The day began like most days with Steven — soft, sleepy, and slightly off-beat. The flat smelled faintly of coffee and old paper; an Egyptian mythology book was lying open on the kitchen table, pages fanned like a half-awake bird.
“Steven?” you called, still half wrapped in a blanket as you stepped out of the bedroom.
He appeared from behind the bookshelf, hair in full rebellion, one sock on, the other missing entirely.
“Oh! Morning, love. I, uh… was looking for that bus ticket we got to— you know— the exhibit at the museum. Thought I might laminate it.”
You blinked. “You’re laminating a bus ticket?”
“Well, yes. It’s our first outing since you moved in, isn’t it? Historical significance, that.”
You smiled, crossing your arms. “You’re ridiculous.”
He tilted his head, lips curling in a shy grin. “You say that every morning and yet you’re still here.”
The kitchen felt alive when he was in it — clumsy movements, the clatter of mugs, the kettle whistling over his excited chatter about Anubis or some cursed amulet found in 1904. You’d known him long enough to realise his chaos was a rhythm; a dance he didn’t know he was doing.
You sat down at the table, chin resting on your hand. “You were talking in your sleep again.”
His shoulders tensed. “Was I? What did I say?”
“Something about ‘feeding Khonshu biscuits.’ I think you were trying to make peace with him.”
Steven exhaled through his nose, embarrassed but amused. “Typical, isn’t it? Can’t even dream normally.”
You reached out, tracing the back of his hand. “I like your dreams. They’re weird, but they’re yours.”
His gaze softened, that quiet look he only gave you — like he still couldn’t believe you existed. “You make even the nightmares better, you know that?”
“Don’t get poetic, Grant. I haven’t had breakfast yet.”
He laughed under his breath and leaned forward, brushing his nose against your cheek. “Then we’ll fix that, yeah?”
Later that afternoon
You’d both gone out for errands — he needed batteries for his alarm clock (“because apparently Marc changes it when I’m not looking”), and you wanted to pick up some chocolate and painkillers.
At the counter of a small pharmacy, you were flipping through cheap lip balms when you heard Steven chatting politely with the pharmacist.
“Yes, yes, she’s not feeling great. George’s in town, you see.”
You froze mid-reach.
The pharmacist blinked. “I’m sorry— who?”
“George. You know—” Steven gestured vaguely, whispering, “her period?”
The woman frowned in confusion. “Oh— oh! You mean her period?”
“Yes, that’s what I said — George.”
Now you were watching, half-mortified, half-delighted. Steven’s accent always made his flustered moments ten times worse.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he continued, rambling as usual, “I thought everyone called it that. You don’t? I mean— I’ve been saying that for years— with, you know, other women, doctors— no one corrected me—”
The pharmacist chuckled, trying to be polite. “No, sir. I’ve… never heard anyone call it George.”
You bit your lip so hard trying not to laugh that you almost dropped the chocolate bar.
Steven turned to you, eyes wide, voice trembling between embarrassment and disbelief. “Love, have I— have I been saying that all this time? To people? To medical professionals?”
You couldn’t hold it anymore. You burst out laughing right there in the pharmacy.
“Oh my God, Steven— yes! I was the one who started that joke years ago! You actually kept it?”
He gaped at you like you’d just revealed the Rosetta Stone was fake. “You said it like it was an established thing! I thought it was slang or— I don’t know— women’s secret code or something!”
“Secret code?” You leaned against the counter, giggling so hard your stomach hurt. “You told your doctor my period was named George?”
“I— I did!” he admitted helplessly. “For over twenty bloody years, apparently! No one said a word! They just nodded politely!”
The pharmacist was grinning now, and Steven’s ears were the color of pomegranate seeds.
“Oh, Steven,” you gasped, trying to breathe, “you’ve been out here spreading George awareness like it’s a public service.”
He pressed a hand to his face, muffled, “I can never show my face here again.”
That evening
You were still teasing him hours later as you both sat on the couch, legs tangled under a worn blanket.
He kept shaking his head, muttering, “Twenty years, Y/N. Twenty years I’ve been saying that. To colleagues, to the woman at the museum gift shop—”
You rested your head on his shoulder. “Maybe George will live on through them. Maybe they’re telling people right now.”
“Oh don’t say that,” he groaned. “Imagine a whole chain reaction— an epidemic of Georges.”
You giggled softly. “Honestly, it’s kind of sweet. You picked it up because of me.”
He paused, looking down at you with that gentle, astonished affection that always made your chest warm. “Well… yeah. You made something awkward into something normal. I liked that.”
There was a small silence, the kind that wasn’t empty but full — the kind that meant home.
You whispered, “For the record, I think it’s adorable.”
He leaned in, brushing a curl away from your face. “Adorable, huh? That’s not the word I’d use for me making a fool of myself in front of a pharmacist.”
“I’d call it loyal,” you said softly.
His smile melted into something quieter, warmer. “I suppose I am, yeah. Hopelessly, really.”
You tilted your head up, lips finding his — slow, sweet, unhurried. The kind of kiss that didn’t demand anything, just existed. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb tracing your skin like he was afraid you’d fade.
When you broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours. “No one else gets to rename your George, alright?”
You laughed, eyes half-closed. “Promise.”
“Good.” He kissed your nose. “Because apparently I’ve made it my life’s mission to defend it.”
You nestled against his chest, heartbeat steady beneath your ear.
“Twenty years of George,” you murmured.
“You might’ve started a movement.”
“Don’t,” he said through a laugh, “don’t give it a slogan.”
You grinned. “Too late.”
And somewhere between laughter and the quiet hum of the city outside, Steven Grant — the man who accidentally renamed a menstrual cycle — decided that if loving you meant making a fool of himself in public, he’d do it again.
The subway car rattled down the line, a faint hum of fluorescent lights above creating a strange comfort amid the chaos of New York City. Y/N sat in her usual corner seat, Jake Lockley beside her, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His worn leather jacket creaked slightly as he adjusted, his sharp eyes scanning the car. Protective as always, even when there was nothing to worry about.
"You good?" she asked, nudging him with her elbow.
Jake glanced her way, a rare smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. "Am I ever not good?"
"Plenty of times," she quipped. "Like when you tried to convince me you could fix the radiator and almost flooded the apartment."
"Hey," he said, raising a hand defensively.
"That was a team effort."
"Team effort? I wasn't even home!"
Jake shrugged, his smirk widening. "You left me unsupervised. Your mistake."
Y/N rolled her eyes, though she couldn't help but smile. This was their rhythm-teasing, bantering, always toeing the line between friendship and... something else. Not that she'd ever admit that last part. Jake Lockley wasn't exactly boyfriend material. He didn't do relationships, and frankly, she wasn't sure if he was capable of it.
Still, there were moments. Like now, as his dark eyes lingered on her a beat too long before returning to scan the car.
"Anyway," Jake said, breaking the silence.
"What're we eating tonight? Don't say pizza."
"Why not pizza?"
"Because we've had it three times this week."
"Your point?"
Jake groaned, leaning back against the seat.
"You're impossible, mujer.""
"And yet, you still hang out with me," she teased.
"Yeah, well," he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. "Someone's gotta keep you outta trouble."
The train screeched to a halt, and Jake stood, offering her a hand. She took it without thinking, the calluses on his palm familiar, grounding.
Back at the apartment, they settled into their usual routine. Y/N flipped through TV channels while Jake rummaged in the kitchen, muttering in Spanish about the lack of decent food.
"You're the one who ate all the snacks," she called out.
"I didn't eat all of them," he shot back. "Just the good ones."
Y/N laughed, tucking her legs beneath her on the couch. Moments like this were her favorite-simple, easy. Jake was a storm, unpredictable and intense, but here, in their tiny shared space, he was... softer. Not by much, but enough.
"Hey," Jake said suddenly, his voice unusually serious. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "You ever think about the future?"
Y/N blinked, caught off guard. "The future?"
"Yeah. Like... marriage, kids. That kinda thing."
She tilted her head, studying him. "Why? You planning on settling down?"
Jake scoffed. "Not likely. Just curious."
Y/N shrugged, turning her attention back to the TV. "I guess.. yeah. I'd like a wedding one day. A marriage with my best friend."
Jake went quiet. She glanced over, finding him staring at her, his knuckles white as he gripped the doorframe.
“Cool,” he said, nodding slowly. “Cool, cool, cool.”
“Jake?” she asked, frowning.
“Hey, Y/N?”
“Mmm?”
“You’re my best friend.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Yeah. I know.”
He didn’t say anything else, just turned and disappeared into his room, leaving her sitting there, the weight of his words pressing down on her.
