The dressing room felt smaller than usual, like the walls were closing in with every passing second. Dom paced back and forth across the scuffed linoleum floor, his boots making rhythmic thuds that matched the anxious hammering of his heart. Fifteen minutes. He had fifteen fucking minutes before he had to walk out there and perform for thousands of people, and he felt like he was going to crawl out of his own skin.
"Babe, you're gonna wear a hole in the floor," Flossie said from where she sat on the worn leather couch, watching him with those observant eyes that always saw too much.
"Can't help it," Dom muttered, running his hands through his dark hair for what had to be the hundredth time. His fingers were trembling. When did his hands start shaking? "Something's off tonight, Floss. I can feel it."
She stood up, crossing over to him with that graceful confidence she always carried. "You're gonna be brilliant. You always are."
"What if I'm not?" The words tumbled out before he could stop them, raw and vulnerable in a way that made his chest tight. "What if I get out there and just... freeze? What if I forget the lyrics or-"
"Dom." Flossie placed her hands on his shoulders, grounding him with her touch. "Look at me."
He did, meeting her warm brown eyes. She smiled, soft and reassuring.
"You've done this a thousand times. You're fucking incredible out there. The crowd already loves you - I can hear them screaming your name."
The muffled roar of the audience filtered through the walls, a constant reminder of what waited for him. Instead of exciting him like it usually did, it made his stomach churn.
"I know, I know, I just-" He pulled away, resuming his pacing. "I can't explain it. My head's all fucked up tonight."
Flossie tried a different approach, moving to intercept him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing herself against him. "Come here. Just breathe with me for a second."
Dom let her hold him, tried to match his breathing to hers, but his mind was racing too fast. Every worst-case scenario played out in vivid detail behind his eyes. He could feel the anxiety crawling under his skin like insects.
"It's not working," he said, his voice strained.
"Okay, okay." She pulled back, studying his face. Her hands moved to his neck, fingers working at the tense muscles there. "How about this? Let me just-"
"Floss, I appreciate it, but-" He gently removed her hands, shaking his head. "I don't think a massage is gonna cut it right now."
She bit her lip, clearly thinking. Dom could see the wheels turning in her head as she watched him continue his restless movement around the small room. He checked his phone. Twelve minutes now.
"Talk to me about something else," he said desperately. "Anything. Distract me."
"Um, okay." Flossie leaned against the makeup counter. "So I was thinking we could go to that Thai place you like after the show? The one with the-"
"Yeah, sure, whatever." Dom wasn't listening. He couldn't focus on anything except the mounting pressure in his chest.
Flossie fell silent, and he could feel her watching him. The clock on the wall ticked loudly. Ten minutes.
Then something shifted in the room. Dom couldn't quite put his finger on it, but the energy changed. When he glanced at Flossie, there was a new determination in her expression, a spark of something bold and decisive.
She pushed off from the counter and started walking toward him with deliberate, measured steps. Her hands went to the hem of her shirt.
"What are you-" Dom's words died in his throat as Flossie pulled her shirt over her head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. She was wearing a black lace bra underneath, and the sight of her made his brain short-circuit for a moment.
"Floss?"
She didn't answer, just kept moving closer, her fingers now working at the button of her jeans. The denim slid down her hips, revealing matching black lace panties.
"What are you doing?" Dom asked, though his body was already responding, his anxiety momentarily forgotten as he watched his girlfriend undress in front of him.
Flossie stepped out of her jeans, kicking them aside. She reached behind her back, unclasping her bra. "Shut up and get naked."
Her voice was commanding, leaving no room for argument. The bra joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor.
Dom's mouth went dry. "We have like nine minutes before-"
"Then we better make them count." Flossie hooked her thumbs in her panties, sliding them down her legs. She straightened up, completely naked now, and fixed him with a look that made heat pool low in his belly. "Are you really going to stand there questioning the naked woman in front of you, or are you going to do what I said?"
He didn't need to be told twice.
Dom's hands went to his shirt, yanking it off with far less grace than Flossie had managed. His belt buckle jingled as he fumbled with it, fingers clumsy with a mixture of lingering nerves and rapidly building arousal. Flossie watched him with a satisfied smirk, clearly pleased with herself for finally finding something that broke through his anxiety.
"That's better," she purred as he shoved his jeans and boxers down, kicking them away.
She closed the distance between them, her hands sliding up his chest. Her touch was electric, sending shivers across his skin. When she pressed her body against his, soft and warm and perfect, Dom let out a shaky breath.
"Floss..."
"I know what you need," she whispered against his ear, her breath hot. "You need to get out of your head. And I know exactly how to make that happen."
Her hand wrapped around his cock, already half-hard and getting harder by the second. Dom groaned, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.
"Fuck..."
"That's the idea," Flossie said with a wicked grin. She stroked him slowly, deliberately, her thumb swiping over the head. "You're not thinking about the show right now, are you?"
"No," Dom admitted, his voice rough. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer. "Definitely not."
"Good."
Flossie kissed him then, deep and demanding. Dom responded eagerly, pouring all his nervous energy into the kiss. His tongue slid against hers as his hands roamed her body, relearning curves he knew by heart. She tasted like the mint gum she'd been chewing earlier, sweet and fresh.
When she pulled back, they were both breathing hard. Flossie's eyes were dark with desire, her cheeks flushed.
"Couch," she ordered. "Now."
Dom let her guide him backward until his legs hit the leather sofa. He sat down heavily, and Flossie immediately straddled his lap, her thighs bracketing his hips. The heat of her pussy pressed against his cock, and he had to fight the urge to thrust up into her right then.
"Jesus Christ, Floss," he breathed, his hands gripping her hips.
She rolled her hips, grinding against him, and they both moaned at the friction. Dom could feel how wet she was already, slick and ready for him.
"You have no idea how hot you look when you're all worked up," Flossie murmured, her lips brushing against his jaw. "All that energy, all that intensity. I just want to channel it somewhere more... productive."
Her hand reached between them, positioning his cock at her entrance. Dom's fingers dug into her hips as she slowly sank down onto him, taking him inch by inch. The sensation was overwhelming - tight, wet heat enveloping him until he was buried completely inside her.
"Fuck," Dom groaned, his head falling back against the couch. "You feel so fucking good."
Flossie gave him a moment to adjust, then started to move. She lifted herself up until just the tip of him remained inside her, then dropped back down, taking him deep. The rhythm she set was slow and deliberate, designed to drive him crazy.
Dom watched her through half-lidded eyes, mesmerized by the sight of her riding him. Her breasts bounced with each movement, and her face was a picture of pleasure - lips parted, eyes closed, completely lost in the sensation.
"Look at me," he demanded, his voice coming out rougher than intended.
Flossie's eyes opened, locking onto his. The connection between them intensified, something electric and intimate passing in that gaze.
"There you are," she whispered, her hand cupping his face. "My confident, sexy, talented boyfriend. Not the anxious mess from five minutes ago."
She was right. The anxiety had evaporated, replaced entirely by desire and the overwhelming sensation of being inside her. His mind had finally quieted, focused only on this moment, this feeling, this woman.
Dom surged up to kiss her, one hand tangling in her hair while the other gripped her ass, helping to guide her movements. Flossie moaned into his mouth, her pace quickening.
"Harder," she breathed against his lips. "I want to feel you tomorrow."
Something primal sparked in Dom's chest. He tightened his grip on her, using his strength to lift her and slam her back down onto his cock. Flossie cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders.
"Like that?" he growled.
"Yes, fuck, yes - just like that."
He did it again, and again, finding a punishing rhythm that had them both gasping. The couch creaked beneath them, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Dom registered that anyone walking by could probably hear them, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
Flossie's pussy clenched around him, and he knew she was getting close. He shifted the angle slightly, making sure to hit that spot inside her that always made her see stars.
"Oh god, Dom-" Her words dissolved into incoherent moans.
"That's it, baby," he encouraged, his own pleasure building at the base of his spine. "Come for me. I want to feel you."
His thumb found her clit, rubbing tight circles that had Flossie trembling in his arms. Her movements became erratic, desperate, chasing her release.
"Dom, I'm - I'm gonna-"
"Do it," he commanded. "Come on my cock."
Flossie shattered with a cry, her whole body tensing as her orgasm crashed through her. Her pussy spasmed around him, squeezing him so tight he nearly lost it right then. Dom held her through it, maintaining that steady pressure on her clit to draw out her pleasure.
When she finally came down, slumping against his chest, Dom was right on the edge. Flossie seemed to sense this because she started moving again despite her sensitivity, rolling her hips in a way that made his vision blur.
"Your turn," she whispered in his ear. "I want you to come inside me. Fill me up."
That did it. Dom's orgasm hit him like a freight train, pleasure exploding through every nerve ending. He buried himself as deep as he could go, his cock pulsing as he came, spilling inside her with a guttural groan.
For a long moment, they just stayed like that - tangled together, breathing hard, hearts racing in sync. Flossie's fingers traced lazy patterns on his shoulders while Dom's hands stroked up and down her back.
"Holy shit," Dom finally managed, his voice hoarse.
Flossie laughed, the sound breathless and satisfied. "Feel better?"
He did. The anxiety that had been eating him alive was completely gone, replaced by a pleasant, post-orgasmic haze and a renewed sense of confidence. His body felt loose and relaxed, his mind clear.
"You're a fucking genius," he said, tilting his head to kiss her properly.
She hummed against his lips. "I know."
A knock on the door made them both jump.
"Five minutes!" someone called from the hallway.
"Shit." Flossie carefully climbed off his lap, and they both scrambled for their clothes.
Dom pulled on his boxers and jeans, watching as Flossie dressed with impressive speed. She caught him staring and winked.
"See? Plenty of time."
He laughed, the sound genuine and free of the tension that had plagued him earlier. As he pulled his shirt over his head, he realized his hands were steady. The nervous energy had been completely redirected, transformed into the kind of adrenaline he could actually use on stage.
Flossie finished dressing and came over to fix his hair, which had gotten thoroughly messed up. Her touch was gentle now, affectionate.
"You're gonna kill it out there," she said softly, her eyes warm. "You always do."
This time, Dom believed her. He felt grounded, centered, ready. The anxiety seemed ridiculous now, a distant memory from another lifetime.
"Thank you," he said, meaning it with everything he had. "For knowing exactly what I needed."
"Always." Flossie kissed him once more, quick and sweet. "Now go show them why you're a fucking star."
Another knock. "Two minutes!"
Dom took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back. The confidence he was known for had returned in full force, along with something extra - the memory of Flossie's body against his, the echo of her moans, the reminder that no matter what happened on that stage, he had someone who loved him enough to do whatever it took to help him.
He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door, Flossie right behind him. As they stepped into the hallway, he could hear the crowd roaring, chanting his name. Instead of making him nervous, it sent a thrill of excitement through him.
"Let's fucking do this," he said with a grin.
Flossie squeezed his hand. "That's my man."
As Dom walked toward the stage, he felt invincible. Whatever had been messing with his head before was gone, burned away by passion and intimacy and the unwavering support of the woman he loved. The stage lights beckoned, the crowd screamed, and Dom was ready.
Pairing: Joaquin Torres x female!oc
Word Count: 1479
A/N: a little bit of joaquin featuring the rest of pb&jj. also, the italics are meant to show the difference between how joaquin says versus the boys
It started, like most disasters in the boys apartment, with someone not minding their business.
Peter was halfway through reheating leftover takeout - again - when he heard it.
“Yeah, mami, just sit down. I got it.”
The apartment went quiet in the exact way it only did when something had gone mildly wrong or extremely interesting.
Peter slowly turned his head toward the couch.
Joaquin was standing in the kitchen doorway, keys still in his hand, looking at his girlfriend like she was made of glass he was both terrified of and completely devoted to. Summer had just walked in from the hallway, laughing softly as she tried to take her bag from him.
“I can carry my own bag,” she said.
“I know,” Joaquin replied, like that was irrelevant information. “But I already got it, mami.”
That was it.
Peter blinked once. Then again.
From the couch, Johnny’s head snapped up so fast he almost hit the backrest. “Oh my - did he just-”
Bob looked up from his phone slowly. “Did he just call her… what I think he called her?”
Johnny was already grinning. “Oh, I know what that is.”
Peter frowned. “You do?”
Johnny leaned back like a man about to deliver a lecture no one asked for. “Yeah. That’s like… Spanish for ‘mom.’”
There was a beat.
Peter said, “No it isn’t.”
“It literally is,” Johnny insisted.
Bob squinted. “Why is he calling his girlfriend ‘mom’?”
“Different cultures, man,” Johnny said, waving a hand. “Maybe it’s like… roleplay or something.”
Peter looked horrified. “I don’t think it’s roleplay.”
Across the room, Joaquin was now gently steering Summer toward the couch, still murmuring things under his breath - soft, casual “mami, sit here,” “you hungry, mami?” like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Summer didn’t look confused.
