──── 3.5k ◞ ୨ৎ in your head જ⁀➴ ₊˚⊹ crush! els x bsf! reader, fluff, kisses, cuddles, ellie is a loser & sweetheart, reader is shy but talkative towards ellie, & teeny tiny angst (: this is just pure softness and love.

if ellie could use one word to describe you it would be fascinating. ever since the two of you were kids, you had this weird ability to sit down and write every single thought that came to mind. and trust her, you did this four hours at a time. when she didn’t know how to have patience, she often found herself whining about it.

but now, after everything, she was grateful you kept those journals.

it was winter—and like any normal gloomy day, you and ellie would find yourselves curled up on the couch in your shared apartment. having known each other so long, the decision to cut costs during uni was as easy as anything else.

living with ellie was.. to say the least, very difficult for you. not because she was an awful roommate, but because you had begun to have these stirring feelings inside of your chest. they had been going on for some time now, but you hadn’t been able to place your finger on them until now.

when she recently had a fling with a girl from one of your shared classes, you knew that this feeling was a crush. a hardcore one at that, because anytime she made eye contact or even touched another girl, you were fuming about it in your journals.

you would write down things that weren’t blatant professions of love. (even though really didn’t even know they were at that point, you were just angry.)

november 16th,

she touched her hand. she TOUCHED HER HAND. why would she do that? ellie’s never even interacted with her before.. or i mean, maybe she has but like.. why would she touched her hand?? the hell??

ellie should only ever touch my hand i’m crazy. this is crazy. what is wrong with me. we’re literally best friends, nothing else? so why does it hurt so much to see her touch someone else??

november 27th,

she kissed her. i think i might actually vomit. i feel so sick to my stomach. i hate her i hate her i hate her. i don’t hate her, i love her so much. i want her to kiss me. i want her lips on mine, why can’t i have that? why can’t i even tell her that??

would she think i’m crazy?? maybe. i mean we’ve been best friends for so long, there’s literally no way she sees me as anything other than a friend. i’m insane. im literally clinically insane. im going to put my grippy socks on to knock some sense into myself before i go as far as yelling at her for no reason.

to say the least, your emotions were all over the place and living with her didn’t make it any better. in fact, it made it so much worse. you would catch yourself looking at her in ways that you never did before.

admiring her hands when she played guitar, her eyes when she watched a movie, and her lips when she spoke to you from across the sofa.

god, it was infuriating. she had such an affect on you that your heart had begun to jump into your throat when she got too close. when her hand would brush against yours as she brought something down from a taller shelf for you. you even caught yourself shivering as she pressed her palm to the small of your back as she moved behind you in the cramped kitchen.

and to make everything worse—because the two of you had been so close for so long, ellie had gotten relatively comfortable with holding you whenever there was a movie playing. she liked cuddling you actually. she found your warmth rather enjoyable; while you found the closeness suffocating in a way you couldn’t describe.

maybe because your heart was pounding so quickly that it was the only sound you could hear in your ears. and tonight was one of those nights. a movie was playing, a blizzard was coming through soon, and ellie’s arms were wrapped around your body snuggly. your back against her chest and her chin on your shoulder.

her eyes were clearly fixated on the movie that she didn’t even realize how tense you were or the hot flush on your cheeks. coughing, you excused yourself from her grasp and played it off as wanting to make hot chocolate—like the two of you did every night during winter.

it was tradition at this point, but when you let out a breath in the kitchen, you realized you were out.

you volunteered—like the sweetest angel you were—to run to the store around the corner. ellie had wanted to go in your place, given the snow that had begun to fall, but you brushed her off with a smile and told her it was okay.

in reality, you needed this walk to yourself. if you wanted to keep your feelings for ellie under wraps, you needed some space from her constant clinginess. sure, you enjoyed the attention and even craved it, but it was getting harder and harder by the day to keep your feelings secluded to your journals.

knowing better than to argue with you, she let out a huff and rolled her eyes. “you’re not going like that,” she said, pointing at your thin long sleeve. you glanced down, cheeks reddening. “wait here.” ellie smiled and walked off to her bedroom.

then, she emerged with a large coat that was obviously big for her and too big for you. when she wrapped it around your shoulders and helped your arms into the sleeves, she zipped it all the way up and adjusted the hood over your head. she then pulled out a scarf and wrapped it around your neck, tying it in a way that had you absolutely enveloped in her scent.

pine, cigarettes, and something along the lines of cheap vanilla. maybe the same body spray she had been using since high school. thankfully, your cheeks were hidden beneath the fabric of the scarf and you quickly backed away.

“thanks!” you squeaked, stepping out into the blistering cold air and shut the door behind you. ellie blinked slowly, as if she was unsure if she heard that high pitch in your voice correctly. but by the time she had come to the realization that she had, you were already gone. smiling to herself slowly, she shook her head.

while you were gone, she made herself busy with cleaning up your shared apartment. usually, you did most of the cleaning—because you enjoyed it, not because she made you do it. you found it therapeutic after a long day of work and school.

ellie didn’t hesitate to let you. the less she had to clean, the better. but she’d help out every now and then.

her footsteps puttered around the floorboards as she worked, and found herself tidying up your room. discarding of candy wrappers and picking up your clothes off the floor. which she admitted to creepily inhaling your scent because she very much liked the latest perfume you were obsessed with.

when she got your desk, her eyes landed on one of the journals you kept. it wasn’t closed like it always was. instead, it was laid open with a pen in the middle like you had been interrupted in the middle of writing. usually she didn’t eavesdrop. she always respected your privacy. she had since you were children.

