Keer

✨Mina✨

[hopelesslygaysstuff]

Sparkling Scarlet Masterlist

Started: 12/26/2022

Last Updated: 7/05/2023

Chapters: 30/30

Word Count: 107,843

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x fem!reader

Ao3: @hopelesslygaystuff

This series is now complete!

Photo Cred: Me

ᗢ ~ Chapter 1-3 ~ ᗢ

summary: Y/n is part of the avengers, but her whole world changes when she is sent away for special training with the infamous Scarlet Witch. She focuses on the mission, but doesn't expect to fall in love on the way. word count: ~ 4.3k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 4 ~ ᗢ

summary: Mary goes bye-bye and Y/n gay panics. word count: ~ 1.6k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 5 ~ ᗢ

summary: Y/n goes home with Wanda and enjoys the rest of the party. word count: ~ 1.3k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 6 ~ ᗢ

summary: They arrive at Wanda's and then it's sleepy time. word count: ~ 1.2k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 7 ~ ᗢ

summary: Wanda and Y/n discuss the interview process and eat breakfast. Y/n is a gay mess. word count: ~ 1.3k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 8 ~ ᗢ

summary: The first interview! Also hella gay panic from Y/n. word count: ~ 3.1k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 9 ~ ᗢ

summary: Second interview and confession of feelings. word count: ~ 2.6k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 10 ~ ᗢ

summary: First kiss! word count: ~ 1.7k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 11 ~ ᗢ

summary: Sex, but it's gentle. word count: ~ 3.6k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 12 ~ ᗢ

summary: They discuss some rules and boundaries. word count: ~ 1.8k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 13 ~ ᗢ

summary: Y/n goes to class. word count: ~ 3.3k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 14 ~ ᗢ

summary: Wanda is horny for Y/n, and punishes her. word count: ~ 3.1k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 15 ~ ᗢ

summary: More sex, just pure sex. Utter filth. word count: ~ 5.7k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 16 ~ ᗢ

summary: Sex, Wanda gets frisky in an elevator. word count: ~ 3.7k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 17 ~ ᗢ

summary: They go shopping! And then they fuck in a dressing room cause they're both horny for each other. word count: ~ 2.5k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 18 ~ ᗢ

summary: Morning sex, they go to Wanda's mystery event and Y/n makes a new friend! Then, she battles her insecurities on a rooftop. word count: ~ 5.9k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 19 ~ ᗢ

summary: Y/n gets mad at Wanda, talks with her about her insecurities, and they have very gentle sex. word count: ~ 3.8k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 20 ~ ᗢ

summary: Y/n gets in trouble cause she's a rule breaker, they have surprise guests for dinner, and Y/n gets punished. word count: ~ 4.7k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 21 ~ ᗢ

summary: Y/n struggles with her growing feelings for Wanda, attends a party, and ends the night in an unexpected way. word count: ~ 4.2k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 22 ~ ᗢ

summary: Wanda talks with y/n about her past. word count: ~ 3.8k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 23 ~ ᗢ

summary: Filthy smut, like downright nasty. You should probably go to church after reading this. word count: ~ 4.9k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 24 ~ ᗢ

summary: Y/n gets a phone call and a package and deals with her fears. Then, a big confession of feelings!! word count: ~ 4.5k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 25 ~ ᗢ

summary: Wanda and Y/n have a surprise guest! Y/n gets hella jealous and Wanda just wants everyone to get along. word count: ~ 6.1k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 26 ~ ᗢ

summary: Part two of Y/n's punishment and then it gets sad and they have sex. word count: ~ 5k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 27 ~ ᗢ

summary: Y/n gets a surprise and then things get very sad when she has to leave. word count: ~ 4.2k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 28 ~ ᗢ

summary: Y/n arrives back at the compound. Then, part one of the mission. word count: ~ 6.4k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 29 ~ ᗢ

summary: Mission part two. word count: ~ 4k+

ᗢ ~ Chapter 30 ~ ᗢ

summary: The team debriefs, Wanda and Y/n have a much needed talk, and then they fuck!! word count: ~ 5.2k+

All work is my own. None of the content on this blog is yours to translate, steal, or repost on any platform.

[alcoholfreenayeon]

Hi can you please do a girlfriend headcannon with haseul please

Haseul Girlfriend HCs

A/N: Yup, second post in a week, the world is ending. Probably also going to be the last one for a while-

Haseul is pretty smart when it comes to music, always telling you about the reasoning why a scene has a certain sound or what the effect of that sound has on the listener.

She also always lets you listen to her new songs first to get your opinion.

She is scared of birds. Like terrified, especially of pigeons. It surprised you but it did give you a chance to protect her when you both went on walks around parks.

Although, that wasn’t always the case, the first time you both went to the park, you saw a stall with birdseed and got some while she was getting some coffee, thinking it would be a nice fairytale moment to sprinkle some towards Haseul as she’d be flocked by birds…

What happened instead was her screaming on top of her lungs, flinging her coffee cup away in panic and half burning a passing cyclist who falls into the lake from surprise and pain. Oops.

While you were able to apologize to her and not get dumped, the two of you were still banned from that park-

She likes to travel and explore different countries.

She also likes to learn languages, trying to get some basic words from each place she visits.

You’ll often find her sending you pictures of her new outfits, asking if you like it and what accessories you think would go well with it.

[songsofvenus]

﹒⌗﹒take my breath ⸝⸝

wuthering waves ↳ augusta x fem!reader

synopsis: ↳ when y/n visits septimont with her brother, rover, she didn't expect to compete in the gladiator tournament with their new friend, lupa, nor to catch the attention of the septimontain's leader, augusta

genre: ↳ wlw, fluff, love at first sight, slow burn

featuring: ↳ augusta x rover's sister!reader ↳ lupa, rover (male ver.), iuno

warnings / notes: ↳ i hope you like it @keervah ↳ 940 words

Septimont did not bow to kings, it bowed to power. 

Stone walls carved with battle sigils towered into the blazing sky, banners snapping violently in the heat, and at the city’s heart stood the arena—ancient, massive, soaked in history and victory. 

Rover exhaled slowly beside you, “Yeah…this place runs on strength.” 

Lupa grinned, “As it should.” 

In Septimont, the strongest ruled. 

At the highest platform overlooking the arena sat the Ephor—head of the city, final authority, and undefeated champion, Augusta. 

She was impossible to miss. 

Tall and striking, her presence commanded silence even among roaring crowds. Pale skin glowed against the gold of her armor—a sleeveless white tunic beneath an ornate golden chestplate, pauldrons resting sharply on her shoulders. A flowing white skirt split by leather pteruges moved with the breeze, revealing high-cut black shorts beneath. 

Her long, vibrant orange-red hair cascaded down her back like fire. 

Sharp crimson eyes, ringed in white-gold, surveyed the fighters below like a predator choosing its prey. 

On the back of her left hand, her Tacet Mark glimmered faintly. A golden sunburst headpiece rested on her brow and eight-pointed star earrings caught the light. 

Power, elegance, and danger—all in one woman. 

Beside the throne stood the Council of Elders, and somewhere unseen for now—the Priestess who guided fate itself but it was Augusta who ruled, her word was law. 

The horn thundered and the gladiator tournament began, as warriors surged into the arena. 

Steel rang, dust exploded, and shouts echoed like thunder. 

You moved without thinking, a blade came for your head as you ducked, swept their legs, and twisted their wrist until their weapon clattered away. 

Another charged, you vaulted over their shoulder and slammed them into the sand. 

The crowd erupted as Rover fought like a storm beside you and Lupa laughed as she disarmed two opponents at once, but something shifted and the chanting changed—your name, getting louder and louder and louder from every section of the arena. 

From her throne, Augusta leaned forward watching you with interest. 

Your movements weren’t wild, they were precise and controlled, every strike had purpose, strength backed by skill 

Not reckless or cruel, but beautiful. 

A massive gladiator rushed towards you with a war hammer. 

The ground shook and you waited. 

At the last second, you pivoted, grabbed the handle and twisted, using their momentum to send them crashing flat onto their back. 

Silence, and then the arena exploded. Augusta stood causing the entire arena to freeze, even the elders bowed their heads. 

Her voice carried like thunder wrapped in silk, “Victory.” 

Your chest heaved as guards separated the fighters, but Augusta’s gaze stayed locked onto you—sharp, burning, and curious. 

The undefeated Ephor had found her next obsession. 

Days blurred into brutal rounds as you, Rover, and Lupa kept winning but it was you who Augusta watched relentlessly. 

Sometimes she evaluated other fighters but her eyes always returned to you. 

When you fought, lightning crackled faintly around her greatsword—her Griffon Echo shimmering above her like a spirit of war as she tested her own skills between matches. 

Watching her was like witnessing a living legend; flashy, powerful, and untouchable. Yet somehow, you were the only one who made her lean forward during your matches. 

The final battle was chaos; dust storms of movement and weapons clashing in every direction. 

When it ended, only three stood—you, Rover, and Lupa. 

The arena had gone silent, and then a thunderous applause followed by the sound of the horn, long and loud. 

Victory. 

High above, the priestess had finally emerged, Iuno, the infamous one, whispered about, feared and trusted. 

She lifted three medals etched with Septimont’s crest. 

“By fate and by strength,” she declared, “the champions are crowned.” 

She placed one around Rover’s neck, one around Lupa’s, and then stepped before you. 

Her gaze lingered, calculating. “The arena has chosen you.” 

When she placed the medal against your chest, her fingers brushed lightly. 

“You have altered Septimont’s path.” 

A strange smile touched her lips and behind her, Augusta watched you like a storm barely contained. 

Later, when the crowds finally faded and torches lit the stone corridors, you stood alone near the training grounds, still buzzing with adrenaline. 

“Y/n.” 

Your heart jumped and you turned to see who it was as Augusta approached—no throne, no council, and no ceremony, just her. 

Up close, she was overwhelming—tall, broad-shouldered, and the faint scent of metal and heat clung to her armor as lightning still danced softly along her greatsword. 

“You fight as a warrior born,” she said quietly. “But your power is earned.” 

You swallowed, “So is yours.” 

Her sharp eyes softened, barely. 

“Few speak to me like that.” 

“Few fight like I do,” you replied before you could stop yourself. 

For a long moment, the Ephor of Septimont simply stared and then she laughed—soft, real and dangerous. 

“I have ruled this city through strength alone,” she said. “But today, you reminded me why I first took the blade." 

Her gaze dropped briefly to your medal, then back to your eyes. 

“You have my respect.” 

Your breath caught. 

“And,” she added lowly, “my interest.” 

The air around you felt electric when she said those words. 

“I would see you train here,” Augusta continued. “Remain in Septimont.” 

“With you?” you asked. 

Her lips curved, “Especially with me.” 

From a balcony above, Lupa nudged Rover. “Oh she’s a goner.” 

Rover nodded in agreement, “Absolutely.” 

Iuno watched quietly, eyes glowing with unreadable fate. 

“The Ephor's future has changed,” she murmured. 

And beneath burning skies and echoing steel, the undefeated gladiator had finally met her match though not in strength but in her heart. 

[keervah]

Kicking my feet rn heeeeeee 🥰

[songsofvenus]

﹒⌗﹒take my breath ⸝⸝

wuthering waves ↳ augusta x fem!reader

synopsis: ↳ when y/n visits septimont with her brother, rover, she didn't expect to compete in the gladiator tournament with their new friend, lupa, nor to catch the attention of the septimontain's leader, augusta

genre: ↳ wlw, fluff, love at first sight, slow burn

featuring: ↳ augusta x rover's sister!reader ↳ lupa, rover (male ver.), iuno

warnings / notes: ↳ i hope you like it @keervah ↳ 940 words

Septimont did not bow to kings, it bowed to power. 

Stone walls carved with battle sigils towered into the blazing sky, banners snapping violently in the heat, and at the city’s heart stood the arena—ancient, massive, soaked in history and victory. 

Rover exhaled slowly beside you, “Yeah…this place runs on strength.” 

Lupa grinned, “As it should.” 

In Septimont, the strongest ruled. 

At the highest platform overlooking the arena sat the Ephor—head of the city, final authority, and undefeated champion, Augusta. 

She was impossible to miss. 

Tall and striking, her presence commanded silence even among roaring crowds. Pale skin glowed against the gold of her armor—a sleeveless white tunic beneath an ornate golden chestplate, pauldrons resting sharply on her shoulders. A flowing white skirt split by leather pteruges moved with the breeze, revealing high-cut black shorts beneath. 

Her long, vibrant orange-red hair cascaded down her back like fire. 

Sharp crimson eyes, ringed in white-gold, surveyed the fighters below like a predator choosing its prey. 

On the back of her left hand, her Tacet Mark glimmered faintly. A golden sunburst headpiece rested on her brow and eight-pointed star earrings caught the light. 

Power, elegance, and danger—all in one woman. 

Beside the throne stood the Council of Elders, and somewhere unseen for now—the Priestess who guided fate itself but it was Augusta who ruled, her word was law. 

The horn thundered and the gladiator tournament began, as warriors surged into the arena. 

Steel rang, dust exploded, and shouts echoed like thunder. 

You moved without thinking, a blade came for your head as you ducked, swept their legs, and twisted their wrist until their weapon clattered away. 

Another charged, you vaulted over their shoulder and slammed them into the sand. 

The crowd erupted as Rover fought like a storm beside you and Lupa laughed as she disarmed two opponents at once, but something shifted and the chanting changed—your name, getting louder and louder and louder from every section of the arena. 

From her throne, Augusta leaned forward watching you with interest. 

Your movements weren’t wild, they were precise and controlled, every strike had purpose, strength backed by skill 

Not reckless or cruel, but beautiful. 

A massive gladiator rushed towards you with a war hammer. 

The ground shook and you waited. 

At the last second, you pivoted, grabbed the handle and twisted, using their momentum to send them crashing flat onto their back. 

Silence, and then the arena exploded. Augusta stood causing the entire arena to freeze, even the elders bowed their heads. 

Her voice carried like thunder wrapped in silk, “Victory.” 

Your chest heaved as guards separated the fighters, but Augusta’s gaze stayed locked onto you—sharp, burning, and curious. 

The undefeated Ephor had found her next obsession. 

Days blurred into brutal rounds as you, Rover, and Lupa kept winning but it was you who Augusta watched relentlessly. 

Sometimes she evaluated other fighters but her eyes always returned to you. 

When you fought, lightning crackled faintly around her greatsword—her Griffon Echo shimmering above her like a spirit of war as she tested her own skills between matches. 

Watching her was like witnessing a living legend; flashy, powerful, and untouchable. Yet somehow, you were the only one who made her lean forward during your matches. 

The final battle was chaos; dust storms of movement and weapons clashing in every direction. 

When it ended, only three stood—you, Rover, and Lupa. 

The arena had gone silent, and then a thunderous applause followed by the sound of the horn, long and loud. 

Victory. 

High above, the priestess had finally emerged, Iuno, the infamous one, whispered about, feared and trusted. 

She lifted three medals etched with Septimont’s crest. 

“By fate and by strength,” she declared, “the champions are crowned.” 

She placed one around Rover’s neck, one around Lupa’s, and then stepped before you. 

Her gaze lingered, calculating. “The arena has chosen you.” 

When she placed the medal against your chest, her fingers brushed lightly. 

“You have altered Septimont’s path.” 

A strange smile touched her lips and behind her, Augusta watched you like a storm barely contained. 

Later, when the crowds finally faded and torches lit the stone corridors, you stood alone near the training grounds, still buzzing with adrenaline. 

“Y/n.” 

Your heart jumped and you turned to see who it was as Augusta approached—no throne, no council, and no ceremony, just her. 

Up close, she was overwhelming—tall, broad-shouldered, and the faint scent of metal and heat clung to her armor as lightning still danced softly along her greatsword. 

“You fight as a warrior born,” she said quietly. “But your power is earned.” 

You swallowed, “So is yours.” 

Her sharp eyes softened, barely. 

“Few speak to me like that.” 

“Few fight like I do,” you replied before you could stop yourself. 

For a long moment, the Ephor of Septimont simply stared and then she laughed—soft, real and dangerous. 

“I have ruled this city through strength alone,” she said. “But today, you reminded me why I first took the blade." 

Her gaze dropped briefly to your medal, then back to your eyes. 

“You have my respect.” 

Your breath caught. 

“And,” she added lowly, “my interest.” 

The air around you felt electric when she said those words. 

“I would see you train here,” Augusta continued. “Remain in Septimont.” 

“With you?” you asked. 

Her lips curved, “Especially with me.” 

From a balcony above, Lupa nudged Rover. “Oh she’s a goner.” 

Rover nodded in agreement, “Absolutely.” 

Iuno watched quietly, eyes glowing with unreadable fate. 

“The Ephor's future has changed,” she murmured. 

And beneath burning skies and echoing steel, the undefeated gladiator had finally met her match though not in strength but in her heart. 

[sseulforgii]

I'll Call You Mine

Myoui Mina x Reader

a/n: a little post-holiday girl in red inspired fluff for @keervah just because 🤭 I’m sorry it took so long and I hope you’ll like it 🙈

“Rainy days and bad luck come in my way. I look for you when I’m lost so I don’t go insane”

“Aw fuck!”

You curse at the sky as you feel huge drops of rain fall on your face. You grumble to yourself. Of course it’s today of all days that it rains! 29% chance of rain this week and it’s when you’re already late, tired, and cold. You’re already halfway to the bus station and you can’t risk going back home to get an umbrella ‘cause you’re already running late.

You brisk walk all the way to the bus station as the patter of rain starts to pick up. You glance at your watch, five more minutes before the bus arrives, and you heaved a sigh. Everywhere looks so festive, it’s Christmas eve after all and people are enjoying the holidays. You watched them miserably because today you have been called to report to work because your co-worker had an “emergency” and your supervisor was either stupid or favors your co-worker that they didn’t say anything and called you over.

You honestly could’ve said “no” since it was a last minute notice, but you work in healthcare and also needed the extra cash because you’ve been eyeing a cute sweater and a lego set you wanted to buy for your longtime crush, Mina. You smiled as you thought about your adorable introvert. You weren’t officially dating but you’re sure there was something between you because of the way Mina’s eyes shine when she sees you or how she lets loose her cute laughter and her gummy smile just for you. You’ve been going on cute little dates for months now and you remembered Mina’s kid-like excitement when you both saw that humongous Hogwarts lego set at a store you passed by. You secretly took note of that because Mina and legos and Mina building legos and Mina’s little happy dance - you were full on smiling now and felt warm because of the thought.

A loud honk shook you out of your reverie as the bus stopped in front of you and you can feel yourself slipping to your previous bad mood once again. You sat near the window and looked out in disbelief. Of course the rain stopped when you’re finally inside. It’s like the universe is testing your patience today. You decided to text Mina, just to lighten your mood a bit even though you have to inform her that you can’t spend Christmas eve together because of work. Mina, bless her beautiful soul, replied in an instant and you just about melted. She sent you a photo of her in a Christmas sweater holding a yule log with a text saying “Let’s eat this together when you get back and go to the Christmas market after.”

You were restless at work and you catch yourself glancing at the clock almost every few minutes. It’s pretty late and you’re sure Mina’s having dinner with her family already. Your goal was to go straight to the store after your shift on Christmas morning to buy that lego set and spend the rest of Christmas day with her. You’re in a brighter mood just thinking about how happy it will make her and you used that thought to fuel you for the rest of your shift. You received a text from Mina a few hours before midnight, “Merry Christmas, y/n. I wish you were here so tonight. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow morning!” She was so cute and it got you all giddy! You sent her an apology and told her you’d want to spend Christmas eve with her too but you assured her that tomorrow will be a fun day for the both of you. Her swift reply came, “I can’t wait! Good luck with the rest of your shift. I’ll see you tomorrow,” with a kissy face photo of her attached. You felt your cheeks heat up and you were trying to suppress a giggle. She’s the most adorable person ever! Now you’re more determined and happy thinking that this extra shift was all worth it when you see her tomorrow.

Finally, an hour left before your shift ends. You send the store a quick message asking to wrap up the Hogwarts lego set and sent them the payment. This way, you just need to drop by to get it and save you time. You can’t wait to spend your first Christmas with Mina! A few minutes passed and you received a text from your supervisor and your mood darkened incredibly. The employee assigned after your shift could not make it and there isn’t anyone else available to take over so you need to stay for their shift, which unfortunately for you is a double shift.

You can feel your temper rising. You wanted to scream and curse at someone but you really had no choice, it’s not like you’d be able to just leave your work and leave your patients to tend to themselves. You were in a very terrible mood as you counted the hours and realized you’d be missing the Christmas market when your shift ends because it closes early for their last day. You type out a message to your supervisor begging them to find someone to at least cover half the shift you’re forced to do. You had plans today and you feel like everything is ruined and you don’t even know what to tell Mina.

Your heart was heavy as your supposed shift ended and the new one started. As if on cue, Mina texted you good morning and that she couldn’t wait to see you. You were devastated and the festive mood long gone. You were disappointed at yourself for promising so much and not being able to make good on it, especially since this is Mina. You sent her an apology and an explanation not really in the mood anymore. Of course, because this is Mina, she understood and told you she’d still be waiting to spend Christmas with you no matter when your shift ends. You send out a halfhearted reply and another apology before burying your phone deep in your pocket not wanting to send more false promises. You informed the lego store of your predicament and the store owner asked if you’d want to pick it up at their residence instead if you don’t make it before the store closes. You say yes and thank them, thankful that their address is close to Mina’s. At least you can pick it up along the way.

The rest of the day was a blur. In the end, no one arrived to split your shift with you and it made you feel numb. It was already dark when the next person came in for the shift after yours. You sluggishly got ready to leave and sent both the store owner and Mina that you were on your way and apologized for how late it was. Thankfully the travel back was uneventful although you were really devastated as you watch people heading home with smiles on their faces.

Only a few more hours ‘til Christmas was over and you feel salty for only having that amount of time with Mina. You knew yourself well enough that you might end up ruining this night with her because you really are in a terrible mood and didn’t wanna see her disappointed face. So as you walked towards the store owner’s house you contemplated on just giving your Christmas gift and heading home.