Over the next few days, things felt… different. Jake was still Jake—snarky, cocky, always ready with a sarcastic remark—but there was an edge to him now, like he was holding something back.
“You’re being weird,” she said one evening as they walked back from the store.
“I’m not being weird,” he shot back.
“You’re definitely being weird.”
Jake sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe I’m just tired of your face.”
“Oh, shut up,” she said, shoving his shoulder.
He stopped walking, turning to face her. “I’m serious, Y/N.”
“About what?”
“About…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. “About us.”
Her stomach flipped. “What about us?”
Jake stepped closer, his gaze intense. “You said you wanted to marry your best friend, right?”
“Yeah…”
“Well, here I am,” he said, his voice low. “Your best friend.”
Y/N’s breath caught. “Jake—”
“Look,” he said quickly, “I know I’m not exactly Prince Charming or whatever. But I… I care about you. A lot. And if you want a wedding, a marriage, kids—whatever—I’m in. For all of it. With you.”
For a moment, she couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. Then, slowly, a smile spread across her face.
“You’re such an idiot,” she said, laughing softly.
Jake frowned. “That’s not exactly the response I was hoping for.”
She stepped closer, grabbing the front of his jacket and pulling him down into a kiss. He froze for half a second before kissing her back, his hands settling on her waist.
When they finally pulled apart, she grinned up at him. “You’re still an idiot.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, smirking. “You’re stuck with me now.”
Later that night, as they lay tangled together on the couch, Jake brushed a strand of hair from her face.
“Hey, Y/N?”
“Mmm?”
“I’m not doing the whole white picket fence thing, just so you know.”
She laughed, resting her head on his chest. “Good. I don’t want a fence anyway.”
Jake smirked, his arms tightening around her. “Figured as much. You’re too messy for that.”
“Shut up, Lockley.”
“Make me, Mrs. Lockley.”
And just like that, she knew—life with Jake would never be boring.
"You know this means I get to eat all the snacks now, right?"
Santiago leaned against the counter of your small but cozy kitchen, sipping a coffee so strong it could resurrect the dead. His dark eyes were fixed on you as you paced the room, babbling about a series of choices you regretted. As usual, you were trying to make him laugh, exaggerating the details of your latest mishap, but Santiago wasn’t biting this time. His smirk was replaced by something softer, more curious.
"Okay, wait," he interrupted, setting his mug down with a thud. "Run that last part by me again. You’ve never been kissed?"
You froze mid-step, eyes widening in horror. "Oh no, no, no. That’s not what I said." You waved him off with an awkward laugh. "You heard it wrong."
"I didn’t." His smirk returned, this time teasing. He crossed his arms and leaned in slightly, the picture of smug amusement. "You’ve never been kissed? Like… never?"
Your face flushed so fast it felt like you’d caught fire. "I know. It’s humiliating. You must think I’m a total loser." You slapped both hands over your face as if that would make him stop looking at you.
"I don’t." Santiago’s voice was softer now, his smirk fading into something more genuine. "I just… How is that possible?"
You peeked at him through your fingers. "I mean…" You exhaled loudly, dropping your hands and gesturing wildly. "It’s possible! Just look at me."
That made him pause, his head tilting slightly. "I am looking at you." His voice dipped lower, softer. "And I’m not seeing a single reason why you’d have trouble in that department."
You scoffed, deflecting his intensity with a nervous laugh. "Oh, please. You’re biased. You’re contractually obligated to find me tolerable."
"Contractually obligated?" He raised a brow, stepping closer. "We’re not married, cariño. I could walk away any time."
"Yeah, well, don’t let me stop you." You tried to sound casual, but your voice betrayed you, shaky with embarrassment.
Santiago was silent for a beat, his dark eyes scanning your face like he was trying to solve a puzzle. "Wait." His expression shifted, suddenly serious. "Is this why you’ve been dodging me every time I try to kiss you?"
Your eyes darted to the ceiling like it held all the answers. "What? No. I just… you know… germs. Or timing. Or—"
"Y/N." He cut you off, his tone bordering on exasperated. "You’re scared."
"I’m not scared," you shot back, crossing your arms. "I just… don’t want to be bad at it, okay?"
He blinked, then burst out laughing. "Bad at it? That’s what you’re worried about?"
"Stop laughing!" You shoved his chest, but he barely budged. "It’s not funny!"
"It’s a little funny." He grinned down at you, his hands finding your wrists and gently pulling them away from your face. "Do you trust me?"
The question made you pause, your breath catching at the seriousness in his voice. "Of course, I trust you."
"Then let me help you." He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the faint mix of coffee and his cologne. "No pressure. No judgment. Just us."
You hesitated, chewing your bottom lip. "You’re really not gonna make fun of me?"
"Not unless you accidentally bite me." He smirked again, his thumbs tracing small circles on your wrists. "And even then, I’ll probably deserve it."
That made you laugh, the tension easing just enough for you to nod. "Okay. But if I suck at this, you’re never allowed to bring it up."
"Deal." Santiago’s voice was a murmur now, his face lowering to yours. "Just… relax, okay? It’s not a test."
You nodded again, your heart racing as his lips finally met yours. The kiss was soft, unhurried, and entirely unlike the dramatic, over-the-top versions you’d seen in movies. He kissed you like you were the only thing in the world worth focusing on, his hands warm against your skin.
When he finally pulled back, his grin was so smug it made you want to slap him—and kiss him again. "See? Told you you’d be good at it."
You rolled your eyes, though your cheeks still burned. "Beginner’s luck."
"Yeah, sure." Santiago’s grin widened as he leaned in again, his lips brushing against yours as he whispered, "We should test that theory. You know, for science."
You and Nathan Bateman had a history—one that neither of you particularly enjoyed recounting. You weren’t just his assistant or some casual employee on his payroll. You’d known him back when he was a broke genius at university, consumed by his work and annoyingly smug about it. At the time, you’d tolerated his antics because he was brilliant, and despite your knack for making terrible decisions, befriending Nathan hadn’t felt like one of them.
But now? Standing in the sleek, sterile expanse of his high-tech estate, you weren’t so sure anymore.
“Could you not slam the door every time you walk in?” Nathan’s voice carried from the open-concept kitchen, where he stood with a glass of something amber in his hand. “This place costs more than your yearly salary to maintain, Y/N.”
“And whose fault is that?” you shot back, dropping your bag on the polished floor with a loud thud. “If you didn’t insist on living in a Bond villain lair, maybe it wouldn’t cost you so much.”
He smirked, leaning against the counter. “Someone’s grumpy. Long day?”
You rolled your eyes and grabbed the glass from his hand, taking a sip before he could protest. “Let’s just say not everyone has the luxury of hiding in the mountains, boss.”
Nathan watched you with a raised eyebrow, his expression half-amused, half-scrutinizing. “You know,” he started, crossing his arms, “for someone who works for me, you have a funny way of talking to your employer.”
“You wouldn’t have hired me if I didn’t.”
“Touché.”
The banter was familiar, almost comforting in its rhythm. Nathan had always thrived on pushing people, and you had always been too stubborn to back down. It was why you’d lasted so long working for him while others quit after a month.
Still, there were moments when his arrogance got under your skin. Like now.
Nathan’s gaze lingered on you, sharp and calculating. “You’re staying for dinner.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. Because I’m making it, and you’re incapable of feeding yourself properly.”
“Oh, is that what this is? A charity case?”
“No.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping slightly. “It’s me helping my wife.”
The words hit you like a slap. “What are you doing?” you asked, your voice low, cautious.
“Helping my wife,” he repeated, deadpan.
Your throat tightened as you tried to suppress the involuntary shiver his tone sent through you. “You’re growing a bit too comfortable with that nickname for my liking.”
Nathan smirked, stepping even closer, close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from him. “I use it to remind you of your place.”
You swallowed hard. “And what’s that?”
“Mine.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken tension. The air felt thick, electric, as if one wrong word might set off an explosion.
“Cute.” You managed to break the spell, stepping around him and heading for the fridge. “But if you’re calling me your wife, then you’re the one cooking tonight.”
Nathan’s laugh echoed behind you, rich and low. “Is that how it works?”
“Absolutely. It’s a rule.”
The evening passed in a strangely domestic blur. Nathan cooked—granted, it was more him throwing together a surprisingly good pasta dish while you leaned against the counter, sipping wine and criticizing his knife skills.
But the teasing, the little digs, the way his hand brushed yours when he handed you a plate—it all felt... different. Like something unspoken was hovering between you, waiting to be acknowledged.
You knew it was a bad idea. You knew Nathan Bateman was the last person you should let get under your skin. But as the night wore on, as the wine flowed and his sharp smirk softened into something almost tender, you felt your resolve slipping.