she knew if you really needed to tell her something, you would, but her name on the page caught her attention. it was bright and bold in a different color ink: ellie.

her heart leapt into her throat. in that instant, she dropped what she was doing and picked up the tattered journal with her hands. her fingers brushed over the worn pages, seeing fresh doodles all over the margins.

then she read. she shouldn’t have, she knew that. but she did. she read your journal—your absolute personal property. where you spilled everything.

i miss her. she’s at that girls house tonight and everything suddenly feels so much colder and quieter. i know i always groan about how her arms around me make me feel suffocated and clammy, but i miss her so so much. ): i wish she was home. i want to text her. i want her arms around me.

i want her to kiss me. this is selfish. what if she really likes that girl? i’ve never seen ellie date anyone before. she always calls herself a loser and says she has no game (which is kinda true, lol she’s adorable) but i’ve always seen girls fawn over her without her noticing. i don’t like it. i hate it.

i shouldn’t hate it. we’re best friends. i can’t like her. not like this, its wrong. but i can’t help it.

i want ellie.

her heart thudded in her ears as she read. it didn’t just stop with that page. she flipped forward and backwards, the dates spanning months into the past.

she held my hand today when i was crying. she always does that, but it feels different now that i know how i feel. when im sad, i only want her. is that stupid? i want her to hug me and comfort me and kiss me and tell me everything will be okay.

i want to cry again. i am crying again. she’s right across the hall, why can’t i get the balls to go over there and ask her to hold me?? i hate this, i hate these feelings. they’re going to ruin everything good between us. i want them to go away. no, no i don’t. i really really really don’t. i just want her to notice them.

but i never say anything so how can she?? im so selfish for being mad when she looks at other girls and not me. why would i expect her to look at me lik that?? i’m so stupid.

another page flip. more words, more tear stains on the pages, more doodles of her face in a cartoonish manner in the margins. her heart was in her throat now, beating rapidly as a deep realization turned over in her stomach. the way you spoke about this crush on her made her chest ache.

you were so hard on yourself. you always had been, ellie knew that. you didn’t open up to anyone else. you were shy, but around her, you blossomed into this smiley talkative girl that she grew to love and adore so much. she should have see it.

your feelings should have been clear to her. it wasn’t like ellie hadn’t thought of you in that way before, but she was a stupid loser. she didn’t know how to look past her glasses long enough to see the feelings of the girl right beside her. because hell, who was she kidding? you were too good for her.

too sweet, too tentative, too soft, and kind. and she was.. weird and babbled nonstop about her interests even if nobody cared. you did, though. you always listened even when nobody else did.

ellie’s finger traced the pages. she didn’t know how long she was standing there reading where you poured your heart out, but she knew it was long enough to hear the door click and the sound of your voice.

you called out her name, and suddenly the way it rolled off your tongue had a different meaning. “ellie, i’m back! i got the hot chocolate!” you said, placing the canister on the counter and kicking off your shoes.

there was snow in your hair and on the coat she had lent you. ellie quickly tried to place the journal back how she found it and slipped from your room and into the hallway. she took a few deep breaths to steady herself before walking into the common area.

her eyes met your figure and immediately went to your face. the redness on your cheek and nose, and the way your lips looked chapped from the cold. her hands trembled, wanting to reach out. she could now that she knew how you felt, but if she let you know she knew, you’d realize she went through your journal.

would you hate her if you knew?

you didn’t have a hateful bone in your body, ellie knew that. she didn’t want to take advantage of it though. no, never. but her hands were on your cheeks now and she was peering down into your eyes. her geek hues reflected something very different when you looked up at her.

“geez, you’re freezing,” she whispered, squishing your face with her hands as if it would help warm you up quicker. “i shoulda gone instead. you’re too tiny to endure this cold weather.” her voice was gentle and soft, a complete contrast to the nonchalant demeanor she had before you left.

her arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush into her chest. “els,” you muttered, her grip almost crushing. she didn’t realize how tightly she was holding you. “are you trying to kill me? i got you hot chocolate that’s not fair.” the playfulness in your tone made her chest constrict painfully with newfound adoration.

she pulled back enough to look down at you and dust the snow from your hair. ellie beckoned you to the couch. she pulled off her jacket and wrapped a fuzzy blanket around your body. she was being rather.. tentative. it was odd because even though ellie did take care of you, she rarely did it to this extent. only when you were sick or she had made you mad.

well one, you weren’t sick.

and two, you didn’t think she had made you mad.

you furrowed your eyebrows as if to think back to earlier in the day while she scurried off to make you both cups of hot chocolate. when she returned, her cheeks were red this time. she avoided your gaze like you had the plague, but sat extremely close to you.

her fingers brushed yours as she handed you the cup, “you’re still cold,” she frowned, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and bringing you into her side. “try and warm up, alright?”

when she resumed the movie, she was no longer paying attention to it. her eyes would travel to your face every now and then, and you felt it. the way her gaze bore into the side of your face like lasers. it wasn’t uncomfortable, but it made you wonder if something had happened while you were gone.

she was being sweeter than usual. as if sensing you were on to her, ellie stiffened and sipped her hot chocolate, nearly burning her tongue off. the movie ended shortly after, and after every movie night, you would say goodnight and stalk off to your room begrudgingly.

you ached to spend more time with her, but this time, it looked like she was the one who didn’t want to be away from you. she followed you to your room and watched as you turned to shut the door, “don’t let the bed bugs bite.” she tried to say weakly, but her eyes shone something different.

once inside your room, you walked towards your desk and that’s when you noticed it. the pen you had laid in the middle of your notebook was on the floor. not where you had left it at all. the clothes that you discarded this morning weren’t on the floor, the wrappers you had from candy last night weren’t on your side table, and most importantly—the pen was on the floor.

your heart sank.

ellie’s door bursted open before she could even register that it had. her gaze lifted from from her computer and immediately met the hues she had been staring at for the past two hours. this time, they were frightened.