You thanked the store owner as he gave you the huge box and apologized for the trouble. He was still all smiles and wished you Merry Christmas before you went on your way. A couple of houses before Mina’s you stopped and texted her that you’re almost at her door and wanted to give her something. You kept walking afterwards even after you felt your phone vibrate from her reply. You spotted her sitting at the foot of their porch. All wrapped in an oversized sweater and an elf hat sitting atop her head. Your heart warmed at the sight but guilt kept you from being truly happy to see her.

But Mina, known for her introverted and calm demeanor, just about beamed and ran when she spotted you. She enveloped you in a hug before dragging you to the door. You smiled halfheartedly and stopped her. You wanted to say you’re just there to give her a Christmas present and leave, but before you can even get anything out she looked at you sternly and said, “Nope. You’re staying. I prepared a bath for you and warm clothes and a surprise. So you’re staying. Got that?” You looked at her and can’t decide whether to smile or get scared because she looks so adorable with her elf hat and furrowed brows. All you were able to do was nod and utter a small “yes, ma’am” before she gave you a gummy smile and pushed you inside the house.

Mina just realized you were holding a gigantic box when you’re finally inside the house and gave you a questioning look. You chuckled lightly, “This is your Christmas present and I wanna see you open it.” Mina smiled at you widely, “Okay but first a warm bath! I know you’re really tired so take your time and relax. The clothes are in the bathroom, go” she pushed you towards the bathroom as she dragged out the last syllables. You were surprised with what you saw inside. The bathroom smells like peppermint and there were candles that cast a warm glow. An assortment of Christmas themed bath bomb were by the tub and a pair of fluffy pajamas and sweater were by the counter. You can already feel yourself relaxing and your mood lifting as you take in the scene before you.

You took your time in the bath as you were trying to shake off your bad mood because Mina has been trying to cheer you up. You got dressed and was drying your hair when you stopped and stared at the mirror. You didn’t notice it at first but the sweater you’re wearing has a huge penguin wearing a Santa hat. You can’t help but giggle now and hugged yourself thinking of how this is the sweetest gesture you’ve gotten. Finally in a better mood than when you first arrived.

You excited the bathroom and made your way to the living room to see Mina in a similar outfit placing two mugs of what smells like hot chocolate on the table. She looked at you and cooed at how adorable you are in your outfit. “I knew it would suit you!” She said as she straightened up and you saw her sweater has a huge black cat with a red scarf looped around its neck. “It’s me and you,” she said shyly as she saw you looking back and forth at her sweater and yours “Do you like it?” She asked as she batted her eyes at you. You smiled a genuine smile for the first time that day and enveloped her in a hug. “I love it so much!” You said against her hair and she giggled.

She made you sit on the couch and gave you a mug of hot chocolate with little marshmallows on them before disappearing into the kitchen. She returned with the yule log and a couple of forks in her hand and placed it in front of you. “It’s still Christmas after all,” she said as she picked up her own mug and sat beside you placing her head on your shoulder. You put your mug down and held her. “I’m sorry I was in a bad mood earlier,” you started “I just really wanted to spend our first Christmas together the best way. I know how much you wanted to see the lights and decor around the Christmas market and we weren’t even able to go.” She looked at you lovingly then and cuddled closer, “But we are spending the Christmas the best way. It doesn’t matter that it’s a little late, at least you’re here now. And besides, I have another surprise for you!” She suddenly stood up and placed her mug on the table before putting her hand out to help you up.

She dragged you to her bedroom door, mischief dancing in her eyes as she looked at you. “I knew you were sad that we didn’t get go enjoy the pretty Christmas scene so….” She then opened the door and you stare at everything in awe. “I just brought them here for you.” She finished quietly. You took in the whole room as you entered. Christmas lights were strewn on the ceiling and a small Christmas tree sat on her dresser decorated with cute ornaments and fake snow. Fairy lights cascaded over the shelves, the window, and her headboard. Everything looks so magical that it took your breath away. “Mina…” you let out her name in a whisper, words failing you with how sweet and wonderful her surprise is. You look at her beside you and her eyes were shining and expectant as she looks at your glowing face. You held her close, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “Thank you. This is the best Christmas ever.” She giggled and hugged you tightly before pulling back a little. She stared at you shyly this time and pointed upwards.

You look up and saw a mistletoe and you felt your face heat up. She was so adorable with her mischievous eyes and her shy smile that you can’t help but giggle and give her a small smirk. She hit you playfully before standing on her tiptoes, you pulled her in for your first kiss. It was chaste and warm and perfect. Just like your Mina. “You’re what I want for Christmas, y/n. And I hope you want me too,” she said with so much love and adoration that you thought your heart was gonna burst. You leaned in for another kiss as words are not enough to tell her how much you want this too. You stopped to catch your breath and rested your forehead against hers. “You’re mine.” You said against her lips and she giggled.

“Now how are you gonna top my best Christmas gift ever?” She playfully teased and you lit up, excited to give her the lego set you bought. “Come see,” you smirked at her, “I’m sure you’d love it” you said as you took her hand and led her out to the living room again. You moved the small table to make way and sat on the carpeted floor before placing the box in front of you. You gestured for her to sit on the opposite side and told her to open it.

You can’t decide which was better, her heartfelt confession earlier or how she was squealing like a little girl right now. Like you imagined, she was as excited and as giddy as a little kid on Christmas morning. You were beaming as you watch her take out the pieces and tried to hug the huge box against her. “BEST GIFT EVER” you heard her muffled exclamation. You laughed and pried the box off of her hands before teasingly said, “better than me being yours?” Her eyebrows shot up so fast, eyes wide but also teasing. “Nope! I’ll always call you mine.” She said with a grin.

You spent the rest of the night drinking hot chocolate and building the lego. You can’t help but think then that there isn’t any other way you wanna spend Christmas.

[keervah]

Re-reading this

🥹🥹🥹🥹

[sseulforgii]

I'll Call You Mine

Myoui Mina x Reader

a/n: a little post-holiday girl in red inspired fluff for @keervah just because 🤭 I’m sorry it took so long and I hope you’ll like it 🙈

“Rainy days and bad luck come in my way. I look for you when I’m lost so I don’t go insane”

“Aw fuck!”

You curse at the sky as you feel huge drops of rain fall on your face. You grumble to yourself. Of course it’s today of all days that it rains! 29% chance of rain this week and it’s when you’re already late, tired, and cold. You’re already halfway to the bus station and you can’t risk going back home to get an umbrella ‘cause you’re already running late.

You brisk walk all the way to the bus station as the patter of rain starts to pick up. You glance at your watch, five more minutes before the bus arrives, and you heaved a sigh. Everywhere looks so festive, it’s Christmas eve after all and people are enjoying the holidays. You watched them miserably because today you have been called to report to work because your co-worker had an “emergency” and your supervisor was either stupid or favors your co-worker that they didn’t say anything and called you over.

You honestly could’ve said “no” since it was a last minute notice, but you work in healthcare and also needed the extra cash because you’ve been eyeing a cute sweater and a lego set you wanted to buy for your longtime crush, Mina. You smiled as you thought about your adorable introvert. You weren’t officially dating but you’re sure there was something between you because of the way Mina’s eyes shine when she sees you or how she lets loose her cute laughter and her gummy smile just for you. You’ve been going on cute little dates for months now and you remembered Mina’s kid-like excitement when you both saw that humongous Hogwarts lego set at a store you passed by. You secretly took note of that because Mina and legos and Mina building legos and Mina’s little happy dance - you were full on smiling now and felt warm because of the thought.

A loud honk shook you out of your reverie as the bus stopped in front of you and you can feel yourself slipping to your previous bad mood once again. You sat near the window and looked out in disbelief. Of course the rain stopped when you’re finally inside. It’s like the universe is testing your patience today. You decided to text Mina, just to lighten your mood a bit even though you have to inform her that you can’t spend Christmas eve together because of work. Mina, bless her beautiful soul, replied in an instant and you just about melted. She sent you a photo of her in a Christmas sweater holding a yule log with a text saying “Let’s eat this together when you get back and go to the Christmas market after.”

You were restless at work and you catch yourself glancing at the clock almost every few minutes. It’s pretty late and you’re sure Mina’s having dinner with her family already. Your goal was to go straight to the store after your shift on Christmas morning to buy that lego set and spend the rest of Christmas day with her. You’re in a brighter mood just thinking about how happy it will make her and you used that thought to fuel you for the rest of your shift. You received a text from Mina a few hours before midnight, “Merry Christmas, y/n. I wish you were here so tonight. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow morning!” She was so cute and it got you all giddy! You sent her an apology and told her you’d want to spend Christmas eve with her too but you assured her that tomorrow will be a fun day for the both of you. Her swift reply came, “I can’t wait! Good luck with the rest of your shift. I’ll see you tomorrow,” with a kissy face photo of her attached. You felt your cheeks heat up and you were trying to suppress a giggle. She’s the most adorable person ever! Now you’re more determined and happy thinking that this extra shift was all worth it when you see her tomorrow.

Finally, an hour left before your shift ends. You send the store a quick message asking to wrap up the Hogwarts lego set and sent them the payment. This way, you just need to drop by to get it and save you time. You can’t wait to spend your first Christmas with Mina! A few minutes passed and you received a text from your supervisor and your mood darkened incredibly. The employee assigned after your shift could not make it and there isn’t anyone else available to take over so you need to stay for their shift, which unfortunately for you is a double shift.

You can feel your temper rising. You wanted to scream and curse at someone but you really had no choice, it’s not like you’d be able to just leave your work and leave your patients to tend to themselves. You were in a very terrible mood as you counted the hours and realized you’d be missing the Christmas market when your shift ends because it closes early for their last day. You type out a message to your supervisor begging them to find someone to at least cover half the shift you’re forced to do. You had plans today and you feel like everything is ruined and you don’t even know what to tell Mina.

Your heart was heavy as your supposed shift ended and the new one started. As if on cue, Mina texted you good morning and that she couldn’t wait to see you. You were devastated and the festive mood long gone. You were disappointed at yourself for promising so much and not being able to make good on it, especially since this is Mina. You sent her an apology and an explanation not really in the mood anymore. Of course, because this is Mina, she understood and told you she’d still be waiting to spend Christmas with you no matter when your shift ends. You send out a halfhearted reply and another apology before burying your phone deep in your pocket not wanting to send more false promises. You informed the lego store of your predicament and the store owner asked if you’d want to pick it up at their residence instead if you don’t make it before the store closes. You say yes and thank them, thankful that their address is close to Mina’s. At least you can pick it up along the way.

The rest of the day was a blur. In the end, no one arrived to split your shift with you and it made you feel numb. It was already dark when the next person came in for the shift after yours. You sluggishly got ready to leave and sent both the store owner and Mina that you were on your way and apologized for how late it was. Thankfully the travel back was uneventful although you were really devastated as you watch people heading home with smiles on their faces.

Only a few more hours ‘til Christmas was over and you feel salty for only having that amount of time with Mina. You knew yourself well enough that you might end up ruining this night with her because you really are in a terrible mood and didn’t wanna see her disappointed face. So as you walked towards the store owner’s house you contemplated on just giving your Christmas gift and heading home.

You thanked the store owner as he gave you the huge box and apologized for the trouble. He was still all smiles and wished you Merry Christmas before you went on your way. A couple of houses before Mina’s you stopped and texted her that you’re almost at her door and wanted to give her something. You kept walking afterwards even after you felt your phone vibrate from her reply. You spotted her sitting at the foot of their porch. All wrapped in an oversized sweater and an elf hat sitting atop her head. Your heart warmed at the sight but guilt kept you from being truly happy to see her.

But Mina, known for her introverted and calm demeanor, just about beamed and ran when she spotted you. She enveloped you in a hug before dragging you to the door. You smiled halfheartedly and stopped her. You wanted to say you’re just there to give her a Christmas present and leave, but before you can even get anything out she looked at you sternly and said, “Nope. You’re staying. I prepared a bath for you and warm clothes and a surprise. So you’re staying. Got that?” You looked at her and can’t decide whether to smile or get scared because she looks so adorable with her elf hat and furrowed brows. All you were able to do was nod and utter a small “yes, ma’am” before she gave you a gummy smile and pushed you inside the house.

Mina just realized you were holding a gigantic box when you’re finally inside the house and gave you a questioning look. You chuckled lightly, “This is your Christmas present and I wanna see you open it.” Mina smiled at you widely, “Okay but first a warm bath! I know you’re really tired so take your time and relax. The clothes are in the bathroom, go” she pushed you towards the bathroom as she dragged out the last syllables. You were surprised with what you saw inside. The bathroom smells like peppermint and there were candles that cast a warm glow. An assortment of Christmas themed bath bomb were by the tub and a pair of fluffy pajamas and sweater were by the counter. You can already feel yourself relaxing and your mood lifting as you take in the scene before you.

You took your time in the bath as you were trying to shake off your bad mood because Mina has been trying to cheer you up. You got dressed and was drying your hair when you stopped and stared at the mirror. You didn’t notice it at first but the sweater you’re wearing has a huge penguin wearing a Santa hat. You can’t help but giggle now and hugged yourself thinking of how this is the sweetest gesture you’ve gotten. Finally in a better mood than when you first arrived.

You excited the bathroom and made your way to the living room to see Mina in a similar outfit placing two mugs of what smells like hot chocolate on the table. She looked at you and cooed at how adorable you are in your outfit. “I knew it would suit you!” She said as she straightened up and you saw her sweater has a huge black cat with a red scarf looped around its neck. “It’s me and you,” she said shyly as she saw you looking back and forth at her sweater and yours “Do you like it?” She asked as she batted her eyes at you. You smiled a genuine smile for the first time that day and enveloped her in a hug. “I love it so much!” You said against her hair and she giggled.

She made you sit on the couch and gave you a mug of hot chocolate with little marshmallows on them before disappearing into the kitchen. She returned with the yule log and a couple of forks in her hand and placed it in front of you. “It’s still Christmas after all,” she said as she picked up her own mug and sat beside you placing her head on your shoulder. You put your mug down and held her. “I’m sorry I was in a bad mood earlier,” you started “I just really wanted to spend our first Christmas together the best way. I know how much you wanted to see the lights and decor around the Christmas market and we weren’t even able to go.” She looked at you lovingly then and cuddled closer, “But we are spending the Christmas the best way. It doesn’t matter that it’s a little late, at least you’re here now. And besides, I have another surprise for you!” She suddenly stood up and placed her mug on the table before putting her hand out to help you up.

She dragged you to her bedroom door, mischief dancing in her eyes as she looked at you. “I knew you were sad that we didn’t get go enjoy the pretty Christmas scene so….” She then opened the door and you stare at everything in awe. “I just brought them here for you.” She finished quietly. You took in the whole room as you entered. Christmas lights were strewn on the ceiling and a small Christmas tree sat on her dresser decorated with cute ornaments and fake snow. Fairy lights cascaded over the shelves, the window, and her headboard. Everything looks so magical that it took your breath away. “Mina…” you let out her name in a whisper, words failing you with how sweet and wonderful her surprise is. You look at her beside you and her eyes were shining and expectant as she looks at your glowing face. You held her close, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “Thank you. This is the best Christmas ever.” She giggled and hugged you tightly before pulling back a little. She stared at you shyly this time and pointed upwards.

You look up and saw a mistletoe and you felt your face heat up. She was so adorable with her mischievous eyes and her shy smile that you can’t help but giggle and give her a small smirk. She hit you playfully before standing on her tiptoes, you pulled her in for your first kiss. It was chaste and warm and perfect. Just like your Mina. “You’re what I want for Christmas, y/n. And I hope you want me too,” she said with so much love and adoration that you thought your heart was gonna burst. You leaned in for another kiss as words are not enough to tell her how much you want this too. You stopped to catch your breath and rested your forehead against hers. “You’re mine.” You said against her lips and she giggled.

“Now how are you gonna top my best Christmas gift ever?” She playfully teased and you lit up, excited to give her the lego set you bought. “Come see,” you smirked at her, “I’m sure you’d love it” you said as you took her hand and led her out to the living room again. You moved the small table to make way and sat on the carpeted floor before placing the box in front of you. You gestured for her to sit on the opposite side and told her to open it.

You can’t decide which was better, her heartfelt confession earlier or how she was squealing like a little girl right now. Like you imagined, she was as excited and as giddy as a little kid on Christmas morning. You were beaming as you watch her take out the pieces and tried to hug the huge box against her. “BEST GIFT EVER” you heard her muffled exclamation. You laughed and pried the box off of her hands before teasingly said, “better than me being yours?” Her eyebrows shot up so fast, eyes wide but also teasing. “Nope! I’ll always call you mine.” She said with a grin.

You spent the rest of the night drinking hot chocolate and building the lego. You can’t help but think then that there isn’t any other way you wanna spend Christmas.

[rd0265667]

Under the Moon's light

Pairing: Sophia x Fem! Reader

a/n: This is a fem reader fic, but all are welcome. Reader's gender doesn't really have a bearing on the story. also, @songsofvenus, i did it. WC:9761

Full Moon: The “First” meet

“The moon is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?”

The tavern always smells like honey and smoke.

It’s the kind of place that feels like it’s been there longer than memory — walls stained with laughter, ceiling beams holding whispers of too many winters. Outside, the night hums with music and the low buzz of insects. The moon hangs heavy above the hills, full, swollen and silver, the kind that looks close enough to touch if you reached just high enough.

You push the door open and step inside. Warmth greets you first, then noise. Someone’s playing a fiddle near the hearth, a tune bright enough to lift the heart but old enough to sound like it’s been carried through generations.

You find a seat at the counter, halfway between solitude and company. You don’t know why you came here tonight — only that something pulled you, a quiet gravity that feels older than reason.

Elias, the barkeep, wipes his hands on a linen rag and gives you a look that sits somewhere between surprise and something else entirely. It’s brief, fleeting.

“Evening,” he says simply, voice gravelly from years of laughter and smoke. “Haven’t seen you around before.”

You smile, shaking your head. “Just passing through.”

He studies you for a moment longer, like he’s looking for a detail he can’t quite find. Then he nods, turning to pour you a drink. “Travelers always come after the full moon,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

You blink. “Sorry?”

“Nothing.” He slides a tankard across the counter, golden mead sloshing softly against its sides. “Sweetest we’ve got. Bit too much honey, if you ask me.”

Before you can answer, a voice rings out from behind you — smooth, lilting, carrying laughter even before the words take shape.

“You say that every time, Elias, and you’re still wrong. There’s no such thing as too much honey.”

You turn — and the rest of the tavern seems to fade.

She’s standing by the doorway, framed by moonlight and the chatter of the room, and for a heartbeat, you forget how to breathe.

Her hair catches the firelight like strands of gold spun thin. Her smile is wicked and bright, and her eyes — God, her eyes — gleam with the sort of knowing that makes you feel seen, even when you don’t want to be.

Sophia.

You don’t know her yet, not by name, but she already feels like a memory you should’ve kept.

She glides toward you with the ease of someone who belongs everywhere. Elias groans softly under his breath, but there’s fondness beneath it, a tired affection that sounds like routine.

“Here to argue with me about my mead again?” he asks.

“It’s tradition,” she says, slipping onto the stool beside you. “You can’t have a full moon without our monthly debate.”

You chuckle, glancing between them. “Do you two know each other?”

“Unfortunately,” Elias says.

“Tragically,” Sophia corrects with a grin. “He’s my favorite person to annoy.”

There’s something magnetic about her. She speaks in a rhythm that makes you lean closer without realizing. Every word dances. Every laugh feels like it was meant for you, even when it’s not.

You raise your tankard. “So, you’re the local expert on honey content, then?”

“Only when it comes to mead,” she says, turning her gaze toward you, sharp and playful. “Everything else, I’m still figuring out.”

You smile, already lost.

There’s no other way to describe it — you fall for her right then. Not slowly, not carefully. Instantly. Like you’d been walking a familiar path and suddenly realized the stars were brighter because she was standing under them.

She tells you about the town — the festivals, the flower stalls in the square, the way the cobblestones glisten after the rain. She speaks in colors, and somehow you can see every one. You tell her bits about yourself, small things — your travels, the people you’ve met, the way the forest looked when you arrived at dusk.

She listens like it’s all facinating, but her eyes flicker, just for a second, a glint of something you can’t decipher.

The tavern grows louder, but your world narrows until it’s just her voice, her laugh, her fingers tracing circles on the rim of her glass. She leans in, her shoulder brushing yours, and something electric hums between you.

“Do you always charm strangers this easily?” you ask, trying to sound playful instead of awestruck, or lovestruck.

“Only the interesting ones,” she says softly.

Elias passes by again, shaking his head. He catches Sophia’s eye — and for an instant, his expression softens. Then he’s gone, moving down the bar, refilling drinks, pretending not to look back.

You don’t see it. You’re too busy watching Sophia tilt her head back to drink, the firelight catching her throat, her smile curving like a secret.

Time slips strangely when you’re around her. One minute, you’re strangers. The next, you’re laughing like old friends, knees brushing beneath the counter.

When the crowd begins to thin, she looks toward the door. “Come on,” she says, standing. “You can’t waste a full moon indoors.”

You follow her out without question.

Outside, the night is soft and golden. The moon rests low above the horizon, enormous and impossibly bright. The air smells like clover and pine and the faint sweetness of mead still on your breath.

You walk side by side down the dirt road, your hands brushing every so often. The silence between you feels easy — not empty, just waiting to be filled.

When you turn back, she’s already watching you. There’s something in her gaze — a glimmer of affection, but something else too, something you can’t quite name.

It doesn’t matter. Not tonight.

All you know is that the world feels right beside her. That maybe you were supposed to walk into that tavern tonight. That maybe you were supposed to meet her.

And so you smile, and she smiles back — that wide, luminous grin that could outshine the moon itself.

Later, when she says goodnight, you think of something stupid like fate.

You fall asleep with her laughter still echoing in your head.