After dinner, you found yourself on the couch, your legs tucked under you as Nathan sat on the other end, scrolling through something on his tablet.
“Can you stop working for five seconds?” you asked, throwing a pillow at him.
He caught it effortlessly, his smirk returning. “And what would you suggest I do instead?”
“I don’t know. Be a normal person for once?”
Nathan set the tablet down and turned to face you fully, his expression unreadable. “Normal isn’t exactly my style, Y/N.”
“No kidding.”
Before you could say anything else, he leaned in, his hand brushing against your knee. “You don’t have to keep fighting me, you know.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he interrupted, his voice soft but firm. “You always have been. Since the day we met.”
Your heart pounded as you searched his face, trying to decipher his intentions. “And what exactly am I fighting, Nathan?”
“Me,” he said simply. “Us. This.”
The kiss that followed was inevitable, a culmination of years of tension and unspoken feelings. It was slow at first, tentative, as if either of you might pull away. But when you didn’t, when your hands tangled in his hair and his grip on your waist tightened, it became something more—something you couldn’t ignore.
When you finally broke apart, breathless and a little dazed, Nathan rested his forehead against yours.
“So,” he said, his voice tinged with amusement, “does this mean you’re officially my wife now?”
You groaned, shoving him away. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re mine,” he shot back, grinning.
“Keep dreaming, Bateman.”
“Oh, I do,” he said, his tone turning teasingly serious. “But not about that.”
You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t hide the smile tugging at your lips.
“By the way, if we ever get married, you’re signing a prenup. I’m not sharing my robots.”
The air inside the British Museum was heavy with the whispers of tourists and the faint click of cameras. Steven Grant adjusted the name tag pinned to his rumpled shirt, his nerves fraying as he scanned the lobby. Somewhere, among the bustling crowd, Y/N was supposed to be waiting. She’d promised to meet him for lunch, a promise she rarely broke.
His fingers absently traced the spine of the nearest book on Egyptian mythology, though his thoughts were elsewhere. It wasn’t like her to be late. Steven's stomach churned, a mixture of concern and a familiar unease that seemed to bubble up every time he thought about her too long.
When she finally appeared, her smile was an awkward apology before she even spoke.
“Sorry, Steven. Got caught up. You know how it is,” she said, waving a hand as if that would erase her tardiness.
Steven shook his head, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “S’alright. I was just… uh, sorting books. Nothing urgent, you know?”
Y/N rolled her eyes. “Steven, you don’t have to pretend. You’re terrible at hiding when you’re worried.”
He chuckled nervously. “Am I that obvious?”
“You’re like an open book, Grant.” Her teasing was light, but there was a softness in her eyes that Steven couldn’t help but get lost in.
They sat at a small café near the museum, tucked into a corner booth. The conversation was easy, flowing between discussions of history and her recent misadventures. Y/N was magnetic in her chaos, a whirlwind that Steven couldn’t help but orbit around. She had a knack for making him feel seen, even if her own self-perception was often clouded.
But today, there was something different. A heaviness lingered in her gaze, a shadow that even her brightest smiles couldn’t fully dispel.
“You alright?” Steven asked softly, his brow furrowed.
She hesitated, her fingers toying with the edge of her napkin. “Do you ever feel like… you’re just not enough? Like no matter what you do, people only see what you’re not?”
Steven blinked, caught off guard by her vulnerability. “I—yeah. Yeah, I do.” He leaned forward, his voice earnest. “But it’s not true. Not for you, Y/N. You’re… you’re brilliant. And kind. And…” He stopped, realizing he was rambling.
Her laugh was bitter. “You’re sweet, Steven. But let’s be honest. I don’t exactly fit the mold, do I?” She gestured vaguely to herself. “Not what most people would call… beautiful.”
The words hit Steven like a punch to the chest. He opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off.
“It’s fine. I’ve made peace with it,” she said, though the tightness in her voice betrayed her. “Some people just aren’t meant to be the ones people fall in love with.”
Steven’s heart ached. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, to grab her hand and pull her into the light where she belonged. But the words tangled in his throat.
As days turned into weeks, Steven found himself thinking about her more often than not. Her laughter, her stubborn determination, even her clumsy grace. But no matter how many times he rehearsed what he wanted to say, he could never quite muster the courage.
Y/N, for her part, seemed blissfully unaware of his inner turmoil. She continued to treat him as her closest friend, leaning on him during rough days and sharing small victories with him like they were treasures.
Until one night.
They’d agreed to watch a film at Steven’s flat, the room filled with the scent of popcorn and the faint hum of the television. Y/N sat cross-legged on the couch, her head resting on her hand as she watched the screen. Steven, however, was watching her.
“Do you believe in soulmates?” he asked suddenly, the question tumbling out before he could stop it.
She glanced at him, startled. “What brought that on?”
He shrugged, his cheeks coloring. “Just… curious.”
She was quiet for a moment, her eyes searching his. “I used to,” she admitted softly. “But I think… even if they exist, they probably wouldn’t pick me.”
Steven’s chest tightened. “Why not?”
She smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Because I don’t fit the picture. Soulmates are supposed to be perfect for each other, right? And I’m… well, I’m me.”
The room felt unbearably small. Steven reached out, his hand trembling as it hovered over hers. “Y/N, you… you don’t see yourself the way I do.”
She blinked, her breath catching. “Steven…”
“I think you’re perfect,” he said, the words rushing out like a dam breaking. “Not perfect like… like in magazines or whatever. But perfect because you’re you. And I wouldn’t want you any other way.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. For the first time, she seemed truly at a loss for words.
Steven swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it weird. I just… I needed you to know.”
She stared at him, her eyes glistening. And then, without warning, she leaned in, her lips brushing against his in the softest of kisses.
The world seemed to still, the only sound the pounding of Steven’s heart in his ears.
When they finally pulled apart, she let out a shaky laugh. “You really have a way with words, Grant.”
Steven grinned, his cheeks burning. “Was that… was that alright?”
“More than alright,” she said, her smile finally reaching her eyes.
The dimly lit corridors of the Resistance base on Ajan Kloss were quieter than usual. It was the kind of night where everyone had retreated to their quarters, exhausted from the constant pressure of the war against the First Order. But you were still awake, pacing nervously outside the command center. Something wasn’t sitting right with you.
Poe Dameron had been acting strange lately—stranger than usual. You knew Poe well, maybe better than anyone else in the Resistance. You had shared so many moments together, from daring missions to quiet conversations under the stars. He was charismatic, loyal, and endlessly charming, but something about his recent behavior was off.
You leaned against the wall, trying to calm your nerves. You’d never been one to jump to conclusions, but the uneasy feeling in your gut wouldn’t go away. Finally, you made up your mind. You had to talk to him.
With a deep breath, you headed to Poe’s quarters. You hesitated for a moment before knocking. The door slid open almost immediately, and there he was, leaning casually against the doorframe, his usual smirk firmly in place.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice smooth and comforting.
You nodded, trying to keep your voice steady. “Yeah, something like that. Can we talk?”
Poe’s eyes softened as he stepped aside, gesturing for you to enter. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”
You walked past him, your heart pounding a little faster as you found yourself alone with him in the small, dimly lit space. The door closed with a soft hiss behind you. You turned to face him, searching his eyes for any hint of deception, but all you found was the familiar warmth you’d always loved.
“I’ve been thinking,” you started, trying to find the right words. “About the mission on Sinta Glacier.”
Poe raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “What about it?”
You took a deep breath. “I just—something doesn’t add up. The intel, the way we were ambushed... it felt like someone knew we were coming.”
Poe’s smile faltered just a little, but he quickly recovered. “You think we were set up?”
“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But it doesn’t make sense, Poe. How did they know? How were they so prepared?”
Poe stepped closer to you, his gaze intense. “You’re overthinking this. We’re in a war. Sometimes things don’t go as planned.”
You wanted to believe him, you really did. But the doubt was eating away at you. “I just... I need to know that we can trust each other.”
Poe’s expression softened, and he reached out to gently take your hand. “Hey, of course we can. You and me, we’re a team. You know that.”
His touch was comforting, and for a moment, you wanted to let it all go. But something still wasn’t right. You pulled your hand away, needing some space to think clearly.
“Poe, I need you to be honest with me,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “Are you hiding something?”
Poe sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, there are things I can’t always talk about. It’s part of the job. But you have to trust me. I would never do anything to hurt you.”
His words were so sincere, so convincing, that you almost believed him. Almost. But the nagging feeling in the back of your mind wouldn’t let go.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the plan to strike the First Order’s base on Pasana?” you pressed. “I found out from Finn, not from you.”
