~✧Where the Light Falls Wrong✧~
Tags: soft angst, fluff, cute!Jud, mutual attraction, almost crossing lines but not yet
You hadn’t meant to bake. It just happened. Your hands moved before your mind caught up, reaching for ingredients you hadn’t touched in months. Measuring, mixing, following something familiar, something that didn’t require you to think too much about anything else. It was instinct. Something your body remembered, even if the rest of your life felt like something you were still trying to learn how to inhabit.
You used to do this all the time. For coworkers. For friends. For people who would laugh, take seconds without asking, lean against your kitchen counter and stay longer than they planned.
It wasn’t until you were halfway through that it settled in. This time, there was no one to give the cookies to.
You stood there for a moment, hands resting against the counter, the soft hum of the oven filling the silence, and let that realization sit. Sharp. Sudden.
David hadn’t mentioned it. Your birthday. Not once. Not in the morning. Not at lunch. Not even before he left to meet his friends. You told yourself it didn’t matter. Tried to convince yourself that it was just another day. That you were too old to care about birthdays in that way. That you were being… unreasonable.
But yet, you felt the sadness creeping in again, uninvited, relentless, settling into you like a tide you couldn’t quite outrun. And still, you finished them. Carefully. Letting them cool. Packing them afterwards into a small container as if they were meant for someone.
You didn’t decide it consciously. But when you stepped outside later that afternoon, the container in your hands, your feet already knew where they were taking you.
The church was quiet. Open. The same as always. You stepped inside.Your eyes adjusted slowly… but he wasn’t there. You hesitated and, for a moment, you considered leaving. Then you heard it. Music. Faint. Muffled. Not the kind that belonged there. You followed it. Slowly, curiosity pulling you forward. It led you down the hall, toward the parish office. The door was slightly open, and before you could stop yourself you looked inside.
He was alone. Music playing from somewhere unseen. And Jud… he was moving. Not restrained. Not measured, but unaware. Free. His head dipped slightly with the rhythm, fingers moving along an invisible electric guitar, his whole body loose in a way you had never seen before.
For a second you just watched, something warm and soft unfolding in your chest. Unexpected and dangerous in how easy it felt. You bit your lip, trying not to smile, but failing miserably. God, he was so endearing.
You leaned just a little closer, trying to have a better sight… and the door gave. You stumbled forward, mumbling a curse. Jud turned, stopping the music. Silence settled. And for a moment you didn’t know who looked more caught.
“I- I’m sorry,” you said quickly, heat rushing to your face. “I didn’t mean to-”
“It’s okay,” he said, a little breathless and too quickly, almost at the same time. “I didn’t think I had an audience…”
A flicker of something almost embarrassed crossed his face as he brought his left hand to the nape of his neck.
“It was a good show..." you said without measuring your words before you realized. "Ehm, I brought these,” you held out the container like it might ground you both. “Cookies.”
“It’s- it's my birthday.”
Something in his expression shifted. Softened.
“Oh, Happy birthday,” he said. And it felt meant.
“They’re probably not very good,” you added quickly. “You don’t have to eat them, I just- I used to make them for people and I don’t really have anyone here to-” You stopped. Too late. “And David, my husband, won’t touch them,” you added, with a faint, almost self-conscious smile. “He says they’re basically a direct shortcut to a heart attack.”
Jud’s gaze flickered briefly at that. Something unreadable. Then he reached into the container and took one anyway.
“You really don’t have to-” you started.
He took a bite, humming while he chewed it. You watched him, closer than you meant to. And when he swallowed:
You huffed softly. “You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better.”
“I’m not.” A small pause. Then, he added quieter: “They’re the best cookies I’ve had in a long time indeed.”
That did something. Small. But real.
Your gaze drifted shyly to the desk, and then you saw the paper resting there, its surface etched with delicate, unfinished lines, as if made mid-thought. The sketch of a winged insect.
He followed your gaze. A faint shrug.
“Oh c’mon, of course it is. It’s… really good.”
Your fingers traced the lines. The detail. The care.
“They’re overlooked,” he said. “People always choose butterflies when they talk about change. It makes sense. Transformation you can see. Something obvious. Beautiful in a way that’s easy to understand.” A pause. “But fireflies…”
He glanced back at the drawing.
“They change too. Quietly. You don’t see it happen. There’s no moment you can point to and say there, that’s when it became something else.”
You didn’t speak, didn't interrupt him. His gaze flickered briefly to you.
“They spend most of their lives hidden,” he continued. “Buried. Waiting. Becoming something else in the dark.”
Something in your chest tightened.