“did you read my journal?” you questioned, heart pounding. were you even mad? no. you were scared. was this tentativeness she had going on, pity? if so, you didn’t want it. not one bit.

ellie bit down on her bottom lip and the words spilled before she could stop them. “you’re a cry baby.” she tried to joke weakly. you didn’t budge, instead you stared at her with a quiet fear. she felt her chest grow hollow as she set her laptop to the side and stood from her bed.

“y/n, look, it was an accident—“

“don’t. don’t pity me.”

your words caught her off guard. they nearly sent her falling back. had her ears betrayed her? pity? is that what you thought her actions were earlier?

“pity?”

“yes!” you replied. she saw it then, the silver tears lining your eyes. her face softened even more at the sight. she felt awful for making you cry, but what she did earlier wasn’t out of pity.

it was out of finally realizing that what she had been craving for so long was right beside her this entire time and she had been too stupid to look. “angel,” she said softly, the same nickname she used when complimenting you or soothing you when you were sick.

“i’m not pitying you.” her words went in one ear and out the other. you sniffled, looking down at your feet suddenly.

a quiver escaped, “whatever you’re doing, i don’t want you to feel bad or whatever! i’m fine, you know?” you were speaking fast. too fast for ellie to get a word in edgewise. instead, she took steps towards you. you don’t seem to notice as you were too focused on the way you felt inside.

“like.. we’re best friends and i’m completely okay with that! you don’t have to like me back in that way, i wont break apart or anything just because i have a crush on you and you don’t like me back—“

“y/n,” she said your name firmly and this caught your attention. her hand met your skin before you could reach her eyes and she was guiding your attention back to her face. she smiled a little, rubbing her thumb over your skin. “stop talking.”

her voice was warm and soft. she wasn’t angry and she wasn’t rejecting you. so what was happening?

she tilted her head as her eyes roamed over your face. from the gentleness of your eyes to chapped lips. her hand cupped the side of your face and she drew you closer. she wrapped her other arm around your waist to make sure you couldn’t go anywhere now.

your heart was beating too quickly. you thought it might burst. what was happening? was this real? was she really touching you like this because she wanted to? because she.. felt the same way?

her lips parted as she breathed. “stop overthinking,” she whispered, “and just focus on me. listen to my words, and nothing else.” ellie’s fingers tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “not even those pretty thoughts, okay?”

your cheeks flushed deeper.

“i’m not pitying you,” she spoke slowly so that you could understand. so that you could take your time in hearing her out. “i’ve been looking past you and i’m sorry i didn’t see the way you felt sooner.” her chest tightened and she brought you closer.

her arms wrapped around you, hugging you tightly to her body. as if she could take away all of the pain and sadness you had suffered over the past few months because of her aloofness. “i’m sorry i made you cry baby,” her voice cracked. “but i’m here now. you won’t cry anymore.”

all you could do was listen. this was real and ellie was hugging you right now. telling you that she felt the same as you did. this was.. real.

your hands trembled as you grabbed onto her shirt, sniffling again. she sighed, dragging you with her to her bed. you had been on top of this mattress many times before, but this was different. now you were curled into her body with your face tucked into her neck.

her lips brushed against your ear as she whispered gently to you, “m’ here baby, it’s okay,” and her fingers gingerly scratched your scalp to keep you grounded. oh how you had craved this type of love and compassion from her for so long.

“i’m sorry i overlooked you.”

“it’s okay, els.”

“no, it’s not,” she pulled back to look down at your face. her hand cupped your cheeks, pinching your skin between her fingers just to see it redden. like she was checking to make sure you were real this time. “and i promise i’ll spend every day making it up to you.” she leaned in closer this time.

her nose prodded yours, eyes fluttering close. “i’ll make you feel like the most special girl alive if you’ll let me.”

her breath ran over your lips and you felt yourself slipping into the warmth that you had been so infatuated with. your cheeks flushed and you moved closer, tilting your head until her lips finally touched yours.

she kissed you softly.

she didn’t rush you and didn’t kiss you like she was hungry.

instead, she kissed you like she had been missing out on something so sweet.

and now that she finally had it, there was no way she was letting it go.

“gunna,” she pecked your lips once, “make you,” she pecked the again, “feel like,” and finally once more. “a princess.”

you giggled at her words, “ellie, quit!” you whined, feeling ticklish as she began to pepper your entire face with her kisses. now that she had you, she was going to worship every part of your skin.

her eyes met yours again, a mischievous gaze in her dark green eyes.

“you’ll be screaming the opposite in a minute.”

“ellie—!”

౨ৎ taglist

I'm the one who requested Prince!Bucky x healer/Witch!Reader 🤖, which you did an amazing job on.

Lately, I've been thinking about something like Pirate Captain!Bucky x Mermaid or Water Creature (like a water nymph?)!Reader, but for some reason, the reader stopped being a mermaid a long time ago. Bucky doesn't believe her at first, but he notices she's quite lost and confused, and that she also seems to have some kind of connection to water, so he decides to include her in his crew.

The thing is, they spend a lot of time together, and the reader, discovering her new human senses, notices that she REALLY likes Bucky's touch, but she's too shy to say it out loud or admit it... Obviously, he notices it anyway.

I'd also like to know if I can be part of your anons list. If your answer is yes, I'd love to be 🌝!