Poe’s eyes flashed with something you couldn’t quite place—anger? Frustration? But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
“I didn’t want to drag you into something so dangerous,” he said softly. “I care about you too much.”
You felt a flicker of warmth at his words, but it wasn’t enough to extinguish your doubts. You shook your head, taking a step back.
“Poe, I need to know the truth. Are you working with the First Order?”
The question hung in the air like a dark cloud. You expected him to laugh, to brush it off as ridiculous, but instead, Poe’s expression grew serious, almost sad.
“Why would you ask me that?” he said quietly.
“Because,” you replied, struggling to keep your voice steady, “too many things don’t add up. The missions, the intel, the way you’ve been acting... I need to know, Poe. Please.”
Poe stared at you for a long moment, and in that silence, you felt the ground shift beneath your feet. The warmth in his eyes was gone, replaced by something colder, darker.
“Maybe you’re smarter than I gave you credit for,” he finally said, his voice a low murmur.
Your heart dropped. “Poe...?”
He took a step closer, and you instinctively backed away, the room suddenly feeling much smaller. “You see, it’s always the ones closest to you that you don’t suspect,” he said, his tone almost mocking. “You think you know someone, but you never really do, do you?”
Your mind was spinning, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “Poe, what are you talking about? You can’t be serious—”
“Oh, but I am,” he interrupted, his voice smooth and calm, as if he were discussing the weather. “Do you really think the First Order could have gotten this far without help from the inside?”
The realization hit you like a punch to the gut. “You... You’ve been working with them this whole time?”
Poe’s smile was cold, calculating. “Not exactly. I’ve been using them as much as they’ve been using me. It’s all about leverage, sweetheart. You of all people should know that.”
You felt a surge of anger and betrayal, your hands balling into fists. “How could you do this? After everything—after all we’ve been through—”
Poe’s expression softened, just a little. “It’s not personal. It’s survival. And you... You were always so eager to believe the best in people. It made you easy to manipulate.”
You shook your head, tears of frustration and heartbreak welling up in your eyes. “I trusted you.”
Poe sighed, almost as if he were disappointed. “That was your first mistake.”
The room seemed to close in around you, the air thick with tension. You had never felt so betrayed, so utterly foolish. All this time, you had been fighting for the Resistance, believing in the cause, in Poe, and it had all been a lie.
“But why?” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Why do this?”
Poe’s expression hardened, the warmth you once knew now completely gone. “Because in the end, it’s about winning. And sometimes, you have to make hard choices. Sacrifices. I didn’t want it to come to this, but you just couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”
You felt a cold shiver run down your spine. “Poe, please, we can fix this. We can—”
He cut you off with a bitter laugh. “There’s nothing to fix. It’s over. You need to accept that.”
You stared at him, your heart breaking all over again. “Poe... I loved you.”
For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—regret, maybe? But it was gone as quickly as it came.
“Love is a weakness,” he said quietly. “And you should never let it cloud your judgment.”
Before you could react, Poe reached for his blaster, his movements quick and fluid. Your eyes widened in shock as he pointed it at you, his expression cold and determined.
“Poe, don’t—” you started, your voice trembling with fear.
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “You were a good soldier, but you were never cut out for this.”
You felt your pulse quicken, panic rising in your chest. “Poe, please...”
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, and in that moment, you saw the man you once loved, the man who had fought beside you, laughed with you, held you in his arms. But that man was gone, replaced by someone you didn’t recognize.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and for a brief moment, you believed he meant it.
Then, before you could say another word, the blaster fired.
You awoke with a start, the image of Poe’s cold eyes and the sound of the blaster shot still ringing in your ears. Your heart was pounding, your body drenched in sweat. It took you a moment to realize you were in your own quarters, safe and sound.
It had all been a dream. A horrible, twisted nightmare.
But as you sat there, catching your breath, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was still wrong. The doubt, the suspicion—it was all still there, gnawing at you like a parasite.
You couldn’t let it go. Not yet.
There was only one way to be sure.
With a renewed sense of determination, you got out of bed and headed straight for Poe’s quarters, your heart heavy with the weight of what you were about to do.
Because even if it had only been a dream, you had to know the truth.
The rain had been relentless all day, tapping against the fogged windows of Llewyn’s small Greenwich Village apartment. The space was cramped, scattered with records, empty coffee mugs, and a guitar propped up in the corner. Y/N leaned against the sink, clutching a chipped mug filled with tea that had long gone cold, her gaze following the rhythm of the rain as it cascaded down the glass.
“Are you going to stare at that window all day, or do you plan on helping me write this setlist?” Llewyn’s voice broke the silence, his tone teasing but lined with that usual sarcasm. He was sprawled on the worn-out couch, his guitar balanced on his lap, a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips.
She rolled her eyes and took a slow sip from her mug. “You don’t even listen to my suggestions, so why bother?”
“That’s not true,” he countered, strumming a few soft chords. “I just have... selective taste.”
“Selective taste,” she mocked, setting the mug down and crossing her arms. “That’s a fancy way of saying you’re stubborn.”
“Stubborn?” He raised an eyebrow. “Coming from the woman who refuses to watch anything that isn’t a black-and-white drama?”
She smirked, moving to sit at the small dining table, pulling out a chair with a dramatic scrape. “Some of us have standards, Llewyn.”
“Standards, huh?” His lips curled into a grin as he set his guitar down and leaned forward. “Is that why you keep stealing my hoodies? Real high standards.”
She tried to fight the heat rising to her cheeks but failed miserably. “They’re comfortable. And warm. Which is more than I can say about this freezer of an apartment.”
“You don’t see me spraying perfume all over your stuff,” he teased, leaning back with a playful smirk.
“You would if you owned something that smelled remotely decent,” she shot back, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement.
He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Touché.”
The day passed in their usual rhythm of banter and moments of quiet. Despite his rough edges and occasional mood swings, there was something magnetic about Llewyn—his rawness, his sincerity, and the way he played music like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
That evening, as they sat across from each other at the table, sharing a hastily made dinner of pasta and red wine, Llewyn surprised her.
“You know,” he said, his voice softer than usual, “you’ve got a terrible taste in men.”
She blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”
“I mean, look at me.” He gestured to himself, his shirt wrinkled and his hair a mess. “I’m a broke musician who can barely afford to feed himself. What the hell are you still doing here?”
She stared at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Wow, way to sweep a girl off her feet, Davis.”
“I’m serious,” he insisted, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “You deserve better than this. Better than me.”
Her laughter faded, and she leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “You think I don’t know what I signed up for? I’m not here for the money or the glamour, Llewyn. I’m here because... well, you’re you. And despite your best efforts, I like you.”
For once, he was silent, his gaze dropping to his glass of wine. “You’re a damn fool,” he muttered, but there was no bite to his words.
Later that night, as the rain finally eased, she found him sitting on the couch, strumming a gentle melody on his guitar. She watched him for a moment, the way his fingers moved effortlessly over the strings, his expression one of rare peace.
“You’re staring,” he said without looking up.
“Can’t help it,” she replied, moving to sit beside him. “You’re prettier than you think.”
“Now I know you’re lying,” he murmured, but there was a faint smile on his lips.
She reached for his guitar, her fingers brushing against his. “Play me something.”
He hesitated before nodding, his voice soft as he began to sing. The song was one she’d never heard before, raw and unfinished, but it was beautiful in its imperfection.
By the time he finished, there was a comfortable silence between them. She leaned her head against his shoulder, and he didn’t pull away.
“You know,” she said quietly, “one day, there’s going to be someone who knows me inside and out. Someone who doesn’t mind the way I steal their clothes or make them watch my favorite movies a hundred times. Someone who loves me for me.”
He was silent for a moment before responding. “Maybe that day’s already here.”
She turned to look at him, her heart skipping a beat at the sincerity in his eyes. “You think so?”
He shrugged, but there was a softness to his smile. “What can I say? I’m a fool too.”
The next morning, Llewyn woke up to find her wearing one of his hoodies again. She looked up from her cup of coffee, smirking.
“Don’t say it,” she warned.
He grinned. “I was just going to say, you’d look better in your own clothes. But then again, you’ve always had terrible taste.”
"If you spray one more drop of perfume on my hoodie, I’m calling the cops."
Santiago García had always been a constant in Y/N’s life—her brother’s best friend, the guy who stole food off her plate when she wasn’t looking, the one who used to ruffle her hair until she yelled at him. But more than anything, he had been her human furnace.
When she was younger, before she left for college, she never questioned the way Santiago would pull her into his chest during movie nights or throw an arm around her in the backseat of the car when she dozed off. He was always warm, always solid, always there.
Then, she left. And the cuddling stopped.