And when you dream, you dream of the same tavern, the same moonlight, the same laugh 

Waning Gibbous: The “First” picnic

You wake to sunlight and the faint scent of honey still clinging to your sleeves — a sweet reminder of the night before. The tavern, the laughter, the way Sophia said your name like she was tasting it. You’ve been replaying every moment since, like a song you can’t get out of your head.

You don’t expect to see her again.

That’s what makes the knock at your door so startling.

“Good morning!”

Her voice is unmistakable — warm and lilting, with that soft musicality that makes your heart do something stupid. You open the door to find Sophia standing there in the early light, holding a picnic basket and smiling like she’s been waiting for you all along.

She’s wearing a light dress the color of cream and sunlight, and her hair’s tied up with a ribbon that catches the breeze.

You blink, still trying to wake up. “Sophia?”

“Do you know any other Sophias who bring you breakfast at ungodly hours?” she asks, pretending to frown.

“It’s not that early,” you say automatically, even though it definitely is.

Her grin widens. “See? You’re already defending me. That’s a good sign.”

You can’t help but laugh. “So, breakfast, huh?”

“Well,” she says, tilting her head, “technically lunch. But breakfast sounds more romantic.”

You don’t even hesitate when she gestures for you to come along. Somehow, following Sophia feels as natural as breathing.

The two of you walk out of town and into the fields, where the grass bends in soft waves and the air smells faintly of clover. Sophia talks as she walks, hands moving animatedly — about the best pastries in the market, or about how Elias still doesn’t know how to pour mead without spilling some.

You mostly listen, stealing glances when you think she’s not looking. Her words come easily, full of color and rhythm — and every so often, she glances your way as if to make sure you’re still smiling.

You are. You can’t not.

When you reach the meadow, Sophia spreads out a checkered blanket and unpacks the basket with a flourish.

“Behold,” she declares, dramatically lifting a jar, “my greatest weakness: strawberry jam.”

“Your greatest weakness?” you tease. “Not bad dancing? Or too much talking? Or that thing you do with your nose?”

“Excuse me,” she says, pretending to be offended. “I am an excellent dancer and a delightful conversationalist. Also, I’ll have you know that my nose is adorable.”

“Debatable.”

She gasps, hand over her chest. “You wound me.”

You grin. “Maybe I’ll make it up to you with a compliment.”

She perks up. “Go on.”

You pause, pretending to think. “You have a nice… basket.”

Sophia groans, throwing a grape at you. You catch it midair — barely — and she claps, laughing.

“Fine,” she says. “You get partial redemption.”

The picnic is simple but perfect — flaky bread, cheese, strawberries, and the jam she swears could solve wars. You eat until you’re full, and then some, talking about nothing and everything: the weather, favorite colors, childhood dreams.

She tells you she used to sneak onto the roof to look at stars, because she liked pretending they could hear her.

You tell her you used to name every stray cat in your neighborhood.

“Every single one?”

“Even the mean ones.”

She laughs softly. “That’s very you.”

You raise a brow. “What does that mean?”

“It means you look at things like they’re worth loving,” she says, voice lighter than air — but there’s a softness in her gaze that makes your chest ache a little.

After lunch, she convinces you to play a dice game she claims is “incredibly simple.”

It’s not.

Ten minutes later, she’s giggling so hard she can’t even roll straight.

“Wait, wait,” you protest, pointing at her cup. “You’re making up rules as we go!”

“Am not!”

“Then explain how I just lost twenty points because my dice rolled an even number.”

“It’s a bonus penalty,” she says, completely deadpan.

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

You groan. “You’re insufferable.”

Sophia beams. “And you’re adorable when you’re losing.”

Your face heats instantly, which only makes her laugh harder. “You know,” she adds, grinning, “you make this too easy.”

You lie back on the blanket in mock defeat. “You’re evil.”

She flops down beside you, her hair brushing your shoulder. “Maybe. But at least I’m cute about it.”

You can’t argue with that.

For a while, the two of you just lie there, watching clouds drift lazily across the sky.

Sophia hums — a tune you swear you’ve heard before, though you can’t place it. It feels like how sunlight sounds.

“Do you ever think,” she says quietly, “that maybe the sky’s too big for one person to look at alone?”

You glance over. She’s smiling, eyes closed, face tilted toward the warmth.

“Then it’s a good thing you invited me,” you say softly.

She opens one eye, looking at you, and for a heartbeat, it feels like the world narrows down to that one look — the little spark in her gaze, the quiet recognition of something she won’t name yet.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “It is.”

Later, she kicks off her shoes and wanders barefoot into the stream that runs along the edge of the meadow. The water sparkles around her ankles, catching sunlight in little bursts.

“Come on!” she calls. “It’s not cold!”

“It looks cold.”

“It’s refreshing,” she insists, splashing water toward you.

You yelp as it hits your arm. “Sophia!”

She laughs so hard she almost falls. You chase her in, splashing back until both of you are soaked, breathless, laughing like children.

When you finally stumble back onto the grass, dripping and exhausted, she sits beside you and hands you a towel from the basket like she knew this would happen.

“You planned this,” you accuse.

“Maybe,” she admits, grin mischievous. “You always smile more when you’re caught off guard.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s not fooling anyone.

By the time the sun dips low, painting everything in gold, you’re both stretched out on the blanket again. The air is still warm, the world quiet except for the hum of cicadas.

Sophia props herself up on one elbow, watching you. Her eyes catch the last of the light, glowing amber.

“What?” you ask, suddenly shy.

“Nothing,” she says softly. “Just thinking that you look exactly how today feels.”

You blink. “What does that mean?”

She smiles. “Like sunshine. Like something I don’t want to forget.”

You don’t realize how close she’s leaned until you can see the tiny flecks of light in her irises.

Your heart stumbles over itself.

“Then don’t forget,” you say quietly.

Her smile falters — not in sadness, but in that way people do when they’re feeling too much, when feeling overwhelms in a tidal wave. “I’ll try not to,” she whispers.

You walk back together as the sky deepens to violet. The road is lined with fireflies, and she catches one in her hands, letting it glow between her fingers.

“See?” she says. “Even the little lights follow us home.”

Elias is sweeping outside the tavern when you arrive. He gives Sophia a long, unreadable look, and she offers him a cheerful wave.

“Evening, Elias!”

He nods slowly. “Evening, Sophia. At the waterfalls again?”

Sophia just smiles. “You always remember, don’t you?”

“Hard to Forget.”

You frown, not understanding, but Sophia just squeezes your arm gently. “Ignore him,” she says lightly.

And then she’s looking at you again, eyes soft, almost hopeful. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” you promise.

When you finally lie down that night, the scent of wildflowers still clings to your clothes, and you fall asleep smiling, the sound of her laughter echoing in your mind.

You dream of sunlight and honey and the way Sophia looked at you — like she already knew you’d follow her anywhere.

Third Quarter: The “First” Date

The sun was just beginning to sink when you saw her again. It was a daily occurrence by now, Sophia seemed to always know where to find you, spending at least a little of every day with you.

The sky had turned gold around the edges, a warm sort of light that made everything feel softer—the cobblestones, the chatter spilling from market stalls, even the wind. You were helping old Mr. Brehn at the bakery when you caught sight of her through the open doorway. Sophia, standing there like she’d stepped straight out of a dream you’d been too afraid to admit you were having.

She was laughing at something the flower vendor said, a ribbon of sound that wrapped around you, bright and unhurried. Her hair caught the last of the sunlight, haloed in gold, and she wore a soft cream dress this time, with her sleeves tied up and a faint dusting of flour smudged across her wrist—as though she’d been somewhere else, busy being radiant.

“Don’t stare too long,” Brehn said, elbowing you with a grin. “You’ll burn your bread.”

You pretended to focus on the dough. “I wasn’t staring.”

“You were absolutely staring.”

You were.

And when she spotted you through the doorway, her smile widened like she’d just remembered your name after a long time. “There you are,” she said, stepping inside.

“Me?” 

“You,” she confirmed, tapping your chest lightly with one flour-dusted finger. “I thought I might find you here.”

“You were looking for me?” you tried to sound casual, but the words tripped over each other on their way out.

Sophia tilted her head, pretending to think. “Maybe. Or maybe I was just following the smell of cinnamon. But either way…” she smiled, bright as a sunrise. “I’m glad it led me to you.”

Brehn made a sound behind you—something between a chuckle and a sigh—and muttered, “Young love, gods save them,” before shuffling to the back room.

Sophia leaned against the counter, eyes glinting. “Walk with me?”

You nodded before you even realized she’d asked.

The streets were quieter by the time you left the square. Lanterns had begun to bloom open one by one, their light flickering gently across the cobblestones. Sophia led you along the river path, the air full of late-summer sweetness and distant music from the town’s open-air musicians.

She carried a small satchel slung across her shoulder, and halfway down the path, she stopped and spread a blanket beneath a willow tree, right where the moonlight dripped onto the grass like silver ink.

“Sit,” she said, patting the space beside her.

You sat.

Out came a small collection of pastries, wrapped in parchment, and a flask that smelled faintly of honey and berries. There was even a single daisy tucked in a glass bottle of water—slightly wilted, but clearly chosen with care.

You smiled. “You’ve thought this through.”

She looked pleased. “It’s called preparation. You should try it sometime.”

“Oh, is that what this is? Preparation? For what?”

“For me charming you,” she said matter-of-factly, handing you a pastry. “Obviously.”

You almost choked laughing, and she grinned like she’d been waiting for exactly that.

The evening unfolded like it had been written in the stars. She talked, and you listened, though sometimes it was hard to tell which one of you was doing more of the talking. Sophia had a way of pulling the world closer with her words—stories about constellations that guided travelers, about a lake that froze into glass once every hundred years, about a child who swore they saw the moon blink.

You didn’t know how much of it was true, but the way she spoke made truth feel like a secondary concern.

At one point, a gentle breeze lifted her hair, and she pressed her hand to her chest dramatically. “The wind adores me,” she said.

“Can you blame it?” you replied before you could stop yourself.

Her grin faltered just long enough for color to rise in her cheeks. “That was smooth.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t take it back,” she interrupted, nudging your shoulder. “It was good. I’ll allow it.”

You both laughed then, your shoulders brushing, and for a moment the world seemed to tilt slightly, like it was holding its breath for you.

When the laughter faded, Sophia leaned her head against your shoulder. The movement was so natural you didn’t even flinch. You just breathed in—the faint scent of wildflowers and honey clinging to her hair.

“You smell like cinnamon,” she murmured.

“You told me to bring something that makes me happy,” you said softly.

Her head lifted slightly, and she blinked at you. “And you brought… roasted chestnuts?”

You hesitated, smiling. “No. I brought myself.”

There was a pause—long enough for the crickets to fill it—before Sophia laughed, the sound bubbling up warm and real. “That’s terrible,” she said, but she was smiling so hard her nose crinkled.

“It made you laugh, didn’t it?”

She pretended to pout. “Barely.”

“You laughed.”

“Only a little. But not because the joke was funny, only because you’re cute.”

“Still counts.”

Sophia giggled again, the kind of sound that made your ribs ache with happiness. And then she reached for your hand—casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world—and kept it there, fingers intertwined.

You watched the moonlight play over her face, turning her eyes to molten silver. “You know,” she said quietly, “the moon’s at the third Quarter tonight.”

“Is that bad luck?” you asked.

“Maybe.” She smiled softly. “Or maybe it means there’s more to come.”

Her thumb brushed over your knuckles absentmindedly, tracing slow circles. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was tender, something that filled the air instead of breaking it.

When it grew late, she walked you home. You passed the fountain where children played during the day, now quiet under the silver light. Every now and then, she’d nudge you with her shoulder, like she was checking to make sure you were still beside her.

At your door, she stopped. The world was hushed—just you, her, and the sound of the river in the distance.

“The moon’s changing,” she said softly. “It always does.”

You nodded, not really knowing what to say.

Sophia looked up, eyes reflecting the stars, and for a moment you swore you saw something flicker behind them—a shadow of sorrow quickly tucked away. But then she smiled again, bright and certain.

“Promise me you’ll meet me again tomorrow?”

“As long as the moon’s still there,” you said, half-joking.

She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Then I suppose we’ll never run out of tomorrows.”

And before you could reply, she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. Just a whisper of a thing—light, fleeting—but it stole the air right out of your lungs.

Then she was gone, her cloak sweeping behind her, laughter echoing faintly down the lantern-lit street.

You stood there long after she disappeared, staring at the moon, heart racing in a way that didn’t feel entirely new—but you couldn’t understand why.

All you knew was that you were smiling, and the night felt like it had been waiting for you both.

Waning Crescent: The “First” dance

The town was unrecognizable that night.

Every month, the streets were dressed in silk banners and candlelight, the smell of roasted chestnuts and honey cakes drifting through the air. But this time—it all felt different. Maybe it was because you’d spent the whole day with Sophia, helping her carry lanterns for the children to hang by the river. Maybe it was because every time you looked up, you found her already looking back, smiling that secret, knowing smile that made your pulse stutter.

The moon hung low and sharp in the sky, a silver sickle slicing through the dark. The Waxing Crescent. A sliver of light that promised something was coming, though neither of you knew what it would take to get there.

Sophia was impossible not to notice that night.

She wore blue. Not the kind of blue that faded into the background, but the kind that shimmered when the lanterns caught it—like the reflection of moonlight on still water. Her hair was braided loosely down her back, the braid unraveling every time she turned to laugh at something someone said.

You’d barely stepped into the square when she found you. She didn’t even say hello. She just grinned, eyes bright, and grabbed your hand.

“There you are,” she said breathlessly. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten.”

“Forgotten?” you echoed, startled by her choice of word.

“Mm,” she hummed. “That you promised to dance with me.”

“I don’t remember promising that.”

She tilted her head, pretending to think. “Then maybe it was a dream.” Her fingers tightened around yours. “But if it was, I’m glad you showed up anyway.”

You laughed—because that was the thing about Sophia. She could say something utterly ridiculous, and yet somehow, you’d still want to believe every word of it.

The musicians struck up their first tune—a lively reel that sent the crowd spinning and clapping. Sophia pulled you straight into the chaos before you could even protest.

“I can’t dance,” you said, nearly tripping over your own boots.

“You’ll learn,” she replied, her laughter spilling into the music. “Just follow me.”

“I’ll step on your toes.”

“You say that like you haven’t already.”

Her teasing was quick and light, and soon your nerves melted under the sound of her joy. You moved the way she told you to—left, right, spin—and somehow, between her laughter and your stumbling, the rhythm began to find you both.

At one point, she twirled away from you, her skirt flaring, and the world blurred around her. When she turned back, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes soft with something you couldn’t quite name.

The music slowed. Couples began to draw closer.

Sophia stepped into your space, one hand resting lightly against your chest, the other still holding yours. You could feel her heartbeat through your fingers, quick but steady, like it had been waiting for this.

“See?” she whispered. “You’re not terrible at it.”

“Because you’re doing all the work,” you said quietly.

“Maybe,” she said, smiling up at you. “But you’re trying. That’s what counts.”

For a while, neither of you spoke. You just moved together, slow and quiet, surrounded by laughter and candlelight. Every now and then, you’d catch her looking at you—not in the playful way she usually did, but like she was memorizing the lines of your face.

It should have felt strange, but instead it felt like something inside you recognized her gaze. Like you’d been waiting for it.

Later that night, when most of the lanterns had dimmed and the music softened into something slow and wistful, Sophia led you away from the square.

“Where are we going?” you asked, but she only smiled and said, “You’ll see.”

You walked in companionable silence through the narrow streets until you reached the riverbank. The water shimmered under the crescent moon, scattered with reflections of floating lanterns. Sophia crouched down beside one, tracing her fingers through the rippling light.

“Every month,” she said softly, “they say the lanterns carry wishes upstream. Toward the moon.”

You knelt beside her. “Do you believe that?”

She hesitated, then shook her head lightly. “No. I think the moon already knows what we wish for. It just doesn’t always give it to us. Not in the way we think, at least.”

There was something in the way she said it—tender, almost mournful—but when you turned to look at her, she was smiling again.

“Come on,” she said, reaching into her satchel. She pulled out a small paper lantern, its edges faintly golden from the firelight. “Write something.”

You blinked. “What should I write?”

“Anything.” She grinned. “A wish. A secret. A bad poem.”

You laughed under your breath but took the quill she offered. You hesitated for a long time before writing, the ink pooling at the edge of each letter:

I hope this lasts.

When you handed the lantern back, Sophia didn’t ask what you wrote. She simply leaned closer and whispered, “It will. It’ll last forever”

And for that moment, you believed her.

Together, you set the lantern afloat. It drifted gently down the river, joining the countless others—small, trembling lights on a sea of silver.

Sophia leaned her head against your shoulder, watching it fade into the distance. “The moon looks happy tonight,” she murmured.

“Does it?”

“Mm. Maybe it likes seeing us like this.”

You smiled, eyes on the water. “Then let’s make sure we give it a reason every night.”

Sophia didn’t answer. She just squeezed your hand, her thumb brushing over your skin in a soft, fleeting pattern—one you didn’t yet recognize.

When she finally walked you home, the moon had risen higher, its curve gleaming pale against the dark. You turned at your door, about to thank her for the night, but she spoke first.

“Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“Remember this,” she said quietly. “Even if… you don’t remember me.”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

Sophia smiled quickly, brushing it off with a laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I mean—just promise you won’t forget how perfect tonight was.”

“Oh.” You smiled back, still a little dazed. “That, I can do.”

And when she leaned in, her lips brushed your cheek, softer than moonlight.

When you closed your eyes that night, her laughter still echoed behind your ribs. You didn’t know what you were falling into—only that you were already in too deep.

New Moon: The “First” Sign

The night of the new moon was darker than it had any right to be. Not the kind of dark that feels empty, but the kind that hums with quiet life—the kind where every candle flicker feels like it’s standing guard against something vast and unseen. The sky was a blank sheet above the town, the stars trembling faintly against it, and as you climbed the path to Sophia’s cottage, the world felt softer, slower.

Her house sat on the crest of the hill, its windows glowing amber against the blue-black night. You could smell the lilac before you reached the door—the scent that seemed to follow her everywhere. Inside, she’d said, there would be dinner waiting. “Something sweet,” she’d promised, “but not too sweet. Balance is everything.”

When you knocked, she opened the door before you could even lower your hand.

“You’re early,” she teased, stepping aside to let you in. “Or maybe I’m late. I never know anymore.”

The cottage was just as you’d imagined—small and a little chaotic, but warm in a way that made your chest ache. Books were stacked in uneven piles along the walls, spilling over tables and chairs. Dried flowers hung from ceiling beams, their stems brittle but still fragrant. A cat-shaped teapot steamed quietly on the stove, and the fire snapped in the hearth like it was trying to keep up with her.

And then there was Sophia.

Her hair was loose tonight, falling in soft waves that caught the firelight. Her dress looked borrowed from the sunlight itself—simple linen, tied loosely at the waist, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows as she stirred something golden in a small pot.

You leaned against the doorframe, smiling. “You’re glowing.”

She laughed, glancing over her shoulder. “It’s the honey. I spill it on myself every time. I’m half sugar at this point.”

You grinned. “Elias told me you still argue with him about how much he puts in his mead.”

Sophia groaned, lowering her head dramatically. “Because he refuses to understand proportions! A spoon too little and it ruins everything.”

“Seems like you’d know all about balance.”

She turned, brow lifting, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “Are you calling me sweet?”

“I didn’t say that,” you said, fighting a smile.

Her laugh was soft, easy—the kind that slipped under your ribs and stayed there. “You didn’t have to.”

While she worked, you wandered around the room, drawn by the clutter. Everything in her house seemed touched by memory: old glass bottles filled with dried petals, pressed leaves, maps with little red Xs marked in corners. It was the kind of home that told stories, one without a single empty surface.

Then something on the mantle caught your eye.

A small object, half-hidden behind a stack of worn books—a wooden sculpture of a hand. Its size was odd, its surface darkened with age. You leaned closer, realizing it was shaped like a monkey’s paw, its fingers curled unnaturally. Four were outstretched, and one—just one—was half drawn toward its palm.

You stared for a moment. The wood looked smooth, as though it had been touched too many times, worn down by time or memory.

Before you could look closer, Sophia’s voice floated from behind you—gentle, but firm in a way you hadn’t heard before.

“Careful with that.”

You turned, caught off guard. She was standing a few feet away, wiping her hands on a towel, her tone casual—but her eyes were fixed on you, sharp and unreadable.

“Sorry,” you said quickly. “Didn’t mean to snoop. What is it?”

Sophia hesitated for a breath too long. Then she smiled, light and easy again, slipping past you to place herself between you and the mantle.

“Something old,” she said simply, brushing a bit of dust from the wood before setting a candle in front of it, as if to hide it behind the flame. “A keepsake. Useless thing, really.”

Her voice softened again, playful, warm. “Now, are you going to stand there staring at my shelves, or are you going to taste the soup I nearly burned waiting for you?”

You blinked, disarmed by how quickly the moment shifted. “You? Burn soup? I thought you were perfect.”

She snorted, leading you toward the small table by the hearth. “Perfect people don’t spill honey on themselves every night. Sit down.”

You did. She served you a bowl of something golden and fragrant—it shimmered faintly when it caught the light, like sunlight trapped in broth. She sat across from you, chin resting on her hand as she watched you take the first bite.

“It’s amazing,” you said immediately. “What did you put in this?”

“Trade secret,” she said with a sly grin. “If I told you, you’d never come back.”

“Maybe I’d come back anyway.”

That earned a pause. Her smile faltered for just a second, something unreadable flickering across her face. Then she shook her head and laughed softly, reaching over to nudge your bowl. “Eat before I get sentimental.”

You stayed late that night, talking about nothing in particular. She told you about her garden—how she couldn’t keep lavender alive but her thyme grew too fast. You told her about your walks through the woods and how sometimes you thought you heard your name carried in the wind. She laughed, told you that meant the forest liked you.

At some point, she sat on the floor in front of the fire, humming quietly as you leaned against the wall beside her. Her head found your shoulder naturally, like it had always belonged there.