She looked… used to it.
Peter noticed that too. “Wait. She’s not reacting.”
Bob nodded slowly. “She’s not reacting.”
Johnny leaned forward. “Oh, that makes it worse.”
That was the moment the PB&JJ apartment made its collective, irreversible decision:
This was a thing now.
By the end of the week, Joaquin had fully regretted ever speaking in front of his roommates.
It started small.
“Hey, mami, you want coffee?” Peter called across the kitchen one morning, far too casually, while stirring instant oatmeal.
Joaquin paused mid-step.
“…What did you just call her?”
Peter didn’t even look up. “Mami.”
Johnny, already laughing, slid into the kitchen. “Morning, mami.”
Bob, because he had no sense of self-preservation whatsoever, added, “Hey, mami.”
Joaquin stood there for a full five seconds, blinking slowly.
Summer walked in behind him, hair still slightly messy, hoodie hanging off one shoulder. “Why are all of you calling me that?”
Peter shrugged. “We’re just getting into it.”
“Getting into what,” Joaquin said flatly.
Johnny pointed at him like he was presenting evidence in court. “You. You started it.”
Joaquin exhaled through his nose. “No, I didn’t.”
Peter tilted his head. “You literally said it first.”
“I said it to my girlfriend.”
“Yeah,” Bob said. “And we’re supporting you.”
“That’s not support,” Joaquin muttered.
Summer just raised an eyebrow, amused. “It’s fine.”
“See?” Johnny said triumphantly. “She doesn’t mind.”
Joaquin looked at her.
“Summer,” he said carefully, “you mind.”
She smiled. “A little.”
He nodded immediately. “Good. Then tell them.”
“I could,” she said, “or I could enjoy watching this.”
Joaquin gasped. “Traitor.”
Within days, it became a routine.
Johnny would greet her at random times like it was her legal name.
“Mami, pass the remote.”
Bob started using it when she walked into rooms.
“Hey, mami, we ordered pizza.”
Peter, who should have known better, started slipping it into sentences when stressed.
“I failed my chem thing, mami, do you think I can retake it-"
Joaquin stopped him mid-sentence. “Don’t.”
Peter blinked. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t ‘mami’ her.”
Peter gestured vaguely. “But you do it all the time.”
“That’s different.”
“How is it different?” Johnny asked immediately.
Joaquin stared at him.
“It just is.”
That was not a sufficient answer for them.
So they kept going.
And Summer, for reasons Joaquin could not understand, kept laughing.
The first crack appeared two weeks in.
They were all in the living room, sprawled across furniture like it had personally wronged them. Summer was sitting on the floor between the couch and coffee table, leaning against Joaquin’s legs while scrolling on her phone.
Peter was narrating something aggressively unimportant. Johnny was arguing with Bob about whether cereal counted as soup.
And then Joaquin, absentmindedly, tugged lightly on Summer’s hoodie sleeve.
“Hey, mami,” he said softly, “come here.”
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t performative.
It was instinct.
Summer looked up immediately.
“Yeah?”
That part was normal.
What wasn’t normal was the three simultaneous sounds of realization from the couch.
Peter: “Ohhh.”
Johnny: “Oh, that’s bad.”
Bob: “Oh, that’s actually bad.”
Joaquin didn’t even look at them. “What.”
Peter pointed between them. “So when you do it, it’s like… romantic.”
Joaquin frowned. “Yes.”
Johnny leaned forward. “But when we do it, it’s funny.”
“Yes.”
Bob squinted. “Why?”
Joaquin paused.
Because how do you explain something like that to people who think everything is a joke?
Summer spoke before he could.
“Because it means something different when he says it,” she said simply.
That shut them up for about three seconds.
Then Peter, unfortunately, said, “So what does it mean?”
Joaquin went still.
Summer’s fingers tightened slightly around his knee.
Joaquin exhaled.
“It’s not just… a word,” he said carefully.
Johnny nodded. “We gathered that part.”
Joaquin shot him a look.
“I called her that first before I even knew her name,” he said.
That got their attention.
Even Johnny stopped grinning.
Joaquin continued, quieter now. “It was like… I saw her and I just - didn’t know what else to call her. It came out like that.”
Summer’s voice softened. “He was flirting.”
Peter blinked. “Before he knew your name?”
“Yeah,” she said, smiling a little. “He was annoying.”
Joaquin nudged her shoulder with his foot. “Affectionately.”
Bob nodded slowly. “Okay, but why ‘mami’ though?”
Joaquin hesitated again.
Then, more honestly than he’d probably intended, he said, “Where I’m from… it’s not just ‘mom.’ It’s like… it can be affectionate. Familiar. Like you’re important to someone. It’s teasing, but it’s also… caring.”
The room went a little quieter.
Johnny’s grin faded. “Oh.”
Peter looked down. “We thought it was just… a joke.”
Joaquin’s jaw tightened slightly. “Yeah. I noticed.”
Summer shifted, glancing up at him, and raised a hand.
“Also, another reason you probably wanna stop-”
“Summer...” Joaquin warned immediately.
She ignored him.
“No, no, they should know.”
Peter immediately looked concerned.
Johnny immediately looked interested.
Bob immediately looked like he wanted to leave.
Joaquin pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Summer.”
“They should know.”
“Summer.”
She smiled sweetly.
Joaquin sighed heavily.
After a long moment, he gave a small, defeated nod.
“Fine.”
Summer grinned.
“He calls me mami in bed.”
The reaction was instant.
“OH, COME ON!” Johnny shouted.
“NOPE!” Peter yelled at the exact same time.
Bob made a strangled noise and buried his face in both hands.
“WHY WOULD YOU TELL US THAT?”
“I DIDN'T NEED TO KNOW THAT.”
“I CAN NEVER UNHEAR THAT.”
Summer immediately doubled over laughing.
Joaquin looked completely unbothered.
“Well,” he said with a shrug, “now maybe you'll stop saying it.”
“WE'RE DEFINITELY STOPPING,” Peter said.
“Effective strategy,” Bob muttered from behind his hands.
Johnny pointed accusingly at Summer.
“You weaponized that information.”
“I did.”
“And it worked.”
“It did.”
Joaquin wrapped an arm around her shoulders, trying - and failing - not to smile as the other three continued making dramatic noises of disgust.
“See?” Summer said brightly. “Problem solved.”
“Never speak again,” Peter groaned.
The room finally settled down enough for everyone to breathe.
Bob lowered his hands first.
“Okay,” he said. “We're really sorry.”
Peter nodded immediately.
“Yeah. Seriously. We didn't know.”
Johnny pointed at Joaquin.
“And for the record, I would've stopped way sooner if I'd known it actually meant something.”
“And if you'd known about the bed thing?” Summer asked.
“Especially if I'd known about the bed thing.”
“Fair.”
Joaquin groaned.
“Can we never talk about this again?”
“No promises,” Johnny said.
“Johnny.”
“Okay, okay. We won't.”
Peter rubbed the back of his neck.
“Sorry, Summer.”
“Sorry, Joaquin.”
Bob nodded.
“Both of you.”
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then Joaquin finally sighed.
“You're all idiots.”
Johnny brightened.
“So normal status restored?”
Joaquin stared at him.
Then, reluctantly, he nodded.
“Yeah.”
Peter immediately exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for ten minutes.
“Okay. Great. Never doing cultural linguistics again.”
Bob muttered, “We really should've Googled it.”
Johnny leaned back dramatically.
“I'm just glad it wasn't like we spent two weeks accidentally calling his girlfriend ‘mom.’”
Joaquin slowly closed his eyes.
Summer burst out laughing.
And this time, even Joaquin couldn't stop a smile.
Pairing: Pietro Maximoff x Stark!female!oc
Word Count: 1721
Katya Stark had grown up in a world where nothing was ever truly normal.
That was the polite way of putting it.
The less polite way was: her father was Tony Stark, she had spent her childhood split between armored compounds, Stark Industries boardrooms, and Avengers facilities where "casual conversation" often included the end of the world.
So when she first met the Maximoff twins, it should have been just another introduction. Another briefing room meeting. Another "this is your new teammate, don't break anything."
Instead, the moment she saw him, Katya forgot how to speak.
Wanda Maximoff stood slightly to the side, composed in a way that felt almost fragile - like she was always one sharp breath away from becoming something dangerous. But Katya barely registered her at first.
Because standing next to Wanda was her twin brother.
Pietro Maximoff.
He looked bored.
That was his first crime.
The second was that he was objectively, offensively attractive in a way that felt almost unfair. Lean, restless posture. That perpetual edge of impatience like the world was moving too slowly for him to tolerate it. And eyes that flicked over everything like he’d already seen it, already judged it, already decided it wasn’t worth staying for.
Katya immediately decided she was going to change his mind.
She didn’t even realize she’d stepped forward until she was already speaking.
“Hi.”
Pietro looked at her.
A beat passed.
Then another.
“…Hi,” he echoed, like the word itself was mildly inconvenient.
Wanda sighed softly beside him. “You must be Katya Stark,” she said politely, offering a small smile. “Tony mentioned you would be here.”
“Only good things, I hope,” Katya said, not taking her eyes off Pietro.
Wanda’s smile twitched. “Some things.”
Pietro finally shifted his weight. “Are we done here?”
Katya blinked. “Wow.”
“What?”
“That was your introduction? ‘Are we done here?’”
“I didn’t introduce myself.”
“You didn’t have to,” she said lightly. “I can already tell everything I need to know about you.”
That finally got a reaction - his eyebrow lifted, faintly amused despite himself.
“Oh yeah?”
“You’re impatient. You’re arrogant. You think you’re above small talk.” She tilted her head slightly. “And you’re probably wrong about all of it.”
Wanda made a quiet sound like she was trying not to laugh.
Pietro, for his part, looked mildly offended - and just a little intrigued.
“You don’t know me,” he said.
Katya smiled. “Not yet.”
That was the moment it started.
Not dramatically. Not with fireworks or destiny or anything that would have made sense in a Stark family story.
It started with Katya refusing to leave him alone.
And Pietro refusing - very badly - to admit he didn’t want her to.
Over the next week, it became almost routine.
Katya would find him in the gym. Leaning against a wall. Sitting in the corner of briefing rooms like he was already halfway out the door. Appearing behind doors just to disappear again.
Every time she saw him, she had the same reaction:
There he is.
And every time he saw her, he had the same reaction:
Not her again.
Except it was never quite convincing.
“You’re stalking me,” Pietro said one afternoon when she appeared beside him in the training hall.
Katya didn’t even flinch. “I prefer ‘strategically encountering you repeatedly until you develop better social habits.’”
“I have social habits.”
“You ran away from Natasha during a conversation about dinner.”
“That’s survival instinct.”
She leaned closer, studying him like he was a puzzle she was enjoying far too much. “You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m busy.”
“With what? Dramatically leaning against walls?”
Pietro scoffed. “You think you’re funny.”
“I am funny.”
“You’re annoying.”
“And yet,” she said, smiling, “you keep talking to me.”
That landed. Just slightly.
His jaw tightened like he’d been caught out by something he couldn’t outrun.
Katya noticed everything about him.
The way his attention always snapped to her voice first before he pretended it hadn’t. The way he stood just a little closer than necessary when she was speaking, like distance was optional but restraint was required. The way his eyes kept flicking to her mouth whenever she smiled too much.
It was infuriating.
And intoxicating.
Pietro Maximoff was used to speed. Used to motion. Used to never having to wait.
Katya Stark was the first thing he couldn’t get away from fast enough.
Wanda noticed before anyone else.
She always did.
“You’re spending a lot of time with my brother,” Wanda said one evening, as they sat in the common room after a mission briefing.
Katya didn’t look away from her drink. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t realize there was a limit.”
Wanda’s eyes narrowed slightly, but there was no real heat behind it. “He’s… not easy.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“He doesn’t usually let people in.”
Katya finally glanced up. “I’m not trying to break into him. I’m just talking to him.”
Wanda’s expression softened. “That might be worse.”
Katya laughed under her breath. “Relax. I can handle him.”
“I’m not sure you understand what you’re handling.”
“I understand him just fine,” Katya said.
That was a lie.
She didn’t understand him at all.
But she was enjoying trying.
The turning point came after a mission gone wrong.
Nothing catastrophic - no world-ending event, no alien invasion. Just a messy Hydra facility, too many variables, and Pietro pushing himself too far.
Katya found him afterward in the hallway outside med bay.
Leaning against the wall.
Breathing a little too hard.
Bruised along his jaw.
For once, he wasn’t moving.
“You’re hurt,” she said immediately.
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
He looked at her, and for once the usual sharp edge was dulled. “It’s nothing.”
Katya stepped closer. “You ran headfirst into a collapsing structure.”
“It was faster.”