He first finds you at dawn, half-curled against the rocks like a secret the tide forgot to take back.

You’re barefoot, dress soaked and clinging, hair threaded with bits of kelp that glitter faintly when the sun hits them. When Bucky Barnes steps closer—cutlass loose at his side, captain’s coat heavy with salt—your eyes snap open, wild and bright, like something born of water rather than fear.

“Easy,” he says, because that’s what he says to anything that looks like it might bolt. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

₍^. .^₎⟆𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂.It starts with nerves, a shared debut, and a job that’s only supposed to last a few hours. You’re there to do your work, she’s there to learn how to stand in front of a camera. Neither of you expects the quiet moments in between to matter as much as they do.

₍^. .^₎⟆𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰. Sana Minatozaki × fem!reader

₍^. .^₎⟆𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓻𝓮.WLW, Slow Burn Romance, Model AU, Mutual Pining, Soft Angst, Emotional Tension, Slice of Life.

₍^. .^₎⟆𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼.Workplace boundaries, emotional tension, pining, mild angst, alcohol mention, fear of public exposure, internal conflict.

₍^. .^₎⟆𝔀𝓬. 5.1k

₍^. .^₎⟆𝓷𝓸𝓽𝓮.This is the first wlw fic I’ve ever written, and I didn’t expect to enjoy it this much. I’ve also realized I really like writing longer stories and letting things build slowly. Thank you for reading, for your patience, and for being here. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it.🤍😛

You arrive earlier than you need to.

You always do when you’re nervous.

The studio is quiet when you step inside, lights still dimmed, racks of clothes covered in plastic, mirrors reflecting a version of yourself that looks calmer than you feel. Your makeup kit feels heavier than usual in your hands, like it knows how important today is. First professional job. First real client. First time you’re not just practicing on friends or classmates who forgive mistakes easily.

You set your things down carefully, lining brushes up twice just to keep your hands busy. Your heart is beating too fast, but you breathe through it. You remind yourself that you know what you’re doing. You studied. You practiced. You earned this.

Still, the fear lingers.

What if you mess up? What if they regret hiring you? What if she hates it?

You don’t even know who “she” is yet. You only know the name.

Minatozaki Sana.

You’ve heard it whispered around the studio since you arrived. Debut shoot. First time modeling. Big expectations. The kind of pressure that makes people tense without realizing it.

You’re adjusting your palette when the door opens again.

There’s a small wave of movement, staff entering, voices overlapping, energy shifting. And then she walks in.

Sana is quieter than you expect.

She stands near the doorway for a moment, hands clasped together, shoulders slightly raised like she’s trying to make herself smaller. She’s beautiful, obviously, but not in a loud way. There’s something soft about her, something almost fragile, like she’s holding herself together with effort.

Her eyes flick around the room, taking everything in too quickly.

Nervous.

That thought grounds you more than you expect.

She’s just as scared as you are.

“Sana,” someone calls, and she jumps a little before nodding and stepping forward. When her eyes meet yours, she hesitates again, then offers a small, polite smile.

You stand up immediately. Too quickly.

“Hi,” you say, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you. “I’m… I’m your makeup artist today.”

Her smile widens, relieved. “Oh. Hi. I’m Sana.” She bows slightly out of habit, then laughs quietly at herself. “Sorry. I’m really nervous.”

You relax a fraction. “Me too.”

That makes her laugh for real this time. Soft, warm, a sound that settles something in your chest.

“I’ve never done this before,” she admits as she sits in the chair in front of the mirror. “I mean… professionally.”

“Same,” you say, positioning yourself beside her. “So I guess we’ll figure it out together.”

She looks at you through the mirror, eyes bright with something like gratitude. “I’d like that.”

As you begin prepping her skin, you’re painfully aware of how close you are. Professional distance, you remind yourself. This is work. Still, your fingers feel clumsy at first, careful to the point of hesitation.

She notices.

“You can relax,” she says gently. “I trust you.”

The words hit harder than they should.

You nod and let yourself breathe. Slowly, your movements become steadier. Familiar. You fall into the rhythm you know so well, focusing on texture, tone, balance. Sana watches you in the mirror, quiet but attentive.

“You’re very focused,” she comments.

“You’re very still,” you reply.

She smiles. “I don’t want to mess anything up.”

“Neither do I.”

There’s a pause, comfortable and fragile at the same time.

“I keep thinking I’m going to do something wrong,” she admits suddenly. “Pose wrong. Smile weird. Ruin the whole thing.”

You glance at her, surprised by the honesty. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

She tilts her head. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know you care,” you say. “That usually means you’ll do fine.”

She thinks about that, lips pressing together before she nods slowly. “I hope you’re right.”

As you work, the tension eases. You explain what you’re doing before you do it, and she appreciates that. She asks questions. You answer. Sometimes your hands brush her cheek or jaw a little longer than necessary, not because you’re lingering, but because you’re careful.

She closes her eyes at one point, shoulders lowering as she exhales.

“That feels nice,” she murmurs.

You smile despite yourself. “Good.”

When you finish the base and step back, she opens her eyes and looks at herself in the mirror. Her expression shifts from cautious to surprised.

“Oh,” she whispers. “That’s… me?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

She turns her head slightly, studying herself from different angles. “I look… confident.”

“You are,” you say without thinking.

Her eyes flick to yours in the mirror again, something soft passing between you. Then she laughs, embarrassed. “I don’t feel like it.”

“Most people don’t,” you say. “They just learn how to fake it.”

“Well,” she says, smiling at you, “you’re helping.”

The shoot itself goes smoother than either of you expect.

