Welcome to my space! Thank you for choosing to spend your time here and read my scribbles. I try to tag my stories appropriately (smut, angst, fluff, 18+), so feel free to choose whatever suits you. Remember, I’m only human—I’m still learning and I make mistakes, just like all of us—so please be understanding. Thank you for being here.
💜 Pedro Pascal characters
💙 Ryan Gosling characters
I’m a full-time working mom and a student. My time is limited, so I may not write regularly. Writing is my hobby, but sometimes life has other priorities… Also, English isn't my first language. Thank you for your understanding. ❤️
warnings : argument ; two angry people; but happy ending ; Holland March
Holland March x Reader
The argument started over something trivial, and by the time it really got going, neither of you could even remember what it had been about. But the fight was already underway. New grievances mixed with old classics. It was as if you'd both been waiting all week to get to this exact point.
“You always do this!” Holland snapped, following you through the house. “Oh, I do this?” Your voice came out as a cheap imitation of his. You grabbed a pile of clothes from the couch. “That's rich coming from you.” “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” “You know exactly what it means!” Holland threw his hands into the air. “No, I really don't have a damn clue!”
The two of you stormed from room to room like a hurricane leaving destruction in its wake. By now, every little thing - a missed phone call, being late, a sarcastic comment - had become ammunition. You folded clothes a little too aggressively. Holland paced the room. He ran a hand through his hair.
“You're impossible,” he muttered. “I'm impossible?” You scoffed and tossed one of his shirts at him. “Take a look in the mirror, March!” “Oh, very mature. Really mature,” he shot back. “About as mature as you sulking every time someone says something you don't like!”
His jaw tightened. “Fine.” “Fine,” you answered. “Great.” “Great.” Silence fell. You could feel Holland staring at you, but you kept folding clothes. Eventually, he pointed down the hallway. “You know what? I've had enough.” “Good.” “I'm going to my room.” “Excellent."
He stared at you. You stared at him. Neither of you backed down. A moment later, a door slammed so hard it made you jump. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. Neither of you felt like the winner. If anything, you both felt worse.
Eventually, you heard the bedroom door open. Holland emerged, scratching the back of his neck, looking slightly embarrassed. “Can I come back now?” he asked. The absurdity of the situation hit both of you immediately. The entire argument. Everything you'd said. The childishness of it all. You laughed. Holland laughed too, feeling a weight lift from his chest.
Before either of you could say anything else, you were already moving toward each other, meeting halfway. Holland wrapped his arms around you. “Oh, thank God,” he mumbled. “I'm still mad at you,” you replied, though your smile softened the words. “I know.” “I mean it.” “I know.” You kissed him anyway.
A second later, he was lifting you into his arms, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, laughing against his mouth. “Holland...” “I'm sorry.” “I'm sorry too.” Another kiss. Another apology. And then another, and another. The journey to the bedroom became more difficult than it should have been, mostly because neither of you seemed capable of going more than a few seconds without stopping to kiss each other again.
The argument was forgotten. At least until the next ridiculous thing one of you did. Which, knowing Holland March, probably wouldn't take very long.
warnings : strangers to lovers ; one pushy guy ; one who stares ; (in the near future) some violence, sadness, tears ; now - gently ; don't get into strangers' cars ; 'no' is a full sentence ;
note : he noticed you and couldn't stop seeing you everywhere, but does he have a chance for a bit of happiness?
a/n : I don't know how this happened. It started with a single thought, and then it grew and grew… Will it work? It depends on whether anyone wants to read it and whether my feelings cause me to quit halfway through. Things have been a bit rough lately, mentally. Thank you for being here. I'll leave this here.
[Ryland Grace masterlist][main masterlist]
The first time Driver paid attention to you was because someone else couldn't stop talking about you. Shannon was in one of his strange moods, leaning against a workbench in the garage with a cigarette hanging from his lips.
"There's this girl," he complained. "I ask her out, she says no. I ask again, she says no. I smile, she says no. I swear she's doing it on purpose."
Driver barely glanced up from the engine he was working on. His hands were stained with grease, and the air was humid enough that he could feel it sticking to his skin.
"Maybe she doesn't want to go out with you."
Shannon scoffed. "Why wouldn't she? Am I missing something? She couldn't do better."
That earned him a brief look. "Sure."
The conversation could have ended there. They could have forgotten about it and gone back to their routines, but a few days later, Driver finally saw the girl Shannon kept talking about.
You were standing outside a coffee shop, waiting for your order. Shannon was beside you, gesturing animatedly and trying his hardest to charm you. Driver watched from across the street. He saw how politely you listened. Then Shannon said something, and you simply smiled, shook your head, collected your drink, and walked away. Just like that.
As though that single answer was enough to end a conversation you had no interest in continuing. Shannon threw his hands up in frustration.
"You think you're better than everyone else, huh?" he shouted after you. "Fucking princess..."
You didn't even turn around. That probably stung more than anything. Eventually Shannon shook his head, pulled his cap lower over his eyes, and lit another cigarette. For some reason, Driver watched you until you disappeared around the corner.
A week later he saw you again. This time in a grocery store. You were trying to carry too many things at once, and predictably, your paper bag gave out. Several items rolled across the floor.
"Shit..." you muttered.
Without thinking, Driver crouched down and caught a can before it disappeared beneath a shelf. You looked surprised.
"Oh. I’m sorry."
He handed it back. "You dropped something."
"Thank you." You slipped it back into the bag with a sigh. "I should probably stop overestimating my abilities."
An orange promptly escaped the bag and Driver caught that too. You laughed softly. That caught his attention more than anything else. Meanwhile, you gathered the rest of your groceries, packed them more carefully, hugged the bag to your chest, and after another quick, "Thanks for the help," headed toward the exit.
Outside, the sky had already gone dark. The lingering heat in the air promised rain. You hadn't even made it to the parking lot before the first drops started falling. You felt them immediately on your skin. You had only taken a few steps when you heard the same voice again.
"You need a ride?"
The man from the grocery store stood beside a car. A very nice car. You looked at him suspiciously. Then at the car.
"No."
The answer came immediately. Short and simple, no explanation.
Driver blinked. "No?"
"I don't get into cars with strangers."
More raindrops began falling around you.
"Fair." He nodded. "I'm Driver."
The corners of your mouth twitched. "Driver?" you repeated. He nodded. "That's your name?"
"It's what people call me."
You studied him carefully. As though the rain wasn't bothering you at all. Most people would have gladly accepted the ride. You didn't. Instead, you took a step backward. "Maybe another time."
Then you walked away. Just like that. Just like you did before.
The rain grew heavier, and by the time you got home you were probably soaked through. But you'd stuck to your decision. And for some reason, Driver found that fascinating.
After that, he couldn't stop thinking about you. Whenever he saw someone dressed similarly, he'd look twice to make sure it wasn't you. Whenever he drove past the coffee shop, he wondered if you'd already been there or if you still were. And every time Shannon complained about you, Driver found himself getting more irritated.
Because Shannon didn't know anything about you. Driver didn't either, but somehow, he felt like he'd noticed more.
The way you never seemed impressed by other people. The way you weren't looking for attention. The way you simply lived your life.
For someone who had spent most of his life alone, you should have been just another person passing through the edges of his world. Instead, it only made him think about you more. The next time he saw you, he already knew two things.
First, Shannon didn't stand a chance. And second, he was going to need a better introduction than, "I'm Driver."
Shannon, however, seemed completely unaware that his chances were less than zero. He was talking about you again. Complaining. Putting out a cigarette in an ashtray, he grumbled about how you'd ignored a perfectly polite compliment when he'd run into you at a flower stand.
"I swear, one day she's gonna regret turning me down," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
Driver looked up from his toolbox. Shannon laughed.
"I'm serious. She thinks she's better than everyone. Somebody should put her in her place."
Something heavy settled in Driver's stomach. He didn't like the way Shannon talked about you. Not at all. Your rejection had become a personal insult rather than what it actually was, a polite no. As though you owed Shannon something simply because he wanted it.
"Leave her alone." The words came out before Driver could stop them.
Shannon raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"She said no." Driver returned to what he was doing.
"That's not the point."
"It is."
Silence followed. Shannon lit another cigarette and snorted. It was probably meant to sound like a laugh.
"You like her."
Driver didn't answer. Or maybe, by staying silent, he did.
Meanwhile, you'd started noticing him too. No, he definitely wasn't trying to get your attention. If anything, the opposite. You'd spot him in the grocery store. Near the coffee shop. Across the street from the bookstore you visited. Eventually, you stopped believing it was a coincidence.
You recognized that distinctive jacket from a distance now. The calm expression. The way he never seemed surprised when your paths crossed.
One afternoon you left the coffee shop and found him standing beside his car. He wasn't waiting for you. He was simply there. You could've said he was people-watching, but when your eyes met, he nodded. A simple greeting. Nothing more. You nodded back and kept walking. This time, though, you glanced over your shoulder. He wasn't following you. He was already looking somewhere else.
Driver told himself he wasn't watching you. It felt safer that way. He was simply noticing you. Your habits, the streets you walked, the flowers you bought. The effortless way you moved through your life. His eyes found you as naturally as they found exits in crowded rooms or signs of danger. And that should have worried him.
Instead, it felt strangely comforting.
He saw you again. You'd stopped beside a bench to rearrange your bag. Once again, you were carrying more than your arms could reasonably handle. Driver intended to keep driving. To leave it alone. But by the time he reached the first intersection, he'd already changed his mind. With a sigh, he turned back.
When he pulled up beside the bench, you didn't immediately look up. You were busy trying to force a water bottle and a book into an already overstuffed bag. Eventually, however, the feeling of being watched made you glance up.