“That’s not an explanation, that’s a personality flaw.”
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth despite everything. “You worry too much.”
“And you don’t worry enough.”
Silence stretched between them.
Different than usual.
He wasn’t teasing her.
And she wasn’t teasing him back.
Katya reached out before she thought better of it, gently touching his wrist. “Does it hurt?”
Pietro looked down at her hand like he didn’t know what to do with it.
“No,” he said quietly.
But he didn’t move away.
That was new.
Katya swallowed. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
That got his attention.
His gaze snapped to hers, sharper now. “I’m not pretending.”
“Yes, you are,” she said softly. “You pretend you don’t care. You pretend nothing sticks. You pretend people are just… passing scenery to you.”
Her grip on his wrist tightened slightly. “But you’re still here.”
Something shifted in his expression - something unguarded, something almost vulnerable that looked wrong on him, like he didn’t know how to wear it.
“Katya-”
She didn’t let him finish.
She stepped closer instead.
Close enough that the air between them changed.
Close enough that his speed didn’t matter.
Because there was nowhere for him to run.
It happened fast.
Not in the way Pietro usually moved - there was no blur, no flash, no escape.
Just a decision.
His hand caught her wrist - not to push her away, but to stop her from backing out.
And then he pulled her into a secluded hallway just off the main corridor, where the lights were dimmer and the noise of the compound faded into something distant.
Katya barely had time to breathe before her back met the wall.
And then he was there.
Not joking.
Not teasing.
Not pretending.
“Do you ever stop?” he asked quietly.
Katya’s heart was hammering. “Stop what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
Her lips parted slightly. “Like what?”
“Like you already decided I belong to you.”
That should have made her laugh.
It didn’t.
Instead, she tilted her head. “Do I?”
Pietro exhaled sharply, like she was testing something fragile inside him.
“You’re impossible,” he muttered.
“You’ve said that before.”
“And you never listen.”
“Not true,” she said softly. “I listen very carefully when you talk.”
His eyes flicked to her mouth again.
He noticed her noticing.
That was the problem.
That was always the problem.
“You’re going to get bored of me,” he said suddenly, quieter now.
Katya frowned. “What?”
“That’s what people do. They start looking at me like I’m interesting. Like I’m fast. Like I’m something they can’t catch up to.” His grip tightened slightly. “And then they stop looking.”
Katya went still.
For once, she didn’t have a quick answer.
Because that wasn’t arrogance.
That was fear, poorly disguised.
So she did the only thing she seemed capable of doing around him.
She told the truth.
“I’m not going to get bored of you.”
Pietro let out a short laugh. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You can’t.”
“I can,” she said, firmer now. “Because I’m not looking at you like you’re fast.”
That made him pause.
She stepped closer again, careful this time, like she was approaching something that might disappear if she startled it.
“I’m looking at you,” she said, “like I'm the first thing you’ve ever had to slow down for.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Still.
Pietro’s expression shifted, something breaking through the practiced detachment.
“You’re terrible at this,” he said quietly.
Katya blinked. “At what?”
“At making sense.”
She smiled faintly. “You’re worse at it.”
That did it.
Something in him finally snapped - not violently, not chaotically, but decisively.
Like he’d stopped resisting gravity.
His hand slid from her wrist to her waist, pulling her in just enough that the space between them disappeared entirely.
“Katya,” he said again, like warning and question and surrender all at once.
“Pietro,” she echoed, softer.
And then he kissed her.
It wasn’t hesitant.
It wasn’t gentle.
It was all the restraint he’d been holding onto for weeks finally collapsing at once - sharp, urgent, like he was trying to prove something and forget something at the same time.
Katya’s breath caught, but she didn’t pull away.
Instead, she reached up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt like she’d been waiting for permission she just realized she never needed.
When they broke apart, it wasn’t far.
Foreheads nearly touching.
Breathing uneven.
Pietro looked at her like she had just changed something irreversible.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he said quietly.
The street outside the underground venue still pulsed with bass even after the doors had shut behind them, like the building itself refused to stop breathing. The night air was sharp - London cold that cut through even the warmth Florence had built up inside from hours of music, movement, and Dominic’s hand never quite letting go of hers.
Florence Ashford had always looked like she belonged somewhere quieter.
Even now, standing beneath a flickering streetlight in a silk blouse half-hidden under an oversized leather jacket that definitely wasn’t hers, she looked like she’d stepped out of an old portrait. Private-school polish softened by something rebellious she’d never quite admitted to anyone except herself.
And Dominic Harrison - known to the world as YUNGBLUD - looked like the reason for it.
His arm was wrapped around her waist, pulling her into him like it was instinct. Florence’s hands were looped behind his neck, fingers lightly tangling in the short hairs at his nape. They were both still half-laughing from something stupid said inside, something that didn’t matter now because the only thing that did was the way they fit together outside the noise.
“You cold, Princess?” he murmured, forehead almost brushing hers.
“I’m fine,” she said automatically, which was a lie, because she absolutely was not fine in the way she was shaking slightly and refusing to move away from him.
Dom huffed a laugh, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth like he couldn’t help himself. “You’re always saying that.”
Before she could answer, his hand tightened at her waist and he guided her gently back against the brick wall behind them. Not forceful - never that - but enough to make her breath catch, enough to make the world narrow to him, to the smell of leather and smoke and familiarity.
Florence tilted her head up, and that was it. The space between them disappeared the way it always did when they forgot they were supposed to be careful.
It wasn’t rushed. It never was with them, even when they had to hide it. Just quiet certainty, like they’d been doing this in another life and were simply remembering how.
Her fingers curled into his shirt. His leg slipped lightly between hers as she leaned into him, as if he was the only stable thing in a world that constantly tried to tilt her off balance.
And for a moment, there was nothing else.
No Ashford name. No expectations. No press. No carefully curated life of lunches and gallery openings and polite conversations about her degree in art history and photography.
Just Florence and Dom.
Just a girl and the boy she wasn’t supposed to love out loud.
Neither of them heard the car at first.
It was the crunch of tires slowing too sharply on gravel that broke it. The sudden dip of headlights sweeping across the street like a searchlight cutting through fog.
Florence pulled back first, blinking as reality snapped back into place too quickly.
Dom’s hand stayed at her waist for half a second longer than necessary, like he couldn’t quite let go.
Then she saw it.
The car.
Black, sleek, familiar in the way that made her stomach drop instantly.
Her father’s car.
Time didn’t stop so much as fracture.
Florence stepped back too fast, nearly stumbling. Dom steadied her without thinking, his expression shifting from soft to alert in a heartbeat.
“Floss-”
But it was too late.
The window rolled down.
And there they were.
David Ashford sat in the driver's seat, still in his evening suit, face composed in the way only men like him ever managed - like nothing in the world could possibly surprise him, even when it clearly had. Her mother sat beside him, frozen mid-turn, her eyes already locked onto Florence like she was trying to rewrite what she was seeing into something more acceptable.
Florence felt her throat go dry.
For one impossible second, no one moved.
Then her father spoke.
“Florence.”
Just her name. No tone. No accusation. Worse than shouting.
Her hand instinctively found Dom’s sleeve.
Dom didn’t let go of her either.
David’s eyes flicked - once - to Dom’s arm still around her waist. Then to the leather jacket she was wearing. Then back to her face.
“Get in the car,” he said.
It wasn’t a request.
Florence swallowed. “We were just-”
“I said get in the car.”
The window rolled back up.
The car stayed there, idling like a judgment.
Dom looked at her then, quietly. “Hey,” he said, voice lower now, gentler. “It’s okay.”
It didn’t feel okay.
But she nodded anyway.
The ride home was silent in a way that made her ears ring.
Dom didn’t come with her.
He hadn’t argued when her mother opened the door and said, clipped and controlled, “We will speak to you at home.”
Florence sat in the backseat alone, hands folded too tightly in her lap, staring out at the passing streetlights that blurred into gold streaks.
She didn’t cry.
Not yet.
By the time they pulled up to the Ashford house, the kind of residence that looked more like a museum than a home, her mother had already composed herself into something terrifyingly calm.
Her father got out first.
“Inside,” he said again.
The living room was too quiet.
It always was when something important was about to be destroyed.
Florence stood in the center of it, still wearing Dom’s jacket like armor she didn’t know how to take off yet.
Her parents sat across from her.
Not relaxed. Not angry in the way she expected. Something colder. More deliberate.
Her mother spoke first.
“How long has this been going on?”
Florence hesitated. “A year.”
A beat.
Her father leaned forward slightly. “A year,” he repeated. “And you thought we would never find out.”
“I didn’t think-” she started, then stopped because that wasn’t true. She had thought about it. She had just convinced herself she could keep two lives separate forever.
Her mother’s voice softened just slightly, which somehow made it worse. “Florence, do you understand what this looks like?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “But it’s not - he’s not-”
“Who is he?” her father cut in.
Florence inhaled.
Then, because there was no point in pretending anymore, she answered honestly.
“His name is Dominic. I call him Dom."
Her father’s eyebrow lifted slightly.
She pushed on. “He’s a musician. I met him through a friend from uni. We started talking after a show. Then we just… kept talking.”
“Kept talking,” her mother repeated.
Florence nodded. “And then we started seeing each other.”
Silence again.
Her father studied her carefully. “And you hid this from us for a year.”
“I didn’t hide it because I was ashamed,” she said quickly. “I hid it because I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
“That is not your decision to make,” he replied evenly.
Her hands tightened around the sleeves of the leather jacket.
Her mother’s gaze flicked to it. “You were at a venue tonight?”
“Yes.”
“With him.”
“Yes.”
“And you were… behaving like that in public?” her mother asked carefully, as though choosing each word mattered.
Florence felt heat rise to her cheeks. “We weren’t doing anything wrong.”
Her father’s jaw tightened. “Florence.”
“I’m serious,” she said, voice firmer now. “I’m not a child. I’m not doing anything illegal. I’m just… with someone.”
Her mother exhaled slowly. “Someone who lives a very different life from ours.”
“Yes,” Florence admitted. “He does.”
“And you think that won’t matter?”
“I think I’m happy,” she said.
That landed differently.
Something shifted in the room after that. Not acceptance. Not yet. But attention.
Her father leaned back slightly. “Tell us about him.”
So she did.
Not in fragments. Not carefully edited.
She told them about Dom’s music, about the way he talked to strangers like they mattered, about how he never asked her to shrink herself, about how he noticed things no one else did - like when she went quiet in crowded rooms or when she was pretending to be fine for too long.
She told them about late-night conversations outside venues, about shared fries on curb edges, about him teasing her about her “posh princess voice” until she laughed properly for the first time in days.
And she told them about how he always walked her home, even when she insisted she was fine alone.
When she finished, the room felt different.
Not lighter.
But less sharp.
Her father was quiet for a long time.
“He’s been in our daughter’s life for a year,” he said slowly, “and we’ve never heard of him.”
“He’s not… part of your world,” Florence said carefully.
“That much is obvious,” her mother replied.
Another pause.
Then her father stood.
“We need to speak to him.”
Florence blinked. “What?”
Her mother looked at her. “If he intends to remain in your life, we will meet him properly.”
Her stomach twisted. “You want him here?”
“Yes,” her father said. “Now.”
Her hands shook as she texted him.
Dom didn’t ask questions. He just replied:
On my way, Princess.
That nickname alone nearly made her cry.
When he arrived, the house felt even more unreal.
Dom paused at the doorway, looking slightly out of place in the polished silence of it all - boots on marble, leather pants, expression careful but steady.
Florence met him halfway.
“I told them,” she whispered.
He nodded once. “Okay.”
“They want to talk to you.”
Another nod. “Okay.”
But he squeezed her hand before letting her lead him in.
The living room was exactly where she left it.
Her parents looked at him the way people looked at expensive art they didn’t yet understand whether they liked.
Dom stood tall under it anyway.
Florence stayed beside him.
Her father spoke first.
“Your name is Dominic.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’ve been in a relationship with our daughter for a year.”
“Yes.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Why her?”
Dom blinked once, like the question surprised him.
Then he glanced at Florence - not away from her, not toward her parents.
“Because she’s her,” he said simply.
That alone made Florence’s breath catch.
Her father studied him again. “You are aware of who she is.”
Dom didn’t flinch. “Yeah. I am.”
“And you don’t think there are complications?”
“I think there are always complications,” Dom said. “Doesn’t change how I feel about her.”
Silence again.
This one heavier.
Florence’s mother looked between them. “Do you intend to hurt her?”
Dom’s expression shifted, just slightly. Sharper now, but still controlled. “No.”
“That’s a strong answer,” her father said.
“It’s the only answer.”
Another pause.
Florence felt like she was suspended between two worlds, waiting to see which one would break first.
Her father finally exhaled.
“You make her happy?”
Dom didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. She makes me better too.”
Florence’s throat tightened at that.