It wasn’t something she had thought about much—okay, maybe a little—but it wasn’t like she expected him to miss it. He had a life, a military career, a revolving door of women that her brother grumbled about but never elaborated on.
Now, though? Now she was home for the first time in months, and Santiago was in her bed.
It had started with a party.
Her brother had thrown one of his usual get-togethers, filling the house with people from town, loud music, and way too much beer. Santiago had been there, of course—standing in the corner with a drink in hand, easy grin in place, looking as effortlessly handsome as ever.
Y/N had tried not to notice. She had tried not to care when he walked in with her.
The woman was beautiful, dark-haired and leggy, clinging to Santiago’s arm like she belonged there.
Y/N wasn’t jealous.
Not even a little.
She had spent most of the night pretending she didn’t care, dodging questions about college, drinking a little too much, and eventually escaping upstairs to her room.
Then, Santiago knocked on her door.
And now, here he was, stretched out beside her like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“What happened to the girl you came with?” she asked, voice low in the dimly lit room.
Santiago shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. His dark eyes gleamed with amusement. “Why are you asking? Are you jealous?”
Y/N rolled her eyes. “Because you’re in my bed now, and I don’t want any drama.”
His lips twitched like he was holding back a laugh. “She left.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that,” he confirmed. “I wasn’t feeling it.”
Y/N turned onto her side, facing him fully now. “And what exactly are you feeling?”
Santiago didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached out, fingers brushing against her waist, light and hesitant—like he was testing the waters. The warmth of his touch seeped through the thin fabric of her shirt, making her shiver.
“You always used to love when we cuddled like this,” he murmured.
She swallowed, memories pressing in all at once. Long nights on the couch, the steady weight of his arms around her, the way he always knew when she needed comfort before she even admitted it.
“It just feels kinda different right now,” she admitted.
Santiago’s gaze searched hers, his fingers flexing against her hip. “Maybe it’s starting to be.”
Something heavy settled between them. A shift. A realization.
Y/N wasn’t naive. She knew Santiago. He was charming, easy with his affections, not exactly the commitment type. But the way he was looking at her now—like she was something new, something unexpected—made her stomach flip.
She should have pulled away.
She didn’t.
Santiago’s hand slid higher, fingers curling around her ribcage, and suddenly, she was the one closing the distance. Their lips brushed—hesitant, uncertain, until he made a low sound in his throat and really kissed her.
It was slow at first, exploratory, his mouth warm and insistent against hers. Then, it deepened.
His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, and Y/N arched into him, feeling the solid press of his body against hers.
This was so not a good idea.
But then again, she had never been great at making good decisions.
Somewhere between kisses, between soft gasps and whispered names, Santiago had shifted on top of her, his body heavy in a way that made her pulse quicken.
His lips trailed down her neck, slow and deliberate, and she barely had time to think before he was tugging at her shirt, lifting it over her head.
“This okay?” he asked, voice rough.
She nodded, breathless.
His hands mapped over her skin, memorizing, learning. He took his time, teasing, coaxing, until she was arching against him, nails digging into his shoulders.
And when he finally—finally—pressed inside her, his forehead dropping to hers, Y/N realized that nothing had ever felt quite this right.
Later, tangled in the sheets, her legs still hooked around his, Santiago let out a deep sigh. “Well.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? Well?”
His lips quirked. “What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
He grinned, pulling her closer, pressing a slow, lazy kiss to her shoulder. “Alright. That was... a very bad decision.”
Y/N huffed a laugh, pressing her face into his chest. “The worst.”
Santiago sighed dramatically. “Guess we’re just gonna have to keep making bad decisions then.”
Y/N smirked, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. “Sounds about right.”
The feast was well underway. Laughter echoed across the grand hall of Nottingham Castle, punctuated by the clinking of goblets and the occasional holler from the drunk nobles. Y/N sat to the right of King John, her fingers delicately tracing the rim of her wine cup as her eyes flitted between the fire blazing in the hearth and the increasingly unruly crowd.
“You’re quiet tonight.” John leaned closer, his deep voice cutting through the noise.
“I don’t think my laughter would add much to this cacophony,” she replied, offering him a sidelong glance.
John chuckled, a low, warm sound that made her shiver despite the heat of the room. “On the contrary, your laugh would eclipse it all.”
She rolled her eyes. “I doubt that. My laugh is embarrassing. It sounds like a dying animal.”
He leaned in closer, his lips dangerously near her ear. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” he said softly.
She turned to him, her eyes narrowing. “You’re biased.”
“I’m king. My bias is law.” He smirked, raising his goblet in mock triumph.
Y/N shook her head, hiding a small smile behind her hand. It was always like this with John—banter that started playful but carried an undercurrent of something deeper, something that neither of them dared to name.
Later That Evening
The hall was empty now, save for the servants clearing away the remnants of the feast. John had dismissed them from his private chambers as soon as they entered. Y/N stood by the large window overlooking the castle grounds, her fingers once again toying with the end of her braid.
“You always do that when you’re thinking,” John said, stepping behind her.
“Do what?”
“Twirl your hair.”
She paused, caught off guard by his observation. “It’s a habit.”
He hummed, his hands coming to rest on the windowsill on either side of her, effectively caging her in. His presence was overwhelming, but not in a way that made her want to escape.
“Why do you cover your laugh?” he asked suddenly, his voice quieter now.
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Earlier. You said it sounds like a dying animal.”
“It does,” she insisted. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Okay, well, that’ll be weird.”
She frowned, turning to face him. “What will be weird?”
“When someone asks me what my favorite sound is, and I have to describe it like that.”
Her breath hitched. She opened her mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. John’s gaze was intense, unrelenting, and for the first time, she felt like he was truly letting her see him—beyond the crown, beyond the arrogance.
“John…”
“Say it again,” he murmured, his head dipping slightly.
“What?”
“My name. Say it again like that.”
“John,” she repeated, softer this time, her voice barely above a whisper.
His hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair from her face. The touch was gentle, almost reverent. “You make me want to be better,” he admitted, his thumb grazing her cheek.
Her heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice. “You already are.”
And then, without thinking, she closed the distance between them, her lips capturing his.
The Morning After
The first rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a golden glow over the rumpled sheets. Y/N stirred, her face nestled against the warmth of John’s chest. His arm tightened around her instinctively, pulling her closer.
“You’re awake,” he murmured, his voice still heavy with sleep.
“Barely.” She smiled against his skin.
“Good. Because I have a question.”
She tilted her head to look at him. “What is it?”
“What’s the sound a dying animal makes?”
Her laughter rang out before she could stop it.
John grinned. “There it is. My favorite sound.”
“Shut up,” she groaned, smacking his chest.
“Make me.”
She did—with another laugh, and a kiss that promised they’d never tire of bantering, or of each other.
The night had a strange kind of energy, the kind that made your palms sweat for no reason and sent your brain spiraling in a million directions. Maybe it was the fact that you were sitting across from Nathan Bateman, the eccentric tech genius who was all charm, wit, and, as you were quickly learning, a little too intense for comfort.
You weren’t sure what to expect from your first date with Nathan. The man was notoriously brilliant, mysterious, and let’s face it, a bit unnerving. But curiosity got the better of you, and when he asked you out, something in his confident smirk pulled you in. There was something about him that made you feel like you were making another one of your signature "wrong choices," but maybe, just maybe, this one would be worth it.
“So,” Nathan leaned back, swirling his drink lazily in his hand, “why me?”
The question threw you off. He had been so casual all night, the two of you exchanging banter over dinner, and now he was suddenly scrutinizing you with those piercing eyes.
“Why you?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Isn’t that what I should be asking you? You’re the one who asked me out.”
Nathan chuckled, but there was a sharpness to it. “Yeah, but I mean, why did you say yes? You’re not dumb. You know who I am. You know I’m not exactly... normal.”
“You mean the whole ‘mad scientist building robots in a remote mansion’ thing?” you teased, taking a sip of your drink. “I figured, why not? How many people can say they’ve gone on a date with a reclusive billionaire?”
He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m not here to be your friend, Y/N.”
The sudden shift in tone made your heart skip a beat. You blinked, trying to process what he just said. “What?”
“I’m not here to be your friend,” Nathan repeated, his voice low and deliberate. “I’m here to be your man.”
Your breath hitched. Of all the things he could’ve said, that was not what you expected. Nathan wasn’t playing coy, wasn’t pretending. He laid it all out in the open, like he was declaring an objective, like it was a fact.
“Wow,” you let out a nervous laugh, trying to shake the tension, “that’s... direct.”
“I don’t do games, Y/N,” Nathan leaned forward, his gaze locked on yours. “You’re smart enough to appreciate that, right?”
You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the heat rising in your cheeks. His intensity was electrifying, but there was something about the way he said it, like he had already decided your fate. It was equal parts thrilling and terrifying.
