#wool!reader

"I don't see the problem with that." Your friend's boyfriend says after a moment of watching to her to gauge her reaction, but she's stone-faced as she stares at you. "I think that's just effective communi-"

Your friend comes back to life and smacks him on the arm, nose scrunched up in obvious disapproval of his opinion. "Shut up- no. He's being a prick."

Her boyfriend rubs his arm, chuckling. "Alright, ignore me, then." He says, standing from the arm of the couch that he was perched on and brushing a kiss to her hairline. "I'll be helpful and make drinks."

"Yes. Go be actually useful somewhere else, please." Your friend huffs in agreement, standing from the couch as well and starting to pace in front of you.

She was a little mean to him at times, sure, but it was a mutual arrangement. They know each other's boundaries, are comfortable with each other, love each other. If you didn't love them both so much you would hate them for it- for having something that feels like a cosmic crime for you to even want.

"Maybe he just... maybe he just needs a week or so." You say, watching her and her storm of frustration. "I'll wait like, a few days to text him and see if he wants to talk about it."

An exhausting routine by this point. Eventually it would work though, right? Waiting for your open doors of intention and communication to be respected. (Yet to happen.)

"No, no." She insists, pulling out her phone. "I'm reactivating your Tinder, and I'm finding you someone else."

"C'mon, no- let's... let's give him a chance, okay? I'll try and talk to him... In a few days."

"You're not going to beg for scraps from... from someone's son. Don't be ridiculous. You deserve better. Period."

There's a clatter of utensils or cups from the kitchen of their shared apartment, followed by a huffed laugh as her boyfriend peeks his head around the corner. "Didn't you say he's an orphan?"

"Fine," Your friend huffs, waving him off again. "Nobody's son, then. Whatever. He is literally nobody's son, and you think his opinion of you matters? Not on my watch. No. Snap out of it."

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms around your midsection as your shoulders curl in. "That's not nice, it's a sore subject for him-"

"Oh, boo hoo!" She bites sarcastically, jaw tightening briefly. "Poor Coriolanus Snow, he lost his parents and now he's clearly absolved from all consequences of his actions. Ugh. Fuck. Him."

"I-"

"You did, I know." She cuts you off, looking up from her phone again and raising an eyebrow at you. "But that's not what I have a problem with. I have a problem with you meeting his friends, hanging out five times in a week, him telling you he can see things moving forward with you, and then ghosting you, and then circling back around when its convenient for him. How many times have you played his game? It's killing you."

Gesturing vaguely at the phone in your lap, she tips her head in exasperation at you. "Babe, stand up."

"Well, I just think that-"

"If you're going to defend him, stop and reassess before continuing."

You press your lips together as she scolds you, and you look anywhere but at her. She was right and you knew it. That was the worst part.

"He broke up with you." She reminds you, taking a step closer and snatching your phone from your lap, which you frantically try and stop her from doing. "You can't just "wait a week", that's a break up text-" 

Crickets... again.

"You texted him." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. She takes a moment to read the message you'd left out of your storytelling of the scenario. "Take as much time as you need! I hope everything is okay with you. You know if something is going on I'd want to support you however I could. Can we talk soon?"

She reads out loud, looking up at you as you grimace and she continues, driving the blade deeper. "Read, 2:37pm. Three minutes after you sent it, and that was... four hours ago? Interesting."

"What?" You ask, already knowing. "I just thought if he's having some kind of... emotional thing, it might be a good idea to reinforce that I would be happy to help."

"You're begging." She corrects, just as her perfect, lovely, incredible boyfriend who worships the ground she walks on comes back into the room, this time with drinks in hand for both of you.

"Don't beg." He agrees with her, handing the alcohol-laden glass to you. "Just drink."

You take a long sip of the drink, letting the burn distract you from the existential terror of your own phone. “Okay, maybe a date wouldn’t be the worst,” You mutter, just loud enough for her to hear.

Her eyes light up. “Finally, some sense. Good news is I never deactivated your Tinder in the first place, and I’ve found someone for you already. His name is Max, he likes dogs, he’s exactly one foot taller than you- which is perfect, and he has a beard you can pet responsibly.”

“I- do I have to go?”

“Yes,” She says, pointing like a general. “You’re leaving the house whether you like it or not. Don't dwell on him. Coriolanus was... he's literally just some guy. Move on now instead of crying in bed for the next week. Consider it therapy. And actually move on this time.”

Her boyfriend raises his drink in a mock toast. “Nobody's son.”

Fine. You agree. And so, somewhere between therapy and potential humiliation, you find yourself sitting across from this Max guy at a trendy coffee bar three days later. He smiles nervously. You smile back weakly, trying to summon any energy for human interaction that isn’t spiraling around Coriolanus Snow.

And of course, because the universe is dramatic: he walks in just when you decide to stop thinking about him.

Like, actually walks in. And stops. And notices you.

Max is mid-sentence: “So, I love-”

You freeze. Eye contact is made, and you're blinded by blue eyes that have seen more than their fair share of you considering how short of a time you'd known each other. The music is too quiet, and even though Max doesn't know anything about who Coryo is, he can see you just hardly stiffen before quickly looking back at him again to continue endless small talk and the repeated, tiring routine of "getting to know" someone.

Ten minutes later after you recover from the awkwardness and text your friend to let her know who just showed up, your phone vibrates- but its not a response from her.

“You look good”

“Oh, great,” you mutter under your breath, juggling your drink, Max’s head tilts curiously, and the fact that Coryo is now just standing there, in this space, while you were on a date, of all things, is frying your brain with embarrassment.

Your friend is dying laughing, you know it. Or she's on her way here with a gun. One of the two.