"You again." You recognized him immediately.
"You again," Driver echoed.
You slung the bag over your shoulder and narrowed your eyes slightly. "Are you watching me?"
The question could have sounded fearful. It didn't. For days now, you'd been exchanging nods and small smiles. Seeing Driver wasn't surprising anymore. Part of you had even started expecting it.
"A little." His answer was immediate. "And you still don't want help?"
"I'll manage." A faint smile tugged at your lips. "You're weird, you know that?"
He nodded. "Maybe."
He didn't offer you a ride. He already knew the answer.
"Most people would've given up by now." you said.
His expression barely changed. Still, you had to admit he was handsome. And those blue eyes, despite rarely revealing much emotion, were impossible to ignore. You noticed the way he adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. The way he glanced toward the road. Then back at you.
"I'm patient."
"That's good."
And somehow, that was enough. For a moment longer, Driver watched you walk down the sidewalk. Then he drove away.
He shouldn't have done it. And yet he did.
He stopped at the flower stand where he always seemed to see you. He wasn't entirely sure why. A few minutes later, the florist was wrapping a bouquet of white and pale yellow flowers in brown paper. The same flowers you'd always chosen. The same flowers he now found himself choosing too.
As he reached for his wallet, the bell above the shop door chimed. He felt your presence before he saw you. When he turned around, you were staring directly at the bouquet in his hands. Your eyes met.
"Well," you sighed, "there goes my plan."
"What plan?"
"I wanted to buy those flowers."
Both of you ignored the florist, who was openly watching the exchange with interest.
"You wanted to buy these?" Driver asked, lifting the bouquet slightly.
"Yeah. They're pretty."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "They are."
Eventually, you shrugged and took a few steps farther into the shop. "I guess I'll have to find something else," you said. "Which is a shame. Those are my favorites."
His fingers tightened slightly around the bouquet as he watched you examine the other flowers. He liked watching you. A little too much.
"Are you buying them for someone?" The question pulled him from his thoughts.
He didn't actually know the answer. He'd seen them, thought of you, bought them. It sounded ridiculous, even in his own head.
"Maybe."
You smiled. "Lucky person."
His eyes found yours again. For a brief moment, neither of you looked away.
"Maybe," Driver said.
Something about that answer seemed to catch your attention. Your smile changed. Softer and more curious. Then you turned back toward the flowers while the florist began showing you other arrangements. A few moments later, you heard Driver speak again.
"You can have them."
You looked at him. "What?"
"You like them."
"Yeah," you admitted slowly. "But you can't just give flowers to random women."
"Why not?"
You laughed softly. "Because that's how people get ideas."
"Bad ideas?"
The question sounded so genuinely confused that you almost laughed harder. You looked at the bouquet. Then at the man standing in front of you. And sighed. "They really are beautiful."
"Yeah."
You bit the inside of your cheek. Driver knew you'd surrendered. Or at least he hoped he wasn't imagining things. Finally, you nodded and accepted the bouquet.
"Thank you."
For the first time that day, Driver truly smiled. And you discovered that his smile was somehow even more dangerous than his eyes.
You left the flower shop together. Dark clouds had gathered overhead once more. The air felt heavy with the promise of rain. You walked slowly along the sidewalk and talked. At least, you talked while walking. Driver mostly listened.
You told him about a book you'd recently finished. A movie you'd watched. Something ridiculous one of your neighbors had done a few days ago. Nothing important. And yet neither of you seemed eager to part ways.
Eventually, Driver stopped beside his car. "You heading home?"
"Eventually."
"I can drive you."
You opened your mouth to refuse automatically. The same polite but firm refusal you'd given every other time. Then you looked at him. At those impossibly quiet eyes. At the familiar figure standing beside the car. A man who had spent weeks earning your trust instead of demanding it.
And to your own surprise, you said, "Okay."
Driver hadn't expected that. You could tell by the look on his face. A few minutes later, rain drummed softly against the roof as you settled into the passenger seat and he started the engine.
"You know," you said, fastening your seatbelt, "if you turn out to be a serial killer, I'm going to become incredibly annoying."
For a moment Driver kept his eyes on the road. Then he nodded. "Fair."
You laughed. His lips twitched upward. This time he didn't bother hiding it. Because after weeks of watching you walk away, you were finally sitting beside him.
The city blurred past outside, softened by rain and streetlights. You talked about everything and nothing. Driver noticed something alarming, he genuinely liked listening to you. Your voice. The way you told stories. The way your thoughts wandered from one subject to another. Being around you made him feel lighter. Quieter. Less alone. If that even made sense. Just having you there felt comforting.
"Do you do this often?"
Driver blinked. "What?"
"Give rides to strangers."
The car turned down another street.
"No."
"Good."
Now it was his turn.
"Do you do this often?"
"What?"
"Get into cars with strangers?"
You smiled. "No."
"Good."
This time Driver laughed quietly. A real laugh. Not just the ghost of one. You noticed how much more relaxed he seemed now. For a while you watched the rain-streaked city through the window before speaking again.
"You know, at first I was a little scared of you."
He glanced at you. "Scared?"
"You barely talked. You stared. You appeared out of nowhere."
"Hm."
"Those are legitimate reasons to be concerned."
You caught another glimpse of his smile. It suited him. Far too well.
The drive ended much sooner than either of you would've liked. Soon the car rolled to a stop outside your apartment building. Rain still tapped steadily against the roof. Neither of you seemed particularly eager to say goodbye. Eventually, though, there wasn't much choice.
"Thank you." You unbuckled your seatbelt.
"For what?"
"The ride." You lifted the bouquet slightly. "The flowers. And for not being a complete weirdo."
Driver shook his head. "You should get inside."
"Probably."
You picked up the flowers and your bag. Then paused. "I'm glad I got into the car."
For a second, Driver forgot how to respond. The words caught him off guard. You watched something soften in his expression. Something warm and honest. And it made you smile.
"Yeah," he finally said. "So am I."
For a moment neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away. Then you opened the door. Cool rain-scented air filled the car. A second later the door closed behind you, and suddenly all that remained was the faint trace of your perfume.
Driver watched you hurry through the rain toward your building. He waited until you disappeared inside. Then he waited a little longer. A light flickered on in one of the windows above. You were home. Safe.
Only then did he pull away from the curb. As the city rolled past outside his windshield, he realized something he probably should have noticed sooner. He couldn't stop smiling. And for the first time in a very long time, the warmth filling his chest didn't feel dangerous.
They/Them used for reader , mentioned child not having a father figure || domestic fluff, no cws || long-form version of this fic idea
≈ 2k words
Summery: your son has always had trouble in school, one teacher has managed to change that. He's ended up changing you, too.
A/N : this one's been in the works for a minute! Let me know if yall prefer longer fics like this or the shorter ficlets/ideas I post more regularly.
your son has always had trouble in school, he never had a proper father figure and tended to attach himself to male teachers. one in particular had caught his adoration since he started at Grover Cleveland middle; Mister Grace. Noah often came home rambling and raving about what they did in class that day or how mister Grace made things sound so easy to understand.
you were supportive, happy he had found a teacher who seemed to be on the same wavelength as him who seemed to be a good teacher too. Noah would burst through the front door, backpack half-unzipped and shoes barely kicked off, immediately launching into a story about something that had happened in science class.
"And then Mister Grace dropped the egg from the ladder and everyone thought it was gonna break, but—" he had rambled, telling you all about the amazing demonstrations and lessons given by this mysterious mister grace.
The few times you'd interacted with Mister Grace at pickup or school events, he'd struck you as the sort of teacher who genuinely cared. A little disorganized, maybe. The type who always seemed to remember every students birthday, even when he's forgot where he'd left his coffee. Still attentive. Engaged.
You met him properly for the first time at parent teacher conferences. He greeted you with a smile and pulled out a little file of Noah's work from the quarter, a little yellow sticky note sitting on top of it. "Ah! Here we are" he flipped through papers precariously until he found what he was looking for "Noah's test scores are good, great even. He's always engaged in class and really one of my best kids" he grins, handing you one of Noah's assignments to look at; gold star sitting proudly at the top. He glances around, giving Noah a tense but kind smile "hey, buddy, you should show them your model, it should be with the rest of em" Noah lights up, excitedly rushing across the lab to find it.
As soon as Noah is out of earshot Mister Grace lowers his voice, frowning "I have a few concerns—Noah seems incredibly emotionally attached to some of his teachers, myself included—" he swallows hard "not that there's anything wrong with that! I'm just a little concerned…is everything okay at home?" Your cheeks flush, and you laugh awkwardly "oh—yeah he, doesn't really have a father figure yknow? Its just me at home so" you shrug helplessly "I'm sorry, he really looks up to you"
He frowns, nodding as he scribbles something down "I'm sorry to hear that, that's perfectly normal in kids his age" he smiles warmly at you as Noah comes back carrying a model of an atom made of pipe-cleaners and pompoms, showing it to you proudly rambling about each part and what they represent and to your delight Grace continued to encourage him.
As you and Noah left, Grace slid something into your palm as he shook your hand. his cell number, accompanied by a note reading "in case you and Noah need anything. or not. :)"
The number sat on your kitchen counter for nearly a week.
You weren't sure why you kept it.
Teachers gave parents their contact information sometimes. It wasn't strange. It wasn't inappropriate. Still, there was something about the little smiley face at the end of the note that made you hesitate every time you looked at it.
Then Noah got sick.
Nothing serious. Just a nasty fever that kept him home for three days. By the second afternoon he was miserable, sprawled dramatically across the couch beneath three blankets while cartoons played quietly on the TV.
"Can you tell Mister Grace I'm gonna miss the project presentation?" he groaned.