“I mean,” you cleared your throat, trying to regain some composure, “isn’t that kind of skipping a few steps?”
Nathan smirked, leaning back into his seat. “I don’t believe in steps. I believe in knowing what you want and taking it.”
“And you want... me?”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
You stared at him for a moment, at his confident posture, the sharpness of his jawline, the dark glint in his eyes. Nathan was dangerous, but he was also intoxicating. You knew this was probably a terrible idea—another classic mistake in the Y/N playbook—but you couldn’t deny the pull he had over you.
“Well,” you said, your voice softer now, “what if I told you I wasn’t looking for a man?”
Nathan chuckled again, this time more genuinely. “Then I’d say you’re lying to yourself.”
He was leaning in closer now, the space between you becoming suffocatingly intimate. You could feel the heat of his breath on your skin, the low hum of desire growing between you two.
“And what makes you so sure of that?” you whispered, eyes locked with his.
Nathan’s lips curled into a mischievous grin. “Because you wouldn’t have come here if you didn’t want this. If you didn’t want me.”
Your heart raced, and you could feel your body betraying you, leaning in just a little closer, craving his touch. But you couldn’t let him win that easily. You weren’t going to be another experiment for him to control.
“And what if I want to make you work for it?” you challenged, your voice barely above a whisper.
Nathan’s eyes darkened with something primal, something that made your entire body tingle with anticipation. “You’re welcome to try, but I don’t lose, Y/N.”
Before you could respond, he was kissing you, and all the witty comebacks you had prepared melted away in the heat of the moment. His lips were demanding, and you found yourself giving in, the thrill of his touch too much to resist.
The rest of the night passed in a blur of passion, his hands on your skin, his body pressed against yours, every kiss igniting a fire inside you. Nathan wasn’t gentle, but he wasn’t cruel either. He was everything he had promised—direct, intense, and utterly consuming. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t regret your choice.
As the night drew to a close, both of you tangled in the sheets, catching your breath, Nathan looked over at you with a smirk that sent shivers down your spine.
“So,” you panted, still trying to catch your breath, “does this mean we’re skipping the whole ‘getting to know each other’ part?”
Nathan chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Nah, we’ll get there. But for now...” he leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, “I’m exactly where I want to be.”
You rolled your eyes, laughing despite yourself. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“Impossible? I prefer... inevitable,” Nathan grinned, leaning back into the pillows with a satisfied look.
“Well, Mr. Inevitable,” you teased, propping yourself up on your elbow, “next time, maybe try being a little more subtle.”
Nathan chuckled, pulling you back down to his chest. “Subtlety’s overrated.”
And as you lay there, tangled up with the most intense, infuriating man you had ever met, you couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, you had finally made the right choice.
Marc Spector rarely got the luxury of normal days. Being Moon Knight meant his life was full of chaos, violence, and the occasional existential crisis. But there was one steady thing in his life: you.
You and Marc had known each other for years, starting as friends before your bond deepened into something that scared him. Somehow, you saw past his gruff exterior, the layers of trauma, and his complicated psyche. You didn’t flinch at the mess that was his life. And for that, he loved you more than he’d ever admit out loud.
That particular morning was rare—a lazy one. You sat cross-legged on his couch, scrolling through your phone, while Marc, still shirtless from his workout, leaned against the kitchen counter sipping coffee.
"You know," you said, squinting at your screen, "I think we should get a dog."
Marc raised an eyebrow. "A dog? With my schedule?"
You shot him a look. "Our schedule, Spector. I’m the one who’d be home taking care of it. You’d just get the fun parts."
"Like cleaning up after it?"
"Exactly," you said with mock enthusiasm, "Bonding through poop scooping."
Marc chuckled, shaking his head. His laugh was rare, and you loved being one of the few people who could draw it out of him.
The conversation flowed into jokes about what kind of dog you’d get (you were team corgi; Marc was team "whatever fits in the fridge"), and the rest of the morning passed in comfortable ease.
Later that afternoon, you found yourselves tangled in an argument—not an angry one, but one full of teasing. Marc had just narrowly beaten you in a card game, and his smugness was unbearable.
"Admit it," he said, leaning back with a grin. "You hate losing to me."
"Marc, please," you deadpanned. "If you want a trophy for ‘most insufferable boyfriend,’ I’ll happily buy you one."
He snorted, his brown eyes warm as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You’re cute when you’re mad."
You threw a pillow at him, and he caught it with ease, laughing.
The topic had been gnawing at you for days, and as the evening settled in, you felt the weight of it pressing down. Marc was busy fixing something in the kitchen—a broken drawer he’d been putting off—and you sat on the couch, fidgeting with the hem of your sweater.
"Marc?"
He glanced up from his spot on the floor, screwdriver in hand. "Yeah?"
You hesitated, suddenly unsure how to approach it. "Can we talk? Like, serious talk?"
He put the screwdriver down, immediately attentive. "What’s going on? Are you okay?"
You swallowed hard, your fingers twisting together. "I… There’s something I haven’t told you. About me."
Marc’s brow furrowed, concern flashing across his face as he moved to sit next to you. "What is it?"
You took a deep breath, heart pounding. "I have autism. It’s not a big deal, really, but… I just— I didn’t want you to feel like I’d been hiding it from you."
He was silent for a moment, his dark eyes studying you. Panic bubbled in your chest, and you rushed to fill the space.
"I know it’s a lot," you said quickly. "And maybe it’ll change how you see me, and I get that. I just thought—"
"Hey, hey," Marc interrupted softly, his hand reaching out to take yours. "Stop. Take a breath."
You did, albeit shakily, as his thumb brushed over your knuckles.
"I don’t see you differently," he said, his voice quiet but firm. His cheeks flushed slightly, and he smiled, the rare, soft kind you cherished. "I see you better."
Your heart stuttered at the words, and for a moment, you were certain you’d imagined them.
"You… You mean that?"
Marc chuckled, shaking his head. "Y/n, I’ve spent most of my life hiding who I am, fighting parts of myself I didn’t understand. You— You’re brave enough to tell me who you are, and all I can think is how lucky I am."
Tears prickled at your eyes, and you laughed softly. "You’re such a sap sometimes."
"Don’t tell Jake," Marc joked, his tone lighter now. "He’d never let me live it down."
You both laughed, the tension dissolving as you leaned into him, his arm wrapping around your shoulders.
That night, as you lay in bed together, your head resting on his chest, you felt more at peace than you had in days.
"Hey, Marc?"
"Yeah?"
"Still thinking about getting that dog."
He groaned. "I’ll put it on the list… Right under ‘teaching you how to shuffle cards.’"
You gasped in mock offense, smacking his chest. "Rude!"
"Truth," he retorted, his laugh rumbling under your ear.
And as the night stretched on, filled with laughter and quiet whispers, you realized there was no version of Marc—no part of him—you didn’t love.
But you’d never tell him that he was the real softie between the two of you. Not yet, anyway.
"Now, do I have to teach the dog how to beat you at cards too, or…?
Nathan Bateman had always been a man of intellect, complexity, and control. He had built the world’s most advanced AI, yet when it came to his own emotions, he was as primitive as the first circuit he ever designed. Today, he was standing awkwardly at the side of the church, in a suit that felt more like a straightjacket than formal wear.
He glanced around at the floral decorations and the crowd of elegantly dressed guests, each face a blur of muted colors and indistinguishable expressions. The soft strains of a classical piece played in the background, the kind that should have evoked a sense of serenity but instead only heightened Nathan’s unease.
In front of him, the aisle was a pathway to something both beautiful and heartbreakingly final. Y/N, the love of his life, was about to marry someone else. It had taken Nathan a long time to confront his feelings for Y/N, but by the time he had come to terms with them, it was too late. His best friend was now in a white dress, radiant and completely unaware of the turmoil raging inside him.
Nathan’s role as a bridesmaid was a cruel twist of fate, one he had agreed to because he couldn’t bear to say no, yet knew it would be torturous. It was a bittersweet irony that he was standing here, his heart heavy with unspoken confessions, while the woman he loved was about to pledge her life to someone else.
The ceremony began, and Nathan’s attention wavered between the officiant and Y/N, who was walking down the aisle with a grace that made Nathan’s chest ache. Her eyes sparkled, and every step seemed to echo a promise that wasn’t meant for him.
“Why am I here?” he muttered under his breath, watching as Y/N’s fiancé beamed with a joy that seemed to mock Nathan’s own desolation. He tried to focus on the vows being exchanged, but the words were a blur. All he could think about was the countless times he had wanted to tell Y/N how he felt, how he had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that she might one day look at him the way he looked at her.
