Naamloos

[bullet-prooflove]

Brendon Park & Those Disparaging Posts...

I have seen quite a few posts recently disparaging/judging people who write for side characters in particular for Brendon Park, who appears in The Pitt for literally 30 seconds.

It’s clear to me that the people writing those posts, don’t actually understand how the mind of a creative works so they play it down to quite vanity driven principles because that’s their way of understanding it.

So from a writer’s POV let me lay it out for you why I do it.

We’re gonna take it away from Brendon Park for a second… (don’t worry we come back to him)

My blog caption heralds me as the queen of side characters because… I have been writing side characters for over a decade, usually the characters that no one else thinks to write for. I am usually the first one in the tags with a fic, in fact I’m known for it. There is literally a running joke between me and several mutuals about how if there’s a guy making balloon animals in the back of the scene, I’m honing in on him.

In The Pitt Fandom I was the first one that wrote for Ahmad, Donnie, Jesse, Caleb, Dylan, etc after their fledging appearances (Donnie and Jesse were very much in the background in the first few eps of S1 and I adopted them as my own. We have a ton more fics now in those tags because we’ve seen a lot more of them since and people have got to know them. Yay!)

In other fandoms it’s the same. I’m the person who sees a guy/girl in the background fixing the mortician’s tray and I’m like ok… you’re interesting, tell me more. I have been doing this for years and it isn’t until now, seeing these posts being so judgey and full of assumptions that I’ve really examined the why I do focus on those people.

Here’s what it comes down to for me:

If you know me, know my work, know my process, you’ll also know I am big on CAUSE AND EFFECT. There’s usually a line, a form of demeanour, some aspect of personality that calls to me within the 30 seconds of a side character appearing. If a character acts a certain way, looks a certain way, says a certain thing, there’s a reason behind it. I want to know the reason and that’s what makes them so interesting to me.

If we’re unlikely to learn why in the show because, after all they are just the mortician’s assistant, assisting with the tools, my brain starts to develop it. Like huh why are they just the assistant… maybe they really wanted to be the mortician but they couldn’t afford the educational costs, oh does that mean they had a low income background, what did that look like for them, how did it shape them, are they now in training to become a mortician or happy as they are, are they resentful of the actual mortician or are they being taken under their wing…

That’s what happens to me with every side character who does something a little interesting.

That is what happened to me with Brendon Park. In those 30 seconds he appeared I found him physically unattractive, that slicked back hair, the predatory way he moves, the coldness of his stare were all turn offs for me, however… then there’s the professionalism, the demeanour, the reactions of the people around him. Some fear, some respect, etc – that’s what spoke to me.

I saw this sharp, emotionally closed off man and thought huh… what makes someone completely shut down like that, with absolutely no expression of warmth. What makes their colleagues respect them despite that rudeness? Then I took it and ran with it because that’s what my brain likes to do.

It isn’t because he’s classically handsome or it’s because Lou has played another character in another show or he fits into this perceived role in the fandom. < this may be correct for some people but it certainly isn’t for me.

For me, it’s about catching a spark of something in that character and going wait… that’s actually quite interesting… it’s about answering the question of why is that character like that through your own writing and developing it in a way that makes sense to you, and showcasing how that plays out in other aspects of their lives.

I think you’ll find it’s the same for a lot of writers here. I hope this post gives you some insight, and also challenges the assumptions that some people make regarding writing for certain characters with low screen time.

[snowbairdd]

Saint Nicholas is not coming this year. Instead, a much darker, ancient spirit. His name is Krampus. He and his helpers did not come to give, but to take. He is the shadow of Saint Nicholas.

KRAMPUS (2015) dir. Michael Dougherty

[alldaysdreamers]

One of the only horror movies I like and want to watch again.

[dracula61]

[yelenassidepiece-deactivated202]

Superman (Part 3) | Bob Floyd

Warnings: Fem reader, plane crash mentions, vague injuries, mentions of head trauma, hospital setting, alcohol consumption, bad writing

Summary: You and Bob had been together for years. Sure, distance was hard but you'd always made it through. Imagine your excitement finding out you'd both be at Top Gun for a while. But then it all falls apart. Part 3/3

Call Sign: Ghost Part 1 Part 2

Now

Things at Top Gun have continued on. The best of the best aviators continue to train every day. Pushing their minds and bodies to the limit. Maverick had moved onto another project but those who were selected for the uranium mission, and hangman, had been formed into a permanent squadron based out of North Island so everyone is still around. Busy, but around.

In the Floyd household, however, it felt like the world stood still. 3 days after waking up in the hospital, you’d been discharged. You still have frequent appointments to rehabilitate your mind and body. These are the only indicators that time was still marching forward. Your days consist of waking up, doing the bare minimum to survive, and falling back asleep. Oftentimes, Bob wakes up in the middle of the night just to lay and watch you breathe. He lays there, watching you sleep to remind himself you’re still there. You’re not yourself, not even close, but as long as you’re still alive he can be there for you while you find yourself again.

He pretends to be asleep when he sees you stir. He knows you well enough to know that you wouldn’t want him to mention the fact that you’re clearly struggling. So, he looks out for you quietly. He wraps his arm around you in a way that makes it seem like a subconscious action he performs in his sleep. He pretends he couldn’t possibly finish his lunch so that you’ll eat his leftovers. He talks enough for the both of you.

When it’s his last day of leave, he can’t pretend to be nonchalant anymore.

“You need to go back, Bob. You can’t just stay here and play doctor forever.” You grumble, somewhat ruder than you intended. You knew you were being mean but since getting home you couldn’t help it. You don’t mean to, it just happens and you feel immediately guilty every time.

“I’m not trying to play doctor, honey. I’m trying to be your husband.” He gently grabs your hand as he says this. He can’t imagine what you’re going through and he knows you have no ill-intent. One of the many things you’ve always loved about Bob is his patience, which is really coming in handy now.

“I know Bobby. I do. I promise. I’m sorry.” You sigh, pulling your hand out of his to press both of yours to your eyes. “I love you so much and I understand where you’re coming from. When I heard about the bird strike with you and Phoenix, I was ready to burn the world to the ground to make you okay. But now, this is my battle. I love that you want to be there for me, and I will try my best to let you. Outside of work hours.”

“Are you one-hundred percent sure?” Bob asks one final time, now with both arms wrapped around you, holding you tight.

“Yes, baby. At least one Floyd should still be in the air.” Offering a small smile, make your way into the bathroom, gently closing the door behind you.

Bob watches you limp away supported by a crutch under your right arm and rests his head in his hands as he takes in what you said.

The next day, Bob feels everyone’s gaze on his as he walks into Top Gun. His khaki uniform feels foreign against his skin, but once he walks out of the locker room and into the Dagger Squad’s designated briefing room most of his nerves fall away. The people who’ve brought a sense of normalcy also bring him a level of comfort he didn’t anticipate. 

“Baby on board!” Hangman greets, of course not without his signature smirk. Bob is caught off guard when he brings him in for a hug.

“Hey… Hangman.” Bob pats his back with a tight smile. He continues, walking down the aisle, offering everyone a friendly greeting and a small smile. 

“Hey, Bob.” Phoenix says with a smile. “This is for Ghost. Thought she might enjoy it since she’s, um-” she trails off, looking for the right words that wouldn’t seem insensitive.

“Since she’s got some free time.” Rooster finished, clapping Bob’s shoulder before sitting across the aisle from him.

Bob gently takes the slightly tattered copy of “The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes” from Phoenix’s hands.

“I um, remember one night at the Hard Deck she was telling me and Rooster how she loved the books and was so excited when the original movies came out. She told me she wished she had the time to read like she used to so she could read this one before the movie comes out. I-I would’ve brought it over but I didn’t know if she’d be up for visitors so soon. If she already has a copy-” She’s almost out of breath by the time Bob cuts her off.

“Thank you, Phoenix. Truly. I think she’ll really appreciate it.” Bob’s face forms into the first genuine smile since the accident. He’s touched that Phoenix, his pilot and one of the people he trusts most in this world because of that relationship, remembers such minute details about his favourite person. He’s over the moon that people seem to see your value in the same way he does.

Now that the ice is broken, Hangman dares to ask what everyone’s been wondering.

“How’s she holding up?”

“I’m back, aren’t I?” Bob responds as he turns around. He expects to see Hangman’s smirk once again but is met with… sincerity? A sincerity he has certainly never seen on Hangman’s face before. He furrows his brows before continuing, “I’m sorry, I thought you were being facetious. She’s-” but before he could finish, their new captain entered the room and started the briefing for what today would entail.

All the comfort he’d felt in the morning left Bob’s body the second he stepped onto the tarmac. He holds his helmet in his hand as his breath quickens. He calms himself down and tells himself to take it one minute at the time. He runs through the drills like his body is on auto pilot. He’s an incredible WSO and that hasn’t changed, but his spirit has. Phoenix can feel it. 

Once they make it to lunch time, she quietly pulls him aside.

“Bob, is there anything I can do to make today go better for you? I mean, I know it’s your first day back and obviously it’s going to be hard so I don’t want to ask if you’re okay but do you need… like, a hug or anything?” She rambles off again, very similarly to their conversation earlier. As much as she considers Bob a good friend by now, she wouldn’t say she’s exactly a pro in how to comfort him.

When you’d been in the hospital, she always let Rooster take the reins in that department and before then of course it had always been your role to fill. But this was a conversation she thought needed to be had between a pilot and her WSO.

She watches as Bob takes a deep breath and his eyes start to water. At this, like instinct, she pulls him in before he lets out a couple of sobs into her shoulder.

“Do you ever…” he pulls away from her as he tries to form a coherent sentence. “Do you ever feel guilty for what happened with the bird strike?”

Phoenix’s eyebrows raise and she shakes her head. “No. I mean, I did at one point. All I could think about was Mav telling me to explain to your family why it happened. Explain to Ghost why you were hurt, or worse.” She puts a gentle hand on the taller man’s shoulder. “Not to sound cocky but I’m at Top Gun for a reason. I’m damn good at what I do. So are you. So was Ghost. I did everything I could, and yet we went down. I won’t beat myself up for that.”

He knows it’s unintentional. She doesn’t mean it like that. But Bob didn’t hear anything after the word “was”.

Ghost was a good pilot. She was. But now what?

“Do you ever feel guilty for just being back to work like nothing happened the next day? Like, keeping us overnight was just a formality. We were perfectly fine.” He wipes his eyes as he takes more deep breaths to ground himself.

“Bob, no you can’t think that way. That’s a slippery slope.”

“I think she resents it. The fact we were just able to come back.” He shakes his head and looks up at the ceiling, willing himself not to cry again.

“No, Bob. Look, I don’t know her as well as you do. Obviously. But, I know she wouldn’t feel that way.”

“You should’ve heard her last night, Nat. She’s so defeated. I feel so guilty every time I even think about bringing work up. Flying is who she is. It’s like a huge part of her is gone and just by being around her I’m rubbing it in her face or something.”

“Bob, I can’t pretend to know what you’re thinking. I’ve never been in your position.” She truly hasn’t, but she doesn’t need to. Not to know that your love for Bob was infinitely more powerful than your love of flying. “She adores you, Bob. Of course she wishes she could fly. Of course she does, but don’t you dare project your guilt onto her.”

At the change of tone, Bob does a double take. She seems to have transitioned to a tough love approach. 

“What happened to her, it sucks. There’s no getting around that. From the few conversations we’ve had,” she continues “I happen to know she doesn’t have a resentful bone in her body.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, Phoenix.”

At two o’clock, the squad's captain announced that their day would be cut short. At this news, Bob excitedly grabs his phone to text you. You have a physical therapy appointment at half past three and now he can drive you. After shooting you a message, he hustles over to the locker room to shower and change as quickly as possible.

As he exits the locker room, he waves everyone goodbye and tells them he’ll see them tomorrow. As soon as he turns the corner, he’s met with Ace.

“Bob! Hey! I heard you were back today!”

“Hi, Ace. Look, I’m so sorry but I’ve gotta run.” Bob feels a vibration in his pocket and pulls it out to a text from you accepting his offer of a ride.

“Oh, yeah I’ll walk with you.” Ace smiles at Bob as he picks up his pace to keep up. “How’re you doing, Bob?”

“I’m as good as I can be, Ace. Thanks for checking in.” Bob pushes open the doors leading to the parking lot.

“Yeah, man. Of course. It’s not the same flying with this new guy. Major dick. Can’t wait to have Ghost back.” 

Bob’s feet failed him as his steps faltered. He knows for a fact somebody would have told Ace. Maybe he was talking about ground work, but that doesn’t really make sense with the way he said it.

“I mean, I know what they’re saying but, I can’t picture a world where she’s not in the air.” Ace spoke these words as if he could read Bob’s mind.

Bob considers himself to be a rather optimistic person, but even he’s not quite to this level. Bob had never before pictured a world where you weren’t Ghost anymore, but he knows he’ll have to. He doesn’t see this level of optimism being beneficial to your recovery. From his research, he knows he has to support you in setting realistic goals.

Speaking in absolute terms that she will end up cleared to fly seems like just the opposite.

“Thank you, Ace, for what you’re trying to do. Truly. I just think setting the expectation that she’ll be able to bounce all the way back from this is unrealistic. It’ll probably just end in her becoming frustrated or discouraged.” Bob smiles at Ace as he continues. “If things go well, and it starts to look like she’ll be cleared then please, by all means we’ll celebrate. Heck, I’ll throw a party. Just, wait for the right moment.”

“Oh. Yeah, dude. I’m sorry.” Ace’s face falls as he continues to apologize.

“It’s okay, Ace. I’m sorry if that was harsh,” Bob unlocks his car and tosses his duffel in the backseat as he continues, “we’re all just trying to get through an impossible situation. I don’t know if I’m handling it properly, if there even is a right way. If I’m being honest I’m just talking out of my ass. I shouldn’t need a damn google search to tell me how to be there for my wife. Yet, here we are.” He shrugs as he closes the door. “Now I really have to go, I’m sorry for taking my frustration out on you.”

“No, no Bob, don’t even worry about it. Like you said, it’s an impossible situation.” Ace nods, waving his hand. “Have a good night man, see you around.”

“So, have you been trying out new hobbies like we talked about?” Your physical therapist, Keenan asks as he spots your exercise. This gets Bob’s attention. He’d been watching closely the whole time but not really listening to the conversation.

“Yeah, of course.” You responded through gritted teeth in between reps.

“Atta Girl! What kind of stuff have you been trying out?” He helps you lower the small dumbbells after your last rep.

“Um… Cross-stitching…” You mumbled in between sips of water. Bob cocks an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. This is a conversation you two can have in the comfort of your own home.

Thankfully though, Keenan had also caught on that this was not the truth.

“Oh, that’s sick! I’ve always been curious about that. What exactly is the first step?”