"I'll email the school."
"No," Noah insisted. "Mister Grace." You rolled your eyes. "You act like he's the president." "He'd answer faster."
You laughed despite yourself but that evening, while Noah slept, you found yourself staring at the number again. After a moment's hesitation, you typed out a quick message.
Hey. This is Noah's parent. Sorry to bother you. Noah's been home sick and wanted me to let you know he'll probably miss the project presentations tomorrow.
You expected nothing. Instead your phone buzzed barely thirty seconds later, like he had been waiting, you let yourself hope.
No bother at all. Tell him his project wasn't nearly ugly enough to earn an extension, but I'll give him one anyway.
You couldn't help smiling.
A second message followed.
How's he feeling?
The conversation should have ended there. Instead, somehow, it didn't. One message became two. Two became five. five became discussing Noah's science project, then school funding, then the terrible cafeteria food that apparently violated several laws of nature.
You found yourself laughing quietly in your kitchen at nearly eleven at night.
Ryland Grace was funny. Not in the polished way some people were. His humor seemed accidental, like he'd simply let every thought wander out of his mouth and somehow they all ended up entertaining.
You started texting often. More often than just checking in on Noah or asking for help with homework he was struggling with. Actually texting. Nearly every day you were talking to Ryland every chance you got, and he would respond in minutes—seconds if he was able—it made you feel special.
He asked you out for coffee on a foggy Tuesday, that's what friends do right? Get coffee? You assumed it was friendly, it was your son's science teacher no way would you cross any professional boundaries with him. No matter how badly you want to.
The coffee shop sat tucked between a bookstore and a florist downtown, warm light spilling through fogged windows onto the damp sidewalk. By the time you arrived, Ryland was already there.
Of course he was.
He spotted you through the glass and nearly knocked over his own coffee trying to wave.You couldn't help laughing as you pushed through the door.
"That was smooth" you laugh "I know," he said gravely. "They love a man with zero spatial awareness."
What was supposed to be a quick coffee somehow became two. Then pastries. Then a conversation that drifted from Noah's science fair project to favorite movies, childhood disasters, weird students he'd taught over the years, corny jokes, and everything in between.
When the sky outside finally darkened and the coffee shop employees started stacking chairs, neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave. Still, eventually you found yourselves outside. The evening air was cool, carrying the smell of rain.
"Can I walk you to your car?" Ryland asked. Your heart immediately decided to become a problem. "Sure." The walk wasn't long. For someone who never seemed to stop talking, Ryland had gotten remarkably quiet.
You found yourself smiling. When you finally reached your car, neither of you moved to leave. There it was.
The awkward, impossible moment. The one that only happened in movies. Streetlights glowed softly through the fog. Ryland stood with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, looking suddenly unsure of himself.
"Well," he said.
"Well."
"That was fun."
"It was." Another pause. A longer one.
His eyes flickered down toward your mouth before immediately darting away. Your pulse stuttered. For one terrible, hopeful second, you thought he might kiss you. The possibility hung between you, fragile and terrifying.
Ryland took a small step forward. Then stopped. You could practically see the argument happening behind his eyes.
The war of professionalism, friendship, and the fact that you were the most captivating person he had ever met. You listened when he rambled, laughed at his stupid jokes, you even had some of your own to share. He adored you. And that was terrifying. If he had misread this as a date when it wasnt and you simply wanted to be friends, he could ruin his relationship with not only you, but one of his favorite students.
He wanted to have his cake and eat it too.
He stepped forward again, just a little and let his hands hover in the air "can I—" he clears his throat "I'm sorry can I kiss you?" He whispers, looking around as if to bolt as soon as the words leave his lips. "Yes" you plead "please" you bare get the words out before his lips are on yours, hands shakes and breathing hard but he's kissing you.
You pull back for air and he looks just as flustered as you, biting his lip to hold back a grin. "Uhm" he starts, small and afraid of sounding needy "drive safe. Maybe text me? So I know you got there in one piece? You don't have to, just—" "I'll text you" you agree, climbing into the car.
You think about him the whole drive home.
Its 3 months in that Noah starts talking about it. "Mister Grace kept checking his phone today, can you believe that?" Or "Mister Grace is happier, I think he had a girlfriend" he would theorize, spinning on a bar-stool and completely unaware that the object of his theories was making his lasagna.
"Thats nice, sweetie, I'm happy for him" you dismiss despite the way your heart flutters and flips at the thought of you making him visibly happier.
6 months into the relationship, you decide you need to tell Noah. You tell him you've been seeing someone (he already figured this out, but now you've confirmed it) and that you wanted to introduce them, he was tentatively receptive as you assured him it would be okay if they didn't click.
Ryland arrived thirty minutes early, saying something about helping set up, and brought a bouquet of pink and white Chrysanthemums—the stems already cut and in inch deep water in a small vase with a baby blue bow tied around it.
You let him help you set the table, three plates, three cups, three forks. It felt so domestic, you could get used to this; fluidly moving through the kitchen with him by your side.
When everything is ready, you call for Noah, bracing preemptively for his reaction. You could tell Ryland was too, he loved Noah, really. He was a great kid and a good student, there was little not to love about the kid (or his parent).
Noah descended the stairs with little care, not so much as looking up from his phone until he reached the dining room, to which he was greeted by a smiling Ryland offering him a seat at the table. His phone slipped out of his hand and his jaw hit the floor "Mister Grace?!" He gaped, looking from you to Ryland to you again. You offer a sheepish smile. "Mister Grace is your boyfriend?!" It would have felt like an interrogation if it wasnt for the grin beginning to split your son's cheeks.
You had never seen Noah so lively at dinnertime, usually it was idle chatter about school or plans or nothing at all; his eyes never meeting yours. Now he was rambling, smile bright as he tried to very hard to make it clear he was happy about this development. Ecstatic even, his two favorite adults. Together. He loved it.
After dinner, Ryland stayed to help with dishes (to which he was shooed out of the kitchen) and chat with Noah for a while longer. It was nearly 10 by the time he finally left, with a Tupperware of leftovers and a promise to help Noah with his homework.
That night, you got a barrage of texts from Ryland, raving about how well it went and how much he adored the two of you. He insisted on repaying you and Noah for such a wonderful evening, though you insisted it wasnt necessary.
So you two made abstract plans to take Noah out somewhere, to dinner maybe or to do something. As long as it was with you Ryland didn't care what you did.
You knew it went well when the next morning, Noah looked a little sheepish at breakfast and asked, in an uncharacteristically soft voice, if you could have Mister Grace over for dinner again soon.
Yeah, you said, knowing entirely that it wouldn't even be a question to Ryland.
a collection of fics i’ve read and thoroughly enjoyed all in one spot! read each warning before diving in and please give writers some appreciation for all their hard work by reblogging and/or commenting! ꨄ
desperation I @barnes-babydoll I F + S I Temptress might be your middle name because seeing you in that dress has Holland begging for a sliver of your attention and not to go out tonight. You can only be so resilient when it comes to him.
fighting and biting I @surturedberries I F I holland and healy have really made a name for themselves with their new detective company, the nice guys. things really couldn't be better. apart from the alcoholism, his reliance on his daughter, and the steadily growing number of injuries he gets throughout his life. but things take a turn when he meets you through an incident with his daughter, and he realizes that this single dad is oh so lonely.
apologizing I @/surturedberries I F I holland march apologizing with a boom box outside your window
declarations of love I @greenwitchfromthewoods I F
neighbor!holland pt2 pt3 I @rockyhatemark I F
don’t be mad I @/rockyhatemark I A + S I holland misses out on family date night and you're not pleased. he uses his hands to try and make it up to you
blurb I @/rockyhatemark I S
can you read me? I @miyomeyo I F I In a conversation over far too many cigs and a few drinks in, when Holland's routine pet names sink into your ribs and swarm your stomach with abrasive butterflies, you finally protest. But because Holland is Holland, he pushes back—unfortunately for you, quite hard.
not for stealing (my heart or my jewels) I @romanticgumchewer I F I you are a mystery writer from maine with a penchant for ending up solving murder cases. during a stay in la, your friend is murdered and you have to team up with private eye holland march to solve the case. only problem is, he drives you nuts.
tabletop confessions I @scandalscontained I F I reader and holland are partners in the PI buisness and he's been in love with her for a long time. he finally confesses.
crazy, stupid, flirt I @/scandalscontained I F + S I
2 + 1 I @/scandalscontained I A + F I the two times you tell holland to lock in— and the one time you kiss it better
pine and scotch I @bibigo-lover I F I you spend the night over at the march house after tasking yourself with babysitting. your feelings, holly's gossip, and holland's drinking are a worrying combination.
an evening show I @/bibigo-lover I F I holland is making a big fuss out of holly inviting you to her upcoming school play. he’s pleasantly surprised by the way you show up for the both of them.
summary: you and colt were in a relationship before his accident eighteen months ago. he pushed you away and you started over. now, you're the set designer on Metalstorm and Colt just got called in as the new stuntman. only problem is: you weren't ready for Colt to meet his daughter.
collective tags: fem!reader, secret kid, mentions of guns/weaponry/alcohol/drugs, swearing/harsh language, inaccurate movie set things, altered movie plot, violence, blood, angst, fake death, whump you might say
➷ feel less far (3.3K) - ☀️🥀 - your life was finally gluing itself back together after falling apart 18 months ago. but will a certain stuntman coming back into your life break everything again?
I have a few unpublished stories... yes, I'm doing everything I can to avoid studying. Holland and handcuffs, Holland and Mother's Day, something with Ryland too... and a few other rough drafts (Lars, Sebastian, Driver…). My fixations sometimes tire me out…
synopsis. in which ryland asks his twin brother, colt, for help on how to confess to you or where colt harasses his brother to just confess
word count. 1.7k words
note. i might make a part two of the actual confession .. lmk if you guys would want that or if this is enough !
