me,” he says, half to himself. “they always do.”

you don’t answer. don’t give him the satisfaction. but your steps don’t feel quite as heavy as they did a minute ago.

and the air doesn’t feel quite so sharp.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

later—after the heat of the day has bled away, after the long walk to the airstrip, after his too-casual jokes and that smug little wink you refused to dignify with a response—you find yourself across from him in the dim belly of a transport plane.

the cabin’s quiet now. not silent, not really—the engines are still thrumming beneath the metal floor, rattling bolts and vibrating through the thin air—but quiet in a way that settles into your skin. the kind of quiet where thoughts get louder. where the hum turns rhythmic. like a pulse. like breath.

you should be asleep. or at the very least, reviewing the mission schematics on the screen in your lap, pretending to focus. instead, your gaze keeps drifting.

to him.

johnny. soap. maybe a dumb nickname, whatever name you’re supposed to be calling him. you still haven’t decided which feels more real.

he’s slouched in his seat across the aisle, limbs spilling into the empty space around him like he owns it. arms folded over his chest, chin tipped down, head bumping gently against the wall of the plane with every small shudder of turbulence.

his mohawk’s a little crushed from the weight of his gear, and there’s a shadow of grime streaked along one side of his face, like he forgot to wipe off the day. or maybe he just didn’t care.

his foot twitches every so often. small, restless movements, like even in sleep, something in him refuses to go fully still. like he’s dreaming of running. of fire. of chaos. the kind of dreams you don’t talk about when you wake up.

you study him for longer than you mean to.

and you hate that you are.

because you’re supposed to be annoyed. you’re supposed to not like him.

he talks too much. always has something to say, even when no one asks. he’s loud and infuriatingly confident and seems to find amusement in every last thing, even the serious stuff. especially the serious stuff.

he gets under your skin in the worst way—like a splinter. like grit in your boot.

and yet... there’s something about him that pulls at you.

something steady beneath all the showmanship. something heavy under the jokes. the noise, the charm, the crooked grin—maybe all of that’s just surface. maybe it’s the shell. the distraction. the thing he wears to keep people from seeing what’s really underneath.

because there’s weight to him. you can feel it, even now. even here. like he’s lived too much for someone who laughs that easy. like he’s bled more than he lets on.

and you think—no, you know—that if it came down to it, he’d throw himself in front of a bullet for someone on his team without blinking. you see it in the way he watches the exits. how he checks gear that isn’t his. how he carries the silence between jokes like it’s familiar.

you shift slightly in your seat. drag your gaze away.

your chest feels tight in a way you can’t quite explain.

you don’t trust him. not yet. trust is slow. messy. something built one moment at a time, and this—whatever this is—is still brand new.

but the idea of working beside him doesn’t feel quite as unbearable as it did when price first dropped his name like a weight on the table.

he’s kind of growing on you.

not in a way that’s soft. not yet. but in a way that feels inevitable. like moss creeping up stone. like something you didn’t notice until it was already there, clinging to you.

you don’t want to admit it—not to yourself, not to anyone—but maybe the bastard was right. maybe you will warm up to him.

maybe you already are.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

to those who survived it quietly, without announcements, without closure, without being understood.

you don't have to greet the new year with hope or excitement. its enough to arrive in it breathing.

Here's to soft beginnings, quiet victories, and the kind of growth that doesn't need to be loud to be real. May 2026 be gentle with you, generous with inspiration, and full of moments that feel like coming home to yourself.

I'm not changing myself, not someone new— but someone I have always been, my true self without needing to hide.

I will bring my belongings, my personality— everything that seems true to myself.

I will move toward softness, away from the home that I felt pushed from. This home won’t make me shrink myself— a place where I’m not a puzzle piece; I actually fit here.