At first, Sana’s movements are stiff, her smiles hesitant. You watch from the sidelines as you clean your brushes, noticing how her hands fidget when the photographer gives instructions. When there’s a short break, she looks toward you instinctively, like she’s checking if you’re still there.

You are.

You fix a smudge near her eye, step back, give her a quiet thumbs-up. She laughs under her breath and straightens.

Each time she returns to your chair, she’s more relaxed. She talks more. About how she didn’t think she’d ever model. About how her hands shake when she’s anxious. About how she’s scared people will think she doesn’t belong here.

You listen.

And you tell her, quietly, that you feel the same way.

At some point, she jokes, “If I mess up, at least we’ll mess up together.”

You grin. “Deal.”

By the end of the shoot, exhaustion settles into your bones, but it’s the good kind. The kind that comes with relief and pride. Sana stands up from the chair one last time, turning to face you fully.

“Thank you,” she says, sincere and warm. “You made today easier.”

You swallow. “You did too.”

She hesitates, then smiles again. “I hope we work together again.”

“So do I,” you reply, and you mean it more than you expect.

As she leaves the studio, you realize something has shifted.

What started as nerves and fear has softened into something steadier. Comfort. Familiarity. The sense that this was only the beginning.

You clean up your kit slowly, replaying her laughter in your mind.

Your first professional shoot.

Her first step into modeling.

And somehow, without trying, you both walked away feeling a little less alone.

When Sana’s team contacts you again, your heart jumps before your brain can react.

They want you.

Not just the agency. Not a replacement. You.

You read the message twice, then a third time, just to be sure. Your fingers shake a little as you type your reply, trying to sound calm and professional while your chest feels way too tight.

You’re excited. And terrified.

Because it means seeing Sana again.

You take your time getting ready. Longer than usual. You want to look professional, clean, confident, but not like you’re trying too hard. Your hands move with care as you fix your hair, check your makeup, change outfits twice before settling on something simple and elegant.

You stare at yourself in the mirror.

Breathe, you tell yourself. You’re here to work.

But your stomach still twists.

The red carpet is loud, bright, alive.

Cameras flash nonstop. People move fast, voices overlap, everything feels rushed and intense. The air smells like perfume, hairspray, and nerves.

You spot Sana almost immediately.

She’s standing a little away from the cameras, surrounded by her team, wearing a dress that looks unreal on her. Elegant, delicate, but strong, just like her. For a second, you forget to move.

Then she turns.

Her eyes find yours, and her face softens instantly.

“Oh,” she says quietly, smiling. “You’re here.”

Something warm spreads through your chest.

“I am,” you answer. “Hi.”

She looks relieved, like your presence alone makes things easier. And that does something to you.

You get to work right away.

There’s no time to think too much. You step closer, fixing a small detail on her makeup, smoothing powder where the lights are too harsh. Your hands are steady, even if your heart isn’t.

“Am I okay?” Sana asks softly.

“You’re perfect,” you say without thinking, then quickly add, “Professionally. Everything looks great.”

She laughs, a small, nervous sound.

“I’m still nervous,” she admits.

You glance at her and lower your voice. “You always look calm.”

“That’s the trick,” she says. “I’m not.”

You gently place your hand on her shoulder, grounding, reassuring. “You’re doing amazing. Just breathe.”

She does. Slowly. With you.

Between camera flashes and calls from her team, you keep stepping in for touch-ups. Lip gloss. Hair. The fall of the dress. Each time, you’re close. Too close to pretend it doesn’t mean anything.

You adjust a loose strand of her hair, your fingers brushing her cheek by accident.

She doesn’t pull away.

Instead, she looks at you. Really looks at you.

“Do you always take this much care?” she asks.

“With my work?” you smile. “Yes.”

“And with me?”

You pause for half a second. “Especially with you.”

Her lips part slightly, surprised. Then she smiles, soft, real.

At one point, the back of her dress needs fixing. You kneel slightly, adjusting the fabric with careful hands. Sana stays still, trusting you completely.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “I feel safer when you’re here.”

That word, safer, stays with you.

You stand and meet her eyes again. “I’ve got you.”

And you mean it.

As the night goes on, the touches linger just a second longer. A hand on your wrist when she laughs. Her fingers brushing yours when you pass her something. Small things. Easy to miss.

But you don’t miss them.

Inside, you feel it growing. The admiration. The attraction. The way Sana’s presence pulls you in without effort.

She’s impressive. Strong. Beautiful in a way that feels human, not distant.

And suddenly, you realize something else.

She looks at you like you’re not just part of the team anymore.

Like you’re someone.

When the cameras finally turn away for a moment, she leans closer and whispers, “I’m glad it was you.”

Your heart skips.

“So am I,” you whisper back.

And for the first time, the red carpet doesn’t feel overwhelming.

It feels… shared.

At first, you tell yourself it’s just work.

Another event. Another message from Sana’s team asking if you’re available. Another schedule adjustment that somehow always lines up with hers.

But after the fourth request in two weeks, you start to notice the pattern.

“She specifically asked for you,” the coordinator says casually over the phone.

Your chest tightens, warm and nervous at the same time. “Of course,” you answer, professional as always. “I’ll be there.”

You hang up and stare at your calendar, a small smile forming before you can stop it.

The appointments become frequent. Almost too frequent to ignore.

Photo shoots that feel more relaxed than necessary. Private fittings where it’s just the two of you and soft music playing in the background. Informal sessions where Sana shows up without a full team, dressed simply, smiling the moment she sees you.

“You again,” she says one afternoon, pretending to be surprised.

“You asked for me,” you reply, raising an eyebrow.

She laughs, a little flustered. “Did I?”