There are very few things Ryland Grace can admit to without shame–the love he has for his kids, how teaching has been such a great outlet for him, his hard spent years studying Microbiology, to name a few.
What he can’t say is a slightly longer list, and if that list was made and kept somewhere, he’s sure this very moment with his twin brother would be at Number One. Yes, even above calling the leading scholar in his field a staggering waste of carbon.
It was this moment, asking his fuckass twin brother Colt for help on how to confess to you.
He thought he could do it himself, thought of so many ways to talk to you. But when time came to actually do it, he found that he’s grown two pairs of feet and everything but your eyes were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.
So, he needed help. Because as much as he enjoys spending time with you, grading papers together and sneaking conversations between classes, there are times when all he really wants to do is wrap his arms around you after a long day of work, or brush away that stubborn strand of hair that always seems to fall over your eyes, or kiss the creases that form on the skin between your eyebrows when you’re deep in concentration.
But he can’t.
Because even after knowing you for three years, he just can’t look you in your eyes and tell you that he is so fucking in love with you. He instead resorts to small gestures and acts of service so you’d hopefully be able to tell that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you.
It doesn’t work.
And then he’ll have to pick himself back again and have will-induced conversations, laughing at the pathetic corner of love inside his head. He’ll have to look you in the eyes again and pretend he isn’t affected when you look up and smile at him, or when you whisper a little too closely during shared library visits with your students.
He’ll be stuck at square one again.
And quite frankly, Colt can’t handle it anymore. If he has to listen to Ryland laughing at himself again for his inability to confess to you–whereby laughing, it’s melancholic, lonely chuckling–he will throw himself off the window of their shared apartment.
Which is something Colt can definitely do, and will do if he has to hear the heavy tone of love laced in his brother’s voice as he talks about you (because apparently, you are Top 5 Topics in their shared space) again. Besides, Colt has always been his polar opposite. When Ryland hesitates, Colt just does it.
“You’re too hesitant.” Colt says, grabbing a few papers Ryland has yet to grade on the living room table to look over what he was checking. He returns it immediately with no interest.
Ryland is stressed, his glasses askew on his face and his hands pulling at the ends of his hair. “I know I am! It’s not like I’m not self aware. In fact, I’m too self aware and that’s the problem.”
“Just go up to her and tell her you like her.”
Ryland really wants to strangle his brother right now. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re….you! You jump into fire and fall out of tall buildings without hesitation. I’m not– I’m not brave like you.”
Colt nods sympathetically, whispering an “I am”, and murder is almost committed. Instead, Ryland chooses to just drop his face into his hands. This plan was futile from the beginning. Colt doesn’t know shit about giving advice. He has approximately one brain cell. That is almost close to none.
“Ryland.” His twin brother tries to get his attention, and Ryland slowly peels his hands off his face. “Just tell her. Tomorrow. Get it over with.”
“No, not tomorrow.”
“Okay, then how about next week?”
“No. That’s– it’s too fast.”
“Before the end of the world?”
“Uh, yeah. I can… I can do that. I like those chances.”
“Good. Glad we're narrowing it down.” Colt sighs so loudly that the sound resonates through the room. In return, Ryland throws his pen at him in irritation, but it's caught one-handed by his brother without even looking. This only pisses him even more.
“You are approaching this like it's one of those big scary conferences you nerds like going to. It’s not. It’s way simpler than that.”
“Actually, I’d argue conferences are way fudging easier than confessing. I’d be backed up with evidence and years of research, but this?! It’s like I’m going in naked. That’s never a good thing.”
“Ew, don’t say that. I don’t want to picture you naked.” Colt cringes, and twists his face especially more at the self-censoring. “But didn’t you write a step-by-step process on what to do when she rejects you written on the whiteboard in your room?”
“That is for emotional preparedne– wait, you were in my room?!”
“Dude, you’re doing too much. You’re already assuming she doesn’t like you back before giving it a chance. And you’re refusing to give it a chance by not confessing to her. You’ve liked her for three fucking years, and I’ve had to listen!”
Ryland opens his mouth to say something, but words don’t come out. Because Colt was right, it had been three years of rambling about you, of assuming you could never feel the same way, of refusing to confess because he’d already feared the worst.
“So just,” Colt says after a heartbeat passes, stressed out of his goddamn mind. “Okay, how about this? Walk me through your ideal confession. I’m sure you’ve played this out in your head multiple times, so just tell me.”
Ryland’s eyes widen tenfold, shaking his head with so much adamancy, even with his hands flouncing around. You’d have thought somebody had asked him to go skinny dipping in front of all his co-workers.
“No way. Absolutely no way. No no no no no.”
“Why not?”
“Because you'll make fun of me.”
“I make fun of you regardless. That's unrelated.”
Ryland stares at him in a deadpan. Colt just stares back, shrugging his shoulders.
The staring contest is a battle Ryland loses, and with a sigh, he says, “I'd just want it to be ordinary, I guess.”
His brother listens intently, chin propped on his hands and perched on the living room table.
“Ordinary how?”
Ryland picks at the end of the paper he’s currently checking, rolling it and unrolling it and folding it and unfolding it. “I don't know. Maybe after work.”
“Okay.”
“We're grading papers.”
“Very romantic.” A playful smile tugs on Colt’s lips.
“Shut up.”
“Go on.”
“And maybe she's making tea.”
“She drinks tea? I thought she drank coffee.”
“Obviously she drinks tea.”
“How is that obvious?”
Ryland rolls his eyes at the smirk forming on his brother’s lips. “Nevermind that. She’s making tea, okay? And then I just tell her. That… that I like her.”
Then, he backtracks. “But I can’t do that. I mean, statistically speaking, that's a terrible plan. If I tell her, she’ll reject me. Then I lose my best friend. Which leaves you as my only friend, and no offense, but if the entire social structure of my life can be represented by a sample size of one, something has gone horribly wrong. Like horribly wrong.”
“I feel like I should be offended. Wait, you’re trying to change topics on me. Ryland.”
“Colt.” He repeats.
“Buddy, you spend every single day together. She likes you.” Colt pushes himself out of the couch, suddenly acting like he just cracked the case. “And! And most of all, she laughs at your jokes.” He points accusingly. “Your terrible, god awful jokes. She’s into you.”
Ryland is defensive. “People laugh at my jokes!”
“Let’s not kid ourselves. Just…” Another exasperated hand is thrown around as Colt tries to embed the thought in his brother’s mind. “Stop acting like she's doing charity work by spending time with you. Sometimes you forget you’re the best thing that’s happened to a lot of people too.”
Colt grimaces as the room grows quiet, and he’s aware he’s suddenly gone sappy over his little brother (by four minutes), but Colt has never known a life without his brother, and it’s getting real annoying listening to him be so self deprecating as if he doesn’t have a doctorate in Microbiology, as if a million single mothers haven’t had crushes on him.
“Wow.” he says. “You just said something nice about me. I feel… weird.”
“Don't act like I don’t ever say anything nice about you.” Colt says, not unkindly. Because he has, on multiple occasions even. He’s always stood up for Ryland, even since they were little kids. “Now ask her out before I have to hear another two hour monologue about how she likes her coffee. Though, apparently, she drinks tea now. Unrelated. The point is I literally know everything about her, and I haven’t even met her!”
Ryland opens his mouth.
Colt points a warning finger at him. “Just do it. Do the whole world a favor and just confess. Or just do me the favor."
The room falls quiet and a moment later, Colt disappears down the hallway readying himself for another early day tomorrow, leaving Ryland alone in the living room with half-graded papers and a pit at the bottom of his stomach when he comes to the realization that his brother might actually be right.
Not about everything, obviously. Colt is wrong about a lot of things. Most things, actually.
But maybe he was right about this.
Because for three years, Ryland has done nothing but wait. Three whole years of lingering after work just to talk to you for ten more minutes, of remembering every single story you’ve ever told him, of finding any excuse to be with you.
And another three years would pass exactly the same way if he didn’t do anything.
The thought makes him grimace, makes him want to vomit. Because Ryland Grace has done things far and beyond a simple conversation. He has a list of things he can admit to without shame, and even those with shame. He could do it.
And to hell if he'd go on another day without the permission to kiss you, and hold you, and take your hand in his.
The feeling still sits heavy in his chest, but it's different now. Less like dread and more like standing at the edge of a diving board, but this time, he’s a little more ready to make the jump.
And if by some miracle you feel the same—
Oh. Could you imagine?
Ryland can't help the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth at the possibility.
Maybe he’ll finally listen to his brother for once in his life and tell you how he feels. Tomorrow.
For now, he’ll keep grading his papers and writing romances with you in his head during the few minutes of break he allows himself.
After Hours: Part 7 | Javier Peña x Original Female Character [Written as Reader/“You”]
SUMMARY: You and Javier reach the end of the line. ~4.2k Word Count.
RATING: E. Modern!AU. 18+. Mature topics and other triggering matters will be explored in this body of work.
TAGS: The reader is kind of an OC since she has a backstory/last name, no use of y/n, alternating pov, angst, drug/substance use, talks of addiction, overdose mention, suicidal thoughts, intense drug withdrawals, lots of guilt and anxiety, multiple time jumps, unhappy ending for him, happy ending for reader, if I forgot to tag anything else please let me know, more tags found on series masterlist.
DISCLAIMER: This story portrays sex work as valid labor and affirms the autonomy, skill, and agency of sex workers. At the same time, it does not ignore the very real dangers, exploitation, stigma, and systemic harm that many people in the industry face (often without protection or support). The glamor shown here is part of the fiction, not a denial of reality.