Her mother looked at Florence instead of him now. “Is that true?”
Florence nodded immediately. “Yes.”
That seemed to settle something.
Not everything. Not even close.
But enough.
Her father sat back slowly. “We don’t like this life you’ve chosen to involve yourself in,” he said finally.
“I know,” Florence whispered.
“But,” her mother added, after a beat, “we can see that this is not… casual.”
Florence looked at Dom.
He looked back at her like she was the only steady thing in the room.
“No,” Florence said softly. “It’s not casual.”
Another long silence passed.
Then her father said, reluctantly, “We will need time to adjust.”
Dom nodded once. “That’s fair.”
Her mother’s gaze softened just slightly. “And you will respect her.”
Dom met her eyes. “Always.”
Something in the room shifted again.
Not approval.
Not celebration.
But acceptance forming slowly in real time, like something fragile being set down instead of broken.
Florence felt Dom’s hand find hers again.
This time, no one stopped it.
And for the first time that night, she thought maybe - just maybe - the world wouldn’t end because she chose him.
The house was quiet in the way only old money houses ever truly were - thick walls, heavy carpets, and the kind of silence that felt curated rather than natural.
The Ashford estate sat above the village like it had something to prove.
It was 3:07 a.m. when the front door finally opened.
Florence Ashford didn’t so much enter the house as she sort of… negotiated with it.
One shoulder hit the doorframe first. Then her heel caught on the marble threshold. She laughed quietly at nothing in particular, like the whole situation was mildly amusing instead of deeply concerning.
She was wearing a leather jacket that was definitely not hers.
Under it: a silk slip dress that had looked elegant six hours ago and now looked like it had survived a war. Her hair had fallen out of its careful styling, spilling around her face in loose waves. Her lipstick was smudged, her eyeliner slightly rebellious.
And she was drunk enough that the hallway chandelier looked like it was blinking at her.
“Careful,” a voice behind her said gently.
A man stepped in after her.
He was around her age, maybe a little older. Messy hair, rings on his fingers, a presence that didn’t belong in this house of polished silence and inherited restraint. He held the door open with one hand and Florence’s elbow with the other like he was used to catching her before she fell.
“I’ve got it,” she insisted, immediately proving she did not, in fact, have it.
“I know you think you do,” he said, amused.
She squinted at him. “Do I know you?”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not joking,” she said very seriously, then immediately laughed at herself.
He sighed like he’d been through this exact conversation before. “Dom.”
“Dom,” she repeated, nodding like that explained everything. “Right. Dom.”
The jacket slipped off her shoulder again and he adjusted it without thinking, tugging it back into place. The leather was oversized on her, clearly his.
He didn’t seem to mind her wearing it. In fact, he kept glancing at her like he was checking she was still upright, still real.
The hallway lights flicked on.
And everything stopped.
“Florence.”
The voice came from the far end of the corridor.
Not loud. Not panicked.
Worse.
Controlled.
Florence froze mid-step like someone had pressed pause on her existence.
Her father stood there in a robe, barefoot on the marble floor, holding a glass of water he clearly hadn’t been drinking. David Ashford didn’t look surprised. He looked like a man confirming something he had already predicted and deeply disliked.
Behind him, a door opened slightly. Eleanor Ashford appeared, hair pinned back, face pale with the kind of exhaustion that came from knowing your daughter and still being unprepared for her choices.
“Dad,” Florence said brightly, as if she were arriving home from a library trip instead of a night that had clearly gone off the rails.
David’s eyes moved - slowly - from her face to the jacket, to the man standing beside her, to the way Florence was leaning slightly into him like gravity was optional.
“Who is this?” he asked.
The question was calm.
That made it worse.
Florence blinked at the man beside her, as if seeing him for the first time all over again.
“Oh,” she said thoughtfully. “Right.”
The man cleared his throat slightly, shifting his weight. “Hi.”
David didn’t return the greeting.
Florence frowned, trying to remember something that clearly mattered and refusing to surface.
“Dad,” she said carefully, like she was solving a puzzle, “this is… what was your name again?”
A beat of silence.
Even Eleanor looked like she briefly considered lying down on the floor.
The man didn’t look offended. If anything, he looked vaguely entertained.
“Dominic,” he said. Then, after a pause, softer, like he was giving her a lifeline, “Dom.”
“Right,” Florence said with satisfaction. “Dom.”
She turned back to her father as if this cleared everything up. “This is Dom.”
David stared at her.
Then at Dom.
Then at the jacket.
“Why are you wearing his coat?” he asked.
Florence looked down at herself, like she had only just noticed she was dressed like she’d been assembled in the dark. “Oh. Because it’s cold.”
“It’s June,” Eleanor said quietly from the doorway.
Florence nodded. “Exactly. Freezing.”
Dom bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh.
David did not find it funny.
“Florence,” he said again, slower now, “inside. Now.”
She nodded obediently, then immediately swayed in the wrong direction.
Dom caught her again without hesitation, hand steady at her waist. “I’ve got her.”
“I can walk,” Florence insisted.
“You are walking,” Dom replied. “Just… not in a straight line.”
That earned a small, offended sound from her, but she didn’t argue further.
David watched the interaction like he was assessing a security breach.
Eleanor stepped forward slightly. “Let’s get her to the kitchen,” she said quietly, already moving into damage control mode. “She needs water.”
Florence brightened. “I love water. It’s like… wet.”
“That’s generally the point," Dom replied, laughing a little.
David ignored them both. “Inside,” he repeated to Dom, voice clipped. “You too.”
Dom hesitated only a second before nodding. “Of course.”
That was how Florence ended up sitting at a marble kitchen island at 3:14 a.m., wearing a stranger’s leather jacket, sipping water like it was an act of diplomacy, while her parents and a man named Dom silently occupied different corners of the room.
It felt like a courtroom where she was both defendant and unreliable witness.
Eleanor placed a glass in front of her. “Drink.”
Florence did.
David stood with his arms folded. “Where were you?”
“A place,” Florence said vaguely.
“Florence.”
She sighed dramatically. “Dad, it was just… out.”
Dom leaned against the counter, watching her with an expression that was equal parts concern and amusement. “She was with me,” he offered.
David’s eyes snapped to him. “I gathered that.”
Florence pointed at Dom like she was helping. “He plays music.”
“I do more than that,” Dom said.
“I like music,” Florence added.
“I also noticed that,” David said flatly.
A pause.
Eleanor sat beside Florence, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Are you hurt?”
Florence considered this deeply. “Emotionally?”
“Physically.”
“Oh. No.”
Dom shifted slightly. “She slipped earlier. I caught her before she hit the pavement.”
David’s gaze sharpened. “And where exactly was this happening?”
Florence Ashford - Florence to the public, Flora to the few people who knew her properly - had mastered the art of looking perfectly composed no matter what was happening around her,
She had learned it young.
Private school blazers pressed just so. Answers delivered without hesitation. Essays returned with near-perfect marks stapled to the front page. A smile that never quite gave anything away.
At university, it didn't change much. She was still the girl who turned up early, sat in the front row, and left seminar rooms with a notebook full of color-coded perfection. Straight A's weren't something she bragged about - they were simply expected. Like breathing. Like the fact her father was the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom which meant her life was permanently half public property anyway.
She was used to cameras.
Just not when they caught her off gaurd.
And definitely not when they caught Dominic Harrison in the frame with her.
Dominic had never been good at being subtle. It wasn't really in his DNA. He was loud in the way he loved, loud in the way he spoke, loud in the way he existed in the room like he refused to apologize for taking up space.
Which was exactly why him sneaking into a government building had been doomed from the start.
"You do realize this is technically high-security?" Florence had whispered earlier that afternoon when she found him waiting near a service corridor, hood up, grin already forming like he'd won something.
Dom had just shrugged. "Yeah, well, I missed you, babe."
"I was in lectures for three hours."
"And I suffered for three hours," he said seriously, like it was a medical condition.
That had been the end of her protest. It usually was.
Now, somehow, they had made it to a quieter corridor near one of the press rooms where her father was giving an interview. Florence wasn't supposed to be anywhere near it - she'd just been passing through on her way back to her car when Dom appeared like a problem she couldn't solve properly.
Which was exactly why she was currently pressed against the wall, laughing into his mouth like she had forgotten for a second that her entire life was built on being careful.
Dom's hand was warm against her cheek. "Missed you," he murmured again, softer.
"You're dramatic."
"Yeah," he said, smiling against her lips. "But you like it."
She didn't answer, and kissed him again instead.
That was the moment the corridor door opened.
Inside the press room, cameras were rolling. Microphones were live. Florence's father was mid-answer about policy reform when movement in the background caught the attention of someone behind a camera.
At first, it was just a blur - Florence, her hair slight undone, pinned against the wall by a boy in a black hoodie.
Then the camera adjusted.
And the world saw them clearly.
Florence kissing a man she was never supposed to be seen with.
A beat of confusion passed in the room. Then someone in the press corps whispered something sharp. Another camera shifted. A producer tired - too late - to redirect focus.
But the footage was already live.
And Florence, in the corridor, had no idea.
It was only when Dom pulled back slightly, thumb brushing her cheek, that she noticed the distant echo of raised voice from the other side of the wall.
"What's that?" she asked, frowning.
Dom paused, "Probably your dad doing... whatever politician things he does."
Then his phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
And then, rapidly, like the world had decided to collapse all at once.
He pulled it out. Looked down.
His expression changed.
“Uh,” he said carefully.
Florence straightened. “What?”
He turned the screen toward her.
A news alert.
BREAKING: Prime Minister’s Daughter Caught on Camera in Unexpected Public Moment
Below it: a still image.
Her.
Her mouth on Dom’s.
Florence felt the air leave her lungs in one sharp motion.
“No,” she whispered.
Dom blinked. “Okay, so, that’s… not ideal.”
“Not ideal?” she repeated, voice rising. “Dom, that’s - that’s my father’s press conference.”
“I gathered that part, yeah.”
“And that’s my - that’s me-”
“Kissing me,” he supplied gently, like it might help.
Florence stared at the screen as if it might rearrange itself into something less catastrophic.
It didn’t.
Within an hour, it was everywhere.
By the time she made it home, the gates of her family estate already felt heavier, like they knew.
Like the house itself had opinions.
Her mother met her in the hallway.
Her father was waiting in the study.
Neither of them looked surprised. That was the worst part.
"You’re going to explain," her father said flatly, not even looking up from the printed photo on his desk.
Florence stood in the doorway, still in her university coat, hands curled tight around the strap of her bag. "It wasn’t planned."
“That much is obvious,” her mother replied. “Florence, do you understand what this looks like?”
“It looks like I was kissing someone I’m dating.”
“It looks like a political embarrassment,” her father corrected sharply.
The word embarrassment landed harder than she expected.
She swallowed. “I didn’t know the cameras were there.”
"That is not the point,” her father said. “The point is that you have been seen with him. With him. Of all people."
"You shouldn't even be dating him," her mom added.
Florence’s jaw tightened. “Dom has a name.”
Silence.
Then her father stood.
He was always more intimidating when he was calm. “You are not a private citizen, Florence. You are my daughter. And whether you like it or not, that means your actions reflect on this office.”
“I didn’t ask for that,” she said quietly.
“No,” her mother said, softer but no less firm. “But you live with it.”
A beat passed.
Then her father spoke again, colder this time.
“He needs to leave your life.”
Florence blinked. “What?”
“This is not negotiable.”
Her hands went cold. “You don’t even know him.”
“I know enough,” he said. “He is not suitable. He is not stable. He is not what you need in your life at this stage.”
Something in her snapped slightly at that. “You mean he’s not what you want in my life.”
Her mother exhaled. “Florence-”
“No,” she said, sharper now. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend this is about what’s good for me.”
Her father stepped closer to the desk, folding his hands. “You will end this relationship. Immediately. And you will distance yourself completely.”
“And if I don’t?” she asked.
The pause that followed was deliberate.
Heavy.
Final.
“Then you are choosing him over this family.”
Her stomach dropped.
“That’s not fair," she whispered, he voice watery, tears pricking her eyes.
“This is reality,” her mother said.
Florence shook her head slowly, like she was trying to dislodge the words from her ears. “You’re my parents.”
“And we are protecting you,” her father replied.
“No,” she said, voice cracking slightly now. “You’re controlling me.”
Her mother’s expression tightened. “Florence-”
“I love him.”
That stopped the room.
Even her father’s expression shifted, just slightly.
Florence hadn’t meant to say it like that. It came out too raw, too honest, like it had been sitting in her chest for too long.
“I love him,” she repeated, quieter now. “And I’m not - I’m not going to cut him off because of a photograph.”
Her father’s voice dropped. “You will choose.”
Her throat tightened. “Don’t do that.”
“You will choose,” he repeated.
The room felt too small suddenly.
Too bright.