As the ceremony proceeded, Nathan’s gaze kept drifting back to Y/N. He remembered their late-night conversations, the laughter they shared, and the countless moments where he had almost revealed his true feelings. He had always been too scared, too aware of the potential consequences if his emotions were not reciprocated.
The reception was an equally painful affair. Nathan found himself making polite conversation, though his mind was elsewhere. He caught glimpses of Y/N, her smile bright as she moved from table to table, accepting congratulations and sharing dances.
When the time came for the first dance of the newlyweds, Nathan was forced to watch from the sidelines. He tried to enjoy the evening for what it was, but every twirl of Y/N’s dress and every look of happiness exchanged between her and her new husband was a piercing reminder of what he had lost.
Later, as the night drew on and the guests began to disperse, Nathan found himself alone, a glass of champagne in hand that he had hardly touched. He wandered outside, seeking solace in the cool night air. The stars above seemed indifferent to his plight.
Just as he was lost in thought, Y/N approached him, her face glowing with a mixture of contentment and exhaustion. “Nathan, are you alright?” she asked, her voice laced with concern.
He looked at her, struggling to mask his emotions. “I’m fine. Just needed a moment to… clear my head.”
She smiled softly, her eyes searching his face. “Thank you for being here today. It means a lot.”
Nathan nodded, feeling a pang of regret. “I’m glad I could be here for you. You looked… beautiful.”
Y/N blushed slightly. “Thank you. It’s been a perfect day, really.”
They stood in silence for a moment, and Nathan felt the weight of his unspoken words pressing heavily on him. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, how he had always wanted to be the one she danced with tonight. But the words were stuck, lodged somewhere deep inside where he couldn’t reach them.
“Well,” he finally said, attempting to lighten the mood. “If I ever have to do this again, I hope I’m the one getting married.”
Y/N laughed softly, though her eyes were tinged with sadness. “I hope so too, Nathan.”
As she walked back inside to join the remaining guests, Nathan felt a strange sense of finality. The evening had ended as it had begun—bittersweet and filled with what could have been.
In the quiet of the night, Nathan allowed himself a moment to grieve. He knew he would move on, eventually, but the ache of today would linger for a while longer.
As he turned to leave, he looked up at the stars again, a wry smile on his lips. “Guess I’ll have to stick to building robots. They don’t break your heart.”
And with that, he walked away, the echoes of Y/N’s laughter mingling with the distant strains of the wedding music, a painful reminder of the love he had let slip away.
The curtains had closed hours ago, and the velvet seats of the underground club now sat empty under golden twilight leaking through the stained-glass windows. The scent of bourbon and stage powder lingered in the air, a leftover echo of another long night that no one would remember sober.
Y/N sat at the edge of the stage, her legs swinging just above the floor. Her shoes lay discarded somewhere near the pianist's bench. She cradled a lukewarm coffee cup between her hands, blinking slowly toward the setting sun that spilled gold across the checkerboard tiles.
"You’re still here?"
His voice didn’t startle her. It never did anymore.
"Apparently," she murmured, without looking at him. "Apparently I like bad decisions."
Blue Jones stepped from the shadowed hallway, coat draped over one arm, vest slightly unbuttoned. His hair was slicked back as always, but some of the gel had loosened, letting a rogue wave curl at his temple. He looked… soft. And tired.
"You talkin’ about me or yourself?" he asked, voice low with a smirk curling behind it.
"Both," she replied easily. "But mostly myself."
He walked closer, shoes tapping quietly against the wooden floor. “I see you’re gettin’ poetic again.”
“Comes with the territory of dating a psychotic stage manager with a God complex,” she muttered, sipping her coffee. “Can’t help it.”
Blue clicked his tongue but didn’t take the bait. Instead, he lowered his coat onto the stage and pulled himself up beside her with a quiet grunt.
“Sunset’s real pretty tonight,” he said, squinting toward the amber sky. “Almost looks like a fire in the distance.”
She glanced at him sidelong. “Funny. That’s usually what it feels like being in love with you.”
That one hit. He didn’t laugh or smirk or even blink for a second. Just breathed.
“…You know I’d burn it all down for you, right?” he said quietly.
Y/N turned to face him fully, setting her coffee aside. “You already did. Just forgot to ask if I wanted to watch it burn too.”
Silence. Not uncomfortable. Just full. Heavy. Like the moment was stretching its limbs.
“Dance with me,” he said suddenly.
She blinked. “You serious?”
“There’s no one here. Music or not, just… dance with me.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re lucky I’m codependent as hell.”
He laughed softly, standing up and offering his hand. “Lucky’s not the word I’d use. But I’ll take it.”
There was no music. No crowd. No spotlight. Just them, barefoot and bathed in the dying sun, swaying slowly in the middle of the abandoned club. Her forehead rested against his jaw. His arms wrapped low around her waist.
“You remember when we first met?” she whispered.
“In the storage room,” he murmured, “you threw a paintbrush at my head.”
“You said my heels were too loud.”
“They were too loud.”
She pulled back, eyes narrowed. “And you were too loud when you moaned my name the first night we slept together.”
That earned her a full grin, teeth and all. “Touché.”
They swayed. Her hand slid up to his collar, unbuttoning the top slowly.
"Why are you like this, Blue?" she asked, voice barely a whisper.
"Like what?"
"A walking contradiction. The world’s villain and my favorite place to land.”
He looked at her for a long time, thumb brushing the bare skin just beneath the hem of her shirt. "Because I know what it's like to have no one clap for you unless you're bleeding."
Her chest tightened. "Well… I clap when you breathe."
He leaned in then. No hunger. No urgency. Just lips against lips like the world would break if they didn’t meet halfway. And they melted. Against the heat of the fading sun, against the silence that wrapped them tighter than any song ever could.
He lifted her—strong, certain, gentle—and carried her to the private lounge behind the curtain. No words. Just hands and murmurs. Her fingers traced the outline of his spine. His mouth left promises on the curve of her hip. There was heat, slow and consuming, like the sun sinking behind them, reluctant to let the day end.
Afterward, limbs tangled and heartbeats synced, she lay beside him, cheek on his chest, tracing lazy circles over the buttons of his shirt.
"People think you're the devil, you know."
He huffed. "They're not entirely wrong."
"But they don’t know this side of you."
He glanced at her, brushing hair away from her face. “That’s ‘cause it’s yours.”
She smiled against his skin. “You’re lucky I make bad decisions.”
He chuckled, voice low and gravelly. “You say that like I didn’t build a whole goddamn club based on your impulsive ass.”
“Oh please. You did that for tax evasion.”
And just like that, the moment cracked open with laughter.
The kettle had whistled three times before Steven remembered to pull it off the stove. You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching as he fumbled with mugs, tea bags, and a dish towel that had somehow gotten tangled around his wrist.
“Do you always make tea like it’s a life-or-death mission?” you teased, unable to keep the grin off your face.
Steven paused, the towel slipping to the floor. “No, uh, just when there’s an audience.” His cheeks flushed a soft pink as he pushed a mug toward you.
You laughed, picking up the mug and blowing on the steam. “Relax, Steven. It’s just tea.”
“Yeah, well, not everything’s as easy for me as it is for you,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck.
“Oh, come on, you think this is easy?” You gestured at yourself dramatically. “This is the face of a woman who poured milk on cereal this morning, only to realize it was orange juice.”
Steven blinked. “You… what?”
“Don’t ask,” you said, sipping your tea. “The point is, we’re all disasters here.”
Steven chuckled, the tension in his shoulders easing. He leaned against the counter opposite you, his eyes lingering on your face a moment longer than necessary.
“Oi, don’t look at her like that,” a voice cut in sharply.
You sighed, rolling your eyes. “Hello, Marc.”
Marc Spector’s reflection in the microwave glared at Steven, who immediately looked down at his tea like it had personally offended him.
“Didn’t know we were hosting a tea party,” Marc said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“I like tea,” Steven mumbled defensively.
“And I like peace and quiet,” Marc shot back.
“Do you, though?” you countered, raising an eyebrow. “Because you sure love interrupting it.”
Marc huffed, his reflection fading out. “I’m watching,” he warned before disappearing.
You turned back to Steven, who was now nervously adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. “Does he ever take a day off?”
“Not if he can help it,” Steven said with a small smile.
Later that evening, you found yourself sprawled on Steven’s couch, flipping through a book on ancient Egyptian mythology while he hovered nervously in the kitchen.
“Do you ever stop moving?” you called out.
“Sorry!” Steven appeared, carrying a plate of biscuits. “Just, you know, trying to make sure you’re comfortable.”
“I’m comfortable,” you said, patting the space next to you. “Sit down before you wear a hole in the floor.”