A/N: i can’t fucking believe we are at the end of this. it has been an absolute blast working on this story! i’m so glad i finally had the time to write it out and do it justice, since it’s been an idea i’ve had for about two years now. thank you to everyone who has read, commented, and supported this fic. it is always a pleasure getting to read everyone’s thoughts on the story, characters, etc. the world-building of this story has been one of my faves, and you all know how much i love reader and how protective i am over her. i know for a fact that i’m going to write some one-shots with her and javi so we have that to look forward to! enjoy it, babes! 🖤 reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated, thank you for reading! (series masterlist) / (read on ao3)
SIX MONTHS LATER
Leon Valentine goes down on a brisk fall day, and it’s not this grand, cinematic takedown like most believed it would be.
No, it’s actually really fucking pathetic.
They find him in the shittiest motel on the Nevada-California state line. He’d been holed up there for weeks; money running dry, paranoia eating him alive.
Fleeing and hiding was bad for business. Leon knew about as much.
His reign over Vegas had ended.
Now the once intimidating man is reduced to nothing but a junkie with a needle in his arm. Cause of death: overdose.
Whether it was intentional or not, it doesn’t matter.
The Ivory Saints Casino has been gutted, the once-opulent gambling floors now crawling with federal agents from different branches.
All greedy to get their claim of fame from the aftermath of the takedown headed by the DEA.
Ace is amongst one of the many businesses linked to the criminal powerhouse to get condemned.
Arrest warrants ripple through Sin City—politicians, socialites, dirty cops, all exposed and scattering like roaches when the lights come on.
Javier stands outside the room, cigarette dangling from his lips, watching as the paramedics wheel the body bag out on a creaky gurney.
The zipper is partially open. Leon’s face is pale and bloated, mouth slack, eyes half-lidded in a final, undignified stare.
A far cry from the slick, power hungry kingpin he’d been.
The smoke burns through Javi’s lungs in that familiar, punishing way. What should be a gratifying takedown isn’t.
“Well, shit,” Steve says, stepping up beside him with his own cigarette already lit, aviators perched on his nose. “We fucking did it.”
Javier doesn’t reply right away. He just stares at the empty space where the ambulance had been, the desert road stretching out flat and endless under the pale sky.
“We didn’t do shit.”
Murphy laughs, but once he sees the grim expression on Javier’s face, he matches it. “What the hell does that even mean, Jav?”
“We didn’t do anything but make it easier for the next asshole to step in.” His nostrils flare. “This doesn’t just end with Leon or The Ivory Saints. Someone else will pick up the mantle and we’ll be back where we started.”
Steve shakes his head, exhaling deeply. The smoke curls around his face like a ghost. “Man… you’re so messed up over her that you can’t even enjoy this colossal fuckin’ win.”
Javier doesn’t deny it.
Six months since you disappeared into witness protection. Six months since you screamed that you hated him, since your fists left bruises on his jaw and your nails carved bloody lines down his neck.
The marks faded, but the memory never did. He wakes up most nights yearning for you, only to find haunting comfort in cold sheets and the echo of you calling him a liar.
He hasn’t tried to find you. Not once.
It would’ve been easy, but he never caved.
Why? Because the last thing he wanted was to drag you back into danger just to soothe his own selfish need to know you were okay.
So he stayed in the dark. Smoked too much. Worked too late. Fucked no one, because no one else felt right.
“Enjoy it for me.” Javi says sarcastically, finishing off his cigarette then stubbing it out with his boot. “I’m heading back to the office.”
Steve watches him carefully. “You gonna get started on her release paperwork?”
Javier finally meets his stare, annoyance flickering across his exhausted face. “We’ve got one hell of a case to prepare for. That’s what I’m focusing on.”
The two have what feels like a silent standoff, once again communicating silently in the way that they always do when one or the other can’t find the words to convey what he’s actually thinking or feeling.
Finally, Steve nods. “Alright. I’ll wrap up here.”
Javier turns toward his Escalade, the folder with your release paperwork burning a hole in his briefcase.
He climbs in, starts the engine, and sits there for a long moment, staring at the road ahead.
Six months of wondering if you’re okay. If you’re still using. If you truly hate him as much as you said you did that night.
He puts the vehicle in drive and pulls out onto the highway, heading back toward Vegas.
Your freedom is the only thing he has left to give you. Even if it means he never gets to see you again.
Cutting your addiction off cold turkey almost kills you.
The withdrawals hit like death wearing brass knuckles.
Your body revolts in ways you never imagined possible; constant nausea that leaves you dry-heaving over the toilet until your throat is raw, fever that makes your skin burn while violent chills shake you so hard your teeth chatter.
Migraines split your skull open like an axe. Your stomach twists and cramps, sending you sprinting to the bathroom every few hours.
Sleep is a cruel joke; you lie in bed for days, bone-tired but wide awake, mind racing through every mistake, every face, every fuck-up that led you here.
The protection detail assigned to you brought a stone-faced doctor to the isolated lake house they’d stashed you in.
He did nothing more than just hook you up to an IV for hydration, saying that the best way to deal with the withdrawals was to just go through it.
If you’d had the strength, you would’ve cussed that motherfucker out for being useless.
But you couldn’t.
You were too weak and broken to do anything except be curled up on sweat-soaked sheets like a dying animal.
The house (beautiful in a cold, impersonal way) feels like a cage. You haven’t left it once in the time you’ve been here.
You don’t even know exactly where you are.
The illusion of freedom is there: a generous amount of money and a new identity waiting to be stepped into.
But you know the second you tried to walk out that door, shit would pop off somehow.
Even if you left… where the fuck would you go?
Back to Vegas so Leon could finish what he started? To Miami, where you swore you’d start over clean, only to leave a trail of blood behind you?
On top of the physical and psychological toll the withdrawals bring; guilt lives inside your chest, rotting everything it touches.
Soleil and Nayeli flash behind your eyes constantly. Your brain turns cruel, painting their blood on your hands, whispering that you’re the reason they’re gone.
Amala and Bailee too. All of them collateral damage because you helped the fucking government.
And then there’s Javier Peña. The anger toward him festers the longer you lose yourself.
You let your guard down around him. That was your mistake.
All those nights tangled in his sheets, him listening to you like your words actually mattered, looking at you like you were worth protecting.
He told you he loved you, and you believed him.
He got what he wanted in the end—his precious intel, easy access to your body—and you gave it to him on a silver fucking platter.
Then when it mattered the most, he lied to your face.
Suicidal thoughts tease the edges of your mind on the worst nights.
You curl into yourself, sobbing until your eyes swell shut, whispering apologies to ghosts who can’t hear you.
But you’re too afraid of death. Too afraid of the unknown that comes after.
As hellish as this half-life is, you’d rather choke on it than face whatever waits on the other side.
One gray afternoon, one of the marshals knocks on the bedroom door.
“Miss Valentine.”
You don’t move. You’re staring out the window at the motionless lake, the surface so still it looks like glass.
She repeats your name. You don’t even turn your head.
“What?”
“We just got the call. You’re being flown back to Las Vegas.”
You feel… nothing. A dull, empty void where emotion should be.
Leon’s either dead or in custody. It doesn’t matter. He means nothing to you. You already mourned your real father years ago. This biological tie to a monster changes nothing.
“Okay.”
The marshal lingers in the doorway, tone turning impatient. “Today. We need you ready to move within the hour.”
“It’s not like I have anything to pack.”
You received only a few basic items when you arrived—none of your personal belongings. You haven’t been anywhere to get anything, either.
“Then I’d suggest you shower and collect what little you do have so we can get on the road and make it there in time.”
You have enough energy to roll your eyes, though she can’t see it. “Okay.”
She lingers for a moment longer before you hear her boots thud down the hallway as she leaves.
You lie there a moment longer, staring at the gray water outside, then force yourself up.
You’ve survived six months of isolation, grief, and the slow death of everything you used to be.
Whatever waits for you in Vegas, you’ll face it. Even if right now, you don’t feel like you can face anything at all.
Javier stands alone on the same stretch of tarmac where he last saw you, the desert wind whipping sand against his polished shoes.
His fingers twitch at his sides, restless, anxious in a way he hasn’t been since the worst days in South America.
He’s faced down cartels, deceit, and death, but nothing compares to how he’s feeling right now.
The jet’s door finally opens with a mechanical hiss. You emerge at the top of the stairs.
You’re unrecognizable.
Gone is the glittering, untouchable force of nature who once owned every room she walked into.
You’ve lost weight, your skin is dull, eyes sunken and shadowed with exhaustion, hair brittle and pulled back in a messy ponytail.
You move like every step is sapping your energy, shoulders hunched against the wind, hands shoved deep into your pockets.
The moment your eyes land on him, they ignite. The anger that’s been simmering for months flares across your face.
“You have some fucking nerve.”
Javier doesn’t move. He just stands there, swallowing thickly, letting you close the distance until you’re only a few away.
Seeing you like this pains him. He did this, and still, some selfish part of him wants to pull you into his arms and never let go.
“I know,” Javi hoarsely replies. “It’s fucked up for me to be here. But I had to see you.”
You scoff, crossing your arms tight over your chest like a shield, looking away so he can’t keep dissecting you with that intense, analyzing gaze of his.
It once made you feel seen in the best way. Now it just makes you feel exposed.
“Why? So you can see just how fucked up you got me?”
You spin slowly in place, arms spread wide, showing off the wreckage he helped create. “Take a good look, Peña. You did a damn good job.”
Javier’s jaw tightens, the muscle jumping visibly.
“I never wanted it to end like this,” he tells you, words heavy on his tongue.