Too suffocating.
And then-
The door opened.
Dom stood there.
Florence turned so fast she almost lost her balance.
“How did you even-” she started.
He lifted his hands slightly. “Security didn’t love me, but I’m persistent.”
Her father’s expression hardened instantly. “You have no right to be here.”
“I think I do,” Dom said, stepping inside anyway. Calm, but not intimidated. “Considering I’m the reason she’s in tears in your study.”
“I am not-” Florence started, wiping quickly at her face, furious at herself for crying.
But she was.
And that made everything worse.
Dom looked at her then, and his expression softened completely.
“Flossie,” he said quietly.
Her breath hitched.
Her mother’s voice cut in. “This is exactly what we mean. You don’t understand the world she lives in.”
Dom glanced at her, then her father. “I understand it fine. I just don’t agree with it.”
“You are a distraction,” her father said flatly.
Dom actually laughed once. Not mocking. Just disbelieving. “A distraction?”
“Yes.”
“I write songs people use to survive bad days,” he said, voice sharpening slightly now. “I’m not a distraction.”
“You are to her future,” her father said.
Florence stepped forward suddenly. “Stop talking about me like I’m not here.”
Silence.
Her chest felt tight, like everything she was holding together was starting to tear.
Her father looked at her. “Florence. You will make a decision. Now.”
Her voice came out smaller than she wanted. “You’re really doing this.”
Her mother’s expression softened just a fraction. “We are trying to protect your life.”
“No,” Florence said. “You’re trying to control it.”
Dom stepped closer to her, just enough that she could feel his presence beside her. Not touching. Just there. Anchoring.
Her father spoke again. “If you continue this relationship, you are choosing to separate yourself from this family.”
Florence stared at him.
Really stared.
At the man who had taught her how to speak in public. How to stand straight. How to never let anything show.
And realised, suddenly, that this was the first time she had ever truly disappointed him.
Her voice shook.
“You’re asking me to choose between you and him.”
“Yes.”
Her throat burned. “That’s not a choice.”
“It is,” he said.
Silence stretched.
Florence turned slightly, looking at Dom.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t pressure her. Didn’t interrupt.
Just watched her like he already knew what it would cost.
Her voice broke.
“I can’t lose you,” she whispered.
Dom’s expression softened painfully. “Flossie-”
“And I can’t lose them,” she added, glancing at her parents, tears spilling now despite her trying to stop them. “They’re my parents.”
Her mother’s face tightened, like she was bracing for the answer.
Her father didn’t move.
Florence took a breath that felt like it shattered halfway through.
Then she looked at Dom fully.
And made the choice that tore something open inside her.
“I choose him.”
The silence after was absolute.
Her mother’s hand went to her mouth.
Her father’s expression went still in a way that was almost unreadable.
Dom exhaled sharply, like he hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath.
“Florence,” her father said quietly. A warning. Or maybe disbelief.
She shook her head, crying openly now. “You made me do this.”
“No,” he said. “You made your decision.”
That landed.
Hard.
Her mother whispered her name, but it didn’t sound like a correction anymore. It sounded like grief.
Dom finally reached for her then, pulling her gently into his chest.
She didn’t resist.
She couldn’t.
Because for all the weight of everything she had just lost, one thing remained steady.
His arms around her.
And for the first time that day, Florence let herself fall into it completely.
-Dominic Harrison (YUNGBLUD)
- Between Politics and Punk Rock (One-Shot)
- Borrowed Leather (One-Shot)
- Princess and the Punk (One-Shot)
- Backstage Remedy (One-Shot)
Tatooine had a way of making friendships feel like survival itself.
Lira couldn't remember a time when Luke Skywalker wasn't a part of her life. They had grown up in the same dusty stretch of nowhere, two kids running across sand dunes that swallowed footsteps and dreams alike. While other children learned patience under the twin suns, Lira and Luke learned how to outrun boredom, how to climb wreckage, how to argue about everything and still end up sitting side by side watching the sky turn molten orange.
Most people on Tatooine learn early that the galaxy didn't care about them.
Lira and Luke learned to care about each other instead.
They scavenged together. Got yelled at together. Got grounded together more times than either of them could count. Owen used to squint at them like they were a shared problem he hadn't agreed to inherit, and Beru would just sigh and hand them extra rations anyway.
"You two are going to get yourselves killed one of these days," Owen would mutter..
Luke would grin. "Not today."
Lira would always add, "Probably tomorrow, though."
That was how it had alwasys been.
So when Luke came home that day with two strange droids trailing behind him - one, small, round, beeping constantly like it had opinions about everything, and the other tall, golden, and dramatic enough to complain about the desert itself - Lira was already waiting.
Of course she was.
Luke didn’t even have to call for her. She saw the dust trail from a mile away and came sprinting across the sand like she always did, boots kicking up clouds behind her.
“What did you steal this time?” she shouted before she even got close.
“I didn’t steal them!” Luke called back.
The smaller droid beeped sharply.
Lira stopped in front of them, hands on her knees, catching her breath. Then she looked up at the pair of machines and blinked.
“…You didn’t steal them?”
Luke hesitated. “Well…”
The golden one spoke first. “I am C-3PO, human-cyborg relations. I am fluent in over six million forms of communication.”
Lira stared at it. “That one talks too much.”
“I beg your pardon-!”
The smaller droid beeped again, and Luke sighed like this was already his entire life now.
That was how it started.
And when everything went wrong - because it always did, eventually - Lira was there for that too.
She was there when Luke found Obi-Wan Kenobi.
She had insisted on coming, despite Owen’s warnings, despite Luke’s protests, despite the feeling in her gut that said this was the kind of decision that split lives in half.
“You don’t even know him,” Luke had said.
“Neither do you! Besides, I know you,” Lira had replied simply. “That’s enough.”
So she went.
She stood beside Luke in that dim, quiet hut when the old man turned and revealed himself as something more than just a desert hermit. Obi-Wan Kenobi looked at her like he already understood she was going to be trouble in ways Luke wasn’t.
“And who is this?” he asked.
“Lira,” Luke said quickly. “She’s… she’s my friend.”
Obi-Wan nodded once, like that explained everything.
Lira didn’t trust him immediately. She didn’t trust anyone immediately. But she trusted Luke, so she stayed.
And when the galaxy finally came crashing into their lives in the form of stormtroopers and burning sand and stolen plans and panic, Lira ran right into it beside him.
Which is how she ended up on the Millennium Falcon.
Han Solo did not like her.
He made that very clear from the moment they met.
“You’re bringing her?” he asked Luke, like Lira wasn’t standing right there with her arms crossed.
“She’s coming,” Luke said.
Han looked her up and down. “She doesn’t look like much.”
Lira tilted her head. “And you look like trouble.”
Han smirked. “Smart mouth.”
“Accurate observation,” C-3PO chimed in.
Han pointed at the droid. “I don’t like any of you.”
Chewbacca growled in agreement, though whether it was directed at Lira or just the general situation was unclear.
Still, the Falcon took off.
And once it did, there was no going back.
Space felt differently than anything Lira had ever known. Tatooine’s sky had always felt like a lid pressed down on them, but space felt endless in a way that made her stomach drop and rise at the same time.
She stayed close to Luke at first. That was habit.
But Han Solo made it impossible to ignore anything for long.
He argued with Obi-Wan. He argued with Leia when they rescued her - because yes, that happened too, in the blur of blaster fire and chaos and escape routes that barely held together. Lira didn’t even fully process Leia Organa until the princess herself grabbed a blaster, took charge of a situation mid-rescue, and shot a stormtrooper without blinking.
Lira decided immediately she liked her.
Han, of course, did not.
“She’s a princess,” he said later, like that explained everything wrong with the universe.
“She’s also the reason we’re not dead,” Lira replied.
Han raised an eyebrow at her. “You always talk back like that?”
“Only when people say stupid things.”
That earned her a long look.
It started after that.
Not obvious, not at first. Han wasn’t obvious about anything unless he wanted to be. But Lira noticed things. The way his gaze flicked to her when she took a shot with a borrowed blaster and actually hit something. The way he stopped interrupting her mid-sentence as often as he did with everyone else. The way he lingered just a second too long when she handed him a tool or passed him a datapad.
Luke noticed too, of course.
He just didn’t say anything.
“You’re imagining things,” Lira told him once.
Luke shrugged. “I’m not the one he keeps looking at.”
That shut her up for approximately ten seconds.
Then came the detention block. The trash compactor. The screaming. The running. The chaos.
And somewhere in all of it, Lira stopped being just Luke’s friend who followed him everywhere.
She became someone who held her own.
She learned how to fire a blaster without flinching. Learned how to duck, roll, run, and shoot all at once. Learned how to read Han Solo’s shifting plans as if they were a language of their own.
And Han, reluctantly, started to respect it.
“You’re not bad,” he admitted one day after they escaped yet another near-disaster.
Lira wiped dust from her face. “That your way of saying I’m good?”
“That’s my way of saying you didn’t get us killed,” he said.
“High praise,” she deadpanned.
His mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.
It kept happening after that.
Glances that lasted too long. Arguments that turned into something almost like banter. Silence that felt heavier when they weren’t in the same room.
Luke noticed again.
Of course he did.
“You know he’s staring at you,” Luke said casually one night as they sat in the Falcon’s dim corridor, engines humming beneath them like a living thing.
Lira didn’t look up from what she was cleaning. “He stares at everyone.”
“Not like that.”
She paused.
“…Luke.”
“What?”
“Don’t start.”
Luke held up his hands. “I’m just saying.”
“Say nothing.”
But later, she caught Han looking at her again.
This time, she didn’t look away.
She met his gaze directly, steady and unblinking, until he finally broke it first, muttering something under his breath and turning back to the controls.
It should have ended there.
It didn’t.
It came to a head in the cockpit.
The Falcon was quiet for once - too quiet. Luke and Leia were somewhere else, Chewbacca was fixing something that sounded like it was actively trying to explode, and C-3PO was loudly worrying about statistics no one asked for.
Han was in the pilot’s chair.
Of course he was.
Lira stood behind him, leaning against the doorway, watching him talk. He was mid-sentence - about something reckless, probably involving impossible odds and a plan that only worked because the galaxy occasionally forgot to kill him.
“You ever stop talking?” she asked.
He glanced over his shoulder. “You ever stop complaining?”
“I don’t complain. I observe.”
“That’s just complaining with extra steps.”
She pushed off the doorway and walked toward him.
He didn’t stop talking.
He should have.
He really should have.
Because Lira crossed the last bit of space between them, grabbed the front of his jacket, and kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t planned.
It was the kind of kiss that shut down every argument mid-sentence and rewrote whatever conversation had been happening before it.
Han froze for half a second.
Then he kissed her back.
His hand slid to her waist, pulling her closer as if it had decided that was the most logical thing in the universe. The cockpit, the ship, the war, the chaos - it all blurred for a moment into something that felt dangerously simple.
When they finally broke apart, Lira was still holding onto him like she hadn’t decided whether to push him away or stay exactly where she was.
Han stared at her like she had just done something offensive and brilliant at the same time.
Then she leaned in slightly and whispered, “Do you ever shut up, Solo?”
His mouth curved slowly, that familiar smirk returning like it had been waiting its whole life for this exact moment.
“I do,” he murmured back, voice lower now. “When pretty girls kiss me.”
That did it.
Lira rolled her eyes - hard.
And then, before she could say anything else, he pulled her back in again, this time deeper, more certain, like he’d stopped pretending he wasn’t going to do it.
Outside the cockpit, the Millennium Falcon kept flying.
Inside it, for the first time since Tatooine, Lira felt like she wasn’t just surviving the galaxy.
Pairing: Klaus Mikaelson x female!oc
Word Count: 1237
Aurora had spent the night at Klaus' many times before.
So many, in fact, that the room already felt like hers.
The bedroom was dimly lit, heavy velvet curtains drawn against the moonlight, candles flickering low on dark wood surfaces. Klaus liked fire - real fire, not electric pretenses - and Aurora had learned that every room he truly lived in had at least one flame burning. Tonight, several candles glowed near the bed, casting warm shadows across the walls and over the intricate carvings of the headboard.
Aurora sat on the edge of the bed, barefoot, her dress already discarded in favor of one of Klaus’s shirts. It swallowed her frame, the sleeves hanging past her wrists, the collar slipping off one shoulder. She’d worn it countless times before, usually without thinking.
Tonight, she was painfully aware of everything.
The fabric against her skin.
The quiet.
The echo of her own voice in her head.
I love him, okay?!
She hadn’t meant to say it like that. Loud. Desperate. Ripped straight from her chest and thrown into the night air without warning.
And she hadn’t meant for Klaus to hear it.
But he had.
She knew he had.
Klaus stood at the far side of the room, back turned as he poured himself a drink. He moved casually, unhurried, but Aurora could tell - she always could - when something sat heavy on his mind. His shoulders were tense, posture just a little too still.