“You know… you take the ring thing and you… um take the-”

“Okay, listen. You and I both know you’ve never cross-stitched in your life.” You sigh as he hands you back the dumbbells. “Listen, I can’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do. I just genuinely want you to have the smoothest possible recovery.” He pauses to update you on your progress in this set. “You have experienced a life-changing injury, and in these situations, people often find that picking up new hobbies to fill your day help with the mental aspect of recovery. You need to fill your day with things that make you feel good.”

“Yeah, I read the pamphlet you snuck into my bag the other day.”

“When’s your next day off Bob? Why don’t you guys try new things together? Trying new things can be a lot less daunting with someone you love.” He looked between the two of you, before quickly adding “You did good today, kid. See you Friday.”

“That sounds like it could be good, honey.” Bob finally chimed in, grabbing your crutch from beside him and bringing it over to you. “Phoenix actually gave me a book to give you. You’ve been meaning to get back into reading right? And this weekend we can head into the city and go to that new hobby shop? See if anything strikes your fancy.” By now the two of you were making your way to the car.

“It feels so final. It feels like the second I pick a new hobby I’m saying goodbye to something I’ve been sure of for so long.” You buckled your seatbelt, continuing your thought. “I mean, ever since my dad brought me to my first fleet week event all the way up until that ejection there was not a single moment where I wasn’t absolutely positive I’d be a pilot. And now what? Now I have to find something to fill that time knowing nothing will ever amount to the thrill and passion that came with flying.”

Bob’s heart shatters more and more with every word. He hasn’t heard you talk about it this much since that day you got the news. He’s devastated that he doesn’t know how to help you.

“I’m so sorry this is happening to you honey. Please just tell me what I can do to help you.”

You look down at your lap, picking at the skin around your fingers before answering.

“Bobby, you have helped so much already just by being there. I really should tell you more how much I appreciate you. Even just existing in the same room as you brings me so much peace. I know I’ve been kind of short and grouchy lately, I know that. I can’t act like it’ll be all sunshine and rainbows from now on, but I’ll make an effort to tell you more often how much you mean to me.”

He picked up your hand and kissed it, since he couldn’t think of any words that would properly express the relief that flooded his system.

Over the next two months, you and Bob tried it all. 

You finished the Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes by the next weekend, texting Phoenix with your thoughts and making plans to see the movie together when it came out. 

You and Bob spend countless evenings huddled over the kitchen table, putting together a puzzle that formed an image of the northern lights. Bob was patient when your vision made it difficult. The two of you were so excited when you finally finished that Bob suggested glueing it together and hanging it on the wall. Your face lit up at the idea and you two immediately made your way to the closest craft store to buy Mod Podge.

During the day you actually tried to learn to Cross-Stitch, but by the time Bob returned from work you’d already given up on this pass-time. “You have to back me up when I tell Keenan I tried” You told your husband through a laugh.

“Of course, Honey. I’ll always have your back.” He joined in your laughter, looking at your first ‘project’.

You’d put together a handful of model airplanes. Keenan was very excited about this as he said it would also help with maintaining your fine motor skills.

The squad came over for a game night once, you’d decided that couldn’t happen again as Hangman and Rooster almost re-enacted a Mortal Kombat Fatality in your living room.

Once you felt comfortable walking a decent distance without your crutch, you and Bob started walking to the park for picnics.

Now, you’re getting ready to go to the Hard Deck with everyone for the first time since the accident. Bob had been concerned about the noise level giving you a headache but you promised you’d ask him to step outside with you as soon as you needed. 

As you walk into the bar, Bob’s arm is wrapped tightly around your waist.

“Oh my god!” Phoenix shouts from near the pool tables, “Floyd, you failed to mention you and your better half would be making an appearance!”

She runs over to you and slows down to wrap you in a hug.

“Wasn’t sure we would come, but probably would have kept it a surprise either way.” Your husband responds with a smirk.

You squeeze Phoenix tightly before the three of you make your way over to the rest of the group. On the way you’re greeted by a few lieutenants from your class. When you finally make it to the rest of the group, you smile at everyone as they cheer and hug Bob. You’re so glad to be back in this type of environment and you love to see Bob surrounded by friends. You spend the next little while watching as Rooster and Hangman turn everything into a drinking game.

You’re almost shaking with excitement as you look around the bar, knowing that Ace is here by now. You remembered that he and his wife got a sitter every Saturday and came out to the Hard Deck. Once you finally spot him you wave him over. You watch him excuse himself from the group he was with before grabbing his wife, Ella’s, hand and walking over.

“Hey, Girl! It’s good to see you out and about!” Elle said, smiling widely. They weren’t best friends by any means but the nature of a relationship between a WSO and their pilot meant you had a certain bond.

“It really is,” Ace added on with a smile “How’s physio going?”

A huge smile spreads across Bob's face as he tries to hide it in his glass of diet coke.

“Really good, actually I have an announcement.” You smiled looking amongst the group. “I had a physical today and I’ve been cleared for ground work!” 

The room was quiet as everyone took in the news.

“To groundwork!” A drunk Rooster shouts, holding up his beer. The group repeated him all clinking their glasses and bottles. “And to think, you thought she resented you. Look at her now!” He laughed and turned back to the dart board, going to collect his darts.

You turn to Bob as everyone, once again, goes quiet.

“What?” You frown, grabbing your husband’s arm. “What is he talking about?”

Bob looked between you and Phoenix as he tried to register what just happened.

“Wanna go outside for a bit?” He nods and lets you pull him out to the beach.

Once the cold air hits you, the tears start to form.

“I’m sorry, Bobby” You say at the same time that Bob says “Honey, I’m so sorry”

“Honey, you have absolutely nothing to be sorry for.” He continues, furrowing his brows at your apology. 

“I can’t believe I ever made you feel that way.” You shook your head as the first tear fell.

“No, honey, that was not your fault.” He wipes your cheek and continues. “That was all me. You were going through something so incredibly difficult and I was coping as well as I could but I-I mean you know how I overthink everything. I just read into everything more than I should have. I’m so sorry I can’t imagine how mortifying hearing that from Rooster was.

You were already going through so much and I just wanted to be there for you but I had to talk to someone so I told Phoenix how I was feeling and trust me she made me realize you didn’t feel that way. I promise it was momentary. I love you so much and I-I just didn’t know how to be there for you.”

You’re crying even more now, at Bob’s explanation.

“I love you. I will never be able to explain to you how much you helped through everything. Bobby, without you I never would have survived losing all that I did. I wish this never happened. Of course I do. But it did. Because of you, I don’t feel empty. Because you were there for me. I worked so hard to survive and to recover and I am so incredibly excited to find myself and re-discover who I’ve become.

I could never resent you Bobby, because you are the best thing in my life. You’re so good, and patient and you understand me in a way nobody ever has before. I can’t fly anymore, at least not for the foreseeable future. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think you should. I love hearing about your successful flights and I’ll be there for you if your runs don’t go well. I absolutely adore having my very own little superman at home.” You smile through your snotty tears.

Bob just held you and you basked in each other’s company. Now that everything was out in the open the air just felt lighter.

“Now can you grab me a napkin? I’m disgusting I can’t go in there like that” You asked your husband as you both laughed.

As you walk back inside, hand-in-hand, you see a frustrated looking Phoenix scolding a slightly sobered up Rooster. She sighs and turns her head, doing a double take when she sees you two towards them.

“I swear I didn’t tell him!” Phoenix almost shouted as you approached.

“Oh it’s alri-” Bob starts but is cut off by Rooster.

“You guys had this conversation in a public place. Like, less than 10 feet away from where we all eat lunch. You know Hangman’s nosy and as nice as he was being, given the situation, but he’s  still got a huge mouth.”

“Rooster, it’s alright. I promise. It’s all figured out.” You smile as you pat him on the shoulder. “To groundwork!” You chuckled.

Thank you for reading :) -Lola

[maureen2musings]

Absolutely priceless, once in a lifetime moment. Family of lions crossing the river in Masai Mara. 

arjuninthewild

[cricketcat9]

The family has two Moms 👍

[elisecairo]

[helvyeah1]

dr robby coming back from his sabbatical a new man in season 3

[marciobinowdasilva]

insta: @marciobinows

[thecollectibles]

Art by ToshiaSan

[tiktoks-for-dead-pope]

[luvendiary]

a matter of perspective / c. weasley

charlie weasley x reader

summary: you don't believe in absolutes. there is no such thing as dark and light magic, but rather the intent of the user. not many people agree with you on that. a/n: hello dearest. thank you so much for your request. i'm sorry for it being so late. i've been kind of in a writing funk lately plus also balancing a lot of things. i moved into a new appartment with my sister and some friends!! i had actually forgotten how down bad i was for this man. also, i'd like to take a moment to aknowledge something, i've put a lot of myself into this story, especially with the father thing. my dad, who i love so so much used to have a drinking problem, but he pulled himself together for his family. he's the strongest man i've ever know. he's had so much hardship during his life and still manages to be good and caring and so so loving. a few days ago we celebrated his rehab anniversary. though he'll most likely never ever see this, i'd like to thank him for absolutely everything. i hope you enjoy <3

The Burrow looked like something out of a children’s book. Crooked and teetering, patched together with stubbornness and love. It made you just a little uneasy.

Charlie had told you everything about it. From the tradition of his mum’s sweaters to the gnomes that plagued their garden. How there was always something cooking, always someone laughing, always someone shouting — but out of care, not cruelty.

Truth be told, you felt a little out of place. Not because the house had anything wrong with it. In fact, it was completely the opposite.

It was so imperfectly perfect that you felt like a smudge on a clean windowpane. Like black ink spreading on clear water.

It was such a stark contrast to the way you’d grown up. The polished floors. The coldness that seemed to seep its way into the house even when the Russian winter was long behind.The soulless walls. Decorated only with oil paintings too valuable to look at for too long and silver mirrors that only ever reflected what your parents wanted to see.

Love had existed in your childhood home — but quietly. Sharply. In the way a blade might shimmer in the light. It cut more than it held.

Your mother kept everything under control. Her smile, her posture, her house, you. You were her project — a doll with real skin and inconvenient emotions. She was the kind of woman who only acknowledged excellence — and only once. Praise was rationed like medicine. The kind of woman who believed good behavior should go unnoticed because it was expected.

Your father… your father had loved you. You knew that. You never doubted that. There were days when he came home laughing, cheeks flushed with liquor, stories tumbling from his mouth like gold coins. And days he came home hollow-eyed and mean. You never knew which version you’d meet. And your mother — instead of shielding you — made you her mirror. Her outlet. Her weapon.

So you learned silence. You learned how to hold your tongue and your breath. How to keep your face blank when the voices rose and the furniture trembled. How to disappear even when you were right there, center stage.

You didn’t cry much. Not even when you were little.

And the older you got, the more you resembled them. Cold. Controlled. Capable.

You studied magic like it was survival. Not just charms and transfiguration — but theory. Deep, tangled spellwork, old texts your tutors tried to hide from you. Dark magic, they called it. Advanced, you’d said. And it was. But you weren’t drawn to it for power. Not really. You wanted to understand it. The parts people flinched away from. You wanted to hold the match to your palm and ask it why.

Maybe by understanding it, you would understand your parents. What made them what they are now, and how to avoid it.

You could have ended up like your father. In the worst ways. Sometimes you think you almost did.

It was a corrupted normalcy you had grown into. Disturbing, but still normal. Or at least that was the illusion the three of you had been under until a particular fight that changed it all. Even years later, you did not like to dwell on the memory too long — thinking about what would’ve happened if things hadn’t changed, and had escalated instead. Where would you be now?

It had not been a pretty fight, to say the least. It was a fight that had bled far beyond words. A door slammed. A spell misfired. Blood covering your vision, and the way your hand immediately went to cup your face. You had been seventeen.

Your father had seen something in your face that shook him that night. He didn’t say anything, just left you and your mother crying in the kitchen as he slammed the front door.

He checked himself into rehab that same week.

Not the magical kind, but rather the slow kind. The kind that took work, and effort, and countless amounts of tears. Tears you had never seen any man in your life shed. He relapsed twice, and the third time he didn’t. Your mother changed too, though not as loudly.

It was like a series of earthquakes. Your childhood home completely rearranged from its foundation. You found yourself often standing in the ruins of your childhood. Wondering how to go on, how to change along with them, or even if it was too late for you. You wondered what came next.

What came next was choice.

You saw, for the first time, how change could be real. Not immediate or cinematic, not even steady. There were still hard days, but the worst of them appeared to be far behind. Your father — who had once hexed a man for jostling him in a queue — now refused to cast anything beyond basic defensive charms unless he was calm enough to name his emotions first. He journaled. He drank tea. He apologized without being asked.

You had watched him fall in love with the man he was trying to become.

And so, you had tried too.

That’s why it stung, more than you expected, to hear Molly Weasley speak about people like your father as if they were born wrong. As if a single act, a single branch of magic, could define the rest of you.

Your fingers tightened on the edge of the table as the conversation circled morality. Light versus dark. Right versus wrong.

Charlie had known. Of course he had. You’d told him. Not everything. But enough.

So when he took your hand under the table, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist in slow, grounding circles, it was the only thing that kept you from going cold.

You didn’t argue for fun. You didn’t contradict to be clever. But you had to say it.

“I don’t believe there’s such a thing as ‘dark magic’ or ‘light magic.’ Not in the spells themselves,” you’d said.

Molly’s reaction hadn’t surprised you. What surprised you was how much it hurt.

Because she reminded you — without meaning to — that some people only knew how to measure others in absolutes. As though one wrong note meant the whole song was cursed.

She didn’t know you. She didn’t know your father. Didn’t know the years he spent studying healing magic to atone for the hexes he once reveled in. Didn’t know that when you held your wand, you held all of it — your bloodline — and still chose not to use it against the world.

So yes, you stood by what you said.

But it didn’t make you feel any more at home.

Later, when the table was cleared and the conversations softened into laughter in the other room, you slipped out the back door without a word. You stood in the garden, arms crossed, boots crunching in the grass, looking up at the stars as if they might offer a verdict.

You heard the door creak open behind you, and the soft pad of boots.

Charlie didn’t speak. Not right away.

Just came to stand beside you, shoulder to shoulder.

“She’s never met anyone like you,” he said at last. “And she’s afraid of what she doesn’t understand.”

You didn’t answer.

You restrained yourself from saying what you were currently thinking. Because Charlie was right. Molly was not a bad person by any means, she was just a product of her surroundings. A place where ‘purebloods’ often defended dark magic, and used it for their own benefits. Where the likes of people like you, were often associated with cruelty and arrogance.

You could not blame her.

But it was still hard —that even when you insisted on not seeing absolutes— most times it was all people could see when they looked at you. A pureblood doll, and all the labels that came along with it.

You wondered, not for the first time, whether you would ever be able to walk into a room without first being seen as a warning.

Your voice came quiet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it uncomfortable.”

Charlie held on to your wrists gently and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You don’t have to apologize. You stood for what you care about.”