“What the fuck else did you expect?” you ask, almost incredulously. “I told you from the beginning you were fucking with things you knew nothing about. But no—you just had to sell your bullshit dreams to the girls who let their guard down. Look where that got us. Look where that got them.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. Javier doesn’t defend himself. He knows there’s nothing he can say that will make this better. His silence has always been answer enough.
“So what is this?” you continue, voice cracking despite your best efforts. “The part where you tell me you got Leon and have no use for me now? Ready to throw me aside again, Javier?”
“He’s dead.”
Your expression twitches, but you keep your face as stoic as possible. “Good.”
He didn’t expect you to react strongly to the news, either.
“Your family’s dynasty is over. Ace is gone too.”
Six months of grief, betrayal, and unresolved feelings pours in the space between your bodies.
Your next question even catches you off guard momentarily. “And my mother? Her son?”
“They’re safe.”
You let out a humorless, bitter laugh. “And I’m supposed to just believe you? You could be lying to me again like the bastard that you are.”
Javier doesn’t flinch. “You’re just going to have to take my word for it.”
“Your word means shit all to me now.”
“I know.”
Underneath the resentment you feel for him, the toxic pull that never quite went away is felt faintly, but you rope it in and smother it as best as you can.
All you can do is glare at him. If you had the energy, you would whoop his ass again, except this time you would impose maximum damage.
Javier looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t.
“Where are you taking me now?” you finally ask.
His jaw works, teeth grinding together in that familiar tic. He knows what he says next is going to weigh you down even more.
And still, he forces the words out:
“You’re under arrest.”
Fresh anger surges through you, viciously burning away the numbness you’ve been blanketed with for months.
“What the hell are you talking about?” you hiss, stepping closer despite every instinct screaming at you to stay away.
Javier doesn’t back down, but his voice stays low, almost gentle in that way that makes you want to scream.
“I tried to make the charges disappear—made the case of how you helped bring the The Ivory Saints down. But with your record…” He clears his throat, rubbing a hand down his jaw. “All I could do was get it reduced. Two years in minimum security federal prison for prostitution.”
Your stomach drops. Blood drains from your face as reality sinks in of what your future is going to look like.
He goes on to explain how all your things, every scrap of independence you busted your ass for these last seven years, are going to be repossessed.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you choke out, disbelief cracking your voice. Tears sting behind your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. Not in front of him. He’s seen you weak too many times already.
“So you’re here to bring me in?” You take a deep breath. “After everything, you really thought it was a good idea for you to do this?”
Javier’s eyes are dark with guilt and that only makes you angrier.
“I couldn’t let it happen without facing you.”
You bite down on your lower lip, looking up at the sky and blinking away the tears.
“I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. All I wanted was for you to walk away from everything with the vengeance you deserved to get for what Leon did to you.”
You shake your head, jaw moving from side to side as you try to keep your shit together. You don’t have time for his bullshit apology.
“I love you.” Javier has the audacity to say.
His sad brown eyes search yours, exhausted and desperate. He sounds like he means it when he says it.
You can’t bring yourself to believe him. Not anymore.
“You’re pathetic,” you whisper with finality, the words tasting like ash on your tongue.
His eyes flutter and his gaze drops down to his shoes, swallowing down all the guilt that’s lodged in his throat yet threatening to come up like bile.
You manage to move before the weakness can take root. You walk past him, legs heavy, and climb into the back of his SUV, slamming the door shut.
You don’t look at him as he gets in the driver’s seat. You don’t say another word.
Just like that, your biggest fear came true: losing everything again… except this time it wasn’t in the blink of an eye, but instead at the hands of a man you thought you could trust.
Javier pulls in to the federal building and it’s a fucking media circus.
News vans line the street. Reporters and camera crews surge forward the moment his vehicle stops, microphones thrust out, voices overlapping in a chaotic roar.
Flashbulbs pop relentlessly, turning the scene into a blinding, disorienting nightmare.
The fallen heiress is back in Vegas and in handcuffs. They’re salivating for the story.
You’ve been in this shit show your whole life. The Valentine name dragged through tabloids since you were a child.
It’s violating. Like vultures picking at a corpse that’s still breathing.
Javier kills the engine, brows pulled in a deep frown. He hates every part of this. Especially the cuffs locked around your wrists in front of you.
He’d argued against bringing you in restrained, but his pleas fell on deaf ears.
Bullshit procedure protocols. Javier knows it’s all about putting on a show.
Now the metal digs into your skin, a humiliating reminder of how far you’ve fallen.
He steps out and rounds the vehicle to let you out, shielding you with his body as best he can. “Back off!” he barks at the nearest reporter, voice rough and authoritative. “Give her space.”
You emerge from the passenger side slowly, head down, hood of your oversized sweatshirt pulled low over your face.
The crowd presses in anyway, cameras clicking like hungry insects. Questions fly at you from all directions—invasive and accusatory.
“Did you betray your family for immunity?”
“Are the prostitution charges true?”
“Did you kill Leon yourself?”
You keep your face blank, eyes fixed on the ground, dissociating from the chaos the way you learned to do as a little girl. The noise fades into a dull roar in your ears.
Javier stays glued to your side, one hand hovering near your elbow without quite touching you. His jaw is clenched, eyes scanning the crowd like he’s ready to throw punches if anyone gets too close.
More officers spill out of the building to form a barrier, pushing the media back, but the frenzy doesn’t die down.
Right as you reach the top of the staircase where two officers wait to take you inside, you stop.
You turn to Javier, stepping close enough that he can see all the pain he’s inflicted on you.
“I hope every person you’ve ever fucked over haunts you until the day you die, Javier Peña.”
The words stab directly into his heart.
The mask he’s worn for months shatters completely. Guilt, self-loathing, and the love he still can’t kill—all of it lays bare across his exhausted face.
He’s spent his entire career telling himself he was one of the good guys: the one willing to get dirty to do what’s right.
But standing here, watching the woman he loves being led away in cuffs because of choices he made, he doesn’t recognize himself anymore.
And for what? A bigger bust? A notch on his record? The ‘most prolific achievement in his career’ as the papers are already calling it?
You don’t wait for a response, just turn away from him like he’s nothing.
The officers take your arms and lead you inside. The heavy metal doors swing shut behind you with a final, echoing clang that sounds like a coffin lid closing.
Javier stands frozen on the steps as the reporters surge forward again.
“Agent Peña! How does it feel to bring down the biggest crime family in Nevada history?”
“Is it true you had a personal relationship with the Valentine heiress?”
They want a hero’s story. That’s not what this is.
Now answers are given. Their questions feel like salt against an open wound.
He just destroyed the only woman who ever made him feel more like himself than any career achievement or fleeting lover ever did—and they want him to celebrate that.
His hands curl into fists at his sides as he finally turns to face the cameras, knowing he has to give a statement.
Javier Peña feels like the villain in his own story.
THREE MONTHS LATER
Javier stands on the edge of a rocky cliff just outside the city.
It sprawls out like a colorful, glittering wound in the night—the Strip moving like a river of light.
From up here, Las Vegas looks beautiful. Very reminiscent of his first night in, when the prospect of losing himself in it seemed exciting.
Steve stands beside him as the two men share the familiar quiet.
Smoke curls from their mouths and disappears into the cold night air, the low whistle of wind cutting across the rocks filling the void.
“So what now?” Murphy finally asks. “Onto the next one?”
Javier continues to stare out at the city, the night of your birthday ghosting over his mind, tormenting him.
“I’m done.”
Steve glances at him, a little surprised. “Done?”
“I’ve been done for a while,” Peña mutters, exhaling a thick plume of smoke. “I just kept telling myself this one would be different.”
He thinks of you as he always does; your dazzling smile, entrancing stare, sharp mind, and fiery attitude. How you did whatever the fuck you wanted because you had the entire world in the palm of your hand.
Javier ruined that. He took everything you had and gave you nothing but pain in return.
The shittiest gamble of all time.
“I can’t keep doing this,” he adds quietly. “I can’t keep ruining innocent people’s lives pretending it’s for a good cause.”
Steve doesn’t say anything for a long beat, just smokes, letting the wind carry his friend’s words away. Then he nods slowly.
“Don’t be a stranger,” is all he offers. “And don’t kill yourself over this, Jav. You did what you had to.”
Javier clenches his jaw, eyes bleary. Frustrated tears threaten to spill but he blinks them back.
He doesn’t deserve the release of crying.
They finish their cigarettes in silence, the glowing ends flickering like dying stars before they’re crushed under their boots.
Steve pulls him in for a hug.
“Say bye to the girls for me,” Javier says with a strained tone as they pull away.
“I will.” Murphy claps him on the shoulder one last time. “Let me know when you land back in Texas.”
Javier nods. He watches as Steve climbs into his truck, headlights cutting through the dark before the vehicle disappears down the winding road.
Then it’s just him.
He stays on the cliff for the rest of the night, every single memory of you keeping him planted where he is until the sky slowly lightens into a bruised purple as dawn creeps over the desert.
He lights one last cigarette, the smoke burning his lungs like penance.
Javier is going to spend the rest of his life repenting for ruining yours.
TWO YEARS LATER
You stand outside the storage unit in the dusty outskirts of the city, the midday sun beating down on your back.
The key feels heavy in your palm. It’d been taped to a plain white envelope you received this morning upon your discharge.
From Javier, of course.
At first, you weren’t going to open it.
In the last two years, you’ve seen him only once and it was during the trial—sitting in the back of the courtroom, eyes dark and unreadable, watching as you testified against what remained of the Valentine empire.
But curiosity… or maybe something weaker, more pathetic, won out.
You tore it open in the parking lot of the prison as you waited for the bus, heart hammering wildly against your ribs.