You thought about how every time you saw her, the rest of the world blurred a little. How you felt like you could live your entire life in that cottage, in that small pool of firelight, with her fingers tracing idle circles on your wrist.

When you finally stood to leave, she followed you to the door.

“Stay,” she said softly, just as you reached for the handle.

You turned. “You want me to?”

She smiled faintly. “I always do.”

Her voice had a strange echo to it then—a quiet longing that made something in your chest twist. But before you could ask, she rose on her toes and pressed a kiss to your cheek, feather-light.

“Go on,” she whispered. “It’s late. The moon’s gone tonight, remember?”

As you stepped outside, you glanced back once more.

She was standing by the hearth, her silhouette painted gold by the firelight. And though her expression was soft, her gaze flicked, just once, toward the mantle—toward that strange little hand you’d nearly touched.

The candle she’d set before it burned lower, wax pooling at its base. The wooden fingers hadn’t moved, but you could’ve sworn that one of them, the curled one, cast a slightly longer shadow than before.

Waxing Crescent: The “First” tears

You wake before dawn to a sound too fragile to belong to the world outside. It takes you a few seconds to realize it’s coming from Sophia.

The fire has gone out sometime in the night, leaving only faint embers pulsing in the hearth like slow, dying hearts. The light that fills the room is the silver kind that arrives before sunrise—the light that belongs to ghosts and memories. It spills across the wooden floorboards, across the table with its half-melted candles, and finally across Sophia’s face.

She’s turned toward the window, half-hidden by her hair. Her lips are parted. A tear slips quietly down her cheek.

You’ve seen her in so many forms before—mischievous, stubborn, tired, luminous—but never like this. There’s something ancient about the way she looks now, like a statue that has seen centuries pass in silence. The sight makes your chest ache.

You almost don’t move. She seems so still, so fragile, that even breathing too loud feels like it would break the spell. But when another tear traces its way down, something in you decides for you.

You reach out, your fingers brushing lightly against her cheek.

Sophia startles. Her eyes fly open, deep and dark and uncertain. She looks at you like she’s not sure if she’s dreaming—or if she’s still inside whatever dream she just left. Then she exhales, softly, and whispers your name as if remembering where she is.

“Hey,” you murmur. “You were crying.”

Her lashes flutter. She blinks once, twice, and looks away, toward the dying embers. Her voice, when it comes, is soft—gentle enough to almost make you forget it’s avoidance. “Was I?”

You nod. “Yeah. You were.”

She pushes herself up slowly, her hair falling over her face as she rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. The motion is too casual, too deliberate. “I must’ve been dreaming,” she says. “It happens sometimes.”

“Bad dream?”

Sophia hums, as if she’s deciding how much of the truth she’s willing to share. Finally, she says, “Not bad. Just… too familiar.”

You tilt your head. “Familiar how?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she pulls the blanket tighter around herself and turns her gaze toward the window, where the last sliver of moon hangs low. “There are some things,” she says after a long silence, “that stay with you even when you’ve left them behind. Places. People. Promises.”

There’s a weight in her tone that feels older than her. Something unspoken but heavy, like the echo of prayer still clinging to a ruined temple.

You reach for her hand. “You make it sound like you used to belong to something.”

Her lips twitch into a faint smile, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe I did.”

“Like a church?” you tease gently.

Her smile flickers at that. For a heartbeat, she looks almost wistful. “Something like that,” she murmurs. “Once.”

There’s a quiet in the room after that—an unspoken understanding that you’ve brushed against something she doesn’t talk about. Not because she can’t, but because it hurts to.

You don’t push further. You just keep your hand where it is, your thumb tracing small circles against her skin until her breathing steadies again.

When morning finally arrives, you wake to the scent of smoke and lavender. The hearth burns again, a pot bubbling softly above it. Sophia is at the counter, barefoot and wrapped in her shawl, humming an unfamiliar melody that sounds too structured, too reverent to be a simple tune.

It sounds like a hymn.

You sit up and watch her for a while, the early light washing her in gold. There’s something graceful about the way she moves—a rhythm too deliberate to be casual. Her gestures are small and precise, like she’s performing a ritual she’s forgotten she knows.

When she notices you watching, she smiles. “You should eat,” she says lightly, placing a plate in front of you. “I made something warm.”

You grin, still half-dazed. “You always wake up first. Do you ever sleep?”

“Sometimes.”

“You said that like it’s optional.”

She laughs, but it’s quieter than usual. “Old habits,” she says, and you catch the faintest trace of something else beneath her tone—something that sounds almost like confession.

“What kind of habits?”

She glances at you, eyes glimmering. “Ones you don’t need to worry about.”

You chuckle, even as curiosity tugs at you. “You talk like you used to be someone important.”

Sophia’s hand stills on the spoon. For a moment, you think you’ve crossed a line—but then she smiles again, softer this time. “I used to be someone obedient,” she corrects. “That’s not quite the same thing.”

Her words linger in the air, strange and heavy.

You take a bite of the food she’s made, but your eyes drift toward the shelf above the hearth—where something small sits in shadow. A wooden trinket, its surface dark and uneven. You frown, leaning forward just slightly.

It’s a totem. Carved, old, and curled inward.

The sight sends a faint chill crawling down your spine, but you don’t know why.

“What’s that?” you ask.

Sophia’s voice changes so subtly that if you weren’t listening for it, you might have missed it—the note of quiet alarm she hides beneath her calm. “That?” she says, turning toward you, her smile immediate and easy. “Just a keepsake.”

You raise an eyebrow. “From where?”

“From a long time ago.”

“Looks… strange.”

“Most old things do,” she says lightly, and then—before you can ask again—she crosses the room and sets a cup of tea in front of you, her body perfectly positioned between you and the shelf. “Drink before it gets cold.”

Her tone is kind, but her eyes flicker toward the totem for the briefest moment, sharp and assessing, before she looks back at you.

The message is subtle but unmistakable. She doesn’t want you near it.

You decide not to press. Still, you can’t shake the feeling that whatever that object is—it isn’t just decoration. And the way Sophia stands there, smiling like she’s trying not to betray something, makes you think she’s guarding it.

After breakfast, you both step outside. The world is gray and soft, mist curling low across the valley. Sophia tilts her face to the sky, eyes half-closed, as though listening for something distant.

“You really do like mornings,” you say, watching her.

“They’re the quietest part of the day,” she answers. “Before the world remembers its noise.”

You smile. “You sound like someone giving a sermon.”

She turns to you, sunlight catching her eyes, and for a heartbeat she looks almost ethereal. “Maybe I’ve given one before,” she says with a small shrug.

You laugh, thinking she’s joking. But she doesn’t laugh with you.

Instead, she looks at you for a long, unreadable moment, her expression caught somewhere between affection and sorrow. Then she smiles—a small, fleeting thing—and whispers, “Eat well today, alright? I want you strong.”

You nod, a little confused, but the way she says it makes something warm stir in your chest.

When you leave her cottage that afternoon, the clouds begin to roll in. You turn once, just to wave goodbye. She’s still at the window, hand resting lightly on the frame.

You tell yourself it’s just a trick of the light. But when Sophia’s gaze meets yours through the glass, there’s something there you can’t quite name. Not fear. Not guilt. Something older.

Something that feels like prayer.

First Quarter: The “First” Kiss

The night hums soft and low, the way summer nights do when the world decides to be kind for a while. The air smells like wet grass and river stones, touched with the faint sweetness of lilies. You follow the path by memory—past the crooked willow that leans too far, past the old fence where the wood gives way beneath your palm. The moon is fractured tonight, its light scattered in the rippling current below, breaking into pieces every time the water moves.

Sophia stands in the shallows barefoot, her skirt hiked to her knees, hem damp where it brushes the water. The pale gleam of moonlight turns her hair silver. Around her neck, the small pendant you’ve seen a dozen times before glows faintly, like it’s catching more light than it should.

For a moment, you just watch her—how she lifts her hand and lets the cold river thread through her fingers, how she looks like she belongs more to the moonlight than to the ground.

“Hey,” you call softly.

She turns, and her smile hits you like warmth after rain. “You found me.”

“You’re easy to find,” you say. “You glow.”

She laughs, quiet and embarrassed. “That’s the moon, not me.”

You shake your head, stepping closer. “No. It’s definitely you.”

The words come out before you can stop them, as natural as breathing. Lately, everything with her feels like that—instinctive, inevitable. She fills the silence so easily that you forget what life sounded like before her voice existed in it.

She looks down at the water, but not fast enough to hide the color rising in her cheeks. “You always say things like that,” she murmurs.

You grin. “Can’t help it.”

Her eyes flicker up at you—blue in the moonlight, uncertain, searching. You wade in until you’re close enough to see the tremor in her hands. The river folds around your legs, cold and alive, tugging gently at your balance.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” you say.

“Neither should you,” she replies, and then—her smile softens—“but I’m glad you are.”

For a while, neither of you speaks. The current hushes against your ankles. Fireflies blink in the reeds, the kind of quiet magic you only notice when someone else is beside you. Sophia tips her head back to look at the broken moon, and the pendant against her chest flares again—just faintly, like it’s reacting to something unseen.

You catch yourself staring. “That necklace,” you say. “It’s different tonight.”

Her fingers brush over it protectively. “It always shines brightest when the moon’s in pieces,” she says softly, eyes still skyward. “Like it’s trying to put it back together.”

You smile. “You talk about it like it’s alive.”

“Maybe it is,” she whispers, then glances at you. “Everything that remembers love is, a little.”

You don’t understand what she means, but the way she says it—quiet, reverent—makes you want to.

When she looks at you again, her expression has changed. Her eyes are glassy, rimmed with tears that catch the moonlight.

“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head quickly, as if that could undo the tears. “Nothing,” she says, laughing weakly. “You always ask that.”

“Always?”

Her breath catches—just barely—but then she smiles again. “It doesn’t matter.”

You want to press, but something about her tone tells you not to. So instead, you lift your hand to brush a strand of hair from her face. She doesn’t move away. If anything, she leans into your touch, her eyes fluttering shut.

Her skin is cool from the river, but her pulse beneath your fingertips is racing.

“I love you,” you say.

You don’t plan to, but the words come out anyway, honest and heavy and too full. Because it’s true—because somehow it feels like it’s always been true, like you were already in love with her before you even knew her name.

Sophia’s hands tremble as they rise to your face. Her touch is feather-light at first, then surer, her thumbs tracing the edge of your jaw as if she’s memorizing you. Her voice breaks when she whispers, “You always do.”

You frown, confused. “What do you mean?”

But she only smiles—a sad, radiant smile that feels like the end of something. “You always mean it.”

And before you can ask again, she leans in.

The kiss is soft, hesitant, the kind that feels like both a beginning and an apology. Her lips taste faintly of riverwater and honey, salt from her tears mixing with the sweetness of her breath. You feel her tremble, feel the way her fingers slide up into your hair as though she’s trying to anchor herself to this one perfect moment.

You kiss her back like you’ve been waiting a lifetime for it. Maybe you have.

When you finally pull away, she presses her forehead to yours, breathing you in. Her hands are still on your face, still shaking.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the first night,” you whisper.

Her answering laugh is quiet, wet with tears. “You did,” she says softly.

You open your mouth to ask what she means, but she leans in again, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth before you can speak. “Don’t ruin it,” she murmurs. “Just let it be.”

You do. You let the silence hold you both.

The wind shifts, carrying the scent of rain and riverweed. You shiver a little, and Sophia steps back just enough to study you, her gaze catching on the edge of your shirt where it’s come loose. Her eyes flicker—something sharp and sad passing through them—before she reaches out and gently pulls the fabric back into place.

“What?” you ask.

She shakes her head quickly, forcing a smile. “Nothing. You’ll catch cold if you keep standing there.”

You laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. “You sound like my mother.”

“Then she must have been wise.”

“Is that your way of saying I’m an idiot?”

Sophia grins—really grins—and you realize how much you’ve missed that look, even though it’s only been hours. “Maybe a little.”

You grin back. The two of you linger by the river until the moon slips lower, until her pendant dims to nothing. And when you finally walk her home, hand in hand, you can still feel the ghost of her kiss against your lips.

It isn’t until later—when you’re washing the river mud from your skin, the lamplight stretching long and soft across your back—that you notice the old scar.

A line, thin and pale, running across your back. You’ve never thought much of it, never remembered where it came from. But tonight, for some reason, when your fingers trace it, your heart stutters—like something inside you is almost remembering.

Outside, the river keeps singing. And somewhere not far away, Sophia stands at her window, watching the moon vanish behind clouds.

Her fingers touch her lips, then her pendant.

Waxing Gibbous: The “First” Goodbye

The night before the full moon was too still — the kind of stillness that felt like holding your breath before something breaks. The air shimmered faintly with silver light, soft and sharp all at once. The meadow was washed in it, all color drained away until even Sophia looked ghostlike, standing in the tall grass with her white dress brushing her knees, her hair unbound and dark as ink.

You thought she was beautiful. You always did.

She turned when she heard your footsteps, her expression soft but unreadable, eyes glimmering with something that wasn’t quite sadness and wasn’t quite peace. Behind her, the moon hung swollen, almost full — a blade of light suspended in the sky.

You smiled when you reached her. “You found our spot again.”

Sophia’s lips lifted, but it wasn’t a smile. “You always say that.”

Her tone was gentle, affectionate even, but there was something underneath it — something so quiet you could almost miss it if not for the way her fingers curled into her palms.

You stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ve been distant,” you murmured. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Sophia hesitated, the way she always did when she was deciding whether to tell you the truth or protect you from it. Her gaze drifted upward, to the almost-full moon, and for a moment her face was lit like a painting — every line carved by sorrow and devotion.

“Do you know what tomorrow is?” she asked softly.

You grinned, thinking you knew the answer. “A lunar cycle since we first met?”

She laughed faintly, but it was hollow. “No. Not that.”

You frowned, tilting your head. “Then what?”

Her eyes met yours, and for a heartbeat, she looked like she might tell you everything. Then she looked away again. “Do you remember the first time you came here?”

“Of course I do,” you said. “You dragged me here to see fireflies.”

Sophia’s shoulders trembled, though she smiled. “You always say that too.”

You reached for her hand, and she let you take it. Her fingers were cold. When she finally spoke again, her voice was low and careful, like a prayer she wasn’t sure she was allowed to say.

“I used to be a priestess,” she said.

You blinked. “You?”

Her lips curved faintly. “Surprised?”

“A little. You don’t really strike me as the… temple type.”

She laughed softly at that, but it faded quickly. “Maybe I wasn’t very good at it. I thought I understood what faith meant. I thought if I prayed hard enough, the moon would listen.”

You squeezed her hand gently. “Did she?”

Sophia’s eyes filled, not with tears yet, but with something like exhaustion — the kind that comes from carrying the same pain too many times. “She did,” she whispered. “And that’s the problem.”

The wind stirred around you, cool and sweet. You could hear the river beyond the meadow, a steady hush. It should’ve been peaceful. Instead, it felt fragile.

Sophia stepped closer until your foreheads touched. Her breath trembled against your skin. “You were dying,” she said, her words breaking apart as she spoke them. “There was blood, and I… I couldn’t lose you.”

You froze, your pulse stuttering. “Sophia—”

“I begged her,” she continued, voice shaking. “I begged the moon to save you. I didn’t care what it cost. And she heard me. She always hears her priestesses.”

Her thumb brushed your cheek, tender and reverent, as if she were memorizing you again.

“She gave you back,” Sophia whispered. “But she didn’t give you whole.”

You stared at her, confused. “What are you saying?”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Every time the moon wanes, you forget. And when she waxes, you return. The curse renews itself.”

You blinked, the words sinking like stones you couldn’t hold onto. “That’s not possible.”

Sophia smiled through her tears, shaking her head. “You always say that, too.”

Her hands moved to your shoulders, tracing down your arms until she found the edge of your shirt. She hesitated, then gently slid it aside, her fingertips brushing the long scar across your back — a pale, jagged line that you never remembered earning.

“This,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “This is where it started. You fell in my arms that night. I thought the moon saved you.” Her hand trembled against your skin. “But all she did was make sure I’d lose you over and over again.”

You swallowed hard, words caught in your throat. You wanted to tell her she was wrong, that you’d never forget her, that you’d always find her again — but there was a weight building in your chest, something heavy and cold. The world around you seemed to hum faintly, a vibration you could feel in your bones.

Sophia’s expression broke. She cupped your face in her hands, desperate now. “Please, stay,” she whispered. “Just this once, stay.”

“I’m here,” you said, trying to sound steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You always say that,” she repeated, a tear slipping down her cheek. “And then the next night, you look at me like I’m just some curious stranger.”

Your vision blurred. “Sophia…”

“Shh,” she murmured, pressing her forehead to yours. “Don’t fight it. It hurts more when you do.”

You tried to focus on her face — her eyes, her trembling smile, the scent of her hair. You wanted to memorize her, but everything was already slipping, fogging at the edges.

“I’ll remember,” you swore, your voice trembling. “I’ll remember you.”

Sophia let out a sound between a laugh and a sob. “You said that the first time. And every time after.”

Sophia’s hands cupped your face, trembling so hard it was a wonder she didn’t drop you. Her fingers pressed against your jaw, desperate, worshipful. “No, no, no,” she breathed, voice cracking. “Stay with me. Please—just a little longer.”

You tried to focus on her — the shape of her face in the moonlight, the streaks of tears shining silver down her cheeks — but the world was tilting, spinning away from you. Her voice was soft but distant now, like it came through water.

“Sophia,” you gasped, your breath hitching, your heart tripping over itself. “What’s happening to me?”

Her breath broke on a sob. “Shh,” she whispered, dragging you against her chest, clutching you so tightly you could feel her pulse shuddering against your skin. “It’s okay, love. You’re okay. Just breathe, please—breathe with me.”

You tried. You really did. But every inhale came shorter, shallower. The air refused to stay in your lungs.

“I don’t—” your voice faltered, trembling. “I don’t understand—”

“I know,” she said, brushing your hair back, her hand shaking violently. Her thumb traced the curve of your cheek as though memorizing it. “You don’t have to understand. Just listen to me. Please.”

Your body jerked with another uneven breath. Her forehead pressed against yours, her skin fever-warm, her tears dripping down to mingle with your own.

“It’s just the curse,” she whispered, though her voice broke halfway through. “It’s not your fault. It’s never your fault.”

Her words hit something inside you — something ancient and frightened. You reached for her hand, fingers weak, trembling. You could barely see now; the moon’s glow blurred and fractured, the edges of the world fading to white.

“Don’t go,” she whispered. “Don’t go yet.”

You clung to her, your grip slipping. “Sophia…”

She made a sound — something between a sob and a prayer — and pressed her lips to your temple, again and again, her tears falling like rain. “You always love me,” she whispered, voice cracking. “And I never stop.”

You wanted to tell her you weren’t leaving, that you’d stay this time, that you could fight it. But your voice was gone, your mouth barely moving.

“S-Sophia…”

Her name broke apart in your throat.

Sophia’s arms tightened around you as if she could anchor you to this world by sheer will. “I’m here,” she whispered, her breath catching. “I’m right here. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

But she wasn’t calm anymore — she was breaking. You felt her shoulders shake with the force of her sobs, her body trembling as though the grief itself might tear her open. Still, she forced her voice steady for you, even as it shattered. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay, my love. You can rest now.”

You wanted to say something — anything — but all that came was a breath. You exhaled, slow and final.

Your body stilled.

The night went utterly silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. The moon hung swollen and merciless above, lighting the meadow in cruel silver.

Sophia didn’t move. She just held you, your head cradled to her chest, her fingers tangled in your hair. Her lips brushed your crown, your cheek, your closed eyelids. Each kiss was a plea the heavens wouldn’t hear.

When her voice finally came, it was raw — scraped hollow from crying too long, from praying too hard. “You promised you’d remember,” she whispered into your skin. “You always promise.”

Her tears stained your collar, her breath hitching like her lungs refused to let her go on. “And I always let you.”

She tilted your face toward hers, brushing one last tear from your cheek. The moon painted her in white fire — the priestess she once was, the lover she could never stop being.

Her voice broke as she said it — the words she always used when she could say nothing else.

“The moon is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?”

[keervah]

[alcoholfreenayeon]

Hiiiii actually i wanna thank you for writing sanayeon HCs 🥹🥹 i hope if you have some free time you can write sanayeon HCs again ❤️❤️❤️ hv a wonderful day

A/N: Hiiii🥰, I’m glad you liked them. You have a great day too🙂‍↔️

SanaYeon HC Pt.2

SFW HCs

They unintentionally ended up kissing at one of their concerts, Nayeon was surprisingly calm while Sana was a blushing mess.

Rubbing their faces together is something they like to do to for comfort.

They can be surprisingly shy despite their boldness and directness.

Nayeon has been asking Sana to do some short skit TikTok’s with her but whenever the two start filming, they just keep laughing and giggling when the other is acting.

Dinner dates are something both girls like to do whether they go out or order in.

Cuddles are a must for Sana and she wakes up early just to get in more cuddles with Nayeon

Sana often bites Nayeon’s cheeks. She claims it’s too cute not to.

On the other hand, Nayeon pinches Sana’s cheeks frequently to show affection.

They cannot stay serious on camera, it was already bad for them before but recently it’s been even worse with the other members just glaring at the two girls giggling uncontrollably.

NSFW HCs

Nayeon likes to whisper dirty things in Sana’s ears

They have gotten bolder on stage, touching and teasing each other more while performing

Sana recently has been feeling much more subby and is more than happy to let Nayeon order her around.

She suggested roleplaying but Nayeon got shy at the idea of dressing up much to her surprise.

They missed a shoot and were scolded by Jihyo who demanded a reason why they both missed it and why no one was informed of it either.

They didn’t have the courage to tell her that they were covered in way too many hickeys to show themselves to the others and were also in the process of creating more…

Recently Nayeon has found out that she really likes to see Sana be really sloppy and with Sana feeling extra submissive recently, she makes full use of it

Meanwhile Sana also loves it when Nayeon makes use of her long fingers.

They both like biting and leaving marks on each others shoulders.