You take another sip of your drink, trying to focus on Max, who’s talking about his extensive houseplant collection. Which is great, except that every word is bouncing off your brain like a ping pong ball.

Max beams. “Do you like plants?”

“Yes,” you mutter, very carefully not looking anywhere else, “I… love them.”

Max nods furiously. “Me too! Actually, I have—”

Your phone buzzes again. Another text from him.

“I wasn’t thinking straight. Can we try again? I’m on the patio if you still want to talk.”

You stare at it. Blink. Stare again. Max is mid-sentence: “—and that’s why my aloe is actually the most dramatic of all succulents.”

“Uh-huh,” You manage, thumb hovering over the text field like it’s a bomb you might accidentally detonate.

Max leans in, oblivious. “You’ve got to tell me your favourite plant. It’ll help me understand you better.”

Favourite plant? Really? Now?

You glance at Max. He’s smiling with innocent enthusiasm, and God, he’s nice, but… he’s not Coryo. He didn't take you to meet his friends, and never let his hand stray from your lower back the whole night. He's never kissed you like his life depended on those seconds he was attached to you, and he's never taken you to places he claimed were special because it was his late mother's favourite restaurant that he, quote, "never brings anyone to". How could anyone compete with the way Coryo looked at you like you held his world in your palms only twelve or so hours before saying he wanted a break?

You type something. Delete it. Type again. Delete. Finally, you mutter under your breath: “I’m so screwed.”

And that’s when he texts again.

“Meet me outside. Just for five minutes. Please?”

You look between Max and the door like it’s some absurd morality choice in a video game:

Option A: Go out, face Coryo, risk being emotionally annihilated. Again.

Option B: Stay, pretend you can keep a plant alive, and possibly fall asleep at the table.

Max tilts his head. “Everything okay?”

You give him the faintest, guilty smile. “Yeah… I just... I'm gonna run to the washroom, I'll be right back, yeah?”

You push out the door at the back of the coffee shop next to the bathrooms after checking Max didn't suspect anything. Coryo is leaning against the brick wall, hands in his pockets, looking... perfectly calm. 

“Five minutes,” he says softly, not a smirk, just a steady gaze that somehow makes your chest tighten.

You cross your arms, wrapping them around your midsection. “Okay.”

He shakes his head slowly. “I didn’t… I mean, I wasn’t thinking straight. I shouldn’t have texted you like that. I’m sorry.”

You tilt your head, suspicious but more than willing to hear him out. (You shouldn't be.) “I... yeah, its okay. I get it. Is that... Is that it?”

“No,” he admits, stepping a little closer. “I… I just… I panicked. I wasn’t ready to mess up again. But I realized, being away from you… it’s worse than anything I thought I needed to figure out.”

You blink, caught off guard. The quiet intensity in his voice makes it hard to argue. “So... what are we doing, then?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at you, patient, and finally says, “I’m saying I don’t expect anything. I just needed you to know how I feel. And… I shouldn’t have left it like that. I should have agreed to talk to you right away, but I just...” He drags a hand through his hair, looking up for a moment before back down at your eyes. "Like I said, I panicked."

You fold your arms tighter, but your knees almost betray you. “I get it, I know its not... Its not that simple.”

“Because it is,” he says softly, like he’s not trying at all, and that’s the part that hurts the most. “I messed up. I’m not asking you to forget that. But I need you to know that you’re the only one who matters in this. Only you can make sense of... us.”

You glance back at the coffee shop and through the glass of the back door. Max is still sitting there, awkwardly nursing his latte. You take a step forward… and then stop, heart hammering. “You make it sound like this is my choice.”

“It is,” he says, his tone calm, unyielding. “I can’t force you to stay, but I'd like you to. I just needed you to understand, like... this isn’t about ego. It’s about you.”

You groan, because of course it’s him. Of course he’s turning guilt, sincerity, and heartbreak into a perfect trap. “Five minutes,” you mutter again, mostly to yourself. “Not a second longer.”

“Five minutes,” he echoes, soft, steady, patient- convincing you it could be enough. 

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, heart hammering like a drum set. He’s standing there, calm, steady, looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. And somehow, that makes you want to fix everything- even the part you know is probably (definitely) fucked up over him beyond simple repair.

“I… I don’t know,” You murmur, tugging at the sleeves of your jacket like a nervous habit you just developed for him alone. “I just... I hate that you panicked. I get it, but it’s not fair to me either.”

“I know,” He says softly, just soft enough to make your chest ache. “And I’m not asking you to forgive me right now. I just needed you to know how I feel. I owe you that much.”

You swallow. Because you do know. You feel it. That little tug in your chest that refuses to let go, no matter how many times your friend has screamed at you to “stand up.” You groan quietly. “I get it. I feel it too, don’t I?”

He nods, just enough to confirm it, and your stomach twists. "I probably shouldn’t,” You whisper, mostly to yourself. “I know my friend would hate me for this. She’d be yelling at me right now, probably throwing something.”

“I don’t care what anyone else thinks,” He says, calm and steady. “I care about you. And I just needed to be honest with you. I should have before.”

You groan again, heart hammering. You want to be mad. You want to run back inside and hug Max and apologize for abandoning him mid-latte. You should do that. But instead, you find yourself stepping a fraction closer to him. “I... I don't know what to do with this...”

“You don’t have to say anything,” He murmurs. “Let's just leave. Tell him you're sick.”

And of course, because you are exactly the kind of person who caves when empathy and quiet sincerity hit in the right way, you nod. Just a little. One fraction. One impossible, ridiculous, terribly human fraction.

Your brain screams at you, this is a terrible idea. Your friend would kill you. Max is waiting. And yet...

Your heart ignores your brain.

Here we go again.