Inside: the key and a short note in his handwriting.
Hopefully this is enough to help rebuild your life.
I’m sorry. For everything.
No signature. Just those words and the address to this storage facility.
You take a deep breath and bend down to unlock the heavy roll-up door. The metal rattles loudly as you push it upward.
“Holy shit.”
The unit is packed floor to ceiling with your things.
Clothes, shoes, purses, jewelry, art prints you’d collected, boxes of beauty products and decor.
Everything from your Vegas loft and your Miami apartment. All of it.
Your eyes well with tears as you step inside, taking it all in.
That’s when you spot the old wooden chest in the corner.
It’s one you’ve had since you were a little girl. You’ve never been able to part ways with it.
Rushing over to it, you drop to your knees, fingers trembling as you open the lid.
Inside, tucked neatly into old tampon boxes like a ridiculous, brilliant secret, is a small fortune in cash.
Your father, Lionel, had always taught you to be smart with your money.
Never put it all in one place, princess. You took his lesson to heart, especially when you became a dancer.
Stacks upon stacks of hundred-dollar bills, untouched and exactly as you left them.
It’s more than enough to start over. For real this time. Anywhere you want.
You sit on the cool floor of the storage unit, surrounded by the ghosts of your old life, and cry into the money you thought you’d lost.
Materialistic as it may be—all of your belongings hold significance to them. The things you did to live that luxurious lifestyles taught you harsh life lessons that helped shape you into the woman that you are today.
Wiping away the tears and snot, you look down at his note again.
You haven’t fully healed from Javier, but you’ve healed enough to let go of the hate towards him.
Carrying it around only made you miserable and kept you chained to the past.
You were never going to move forward in your life if you didn’t forgive him in your own way. You’re certain that whatever life he’s been leading since your lock up is punishment enough for his sins.
Doing this for you—preserving your things, giving you a real chance to start over—is the least he could have done.
And strangely, it feels like closure.
You close the chest gently, running your fingers over the worn, painted wood.
A small, tentative smile tugs at your lips—the first real one in years.
You’re going to get back on your feet and live your life for yourself and no one else.
A/N: holy shit why am i crying rn 😭 once again i want to thank you for reading this story. i have loved being able to write javier like this where he's kind of irredeemable while still staying true to his character. he fucked up with her, yes, but i truly could never see them together for real as like an actual couple. they’re too broken to be with each other. i really want to continue writing her and showing how she betters her life after the events of this… especially since i want her to be endgame with frankie 😭 are y’all fucking with that pls be honest!!!! anyways, always a pleasure to interact with all of you. your support means everything to meeee hehehe i’ll see you divas in the next one 🖤
Artificial night had settled over the Hail Mary hours ago and now most of the ship was dark, lit only by dim strips of amber lighting along the floor and the soft glow of monitors inside the lab. Ryland sat alone at one of the consoles pretending very hard to work. Numbers blurred together on the screen while his brain remained catastrophically occupied with thoughts it absolutely should not be having.
Specifically: you. Again.
Nights were the worst. That was when his thoughts stopped listening to reason and took over completely. He rubbed tiredly at his face.
“Jesus Christ, Grace,” he muttered under his breath.
This was getting embarrassing, because it wasn’t even anything dramatic. You hadn’t kissed him. Hadn’t flirted intentionally. Hadn’t done anything except exist near him in ways his stupid brain apparently found devastating. The problem was the little things.
The way you leaned against doorframes while talking to him late at night. The way your voice softened when you got tired. The absentminded touches to his arm during conversations like physical affection with him was the most natural thing in the world. The way you sometimes looked at him.
Ryland was doomed. And he knew it.
He stared blankly at the monitor again, trying to focus on astrophage data instead of wondering what it would feel like if you fell asleep against his chest. Your body would be warm, your breathing slow and steady. Maybe he'd be able to feel your heartbeat. A strange feeling twisted deep inside him.
Bad. Terrible. Inappropriate.
His stomach twisted. Because the worst part? Sometimes he thought you trusted him enough that if he reached for you… you might actually let him. That thought alone made guilt crawl up his spine immediately. He shouldn't have been thinking things like that.
You were his friend and his partner. The only other human being for light years. Trapped with him inside this metal can in the middle of nowhere. You were supposed to be safe with him. And meanwhile Ryland was over here imagining the warmth of your hands against his skin at two in the morning like a complete disaster.
He exhaled sharply. Nope. Absolutely not.
“Focus, Grace. Focus.”
The lab doors slid open quietly behind him. And Ryland nearly launched himself out of his chair. You blinked at him sleepily, your hair a mess. You couldn't have been awake for more than a few minutes.
“Okay. That reaction was... weird.” You smiled faintly.
“Oh my God,” Ryland breathed, hand over his chest. “You can’t sneak up on people in space.”
“Relax, Grace. It's not a Xenomorph or anything.” A mischievous grin flashed across your face. You were wearing one of those oversized sweaters that always made Ryland’s brain stop functioning correctly.
Sometimes he wondered if you wore them on purpose because some subconscious part of you knew exactly what they did to him.
“You okay?” you asked softly.
“Fantastic,” he lied instantly.
Your eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re here alone talking to a monitor at two in the morning. It sounded a little emotional for working.”
Ryland looked away immediately. If he ignored that comment hard enough, maybe you'd let it go. You wandered closer anyway, carrying one of the ship’s terrible coffee pouches in your hand before settling beside him at the console.
Too close. Your shoulder brushed his lightly. Ryland forgot every language he’d ever spoken. How this kept happening, he had absolutely no idea.
“So,” you murmured sleepily, glancing at the screen, “are we saving humanity or having a breakdown tonight?”
“Can we do both?”
“Of course. Both sound pretty tempting.” A soft laugh escaped you and there it was again.
That warm ache in his chest. That horrible, wonderful feeling that filled him as if he were a teenager all over again. You smelled faintly like soap and recycled ship air and something entirely, uniquely you. Ryland became painfully aware of every inch separating your bodies. His pulse stumbled hard.
You turned your head toward him at the exact wrong moment, suddenly very close now in the dim light. And you had to notice something was wrong with him. You were smart. Observant.
“Ryland?”
Oh no. Bad. Very bad.
You were looking at him with sleepy concern, completely unaware of the catastrophic spiral happening in his head. He could kiss you right now. The thought arrived so suddenly it almost knocked the air out of him. Now. And the truly horrifying part? He thought maybe you’d let him. He could practically see it playing out in his imagination already...
Ryland pulled back so quickly that his chair scraped sharply against the floor. You blinked in surprise.
“Did I do something?”
God. Immediately guilt flooded him so hard it made his stomach hurt.
“No.” he said too fast. “No, you didn’t do anything.”
Your expression softened with confusion. “Then why are you looking at me like I caught you committing a crime?”
Because it felt like one. Because every soft thing he wanted from you felt dangerous in the small loneliness of space. Because sometimes at night Ryland imagined touching you with such terrifying tenderness it made him feel guilty afterward. Because he imagined you, the two of you, in situations that left him breathless… He laughed weakly under his breath, scrubbing both hands over his face.
“Do you ever have thoughts so embarrassing your brain should legally apologize to you?”
“Sometimes,” you answered, and somehow he could tell you were telling the truth.
“That’s reassuring.”
You studied him quietly for another moment. “Ryland...” The softness in your voice nearly killed him instantly. “You know you can tell me if something’s wrong, right?”
He looked at you then. At your tired eyes, your concern. How instinctively kind you always were with him. And suddenly the guilt became almost unbearable because God… He wanted too much. Not just kissing you. Everything.
He wanted sleepy mornings with you. Wanted your legs tangled together under blankets. Wanted to hear you laugh beside him for the rest of his life. He was always wanting more, but every day he pretended that friendship was enough. It wasn't. He was greedy for everything that had anything to do with you.
Ryland swallowed hard. “You’re gonna make me insane,” he admitted quietly before he could stop himself.
Your breath caught slightly and the room went still. Even the ship seemed quieter around you. As if everything had paused for a few heartbeats.
“Ryland…” you whispered carefully.
He immediately panicked. “Okay, wow, ignore that. That sounded significantly more emotionally revealing than intended.”
But you were still looking softly at him. And Ryland suddenly realized with absolute terror… Maybe he wasn’t the only one thinking dangerous thoughts in the dark.
Ryland wished desperately that he could take the words back. Not because they weren’t true. That was the problem - they were too true.
The lab suddenly felt unbearably small around both of you, dim monitor light reflecting softly across your face while you kept looking at him like you were trying to understand something fragile.
“Ryland…” you repeated his name quietly.
His pulse was so loud he was convinced the entire ship could hear it.
“Nope,” he said quickly, standing too fast again. “Actually, let’s all collectively pretend I didn’t say that.”
You blinked up at him from the chair, surprised. “Why?”
“Because.” He gestured vaguely with both hands. “Words are dangerous.”
A tiny confused smile pulled at your mouth. “That sounded dramatic.”
“I’m in space. I’m allowed one dramatic moment.”
Usually the jokes helped him recover but tonight they weren’t working. Because you were still watching him. Still soft and patient. And now there was something else in your expression too. Something careful. Ryland’s stomach flipped painfully.
“Oh no,” he muttered, “You’re thinking.”
You blinked. “You say that like it’s threatening.”
“It is when you look at me like that.”
Your brows pulled together slightly. “Like what?”
Like you finally saw him too. Like maybe the thing ruining his sleep for weeks wasn’t one-sided after all. Ryland laughed nervously under his breath and looked away before you could read too much from his face.
As long as it existed only inside his own head, Ryland could control it. But if it had taken root in yours too? If you were thinking about it as well?