You nodded once, and even though your throat still felt tight, you let him pull you into his arms. There, against the warmth of his chest, the coldness that was so rooted in you found a home.

You were staying in a borrowed flat, one of Charlie’s friends from the reserve who’d gone abroad for the season. The flat was modest — creaky floorboards, windows with chipped paint, a couch that sagged in the middle — but it was yours, for now. And after the Burrow, it was a welcome kind of quiet.

Charlie was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up as he lit the candles around the small dinner table. He had insisted on cooking — or rather, insisted on trying, which you found equal parts admirable and mildly concerning.

“Don’t let him near the garlic,” you’d warned Bill when he arrived.

“Too late,” Bill replied with a grin, stepping inside and ducking to avoid the low hanging doorframe. Fleur followed close behind him, radiant even in a rain-damp coat, and in her arms—

“Oh,” you breathed, soft and involuntary.

Victoire.

She was bundled in soft ivory wool, cheeks pink from the evening chill, a blue charm floating lazily above her head that kept the rain from touching her. Just a baby, not even walking yet — blinking up at the room like she was still dreaming.

You crossed the room before you even realized you’d moved.

“May I—?”

“Of course,” Fleur smiled, and passed her over with the kind of ease you hadn’t expected.

You held her carefully, like something sacred. And for a long moment, that was all there was. The weight of her. The tiny warmth. The quiet rise and fall of her breathing against your collarbone. You hadn’t held something so small in… maybe ever.

Even the baby dragons back at the reserve were already the size of a toddler when they hatched.

“She likes you already,” Fleur said softly, settling down into the armchair across from you.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not right away.

Victoire’s hand curled instinctively into your sleeve, and something in you folded in on itself — something old and long-buried. You blinked once, then twice, and forced the burn behind your eyes to settle.

Fleur watched you with a kind of knowing. A pause stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

After a minute, she spoke again — gently.

“Molly didn’t like me at first either, you know.”

You looked up, startled. Fleur’s expression was calm, her lips curled into the ghost of a smile.

“I’m sorry?”

“She didn’t. She thought I was too polished. Too proud. Too French, perhaps.” Her tone was light, but her eyes were sharp. “Too much.”

You huffed an unbelieving laugh. Because where you stood, Fleur was the blueprint of what a perfect daughter-in-law must look like. Soft around the edges, with just the right amount of sharpness in her eyes.

In some way, she was your antithesis. Sharp where you were soft, and soft where you were sharp. You had come to the conclusion that maybe that’s why Molly didn’t seem to like you at first. Even before your opinions on dark magic became clear. That had been the last drop.

“Yes,” she said simply, as if she was able to read your thoughts.

“I was too much for her,” Fleur continued, adjusting her sleeves, her voice not bitter — just honest. “And I didn’t try to be less.”

You swallowed, looking down at Victoire, who had gone heavy in your arms, tiny lashes fluttering as she dozed.

“She didn’t think I was good for Bill. Thought I was proud. That I would outgrow him. That I was…not quite one of them.” She tilted her head slightly, watching you with something like recognition. “And she was right, in some ways. I wasn’t like them. But I never tried to be.”

You said nothing. Just traced a circle with your thumb over the wool knit of Victoire’s blanket, her warmth seeping into your skin like light.

Fleur shifted forward in her chair, resting her elbows on her knees. Her tone softened. “But she came around. Slowly. Molly learns through observation, not persuasion. She needs to see who you are.”

You looked up, and the weight of Fleur’s gaze didn’t frighten you. “She’ll come around for you too,” Fleur said, gently but certainly. “Because you’re not going anywhere. And you shouldn’t have to shrink to fit into a house that’s already too full of love to notice when it spills over.”

You let out a slow breath. Victoire stirred, then curled further into your chest.

Then, from the kitchen — Bill’s voice, cheerful and far too loud for the sleeping baby: “Oi! Dinner’s ready.”

You saw him emerge from the kitchen and smile at the sight of his wife and you sitting on the couch.

A scream for his name came from the kitchen. Charlie—sounding a bit too panicked for your taste.

Bill sighed and turned to look at you. “Do you keep a first aid kit?”

The table was small, mismatched chairs pulled in from every corner of the flat. You took your seat next to Charlie, Victoire passed gently back to Fleur, who placed her in a floating bassinet charm that hovered beside her with the faintest glow.

Candles flickered. The windows steamed from the warmth inside. And for the first time in days, you weren’t thinking about the Burrow. Or Molly. Or what she saw when she looked at you.

You were here.

And that was enough.

Dinner, against all odds, was good. Burnt around the edges in places, yes, and Charlie had absolutely oversalted the mushrooms — but still. Good.

Bill told stories about Victoire — how she’d bitten George’s nose and then promptly charmed him into carrying her around the garden like a prince. How Ron, terrified of holding her, had sat stiffly with a pillow in his lap and looked like he might cry from fear when she smiled at him.

“Ginny’s the only one who didn’t flinch,” Bill said proudly. “She scooped her up like it was nothing. Victoire puked on her hair and she didn’t blink.”

“Gabrielle is obsessed,” Fleur added with a soft laugh, cutting into her roast. “She’s been reading all the parenting books in English, even though she is not even married. She calls herself ‘godmother in training.’”

“She’s got a whole bag of enchanted toys already and she’s only visited twice,” Bill added. “Victoire’s going to think she’s Santa Claus.”

You laughed and Charlie turned to look at you like he’d been waiting to hear that sound all night.

“What about you?” Bill asked, reaching for his butterbeer with a grin. “What’s it like, wrangling dragons all day?”

“You know…” you said, taking a sip from your wine. “Similar to having a kid in some ways. Very different in others.”

Victorie seemed to laugh at that as a cheering noise came along accompanied by her launching mashed potatoes with her little spoon.

You smiled at her as you watched Fleur clean her mouth.

The rest of the evening stretched in easy rhythm. The conversation wandered — Bill recounting near-catastrophes from Gringotts that had you snorting into your glass, Fleur speaking about her sister’s dramatic letters, and you, when pressed, telling them about the time two hatchlings had mistaken Charlie’s boots for food and he’d spent an hour chasing them barefoot across the reserve.

By the time plates were scraped clean and wine bottles stood empty, the candles had burned low, dripping wax in uneven pools across the table.

“Go on, leave the dishes to them,” Fleur said with a sly glance at Bill. “They’ll survive.”

Charlie shot her a mock glare, but he was already rolling up his sleeves. Bill smirked, clearly unbothered.

“Sit,” Charlie said firmly, brushing a hand across your shoulder as he passed. “We’ve got this.”

You didn’t argue. Not when Fleur settled beside you with Victoire, who had begun to fuss in her bassinet. Fleur lifted her gently, kissed her head, then placed her in your arms once more.

“She adores you,” Fleur murmured, brushing her own hair back from her face. “Babies… they feel when someone’s heart is safe.”

Something tightened in your chest at that.

You shifted Victoire carefully against you, her warmth sinking into your collarbone, and without thinking too much about it, you whispered a small charm to float soft notes of music into the air. Low, lilting — a tune your father used to hum when he was trying to make amends.

You rose slowly and began to rock, a small, instinctive sway that became a gentle circle. Victoire’s small fists opened and closed against your sleeve, her breaths falling into rhythm with the music.

Fleur stayed silent, watching from her chair, a knowing softness in her eyes.

The clink of dishes in the kitchen dulled, and when you turned in your slow orbit, you caught sight of Charlie standing in the doorway with a towel lazily slung over one shoulder and the softest of smiles on his lips.

His eyes were fixed on you — moving with his niece in your arms, the faint smile on your lips, the music filling the quiet. And for once, he looked utterly still. As though if he so much as blinked, he might miss something holy.

Bill brushed past him with a towel in hand, muttering something under his breath about soap charms, but Charlie didn’t answer. He just kept staring, the kitchen light spilling behind him.

The song faded when Victoire finally relaxed, a tiny sigh against your collarbone. Fleur rose, brushing your shoulder gently, and took her daughter back with a grateful smile.

They said their goodbyes not long after. Bill kissed your cheek, Fleur squeezed your hand, Victoire blinked owlishly up at you one last time before disappearing into the night wrapped in her parents’ arms.

You began clearing the table, throwing out the empty wine bottle and snuffing candles one by one. But before you could move more than a finger, Charlie was there.

No words. Just his hands, sudden and insistent at your waist, turning you before you’d even registered it. His mouth crashed against yours — not rough, not hurried, but deep. Like he’d been holding back all evening and had finally decided not to.

The bottle slipped from your hand onto the table with a muted clatter as he lifted you slightly, spinning you half a turn through the dim room.

You pulled back, breathless, your laugh cutting through the quiet. “What’s gotten into you?”

Charlie only grinned, pressing his forehead to yours. “You. Just you.”

You swallowed, eyes flicking to the dying light of the candles, to the half-cleared table, to the way his hair curled damp against his temples.

The laugh that escaped you this time was softer. Not because anything was funny, but because it was impossible not to.

“Put me down Charlie,” you said as you thrashed in his arms.

He decided to t¡do the exact opposite as he twirled you once more. You hung onto him for dear life, hiding your head in the nape of his neck.

He then threw you on the couch, his body following after, settling on top of you as he kissed you.

Your face was sore from all that smiling and laughing, but you couldn’t hold back.

“Charlie!” you squealed as his kisses started traveling down to your neck.

Charlie hummed in acknowledgement. His hands were on your waist, roaming up and down your body.

Your laughter came in short bursts, each one breaking against his mouth as he refused to stop kissing you. His lips chased every sound you made, greedy for it, as though laughter was as intoxicating to him as the wine.

You tangled both hands in his hair, tugging gently when he ducked lower, dragging his mouth along the slope of your jaw, down to the hollow of your throat. He nipped there, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you squirm and laugh all over again.

“Charlie—” You tried to sound stern, but it was hopeless. The way his curls slipped through your fingers, the way his stubble grazed your skin — it unraveled you.

He came back up to your lips suddenly, kissing you until you were dizzy, until the taste of wine on his tongue was all you knew. When he finally pulled back, you pressed your palms to his cheeks.

“What has gotten into you?” you asked again, your voice soft but breathless.

He looked at you like you’d just asked him to explain the stars. His grin was loose, giddy, his pupils blown wide, making his green eyes darker than usual.

You shook your head, lips curving despite yourself, and leaned forward to press a small kiss to the tip of his nose.

“Let’s have a baby,” Charlie murmured, drunk on wine and you, his smile impossibly unguarded.

You broke into startled laughter, dropping your forehead against his. “Charlie—”

But he was insistent, his lips already scattering along your cheekbones, your temple, the corner of your mouth. He kissed wherever he could reach, muttering against your skin between touches.

“I’m serious—” kiss “—a baby—” kiss “—you’d be—” kiss “—perfect.”

You tried to wriggle away but he held you easily, whining into your jaw as you covered his face with frantic little kisses in an attempt to stop him from talking. “You know we can’t do that,” you said between bursts of laughter, peppering his cheeks, his forehead, even the curve of his chin.

“Why not?” he whined against your skin, mouth finding the line of your jaw again.

You tilted your head back, a helpless giggle escaping you as his lips grazed your ear.

“You know why not.”

He nibbled at the shell of your ear, groaning dramatically, as if your reasoning was some great tragedy. His arms locked more securely around your waist, pinning you to the couch as he buried his face against your neck, mumbling unintelligible protests softened by how much he was smiling.

You bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing too loudly, but failed when he nuzzled into your throat like an oversized, insistent dragon demanding attention.

You let your fingers trace the nape of his neck, soothing where your tugging had left his hair mussed.

“Merlin help us if you’re like this after every dinner party,” you murmured, though you were smiling so hard it hurt.

Charlie only hummed, content and unwilling to move, lips still pressed clumsily against your skin like he’d forgotten how to stop.

The letter came folded in half, sealed with Molly’s tidy handwriting across the back. Charlie had plucked it from the stack of owl post and slid it across the kitchen table to you with an almost sheepish grin.

“Ginny’s birthday,” he explained. “Whole family’ll be there. She asked specifically that you come.”

You’d turned the envelope over in your hands, thumb dragging over the crease. You could already imagine the Burrow, filled with chatter and noise, Molly flitting about like the axis the whole house turned on. The last time you’d been there, your words on light and dark had landed like stones in water — ripples spreading further than you meant them to.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” you murmured, gaze fixed on the neat scrawl.

Charlie leaned back in his chair, arms folding loosely across his chest. He looked as though he wanted to say the perfect thing — the one phrase that would banish your hesitation — but instead he kept it simple. “I’ll be with you the whole time. If it gets… too much, we’ll leave early.”

That was how he won you over. Not with promises that everyone would love you, but with the certainty that he’d be at your side when they didn’t.

The Burrow looked much as it had the last time — roof patched in odd angles, garden wild with summer growth, the long wooden table stretched out across the lawn and draped in cheerful bunting. Laughter floated in the air long before you crossed the garden gate.

Ginny spotted you almost immediately. She jogged over, her hair catching in the sun like a living flame. “You came!”

You smiled, pulling the wrapped parcel from your bag. “I thought you might like this. It’s… not something you can get in England.”

When she tore away the paper and unfolded the black-and-white jersey, her eyes went round. The Sankt-Peterburg Swans crest gleamed on the front, and scrawled signatures crowded the fabric in silver ink.

“You’re joking,” she breathed, voice gone high and thin with disbelief.

“They’re the first all-female team,” you explained, a quiet pleasure curling in your chest at her reaction. “I had a school friend who went to play with them. She owed me a favour.”

Ginny’s squeal startled a flock of garden gnomes back into their holes. She clutched the shirt to her chest, nearly hopping on the spot. “This is… Merlin’s beard, I can’t believe this—thank you! You’re the best.” She flung her arms around you before you could brace for it, warm and fierce.

Charlie’s hand brushed your lower back as he passed, the small contact grounding.

You found Fleur in the shade with Victoire balanced against her shoulder, the baby’s blond wisps of hair haloing in the light. Fleur greeted you with the same composed warmth she always carried, and you bent to greet the little girl.

Victoire took one look at you and squealed — an unfiltered sound of delight. Her tiny arms stretched out, fingers splayed in demand.

Your chest loosened. “Oh, hello there, ma petite,” you murmured, stepping forward to gather her up. She came easily, nestling against your collarbone as though it were the most natural thing in the world. You cooed softly in Russian without thinking, little nonsense words that made her giggle and grab at the edge of your dark sleeve.

Fleur smiled, half-surprised. “She remembers you. She does not do that with everyone.”

Charlie chuckled low, leaning close enough that you felt his breath stir your hair. “She has good taste.”

From the kitchen window, Molly Weasley’s hands stilled on the rim of a mixing bowl. She had been ferrying trays of sandwiches to the counter all morning, her rhythm unbroken, her focus fixed on the party outside. But now she lingered at the glass, eyes drawn to the sight of her granddaughter happily nestled in your arms.

“She’s not bad, you know?”