He hadn’t said a word since they’d arrived.
That scared her more than if he had.
She curled her fingers into the hem of his shirt, heart racing. Loving Klaus Mikaelson wasn’t something you said lightly. It wasn’t something you tossed into the air and hoped would land softly. Loving him meant vulnerability - real, terrifying vulnerability - and Aurora had spent most of her life being protected, not exposed.
She wasn’t sure she knew how to be the one standing open first.
“Klaus,” she said quietly.
He paused, glass hovering near his lips, then set it aside untouched. Slowly, he turned to face her.
“Yes, love?”
His voice was gentle. Too gentle.
She swallowed. “You’ve been quiet.”
He studied her for a moment, eyes searching, reading her the way he always did. Then he crossed the room and knelt in front of her, placing his hands on her knees. The gesture was intimate, grounding.
“You’re troubled,” he said. “And I’d very much like to know why.”
Aurora looked away.
“I didn’t mean for you to hear that,” she admitted.
Klaus’s brow furrowed. “Hear what?”
She laughed weakly. “Don’t do that.”
A small smile tugged at his lips, but there was no teasing in it. “Indulge me.”
She hesitated, then met his gaze again. “What I said to my brothers. Earlier.”
Understanding dawned instantly.
“Oh,” he murmured.
Her chest tightened. “I didn’t say it to you yet. And I wasn’t ready. And now it feels like… like I stole the moment from myself.”
Klaus was quiet for a long beat.
Then he reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, knuckles lingering against her cheek.
“Does it frighten you,” he asked softly, “that you feel it at all?”
Aurora nodded.
“Yes.”
He nodded too, as if that answer made perfect sense. “It should. Loving me is not an easy thing.”
“That’s not why,” she said quickly. “I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of… what it means. Of saying it out loud and having everything change.”
His thumb traced slow circles against her skin. “Everything has already changed, love.”
She exhaled shakily. “I’ve spent my whole life being someone’s responsibility. Stefan’s. Damon’s. I don’t know how to… choose first.”
Klaus rose then, sitting beside her on the bed, close enough that their thighs touched. He turned toward her fully, expression unguarded in a way he rarely allowed anyone to see.
“Look at me,” he said.
She did.
“I have never wanted you to be mine because I claimed you,” he said quietly. “I want you to stay because you choose me. Every day.”
Her eyes burned. “And what if one day I don’t?”
Klaus smiled - sad, knowing. “Then I will endure it. But tonight, you are here. And that is enough.”
She leaned forward without thinking, resting her forehead against his chest. His arms came around her immediately, firm and secure.
“I don’t know how to say it yet,” she whispered.
Klaus pressed a kiss to her hair.
“You needn’t say anything,” he murmured. “Not until you’re ready.”
She stayed there for a long time, breathing him in, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. It was grounding in a way nothing else was.
Eventually, Klaus spoke again.
“Aurora.”
She hummed softly.
“I heard you say you loved me,” he said. “And I would be lying if I claimed it didn’t affect me.”
She tensed slightly.
“So allow me,” he continued, lifting her chin gently so she had to look at him, “to say something in return.”
Her breath caught.
“I love you,” Klaus said.
The words were steady. Certain. Not rushed, not dramatic - simply true.
Aurora’s eyes widened, tears spilling over before she could stop them. “Klaus-”
“Hush, love,” he said, smiling softly as he wiped them away. “I do not say it expecting anything in return. I say it because it is so.”
She let out a broken laugh. “You’re not supposed to make this easier.”
He chuckled quietly. “I’ve never been good at doing what I’m supposed to.”
He leaned closer, resting his forehead against hers.
“Though it’s still early,” he continued, voice lower now, intimate, “I want us to have an eternity together.”
Her heart pounded.
“I know we will,” he said with a small laugh. “We can’t be easily killed.”
She laughed through her tears at that.
“But one day,” he went on, serious again, “we’ll make it truly official. One day, I will marry you, love.”
Her breath stilled completely.
“I will make you my wife.”
The room felt impossibly quiet.
Aurora stared at him, stunned. “You’re… you’re serious.”
Klaus smiled, radiant and terrifying and utterly sincere. “I have never been more serious about anything in my long, exhausting life.”
She shook her head, overwhelmed. “You’re talking about forever.”
“Yes,” he said simply. “I am.”
She pressed her hands against his chest, grounding herself. “You don’t even know if I’ll say yes to that.”
He kissed her knuckles. “Then I shall spend the rest of my existence earning it.”
Something inside her finally broke open.
“I love you,” she whispered.
Klaus froze.
Then, slowly, reverently, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her - soft at first, like he was afraid she might disappear if he pressed too hard. The kiss deepened, full of promise rather than hunger.
When they finally parted, Klaus rested his forehead against hers, eyes bright.
“There it is,” he murmured. “I wondered how long it would take.”
She laughed, breathless. “You’re impossible.”
“And you adore me for it.”
She smiled. “I really do.”
He pulled her down with him onto the bed, tucking her against his side, arm wrapped securely around her.
“Sleep, love,” he said softly. “I’ll keep watch.”
Aurora closed her eyes, safe in the knowledge that for the first time in her life, she wasn’t being protected out of obligation.
She was being loved-
fiercely, eternally, and without condition.
Pairing: Tim Bradford x female!oc
Word Count: 1424
Morgan never thought she’d be the kind of person who cared about a wedding.
Not really.
She’d seen enough messy divorces, enough broken promises, enough “forever” that barely lasted a year to keep her expectations… realistic.
But standing in front of the mirror, dressed in white, hands slightly trembling as she adjusted the fabric-
Yeah.
She cared.
More than she ever thought she would.
“You’re going to wrinkle it if you keep fidgeting.”
Morgan glanced over her shoulder to see Angela leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, watching her with a knowing smirk.
“I’m not fidgeting,” Morgan muttered.
Angela raised an eyebrow. “You just adjusted that same strap three times in the last thirty seconds.”
Morgan dropped her hands. “Okay, maybe I’m fidgeting a little.”
From the other side of the room, Nyla huffed a quiet laugh. “Relax. It’s just a wedding.”
Morgan shot her a look. “Easy for you to say.”
Nyla shrugged. “You’re marrying a good guy. You’ve got a great kid. Odds are in your favor.”
Morgan let out a breath, glancing back at herself in the mirror.
The dress wasn’t over-the-top. Nothing dramatic or princess-like.
Simple. Elegant. Her.
Tim had insisted on that - whatever you want, Blaine.
Her heart softened at the thought of him.
“You okay?” Angela asked, her tone shifting slightly.
Morgan nodded, her voice quieter now. “Yeah. I just… didn’t think I’d ever have this.”
Angela’s expression softened, too. “Yeah. None of us really did.”
Before Morgan could respond, the door burst open-
“AUNTIE LUCY SAID I COULD COME IN!”
A tiny blur launched into the room, followed closely by Lucy, who looked only mildly apologetic.
“Sorry,” Lucy said, not sounding sorry at all. “She insisted.”
Morgan barely had time to react before Sasha wrapped her arms around her legs.
“Mommy!” Sasha beamed, looking up at her.
Morgan melted instantly, crouching down carefully in her dress. “Hey, bug.”
Sasha gasped dramatically, tiny hands coming up to Morgan’s face. “You pwetty!”
Angela snorted. Nyla looked away to hide a smirk.
Morgan laughed softly. “Thank you, baby.”
Sasha turned, pointing at Lucy proudly. “Auntie Lucy did my hair!”
Lucy grinned. “Braids. Very official.”
“And Auntie Tamara picked my dress!” Sasha added excitedly.
Morgan glanced up. “Of course she did.”
Lucy shrugged. “We have a system.”
Morgan shook her head, smiling.
It was true - Sasha adored them.
“How’s your dad?” Morgan asked.
Sasha lit up. “Daddy’s nervous!”
That made all three women laugh.
“Good,” Nyla said. “As he should be.”
Morgan smiled to herself, her nerves easing just a little.
Because if Tim Bradford was nervous?
Then maybe she didn’t have to be so scared either.
Tim did not get nervous.
At least, not in the way most people understood it.
He didn’t panic. He didn’t spiral.
But standing at the front of the venue, hands clasped behind his back, waiting-
Yeah.
This counted.
“You look like you’re about to go into a hostage negotiation.”
Tim didn’t even glance over as John stepped up beside him.
“This might be scarier” Tim muttered.
Nolan grinned. “Relax. It’s a wedding, not a standoff.”
Tim huffed quietly.
From behind them, Wesley adjusted his tie. “Technically, weddings are significantly less dangerous.”
Tim shot him a look. “Helpful.”
“I try.”
The music shifted.
And just like that-
Everything else faded away.
Because she was there.
Morgan.
Walking toward him.
And for a moment, Tim forgot how to breathe.
She looked…
Incredible.
But it wasn’t just the dress.
It was her.
Strong. Steady. A little nervous - but still her.
And then-
Sasha appeared between them, walking proudly down the aisle with a determined little stride, holding a small basket like it was the most important job in the world.
Tim’s chest tightened.
That was his family.
Right there.
Morgan reached him a few seconds later, and for a moment, they just stood there.
Looking at each other.
Everything unspoken passing between them.
“You clean up nice,” she murmured.
Tim’s lips twitched. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
She smiled.
And just like that-
It began.
The ceremony was simple.
Personal.
Real.
No unnecessary fluff.
Just vows that meant something.
“I didn’t expect you,” Morgan admitted, her voice steady but soft. “Not like this. Not when you walked into my life the way you did. But somehow… you became the one thing I can’t imagine living without.”
Tim’s gaze never left hers.
“You make me better,” he said. “You challenge me. You don’t let me get away with anything. And you gave me the best thing in my life.”
Morgan’s eyes filled with tears.
“Sasha,” he added quietly.
Morgan laughed softly through her tears. “Yeah… her too.”
“And you,” Tim corrected.
There it was again.
That steady certainty.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you too.”
And when they kissed-
It wasn’t just a promise.
It was everything they’d already built.
The reception was louder.
Warmer.
Full of laughter, music, and way too many people who had opinions about Tim finally getting married.
“About time,” Angela said, raising a glass.
“Long overdue,” Nyla added.
Morgan laughed, leaning slightly into Tim’s side as Sasha sat on his hip, happily munching on a piece of cake.
“Careful,” Morgan teased. “You’re getting frosting everywhere.”
“She’s fine,” Tim said, completely unconcerned.
Sasha grinned, frosting already on her cheek. “Daddy said okay!”
Morgan shook her head. “Of course he did.”
Across the room, Lucy and Tamara were watching them like they were plotting something.
Morgan narrowed her eyes. “That’s never a good sign.”
“You’re not wrong,” Tim muttered.
A second later-
“MORGAN!”
Too late.
Lucy and Tamara practically rushed them, both looking entirely too excited.
“No,” Morgan said immediately. “Whatever this is - no.”
Lucy gasped. “You don’t even know what we’re going to say!”
“I don’t need to.”
Tamara clasped her hands together dramatically. “Please.”
Morgan crossed her arms. “Why do I feel like this is about Sasha?”
“Because it is,” Lucy said brightly.
Tim sighed. “Of course it is.”
Lucy pointed at Sasha, who immediately reached for her. “Look at her! She loves us.”
Sasha beamed. “Auntie Lucy!”
“And Auntie Tamara!” Tamara added quickly.
Sasha giggled. “Auntie Tamara!”
Morgan raised an eyebrow. “You taught her that.”
“No,” Lucy said. “She feels it.”
Angela snorted from nearby. “Sure she does.”
Nyla shook her head. “We don’t even get that title.”
“That’s because you’re scary,” Tamara said.
“Hey-” Nyla started.
Lucy jumped back in. “Focus! The point is - we should take Sasha.”
Morgan blinked. “Take Sasha... where?"
“For your honeymoon,” Tamara clarified.
Tim frowned. “You want to babysit.”
“Yes,” Lucy said. “But like… professionally.”
“That’s not a thing,” Morgan said.
“It is now,” Tamara insisted.
Morgan looked at Tim. “Say something.”
Tim looked between them, then down at Sasha - who was now happily playing with Tim’s tie.
“…She does like them,” he admitted.
Morgan stared at him. “You’re not helping.”
Lucy stepped closer, lowering her voice slightly. “You guys deserve this. Time alone. No diapers. No bedtime battles. Just… you.”
Morgan hesitated.
Because-
They hadn’t really had that.
Not fully.
Not without worrying about Sasha.
Tamara softened slightly. “We’ll take good care of her. Promise.”
Sasha looked up at Morgan then, completely content, completely happy.
Morgan sighed.
“Two days,” she said finally.
Lucy gasped. “Yes!”
“Three,” Tamara pushed.
Morgan narrowed her eyes. “Two and a half."