“This is a terrible idea,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
He swallowed hard. “You and me.”
Silence. Your voice came quieter this time. “Why?”
The question genuinely startled him. Ryland looked back at you in disbelief. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
He stared at you for a second like he couldn’t comprehend the answer wasn’t obvious. “Because we’re trapped alone together in space,” he said carefully. “Because emotions get weird in isolation. Because if this goes badly, we still have to save humanity afterward.”
You listened quietly. Ryland rubbed exhaustedly at the back of his neck.
“And because I…” He exhaled shakily. “I don’t trust myself around you anymore.”
You took a deep breath. The honesty in his voice seemed to hit you harder than anything else. “What does that mean?” you asked gently.
Oh God. He really should stop answering questions honestly around you. But it was too late and you were close. And Ryland was tired of carrying this alone. The universe was conspiring against him.
“It means,” he admitted quietly, “sometimes you stand too close to me and I forget how to think.”
The room fell still again. Ryland watched the exact second your expression softened completely. Not uncomfortable or frightened. Just warm. And that look again. The one that seemed to peer straight into his soul.
“You know,” you murmured after a moment, “you could’ve told me.”
His laugh came out weak. “Yeah, because that conversation would’ve gone smoothly.”
“You think I’d make fun of you?”
“No.” He shook his head immediately. “That’s the problem.”
You looked at him carefully then. “So what is the problem?”
Ryland opened his mouth, then closed it again. Because the real answer was terrifyingly simple: If you wanted him back even a little, Ryland didn’t think he’d survive it gracefully.
And judging by the way you were looking at him right now, soft-eyed and nervous and slowly standing from your chair, he was beginning to think that might actually happen.
You stepped closer carefully. Giving him room to move away. He didn’t. He couldn’t. And he didn’t want to.
“Ryland,” you whispered, “look at me.”
Reluctantly, he did. And God, that was worse. Because now you were standing right in front of him in the low golden light, close enough that he could feel your warmth again. Close enough that he noticed your breathing hitch slightly too. Not just his. Yours. Something in his chest nearly stopped.
“You’re not the only one thinking dangerous thoughts,” you admitted softly.
Ryland stared at you. Like his brain had completely lost the ability to process language. “W-What?”
A nervous little laugh escaped you. “That bad, huh?”
“You…” He stopped, completely overwhelmed for a second. “You can’t just say things like that to me.”
Your smile turned shy around the edges. “Why not?”
Because he was already hanging on by threads. Because every lonely, guilty little fantasy he’d been trying to bury suddenly felt horribly possible now. Ryland looked at your mouth for one disastrous second too long. You noticed. And when you stepped just slightly closer again, his entire body went still.
“Tell me to stop,” you whispered.
Oh, he was doomed. Completely. Because instead of stepping away, Ryland’s hand lifted carefully toward your face like he physically couldn’t help himself anymore. His fingers brushed your cheek gently. Almost reverently. And the expression on his face right then - soft, stunned, wanting - looked exactly like a man realizing he’d crossed the line a long time ago and never actually wanted to go back.
Your eyes fluttered slightly at his touch. That tiny reaction nearly destroyed what remained of Ryland’s self-control. Damn, he should stop. He knew he should stop. Every rational part of his brain was still screaming warnings at him: bad idea, complicated, dangerous, mission-threatening. But none of those thoughts survived very long when you leaned into his hand so instinctively.
Like you trusted him there. Like you wanted him there. Ryland’s breath left him shakily. He wanted so badly to feel wanted by you.
“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he whispered before he could stop himself.
Your expression softened immediately. Something achingly tender flickered across your face then, because suddenly you understood: he’d been fighting this alone for a while. Maybe a long while.
You lifted your hand carefully, fingers brushing lightly against his wrist where it rested against your cheek.
“You’ve been scared of this,” you realized quietly.
Ryland laughed weakly under his breath. “Scared feels too calm a word.”
The honesty of it made your chest ache. Outside the tiny windows of the Hail Mary, stars stretched endlessly through the dark. Cold observers of whatever was happening between the two of you. But inside this tiny lab, everything suddenly felt unbearably close.
Ryland looked at you like a man standing too near the edge of something life-changing. And maybe heartbreaking too.
“I kept trying to convince myself it was isolation,” he admitted. “Or stress. Or shared trauma. Or the fact that you're literally the only person my brain sees anymore.”
A tiny smile touched your mouth. “And?”
His thumb brushed lightly beneath your cheekbone. “And then you'd laugh at something stupid I said and ruin the whole theory.”
You laughed quietly at that, and the fondness that crossed Ryland’s face afterward was so open it almost hurt. There it was. The thing he’d been trying to hide. Not just attraction. Adoration. The kind that sneaks up slowly until suddenly someone's existence starts feeling woven into every part of your day.
Your voice came softer now too. “You really thought you were alone in this?”
Ryland hesitated, then gave a tiny helpless nod. Your heart nearly broke for him. You stepped closer again until barely any space remained between you at all. And Ryland let you. God, he let you. Like he was finally too tired to keep resisting something he wanted this badly.
“You know what’s funny?” you whispered.
His eyes flicked nervously between yours. “What?”
“I thought you were avoiding me because I made you uncomfortable.”
Ryland looked horrified instantly. “What? No.”
“You kept pulling away. And I didn’t want to make things harder for you.”
“Because I was trying very hard not to kiss you constantly.”
“Oh.”
His face flushed immediately afterward. “Oh my God, I said that out loud too.”
A helpless laugh escaped you. Ryland looked seconds away from combusting.
“This is awful,” he muttered, closing his eyes “I had dignity once.”
“You’re very cute when you spiral.”
He looked at you. “Cute?”
You smiled. And then you kissed him. Not dramatically or rushed. Just gentle. A soft press of your lips against his that completely erased every thought left in Grace’s head. He froze instantly. Not because he didn’t want it. Because he wanted it so badly he almost couldn’t process it happening.
Your hand slid lightly into his curls and that finally broke him. Ryland kissed you back with a quiet sound against your mouth that felt dangerously close to relief. Weeks of restrained wanting collapsed all at once. His hand moved instinctively to your waist, pulling you closer carefully but urgently at the same time, like he couldn’t quite believe he was finally allowed to have this. Allowed to have you. In the way he'd been longing for.
The kiss deepened slowly, warm and aching and impossibly tender in the dim lab light. And underneath everything else, underneath the desire and nervousness and loneliness, there was wonder. Pure stunned wonder. Because Ryland had spent so long feeling guilty for wanting this that he never prepared himself for the possibility that you might want it too.
When you finally pulled back slightly, his forehead dropped against yours immediately. Breathing uneven. Still holding you like letting go would physically hurt.
“You realize,” he whispered shakily, “this is probably going to make me insufferably in love with you now.”
Your laugh brushed warmly against his lips. “Probably?”
Ryland closed his eyes briefly. “Okay. Catastrophically.”
You smiled against his lips, still close enough that Ryland could feel every small breath you took. And the terrifying thing? He already knew he’d never recover from this.
His arms tightened slightly around your waist as if his body had decided for him that this was where you belonged now. Which was dangerous. But when you brushed your thumb gently along his cheek, Ryland melted instantly anyway.
“This is so unfair,” he whispered softly.
You blinked up at him. “What is?”
“You being real.”
A laugh escaped you quietly. At that moment, he thought you looked even more beautiful.
“I’m serious,” he murmured, forehead still resting against yours. “You can’t spend weeks looking at me like that and then kiss me. My nervous system isn’t built for it. I’m far too weak.”
“You seemed pretty eager.”
“I have never been calm a single day in my life.”
“That’s true.”
Ryland let out a soft groan of betrayal while you smiled warmly at him. The ship hummed quietly around you. Dim lights. Soft shadows. Endless stars outside. And somehow, despite floating alone through space at the end of the universe, Ryland had never felt less alone in his life.
The realization hit him suddenly enough to steal his breath for a second. Because this wasn’t just attraction anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. You noticed the shift in his expression immediately.
“What?” you asked softly.
Ryland hesitated. Then laughed quietly under his breath like he couldn’t believe himself. “I’m in so much trouble.”
Your hand slid gently into his curls again. “Why?”
He looked at you for a long moment before answering honestly. “Because I think if you asked me for literally anything right now, I’d do it.”
The tenderness in his voice made your chest ache. You brushed your nose lightly against his. “That sounds serious.”
“It is serious.”
His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth again before returning to your eyes. “You kissed me and my brain immediately started planning emotional permanence.”
You laughed softly, warm and breathless. Ryland looked at you like hearing that sound might genuinely keep him alive. God, he was gone. And maybe the most dangerous thing was that he was starting to realize he didn’t mind anymore. Because for the first time in a long time, wanting someone didn’t feel guilty. It felt safe.
You squeezed his hand gently. Ryland looked down at your joined fingers for a second before speaking more quietly.
“You know what the worst part is?”
“What?”
“I think this ruined friendship for me forever.”
Your smile softened. “Ruined?”
“Yeah.”
He looked back at you, fondness written all over his face now. “Because now every time you touch me, my entire soul leaves my body a little.”
You leaned closer, smiling helplessly. “That sounds dramatic.”
“I’m in love with you,” he said immediately. “Everything is dramatic now.”
Silence. A stunned one. Ryland froze the exact second the words left his mouth. His eyes widened behind his glasses. The realization crashed straight into his heart.
“Oh no.” Your heart nearly stopped. Ryland looked horrified with himself. “That was supposed to stay inside my head significantly longer.”
And somehow, impossibly, that was the moment you kissed him again. And he stayed there. Maybe this feeling was reckless, irrational, and completely opposed to everything logical. But he wanted to hold on to it. And he wouldn't let anything tear you out of his arms.