You catch the way her ears turn pink.

Working with her feels different now.

There’s no rush anymore. No constant nerves like on the red carpet. Instead, there’s comfort. Familiarity. Silence that doesn’t feel awkward.

You fix her hair while she sits still, eyes closed, trusting your hands completely. Your fingers move slowly, carefully, aware of how close you are. Too aware.

Sometimes your hands linger a second longer than necessary.

Sometimes hers do too.

When you step back, she often looks at you like she wants to say something—but doesn’t.

After one long shoot, Sana hesitates near the exit.

“Are you… busy?” she asks.

You shake your head. “Not really.”

“There’s a café nearby,” she says, suddenly shy. “If you want.”

You do.

You sit across from each other, coffee cups between your hands, the noise of the city low and distant. Without the lights, the cameras, the pressure, Sana looks softer. More real.

She plays with her sleeve as she talks. “I don’t usually do this,” she admits. “Meeting after work.”

“I’ll pretend I don’t feel special,” you tease gently.

She smiles, but her eyes stay on you. “You are.”

That makes your heart stumble.

These moments start happening more often.

Coffee turns into late dinners. Late dinners turn into slow walks, side by side, shoulders brushing. Sometimes neither of you talks much. Sometimes you talk for hours.

She tells you about the pressure she feels. About always having to be perfect, always smiling.

“I get scared people will stop liking me if I’m not,” she says quietly one night.

You stop walking.

“Sana,” you say softly. “You don’t have to perform with me.”

She looks at you then. Really looks at you.

“That’s why I like being with you,” she whispers.

The physical closeness becomes natural.

Her hand finds your arm when she laughs. Your fingers rest on her back when guiding her through a crowd. Sometimes she leans into you without thinking, and you let her.

Once, during a quiet moment backstage, she reaches out and fixes a wrinkle on your sleeve.

You freeze.

“Oh—sorry,” she says quickly. “I just—”

“It’s okay,” you say, voice softer than intended.

Her hand stays there for a moment.

Neither of you moves.

You start to notice things.

How Sana gets nervous when you’re too close, even though she’s the one who stepped closer. How she watches your reactions, your smiles, your silences. How she remembers small details you didn’t think mattered.

“You like oat milk, right?” she asks once, handing you a drink.

You blink. “I never told you that.”

She shrugs, trying to play it cool. “I notice things.”

So do you.

You notice the way her voice changes when she says your name. The way she relaxes when you touch her shoulder. The way she lights up when she makes you laugh.

And slowly, carefully, you realize what’s happening.

You’re falling.

Not fast. Not dramatically.

But deeply.

One evening, after another long day, you sit together on a bench, watching the city lights.

“I used to think love had to be loud,” Sana says suddenly. “Big gestures. Big moments.”

“And now?” you ask.

“Now it feels like this,” she says, glancing at you. “Quiet. Safe.”

Your fingers brush hers. This time, neither of you pulls away.

“I think I’m scared,” you admit.

“Me too,” she answers, honest and soft.

She turns to you fully, her hand squeezing yours gently.

“But I don’t want to stop,” she says.

You meet her gaze, your heart racing, steady at the same time.

“Neither do I.”

And in that moment, with her hand in yours and the world moving slowly around you, you both know.

This isn’t just work anymore.

It’s something real.

And it’s only beginning.

It starts with a message that doesn’t mention work.

No schedules. No events. No team included.

Just Sana.

Would you like to go out with me? Not as work. Just… dinner.

You read it twice. Then a third time.

Your first instinct is to say no. You know the rules. You know how thin the line already feels. She’s a public figure. You’re supposed to stay professional, careful, invisible.

Your fingers hover over the screen.

Then another message appears.

It’s okay if you don’t want to. I just wanted to ask.

You close your eyes.

You think about all the quiet moments. The walks. The way she looks at you when she thinks you’re not paying attention. The way you feel when she says your name.

You type back.

Dinner is fine.

Your heart races the moment you send it.

You take the date seriously.

Too seriously.

You stand in front of the mirror for a long time, changing outfits, fixing your hair, erasing makeup and redoing it softer. You want to look nice, but not like you’re trying. Professional, but human.

You keep telling yourself it’s just dinner.

When you arrive, Sana is already there.

She’s not dressed like a model. No dramatic styling. Just something simple, comfortable. She looks… real.

When she sees you, her face lights up in a way that makes your chest ache.

“You look beautiful,” she says, a little breathless.

You laugh nervously. “So do you.”

Dinner is calm. Easy.

You talk about everything and nothing. Food preferences. Childhood memories. Dumb stories that make you both laugh too loud. For once, she’s not watching the room. She’s watching you.

“I like this,” she says quietly. “Being normal.”

You smile. “You’re allowed to be.”

She looks at you for a long moment, then nods.

After dinner, she suggests a walk.

The city feels softer at night. Lights blurred. Streets quieter. Your steps fall into sync without trying.

At one point, she bumps her shoulder into yours, pretending it’s an accident.

“Careful,” you tease.

“Sorry,” she says, not sorry at all.

You stop by a small café for dessert. You share one spoon, laughing when your hands bump. There’s something warm and slow building between you, something neither of you names out loud.

She tells you about her fears. About how lonely fame can feel.

You tell her about yours. About wanting to stay invisible. About being scared of being seen.

“I see you,” she says softly.

That makes your breath catch.

The dates continue.

Dinner turns into movies. Movies turn into late-night walks. Walks turn into quiet corners where you sit close, knees brushing, shoulders touching.

You play little games. Guessing songs. Making up stories about strangers passing by. She laughs freely with you, the kind of laugh she doesn’t show cameras.