The voice came from just behind her shoulder. Bill stood at the chopping board, a half-sliced cucumber in one hand, knife in the other. He didn’t look up, just kept working with the quiet ease of someone accustomed to Molly’s kitchens.

Molly frowned, the faint line between her brows deepening. “I didn’t say she was.”

“You didn’t have to,” Bill replied mildly. He sliced another piece, neat and even. “I saw the way you bristled last time. About the light and dark business.”

“That wasn’t—” Molly began, then broke off. Her gaze slipped back to the window. You were bouncing Victoire gently, murmuring something that made the baby’s laugh ring out like a chime. Charlie watched you with a softness that seemed to set his whole frame alight.

Molly exhaled through her nose. “She’s different.”

“She is,” Bill agreed, wiping the blade clean. “Different doesn’t mean wrong.”

For a long moment, Molly said nothing. Then she turned back to her work, hands steady as she pressed dough into the waiting tins. But when she carried the next tray out to the garden, her eyes lingered just a fraction longer on you before she set it down.

The day unfolded slow and lazily.

You’d expected the watchful stares, the hesitant pauses in conversation. And they were there — at first. But the longer you stayed in the Burrow’s garden, the more the weight shifted.

Fred and George had drawn you into some ridiculous banter about whether dragons could be trained to deliver mail, and you found yourself volleying their jokes back with sharp retorts. That seemed to win them over.

Arthur, delighted, pressed you with earnest questions about dragon physiology, wide-eyed as though you were reciting wonders from some long-lost manuscript.

You’d ended up between Charlie and Harry, though Ron had been leaning so far across the table toward you that his elbow kept dipping into the butter dish. Charlie noticed, of course. He noticed everything. Which was probably why his arm had stretched lazily along the back of your chair, hand brushing your shoulder as though it had every right to be there.

Harry asked the first question, half-shy, half-intrigued. “So… dragons. What’s it actually like working with them? Everyone makes them sound like untameable monsters.”

You smiled faintly into your glass. “They can be monsters, if you treat them like ones. But if you learn their habits, respect their space, and don’t try to force them into things… they’ll give you more than you expect. It’s not taming, really. More like… negotiating.”

Harry’s eyes lit with a quiet kind of respect. “That makes sense.”

Ron, on the other hand, was nearly vibrating. “But you’ve flown them? Properly flown them?”

Charlie chuckled next to you. “Of course she’s flown them.”

Ron’s jaw practically hit the table, but Charlie wasn’t finished. He tipped his glass toward you, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You’re looking at the reserve’s damage-control unit.”

You shot him a glance. “Charlie—”

“No, go on,” he said, nudging you with his shoulder. “Tell them what that means.”

You hesitated, aware of half the table’s eyes flicking toward you, and then sighed. “It means I get the dragons no one else wants to touch. Behavioral cases, mostly. Hatchlings that won’t bond. Mothers that reject their young. The ones that tend to lash out.”

Ron leaned in so far his plate tipped. “And you do what, exactly?”

“She calms them,” Charlie answered before you could. “When a dragon’s too far gone for handlers to manage, she steps in.”

“Cool,” Harry muttered-

“The coolest”, Charlie agreed as he squeezed your hand.

The tips of your ears warmed at the intensity in his voice. “It comes with the job,” you murmured.

“Tell them about the Black,” he said casually, though his grin betrayed him.

You stiffened. “Charlie—”

“No, come on,” he pressed, his voice picking up a note of mischief. “You’re underselling yourself.”

Your frown deepened. “That’s not—”

He turned to the boys anyway. “One of the interns at the reserve fell into the enclosure of a Hebridean Black last year.”

Ron nearly choked on his drink. “What?”

“What did you do?” Harry asked.

“Not me,” said Charlie. “Her.”

You closed your eyes, already covering your face with one hand. “Charlie—”

“She jumped straight into the pen,” he continued anyway, grinning like he couldn’t help it. “Didn’t even hesitate. Got up on its neck while it was thrashing, clamped her legs down like a rider, and jabbed it with a small dose of anesthesia. Not enough to knock it out, but enough to make it sluggish, docile enough to back off. She bought the intern enough time to be pulled out. No one else on staff could’ve done it. They would’ve been eaten alive.”

“Brilliant,” you heard Ron mutter, his voice having gone an octave higher than usual.

By the time the cake had been carried out and Ginny blew out her candles, you felt… not at ease, but less like a shadow pressed against the wall.

Which was why Molly’s voice from the kitchen doorway stilled you so completely.

“Would you mind helping me with the soup?”

The words landed like a summons. Your first instinct was to decline—graciously, politely, but firmly. And yet when your gaze darted toward Charlie, you found him watching you with steady eyes. No pressure in them, just a small nod.

You rose. Your hands felt colder than they should as you followed Molly inside.

The kitchen smelled of herbs and apples, the air warm with steam. A large pot simmered on the stove, and Molly handed you a wooden spoon without ceremony.

“Give it a stir,” she said.

You obeyed, focusing on the slow circles, the broth shifting and bubbling under your hand. Silence stretched. The kind that pressed at your ribs.

“May I…” Your voice caught, and you cleared your throat. “May I try it?”

Molly nodded once.

You dipped the spoon carefully, let the broth cool a fraction before tasting. The flavours were good—comforting, hearty—but you remembered something. A memory that was half scent, half sound: your mother humming softly as she stood over a pot, a few well-worn jars lined up on the counter beside her.

“If I may,” you ventured, cautious, “my mother always added black peppercorns, celery seed, and garlic to soups like this. She said it—brought the broth alive.”

For a moment, you wondered if you’d overstepped. Molly’s eyes were unreadable, her hands steady on the counter. Then, slowly, she gestured toward the spice rack.

“Go on, then.”

Your heart thudded louder than it should have as you gathered the jars, adding the seasonings with care before stirring them in. You dipped the spoon once more, then offered it to her, your hand steady despite yourself.

Molly tasted. Her face did not soften, not exactly. But she gave a small, considered nod. “Better,” she said simply. Then, after a pause: “You’ll have to come round more often. Teach me a few of these recipes.”

The words hit you harder than you expected. A small door opening in a wall you hadn’t thought would ever budge.

“I—” you stammered, heat rising in your cheeks. “I’d like that. Very much.”

A voice at the doorway cut the silence.

“Isn’t she the best.”

It came out more like a statement rather than a question.

Charlie leaned there, arms folded, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He crossed the kitchen, coming to stand behind you, his arms slipping around your waist with the ease of long practice. His chin brushed your shoulder as you stirred, the warmth of him a steady anchor.

Molly had already turned back to her work, flour dusting her hands as she rolled out pastry for an apple pie. She didn’t look over. But she didn’t need to.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, the wooden spoon still circling through the broth. Charlie kissed your temple, low and unseen, his voice a murmur just for you.

“See? Nothing to be afraid of.”

[yuumei-art]

The children will never know How the ocean used to flow They'll never miss the whales They'll never believe the tales But I will remember, I will tell Of all that lived and their great farewell

[ari-ana-bel-la-deactivated20250]

Hello everyone

So this is a very serious post. In the past few weeks, there has always been one anonymous user, stating my stories are AI made, that they are shit, that I should just do everyone a favour and stop with Tunblr. This user also called me bad names and said very weird things to me.

This has led me to my decision that I will delete end this blog.

To be honest, this hasn't been the first occasion that something like this happened to me. At first, I was always able to ignore it. But now, it has really got to me.

For this reason, I have also deleted all my work. I put a lot of effort, time and work into each of my stories. But to have so many people hate me for no reason at all just showed me that my stories deserve better. For this reason, I have delete each and every story.

I do not care of you call this selfish or rude. These are my stories and I won't let people put down my work. I have and each and every one of them saved on my laptop. But i won't give the haters the satisfaction of keeping my stories.

Also, because I have nothing else to lose and will say this now. To all the haters that have been rude and disrespectful to me, because I don't want to write for Alexandra, Kelly or Magui, here is why.

It is quiet simple. I do not like them. They are to problematic for me. They bring to much drama and that is annoying. Hate me for all I care, but I just dislike them.

So what of Carmen and Kika are my favourite WAGs? I have always been respectful and have never said a bad word about the other 3, because I'm just not interested in them. But to hate me because I don't want to write for them is fucking sick.

So congratulations to every hater out there. You got what you wanted.

I want to thank each and every one of you that has supported me. I also apologise to all those that have send me a request.

I am sorry I couldn't write it.....

Yes, I do have all my works rebloged on an anonymous account. And maybe, one day far away I'll say the accounts name.

But for now, those stories are mine.

Call me selfish for all you want. But I do not care. I am honestly, 100% done. I did everything with my whole heart and this is how I get repayed.

Thank you to all of those that have always supported me. You guys have truly been the best and I am so sorry that I have to do this. But I got to think about me first.

To all the haters out there. Congratulations. You have what you want.

-Ariana

[monstermonger]

Spring has begun; life is rekindled...

Itty Bitty Spring Dragon stickers ♡

🍂Autumn | ❄️Winter | 🌱Spring | 🌻 Summer

[smokebombsandspotlights]

"Toddler Weatherman: The Reign of Y/N Wolff" 🌧️🏎️

F1 Grid x Toddler!Reader (Platonic)

Genre: Platonic | Humor | Chaos | Soft Family Vibes

Warnings: None, unless you count F1 drivers getting owned by a toddler

Word Count: 1,041

[SCENE 1: PADDOCK MORNINGS]

The 2025 season had seen a lot of bizarre things: a raccoon in the Ferrari garage, Logan Sargeant accidentally sending a drone into a Red Bull hospitality tent, and Pierre Gasly's spontaneous opera performance in the pit lane.

But nothing — nothing — matched the absolute phenomenon that was Toto Wolff's three-year-old daughter, Y/N Wolff.

She was everywhere. Mercedes garage? She had her own little chair labeled “Mini Boss.” FIA meetings? Someone had given her a mic, and she had opinions. Team principal briefings? She once corrected a strategy and was right.

But her real claim to fame?

Y/N Wolff was the unofficial, entirely accurate weatherman of the Formula 1 paddock.

“Papa,” she said one morning, tugging on Toto's sleeve while chewing on the end of a pen she’d stolen from the engineers.

Toto, half-listening while reviewing tire strategy, hummed, “Yes, liebe?”

“Clouds are mad. They gonna cry. We need green tires.”

James Allison looked up from the briefing. “You mean inters?”

She nodded sagely. “Green. Wet. Zoom safe.”

Toto blinked. “It’s 25°C with no clouds.”

Y/N turned her tiny face toward the garage opening and narrowed her eyes at the sky. “I feel it in my eyebrows.”

The grid laughed at the idea when Lewis Hamilton posted it to his story: “Y/N Wolff: weather forecaster by eyebrow tingles 🫠”

But then? It rained.

Exactly 11 minutes later. Out of nowhere. Right during FP1.

Mercedes was on inters. Everyone else scrambled.

Toto didn’t even celebrate. He just handed Y/N a cookie and said, “Thank you, mein little barometer.”

[SCENE 2: THE LEGEND GROWS]

By Silverstone, people weren’t even checking Accuweather.

They were checking Y/N Wolff.

Max Verstappen casually leaned into the Mercedes motorhome, looked around, spotted her coloring a diagram of the pit lane with crayons, and asked, “Is it gonna rain today?”

She didn't even look up. “No. Just mean sun. Make helmets spicy.”

He nodded. “Got it.”

Esteban Ocon brought her a fruit pouch in exchange for the next weekend’s forecast.

Carlos Sainz bribed her with stickers.

Lando made a whole vlog segment titled: “Consulting Baby Wolff: Weather or Not?”

Her track record? Flawless.

Y/N Wolff became the paddock's most trusted weather source.

[SCENE 3: SINGAPORE CHAOS]

It was the Singapore Grand Prix.

And every weather app said: Clear. Dry. Hot.

Ferrari was starting on softs. Red Bull too. Even Mercedes was leaning toward a two-stop dry strategy.

Until Y/N marched into the strategy room (wearing sunglasses and a headset she definitely wasn't using correctly), plopped a juice box on the table like a threat, and declared:

“Papa. Wet zooms.”

Toto blinked. “Again?”

She nodded. “Sky got that tummy ache look.”

George Russell, suppressing a laugh, tilted his head. “What kind of tummy ache?”

“The throw-up one.”

Everyone stared.

Toto sighed. “Put the inters on standby.”

People thought Mercedes had lost it. The other teams snickered.

Then, five minutes into the race, monsoon.

Everyone spun.

Except Mercedes.

Camera footage caught Y/N sitting on her dad’s lap in the pit wall chair, sipping apple juice like a villain.

[SCENE 4: FIA ACKNOWLEDGES]

At one point, someone from the FIA actually tried to question Toto about the use of a toddler as a forecasting tool.

“She’s not a tool,” he said dryly. “She’s an asset.”

Lewis stood behind them and added, “Honestly? I trust her more than our sensors.”

Someone printed shirts that said: “Y/N WOLFF SAID IT'D RAIN. IT DID.”

They sold out.

[SCENE 5: DRIVER GROUP CHAT - LEAKED]

F1 Driver GC: “MUST BOX FOR MEMES”

Max: ok who has the weather report from Y/N

Charles: i tried to get it but she told me i smell like old tires and to go away

Oscar: that’s because you stepped on her coloring page last week

Lando: she told me it would rain on saturday

Carlos: did she say how long??

George: she said it would be “puddle big.” make of that what you will

Lewis: translation: full wets, probably

Pierre: who gave her my sunglasses. she’s holding them hostage

Alex: she traded them for the forecast. classic toddler extortion

Yuki: I RESPECT HER

[SCENE 6: TODDLER FORECAST FAME]

One weekend, she held an impromptu press conference.

Y/N was sitting on a folding chair, legs swinging, surrounded by microphones. Someone had made her a tiny Mercedes polo.

“Today is big wet. Big. Like bathtub. No dry zooms.”

A journalist raised their hand. “And wind conditions?”

“Wind go whooosh!”

The video hit 50 million views in two days.

[SCENE 7: FINAL RACE - ABU DHABI]

Final race of the season. Everything was on the line. Championship-deciding.

Teams were staring at conflicting forecasts.

Sky: dry. FIA: drizzle maybe? Pirelli: no rain.

Y/N Wolff, now sitting in her custom throne (a modified race seat on the pit wall), raised a finger.

“Rain. In twenty-three minutes. Left side only.”

People laughed.

Until the radar confirmed it.

She had predicted not just the time, but the part of the track where the rain would hit.

Mercedes won the championship. With the right tires. Right time. Right call.

After the cooldown lap, Lewis dedicated his win to her.

“To the tiniest strategist with the biggest weather brain.”

[EPILOGUE: POST-SEASON]

A Netflix documentary episode was dedicated to her:

Formula Forecast: The Rise of Weather Baby Wolff

Clips included her scolding Max for knocking over her juice, telling Charles he wasn’t allowed to wear yellow near her ("Too bright! My eyes say ow!"), and sneakily sticking cloud stickers on the side of the McLaren garage when she thought rain was coming.