[rd0265667]

Wonyoung x Reader: Dérive

Synopsis: Once a year, you sit in a booth, in Cafe Dérive . On the other side of the barrier, a voice—soft, trembling, sometimes furious, sometimes exhausted—belongs to a girl who carries the weight of the world on her shoulders. You’re not supposed to know who she is. She’s not supposed to know you. But year after year, she comes back. And year after year, you realize that maybe anonymity, or at least, the pretense of it, is the only place where someone like her can finally breathe. It’s just one hour. One hour where she stops pretending. One hour where you become the only person who really sees her.

WC:11338

A/N: be kind

Chapter One — 2017 - The Trainee

Café Dérive, a café in the streets of Seoul. A hole in the wall, not known as much for it’s coffee or tea, but for it’s booths.

The sign behind your mother’s café counter has said it for as long as you can remember, etched into dark wood and softened by age.

“One session. One voice. Once a year.

No names. No faces. No promises.”

Most people take pictures of it, think it’s charming, a gimmick with soul. But you’ve lived under the rules for 2 years, and they’ve never once felt like a game.

You’ve seen people change in the booths. Not quickly. Not magically. But you’ve seen shoulders straighten, seen tears dry, seen strangers walk out like they’re carrying themselves a little more gently. You’ve seen people smile—not fake smiles, not the kind when someone asks you for a photo, or when you pretend like something isn’t bothering you, but the kind that seems to pull from somewhere buried and brave.

You were never supposed to be in the booths.

But then the wind is curling against the windows, and you’re wiping crumbs off the counter when the door swings open and everything in the café seems to hush.

She’s small. That’s the first thing you notice. Not short, exactly, just… slight. Like she’s been growing up too fast to notice the pieces of herself still catching up. Her clothes hang off her like she borrowed them from an older sibling—oversized hoodie, jeans cuffed messily above her sneakers. Her baseball cap is tugged low over her face, the bill nearly shadowing her entirely. But it doesn’t matter.

Because it’s her eyes.

Just before she heads toward the back booths, she glances around the café—and you catch them, just for a second. Wide, dark, rimmed in something that looks too painful. Exhaustion.

Not the sleepy kind. The soul kind.

You move before you think about it.

The booths are sacred. Your mom’s told you that more than once. People come here to pour their hearts into a stranger, to speak freely behind the safety of wood and curtain and rule. It’s not a place for eavesdropping. But the opposite booth is empty, and something inside you stirs—a quiet kind of ache—and before you realize what you’re doing, you’re slipping quietly into Booth A, opposite the one she just entered.

The red light turns on above the divider. The session begins.

Silence.

You sit with your hands folded in your lap, listening to the thump of your own pulse in your ears. The divider between you is smooth and solid, save for the frosted glass window that allows only the softest light through.

Then:

“Is someone there?”

Her voice is uncertain. Tired.

“Yes,” you say. Softly. Gently.

A pause.

“I wasn’t sure anyone would come.” Her voice is steadier now, but still low. “I almost hoped no one would.”

You wait.

Then, as if a dam quietly broke, she says, “I don’t think I know who I am anymore.”

It lands in the silence like a confession. You don’t answer—at least not with words. You simply… stay. That’s enough.

She exhales shakily. “I’m not supposed to say anything, I know. No names. No promises. But I need to say something, or I’ll lose my mind.”

You let her. You feel as if she’d crumble if you made her stop.

“I’ve been training to be someone—something—since I was ten. For a stage. For a dream that stopped feeling like mine a long time ago.”

You don’t speak. You let the space hold her.

“They say I’m lucky. That girls would kill for this. That I should be grateful. And maybe I was, at first. Maybe I still am, sometimes. But it feels like… like my skin is made of glass, and everyone’s watching, waiting for it to crack.”

You can almost hear the way her hands twist in her lap. The way she’s probably chewing her lip raw.

“They use me as the good example, that I’m the mature one. All they’re saying is I should wait till no one is around to cry. They time how long I sleep. How much I eat. How often I smile. They tell me to be effortless while watching everything I do.”

Still, you don’t interrupt.

“I miss forgetting what I look like. I miss waking up without dread. I miss—” her voice falters, “—feeling like a person.”

You lean forward slightly.

“It’s okay to miss yourself,” you say.

She pauses.

And then: “Why does that make me feel guilty?”

“Because they’ve made you think being human is a flaw.”

Silence, again. Not heavy. Just… full.

“I’m thirteen,” she says after a long moment. Her voice is quieter now. “I should be having fun with my friends after school. I shouldn’t be this tired. I shouldn’t be afraid to grow older.”

You feel your breath catch in your chest.

You know you’re not supposed to, but you couldn’t catch the words before it left your throat.

“I’m thirteen too.”

You don’t feel the same as her, not exactly. Your life is still books and awkward school projects and warm drinks handed to regulars who know your name. But something in the way she speaks—like she’s been hollowed out and painted over—makes you feel older just listening to her.

“I thought chasing a dream meant being happy,” she says. “But all I feel is pressure. I don’t get to fail. I don’t even get to cry.”

You say nothing for a beat. Then:

“Crying isn’t weakness. It’s remembering you’re alive.”

She laughs softly. And it’s not joyful—it’s cracked. “You sound older than you are.”

You shrug, even if she can’t see it. “My mom says I was born serious.”

“She might be right,” she says. You can hear her smile. It’s faint, but there.

You tilt your head. “Do you want to stop?”

“What?”

“Chasing the dream.”

She’s quiet.

“I don’t think I can,” she says eventually. “Not without disappointing everyone. Not without disappointing the version of me who believed in this.”

“You’re not disappointing her,” you say. “You’re just protecting the parts of her that still matter.”

Another pause. And then she breathes out, and it sounds like something has loosened in her chest.

“Why are you here?” she asks after a moment.

You think about it.

“I want to listen. Sometimes people just need to be heard, and I’ll help whoever I can.”

“I… needed this,” she says. “More than I realized.”

“I’ll be here next year,” you offer. Quiet, sure.

“…Yeah?” Her voice softens again.

You nod. “One voice. Once a year.”

There’s something unsaid between you. Something warm and aching and oddly certain.

Then you hear her shift. Her hand against the curtain. “I have to go.”

You don’t ask where.

But before she leaves, she says—hesitant, almost shy:

“Will you… will you remember me?”

You don’t need to think about it.

“Yes.”

And then she’s gone.

Chapter 2: 2018 – The Survival Show

The first snowfall of the year had come early, dusting the city in a soft hush. Inside your mother’s café, the warmth of brewing coffee and the gentle hum of conversation created a cocoon against the cold. The booths at the back, with their frosted glass dividers and worn cushions, stood as silent witnesses to countless confessions.

She slips into the booth across the wall from you like she’s done it a hundred times, even though this is only the second.

You don’t speak first. You don’t need to.

“Are you there?”

“I am.”

“…You’re here again.”

Her voice is quiet but certain. Like she wasn’t sure she could count on it until now.

“I told you I would be,” you say simply.

“I wasn’t sure if this was a one-time thing for you. You never told me much about yourself.”

You shift in your seat, feeling the corners of your hoodie sleeves under your palms. “Not much to tell.”

“Liar,” she says, but there’s no bite to it. Just a soft curiosity.

There’s a silence. Not an awkward one—just space. She doesn’t fill it right away. She’s learned that with you, there’s no pressure to rush. Maybe that’s part of why she came back.

“I’m on a show now,” she says after a beat. “A survival show. It’s called Produce 48. You’ve probably heard of it.”

You hum. You’ve seen posters. You don’t watch.

“I didn’t think it’d be this hard,” she continues. “Not the dancing. Not even the singing. It’s everything else. The… pretending. Or maybe not pretending—maybe it’s more like filtering. They tell us to stand out, but not too much. Be confident, but don’t be arrogant. Smile, but don’t fake it. Be graceful if you lose, humble if you win. And if you cry, cry prettily.”

She pauses. When she speaks again, it’s quieter. “I’m exhausted trying to be the right kind of girl.”

You sit with her words. Let them hang. Then, softly:

“What kind of girl do you want to be?”

That silence again. But this one feels different. Like it’s stunned.

“No one’s asked me that,” she says eventually, like the realization is sinking in even as she says it. “Not the producers. Not even my friends. Everyone’s just… so busy. We’re too busy chasing what they want.”

You wait. She gives you more.

“I want to be seen,” she says. “Really seen. Not for my face. Not for my ranking. Just… for who I am. When the cameras are off. When I’m not trying to be Won- Oh—”

She freezes. You feel it in the breath she draws in sharp. “Forget I said that. That’s not my real name. I mean, it is, but—”

“It’s okay,” you say, gently. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“I think you’re already that girl,” you continue. “You just haven’t met enough people who know how to look.”

She’s quiet for a long time. Then: “You always say things like that. It’s weird.”

You shrug. “It’s just how I think.”

She hums. “Your voice always sounds calm. Like nothing surprises you. You’re probably one of those kids who reads a lot, right?”

You laugh under your breath. “Yeah.”

“And you help out at the café?”

“Sometimes.”

“Figures,” she says. “You talk like someone who listens all the time. People who listen always end up sounding older than they are.”

You scratch your wrist. “My mom says I’m wise beyond my years.”

“She’s right.”

A beat.

“Do you like working here?” she asks.

You pause before answering. “I don’t know. I like being here, I think. I like how people leave a little lighter than when they came in. I like that it’s quiet. That you can just… listen.”

“And you only do one booth a year?”

“Yeah. It’s the rule. One session per person. Once a year. My mom says it keeps it sacred. Makes people say what they actually need to say, not just what they think they should.”

“That’s kind of beautiful,” she murmurs. “It makes sense. I didn’t think I’d say anything last year. But something about not knowing who you are… it made me say everything.”

You’re quiet, and then: “Is it scary? The show?”

“Not in the way people think,” she says. “It’s not the judges or the cameras or the schedule. It’s the other girls. The way everyone watches each other, measures themselves. Like we’re not allowed to just exist—we have to win at existing.”

You sit with that. Then, softly, “That sounds lonely.”

“It is,” she says. “Sometimes I wonder if it’ll be worth it. If people will like me. If I’ll debut. And sometimes I wonder if I’ll like myself at the end of it.”

You shift your weight. “I think the version of you who came back this year still knows who she is. That’s something.”

She exhales. “I didn’t even know how much I missed talking to you. I told myself it didn’t matter. That you were just a voice. But it’s not just that. You listen. You don’t judge. You make me feel like a person again.”

There’s a pause.

“Do you think I’ll make it?” she asks.

“Yeah. I’m sure you’ll make it. But I hope the girl behind the barrier makes it too.”

You’re quiet again, until you feel her settle. Her breathing slows. Her next words are softer.

“You know what I miss?” she says. “As dumb as it sounds—I miss normal conversations. Just…talking about anything. Not being careful with my words. Not worrying how I’ll be edited.”

You smile to yourself. “Then let’s talk about anything. We have time.”

She laughs again. It’s warmer now. “Okay, mystery voice. What’s your favorite book or movie?”

You pause. “Probably something by Studio Ghibli. Or The Little Prince. My mom says I’m an old soul.”

“She’s right,” she says. “You talk like you’re fifty.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No,” she says softly. “It’s…comforting.”

She doesn’t ask you more. She doesn’t press for details. She just lets your voice fill the space like she’s collecting it, cataloging your calm like a museum piece she can revisit in memory. And then she sighs.

“There’s a girl in my dorm who says she cries herself to sleep every night. She’s eighteen. I pretend I’m asleep so she won’t think I’m weak too. But sometimes I think if I open my mouth, I won’t stop crying either.”

That stills you.

You think of the posters. The glitz. The way the public devours idols like sugar—until they don’t.

“I don’t think being honest about your sadness makes you weak,” you say quietly. “I think pretending everything’s fine all the time would break anyone.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Then—

“…Do you think I’m strong?”

You could lie. You could say yes without thinking. But you speak carefully. She deserves that.

“I think strength isn’t just doing the hard things. I think it’s coming back here. Talking to someone you don’t even know. Letting yourself be real, even just for a little while.”

You hear her swallow.

“I didn’t think I’d cry this year,” she says.

You let that sit. You don’t interrupt.

“I almost didn’t come. I almost told myself I didn’t need this anymore. That I could handle it all. But then I thought of your voice. And how it made me feel safe. And I realized… I still need this.”

She’s quiet a moment longer. Then she murmurs, “Do you ever feel like you’re not meant to be the person everyone thinks you are?”

You consider. “Yeah. Sometimes I think everyone wants a version of me I don’t know how to keep being.”

She sighs. “Exactly.”

The red light on the booth blinks once. A gentle reminder: time is running out.

But she doesn’t move. Neither do you.

“You’ll be here next year?” she asks.

You nod. “I’ll be here.”

There’s a pause. A fragile kind of silence, like the space between violin notes.

“Okay,” she says. “Then I’ll make it through. Just to come back here.”

And then she’s gone.

Chapter 3: 2019 – The Debut

She enters quietly. Always quietly. The bell above the door chimes, but her footsteps don’t make a sound. She slides into the other side of the booth.

A pause.

Then, “Hi.”

You smile without meaning to. “Hi.”

A deep breath escapes from her side of the wall. It sounds like she’s been holding it for months.

“Do you remember what I said last year?” she asks.

You lean slightly forward. “I remember a lot of things you said.”

“I told you I wanted to be seen.” Her voice dips lower. “Well… now I am. Everywhere. All the time. They watch everything. The way I walk. The way I smile. I blink wrong and suddenly I’m cold or stuck up. Or a robot.”

You tilt your head against the partition, waiting for her to go on.

“I debuted.” She laughs, but it’s hollow. “You probably knew that already.”

“I did,” you say quietly.

“I’m the center,” she continues. “That means I’m supposed to be the anchor. The face. The standard. But it feels like being picked to stand in the middle just means I’m the easiest target. We’re doing well, I think. People like us. We won a couple music shows already. My name trends on Twitter a lot. Sometimes it’s good. Sometimes it’s… not.”

You don’t answer. She’s not looking for reassurance. She’s looking for release.

“There’s this moment every night,” she says slowly, “just before I fall asleep, where I forget what I did that day. I don’t remember the stage or the interviews or the comments. For like ten seconds, I just exist. It’s the only time my brain feels quiet.”

You close your eyes, just listening.

“Everyone says I look like I was made for the Center. That I have the right kind of face, the right aura. But no one ever asks if I wanted to be the one in the middle.”

You speak softly. “Did you?”

She’s quiet. Then: “I don’t know anymore.”

You hear the way she shifts in her seat, like her body is too tired for her age.

“They train us to hold poses for hours,” she continues. “To smile no matter what. Our managers count how many seconds we make eye contact with fans. One of them told me to ‘blink more gently’ during the encore.”

You blink instinctively.

“I get these comments online,” she says, voice tightening. “Some say I’m arrogant. Others say I look empty. Cold. Plastic. One person said I look like I have no soul. I’m fifteen. I still like gummy candy. I cry at movies. I’m just—” she cuts herself off, breathing harder now. “But they don’t see that.”

“What do they see?” you ask.

“They see her. The center. The pretty one. The one they can mold and break and criticize and own.”

“I miss being fifteen,” she says, almost under her breath.

“You are fifteen.”

“Am I?” She scoffs, but there’s no bitterness in it. Just resignation. “Most days I feel like I’m thirty-five. I have to think about everything I say, every move I make. I watch what I eat. I train until I can’t feel my legs. I fake laugh at jokes from people twice my age. I get scolded for not being ‘engaging enough’ or not maintaining my image. What kind of fifteen-year-old has an image?”

You press your fingers to the wood between you. “The kind who still wishes someone would ask her how her day was.”

Silence.

Then a breath. “How was your day?”

You blink. It catches you off guard.

“Normal,” you say after a pause. “I helped my mom in the café. She keeps saying I’m growing into my ears, which feels like a weird compliment. Then I read a book. Took a walk down to the park. There’s this one tree with yellow leaves that looks like it’s glowing this time of year.”

She hums. “That sounds… peaceful.”

“It is.”

She’s quiet for a beat, then: “What book?”

You hesitate, a little surprised she asked.

“The Little Prince. I’ve read it a hundred times, but I keep coming back to it.”

“That’s the one with the fox, right?”

“And the rose,” you say. “And the boy who learns what matters most is invisible.”

She goes quiet again, thoughtful.

“I wish I was invisible sometimes.”

“No, you don’t,” you say gently.

A pause.

“You’re right,” she murmurs. “I just want to be invisible to the wrong people. And seen by the right ones.”

“You’re being seen right now.”

There’s a small intake of breath.

“By who?” she asks, almost afraid.

You touch your fingertips to the wood again. “By someone who remembers what you said last year. And who’s listening now.”

The silence that follows is heavier, but softer somehow. Like a weighted blanket instead of a crushing stone.

 “My members are good to me though,” she adds, almost as if she’s reminding herself. “Yena unnie gives me snacks when I’m too nervous to eat. Eunbi unnie checks on me even when she’s exhausted. Hitomi lets me nap on her shoulder during van rides. They’re not just teammates. They’re… safety.”

You smile at the way she says it.

“But even with them,” she adds, “I still feel like I’m performing. Like I’m only real when I’m in this booth.”

You rest your palm flat on the partition.

“I think you’re real all the time,” you say. “But maybe here is the only place you’re allowed to be.”

Her breath catches again. She doesn’t speak for a long time.

When she does, her voice is fragile but grounded.

“I missed this. I didn’t realize how much until I was walking here.”

You nod. “I look forward to it all year.”

“So do I.”

Then, almost shyly: “Would it be weird to ask what your favorite thing is right now?”

“Like a song?”

“Anything.”

You think.

“Warm socks. And old bookstores. And the feeling when someone laughs at something you didn’t think was funny, but suddenly is.”

She laughs again, soft and genuine.

“And yours?” you ask.

She is quiet. Then:

“Rolling down the car window after a long schedule. Letting the wind mess up my hair. For a second it feels like I could just… fly away.”

Another pause.

“And this,” she adds, so softly you almost miss it. “This hour. You. Even if you’re just a voice in the wall.”

You take that in. Let it settle between you.

There’s a long pause, then she asks something she never has before:

“What do you want?”

You blink. “What?”

“You always ask me questions,” she says. “But I never ask you anything real. So… what do you want?”

You smile faintly. “For you to feel like yourself again.”

“That’s not fair.”

You laugh, quietly. “Okay. I want… a quiet life. Not small, just… intentional. A simple life, with people I love, doing what I love. A life where I can write. Or help people. Or maybe just be the kind of person people feel safe talking to.”

She breathes slowly. “You already are.”

Your throat tightens a little. You cover it with a joke. “Flattery gets you an extra minute in the booth.”

She chuckles. “Then I’ll keep talking.”

You fall into easier conversation after that. She asks about your school—what classes you hate, which teacher you think might secretly be a robot. You tell her about the stray cat that’s been living under the steps outside the café, how it only comes out when no one’s looking. She tells you that she’s starting to write poems. You tell her about how you’ve been drawing recently, but not the faces, but only their shadows. She tells you about the weird food combos the other members try—how one of them puts strawberry jam on instant noodles.

She sounds like a teenager, finally.

Until the timer on the booth clicks.

She exhales, long and slow. “It’s always too short.”

“I know.”

“I hate that I have to wait a whole year,” she says, and her voice sounds thinner now, like something stretched too far.

“But you’ll wait?” you ask.

“Yes.”

Then, quietly:

“Will you?”

You smile at the partition. “Of course.”

She stands. The booth creaks. The sound of fabric shifting.

“Same time next year?” she asks.

“Same booth,” you reply.

She hesitates, just like last year. Then, softer than you’ve ever heard her:

“Thank you.”

You don’t say “you’re welcome.” Not because you don’t mean it—but because the thank-you wasn’t for this hour.

It was for every hour she survives until the next one.

And then she’s gone

Chapter 4: 2020 – Isolation

There’s something different in the way the door opens this time.

The door creaks open and there’s a pause—like she’s unsure whether she’s allowed to come in.

You don’t say anything. You just wait.

Then you hear the curtain rustle and the faint sound of her sitting down across the wall.

“Is it you?”

You don’t answer right away. The question is too heavy for just a name.

So you say, softly, “Always.”

There’s a breath—quiet, shaky. Then:

“I wasn’t sure you’d come this year.”

“I wasn’t sure if you would either.” you say gently.

That earns the smallest huff of laughter from her. “Touché.”

There’s a silence that follows, but not an awkward one. It’s the kind of silence that happens when someone is searching for the right place to begin.

“It’s been… a year,” she says finally. “I’m not even sure where to start.”

“Try somewhere soft.”

She thinks about that.

Then: “I think I’m scared I’m becoming hollow.”

Your throat tightens at how quickly she drops into the truth this year.

She continues, “Everything I say is filtered now. Not just on camera—everywhere. Even in the dorm, even around the girls. It’s like I’ve rehearsed being myself so many times that I don’t know where the performance ends.”

You close your eyes. “That sounds lonely.”

“It is,” she whispers.

You wait, letting her set the rhythm.

She lets out a breath, soft and shaky. “I thought about this all year. Not even just today. Some nights I’d be lying in bed, scrolling through all the things people were saying about me, and I’d think, if I can just make it to the booth again… maybe I’ll be okay.”

You stay quiet, giving her space.

“My members say I’m too online,” she murmurs. “They’re probably right. But when you’re home all the time, when the world just stops moving, your phone becomes the loudest thing in the room.”

You can imagine it too easily—her in her room, lights off, screen glowing blue in the dark. Scrolling past the comments. The ones that dig into your skin, the ones that make you question the shape of your face or the sound of your laugh.

“They say I’m fake,” she whispers. “That I’m too perfect. That I don’t deserve the center. That I must have done something to get this far. And I know I shouldn’t care. I do all the right things—I rehearse until my body gives out, I keep my posture even when I want to collapse, I answer every question politely, I smile when I want to cry. But none of that matters when someone posts a screenshot of my face mid-blink and calls me a monster.”

You feel something coil in your chest.

She’s only sixteen.

But her voice is older than her age again, and not in a way that makes you admire her. In a way that makes you mourn what she’s already had to become.