He hesitated, then sat down, leaving a polite gap between you. You smirked, sliding closer until your legs brushed.
Steven froze.
“You’re very jumpy tonight,” you said, tilting your head to study him.
“Am not,” he said quickly.
“Are too.”
“Am—”
“Don’t drag me into this,” Jake’s voice interrupted.
You turned to see his reflection smirking at you from the darkened TV screen. “Oh, hey, Jake. Nice of you to join us.”
“Don’t let him fool you,” Jake said, pointing at Steven. “He’s been practicing how to hold your hand for weeks.”
“Jake!” Steven’s face went bright red as you burst out laughing.
“Is that true?” you asked, grinning.
“No!” Steven said quickly. Then, quieter: “Maybe.”
By the time Marc took control, you were lying on the couch, your feet in Steven’s lap, as he nervously traced circles on your ankle.
“You two are insufferable,” Marc muttered, standing with his arms crossed.
“Love you too, Marc,” you said sweetly, wiggling your toes at him.
Marc ignored you, addressing Steven. “Why don’t you just tell her already?”
Steven’s eyes widened. “Tell her what?”
Marc rolled his eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe that you’ve been in love with her since she spilled coffee on your museum exhibit two years ago?”
Your head whipped around to look at Steven. “Wait, what?”
Steven groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Thanks, Marc.”
“Anytime,” Marc said with a smirk before fading out.
Silence settled between you and Steven, the air thick with unspoken words.
Finally, you broke it. “Is that true?”
Steven peeked at you through his fingers. “Maybe.”
You sat up, turning to face him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Steven sighed. “Because… well, you’re you. And I’m me. And I just thought… why would you ever—”
You cut him off, leaning forward. “Steven, don’t finish that sentence.”
His eyes widened, his lips parting slightly as you moved closer.
But before you could close the gap, Jake’s voice interrupted. “You better not mess this up, hermano.”
You groaned, pulling back. “Jake, I swear—”
“What?” he said innocently. “I’m rooting for you.”
You turned back to Steven, who looked like he was about to pass out.
“Steven,” you said softly, raking your fingers through your hair. “What are you asking me?”
His gaze locked on yours, intense and unwavering. “I’m asking you to fall in love with me.”
Your breath caught. “What if you don’t catch me?”
“I will,” he said firmly.
“How do you know?”
“My arms have been wide-open and waiting for years.”
For the first time that night, you were speechless.
Later, after a lot of blushing, stammering, and a kiss that left you both grinning like idiots, you found yourself tangled up with Steven on the couch, his arms securely around you.
From the TV screen, Jake’s voice piped up. “Told you he was practicing.”
You groaned, hiding your face in Steven’s chest as he laughed.
“Remind me to put tape over the mirrors,” you muttered.
“Don’t bother,” Marc added. “We can still hear you.”
“Oh, for Khonshu’s sake!” you snapped.
Steven laughed harder, pulling you closer. “Welcome to the madness, love.”
You had been with the Resistance for almost a year, but being transferred to Black Squadron was a surprise. The squadron, led by Poe Dameron, was legendary. Your transfer was due to your impressive performance and sharp flying skills. Still, the thought of flying under Poe Dameron himself was daunting.
You walked into the bustling hangar, your bag slung over your shoulder. Mechanics and pilots hurried about, preparing for the next mission. You spotted a man leaning casually against a starfighter, talking animatedly with a droid. Poe Dameron.
Taking a deep breath, you approached him. "Commander Dameron?"
Poe turned, a welcoming smile on his face. "Just Poe," he corrected. "You must be Y/N. Welcome to Black Squadron."
You nodded, trying to suppress your nerves. "Thanks. It's an honor to be here."
Poe's smile widened. "The honor's ours. Let's get you settled in."
Your first mission with Black Squadron was a scouting operation near a First Order outpost. Flying beside Poe was exhilarating and nerve-wracking. He was as good as everyone said, maybe even better.
As you flew through the asteroid field, Poe's voice crackled through the comms. "Stay close, Y/N. We've got incoming TIE fighters."
You responded quickly, maneuvering your X-wing to form up on his wing. The battle was intense, but you managed to hold your own, taking out several enemy fighters.
When you landed back at the base, Poe was there to greet you. "Nice flying out there. You handled yourself well."
You couldn't help but smile. "Thanks, Poe. It was... intense."
He laughed, clapping you on the shoulder. "It always is. But you did great."
Over the next few weeks, you and Poe began to develop a camaraderie. You shared stories, laughed over meals, and supported each other on missions. Poe's easygoing nature made it hard not to like him.
One evening, you found yourselves in the mess hall, talking about life before the Resistance. "So, what brought you here?" Poe asked, his eyes curious.
You took a sip of your drink, thinking back. "I lost my family to the First Order. I couldn't just stand by and do nothing."
Poe nodded, his expression serious. "I'm sorry. That must have been tough."
You shrugged, trying to hide the pain. "It was. But being here, fighting back... it helps."
He reached across the table, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. "We're glad to have you with us."
A particularly dangerous mission brought you and Poe even closer. You were sent to retrieve vital intelligence from a heavily guarded First Order base. Things went wrong quickly, and you found yourselves hiding in a dark corner, blaster fire echoing around you.
"Stick close," Poe whispered, his breath warm against your ear. "We'll make it out of this."
You nodded, your heart pounding. "I trust you."
The words slipped out before you could stop them, but you realized they were true. Despite the danger, you felt safe with Poe.
You made it back to the base with the intel, but you couldn't stop thinking about the way Poe had looked at you, the way he had held your hand as you ran through the corridors.
As the days passed, you found yourself seeking Poe's company more and more. He was easy to talk to, always ready with a joke or a kind word. One evening, after a long day of training, you found yourselves sitting under the stars, talking about everything and nothing.
"You know," Poe said, his voice soft, "I've never met anyone quite like you."
You looked at him, surprised. "What do you mean?"
He shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. "You're strong, brave, and you always have my back. I... I don't know what I'd do without you."
Your heart skipped a beat. "Poe, I... I feel the same way."
The next mission was a tough one. You were sent to disable a First Order communications array. The mission was successful, but you were injured in the process. As you lay in the medbay, Poe sat by your side, worry etched on his face.
"Don't you dare scare me like that again," he said, his voice shaking.
You managed a weak smile. "Sorry, Poe. Didn't mean to."
He took your hand, his grip firm. "I can't lose you, Y/N. I... I love you."
The words hung in the air, and for a moment, you couldn't breathe. "I love you too, Poe."
He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "We'll get through this. Together."
In the following weeks, your relationship with Poe deepened. You found comfort in each other's presence, and your bond only grew stronger. The war against the First Order was relentless, but you faced it together, finding strength in your love.
One night, as you lay in each other's arms, Poe whispered, "Promise me we'll always be together."
You smiled, tracing a finger along his jaw. "I promise."
The final battle against the First Order loomed on the horizon. The Resistance was preparing for the fight of their lives, and you and Poe were at the forefront.
"No matter what happens, we'll face it together," Poe said, his eyes filled with determination.
You nodded, your heart swelling with love for him. "Together."
The battle was fierce, but the Resistance emerged victorious. As you stood on the battlefield, battered but triumphant, Poe pulled you into a tight embrace.
"We did it," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion.
You held him close, tears streaming down your face. "We did."
With the war over, you and Poe looked to the future. The galaxy was still in turmoil, but you faced it together, hand in hand. You rebuilt what was lost, finding hope and love in each other.
One evening, as you watched the sunset together, Poe turned to you, a serious expression on his face. "Y/N, will you marry me?"
Your heart skipped a beat. "Yes, Poe. A thousand times yes."
Your wedding was a small, intimate affair, surrounded by friends and family. As you exchanged vows, you felt a sense of peace and happiness you had never known before.
"I love you," Poe whispered, his eyes shining with tears.
"I love you too," you replied, your heart full.
Life after the war was challenging, but you faced it together. You built a home, found joy in the little things, and cherished every moment. Poe was your rock, your partner, your best friend.
One evening, as you sat on the porch, watching the stars, Poe took your hand. "We've been through so much, but I wouldn't change a thing. You make me the happiest person in the galaxy."
You smiled, leaning into him. "And you make me feel the same way. I can't imagine my life without you."
Years passed, and your love for each other only grew stronger. You faced challenges, celebrated victories, and found happiness in the simple moments. Poe was your forever, and you were his.
As you sat together, watching the sunset on another beautiful day, Poe turned to you, his eyes filled with love. "I promise to love you, always."
You smiled, your heart full. "And I promise to love you, forever."
In that moment, under the stars, you knew that no matter what the future held, you would face it together. Because in each other's arms, you had found home.