“And when they finally emerge,” he added softly, “they don’t just exist.” A small pause. “They make their own light. They don’t wait for the world to give it to them. They don’t reflect it. They create it.”
“It sounds silly,” he added, almost under his breath.
“No,” you said, just as quietly. “It doesn’t. It sounds… like hope.”
Your eyes met. And for a moment, something subtle shifted between you. You looked away first.
“I’ve never seen them,” you whispered.
You nodded. He looked toward the window. The light outside already fading.
“Sometimes you can see them in the woods behind the church. We could-” He stopped. A flicker of realization or maybe restraint. “Maybe you and your husband could-”
“I’d really love to go with you.”
The words came out before you could stop them. Softer and more honest than you expected, but steady.
He looked at you. A beat passed before he spoke again.
You just nodded and stepped out into the hallway together. Once outside the parish office, Jud paused.
“Wait a second,” he said. “I forgot something.”
He disappeared briefly back into the office. You stood still, your heart beating just a little faster than it should. When he returned, there was something slightly different in his expression. Subtle, but there. You didn’t question it.
_____________________________________
The air outside had changed. Cooler. Quieter.
You walked side by side. Close enough to feel it. Not close enough to touch.
“It’s beautiful,” you said.
“It is,” he replied. “Different during the day.”
Silence settled between you, not uncomfortable. Just aware of the fact that you were completely alone. Together. For the first time, outside the quiet structure of the church.
“And Eve?” Jud asked after a moment, his voice gentle, as if offering something to hold onto rather than filling the silence.
You smiled faintly. “She’s still alive, which honestly feels like a miracle. I think she’s doing better than I am, indeed.”
The words slipped out. Again. He didn’t answer immediately, but he didn’t look away either.
“I told you she would be.”
“You sound very confident for someone who’s never seen me take care of anything.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
You looked at him. “What do you mean?”
A small pause, he hesitated.
“I think…” he started, then stopped himself. You waited. “I think you care of everything more than you let yourself admit.”
That landed deeper than it should have. You looked away.
“That hasn’t exactly worked out well for me so far.”
“Sometimes it doesn’t,” he said quietly. You glanced back at him. “But that doesn’t make it a mistake.”
Something in your chest tightened.
“You say that like you believe it.”
The way he said it, with no hesitation, made your chest tighten a little more.
“You’re very certain for someone who spends his time talking about faith,” you said softly.
“Yeah, faith isn’t certainty.”
He looked at you, intently.
“Choosing to believe,” he said quietly. “Even when it would be easier not to.”
Silence. Too much silence.
Then, they appeared slowly. Small lights. Flickering between the trees, drifting in a slow, silent dance.
You stepped forward without thinking, astonished.
“Oh my god, look at them! They’re real,” you whispered. “So beautiful.”
When you turned, Jud was already looking at you. Not at the lights. At you. And something in his expression softened when your eyes met. You held his gaze. A second too long. You were closer than before. Not by much, but enough. Your breath slowed. There was something in the air now. Something fragile on the verge of becoming something else.
His gaze dropped, briefly, to your mouth. Your heart stuttered. You didn’t move. Neither did he. And for a moment, it felt like everything was narrowing down to that single point between you. The distance between you suddenly too noticeable. Too small.
And then, you felt it. The pull. Warm. Immediate. And right alongside it, the resistance. Sharp. Unforgiving. An internal battle. Loud and unavoidable.
There was a moment where it felt like something might happen. And the worst thing if that deep inside you wanted for it to happen.
You shouldn’t. But you wanted to. Really wanted to.
However, the reason won and you stepped back, and just like that, the moment broke. Not completely, but enough.
“I-I should go back. It's getting late.”
Jud nodded, though something in his expression lingered.
“Yeah… yeah, of course, I should walk you back.”
_____________________________________
He didn’t stop at the church. He walked you all the way home. The house was still dark when you arrived.
“Thank you,” you said. “For today. You saved my birthday.”
“It’s nothing,” he said lightly. “I got free cookies out of it, after all.”
You let out a small laugh. “That's true.”
Silence fell between you.
The word lingered, unfinished, like neither of you quite knew how to end the moment.
“Jud. You can call me... just Jud.”
You hesitated, just a fraction.
He nodded. You both started to move in opposite directions.
You turned almost by instinct. Jud closed the distance between you again, reaching into his pocket before handing you a folded piece of paper.
“Happy birthday.” And then he left.
You opened it slowly. It was the sketch. The firefly. And beneath it, a small note in delicate handwriting:
Don’t let anything dim your light.
You stood there, holding it against your chest, watching him walk away. Something inside you feeling, for the first time since you arrived, like it might still be capable of light.
Taglist: @quietly-kept @sidelit