The final scene showed Toto hugging her post-race, lifting her up.

“Do you want to be team principal when you grow up?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Nope. I wanna be the sky boss.”

[COMMENTS SECTION - F1 YOUTUBE CHANNEL]

@tifosicharles55: not me checking her forecast before planning my wedding

@landozsmile: i would trust her with my taxes

@skyiscrying: NOT THE EYEBROW TINGLE ACCURACY

@mercedesbossbaby: she’s not the weather girl she’s the weather god

@maxispinning: the fact that she took down 10 strategists with a crayon and a vibe is insane

And somewhere, in the off-season quiet, Y/N Wolff looked out a window, squinted, and whispered:

“Clouds mad again.”

The paddock braced.

End.

Taglist: @moonlightphilosopher, @karinari1, @jessk23, @bunnisplayground, @thisdoesntexsist-cherry, @bookworm-weirdofor-life, @skzlover24, @lottie810, @josephinel83, @hades-favourite-daughter, @princess3055

[kisses4themissus]

Lovebug | M.R X Reader

a/n: pt 10 aka the last main plotline ending (pls lmk if you want to be tagged in the mini fics of this family!!) pairing: dr. michael "robby" robinavitch x single mom!Reader wc: 5.4k warning semi proof-read

Prev | lovebug series | lovebug tag | send me a love letter <3

Sitting in the faux leather seat still made you feel uneasy, the door behind you opened and the sound of shoes walk closer, still your gaze stayed on your hands. “Still anxious?” Your lawyer asked, sitting down across from you, her eyes watching your blank expression.

“How could I not?” You asked, scoffing a bit. She nodded and opened up the folder which held all of your pay documents from the hospital and lacey’s birth certificate.

“As i’ve said in the past, this case is easy, most judges would look and roll their eyes before letting your ex win custody over your daughter.” Her words make you sigh, finally looking at her, your eye bags worse.

“You said “most judges”, what if we get one that sides with him..takes his side since nick is saying he’s such this grade A dad?” You asked, your stomach turning at the thought.

Your lawyer sighed and reached out to hold one of your hands before sighing your name. “Exactly, it is my job to defend my clients against those types of parents; you have everything to prove your the main caretaker, with a very stable job and such a loving family, the chances of him even getting visitation is a one in a million chance.” 

- - - - - - - -

Days had passed since your trip to the lawyer, you had known of everyone’s concern about you; tossing yourself into your work, rarely letting yourself enjoy the moments with lacey without worrying it’d be your last.

“How’s mama doing?” Dana asked robby as he walked back from the ICU.

Robby shrugged, shoving his hands into his sweater’s pockets, he sighed. “About the same, last night she didn’t eat dinner with me and lacey, after lacey was down for the night; I found her crying again..” 

Dana took a deep breath in at the news, shaking her head as she crossed her arms. “She has a good reason, deadbeat father trying for full custody..” The blonde tsked before turning to the tablet in her hands.

“And our sweet girl?” She asked, tapping away as robby took a seat behind central.

“She’s keeping busy, spending a lot of time with her “grandma lauren” the lawyer said to act as if nothing is going on to keep lacey from panicking.” Robby sighed, slumping into the desk chair, the stress of his home life and work crashing down on him.

“You should take your girls out, take em to the park, go to the movies; y’know something to keep their minds from wandering off.” Dana suggested, peeking over her glasses to look at robby.

As he nodded to agree, dana groaned as another trauma went through.

“Incoming trauma, ETA is three minutes out.” 

Robby nodded at the notice and stood up, stretching his back before jumping back to the chaos.

- - - - - - - -

The soft sounds of plates and utensils clanking filled your apartment, you sat at your round table, mindlessly pushing your food around, occasionally looking up at lacey to see her happily enjoying dinner.

“You like dinner buggy?” You asked, your voice slightly cracking.

“Mmhm, it’s my favorite!” She nodded at you, holding her fork up that had a bit of broccoli left on it. You smiled at her, You glanced back down and took a bite of the pasta lacey had requested.

As you both ate in peace, lacey placed down her fork and watched you, her little eyes searching as she knew you had been off. As she went to talk, a knock on the front door made you both look up at each other. You stood up and walked over, not expecting anyone.

You peeked through the peephole but was stopped as a thumb covered it, groaning you opened the door to see robby holding two grocery bags, you let him enter, locking the door before following after him.

“What’s this?” You asked, motioning to the bags as he placed them on your kitchen island. “You’ll see, lacey, sweetie can clean up please.” He asked, the five year old nodded and stood up from her chair and began picking up your plate and fork, quietly singing a song under her breath as she passed you both for the sink.

She placed them down on her stepping stool before grabbing them to toss it into the sink, you winced but were thankful you had bought plastic plates.

Lacey got down and pushed her stool over to join you both.

“I guessed you both would be finished with dinner about now, so i thought you both would like some dessert.” Robby explained, unpacking the bags to show tubs on ice cream and some toppings.

Lacey squealed and clapped her hands in glee as she looked over the options. “I’ll get my good bowls!” She eagerly told you both before running to her room. You snorted at her words, moving to grab the real ones from the cupboard.

“You didn’t have to do this y’know.” You told robby as you handed a bowl over.

“I wanted too, these past few months have been a handful, thought you both need a treat.” He smiled at you. Nodding, you went over the ingredients. 

As you began working on your sundae, lacey skidded into te kitchen, her tea set bowls in her hands, she stopped and huffed as she spotted the bowls on the counter. “But— but i got my good ones out..” She sighed, you stopped yourself from placing the ice cream in and looked between lacey and the bowl.

“It’s ok, we can use your bowls another–!” 

“Hand one to me before this drips.” You spoke up, your free hand cupping the bottom in case any leakage. Lacey’s face lit up as she ran over and handed you a pixie hollow themed bowl, smiling you turned to lacey and helped arrange her sundae.

“No, extra fudge!” She laughed as you teased her and only dropping a bit.

“No fudge you said?” You teased, she smiled and shook her head as you finally poured more onto the vanilla ice cream, Turning to robby, lacey held up her bowl.

“Sprinkles please!” She smiled widely, robby nodded and went to shake them out, a small thump was heard.

You all bursting into laugher as the lid fell off, leading to an excessive amount to be on her bowl. “Dammit!” Robby laughed, picking up the lid from lacey’s sundae as the five year old held onto the counter as she howled in laughter, her tiny hand going to cover her mouth.

“It — it just went POP!” Lacey laughed, her cheeks going red, you chuckled and attempted to help scoop the excessive sprinkles off.

“You wanted extra right?” Robby asked, making the child laugh before taking her bowl back. “I’ll get my cherry!” She told you both as she reached and pulled out two cherries from the jar.

She patiently waited as you and robby assemble your own before taking a scoop. You hummed in satisfaction before turning to the pantry to grab something.

Lacey smiled at robby, a ice cream mustache on her little face. “You like it?” Robby asked, making the child nod eagerly. You returned to the pair, a bag of potato chips in hand.

You mindlessly crunched them up and sprinkled it over your ice cream, not seeing the look of distaste from both robby and lacey. Finally looking up you laughed, “What is it?” You aksed, scooping some into your mouth.

“You like that?!” Lacey asked, shocked she moved closer to your face and watched in shock as you ate it. “I do, want some?” You asked, moving the spoon towards her.

She squealed and shook her head. 

“No thanks mommy!” she refused, turning to robby with a shock expression. Robby smiled as he knew it was your pregnancy cravings. “So lacey, how’s your grandma lauren?” Robby asked, making lacey smile.

“Good, we color at her house then, she takes me to get mcdonalds to play and eat!” She nodded, happy to spent time with her mom and robby, shoveling more ice cream into her bowl.

You listened as lacey began listing off her day, nodding as she looked to make sure you were listening to her. Robby had snuck out his phone and took a candid photo of you both in pajamas, happily eating your dessert. 

It was something you both had needed after the stress of everything.

Once the night had calmed down, lacey tucked in her bed fast asleep. You and robby stayed in the living room, both cuddled up together.

Your fingers fiddled with his star of david chain. 

“How are you both doing?” Robby asked, his palm rubbing along your spine, soothingly. You sighed, looking at his brown eyes. “Lacey doesn’t really have a clue, i feel like i’ve been a terrible mom..” You groaned out, resting your head by the crook of robby’s neck.

“You’re not a terrible mom, that little girl adores you so much.” He smiled down at you, patting your back. “I can’t name anyone who has the strength you have to go through a custody battle, deal with a bouncy five year old, work in a hospital all day and while being pregnant the whole time.” He praised, his eyes following yours.

“I just can’t help but think what if she doesn’t end up in my custody, i’m all she knows.” You confessed, looking down at your hands, hiding away from his gaze.

“You are all she will ever know, any judge is gonna read the case and laugh in nicholas’ face. All those worries are in your head.” Robby’s hand moved from your back up to your head where he cupped the back.

“Don’t listen to those thoughts, those same ones made me think you’d hate me forever and move states away after the shit I pulled.” Robby recalled, making you sigh with a smile, shaking your head at him. 

“I’d never hate you…not with those puppy dog eyes.”

- - - - - - - -

You watched in the mirror as you did lacey hair, making sure to help flatten out her wispy hairs, you had hoped everything that day would work out.

Patting her sides you nodded at her.

“All done!” You watched as she examined herself in the mirror, smiling at her hair. “So pretty mommy!” She smiled, taking your help as you lifted her from the sink back to the floor. “Go get dressed for me please!” You told the child who nodded and went to her room, across the way.

After months of back and fourth, finally your court date arrived. You checked over yourself, lightly patting in your concealer under your eyes to hide the bags. Sighing you fixed your hair before walking out the bathroom and to your bedroom, collecting your things off your bed.

“It’ll all be fine…it’s fine.” You muttered to yourself as you collected your things together. You sighed as you straighten out your paperwork, logs of your paychecks, lacey’s birth certificate, your background check and letter from gloria of proof of your title at the hospital.

As you walked into the living room you stopped as your phone began to ring, looking down you saw dana’s contact.

Answering you held the phone up between your head and shoulder. “Morning dana.” You greeted, attempting to sound a bit lively. “Morning gorgeous, how you feeling today?” She asked, shuffling coming from her end of the call. 

“Nervous, like everything i’ve ate in the last month is gonna come up all at once.” You joked, she laughs from the other end. “If you do, attempt to aim it at the jagoff!” She laughed.

You giggled, “What are you up today?” You asked, knowing it was her rare day off.

“Y’know, gotta run some errands, drop by to see a friend.” She vaguely explained, you nodded as if she could see you as you checked over your bag once more. 

“Listen, i just wanted to call to let you know that if you need anything i’m here for you both, love you girls to pieces!” Dana told you as you both hung up. Turning your phone off you took in a sigh before nodding to yourself. Everything was going to be alright.

- - - - - - - -

Sitting outside the courtroom, you sighed. Lacey sat beside you, patiently kicking her legs.

“Good morning ladies.” You looked up from your shoes and broke into a smile as dana, mohan and jack walked up, you got up and hugged the trio.

“What are you guys doing here?” You asked, watching as lacey got up and hugged jack tightly. “You need to have some support system besides robby and your family.” Samira smiled, rubbing your back in comfort. You nodded your head and smiled thankful for your friends. 

“Thank you, you guys didn’t have too.” You thanked them.

As you all talked outside, tucked away outside the courtroom, some of your family had shown up, nicholas’ distant family as well, as they passed your family they sneered or muttered something about you.

You ignored them and focused on lacey who had slowly gotten the idea of where she was. Lacey chatted with mohan and jack about her grandmas while you called robby. With two rings it went to voicemail, you sighed and hung up.

Your lawyer poked out the courtroom door and motioned for you to follow in, you turned and froze as you tried to find someone to stay with lacey; since she’d be on the stand she wasn’t allowed to enter with you all.

“I got her, go on in.” Jack reassured you, walking over to lacey, taking a seat next to the quiet little girl. “Are you sure?” You asked, jack nodded and waved you off. “If i go in, i’ll probably get kicked out for saying the truth about that f— firefighter.” Jack stopped himself from swearing as lacey look up at jack, with a nod and a kiss to lacey’s forehead you walked inside the courtroom.

Taking a seat behind your lawyer’s desk. 

Your lawyer smiled and reassured you, as you both talked over your paperwork, the door opened and shut quietly.

You didn’t look up as you felt nicholas walk pass you, a cocky smirk on his face. “Ignore him, by the time we leave this courtroom, he’ll be in debt.” She told you, making you nod.

As you sat next to your lawyer, you dug through your bag before pulling out a peppermint. Popping the candy into your mouth.

“Morning sickness?” She asked, a sympathetic smile on her face. You nodded. She turned to her paralegal and motioned for her own purse, your lawyer smiled and pulled out a small wrapped ginger chew candy. “These were a lifesaver when i had my daughter.” She handed you the one before pulling out the bag she had several in.

You thanked her before putting them in your pocket along with alcohol wipes in case.

Chatter filled the room before the room door opened, you turned around and raised a brow, jack sat down on the end of the bench. He raised his hand in a calm down motion, you nodded and looked at your phone to see a test from robby, apologizing for being late and that he was outside with lacey, keeping her company.

As the judge entered you all stood up, you chewed the bottom of your lip as the judge’s gaze fell over you and nick. “You may be seated.” He spoke up before sitting.

Taking a seat, you let out a shaky breath as he began going over the case. 

“You, mr. callahan are requesting full custody?” The judge asked, his eyes looking at your ex over his glasses. “That is correct your honor.” Nick nodded.

“Mmhm, and what do you think of this request ms…” The judge turned you, his eyes searching for your name on the paper, He took a look of surprise before turning to greet you. “My apologies, not a ms but a doctor.” He nodded, taking the info in.

“Where do you work exactly?” The judge asked.

You leaned forward to speak in the mic. “I am the ICU’s attending at pittsburgh medical center.” You spoke softly, the judge nodded before turning to nick. “And you mr. callahan?” He asked, his brow furrowed. “I am a firefighter at the moment, but before i was a professional dancer.” 

The judge’s brows went up before nodding to himself at nick.

“How long have you been a firefighter mr. callahan?”

“About seven months now, your honor.” Nick informed making your lawyer scoff under her breath. The judge nodded. “We have pulled both of your employment history, and heh.. Mr. callahan what are you expecting from this custody battle?” The judge asked, taking off his glasses.

“The very least, i’d hope for more visitation with my daughter, she’s five and i’ve only ever seen her less than half because of her mother.” Nick nodded, his lawyer just sat back and shook her head as she looked through paperwork.

The judge turned and addressed you. “Your child is here today as well correct?” he asked making you nod. 

“yes, she’s just outside the courtroom.” You explained, the judge nodded and motioned for the guard to let her in.

Everyone watched as lacey walked in, looking around the room before checking to make sure robby followed her in. Robby sat next to jack on the bench and nodded at lacey. 