You forget to check the time.

You forget to be careful.

On the last night, the air feels heavier. Charged.

You walk her back, stopping in front of her building. Neither of you moves to say goodbye.

“I had a really good time,” she says.

“So did I,” you answer.

There’s a pause.

Her hand finds yours. Slow. Questioning.

You don’t pull away.

She steps closer. You can feel her breath. The world narrows to just the two of you.

“Can I…?” she whispers.

You nod before she finishes.

The kiss is gentle at first. Soft. Careful. Like she’s afraid you might disappear if she moves too fast.

Then it deepens.

Your heart pounds. Your hands tremble. For one perfect second, everything feels right.

Too right.

You pull back suddenly.

“I— I can’t,” you say, breathless.

She looks at you, confused. Hurt. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” you say quickly. “You didn’t. I just—”

Fear crashes over you all at once. The risk. The consequences. The reality you tried not to think about.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Before she can say anything else, you step back. Then another step.

Then you turn and run.

You don’t look back.

You hear her call your name once, but you don’t stop.

Your chest burns as you walk faster, then faster, until the night air stings your lungs.

You press a hand to your mouth, trying to steady yourself.

You kissed her.

You wanted more.

And that terrifies you.

Behind you, Sana stands alone, staring at the space you left behind—confused, aching, and already knowing one thing for sure.

She’s not done with you.

Not even close.

You don’t expect her to show up.

That’s the worst part.

You’re cleaning your brushes when you hear your name. Soft at first. Then clearer.

You turn.

Sana stands there, hands clenched at her sides, eyes tired but determined. She looks like she hasn’t slept well. Like she’s been carrying something heavy for too long.

“We need to talk,” she says.

Your stomach drops.

You nod, even though every instinct tells you to run again.

You sit across from each other, the air between you tight and fragile. No cameras. No team. Just the two of you and everything you’ve been avoiding.

“I’ve been trying to understand,” Sana starts. Her voice is calm, but you can hear the crack underneath. “What happened that night. Why you left.”

You swallow. “Sana—”

“I like you,” she interrupts. “No. I care about you. A lot.” She takes a breath. “I think I’ve been falling for you since the first time you touched my face and told me I was doing fine.”

Your chest aches.

She continues, quieter now. “I don’t want excuses. I just need to know if it’s one-sided.”

Silence stretches.

You look at her hands. At her face. At the person who has slowly become the most dangerous thing in your life.

“It’s not one-sided,” you say finally.

Her eyes light up for half a second.

Then you shake your head.

“But I can’t.”

The light fades.

“What do you mean?” she asks, confused. “Why not?”

You force yourself to meet her eyes. “Because being with me would hurt you.”

She frowns. “That’s not your decision to make.”

“It is when it’s my job to protect you,” you reply, voice trembling. “You’re watched. Everything you do is judged. One rumor, one picture, and it could ruin things you’ve worked for your whole life.”

“I don’t care,” she says quickly.

“I do,” you whisper. “I care too much.”

Her jaw tightens. “So you’re rejecting me because you’re scared?”

“Yes,” you admit. “And because I don’t want to be the reason people hurt you.”

Her eyes fill with tears she refuses to let fall.

“I thought you were different,” she says softly. “I thought you’d choose me.”

“I am choosing you,” you say, pain sharp in your chest. “Just not the way you want.”

That’s what breaks her.

She stands up abruptly. “Then don’t look for me anymore.”

Your heart shatters, but you nod. “Okay.”

She leaves without looking back.

After that, you disappear.

When her team calls, you say you’re busy. When they insist, you decline politely. You recommend other artists. You create distance brick by brick.

Sana notices.

She stops requesting you.

She stops texting.

At events, you catch glimpses of her across rooms. She looks composed. Professional. Smiling for cameras.

But when your eyes meet, something hurts in her expression.

And you look away every time.

At night, guilt keeps you awake. You replay the confession over and over. Her voice. Her honesty. The way you chose fear over happiness.

You tell yourself it’s the right thing.

That loving her from afar is safer.

But safety has never felt so empty.

And somewhere deep down, you know this separation isn’t peace.

It’s just the beginning of something far more painful.

You try to convince yourself that distance will make things easier.

It doesn’t.

The first bouquet arrives on a quiet morning. White flowers, simple, elegant. There’s no card, but you know who they’re from the moment you see them. Your chest tightens as you place them on the counter, telling yourself it doesn’t mean anything. That it’s just closure trying to sneak back in.

Then come the messages.

At first, they’re short.

Are you okay? I won’t bother you again, I just needed to know you’re safe.

You don’t reply.

Then they get longer.

I miss you. I don’t understand why loving you feels wrong. Please talk to me.

You read every single one. You never answer.

Your phone rings late at night sometimes. Sana’s name lights up the screen, and you let it ring until it stops. You sit there afterward, staring at the wall, heart racing, fingers numb. You tell yourself you’re being strong. Responsible. Mature.

It feels more like you’re punishing yourself.

You hear things through mutual contacts. Whispers you didn’t ask for.

Sana leaving practice early. Sana distracted during fittings. Sana arguing with her manager for the first time.

Apparently, her staff is frustrated. They say she’s losing focus. That she keeps checking her phone. That she’s asking for breaks she never used to need. That she’s not herself.

It’s because of you.

That realization sits heavy in your chest.

One afternoon, you’re walking home when you see her across the street.

She looks tired. Hair tied back messily, hoodie pulled low, sunglasses hiding her eyes. She doesn’t see you at first. When she does, she freezes.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Then she starts walking toward you.