“I try to stay close to the girls,” she continues. “They’re kind. We still talk a lot. Minju unnie makes me tea when I can’t sleep. Yujin does these bad impressions that make everyone groan. Sakura’s gentle in a way that doesn’t ask anything from you. They keep me afloat.”

You nod, then add softly, “But they can’t be everything.”

“No,” she agrees. “And I don’t want to burden them. They’re carrying enough.”

There’s a long pause. You wait.

“I started keeping a list,” she says, tone quieter than before. “Of all the things people criticize about me. Like maybe if I fix them one by one, they’ll stop.”

You speak before you think. “Burn the list.”

She laughs. It’s a short sound, but there’s something grateful in it. “You always say the most reckless things in the calmest way.”

“I mean it,” you say. “Burn it. Tear it up. You don’t need to shrink yourself into their idea of you.”

She stays silent, but you can imagine her, closing her eyes, taking a deep breath through her nose. “Minju unnie has been teaching me how to journal. She says it helps to write like no one’s watching.”

“Does it?”

“I tried. I wrote, ‘I’m scared I’ll disappear into her.’ And then I stared at the sentence for ten minutes and couldn’t keep going.”

You stay quiet.

“She’s not me,” She says. “The one on stage. The girl with perfect angles and fan cams and synchronized steps. She’s… manufactured. Beautiful, maybe. But not whole.”

“What’s the difference?”

“She’s adored,” she says flatly. “I’m not sure I am.”

You want to reach through the wall. You want to undo every bad headline, every cruel comment, every whisper that followed her home through the screen.

“You are,” you say. “You’re just not allowed to believe it.”

Another pause. She breathes in. “They love her. But they don’t know me.”

“They could,” you say.

“They don’t want to,” she replies. “People don’t want girls to be complicated. They want us to be palatable. Aspirational. Not messy. Not tired.”

You swallow. “But you are. You’re tired. And complicated. And human. And you still deserve to be loved.”

The silence that follows is louder than anything either of you has said.

Then, voice trembling, she says, “You always make it sound so simple.”

You smile faintly. “It isn’t. But I think sometimes we need to be reminded of the obvious things.”

There’s a shift in her voice—something softer. “You know… when I sit in this booth, I feel like I’m allowed to just exist.”

“I think that’s the point. For this talk to be special”

“It shouldn’t be this rare,” she murmurs. “Feeling like I can just… be.”

You nod even though she can’t see it. “Tell me something about you. Not the idol. Just… you.”

She’s quiet. Then:

“I like strawberry milk more than coffee. But I still order iced americanos because that’s what everyone else gets.”

A pause.

“I love painting my nails. But I’m not allowed to keep them long. Too impractical for choreography.”

Another pause.

“I hate high-waisted jeans. But stylists say they make my legs look longer.”

One more.

“And I used to love singing in the shower. But now I worry someone’s always listening, judging how I sound.”

You say softly, “Thank you. For sharing those.”

“I miss liking things for myself,” she says. “Not for how they look on fancams.”

Then, her tone lifts, ever so slightly: “Your turn.”

You blink. “Me?”

“Yeah,” she says, a bit more teasing. “Tell me something not-perfect about you.”

You think for a moment. “I forget birthdays. Even the ones I try hard to remember.”

She laughs. “Relatable.”

You add, “I talk to my cat when I’m home alone. Like full conversations.”

“That’s cute.”

“And I still sleep with my old pillow from when I was six. The one with faded stars on it.”

“Now that’s sweet.”

There’s a longer silence this time, but it’s full of something warmer. Something settled.

Then: “I don’t know your name,” she says.

You smile faintly. “That’s part of the rule.”

“I know,” she says. “But sometimes I wonder what it would be like… to look up and see you.”

You don’t say anything. Neither does she. But something shifts. Deepens.

“I was painting last week,” you offer, trying to shift the mood just slightly. “Just watercolor. The cheap kind.”

“Oh?” Her voice perks up, ever so slightly.

“There was this cherry tree outside. The blossoms were halfway gone. I painted it anyway.”

“Why?”

You think about it. “Because it was still beautiful.”

There’s a long pause. Then she says, so quiet you almost miss it: “Sometimes I think I’m the tree without the blossoms.”

You don’t hesitate. “You’re the sky behind it.”

Another long, full silence. It stretches between you, gentle and warm.

“You’re good at that,” she says eventually. “Saying things that make me stop hating myself, even for just a little while.”

“I don’t want you to hate yourself.”

“You barely know me.”

“Still.”

Then, even quieter: “You’re one of the only people I feel like I don’t have to earn.”

The weight of that sentence sinks into your ribs.

You don’t know what to say. So you don’t.

She fills the quiet instead. “Do you think I’ll ever be… just Wony—” She stops. “Just me again?”

“I think you never stopped being you,” you reply. “But I think the world’s made it harder to hear your own voice.”

She whispers, “It’s quiet in here.”

You nod. “That’s why I stay.”

“You’re the only person who talks to me like I’m not a symbol,” she whispers. “Like I’m not a brand.”

“You’re not.”

“To you.”

“To anyone willing to see.”

She sighs. “I wish I could believe that.”

“I’ll believe it for you until you can.”

You don’t know what she’s doing on her side of the wall, but you imagine her hugging her knees to her chest. You imagine the exhaustion behind her eyes.

Another silence. And then:

“Can I ask another weird question?”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you… think about me? Between these visits?”

The question lands with a weight you don’t expect. You don’t speak right away.

Then: “Yeah. More than I probably should.”

She laughs. “Me too.”

Something unspoken flickers between you. It doesn’t need a name. Not yet.

Then she says, “I drew your voice once.”

You blink. “What?”

She laughs softly. “I know that doesn’t make sense. But I sat down with my pencil and tried to sketch the way your voice feels. I ended up with something that looked like a candle in a snowstorm.”

You feel your breath catch.

“Can I keep that image?” you ask, smiling.

“It’s yours.”

You imagine what it would feel like to see her without the curtain—just for a second. Not as the idol. Not as the center. But as the girl with chipped nail polish and late-night fears and too many masks.

You don’t need to see her. Somehow, you already do.

Then she says, softly: “There’s a person in my dreams sometimes.”

You tense.

She continues, “I never see their face. But I hear their voice. It sounds like… here.”

You don’t say anything.

“They doesn’t ask for anything,” she says. “They just listen. And when I wake up, I feel like I can breathe.”

“You think it’s me?”

She pauses. “I hope it is.”

The timer buzzes—louder than it should be. You both flinch.

Neither of you moves.

Then she whispers, “I wish I could stay.”

“You’ll come back.”

“I always do.”

But she hesitates by the curtain.

Before she goes, she says, “You’re the only place that still feels like mine.”

Then she’s gone.

Chapter 5: 2021 – The Disbandment

You recognize her by the way she walks—cautiously, like the ground beneath her has been unsure for a while and she’s still waiting for it to give out completely. There’s no rush in her steps. Only the kind of quiet that settles over someone who’s had too much noise inside their head for too long.

She slips into the booth like someone returning to a familiar memory—worn, soft around the edges, but safe. The same rustle of fabric. The same exhale—low and fragile, like she’s finally letting herself breathe after a year of holding it in.

She doesn’t speak right away. You don’t either.

The silence between you hums differently this year. Not heavy like dread. Denser, maybe. Like grief that’s grown roots.

Then, after a long beat, she speaks. “It’s really over.”

You nod out of habit, then remember. She can’t see you. Still, she knows you heard her.

“IZ*ONE?” you ask, your voice just above a whisper.

She lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah. It feels like I died with it. Like that version of me—the one with twelve sisters and a purpose and a schedule to hide behind—she doesn’t exist anymore. And I don’t know if the new me is any better.”

You wait, letting the silence cushion her words. “You’re not supposed to have it all figured out. You’re seventeen.”

She laughs again, but this time it’s hollow. “Everyone keeps saying that. ‘You’re still so young.’ Like that’s supposed to make it feel easier. But I never got to be young. Not really. My life has been measured in rankings and rehearsal hours since I was twelve.”

You’re quiet for a moment, then your voice softens in a way it only does for her. “Then be young with me. At least for this hour.”

There’s a pause. Then a laugh—fragile, but real. “You always say things like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like the world hasn’t crushed you yet.”

You smile, even though she can’t see it. “Maybe it has. Maybe that’s why I know how to spot it.”

She exhales through her nose. “I thought I’d feel free when it ended. That when the last performance was over, I’d sleep for a week and finally breathe. But now there’s this… stillness. And it’s not peace—it’s just empty. I miss the noise. The chaotic breakfasts, the staff yelling at us for sneaking snacks, the stupid pranks. I even miss our tiny bathroom with three people fighting for the mirror.”

You laugh softly. “So it really was that bad?”

“Worse,” she says, then quieter, “But it was ours.”

There’s a beat of quiet between you.

“I don’t know where I’m supposed to go now. The company wants me to start preparing again. Training. Probably for another debut. But for what? Another version of me, shinier, more polished, more… hollow?”

“You could just… prepare to exist. Rest. Let yourself breathe before building something new.”

“That’s not how it works for people like me,” she says, gently but firmly. “If I stop moving, I disappear.”

You nod slowly. You don’t push. You never do.

After a pause, her voice changes slightly. “How about you?” she asks. “How’s your year been?”

You blink, a little surprised. “There’s still time. I can listen to you.”

“I know,” she says. “But… I want to know. You feel like a constant in my life, and I realized I don’t really know anything about you.”

You hesitate, then let yourself lean into it. “I’ve been writing more. Mostly at night. Small things I never show anyone. Just… stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Stories about people who are lost. Or lonely. Or quietly breaking. And how they find each other in strange places. Or maybe just in moments no one else sees.”

She’s quiet, then murmurs, “That sounds familiar.”

There’s a small beat.

“Are any of them about me?” she asks, her voice soft, teasing around the edges—but not really joking.

You don’t lie. “Some of them.”

The silence after is long, but not uncomfortable. It hums with recognition. Like you’ve stepped into a truth you were both circling all along.

“I wish I could know what you look like,” she says suddenly.

You inhale, slow and steady. “Would it change anything?”

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “Maybe. Maybe it would ruin it. Or maybe it would make everything too real.”

“It already is real,” you say. “Isn’t it?”

Another pause. This one feels deeper.

“It is,” she says at last. “But it still feels like a dream I only get once a year. And when it’s over, I miss it for the next three hundred and sixty-four days.”

You feel something ache in you. Something that’s been growing steadily for years—soft and quiet, but stubborn. Like longing that doesn’t know what it wants yet.

“What would you do,” she asks suddenly, “if you saw me on the street?”

“I’d pretend I didn’t know you.”

“You’d really walk past me?”

“If that’s what you needed.”

She breathes out. “There you go again. Saying exactly what I need to hear.”

“That’s why you come back.”

There’s a long pause. Her voice is different when she speaks again. Gentler. Tethered.

“I come back because… this is the only place I feel like me.”

The quiet that follows isn’t empty. It’s thick with all the things neither of you dares to name yet.

“Do you remember what you said the first time we talked?” she asks.

You think for a moment. “That you sounded tired.”

“I was. I still am. But you never asked for anything. Not an autograph. Not a photo. Not even a piece of me I wasn’t ready to give.”

“You deserved a place where no one wanted to take.”

“I think I lov——I think I need this version of you,” she whispers.

Your breath catches. “This version?”

“The one who never asks me to be anything but myself.”

You almost say something reckless—almost ask her to stay, almost beg her not to disappear for another year. But instead you say, “Who you are has always been enough for me.”

She’s quiet, but you hear her breathe.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says finally. “I think I’d fall apart if you weren’t.”

“You don’t have to hold everything alone.”

“Then can I give you some of it?” she asks, half-laughing, but it’s not really a joke.

“All of it,” you say.

There’s a long pause before she whispers, “I’ll see you next year?”

“You always do.”

And even as the hour starts slipping through your fingers, like it always does, she lingers. Not because she doesn’t know the rules—but because this time, neither of you wants to let go just yet.

She doesn’t say goodbye. Just lingers, like she doesn’t want to leave.

Chapter 6: 2022 – The Re-debut

You recognize her before you hear her. There’s a rhythm to the way she moves—a quiet, practiced grace—but tonight, it’s slower. Heavier. As if the months have added weight to her steps, to her breathing. She slips into the booth with the soft sound of her coat brushing against the wooden seat, and for a moment, she doesn’t speak.

You don’t either. The silence between you has never felt awkward. It’s always been a kind of sacred prelude. A way of saying: We’re back.

When she does speak, her voice is rougher than last year’s. Not broken. But thinner. Pulled taut.

“They call me a doll now.”

There’s a pause, and you hear her exhale, like she’s been holding the words for too long.

“That’s the compliment, apparently. Not ‘smart’ or ‘talented’ or ‘kind.’ Just… ‘perfect.’ Like I’m this thing people put on a shelf. Look at, admire, criticize, reposition. Smile more. Blink less. Don’t gain weight. Don’t show too much thigh. Don’t look tired. God, I’m so tired.”

You hear the faintest hitch in her breath. “I feel like a mannequin most days. Hollow.”

You lean forward slightly, even though she can’t see you.

“But you’re not,” you say, gentle but certain. “You’re made of so much more than what they see.”

She lets out a bitter little laugh. “They don’t care what I’m made of. They want flawless skin, long legs, a good angle. They want this version of me that doesn’t cry, doesn’t eat carbs, doesn’t age.”

“And what do you want?”

She’s quiet.

“I want to be seen. Not watched. Not dissected. Seen.”

You nod. “I see you.”

You let the silence wash over the both of you.

“Do you feel like a person?” you ask softly.

She lets out a breath, more a laugh than a sigh. It sounds brittle.

“Sometimes I don’t. I feel hollow. Like I’m only real when the camera’s off… and even then, sometimes I’m not sure.”

The sadness in her voice has changed over the years. Less shock now, more weariness. She’s growing used to the ache. That scares you.

“People think I have everything,” she continues, quieter now. “But I don’t know who I am half the time. They gave me a spotlight and took everything else.”

“What would you keep, if it were up to you?” you ask.

She’s quiet for a while. Then—

“This. This booth. This hour. You.”

You close your eyes. Her voice has never felt closer.

“You know,” she says, and there’s a tremble now, “I had a fan call the other day. Just a regular fancall. Except it wasn’t. This girl—she looked like she’d been crying before we even started—and she just said… she said I saved her. That seeing me smile helped her through something. And I smiled for her, I really did. But then she thanked me, and I couldn’t stop crying.”

“I tried to turn away from the camera so she wouldn’t see, but it was too late. She told me she’d never seen someone be so human on screen. And I just—” Her voice cracks. “I’m supposed to be a doll, right?”

“No,” you say gently. “You’re just someone who gave another person hope. And that’s more than enough.”

“But I wonder if they’d still say those things if they saw me like this,” she whispers. “Sad. Lonely. Tired.”

“They don’t get this hour of you,” you say. “I do. And I love this hour.”

There’s a breath, caught between silence and something more. You hear her shift on the bench, like she’s curling inward, trying to disappear and hold on all at once.

“I think I do, too,” she says. “I think I need it.”

There’s something charged in the quiet that follows—not explosive, but intimate. Familiar. You’ve grown together across these years in a space untouched by lights or lenses. She doesn’t have to be herself here. And you… you’ve become the version of yourself who listens better than you speak, who offers comfort like it’s instinct.

“What about you?” she asks, softer now. “How’s your life?”

“Steady,” you say. “I read more. I write. I stay in my head too much.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Do you ever think about me?” she asks suddenly.

Your breath stills.

“More than I mean to,” you admit.

“Do you write about me?”

You pause. “Every year.”

There’s a pause that feels longer than it is.

“Would you ever show me?”

“Maybe someday. If I thought you’d still want to read it when you saw your name written like that.”

“I don’t think I’d hate it,” she says. “I think I might keep it under my pillow.”

You laugh—quiet, surprised.

“What?” she teases.

“You’re cute when you say things like that.”

“You’ve never even seen me when we talk.”

“You’ve never even seen me,” you shoot back.

“Maybe I don’t need to.”

She says it with a softness that makes your chest ache.

You breathe in. “If you saw what I looked like, and saw me on the street…”

“I’d walk past you,” she says. “But only because I’d want to turn around.”

You smile, quietly. “That sounds dangerously close to poetry.”

“Don’t flatter me.”

You can feel how close the hour is to ending. Her voice lowers a little more, settling into something that’s almost a whisper.

“You know,” she says, “this isn’t just some silly ritual for me. I think about this all year. I count the days.”

“So do I,” you say.

“I don’t know what this is between us. I don’t even know your name. But it feels like… home.”

“It is.”

She doesn’t speak for a while after that. You let her sit with it. Let it sink in like warm rain.

“Promise me something?” she asks finally.

“Anything.”

“No matter where I go, or who I become… keep being this person. Keep being the one place I don’t have to pretend.”

“I will. Always.”

There’s a pause, and then—

“See you next year?”

“You always do.”

She doesn’t say goodbye. Just lingers, like she doesn’t want to leave.

Chapter 7: 2023 – The Breaking Point

She doesn’t rush into the booth this time. There’s no rustle of hurried footsteps or quiet laugh behind the curtain. Just a slow drag of fabric, and the softest exhale—like even breathing has become something she has to remember how to do.

You don’t say anything. You’ve learned by now that silence is a kind of language with her.

When she speaks, her voice sounds smaller than usual. Like something’s collapsed inside it.

“I almost didn’t come.”

It’s only four words, but they land with a weight you can feel in your chest.

“I thought about turning around,” she continues. “Right outside the door. Just walking away. Pretending this place never existed.”

A beat.

“But then I realized… I didn’t know where else to go.”

You swallow hard, the ache creeping behind your ribs.

She sighs, the sound brittle. “I forgot what I used to like. What made me feel happy. Or safe. Or… me.”

Her fingers tap against the partition. Not idly. Desperately.

“I forgot what I used to like,” she murmurs. “Like, actually forgot. I was doing an interview the other day and someone asked me my favorite color, and I just… stared at them. I said pink. But I don’t think that’s true anymore.”

She pauses, then huffs a laugh that holds no humor. “I realized I don’t even know if I like pink. I don’t know what I like anymore. Not food. Not clothes. Not music. Everything I do is for someone else’s idea of who I should be.”

You listen, careful not to interrupt. She always builds her way into the truth slowly, piece by painful piece.

“I still move like I’m being watched. Even in my room, I catch myself posing without meaning to. My smiles don’t reach my eyes. I only breathe deeply when I’m here.”

There’s a pause. A different kind of silence. Then:

“Sometimes I catch myself wondering what I would be if I wasn’t an idol. But that thought scares me. Because…what would be left?”

You lean closer to the barrier, voice low and steady.

“The girl behind the barrier. And she’s more than enough.”

She exhales, and it catches like something inside her cracked a little too easily.

“You always say the right thing.”

You smile, even though she can’t see. “That’s only because you already know the truth. I just remind you.”

She laughs, barely. A small sound that sounds more like heartbreak than joy.

“I’ve been performing so long I don’t know how to exist outside of a spotlight. I don’t know how to sit still without wondering who’s watching me. If my smile looks okay. If my legs are too thin. Or too thick. If I blink too much.”

Her voice breaks on the next line.

“I read the comments. I know I shouldn’t. But I do. They talk about my body like it belongs to them. They say I look like a mannequin. That my eyes are too wide, or my face is too bland. That I’m overrated. That I’m faking every moment I try to be kind. That I’m not real.”

She inhales a sharp breath.

“And the worst part is… sometimes I believe them.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. Then, softly:

“You’re amazing. I just think you don’t see it.”

She lets out a laugh—sharp, hollow, almost angry. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“No. You’re not amazing because I said it. You’re amazing. I’m just reminding you.”

She doesn’t respond, but something shifts. Not relief—just exhaustion. The kind that doesn’t go away with sleep. The kind that feels like surrender.

“I come here and I try to remember the girl I used to be,” she whispers. “Before all the cameras. Before they decided I was only valuable if I was perfect.”

She leans closer to the barrier. You can hear it in the way her breath hits the surface between you.

“Sometimes I think this is the only hour I’m not pretending.”

Your voice cracks when you answer. “That’s why I’m here.”

Another silence. But this one doesn’t feel safe. It feels like she’s unraveling behind it.

“Do you ever wonder what would happen if this wall wasn’t here?” she asks suddenly. “If I could see you? If you were just… a person?”

You close your eyes. “I do.”

“I think I’m starting to hate this wall,” she says, so quietly it sounds like a secret. “But I’m terrified that if I know who you are. If you’re not just a voice in the wall, everything would change. And this…I need this”

You try to keep your voice steady. “I’ll still be here. No matter what side you’re on.”

She laughs again, but it’s wet this time. “You don’t understand. I need this. I need you. And I hate how much I do.”

“I know.”

“I tell everyone I’m fine. That I’m strong. That I love what I do. But when I come here, I don’t have to lie.”

You lean your forehead gently against the divider. “You never did.”

She exhales shakily.

“I think if this place disappeared, I would too.”

Your heart breaks a little, even though you’ve been bracing for it all year.

“Then I won’t let it disappear.”

“I know we pretend we don’t know each other,” she says after a while. “And maybe that makes it easier. But sometimes I wonder… if I met you on the street, would I recognize your voice? Would I stop and turn around?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

She laughs softly through what sounds like a tear sliding down her cheek. “I probably wouldn’t. And maybe that’s a good thing.”

You speak through the ache in your throat. “You deserve to be seen as more than what the world tries to take from you.”

“I think the only version of me that feels real anymore,” she says, “is the one who sits in this booth.”

“You don’t have to hold everything alone.”

“Can I give you some of it?” she asks, almost like a plea.

“All of it,” you say.

When the hour begins to close, neither of you moves. The silence stretches out, not comfortable, but necessary.

“I don’t want to leave,” she admits. “I don’t want to go back to pretending.”

“I’ll be here,” you promise, “when you’re ready to come back.”

She lingers for a long moment, fingertips brushing the wood between you like it’s the closest she can come to touching something real.