She was guided by the guard up to the stand where the judge smiled at the little girl.

“Hello sir.” Lacey greeted, making the judge chuckle. “Hello, do you mind sitting up here on the chair for us?” He asked, lacey nodded and was helped up into the chair by  the court assistant who quickly set the mic up before walking back to her computer.

“Can you tell us your full name.”

Lacey turned to the mic and spoke up. “My name is larissa but i like to be called lacey.” She nodded, hoping for everyone to understand her wish of her nickname.

“She’s a larissa?” Dana whispered in shock to mohan who shrugged.

You watched as the judge allowed the lawyers to question lacey. As the questions ended, the judge had turned to lacey.

“Can you point to your mom for us please.” At the judge’s request lacey perked up and pointed at you with a smile, waving her little hand at you and the lawyer. “Now, miss larissa can you wave to your dad?” The courtroom watched as lacey stopped, her little face falling for a second, her hand dropping to her lap.

Her mouth opened to speak up but stopped. Her face dropped to a uncomfortable look as she pointed to nick, once the judge nodded at her, she dropped her hand back to her lap. “Nick isn’t my dad though..” She muttered into the mic.

“He yells at me, my friends talk about their dads and said their suppose to be nice and full of love..nick only talks about my mommy and doesn’t bother to talk to me..” Lacey spoke into mic, getting her feelings out.

Nick’s lawyer perked up. “Objection; Hearsay.” 

The judge scoffed at the lawyer. “Overruled.” He shook his head before turning to lacey. “What about your mom?” 

Your eyes threatened to tear up as lacey shyly looked up at you. “My mommy is nice, she’s soft, she lets me cuddle with her in her bed and she’s loving but unless you leave stinky socks in her bag.” Lacey giggled, her hand wiping her tears away.

You smiled tearfully at her; Your whole life sat across from you wiping her tears away. 

You blinked and you were back to being in the dance studio bathroom, staring at the positive pregnancy test on top of the counter. Your stomach dropped, you flipped over the second test and covered your mouth as it began to water and the urge to vomit crawled up your throat.

You hunched over the toilet and gagged, your mind on those tests..what were going to do? You had to tell nick but what then, you had grown up around ballet, multiple studios around the world offered positions to you once you had began eligible.

Thinking of your future you never considered parenthood apart of it, you had just gotten over mourning your boyfriend now you were expecting a child? Your mind was scattered, blinking you had somehow ended up infront of nicholas’ house, his mother opened the door and let out a sound of disdain at you.

“Nicholas, someone is here for you.” She called out, stepping to the side as nicholas walked up to the door, his bag in hand.

You opened your mouth but watched as he placed the bag down, he rolled his shoulders at you. “Where are you going?” You asked, your brows furrowing. “I got offered a job in scotland, listen i know we were kind of a thing but..i don’t think long distance is the move.” Nicholas brushed past you, walking to load up his car.

You stared at him, shocked. “Nick, i need to talk to you about something important, like more than a job in scotland important.” You ran over to him.

He scoffed. “Babe, i get it we’ve been through some shit but i’m not gonna stay and be locked down to you my whole life.” He laughed, shaking his head. You looked around before scoffing out. “I’m pregnant nicholas.” You handed the tests over to him, nick stared at tests before looking at you.

“That’s not my kid.” He shook his head. 

You let out a shocked laugh. “What?” 

“You heard me, i knew you were some kind of tramp but geez, did you try pulling this shit with daniel?” Nicholas scoffed, ignoring you as he got into his car. You watched in shock as he drove away, leaving you alone in his driveway.

Weeks had gone by, everyone around you noticed the shift in your mood, you had barely scraped by with surviving, your mom often left meals for you on your desk or on the kitchen counter with a sticky note. You had made an appointment, you felt weak, not expecting the turn of events.

Seeing the tiny imagine of your baby made you perk up, smiling as the OBYN played the heartbeat out loud in the room, you had gotten photos of your baby to take home, you kept them tucked under your pillow. That same night you had promise to make a life for your little baby growing inside.

The day you had found out it was a girl, you swore it was meant to be, the same week your mom had found all of your old baby clothes. You held the blanket your brother’s had gotten for your daughter tighter.

June 14th, larissa ”lacey” had entered the world, the doctors laughed as she was focus on the room around her than to scream about being ripped away from the womb. She melted against you, promising to her that day you’d make up for the poor excuse she had for a father.

The judge nodded, and turned to nicholas before back to his paycheck stubs. “And if you get full custody, you’re asking for child support?” He questioned, a tiny smirk on his face.

“It’d only be right.” Nick nodded.

The judge nodded before turning and addressing you. “And if i’m reading this correctly, you want nothing just custody of your child?” 

“Yes, your honor.” You nodded, the judge nodded and looked at his assistants before nodding.

“Miss larissa, do you mind joining me?” The judge asked, lacey nodded and got up and walked to his stand. She stood beside him, “You love your mother?” he asked, lacey nodded happily.

“Yes, i love my mommy!”

With her words the judge nodded and turned to you all, glancing at his watch. “I want you to take this nice young miss out for lunch and then back to home..with her mother.” He smiled, making you freeze.

The judge finished, standing up he pointed at you and your lawyer. “I’m granting full parental custody of Larissa to you doctor.” He smiled as lacey looked at you with a wide smile before running to you.

“Mommy!” Lacey held you tightly as the judge finished his ruling.

“Mr callahan, you’re only after the money and not that child’s well being, you would be stripped of parental rights, if you had signed her birth certificate, but since you were very keen on doing a DNA swab, i believe you are in debt of child support; what you owe will be taken from your salary.” 

You tearfully hugged lacey as you both celebrated. 

“Now, take that little girl out for lunch and get her a big dessert, it’s on mr. callahan.” The judge joked, standing up from his chair.

Your lawyer smiled at you both, slowly the courtroom exited to the hall. Yourself, lacey and your lawyer being the last. As you exited, robby stood with jack, dana and mohan.

“I’M ALL MOMMY’S!” Lacey cheered, running to robby who picked her up. “You did so good up on the stand!” Samira smiled at lacey, who nodded and turned to jack. “Did you see nick’s face when the guy said mommy won, uncle jack?!” Jack chuckled and nodded. “I did, he looked scared didn’t he.”

Lacey nodded. “Yeah, like a coward.” She said in her upbeat voice making you all chuckle.

“Can we get lunch now?” Lacey asked. Making you nod at her, “Anything you want!” You patted her back before following robby and lacey downstairs to leave.

- - - - - - - -

Sitting at a table, you watched as lacey colored her kids menu with jack, kicking his prosthetic when he’d win the little game. You smiled happily at your daughter, robby sat beside you, his hand set on your lap, your hands clasped together under the table.

“I told you those thoughts meant nothing.” Robby whispered into your ear, making you smile at him before pressing a kiss on his cheek. “You were right..” You sighed happily, you subtly moved your hands to your hidden bump.

Robby let his pinky rub on the side.

Lacey had conned her way into getting an adult size portion of fettuccine alfredo, half way through lunch, she had began to nap but woke up as the waiter came over and asked if anyone had wanted desert. You had let her pick on out in celebration.

Jack carried her to your car and strapped her into her carseat. She had smears of the sauce on her clothes and cheeks, crumbles of brownie on her lap, still lacey had ate a whole brownie to herself, hyping herself up on sugar. 

Jack jokingly threatened to leave her at the restaurant after she teased him for the millionth time that day.

As you and robby saw your friends drive away, you both agreed to meet at your apartment, the whole drive lacey had been bouncing, happy to know she had no need to worry over her father.

“Mommy..” Lacey spoke up from the backseat, you checked the rear view mirror to see lacey staring at you, her little face focused on something. “What is it buggy?” You asked, the five year old patted her lap before speaking up. “My friends said dads are nice and kind and and sleepy..” Lacey trailed off making you nod along to all the points.

“Yep, what about them?” You questioned, worrying she’d be feeling guilty.

“..Well robby is kind and and he’s nice cause — remember when he brought ice cream for us mommy?” Lacey stuttered over her words. “He’s very nice, buggy.” 

“And he’s very sleepy too! While we sa outside he kept trying to make me nap!” She giggled.

“Mhmm.” You nodded, turning into your apartments parking garage.

“..and since nick is no longer my dad…can robby be my dad?” Her question made you stop, luckily in front of your parking space. You turned to face lacey who was avoiding eye contact and focused on her hands in her lap.

“Do you want him to be your dad?” You asked, attempting to fully turn to see her, lacey nodded finally looking up at you.

“He’s silly like dads too!” Lacey nodded. “He’s a good dad!” Lacey confirmed making you smile. “I’m sure he’ll love it!” You reassured the little girl before getting out and up to your apartment to settle in for the evening.

- - - - - - - -

Robby had entered your apartment using the spare key you had given him.

As he entered robby was greeted to the sight of comfort, bright colorful shoes sat besides yours and his. A tiny dance bag sat in the entrance, the brightly bedazzled lacey on the side. A bluey episode playing on the TV and sounds of bedtime coming from your room.

Robby dropped his bag on the barstool by the counter and walked to your bedroom where you stood in the doorway as lacey stood in front of you, her pajamas on, her hair in a towel as she stumbled across the room to grab her socks.

“Hi.” Lacey waved to robby, making him chuckle. “Hi Larissa.” He teased, making lacey’s mouth drop open in shock. “Don’t call me that michael!” Lacey lightly smack robby’s leg as she walked past and to the couch.

“Yeah michael!” You teased, walking out of the bathroom, a small tub of your lotion in your hand. “Alright, no more government names, i get it!” He laughed, taking the tub your hand.

You snickered and joined lacey on the couch. Robby followed, once sat he helped rub the lotion across your lower back.

Robby looked up halfway through the episode, he smiled as the pasta finally hit lacey hard, the five year old laid half on the couch and half way to the floor, her mouth open as tiny snores left her. “Go put her down for me?” You asked, making robby nod, he gently scooped the girl up and walked to her room.

As he laid her down on the bed lacey stirred and opened her eyes, robby chuckled the brushed away the hairs on her forehead.

“Go back to sleep.” He whisper, lacey’s sleepy eyes drooped some more as he began rubbing her back.

“Goodnight daddy..” Lacey muttered before drifting off to sleep. Robby’s heart sped up, “what did you say honey?” He asked but was greeted by tiny snores.

Robby felt his heart grow as the little girl whined in her sleep as robby pulled his hand away from her back to stand up from her bed. “Shh, i’m still here…i’ll always be here for you..” He smiled sweetly at her before walking out the room.

Walking to your room, robby entered to see the smile on your face as you held your shirt above your bump. “Michael, you missed it…i felt a -– what’s with that look?” You asked, noticing the content look on his face.

Robby get into bed next to you and shuffled closer, looking at you. “How do you feel about lacey calling me dad?” He asked, noticing the look on your face.

“We had a talk about it in the car…what are your thoughts?” You asked, robby nodded. “Am i good enough to be considered her dad?” he asked, scratching his beard.

You sighed and took his hand and peppered kisses to it. 

“More than enough, she talks about you so much when you’re not around, i think you know more about lacey than nicholas did, she asked if you could be her new dad.” You told him.

Robby smiled at you and brought your hand up to his mouth and kissed it before cupping your belly.

As he went to thank you a bump against his hand made him stop, his face dropped as he looked up at you. “Was that?” He asked.

“Mhm, baby started kicking when you went to lay lacey down, i think they want some love too.” You jokingly teased.

Robby smiled and rubbed over your bump, enjoying his life, his newly claimed daughter asleep across the way, his unborn child kicked happily at the attention of their father, his girlfriend sat beside him, moving his hand to follow the kicks, texts from jake on his phone saying the teen would stop by the next day to celebrate your court win.

Robby was thankful for himself to be constantly annoyed with you in the past, he’s also thankful you made baked goods for his staff that one random weekday that lead to him being with you and now a father.

In general he was thankful for a lovebug and her mother that he met in the ED.

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[m13na]

Everytime, I Choose You

PAIRING: Bob Floyd x Civilian Wife!Reader

CATEGORY: Fluff, slight angst

SUMMARY: You’ve loved Bob Floyd since before either of you knew what love was. Now, with a toddler in your arms, a baby on the way, and a Navy career pulling you in opposite directions, you’re learning what it really means to build a life across time zones—and hold on to each other through it all. Soft reunions, stolen moments, found family, and the quiet kind of love that stays.

WORD COUNT: 6.5K

WARNINGS: Pregnancy, parenting struggles, long distance relationship stress, mild emotional distress. not proofreade, did a whole lot of writting without knowing where I wanted it to go with it so bare with me

You’ve known Bob Floyd for as long as you can remember.

He lived in the little gray house next door — the one with the creaky swing set and the patch of lawn his mom could never keep alive. ou met the way kids often do—tugged along behind your moms because they were the kind of women who believed in neighborly cookouts and holiday potlucks, the kind who'd swap recipes and stories over sizzling grills while you two chased each other barefoot through sprinklers and smoky air.

He was the quiet boy with glasses that kept slipping down his nose, a buzz cut that made his head look perpetually surprised, and scraped-up knees from racing his bike down the cul-de-sac like it was an Olympic event. You weren’t much louder—soft-spoken, wide-eyed, often half-hiding behind your mom’s leg or the hem of your favorite overalls—but somehow, the two of you always found each other in the noise. You’d sit cross-legged on the porch sharing popsicles or wander through sprinkler mist like tiny explorers, not saying much, but never quite apart.

You didn’t declare him your best friend. You just were. The kind of kids who ended up in all the same photos, shoulder to shoulder, blinking into the sun. And he never minded—not the quiet, not the way you always hovered nearby, not even the way you both grew up without ever really growing apart.

You were inseparable—two halves of a quiet, unspoken language. Your parents joked you were practically siblings. But even then, something about the way Bob looked at you—careful, soft, like you were something rare he didn’t want to startle—was different.

You carved your initials into the same tree at the end of sixth grade. You made a dumb joke about it being your “friendship monument,” and Bob had smiled so wide you swore the sun got caught in his glasses. It wasn’t love. Not then. But it felt like something that mattered. Like someday, it might be.

By the time high school rolled around, things started to shift.

You still walked to school together. Still shared secrets and late-night phone calls and summer movies where he let you rest your head on his shoulder without saying a word. But Bob had grown into his body, grown to be 6'0, and developed a very unfair jawline. You noticed.

Worse, he started acting weird.

There were moments — tiny, fleeting — where everything felt different.

The time you caught him staring just a little too long when you laughed. The way his hand hovered near yours for a second too long during study sessions. The time you cried after your first heartbreak, and he held you like it physically hurt him not to fix it.

He never said anything. He was never that bold. But you felt it.

And slowly, your feelings started to mirror his.

You realized you were in love with him one night in your junior year, sitting on his roof after a school dance you hadn’t gone to. He was in sweats and a hoodie, leaning back on his elbows, talking softly about how the stars were already dead by the time we see their light. And your heart just… knew.