“Deal,” Lucy said quickly, before Tamara could argue.
Tim huffed a quiet laugh. “You just negotiated custody like it was a plea deal.”
Morgan smirked. “I’ve learned from the best.”
Lucy was already scooping Sasha into her arms. “Come on, kid. You’re coming with Auntie Lucy.”
“Auntie Tamara!” Sasha added.
Morgan shook her head, watching them go.
“This is either the best decision we’ve ever made,” she muttered, “or the worst.”
Tim slid an arm around her waist, pulling her closer.
“It’ll be fine.”
She glanced up at him. “You sure?”
Tim pressed a kiss to her temple.
“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”
Morgan smiled softly, leaning into him.
Because for the first time in a long time—
She believed it.
Later that night, as the reception wound down and the lights softened, Morgan stood beside Tim, watching their friends, their family, their life all wrapped into one place.
Pairing: Tim Bradford x female!oc
Word Count: 1697
Morgan had never been the kind of person to take risks without calculating the outcome first.
That was before.
Before the hospital room.
Before the words you’re pregnant.
Before everything in her carefully controlled life tilted on its axis and forced her to face something she couldn’t plan her way out of.
And definitely before Tim Bradford looked her in the eyes and said, you’re not alone in this.
The first conversation after she was discharged wasn’t easy.
It wasn’t dramatic either.
No shouting. No walking away.
Just two people sitting across from each other in Tim’s living room, a heavy silence hanging between them, both knowing this conversation would change everything.
Morgan shifted on the couch, arms crossed loosely over her chest. “We should talk about… us.”
Tim, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, nodded. “Yeah.”
Another pause.
God, this was harder than facing down a suspect with a weapon.
“I meant what I said at the hospital,” he added. “You’re not alone in this. Not with the baby, and not with… everything else.”
Morgan studied him carefully. “And what is everything else, exactly?”
Tim exhaled slowly, like he was choosing his words with precision.
“I care about you.”
Simple.
Direct.
Very Tim.
Morgan’s heart stuttered in her chest.
“This isn’t just about doing the right thing,” he continued. “If it was, I would’ve handled it differently. This-” he gestured between them, “-means something.”
Morgan swallowed, her guard instinctively rising. “We said it was a one-time thing.”
“I know what we said.”
“Then what changed?”
Tim met her eyes, steady as ever.
“You did.”
That… wasn’t what she expected.
Her defenses faltered slightly. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” he said. “I’ve felt it for a while. I just didn’t act on it because I’m your sergeant and you’re barely out of training. It’s not exactly a great idea.”
Morgan huffed softly. “That’s one way to put it.”
“But this isn’t hypothetical anymore,” Tim added. “We’re already in it.”
She looked down at her hands, fingers fidgeting slightly.
“Are you saying you want a relationship?” she asked quietly.
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
No second-guessing.
Just certainty.
Morgan let out a shaky breath. “You realize how complicated that makes everything, right? Work, the baby, the department-”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“You keep saying that like it’s easy.”
“It’s not,” Tim admitted. “But it’s worth it.”
Her eyes snapped back to his.
“Worth it?” she echoed.
“You are,” he said simply.
Morgan’s throat tightened.
God.
This man.
For someone who was notoriously emotionally constipated, he had a way of saying things that hit hard when it mattered.
Silence stretched between them again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was… fragile.
Hopeful.
Terrifying.
“Okay,” she said finally, the word leaving her lips before she could overthink it.
Tim blinked. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” She let out a breath, a small, nervous smile tugging at her lips. “Let’s… try.”
Something shifted in his expression then.
Not a full smile - Tim Bradford didn’t do those often - but something softer. Warmer.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “We’ll try.”
And just like that-
Everything changed again.
The next few months were a balancing act.
Work became… complicated.
They reported everything, just like Tim said they would. Transfers were discussed, lines were redrawn, and while the department wasn’t exactly thrilled, it wasn’t the disaster Morgan had feared either.
Still, it wasn’t easy.
Being pregnant on patrol wasn’t exactly ideal.
Morning sickness hit her like a truck at the worst possible times.
Fatigue followed close behind.
And Tim?
Tim was insufferable.
“You need to sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“I am literally standing, Tim.”
“Exactly. Sit.”
Morgan rolled her eyes, but she sat anyway.
It became a pattern.
Tim hovering. Morgan resisting.
Tim insisting. Morgan pretending to hate it.
The truth?
She didn’t.
Not really.
Because beneath the overprotectiveness, beneath the constant check-ins and quiet concern, there was something she hadn’t expected.
Consistency.
Tim was there.
Every appointment.
Every bad day.
Every moment she doubted herself.
And somewhere along the way, the fear started to fade.
Replaced by something steadier.
Something real.
By six months, Tim made a decision.
“You’re moving in.”
Morgan blinked at him from across her kitchen. “That wasn’t a question.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
She crossed her arms. “Tim-”
“I’m not having you alone this far along,” he said, cutting her off. “It’s not happening.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can,” he replied evenly. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
He stepped closer, his voice softening just slightly.
“The point is I don’t want you to have to.”
That did it.
Morgan sighed, her shoulders relaxing.
“God, you’re impossible.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
She shook her head, but there was no real resistance left.
“Fine,” she muttered. “But I get closet space.”
Tim huffed a quiet laugh. “Deal.”
Nine months later-
Morgan had never experienced pain like that in her life.
“TIM BRADFORD I SWEAR TO GOD THIS IS YOUR FAULT-”
Tim stood at her side, gripping her hand as she crushed his fingers, completely unfazed by the verbal assault.
“You’re doing great,” he said calmly.
“I’M GOING TO KILL YOU-”
“After,” he agreed.
Hours later-
A cry filled the room.
Sharp.
Strong.
Perfect.
Morgan’s head fell back against the pillow, exhausted beyond words as tears slipped down her temples.
“Is she-?” her voice broke.
“She’s good,” the doctor assured.
Tim didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Until they placed the tiny, wriggling baby in Morgan’s arms.
And everything-
Everything-
Shifted.
Morgan stared down at her daughter, heart cracking wide open in a way she didn’t know was possible.
“Hi,” she whispered.
Tim stepped closer, his hand resting gently on Morgan’s shoulder as he looked down at the baby.
His daughter.
His voice was quieter than she’d ever heard it.
“She’s perfect.”
Morgan smiled weakly. “Yeah… she is.”
A nurse glanced between them. “Do we have a name?”
Morgan looked up at Tim.
He met her gaze, something unspoken passing between them.
“Sasha,” Morgan said softly.
Tim nodded. “Sasha Marie Bradford.”
And just like that-
Their world became her.
Two years later
“Daddy!”
Tim barely had time to brace before a tiny blur launched itself at his legs.
He caught her easily, lifting her up as Sasha giggled, her small hands grabbing onto his shirt.
“There’s my girl,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek.
Morgan leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene with a soft smile.
“You spoil her,” she teased.
Tim didn’t even look up. “She deserves it.”
Sasha beamed at that, clearly in agreement.
Life had settled into something… good.
Unexpected.
But good.
They’d built a home together. A routine.
Something solid.
And yet-
Apparently, it wasn’t enough for everyone else.
“Dude,” Lucy said one day, leaning against the station counter, “when are you going to propose already?”
Tim blinked. “What?”
“I’m just saying,” Angela added, bouncing baby Jack slightly on her hip, “you’ve got the kid, the house, the whole domestic thing going on - what’s the hold-up?”
From across the room, Nyla smirked. “Yeah, Bradford. You scared?”
Tim shot her a look. “No.”
“Then do it,” John chimed in with a grin.
Even Wesley, who was just visiting, added, “From a legal standpoint, marriage has its benefits.”
Tim rubbed a hand over his face.
Unbelievable.
But the thing was-
They weren’t wrong.
So he made a plan.
“Are you sure about this?” Morgan asked, eyeing him suspiciously as they pulled up to the restaurant.
“Yes.”
“You hate fancy restaurants.”
“I don’t hate them.”
“You do.”
Tim sighed. “Just come inside.”
Morgan narrowed her eyes but got out anyway.
The restaurant was… nice.
Really nice.
Low lighting. Quiet atmosphere. A secluded table tucked away from the rest of the dining area.
Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Okay, what did you do?”
Tim pulled out her chair. “Sit.”
She did - slowly, still watching him like she was waiting for the catch.
“You’re being weird,” she said.
“I’m always weird.”
“Not like this.”
Tim didn’t respond right away.
Instead, he reached into his jacket.
Morgan’s breath caught.
“Tim-”
He stood, moving around the table.
And then-
He dropped to one knee.
Morgan’s heart stopped.
“I know this isn’t how we planned things,” he said, his voice steady but softer than usual. “Actually, we didn’t plan any of it.”
A small, shaky laugh escaped her.
“But I wouldn’t change it,” he continued. “Not a single part. Not the chaos, not the surprises - none of it. Because it gave me you. And it gave me Sasha.”
Morgan’s eyes filled with tears.
“You’re my partner in every way that matters,” Tim said. “And I want to make it official.”
He opened the small box.
A ring.
Simple. Beautiful. Perfect.
“Morgan Blaine,” he said, holding her gaze, “will you marry me?”
For a second-
She couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t breathe.
All she could see was him.
And everything they’d built together.
Everything they’d survived.
Everything they were.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Tim blinked. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” she said again, stronger this time, a tear slipping down her cheek as she laughed. “Of course, yes.”
He slid the ring onto her finger, standing as she immediately pulled him into a kiss.
Soft.
Warm.
Certain.
When they finally pulled apart, Morgan let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head slightly.
“Sasha’s probably running them ragged right now,” she said, glancing down at the ring again like she still couldn’t believe it.
Tim huffed quietly. “Chen volunteered. She knew what she was signing up for.”
Morgan smiled, softer this time.
“Still,” she murmured, looking back up at him, “we should probably get home before our daughter stages a full rebellion.”
Tim’s lips curved just slightly. “Yeah. Probably.”
She slipped her hand into his, fingers lacing together naturally, the ring catching the light between them.
“Hey, Tim?” she said as they turned to leave.
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
He didn’t hesitate.
“I know,” he said - then, softer, “I love you too.”
police situations at my job always make me sweat from some reason. they’re not even here for me! it’s usually for a resident or someone who needs a place to stay for the night. but I always end up 3x hotter afterwards
The first time Nina googled one of Lucy's exes, she told herself it was harmless.
Just curiosity.
That was all.
Anyone would do it.
Except... most people didn't end up three hours deep into old Instagram posts at two in the morning, cross-referencing tagged photos and police academy graduation pictures while their girlfriend slept peacefully beside them.
Nini definitely wasn't supposed to care this much.
But she did.
And after a year of dating Lucy, it had only gotten worse.
Because Lucy Chen was impossible not to compare yourself to. She was beautiful in that effortless was that made people stare without realizing they were staring. Smart. Funny. Patient. Kind. The kind of women strangers trusted instantly and exes never got fully over.
And Nini?
Nini loved her so much it made her chest ache sometimes.
Which was exactly why the obsession started.
It began with John Nolan.
Lucy had mentioned him casually one night while they were cooking dinner together.
“Yeah, Nolan used to burn grilled cheese constantly,” Lucy had laughed while flipping tortillas in the pan. “Smoke alarm every single time.”
Nini had laughed too.
Then later, after Lucy fell asleep with her head on Nini’s chest, Nini grabbed her phone and searched him.
Police officer. Older. Divorced. Kind eyes.
She found academy photos. Old department gala pictures. Social media posts from coworkers that included him in the background.
Then came Emmett Lang.
Emmett was easier to find. Firefighter. Charming smile. Broad shoulders. The kind of guy who looked good holding a rescue axe.
Then Chris Sanford.
Assistant district attorney. Clean-cut. Professional. Fancy suits.
And finally-
Tim Bradford.
That one had hit the hardest.
Because everyone knew about Tim and Lucy.
Even people who barely paid attention could see it in old body cam clips online, in blurry precinct party photos, in the way Lucy’s face softened whenever she talked about him.
Tim was the one Nini hated researching most.
And the one she researched the most anyway.
It became routine after that.
Any free time she had somehow turned into research time.
Lunch breaks.
Late nights.
Waiting rooms.
She told herself she just wanted to understand Lucy better. Understand her history. The people who shaped her.
But the truth was uglier than that.
Nini wanted to know why Lucy picked her.
What made Nini different?
Better?
Worse?
Sometimes she’d sit cross-legged on her couch with her notebook open beside her while scribbling observations like she was building some kind of criminal profile.
NINI:
More emotionally open.
Better communicator?
Still insecure.
Lucy’s chest tightened at that line.
Still insecure.
The pages near the back were messier. More frantic.
Does she ever compare me to them?
Was Tim the love of her life?
Does she miss any of them?
Would she go back if they asked?