And then, in a whisper: “Thank you for remembering me. Even when I forget myself.”

She doesn’t say goodbye.

She never does.

But this time, you hear her crying as she leaves. And it sounds like the kind of pain only the quiet can hold.

Chapter 8: 2024 – The Confession

The booth door creaked shut, and for a moment, all you could hear was the soft hitch in her breathing. She always took a second before speaking, like she had to put down whatever mask she wore outside before she could even begin to be herself here. But tonight, she didn’t just seem tired—she seemed undone.

You could feel it in the air. The kind of stillness that only came after someone had spent too long holding it all in.

When she finally spoke, her voice was almost unrecognizable.

“I think I’m in love with a voice.”

You blinked. Not because you were surprised. But because somewhere inside you, you’d been waiting for that sentence—dreading it, hoping for it, needing it.

“It sounds ridiculous,” she added, trying to laugh, but it came out thin, frayed. “I mean, I don’t even know your name. I’ve never seen your face. And yet… this hour… every year, it’s the only time I feel like I can breathe. The only place I’m not performing.”

You leaned forward, the wooden partition between you and her more solid than ever.

“It’s not ridiculous,” you said softly.

She exhaled, like she’d been waiting for you to say that.

“I keep thinking,” she said, “if we ever saw each other outside this room—really saw each other—would it feel the same? Or would it break whatever this is? Because I don’t want to lose this. I really, really don’t.”

You didn’t answer right away. Because you’d thought the same thing. In the quiet moments before sleep. In the middle of crowded places, wondering if she was nearby and you’d never know. The barrier protected you both, but it had started to feel like a cage.

“Maybe the wall’s the only thing keeping us safe,” you said. “But maybe it’s also the only thing keeping us apart.”

She was quiet for a long time.

“What would you do,” she whispered, “if I crossed it?”

You opened your mouth, but no words came. You didn’t know the answer. Or maybe you did, and it scared you too much to say it out loud.

She shifted in her seat, her voice steadier now, but no less vulnerable.

“I’m doing okay,” she said, as if to change the subject. “At least, that’s what I tell everyone. The girls and I… we’ve grown a lot. IVE is bigger than we ever expected. We just finished a tour, and everyone’s saying we’re doing great. But…”

Her voice caught. You waited.

“The cameras are never off,” she murmured. “Even when they are. There’s this… constant pressure to be the ‘center’. To be perfect. People say it like a compliment—‘She’s like a doll.’ But dolls don’t get to have bad days. Dolls don’t cry. Dolls don’t grow tired.”

She laughed bitterly.

“Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and I forget who I am. I don’t remember what food I liked before I debuted. I don’t know what music I’d listen to if no one else could hear. I forgot my favorite…everything.”

You swallowed. There was nothing easy to say to that.

“But here,” she said, her voice trembling, “with you, I feel like I’m still someone. Not an idol. Not a product. Just… a girl. A girl who still remembers how to feel.”

You drew in a breath, slow and deliberate.

“Just because you carry something well,” you said gently, “doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy.”

She was silent again. You imagined her, curled against the wooden wall, staring at nothing. You could almost feel her heartbeat through the grain.

“There you go again.” she whispered.

“I think I’m scared to need you,” she said suddenly. “Because I do. I really do. I think about this booth when I’m thousands of miles away. I replay your words when I’m smiling for people who want something from me. And sometimes, I forget that you’re just a voice. That you might not even think about me when I’m gone.”

You couldn’t stop the ache in your chest.

“I do think about you,” you said. “More than I should.”

There was a long pause. You weren’t sure if you’d said too much, or not enough.

“Do you?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Every day.”

She didn’t speak again for a while, but the silence wasn’t empty. It was full of all the things neither of you were quite ready to say.

“I wish I could see your face,” she said eventually. “Not because I want to ruin this. But because I want to know what kind of eyes can see me so clearly when no one else can.”

You swallowed hard.

“Maybe someday.”

“Would it be wrong,” she asked, “if I said I wanted to cross the wall, but not yet?”

“Not wrong,” you said. “Just honest.”

“Then I’ll stay here. For now.”

And somehow, that hurt more than anything else.

But you stayed in that silence with her. You let it wrap around you both like a blanket neither of you wanted to lift.

Because even though you were still pretending not to know each other—still clinging to anonymity like a raft—you both knew the truth:

She wasn’t just a voice behind a wall anymore.

She was your voice.

And you were hers.

Chapter 9: 2025 – The Door Between Us

She enters the booth with a different kind of quiet.

You’ve memorized the sound of her arrival over the years—always soft, a hesitant shuffle, the sigh of someone who’s been holding in too much for too long. But this time, it’s lighter. Not weightless, not without pain, but less like she’s collapsing under something invisible.

You don’t speak right away. Neither does she.

For a while, it’s just breathing. Shared air. Familiar silence.

Then her voice, a little raspier than you remember. “You still remember.”

“I remember a lot of things,” you say gently.

You can hear the smile in her voice. “You always do.”

She pauses, as if waiting for the rest to settle. “I almost didn’t come this year.”

Your breath catches. “Why?”

“I was scared it wouldn’t be enough anymore,” she says, honest. “That just hearing your voice would make me want more. Or that I’d feel like I’d outgrown this.”

“And did you?”

“No,” she whispers. “If anything, it’s worse. You’re still the only place I can exhale.”

You don’t reply right away. There’s a heaviness in your chest that words don’t quite reach. So instead, you say softly, “I’m glad you came back.”

“I always do,” she says, a little too quickly. “Even if part of me hopes you’ll say something reckless one day. Something that makes this fall apart.”

There’s silence again. Not cold, but charged.

“How’s everything?” you ask finally. “I saw the comeback. It’s good. You seemed… good.”

She lets out a small laugh. “That’s what I’m supposed to look like. That’s the whole game, right? Appearances. But yeah… this year was different.”

“How so?”

“I stopped trying to be palatable,” she says. “For the first time, I said no to things that made me feel like glass. I started writing in a notebook again. Took dance classes for fun, not for stage. I even told a fan on a fancall last month that I was struggling—and she cried. And I cried. Because she said I helped her. And I didn’t know I was still helping anyone.”

You don’t realize you’ve clenched your fists until your nails dig into your palms. “You’re still helping me.”

You doesn’t answer at first. Then softly, “Even after all this time?”

“Especially after all this time.”

She exhales, shaky. “It’s weird, isn’t it? You know the version of me that no one else does. But I don’t even know what your face looks like.”

“Would it change things?”

“I don’t know anymore,” she admits. “Last year, I think it terrified me. Now I think… I think it’s the not knowing that’s killing me.”

You’re quiet for a long time. Then you say it—the thing you’ve held back for too many years.

“You say I always say the right thing. But that’s because I see you clearly. Not the version everyone edits and filters and picks apart. Just you. The one who laughs when she’s tired, who whispers when she’s scared, who shows up every year even when she doesn’t know why. You’re amazing. I just think you don’t see it.”

She goes quiet.

Then: “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

You don’t flinch. “You’re not amazing just because I said it. You’re amazing. I’m just reminding you.”

“Getting lazy, are we? Reusing words of wisdom now.” She jokes, but you feel something beneath the surface, trepidation, fear, even.

Silence again. But it isn’t empty. It’s trembling with something.

“You’ve been my secret,” she says suddenly. “Like a little piece of the world no one else knows about. But I don’t think I want you to be a secret anymore.”

You swallow. “What are you saying?”

She takes a breath. “I don’t want to wonder anymore. I want to know what your eyes look like when you say things that make me feel whole. I want to see if your hands shake when you speak. I want to step outside this booth and still feel brave.”

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your heart is beating too loud.

“I think I’m going to wait outside… for five minutes,” she says.

You sit still, listening like her words are something fragile and alive.

“If you want this to stay just what it is—an hour, a memory, something you tuck away again—I’ll understand. I will, and I’ll see you here again in a year” she says, almost like she’s trying to convince herself. “But if you’ve ever… if any part of you wants to know what this is outside these walls…”

She trails off. You hear her swallow.

“Then come out before those five minutes are over.”

She doesn’t say “please.” She doesn’t have to.

A breath. A silence.

Then the soft sound of the door creaking open and then gently closing.

And she’s gone.

The room feels hollow without her voice. It always does, but this time the silence has teeth. You sit, frozen, her words ringing in your head louder than anything she’s said before.

Five minutes.

You think of every version of her you’ve met through that barrier. The broken one. The exhausted one. The one who laughed in defiance. The one who whispered things no one else got to hear. You think of her voice—the way it always trembled when she was trying not to cry, and the way it steadied when she said something that mattered.

You stand.

Your hands are shaking.

The door groans open, and outside, there’s the hum of life again. But just a few feet away—near the alley wall, hugging her arms close—is her.

She turns slowly when she hears you.

Wonyoung.

No barrier. No booth. Just her.

She’s wearing a hoodie, hair pulled into a loose bun—eyes darker and softer than you remember, though you’ve never actually seen them since that fateful day. And yet, it feels familiar. Almost too familiar.

There’s a stunned kind of stillness between you. The world hushes.

Her lips part in disbelief, and she lets out a tiny laugh—part surprise, part relief, part wonder. “You.”

You smile, nerves and warmth tangled in your chest. “Me.”

 “I didn’t want this to stay just a dream.” You continue, looking at her with a small smile

She takes a few small steps forward, hesitant, like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she moves too fast.

“I used to imagine this moment,” she says softly. “Your face. Your smile. I’d replay your voice in my head on the hard days. You were my anchor, even when I didn’t know your name, or how you looked.”

You meet her gaze and feel the weight of everything unspoken settle gently between you. “And you were always the only one I waited for. Every year.”

She blinks, and the tears are closer now, but she doesn’t look away. “I don’t want to pretend anymore,” she whispers. “But I’m still scared.”

You reach for her hand—slowly, carefully—and when your fingers brush, she exhales like she’s been holding her breath for years.

“I am too,” you say. “But maybe we can be scared… together.”

A pause. Her hand curls around yours.

Then, with a small, shy smile, she tilts her head and says, almost playfully, “So… what now?”

You smile back. “Now? We find out what happens when the hour doesn’t end.”

She squeezes your hand gently, grounding herself in the contact. Then she lifts her gaze, and her eyes soften, filled with something tender and bright and unmistakably hers.

“Can I still pretend,” she whispers, voice trembling just slightly, “that I don’t know you?”

You laugh, brushing your thumb along her knuckles. “Only if I get to pretend I’m not half way there already”

That’s when the tear finally slips down her cheek, but she’s smiling.

And then—like it’s the simplest thing in the world—she lifts her hand, just a little unsteady, and holds it out to you.

“Hi,” she says, voice barely above a breath, eyes never leaving yours. “It’s nice to meet you. My name is Wonyoung.”

You smile, the kind that rises slowly, like something long-held and hard-won.

You take her hand a little tighter, just enough so she knows you’re not letting go anytime soon.

“Hi,” you say, voice soft and certain. “It’s really, really nice to meet you, Wonyoung. My name is Y/N”

You pause, heart stammering in your chest, then add—

“I’ve been waiting a long time to say that.”

She laughs, and this time there’s no hesitation. Just joy. Just relief. Just her. Jang Wonyoung. Not the idol. Not a doll. Just the girl behind the barrier.

[bitchiswild]

Would've Been Cute

Jennie x F! Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Sequel to About You

Warnings: angst!!! NO MORE SEQUELS! After this😕

A/n: love this song💔 and I’m gonna dip again! Baiiii

The venue smelled faintly of salt and cedar, a reminder that the ocean wasn’t far. You stood beneath the stage lights, your guitar resting comfortably against your hip. The crowd swayed, humming along and their attention drew to the soft strum of your fingers.

You leaned toward the mic, your voice warm but fragile.

*"Please tell me not to go

We’ve been here long before

I live under your eyelids

I’ll always be yours"*

Each word felt like a hand reaching back through time, trying to touch the moments you and Jennie thought you’d have forever.

(past)  

The winter air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of salt as waves roared against the shore. You and Jennie sat side by side on an old wool blanket, your fingers wrapped around a shared thermos of hot chocolate.  

“I want kids with you one day,” she said suddenly, her voice almost lost in the sound of the tide.  

You turned toward her, your heart swelling against the cool bite of the breeze. “Really? I would love kids with you,” you told her fondly, your words puffing into the cold air like a promise.  

She grinned, cheeks pink from both the cold and her excitement, she leaned on your shoulder. “Imagine how cute they’d be.”  

You laughed softly, brushing your gloved hand against hers. “ If they looked like you they would be the cutest, but let me put a ring on you first, then we can have as many kids as you’d like, my love. Okay?”  

Her eyes lit up, brighter than the fading winter sun. “I’m so excited, Y/n, I can't wait for our future.”  

You leaned in, pressing a kiss to her chilled forehead.” Me too.” The ocean roared behind you, but in that moment, all you could feel was the buzzing of her happiness.  

~~~

It was another cold evening weeks later when Jennie brought it up again. You were both curled up in her apartment, the window fogged over from the heater humming in the corner. She had her head in your lap, scrolling through baby photos on her phone.

“Okay, hear me out,” she said, tilting the screen toward you. “If we have a daughter, I want to name her Sienna.”

You blinked, the name rolling around in your head. “Sienna?”

She nodded eagerly. “It’s cute! It's also warm and soft, but also strong. I don’t know… it just feels like us and I really love it.”

A smile crept onto your face. “Then I hope she looks just like you,” you teased, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Jennie giggled and rolled her eyes playfully. “Obviously. She’s my kid.”

You laughed and leaned down to kiss her, tasting both her smile and the quiet certainty that this was the life you were building together, their future .

~~~ 

One summer afternoon, you were both at her parents’ pool, music floating from a small speaker nearby. Jennie was splashing you mercilessly, laughing every time you squealed.

“You’re so stubborn... and have a temper!” you shouted, wiping water from your eyes.

Jennie gasped dramatically. “Excuse me, I do not have a temper.”

She glared at you, eyes narrowed, but you could tell she was just teasing, her lips twitching with a smile.

“Oh, you do,” you said with a smirk. “Running around, jumping in pools, singing to all the pets… being sensitive about everything—”

She cut you off with a kiss, her smile breaking against yours. “Then I hope she’s exactly like me.”

You laughed softly, brushing a strand of wet hair from her face. “Our baby is soooo getting your temper.”

“Fine, maybe a little. But only a little,” she said, rolling her eyes but still smiling.

“Can't wait,” you whispered. And in that moment, you meant it.

~~~

The light from the streetlamps spilled across your bedroom wall in thin golden slants. Jennie lay beside you, your hands loosely linked. She was quiet tonight.

“You’ve been gone a lot,” you murmured, staring at the ceiling.

“I’ve been busy,” she replied softly, almost defensive. “You know music isn’t forever, Y/n. I… I need to figure out what I really want.”

You turned to look at her. “I thought you wanted this. Us. Sienna. The whole dream. Come on baby talk to me”

She hesitated, her lips parting before closing again. “Maybe I just wanted the idea of it.”

Your chest ached at the words. In the silence that followed, you knew something in her had already started to leave.

~~~

(present)

Back on stage, your voice slipped into the pre-chorus, the words painting images that only you and Jennie knew the truth behind.  

*"I’ll lay on your rooftop in the freezing cold  

And I’ll watch the sunset, wearin’ all your clothes  

I can feel you with me, like I did before  

Like when I sang you a love song by Norah Jones"*  

The crowd swayed gently, unaware that somewhere among them, Jennie stood near the back, scarf pulled tight, watching the girl she once called hers.  

Your voice carried into the chorus, soft but laced with something heavier.  

*"Ooh, Sienna  

Would’ve been cute  

Ooh, Sienna  

Would look just like you"*  

Your fingers trembled slightly against the guitar strings, the lyric hitting harder than you’d expected. You could still picture it: a little girl with Jennie’s eyes, Jennie’s laugh. It had been a silly dream whispered in the middle of winter, but it had felt real back then, it was real to you.  

Then you reached the bridge — the part you had almost cut but couldn’t bring yourself to.  

*"With a temper like you, run around like you  

Jumpin’ in the pool like you  

Sing to all her pets in the way I did  

Be sensitive like you"*  

You felt your throat tighten. Every line was a longing memory, and every memory was yours and Jennie’s.  

By the outro, your voice was almost a whisper.  

*"And I smile when I think of all the times we had  

On the beach in the winter, when the waves were mad  

Down by the water, crystal clear

See her face in the forest, then it disappears"*  

The final note faded, and the room erupted in applause. You thank your fans and stepped off stage, your fingers still tingling from the strings, and scanned the backstage area.

There she was—Jennie.

Jennie’s scarf was pulled tight, and a soft smile lit her face as Lisa, your drummer, wrapped an arm around her. The two of them laughed quietly, the kind of easy, intimate laughter you and Jennie once shared.

For a moment, yours and Jennie’s eyes met. Time seemed to pause—the beach in winter, the blankets, the dreams of a daughter named Sienna all flashing in your mind. Jennie’s gaze was soft, a little sad, but it couldn’t reach you through the space between the two of you .

Your chest tightened. The bridge of the song echoed in your head, memories of Jennie’s temper, her laugh, her warmth—and the life that could never be and will never be.

You swallowed, letting a small, sad smile escape, then turned your back to them. Without a word, without a backward glance, you walked away, the applause fading behind you, leaving only the cold sting of what had been and what would never come.

[keervah]

…..

[bitchiswild]

About You

Jennie x F! Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: angst

A/n: damn 😔🤚

Requested

In a dimly lit bar, the ambient sounds of clinking glasses and murmured conversations blended with the soft strumming of a guitar. Y/n, the lead vocalist of a local band, stood on the small stage, her fingers lightly grazing the strings of her guitar. The crowd hushed as she began to sing, her voice filled with raw emotion.

"There was something 'bout you that now I can't remember," Y/n's voice resonated through the venue, capturing the attention of everyone present. The lyrics were a reflection of her own heartache, a melody that echoed the pain of a love lost. As she continued, memories of a past romance surfaced in her mind.

~~~

(past)

"What are you writing about, my love?" Jennie, her girlfriend, asked, her fingers gently caressing Y/n's shoulders. Y/n sighed contentedly at Jennie's comforting touch, looking up to meet her eyes, which were filled with adoration for the girl before her.

"I'm working on a song about you, actually. I'm calling it 'About You'," Y/n replied, a soft laugh escaping her lips. Jennie joined in, their laughter intertwining in the warmth of the moment.

"Can I hear it when you're done?" Jennie asked, her curiosity blending with a genuine interest in Y/n's creative expression.

"Of course, babe. Once I perfect it, I'll let you be the first to hear it," Y/n assured her, a radiant smile illuminating her face.

"Anything you write, Y/n, is perfect in my eyes," Jennie whispered sweetly, her words carrying a sincerity that melted Y/n's heart. The air between them filled with an unspoken understanding, a connection that went beyond the words shared. In that intimate exchange, the love they felt for each other was beautifully woven into the fabric of the moment, creating a tapestry of affection that lingered in the air.

Weeks passed, and the song "About You" evolved into a beautiful melody that resonated with the emotions Y/n harbored for Jennie. One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting warm hues across the sky, Y/n invited Jennie to their cozy apartment to share the finished piece.

The room was filled with the soft strumming of Y/n's guitar as she began to sing. Jennie sat on the couch, captivated by the heartfelt lyrics that seemed to paint a vivid picture of their love story. Y/n poured her soul into every note, and as the final chord resonated, a profound silence enveloped the room.

Jennie looked at Y/n with tears shimmering in her eyes. "That was beautiful, Y/n. It's like you've captured the essence of us in every word and melody," she said, her voice filled with genuine emotion.

Y/n smiled, feeling a mixture of vulnerability and satisfaction. "I'm glad you think so. It's all about you, about us."

As the last notes hung in the air, Y/n set the guitar aside and moved closer to Jennie. Their eyes met, and in that shared gaze, the unspoken connection between them deepened. Jennie reached out, tenderly wiping away a tear from Y/n's cheek.

"You have a way of turning the ordinary moments into something extraordinary," Jennie confessed, her fingers gently tracing the contours of Y/n's face.

Y/n leaned in, capturing Jennie's lips in a sweet and lingering kiss. The room seemed to fade away, leaving only the soft melody of their love lingering in the air. The song had not only become an ode to their journey but also a bridge that reconnected their hearts.

After the kiss, they held each other, savoring the warmth of the moment. "I love you, Y/n," Jennie whispered, her words echoing the sentiment expressed in the song.

"I love you too, Jennie," Y/n replied, a profound sense of completeness settling between them.

~~~

"I don't get it," I asked, confusion and heartbreak intertwined within my words. Jennie's revelation felt like a sudden plunge into icy waters, a shock that left me breathless.

"Y/n, get it in your head. You and I have different dreams," Jennie declared, her words hitting with punctuated finality.

"But... but, I thought we were each other's dream?" I stammered, my voice barely audible as the weight of her words pressed upon my chest.

"I lied. I can't be a low-ball artist's girlfriend. You won't make it out there. You've been playing in the same five bars for the past three years, and there has been no movement," Jennie uttered venomously, her words cutting through the air like shards of glass. Each syllable felt like a blow, a relentless assault on the dreams I had nurtured and believed in.

My heart shattered into fragments. Being an artist was not just a career; it was my soul's yearning. Being a singer wasn't merely a profession; it was the rhythm of my existence. And Jennie... she was my dream personified. Yet, here she was, dismantling them all with ruthless precision.

Tears welled in my eyes, betraying the depth of the pain coursing through me. Jennie noticed, her gaze faltering for a moment, a fleeting acknowledgment of the devastation she had just unleashed. "Y/n, I—" she began, an apology clawing its way out.

"No. Just leave, Jennie. Never come back," I interrupted her, my voice devoid of emotion, each word a struggle to push past the lump forming in my throat. My lips quivered as I turned away, unwilling to let her see the extent of the devastation she had wrought.