You turned to look at him and thought, Oh. It’s always been you.

You kissed him the next week.

It was late—past ten, a school night—and you were in your room, both pretending to study but mostly just laying across your bed with textbooks open and music playing low from your speaker. He was flipping through your notes, teasing you for your doodles in the margins, and you were trying not to stare at the way his mouth curled when he smiled.

At some point, you both got quiet. Not in a heavy, serious way—just the kind of quiet that settles in when two people are entirely at ease.

You looked up from your notebook to say something, and he was already looking at you.

And it just… happened.

Not dramatic, not planned. Just a kiss that felt like exhaling. Like opening a door you hadn’t realized was always unlocked.

He looked at you like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want this, and you leaned in like you’d always known it would end this way.

It was soft. A little clumsy. But real. And warm. And safe. He froze. Then kissed you back like he was afraid he’d wake up from it. Like he didn’t know what to do with his hands (he didn’t — they kind of just hovered like he was buffering). And when you pulled back, breathless, he whispered shyly, “I’ve been waiting for that since the third grade.”

You were his first everything after that. His first real kiss. First hand held beneath bleachers, hearts pounding against linked palms. First person he ever trusted with the quieter, more fragile parts of himself—the ones he kept hidden even from his parents. You learned him slowly, like a language, and he let you. Word by word, moment by moment. He never made it easy, but he never made you guess, either. Not when it really mattered.

So when Bob told you, senior year, that he wanted to join the Navy, he said it like a secret he didn’t want to keep. Like he was handing it to you gently, scared it might crack open everything you’d built together.

You didn’t flinch.

“You’re gonna fly, huh?” you asked, nudging his arm with your shoulder. The two of you were stretched out across the hood of his truck, parked at the edge of that old service road no one else ever bothered with. The sky was clear. Stars above like a map you didn’t know how to read.

“If they let me,” he said, barely louder than the crickets. “I just… I feel like I’d be good at it. I want to do something that matters.”

“You already do,” you said, like it was the simplest truth. And it was. “But if that’s where you’re meant to go, then go. Just…” Your voice caught. You turned your head so he wouldn’t see. “Write me, okay? A lot.”

He was quiet for a second. Then he leaned in, warm and steady, and kissed your cheek. His lips lingered like he didn’t want to pull away.

“Every chance I get,” he whispered.

And he meant it. Every letter, every email, every slow Sunday phone call—he kept that promise like it was sacred.

Boot camp was hard. So was flight school. The distance wore on you in places you didn’t know could ache—quiet places, like the space between heartbeats, or the seconds between texts that didn’t come fast enough. Some nights, the silence felt louder than any goodbye ever had.

But Bob never made you doubt him.

Even when he was thousands of miles away, when his world became early mornings and aching muscles and orders barked through static—he made time for you. He sent hand-written letters whenever he could, the envelopes soft at the edges from travel, always filled with little sketches in the margins—birds he saw on base, clouds shaped like hearts, doodles of you in your overalls with hearts around your head. He told you everything. How tired he was. How badly the food sucked. How homesick he was for your laugh, your cooking, the way your fingers combed through his hair when he couldn’t sleep.

You FaceTimed at odd hours, each call a small lifeline. Sometimes the connection cut in and out, freezing his face mid-smile or distorting your voice until you both started laughing. Sometimes you just sat in silence, watching each other exist, breathing in sync. You whispered I love yous across time zones and bad Wi-Fi, clinging to the sound of his voice like oxygen.

And every time he came home on leave, he held you like the world had stopped spinning without you in it.

There were reunions on front porches, airport gates, parking lots—messy and breathless, tears caught in your lashes before he even made it all the way into your arms. He’d bury his face in your neck, whisper something like, “God, I missed you,” and you’d feel the truth of it in your bones.

Time moved. Seasons changed. You wrote letters and made playlists and sent care packages with little notes tucked between socks and granola bars. He flew. He grew. And through it all, you remained—each other’s constant.

He proposed on your fifth anniversary, in your old backyard, standing beneath the tree where your initials were still carved into the bark—faded, but there. You didn’t know he had a ring. You didn’t even know he’d planned anything. But he reached for your hands with a look you’d known since childhood, the one that said you’re home, and dropped to one knee like he’d been waiting his whole life for this one moment.

“I can’t picture my life without you in it, Y/N,” he said, voice shaking just enough to make your heart stutter. “You’ve been my best friend, my reason, my everything. Will you marry me?”

You were crying before he finished. Laughing, too, because of course. Of course it was always going to be him.

You said yes with your whole heart—before he could even finish the question.

And he smiled like he had that day you carved your names into the tree, like the sun was caught in his glasses again. Like everything had finally come full circle.

Marriage with Bob wasn’t flashy or loud — it was steady. The kind of love that didn’t need an audience, because it had roots too deep to be shaken.

It was built on years of shared glances and slow-burn devotion. On a friendship that grew into something sacred, something safe. A thousand little rituals became your language: the way he’d tuck handwritten love notes into your coat pocket before every deployment — folded three times, always sealed with your initials and a tiny heart. The way you’d greet him on the front porch after months away with his favorite meal already warming on the stove, lights low, arms open like a home he’d never left.

It was forehead kisses before sunrise and tangled limbs long past midnight. The soft rhythm of his hand rubbing slow circles on your back when you were sick or sore or simply worn thin. The way you cradled his face in your palms when the weight of the world — of the cockpit, of the distance, of the danger — grew too heavy on his shoulders.

With Bob, love was in the quiet.

It was in the way he memorized your coffee order by heart and always made it just right — even groggy, even rushed. The way he looked at you like you were still the girl next door in grass-stained jeans, even when you were pregnant and barefoot in the kitchen, hair a mess and eyes tired.

There were no grand declarations. No over-the-top gestures.

Just a million tiny choices, every day.

And the unshakable truth that he was yours — and you were his — in every way that mattered.

When Arvin came along — your sleepy-eyed boy. Another airplane-obsessed little one, a perfect miniature of his father right down to the dark blue eyes and thoughtful silences — Bob stepped into fatherhood with the same quiet reverence he brought to everything he loved.

He was gentle from the very first breath, holding your newborn son like he might break if he exhaled too hard. He whispered lullabies into soft baby curls at 3 a.m., slow and low, even when his voice cracked from sleep. He changed diapers without complaint, one hand always resting lightly on Arvin's tiny chest, like he couldn’t quite believe he was real.

He read bedtime stories in silly voices — sometimes dramatically bad British accents, sometimes with the gravitas of a Shakespearean actor reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Arvin would giggle and clap and demand “again,” and Bob would oblige every time, without fail, even when his eyes were rimmed with exhaustion from a long day on base.

He taught Arvin how to fold paper planes with surgical precision, adjusting wings and creases like it was an art form. He'd cheer when they soared, groan dramatically when they crash-landed, and patiently help him try again. You once caught them both lying on the floor for an hour, surrounded by a fleet of multicolored paper aircraft, Bob explaining lift and drag in a voice just above a whisper.

And when he thought you weren’t listening — when the house was quiet, the baby limp with sleep in his arms — you’d hear him murmur into the soft crook of Arvin's neck, “I love you so much, buddy. So, so much.” As if he was pouring every ounce of feeling into those five words, like they were sacred.

And now?

Now you're sitting alone in your house in Lemoore, the glow of the tablet screen casting pale light over your tired face. Your hand rests instinctively over the small swell of your belly — life growing again, a quiet miracle you wish he could feel beneath his own palm.

And on the screen, there’s Bob.

He looks tired. So do you.

But when your eyes meet, everything else stills — like the world exhales around you.

The video calls never feel long enough though.

No matter how much you try to pretend they do.

You were overjoyed for Bob when he first told you he’d been recruited for a special mission at TOPGUN. His voice had held that rare spark — the kind of excitement that only came when he talked about flying. It was supposed to be a temporary assignment, just a few weeks of intense training and high-stakes simulations.

But those weeks stretched into months.

Then the higher-ups asked him to stay longer — first through the summer, then into the fall. Every extension came with the same promise: just a little while more. And each time, you swallowed your disappointment and smiled, because you were proud. Because this was Bob's dream — and you had always known that loving him meant loving the sky that called him away.

Eventually, those few weeks turned into more than a year. From the start of your pregnancy to now.

You try to fill the space between your words, the ones you don’t know how to say, by smiling extra bright, by asking him about the weather or how his new flight simulator is working. You talk about anything, anything to make the minutes stretch a little longer — but they never do.

Bob’s face glows softly on your tablet screen, the dim light from his room casting shadows across his features, making him look younger, more vulnerable than he does when he’s in uniform. His hair is still mussed from the helmet, the lines around his eyes deepened from exhaustion, but there’s a softness there too, something just for you.

You watch as his gaze drifts to Arvin in the background. The boy is jabbering about airplanes and apples, or maybe it’s just a string of nonsense words he’s gotten attached to, you’re not sure. Bob watches him like he’s a miracle — like the sound of his son’s voice is enough to keep him tethered to this world.

You’re only half-listening, your gaze on Bob’s face, on his smile as he watches Arvin, but your hand rests lightly over the small curve of your stomach, the weight of it both grounding and quieting you in a way you can’t explain.

And then Bob notices.

He always does.

“Is he sleeping okay now?” His voice is quiet, tentative, like the question itself is a thread he’s afraid will snap if he pulls too hard. He leans in slightly, like he can close the distance with just the weight of his eyes. His gaze flickers to the side — to Arvin, to the room, anywhere but you, and then back to you, searching.

You nod, though it feels like a lie. “Mostly. Still wakes up crying for you sometimes.”

You watch as his expression shifts, as the words hang between you, thick with the distance neither of you wants to acknowledge.

Bob swallows hard, the movement of his throat so subtle, but you catch it. You always catch it. His jaw tightens just enough that you can see it, the silent, invisible tension that coils within him. It’s like he’s holding his breath, waiting for something he can’t put into words.

“And you?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes hold yours, steady and searching, and there’s a tenderness there — a rawness that almost makes you want to look away.

You hesitate, your chest aching, the weight of his question heavy in the space between you. You know what he wants to hear. You know it. You want to say, I’m good. I’m fine. We’re managing. You want to, but the words feel hollow.

Instead, you stay quiet. And somehow, that speaks louder than anything else.

Bob leans forward, his face coming into focus on the screen as his eyes soften — a small, fleeting thing, like a crack in a dam that might let the flood rush through. You see the way his brow furrows, the flicker of frustration that crosses his face, like he wants to reach through the screen and pull you into his arms.

“I hate this,” he says, his voice barely audible, as though saying it aloud would make the ache too real. “I hate not being there. Not… with you.”

Your heart aches at the softness of his words, the vulnerability in them. The quiet way he admits it, like it’s a secret he’s been carrying too long. You force a smile, but it’s thin, worn, fragile.

“I hate it too, Bobby.” Your voice trembles just enough for him to hear it, but you don’t let yourself say anything more.

The call flickers. The feed stutters once, twice, like the connection itself is reluctant to let go. And then, just like that, the screen goes black, and all you’re left with is the empty space around you. The silence stretches, suffocating in its weight.

You sit there on the edge of your bed, the cold light of the screen still lingering in your peripheral vision, the hum of the air conditioner too loud in the stillness of the room.

But there’s only the ache.

A quiet, persistent ache that pulses behind your ribs, that lingers even after the call has ended, and the miles between you stretch too far to bridge.

And you wonder, for the thousandth time, if this will always be the way of it — these small, stolen moments that never feel long enough.

A few days later — North Island, San Diego

You didn’t argue when Bob told you he was flying you out. You should’ve — you had your own command to report to, your own stack of overdue emails and unfinished reports — but the exhaustion had sunk too deep into your bones. It was the kind of tired that sleep couldn’t fix. So when he said, “Please, just come out here. I need you here,” in that low, quiet voice that always made something in your chest loosen, you didn’t even try to fight it.

Because the truth was, you needed him too.

Now, standing just inside the hangar, the scent of oil and sunbaked concrete mixing with the faint salt of the sea air, you shift Arvin higher on your hip. He’s dozing against your shoulder, warm and heavy and clutching your collar in one sticky little fist, the remnants of a cherry lollipop smudged near his mouth. His soft breaths tickle your neck, and you press your cheek gently to his hair, breathing him in.

Your flight jacket is unzipped halfway, the soft curve of your belly peeking beneath the edge of your shirt. The baby stirs — a slow, fluttering kick — and your hand moves instinctively to rest there. Protective. Quiet. A silent hello.

You feel exposed, somehow. Not from the eyes of others, but from the sheer openness of being here, in his world again — the place where he comes alive in ways he tries not to show you over a screen. There’s no buffer now. No distance to soften the weight of how much you’ve missed him.

And then, like the thought conjures him — you see him.

Bob steps out from between two aircraft, still half in his flight suit, sleeves tied around his waist, sweat-damp curls falling messily over his forehead. His helmet dangles from one hand, the other runs through his hair in a gesture you’ve seen a thousand times. Nervous. Hopeful. Tired.

He spots you instantly.

His whole face softens.

You don’t wave. He doesn’t smile. It’s quieter than that.

He crosses the hangar in long, purposeful strides — not rushing, but close. His gaze never leaves yours. And when he reaches you, he sets his helmet down without looking, cupping your face with one warm, calloused hand.

You let your eyes close. Just for a second.

“You came,” he murmurs, like he doesn’t quite believe it.

You nod, the lump in your throat making words impossible for a moment. “Of course I did.”

Bob leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, slow and deliberate, lingering there like he’s trying to breathe you in. When he pulls back, his eyes flicker down — to your belly, to Arvin still asleep on your shoulder — and something flickers across his face.

Wonder. Gratitude. Love.

“Hi, baby,” he says softly, reaching out to run a thumb across the swell of your stomach, his touch reverent. Then his hand moves gently to Arvin's back, rubbing slow circles as he leans in. “Hey, little man. Miss me?”

Arvin's head lolls as he turns, blinking up at him. “Daddy,” he mumbles, drowsy but smiling.

Bob cradles him to his chest with practiced ease, like no time has passed at all. You watch as his fingers press gently against Arvin's back — counting, you think. Checking. Making sure he’s real.

And then he looks at you.

Really looks.

At your face, your tired eyes, your jacket stretched a little tighter over your middle than last time. His gaze lingers there, gentle and awed, and when it lifts again, there’s something raw in it.

“God, I missed you,” he says, his voice thick.

You reach up to fix his glasses from sliding down his nose, your fingers lingering. “I missed you more.”

He kisses you then — soft, sweet, a little breathless. The kind of kiss that feels like a beginning and a homecoming all at once.

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, your world feels whole again.

Later That Night – Bob’s Quarters

The quarters are dimly lit, save for the warm glow of the overhead light above the small kitchen nook. The base housing isn’t big — just one long room split by a thin curtain and a kitchenette that hums faintly with the old fridge. But it’s clean. Lived-in now.