Lucy closed the notebook slowly.
She didn’t know what emotion hit first.
Shock.
Concern.
Sadness.
Because this wasn’t casual curiosity.
This was obsession.
And somehow the worst part was realizing Nini had been carrying this around alone.
By the time Nini got home that evening, she was exhausted.
Her shoulders ached. Her head hurt.
All she wanted was Lucy.
But the second she walked into the apartment, she froze.
Lucy sat at the kitchen counter.
The notebook rested in front of her.
Nini’s blood ran cold.
For a second neither of them spoke.
Then Lucy said quietly, “You forgot this.”
Nini couldn’t breathe.
“Oh my God.”
Her voice came out barely above a whisper.
Lucy watched her carefully. “Nini…”
Nini immediately grabbed for her bag like she could somehow disappear into it.
“I can explain.”
Lucy’s expression wasn’t angry.
Which somehow made it worse.
“Okay,” Lucy said softly. “Explain.”
Nini stared at the notebook.
Humiliation crawled up her throat like acid.
“I sound insane.”
“You don’t sound insane,” Lucy replied carefully.
Nini laughed once.
Sharp.
Broken.
“There are literally research notes about your exes in there, Lucy.”
Lucy stayed quiet.
And that silence cracked something open inside Nina.
“I know it’s weird, okay? I know it is.” Her words started spilling out too fast. “I just - I needed to know about them.”
“Why?”
Nini looked at her then.
Really looked at her.
And Lucy saw it immediately.
Fear.
Pure fear.
“Because they all mattered to you,” Nini whispered. “And I needed to understand why.”
Lucy’s face softened instantly.
“Nini-”
“And Tim-” Nini shook her head, already spiraling. “God, everyone talks about Tim. Everyone. Like you two were inevitable or something and I just-”
Her voice cracked.
“I kept wondering if I was temporary.”
Lucy blinked.
“Nini…”
“I know you love me,” Nini said quickly. “I do know that. But sometimes I look at you and think there’s no way I’m the person you end up with.”
The apartment felt painfully quiet.
Nini crossed her arms tightly over her chest like she was holding herself together.
“So I researched them,” she admitted shakily. “Because if I could figure out what they had maybe I could figure out what you wanted.”
Lucy stared at her for a long moment.
Then she stood and walked around the counter.
“Nini.”
Nini immediately looked down. “Please don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m pathetic.”
Lucy’s expression broke.
“Oh, baby.”
Before Nini could react, Lucy cupped her face gently.
“There is nothing pathetic about being scared.”
Nini’s eyes burned.
“You should be freaked out.”
“I am a little concerned,” Lucy admitted honestly.
Nini winced.
“But not because I think you’re crazy.”
Lucy brushed her thumb under Nini’s eye carefully.
“I’m concerned because you’ve been carrying this alone for a year.”
That nearly shattered Nini entirely.
“I tried to stop,” she whispered. “I really did.”
Lucy gave a tiny sad smile. “The color-coded tabs say otherwise.”
To Nini’s horror, a laugh burst out of her.
Lucy laughed too.
And just like that, some of the tension eased.
Only a little.
Nini covered her face with both hands. “Oh my God, this is so embarrassing.”
Lucy gently pulled her hands away.
“Can I ask you something?”
Nini nodded hesitantly.
“Did you ever think maybe I chose you because you’re you?”
Nini swallowed hard.
Lucy continued softly, “Not because you’re better than them. Not because you’re worse. Just… different.”
“But Tim-”
“Is my ex.”
Lucy’s tone wasn’t harsh. Just firm.
“Yes, I loved him. Nolan too. Chris. Emmett.” She shrugged lightly. “They were all important at different points in my life.”
Nini’s stomach twisted.
Lucy immediately noticed.
“That doesn’t lessen what I feel for you.”
“But what if-”
“Nini.” Lucy waited until Nini met her eyes again. “You are not competing with ghosts.”
That hit hard enough to make Nini’s eyes sting instantly.
Lucy leaned against the counter.
“You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you love very intensely.”
Nini huffed weakly. “That’s one way to put it.”
“And I think somewhere along the way, that love turned into fear.”
Lucy glanced toward the notebook.
“You started treating my past like evidence in a case file.”
Nini groaned. “Please never say it like that again.”
Lucy smiled faintly.
Then her expression softened again.
“You could’ve just asked me.”
Nini looked miserable. “How was I supposed to ask? ‘Hey babe, do you secretly wish you were still with your emotionally constipated sergeant ex-boyfriend?’”
Lucy snorted.
“That is not what Tim was.”
Nini stared at her flatly.
“…Okay maybe a little.”
They both laughed this time.
Real laughter.
And suddenly Nini felt tears sliding down her face at the same time.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Lucy wiped her cheeks gently.
“Thank you for telling me the truth.”
“I thought you’d leave.”
Lucy looked genuinely startled.
“For this?”
Nini shrugged helplessly.
Lucy shook her head immediately.
“No.”
Then after a beat-
“But we are getting you a hobby.”
Nini barked out another laugh through her tears.
“That’s fair.”
Lucy kissed her forehead softly.
“For the record?”
Nini sniffled. “Yeah?”
“You wanna know the thing none of my exes had?”
Nini looked up cautiously.
Lucy smiled.
“They weren’t you.”
And that-
That finally broke the last ugly knot in Nini’s chest.
She started crying for real then.
Not graceful tears.
Full-on ugly crying into Lucy’s shoulder while Lucy held her close and rubbed soothing circles against her back.
“I love you so much,” Nini mumbled between sobs.
“I know.”
“I’m literally insane about you.”
Lucy grinned against her hair. “That part I gathered.”
Nini groaned dramatically. “I’m never recovering from this.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely teasing you about the binder behavior for the rest of our relationship.”
“It’s not a binder.”
Lucy pulled back slightly, raising an eyebrow.
“Nini. There’s an index.”
“…I like organization.”
Lucy laughed so hard she nearly cried herself.
And honestly?
Hearing that sound made Nini feel lighter than she had in months.
Thirty-two mornings waking up alone. Thirty-two nights staring at her phone hoping for some kind of update that never came. Thirty-two days of hearing: "We can't tell you anything, Nini. She's undercover."
As if that made it easier.
It didn't.
It made everything worse.
Because Lucy hadn't just disappeared into some east assignment. This one had been dangerous enough that even Tim looked tense when he'd come by to check on her a week ago. And Tim Bradford didn't get tense unless things were bad.
Nini sat curled into the corner of the couch, wrapped in one of Lucy's hoodies that still faintly smelled like her perfume. The apartment lights were dim except for the warm glow of the kitchen lamp Celina had turned on earlier.
Celina sat beside her, one arm around Nini's shoulders while Nini quietly cried into her chest.
"I'm being pathetic," Nini muttered thickly.
"You really aren't," Celina said softly.
Nini wiped at her eyes, though it barely helped. "It's been a month."
"I know."
"She said she'd try to get word to me."
Celina stayed quiet at that.
Because they both knew Lucy probably had tried.
Undercover assignments weren't predictable. Sometimes officers could sneak a message through. Sometimes they vanished completely until the operation ended.
And sometimes...
Nini squeezed her eyes before her thoughts could spiral further.
She'd promised herself she wouldn't think like that.
Wouldn't think about the stories she'd heard.
Wouldn't think about the funerals.
Wouldn't think about the last time she saw Lucy had been that rushed goodbye in the kitchen with Lucy tugging her close and whispering, "I'll come back to you. I promise."
But promises didn't stop bullets.
Nini broke again.
A sob escaped her chest before she could stop it.
Celina immediately tightened her hold on her. "Hey, hey-"
"I just miss her," Nini cried quietly. "God, I miss her so much."
Celina rubbed her back soothingly. "I know."
Nini buried her face into her shoulder. "I haven't heard anything in over a week. Not even from Tim. I just - I just want to know she's okay."
The apartment stayed silent except for her crying.
Neither of them noticed the front door slowly opening.
Lucy stepped inside as quietly as possible, exhaustion weighing down every inch of her body. The operation had wrapped nearly two days early after the suspects were arrested during a buy gone wrong. She's barely even stopped at the station before driving home.
All she'd thought about the entire drive home was Nini.
Seeing her.
Holding her.
Sleeping in her own bed with her girlfriend curled against her chest.
Lucy had planned to surprise her.
She just hadn’t expected this.
The second she heard Nini crying, her heart cracked clean open.
Lucy stayed near the doorway silently, duffel bag slipping from her shoulder onto the floor as she listened.
“I hope she’s okay,” Nini whispered brokenly. “I hope she’s eating. I hope she’s sleeping at least a little. God, I hope nobody’s hurt her.”
Lucy pressed her lips together hard.
“She’s Lucy Chen,” Celina said gently. “She’s tough.”
Nini laughed weakly through tears. “Yeah, well… tough people still get hurt.”
Lucy swallowed hard.
Nini sniffled again. “I just want her home.”
That did it.
Lucy crossed the apartment silently.
Celina finally glanced up - and immediately froze.
Her eyes widened.
Lucy pressed a finger to her lips.
Celina’s expression melted instantly into relief. She carefully shifted, trying not to alert Nini.
Nini didn’t notice.
“She probably misses you just as much,” Celina whispered.
Nini shook her head, crying harder. “I don’t even care if she comes home grumpy and exhausted and steals all the blankets again. I just-”
Suddenly, warm arms wrapped around her from behind.
Nini gasped sharply.
Before she could react, lips pressed softly against the top of her head once.
Twice.
Three times.
The world stopped.
Lucy’s voice came low and emotional against her hair.
“I missed you too.”
Nini went completely still.
Celina grinned, already standing up quietly from the couch. “Okay, I’m gonna leave you two alone-”
Nini spun around so fast she nearly fell off the couch.
Lucy barely had time to smile before Nini grabbed her face and kissed her.
Hard.
Desperate.
Immediate.
Lucy stumbled slightly from the force of it, laughing softly against Nini’s mouth as Nini climbed halfway into her lap on the couch.
“Oh my God,” Nini breathed shakily between kisses. “Oh my God, you’re home.”
“I’m home,” Lucy whispered.
Nini kissed her again instantly.
Lucy melted into it, one hand cupping the back of her neck while the other wrapped tightly around her waist like she physically couldn’t let go.
And honestly?
She couldn’t.
Not after a month away.
Not after sleeping in shitty motels pretending to be someone else.
Not after spending every night staring at burner phones wishing she could call home.
Nini pulled back just enough to look at her.
Her eyes were red and swollen from crying.
Lucy’s chest ached at the sight.
“Baby…” Lucy brushed tears from her cheeks carefully. “Hey, don’t cry.”
“You disappeared for a month!” Nini half laughed, half sobbed. “I’m allowed to cry.”
Lucy smiled softly. “Fair.”
Nini grabbed her face again like she needed to make sure Lucy was real. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home tonight?”
She pulled Nini closer until she was practically sitting fully in her lap.
“Look at me.”
Nini slowly did.
“I’m okay,” Lucy said gently. “I’m here.”
Nini nodded shakily.
Lucy pressed their foreheads together. “And I’m gonna keep coming home to you. Every time.”
Nini’s lip trembled. “Promise?”
Lucy kissed her softly.
“Promise.”
Nini finally relaxed against her.
Lucy held her there for several quiet minutes, fingers tracing slowly up and down her back while Nini listened to her heartbeat like she needed the reassurance.
Eventually, Nini mumbled against her neck, “You smell weird.”
Lucy burst out laughing. “That’s rude.”
“You smell like cheap perfume and cigarettes.”
“That’s undercover work, baby.”
“It’s gross.”
Lucy grinned. “You still kissed me.”
“Multiple times.”
Lucy kissed the top of her head again. “Missed you.”
Nini looked up with sleepy, teary eyes. “Can you stay home tomorrow?”
Lucy nodded immediately. “Already got two days off.”
“Good.”
Lucy smiled. “Bossy.”
“I earned it.”
“You absolutely did.”
Nini yawned softly then, exhaustion finally catching up to her.
Lucy noticed instantly.
“When’s the last time you slept properly?”
Nini avoided eye contact.
Lucy groaned. “Nini.”
“I slept!”
“How much?”
“…Does accidental couch napping count?”
Lucy gave her a look.
Nini sighed dramatically. “Fine. Not much.”
Lucy stood carefully, still holding her.
Nini immediately wrapped her legs around Lucy’s waist automatically.
Lucy laughed softly. “Clingy.”
“You vanished for a month. Deal with it.”
“I can do that.”
Lucy carried her toward the bedroom.
Halfway there, Nini touched her face gently. “You really came home.”
Lucy looked at her, heart aching all over again at the wonder in her voice.
“Always,” Lucy whispered.
Nini kissed her one more time before resting her forehead against Lucy’s shoulder.
And for the first time in a month, both of them finally felt like they could breathe again.