Your instinct is to turn away, but your feet won’t move. She stops a few steps in front of you, breathing slightly hard, like she ran just to get here.

“Please,” she says quietly. “Just listen.”

You shake your head. “Sana, you shouldn’t be here.”

“I don’t care,” she replies, voice shaking. “I skipped practice. I lied. I just— I needed to see you.”

That scares you more than anything.

Her hands tremble at her sides. She looks smaller than you remember. Vulnerable in a way she never allows herself to be in public.

“I’m not asking you to fix anything,” she continues. “I just want to understand how you can ignore me like this.”

You force yourself to look away. “Because if I don’t, I’ll ruin your life.”

She laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re not ruining anything. You’re the only thing that feels real right now.”

That almost breaks you.

You take a step back. “You’re forgetting yourself. Your career. Your dreams.”

“I’m losing myself without you,” she says.

You don’t know what to say to that.

She reaches out, then stops herself, letting her hand fall. “I’ll keep trying,” she whispers. “Even if you don’t want me to.”

She leaves before you can respond.

That night, you can’t sleep.

You think about her skipping meals, skipping practice, fighting with her staff because of you. You think about how careful you were supposed to be, how you promised yourself you wouldn’t matter this much to her.

But you do.

And she matters more to you than you ever admitted.

You miss the sound of her laughter during late coffees. The way she trusted you with her bare face. The way she looked at you like you were something safe.

You miss her presence like a missing limb.

The next day, another bouquet arrives. This one has a note.

I’m not giving up on you. Even if it takes time.

You sit on the floor holding it, tears burning behind your eyes.

You’re still scared. Still aware of the risks. Still terrified of what loving her openly could cost her.

But for the first time, resistance feels less like strength and more like fear.

And deep down, you know you’re close to breaking.

Because Sana isn’t just asking for your heart anymore.

She’s showing you that she’s willing to risk hers.

It’s past midnight when the knocking starts.

Not polite. Not careful. Desperate.

You’re half-asleep when you open the door, and the sight in front of you makes your heart drop straight to your stomach.

Sana is standing there, hair loose and messy, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with tears. She smells like alcohol and cold night air. Her jacket is slipping off one shoulder, and she looks like she walked here without thinking twice.

“Hi,” she says, voice breaking immediately. “Please don’t close the door.”

You don’t.

She sways slightly, and you instinctively grab her arms to steady her. She clings to you like she’s been holding herself together all night just for this moment.

“I tried to be strong,” she whispers. “I really did.”

Your throat tightens. “Sana… you’re drunk.”

“I know,” she nods, tears spilling over. “But I’m also honest. And I needed you to hear me when I couldn’t be brave.”

She presses her forehead against your shoulder, shaking. You guide her inside, closing the door behind you, cutting off the world that kept pulling you apart.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she says between sobs. “I can’t pretend you don’t exist. I can’t focus, I can’t sleep, I can’t breathe without thinking about you.”

You cup her face gently, forcing her to look at you. “You shouldn’t be here like this. You’re risking everything.”

“I know,” she says, almost laughing through her tears. “But I don’t care anymore. I’d rather risk it than lose you.”

That’s when you break.

“I was trying to protect you,” you whisper. “I thought loving me would hurt you.”

She shakes her head hard. “Losing you hurts more.”

Your hands are trembling now. “I ignored you. I pushed you away. I said no when every part of me wanted to say yes. Please forgive me.”

She looks at you like you just gave her back something precious. “You don’t need forgiveness,” she says softly. “You just need to stay.”

You pull her into your arms, holding her tightly as she cries into your chest. You run your fingers through her hair, murmuring apologies, promises, things you should’ve said weeks ago.

When she finally pulls back, her eyes search yours, vulnerable and hopeful. “Give us a chance,” she says. “Not in secret. Not half-hearted. All of it.”

You nod before fear can stop you. “Okay.”

She freezes. “Okay?”

“Yes,” you say, voice steady despite your racing heart. “I don’t want to hide anymore. I don’t want to run. I want you.”

She kisses you like she’s been waiting forever.

It’s not rushed or clumsy. It’s deep, emotional, full of everything you’ve been holding back. You kiss her back just as fiercely, hands in her hair, grounding her, choosing her.

When you pull away, both of you are breathless and smiling through tears.

The next days are terrifying and freeing all at once.

You sit down with her staff together. Hands intertwined, hearts pounding. Sana speaks first, calm and firm, explaining how she feels, how serious this is, how she refuses to keep pretending.

You add your own truth. About respect. About boundaries. About choosing honesty over secrecy.

It’s not easy. There are long conversations, conditions, concerns. But there’s also something else.

Acceptance.

A week later, Sana posts a photo.

No hiding faces. No vague captions.

Just the two of you, smiling softly, her head resting on your shoulder.

The caption is simple. This is real. Please be kind.

The world reacts. Loudly. But you’re together now, officially, openly, unashamed.

Late nights turn into shared dinners. Work turns into dates. Laughter replaces fear. She kisses you in public like she’s proud. You hold her hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

One evening, curled up together, she looks at you and says, “I’m glad I knocked.”

You smile, kissing her forehead. “I’m glad I opened the door.”

This time, there are no contracts. No excuses.

Just love, chosen fully.

𐔌  ᩙ 𖹭̤ 𝕭𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝐵𝑦 𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑉𝑜𝑤 𓈒 ၇୧ ֹ people think love is about letting go . they think it's about freedom . they're wrong ,, true love is about holding on , it's about keeping . it's about possessing so completely that there's no 'you' and 'me' anymore—only 'us' . .

. . . and I love you so much , i want to erase the 'you' part entirely . ໒꒱