You’re curled up on Bob’s neatly made bunk, legs tucked to the side, with Arvin asleep on your chest — his little fingers curled in the collar of your shirt. Bob is across from you on the floor, back against the side of the bed, legs stretched out. His glasses have slid halfway down his nose as he finishes washing and drying a single baby bottle like it’s mission critical.

“I didn’t realize how much I missed this,” he says, voice soft enough not to wake Arvin. “You. Him. The burp cloths.”

You grin, brushing a hand through Arvin’s soft hair. “You say that now. Wait until he starts screaming at 2 a.m. because he can’t find his stuffy.”

Bob looks up at you, warm amusement in his eyes. “Then I’ll be glad I’ve still got my hearing protection from the cockpit.”

He stands and walks over, kneeling beside the bed so he’s eye-level with the two of you. He kisses Arvin’s temple, then your forehead. “Thank you for coming. I know this wasn’t easy.”

Before you can answer—

The door bursts open.

“Hey Floyd, you le— what the fuck.”

It’s Hangman. Behind him, Rooster, Coyote, Payback, Fanboy and two fresh faced recruits stand frozen in the doorway like they just walked into the wrong house. Phoenix lingers in the back with her arms crossed, clearly not surprised — but enjoying the boys reaction.

She was the only member of the dagger squad who knew of her WSO’s little family.

Everyone stares.

You stare.

Arvin stirs and lets out a soft grunt, then burrows deeper into your chest.

Bob doesn’t move. His hand stays on your knee, protective but not ashamed. “Hey, uh… guys.”

Hangman points, blinking. “What the hell is going on here?”

Rooster looks like his brain just blue-screened. “Are we in the right place?”

Phoenix smirks. “Yep.”

Bob clears his throat. “This is my wife. And that’s our son, Arvin.”

Fanboy mouths the word son and glances at Payback, who just raises his eyebrows and gives a low whistle.

One of the recruits awkwardly raises a hand like he’s in school. “Sir… you have a baby?”

Bob straightens a little. “Yes. And he’s sleeping. So... maybe keep it down?”

The room falls comically silent.

You press your lips together to keep from laughing. Bob's shoulders are tense, but he’s trying not to show it.

Then, Hangman recovers. He steps inside, looks around the room, and crosses his arms. “You mean to tell me quiet little Baby On Board has a whole-ass family he didn’t tell us about?”

Phoenix pipes up from the back. “Told you he had game.”

“I didn’t think you meant married with a baby game,” Rooster mutters, walking in more cautiously.

Fanboy edges over to the sleeping Arvin and crouches. “Man. Look at this little guy. He’s got Bob’s nose.”

Payback leans against the wall. “You been hiding this because you didn’t want us to babysit or what?”

Bob relaxes — just a little. “Didn’t think it was relevant to the mission.”

Hangman raises both hands. “Oh, no. No, no, Bob. This is the mission now. We are absolutely going to teach this kid how to dogfight.”

Rooster rolls his eyes. “He looks barely two.”

“Plenty of time to train,” Hangman says seriously.

You glance at Bob. His ears are red, but he’s smiling now — the slow, warm kind he only gives you when he’s too full of love to say anything else.

And somehow, in this tiny room filled with too many people and not enough space, it feels like home.

The fresh faced recruits are the first to bail.

The shorter one, nervous as a rabbit, nudges his partner. “Uh, Sir… we’ll, uh, just come back… later?” His eyes dart from Arvin’s chubby cheeks to Bob’s unreadable face and back again.

The taller recruit nods too fast. “Congrats, Lieutenant Floyd. Ma’am. Your baby is, uh… looks a lot like Lieutenant Floyd.”

They both retreat like they stumbled into sacred ground. The door shuts softly behind them.

Now it’s just the squad.

And they are settled in.

Rooster is sitting on the floor beside the bed with his back against the wall, chin in his hand as he stares at Arvin like the baby’s a new aircraft schematic. Fanboy has claimed a random pillow and is lying flat on the floor in front of the bunk like he’s cloud-watching. Payback’s perched on the tiny kitchen stool. Phoenix leans against the counter with a small smile, and Hangman…

Hangman is holding up one of Arvin’s tiny onesies like it’s a national treasure.

“Do you see how small this is?” he says dramatically, voice hushed like they’re in a museum. “This could fit on my forearm. I could wear it as a sock.”

You’re trying not to laugh too loud — Arvin sleeping peacefully, cheek smushed against your chest.

“Where’d you get this one?” Fanboy asks, pointing to the onesie in question. “The blue with the little jets?”

“Oh, that was from my sister,” you say. “She said if Bob’s gonna fly jets, Arvin should wear them.”

“Damn right,” says Coyote.

“How old is he?” Rooster asks.

“Fifteen months,” you reply.

Rooster smiles, amused. “And how long did Bob keep this from us?”

Bob, still standing at the foot of the bed, crosses his arms — but not in annoyance. In quiet defense. He’s close, just within reach, like his body’s trying to shield the three of you from the attention.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” he says, voice low. “We’ve just been… figuring things out. He was born not long before I got deployed. Didn’t want to make it complicated.”

Fanboy whistles. “Man. You were flying with us every day, then going home to FaceTime with this little dude?”

Bob nods.

“That’s baller,” Rooster mutters.

Hangman squints at you, suddenly serious. “So wait, how long have you two been together?”

You shift Arvin slightly to cradle him better. “Since high school." You smiled sheepishly, "Married three years."

“She helped me study during training,” Bob adds, quieter now, almost shy.

Phoenix perks up. “You helped Bob Floyd study?”

“I did,” you say, grinning.

“Did you know,” Phoenix says, turning to the group, “this man cried when he saw Arvin’s ultrasound photo?”

Bob glares at her. “That was classified.” He coughs awkwardly.

The room erupts into gentle laughter. Even Arvin stirs and lets out a sleepy little sigh, like he approves.

“Alright, alright,” you say, holding up a hand. “Any more questions before we pass around a sign-up sheet for bedtime stories?”

Rooster raises a finger. “Does Arvin like planes?”

Bob answers this time, stepping closer and crouching beside the bed. “He calls them ‘brrr-brrrs.’”

You nod, smiling. “He has a toy F/A-18 that he crashes into everything. Including our dog.”

“Wait,” Fanboy says, eyes wide. “You have a dog too?”

Hangman sits down on the other side of the bed now, hands behind his head, grinning. “Okay. New rule. We all hang out here every Friday. You bring the baby. I’ll bring drinks.”

Bob finally chuckles. “And what if we say no?”

“You won’t,” Phoenix says.

Bob raises an eyebrow.

“I mean,” she adds, “you tolerate us with remarkable patience.”

He doesn’t answer — just reaches over to brush a curl off Arvin’s forehead, his eyes soft and so full of quiet pride it nearly chokes you.

You meet his gaze and smile, mouthing, thank you.

He nods, mouthing back, Always.

Outside, the base is silent. Inside, it’s warm. Loud. Full.

And for the first time in months, Bob lets himself sink into the chaos, just a little — because this is the kind of noise that means you’re home.

After an hour the daggers finally leave you two alone.

The room is finally quiet again.

The door clicked shut ten minutes ago, leaving only the soft hum of the fridge and the rhythm of Arvin’s little breaths against your chest. You can still hear Hangman’s laugh echoing faintly in the hallway, followed by a muffled, “I’m just saying, if the kid’s already saying ‘brrr-brrr,’ he’s halfway to a call sign.”

You smile to yourself.

Bob locks the door behind them, then turns off the kitchen light, leaving the room in the low amber glow of a bedside lamp. He exhales as he leans back against the counter, watching you with a soft kind of awe — like he still can’t quite believe you’re really here.

“Sorry about the ambush,” he says quietly.

You shake your head. “Don’t be. They were sweet.”

He nods, walking over slowly, careful not to wake Arvin. “I think they were more excited about his onesies than I was when I got my flight suit.”

You laugh under your breath. “That tracks.”

He crouches beside the bed again, resting a hand lightly on your leg. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You meet his eyes, and your voice softens. “I’m just… really glad we came.”

You shift, carefully sliding Arvin off your chest and onto the middle of the bed. He fusses for a second, then settles again, thumb in his mouth. Bob moves instinctively, pulling the small blanket up over him, tucking it just right.

Then he stands and, without a word, unzips his hoodie and slips into bed beside you, careful not to jostle either of you too much. He lies on his side, one arm under his head, the other resting lightly across your hip.

You shift to face him, your noses close, the space between you quiet and full.

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. You just breathe. The kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled.

Then Bob speaks — his voice a soft thread in the dark.

“How long can you stay?”

You trace a line along the collar of his shirt with one finger. “A few days. I told my boss I needed personal leave.” You glance up. “They didn’t ask questions.”

Bob’s mouth lifts slightly. “Remind me to send them a thank-you card.”

You smile, but your voice is quieter now. “We’ve missed you. A lot.”

“I know.” His fingers brush your side gently. “I’ve missed you more than I can say.”

You reach for his hand and lace your fingers through his. “I don’t want this to feel like a visit. I want it to feel like a pause, you know? Like we’re not counting down already.”

Bob’s eyes search yours — slow, full of something fragile. “Then let’s not count,” he says. “Let’s just… be here.”

You nod.

He shifts a little closer, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “I was thinking,” he says, “we could take Arvin down to the beach in the morning. Just us. Before it gets crowded.”

You smile. “He’ll eat half the sand, you know that, right?”

“I’ll pack extra wipes,” he murmurs, and you both laugh quietly.

“And maybe,” he adds, hesitating, “we could find time for just us. Even if it’s just an hour. You and me. No schedules. Just… catching up.”

You reach up and trace the edge of his jaw, your thumb brushing the stubble there. “I’d like that.”

His eyes flicker — tired, but glowing. “We’ve been so many places apart,” he says softly. “I want to start building the places we’ve been… together.”

You blink once, hard, then lean forward to press your lips gently to his.

It’s not a kiss full of heat or hunger — it’s full of knowing. Of being known. A kiss that says: I’m here. I still choose you. Every time.

When you pull back, your voice is barely a whisper.

“So what’s the plan tomorrow?”

Bob exhales slowly. “Beach in the morning. Maybe breakfast after that. Arvin’s nap around noon.” He pauses, then smiles. “And if he’s down long enough, I thought maybe I could read to you for a while. The baby books, I mean. I’ve been practicing.”

You laugh softly. “I’d love that.”

He kisses your temple, then your cheek. “And I’ll make dinner. Nothing fancy, but—”

“You’re cooking?” you tease, eyebrows raised.

“I’ve improved since the incident with the instant rice,” he says solemnly.

“Have you?”

“Well… slightly supervised cooking.”

You laugh again, and then settle closer, your head resting beneath his chin, one arm across his chest. His fingers trace gentle circles against your back.

Bob exhales, his voice the last thing you hear before sleep starts to pull you under.

“I wish I could freeze this,” he whispers. “Just… hold it all still.”

You press your lips to his collarbone. “You don’t have to. We’re here now.”

Bob's gaze drifts to your belly.

“She been kicking a lot today?” he asks looking down at you , voice soft. God, you loved when he looked at you with his dark blue eyes through his glasses.

You nod, bitting your lip. “Like she’s doing laps in there.”

A small, crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He reaches out, hesitates, then places his palm gently over the curve of your belly.

“I keep picturing her,” he says, almost like he’s afraid to say it out loud. “Not just what she’ll look like — though I think she’ll have your face — but like… the little things. Her laugh. The sound of her feet on the floor. Her asking questions I don’t know how to answer.”

You watch him quietly, your heart aching in that full, overwhelming way only he can make it ache.

“She’s gonna be loud,” you say with a smile. “Louder than Arvin, maybe.”

Bob huffs a soft laugh.

A beat passes. Then, in a quieter voice: “Still want to name her Aubrey?”

You nod. “Do you?”

He swallows. “Yeah. I, uh… I was listening to the song the night you told me. And I just… I don’t know. It stuck.”

You can hear the song in your head now — Aubrey by Bread— soft and sad and full of things left unspoken. A strange choice for a baby’s name, maybe. But also perfect. Gentle. Old-fashioned. Honest.

“I love it,” you whisper.

He glances up at you, relieved. “Good. 'Cause I already made a playlist.”

You laugh softly, resting your forehead against his. “Of course you did.”

“She’s gonna have good music taste,” he mumbles. “I’ll start her early. Bread, Simon & Garfunkel, Fleetwood Mac…”

“You’re making a dad playlist.”

His ears turn red. “Is that bad?”

“No,” you whisper. “It’s perfect.”

He brushes his thumb lightly over the swell of your stomach, then looks down at Arvin, still nestled against you. “I just want them to feel safe. Always. Like… like no matter what, I’ll be here.”

“You will be,” you say.

Bob doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Just breathes. Then finally, voice barely audible:

“I still don’t feel like I’m enough for this. For you. For them.”

You tilt your head, resting a hand on his cheek. “You’re already more than enough. Every single day.”

He closes his eyes at that. Nods.

And then, so quietly you almost miss it: “I hope she has your laugh.”

You smile, feeling the baby shift inside you, almost like she heard him. Like she’s saying I’m here, too.

Sleep comes for you slowly, like the tide—gentle, inevitable, pulling you under in waves.

Your eyes flutter, heavy-lidded, and the warmth of Bob beside you lulls you deeper into it. His fingers are still tracing quiet circles on your back, and his breathing has settled into that soft, steady rhythm you’ve always found comfort in. Arvin is tucked between you, his tiny body curled toward yours, mouth slack around his thumb, breaths even and small.

Bob shifts, just slightly, and you feel his hand slide from your back to the swell of your belly, his palm resting there with the kind of reverence that says: I know you're in there, and I love you already.

The weight of his arm wraps around you protectively. Not tight. Just there. Grounding. Like a tether you didn’t know you needed until now.

And then—his hand stretches further, carefully, reaching across you until his fingertips find Arvin’s small shoulder, barely brushing. It's the lightest touch, but it holds all the weight in the world. A father holding his whole world in the span of two palms.

You’re somewhere between awake and dreaming when you feel his breath against your temple.

“I love you,” he whispers.

You don’t respond—can’t, really—but your body shifts instinctively, curling toward him just a little more. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then one to the top of Arvin’s head. His hand never leaves your belly.

Outside, the night is still. The fridge hums. Somewhere in the distance, a car passes, but it doesn’t reach you here.

Bob stays awake for a little while longer, just watching you sleep. He lets his gaze linger on the rise and fall of your chest, the gentle rhythm of the baby’s kicks beneath his palm, and the tiny hand of his son curled near your collarbone.

His chest tightens in that familiar way—love too big for his ribcage, like it might break him open. But it's the good kind of ache. The kind he’d carry gladly for the rest of his life.

Eventually, his eyes grow heavy. He shifts just a little closer, curls his body around yours and Arvin’s like a shield, and lets his forehead rest against your shoulder.

And finally, with his whole family safe in his arms, he exhales… …and sleeps