The air between us hung heavy with the shattered remnants of dreams, the echoes of love, and the profound ache of betrayal. As I walked away, the weight of her words clung to my every step, a haunting melody of heartbreak playing in the silence she left behind.

~~~

(Present)

"It's the same damn thing that made my heart surrender," she continued, her eyes closed as she poured her soul into the song. The lyrics unfolded the story of her love for Jennie, the only woman who had left an indelible mark on her heart.

"I miss you on a train, I miss you in the morning," Y/n's words hung in the air, expressing the ache of loneliness that accompanied Jennie's departure. The crowd listened intently, drawn into the narrative woven by the heartfelt lyrics.

In the midst of the audience, unbeknownst to Y/n, Jennie stood watching. Her gaze fixed on the stage, she felt a mix of emotions listening to the song inspired by their past. The lyrics resonated with her own journey, the sacrifices she had made to chase her dreams, leaving Y/n behind.

As Y/n continued to sing, the intensity of the moment reached its peak. The bar was silent, captivated by the emotional performance. That's when Y/n opened her eyes and, to her surprise, locked eyes with Jennie. A bittersweet realization washed over them both.

The song reached its poignant conclusion, and the crowd erupted into applause. Y/n, momentarily caught off guard by the unexpected gaze, collected herself and graciously acknowledged the audience.

After the performance, as Y/n made her way off the stage, she noticed someone waiting for her backstage. It was Lisa, the new drummer of the band, accompanied by a familiar face—Jennie. Y/n's heart skipped a beat as the two approached.

"Y/n, meet my girlfriend," Lisa grinned, introducing Jennie to the bandmates.

Y/n and Jennie exchanged glances, the unspoken words of the past year hanging in the air. In that moment, surrounded by the music that once united them, they felt the possibility of a new beginning. The echoes of the song lingered, serving as a reminder that sometimes, the most beautiful melodies emerge from the symphony of life's unexpected twists and turns.

[keervah]

BITCH IM IN TEARS 😭

[bitchiswild]

Keer I made anotherrrrrr

Post by @bitchiswild · 1 audio track

💬 2  🔁 0  ❤️ 1 · Would've Been Cute · Jennie x F! Reader Word Count: 1.2k Sequel to About You Warnings: angst!!! NO MORE SEQUELS! After t

[keervah]

Niceeeeeee hehe I’m gonna read that tmrw 🌝

[sseulforgii]

Let’s punch midi

I’m down for this. Heheeeee

[keervah]

HEE HEE HEE

[alcoholfreenayeon]

have not listened to any of the songs💔

😔😔😔😔

Mars

Right hand girl

Dat ahh dat ohh

Heartbreak avenue

You have to listen to these

[keervah]

Wym "you have to listen to these" LISTEN TO THE WHOLE ALBUM

[frenchyypoo]

give me 5-7 business days and i will 😇

[keervah]

……

[alcoholfreenayeon]

have not listened to any of the songs💔

😔😔😔😔

Mars

Right hand girl

Dat ahh dat ohh

Heartbreak avenue

You have to listen to these

[keervah]

Wym "you have to listen to these" LISTEN TO THE WHOLE ALBUM

[wintersera]

should i make huntrix x reader fics?

[keervah]

UR STILL THINKING. WRITE

[1luvkarina-deactivated20250806]

✦ - tied in silk and silence

twice

pairing — myoui mina x fem!reader

dedicated to: @keervah

genre — gxg, non-idol x non-idol, heavy angst, arranged marriage au, fluff

— in which, myoui mina and lee y/n, are forced into an arranged marriage in order to combine both their families and family companies 

The conference room was too quiet for comfort—its silence polished like the marble table stretching between them. Myoui Mina sat at one end, posture perfect, eyes blank behind a pair of rimless glasses. She looked every inch the CEO her reputation promised: cold, elegant, and untouchable. 

At the other end sat Lee Y/n, in a stiff navy blazer that didn’t quite hide the tremble in her hands. She wasn’t meek by any means—top of her MBA class and sharp-tongued when necessary, but this? This was a different kind of battlefield, one where silence was sharper than words. 

Between them lay a single document. 

A marriage contract. 

“I assume you've read through everything.” Mina said, voice quiet but firm, like the steady ticking of a luxury watch. “There’s a clause regarding public appearances, monthly charity events, and press releases.” she flipped a page like it was nothing, like it wasn’t her life being stitched to a stranger’s with legal thread. 

Y/N exhaled slowly, “And in exchange, the Lees and Myouis merge shares. Our parents shake hands. Investors celebrate. Everybody wins.”

Mina finally looked at her—really looked at her and it stung, her eyes were glassy but sharp, like they saw right through Y/N. “Not everybody.”

It was the first thing she’d said that wasn’t dipped in business casual coldness.

Y/N blinked. “So we agree. This is a formality.”

Mina leaned back in her chair, lips pressed into a line. “You’re not here for romance, are you?”

“Do I look like I’m here to be swept off my feet?”

That almost got a reaction—a twitch of the eyebrow, maybe but Mina was already closing the folder. “Then let’s sign. Our parents are waiting.”

Later that evening, in the backseat of a luxury black car, Y/N glanced at the woman beside her. Mina sat with her hands folded in her lap, wedding band catching the streetlights. Like it meant anything.

“You’re quiet,” Y/N murmured, more to herself than anything.

“So are you,” Mina replied, voice laced in velvet, not warmth. “I suppose that’s the point.”

And just like that, the rest of the ride was silent. Tied in silk and impossible to escape.

The penthouse was immaculate. Not warm. Not homey. Just...pristine.

Like no one lived in it.

Y/N stood in the foyer, designer heels echoing off the imported Italian tile. The walls were white, the furniture was minimalist and the only sign of personality was a single orchid on the windowsill—white, of course.

"Guest rooms down the hall to the left," Mina said, already slipping out of her blazer, voice barely above ambient noise. "Bathroom’s stocked."

Y/N blinked. “No tour?”

Mina didn’t look back. “You’re not a guest.”

The jab landed soft but bruised hard. Y/N didn’t reply, just set her bag down with a sigh and trailed her fingers over the cool glass of a display shelf. No photos. No dust. No trace of the woman she was legally bound to now.

They weren’t strangers. Not entirely. Their families had crossed paths at every formal gala since they were kids—both daughters in pearls and tailored dresses, fake smiling for cameras. Mina had always been the poised one—silent and distant. A ghost in Givenchy.

But this…this was something else.

They had married in a courthouse that morning. Signed their names on the line like it meant nothing, exchanged rings under fluorescent lights. Their parents clapped, champagne popped, stocks soared.

And now, they were home.

Married.

Y/N found the guest room. Everything was high-end—draped in creams and greys, all the warmth of a luxury coffin. She sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall. Was this how the rest of her twenties would look? Gilded, loveless, and quiet.

A knock on the open door startled her.

Mina.

Hair pulled up, silk robe on and glass of water in hand.

“I signed us up for a press shoot next week,” Mina said, leaning on the doorframe like it didn’t cost her anything. “You’ll need to get fitted. The studio’s in Gangnam.”

Y/N arched a brow. “Planning our outfits already? Should I swoon?”

Something flickered across Mina’s face—a crack, barely.

She stepped inside, set the glass down on the nightstand.

“I’m not asking for love, Y/N,” she said softly. “But I expect discretion. Cooperation.”

“And you’ll get it,” Y/N shot back, standing now—close…too close. “But don’t expect silence. I may be here in name, but I’m not going to play house just because you need a trophy wife.”

That made Mina pause, her gaze locked onto Y/N’s like it was a challenge.

“I don’t need a trophy,” she murmured. “Just someone who knows how to stay out of my way.”

Ouch.

Y/N smiled, tight. “Then this should be a perfect match.”

She didn’t sleep much that night and neither did Mina—different rooms but same silence.

—

The ballroom shimmered with gold and flattery, crystal chandeliers dripped above them like icicles, soft jazz floated through the air like it belonged in a dream. The cameras were already flashing before Y/n could blink, the photographers practically frothing over Korea’s newest power couple. 

Mina stood beside her, hand resting against the small of her back like it belonged there, like she wasn’t ice in human form. 

Y/n smiled for the cameras, she’d been trained for this—smile at the right angle, tilt your head just enough, let them believe you’re in love. Let them eat it up. 

And god, did they. 

A reposter leaned in, all polite shark teeth. “Ms. Myoui, you two look stunning together. How has married life been so far?” 

Mina didn’t flinch. “Productive.” 

Y/n bit her lip, “Romantic,” she added sweetly. “We’ve really learned a lot about each other.” 

Mina turned slightly to her, and Y/n could feel the chill in her gaze but she didn’t stop smiling, not even when Mina’s fingers subtly tensed against her back. 

They worked the room like they were scripted—laughs that never touched their eyes, touches that looked intimate but felt like paper cuts. 

Until Y/n excused herself, she had found refuge on the balcony, the cold night air hitting her harder than expected. The city sparkled below—glass towers, rivers of headlights, and so much noise. 

She didn’t realize she was gripping the railing so hard until she felt her knuckles ache. 

“You’re doing that thing,” came Mina’s voice from behind her, soft and unreadable. “The trembling.” 

Y/n didn’t turn to look at her. “Maybe I’m just cold.” 

“You wore a backless dress to a winter gala.” 

“You picked it.” 

A pause…the silence between them stretching. 

Then—

“You’re not made for this world.” Mina said, voice lower now—honest, maybe. “You smile too easily and flinch when people lie.” 

Y/n turned to face her then, and the ache in her chest cracked something open. “And you don’t flinch at all. Not even when your wife walks away from you in front of every shareholder we just impressed.” 

Mina blinked, slightly taken aback by Y/n’s words. “It’s not personal.” 

“That’s the problem.” 

And with that, she walked away. 

Mina didn’t follow, not that night. 

—

Y/n wasn’t trying to open old wounds, but the ribbon drawer did it anyway. 

She’d been hunting through one of the penthouse closets for a charger when she found it—tucked in the back drawer, nearly hidden. A small bow and inside were satin ribbons, perfectly folded: lavender, rose, and pale blue. 

Y/n picked one up, lips parting slightly as she stared at it. 

It wasn’t just a ribbon…it was the ribbon. 

The summer gala. Years ago, she was fourteen and Mina was fifteen, their parents had forced them into a charity photoshoot—matching pastel dresses, soft lighting, and too much perfume. Y/n’s hair had come loose, and she’d cried in the dressing room, embarrassed, tugging at the frizz with shaking fingers. 

And then Mina walked in, silent and careful. She’d pulled the lavender ribbon from her own braid and tied it into Y/n’s hair, no words, just the softest touch and the memory of Mina’s fingertips brushing her ear still burned Y/n’s memory like candle wax. 

She stared at the box now, breath caught in her throat. 

“You kept them?” she whispered to herself, running her thumb over the satin ribbon. 

“I don’t throw things away.” Mina said from the doorway. 

Y/n spun around, she hadn’t heard her. 

Mina walked in slowly, robe tied, and hair down, looking more like a person and less like a statue. 

“You were so proud of that ribbon,” Mina added, eyes unreadable. “You wore it for weeks, even when your mom said it clashed with your uniform.” 

Y/n swallowed. “I didn’t think you remembered.” 

“I remember everything,” Mina said quietly. “Especially the things I regret.” 

That silenced the room—thick, heavy, and strange. 

Y/n didn’t move or breathe. 

Mina reached into the drawer and picked up the ribbon again, her fingers ran over the silk like it meant something…like it still did. 

“I don’t want to fight.” she said finally.

Y/n blinked, a bit shocked from the Japanese woman’s words. “Then what do you want?” 

Mina’s lips parted, then closed again like she didn’t have the words or maybe she did, but saying them would shatter the last piece of armor she had left. 

So instead, she held out the ribbon. It hung between them, soft and shaking slightly in the air. 

“Let me braid your hair again.” she said, barely above a whisper. 

And somehow, that was the beginning of something new. 

—

The morning was usually quiet, no clipped heels against marble, no rattling of Mina’s papers or the buzz of early emails, just soft light pouring through gauzy curtains, brushing gold across their bedroom floor. 

Y/n didn’t expect Mina to be home this late in the morning, she didn’t expect to find her in the living room either, barefoot, in a loose knit sweater and reading glasses, looking far too domestic for someone whose usual expressions could slice boardrooms in half. 

“Your hair’s a mess.” Mina said calmly, not even looking up from her tablet. 

Y/n blinked from the hallway. “I just woke up.” 

“Come here.” 

It wasn’t a command, not really, just a gently offered sentence that Y/n could have ignored but didn’t. 

She walked over slowly, still in one of Mina’s oversized button-downs, barely buttoned. The couch dipped as she sat on the floor in front of her wife, cross-legged and heartbeat uncertain. 

“Turn around.” 

Y/n hesitated, but obeyed. 

She hadn’t sat like this—at someone’s knees, between their legs, and vulnerable in the quiet, in years. Not since childhood and not since she braided her younger cousin’s hair to calm herself down during panic attacks. 

She flinched slightly when Mina’s fingers touched her scalp. 

“You don’t have to have to do this.” Y/n said, unsure why her voice sounded so small. 

“I want to.” Mina replied softly. 

And that was new. 

Mina’s fingers were surprisingly gentle, she separated strands slowly, threading them with a quiet kind of care that didn’t match her usual clipped tone—every loop and fold felt like a whisper. It was domestic and terrifying. 

Y/n found herself staring at the ring on her hand. 

“You used to wear lavender in your hair.” Mina said suddenly. 

Y/n stiffened, slightly surprised “When?” 

“In middle school. First day of your internship shadowing your mom, you were nervous and wore lavender and lip gloss, then you wanted to be taken seriously.” 

Y/n swallowed, surprised that Mina even remembered that.

Mina braided slower now, “I wanted to pull your pigtails so badly, cause you looked like trouble.” 

“You hated me.” 

“No,” Mina said, knotting the braid with one of the old silk ribbons from the box. “I hated how much I liked you.” 

Y/n turned around then, her breath caught. Mina didn’t smile, but her eyes had lost some of their frost. 

“I still remember how you cried when I beat you in that mock merger,” Mina added, lips twitching slightly. “You hated losing to me.” 

“I still do.” Y/n says softly. 

“Then don’t make it a competition.” Mina murmured, voice barely audible. 

Later that afternoon, Y/n walked down the west hall to grab a book from the library and paused at the door when she heard Mina’s voice.

She didn’t mean to eavesdrop…okay, maybe she did.

Inside, laughter bubbled through the room, Mina’s friends, voices familiar from gossip pages and luxury retreats—Park Jihyo, Im Nayeon, Hirai Momo, and even Son Chaeyoung’s husky sarcasm echoed. 

“You braided her, what?” Nayeon gasped, shocked by the words that Mina just said. 

“She did her hair,” Yoo Jeongyeon muttered. “Mina braided a girl’s hair.” 

“She’s my wife.” Mina replied flatly. 

“Since when does that mean anything to you?” Minatozaki Sana, teased. “You don’t even let me hug you for more than five seconds.” 

“She’s not like you.” Mina snapped. 

Silence filled the room after the Japanese woman had snapped. 

Chou Tzuyu’s voice was soft, “You like her.”  

Mina didn’t deny it which made Y/n’s heart lodge itself somewhere near her ribs. 

“I think I’m falling for her again,” Mina said eventually. “Or…maybe I never stopped. Maybe I just hated how I felt and buried it but now…she makes coffee how I like it, she leaves her charger in every room just in case I need one, she rolls her eyes when I’m late, but never complains, and she keeps showing up.” 

“She’s making it easy for you.” Kim Dahyun said kindly. 

“She’s making it impossible not to want her.” Mina said, leaning back onto the couch she was on. 

Y/n backed away before they noticed, she felt her throat tighten and lungs squeezing from too many emotions crashing in at once. 

It wasn’t love yet…not completely, but it wasn’t silence anymore either and as Y/n walked away, braid bouncing down her back like a ribboned promise, she didn’t feel quite so alone. 

—

Rain hammered against the penthouse windows like a warning, Y/n sat curled up on the far side of the couch, knees to chest, and eyes glued to her laptop but the words on the screen hadn’t changed in over an hour. Mina was late…again and dinner sat cold on the counter…again. 

“Don’t take it personally,” her therapist had said once. “She’s not emotionally avoidant, she was just emotionally trained to survive.” 

Y/n hadn’t known there was a difference until Mina became colder towards her. 

The front door finally clicked open at 10:14 p.m. 

Y/n didn’t look up, keeping her focus onto the document she was working on. “Did you eat?” 

Mina’s heels paused mid-step. “No, I had a client dinner.” 

Y/n closed her laptop slowly. “You could’ve said something, I cooked dinner.” 

“I didn’t ask you to.” Mina replied, voice cold and blunt. 

Ouch. 

Y/n stood, heart slamming against her ribs. “Right…you didn’t ask me to make dinner, wait up for you, or braid my own hair this morning so I wouldn’t cry in the mirror after you left without saying goodbye.” 

Mina froze halfway out of her coat at Y/n’s words, not expecting them at all. 

“I didn’t think it mattered.” she said, too quietly. 

“That’s the problem,” Y/N snapped, voice cracking. “I do matter. I’ve mattered this whole time, and you just keep pretending I’m part of some merger checklist you forgot to untick.”

Mina’s eyes finally met hers, and they weren’t cold this time. Just... tired. Worn down like cliffs over time.

“I never asked for any of this,” she whispered.

“And I did?” Y/N said, voice rising. “You think I wanted to marry someone who treats emotions like landmines? Who only touches me when it’s convenient or performative or—”

“I braided your hair because I wanted to!” Mina shouted suddenly, shocking them both.

The silence that followed was ugly. Raw.

“I wanted to,” Mina repeated, quieter now. “I wake up and I listen for your footsteps. I sit through meetings and I catch myself thinking about how you hum when you water the plants. I try not to look at your mouth when you laugh. I try, Y/N. And it’s exhausting.”

Y/N’s throat burned. “Why does loving me have to feel like survival?”

Mina opened her mouth, closed it again and then she sat down, like her legs couldn’t hold her weight anymore.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she said. “My parents…this marriage…everything I’ve been taught is about control, image, winning and you’re the only thing I can’t...manage.”

Y/N walked over slowly, unsure if she was going to scream or cry or fall apart.

“You’re not supposed to manage me,” she said, sitting beside her. “You’re supposed to show up, to try, and to fail sometimes. I don’t want perfect, Mina. I want real.”

Mina’s hands trembled.

So Y/N reached out, slowly and gently, and held them.

No performance and no cameras, just hands—shaking and holding.

And for the first time since their vows, Mina didn’t pull away.

She got sick two days later.

Y/N found her slumped on the bathroom floor, hair matted, face pale, soaked in sweat and too exhausted to lift her head.

“Mina, oh my god,” Y/N breathed, dropping to her knees.

Mina cracked one eye open. “I think I died.”

“No, but you look like shit,” Y/N muttered, checking her forehead…burning hot. “Jesus, you’re running a fever.”

“I have a merger call at nine.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’re about to merge with the tile floor. Shut up.”

She got her into bed, finally, stripped her out of her damp clothes, wrapped her in blankets, and sat by her side like something ancient and loyal.

Mina drifted in and out for hours, she mumbled half-apologies and called her sweetheart once in her sleep.

Y/N didn’t cry.

Not until she whispered, “Don’t leave.”

It was barely audible, but it broke something open in Y/N’s chest.

“I won’t,” she whispered back, brushing hair from Mina’s flushed cheek. “I’m here. Always.”

And for the first time, Mina believed her.

Not because of a contract and not because of family expectations.

Because of lavender ribbons, burnt dinners, and one person who kept showing up—quietly, stubbornly, again and again.

The fever broke by morning, but something else had broken too. Not shattered, just shifted, like fault lines beneath the surface-level ice and Y/n saw it everytime Mina looked at her and didn’t immediately look away. 

She wasn’t warm, not yet, but she was trying…and trying from Mina, was like love in another language. 

Later that week, they were invited–no, expected—to attend a charity gala hosted by Mr and Mrs. Myoui, their first official public appearance as a couple since the wedding. 

Hair curled and jewelry on, Mina was in a black suit and Y/n was wearing a black dress. 

Y/n’s heart thudded as they stepped out of the car, arms linked more for the cameras than for comfort but as the flashes started and the crowd leaned in, Mina didn’t let go. 

If anything, her grip tightened. 

“Smile a little.” Mina whispered under her breath, lips not moving. 

“I am,” Y/n muttered, “You’re just blind.” 

Mina’s shoulder twitched like a laugh might’ve almost escaped—almost. 

Inside, everything smelled like money and champagne, Y/n tried not to look out of place, even as the whispers started—soft and sharp, woven through clinks of crystal and polished performances. 

“That’s the Lee girl?” 

“She’s not exactly refined.” 

“Poor, Mina. Such a waste of potential…” 

Y/n felt her smile freeze mid-sip, she took a step back from the crowd, trying to breathe through it, until Mina’s hand slid across the small of her back, possessive and certain. 

“Is something wrong?” she asked cooly. 

Y/n just shook her head in response, “Your family hates me.” 

Mina looked down at her. “They hate everyone who makes me human.” 

Before Y/n could process that, Mina turned to a nearby table, where her parents were holding court with shareholders and board members like royalty. 

Her mother’s gaze flickered towards them, sharp and assessing. 

Mina didn’t wait, she walked Y/n straight up to them, ignoring every unwelcome glance. 

“Mother…father,” Mina said, “I assume you’ve met my wife.” 

Her father smiled thinly. “We’ve met. I trust things are going... smoothly?”

Mina’s jaw clenched. “Define smooth. Do you mean: Are we legally married? Yes. Do you mean: Is she bending to fit into your idea of worthiness? No.”

“Mina,” her mother warned quietly.

But Mina was done playing. “Y/N is intelligent, grounded, and more emotionally mature than anyone in this room. You should be thanking her for putting up with me.”

Y/N’s eyes widened and her stomach twisted.

Mina continued, voice clear and cold. “If your concern is reputation, let me be clear: she is my reputation now. So speak carefully. Especially around me.”

The silence that followed could’ve broken glass.

Y/N reached for Mina’s hand under the tablecloth, tentative and Mina didn’t pull away.

Back at home, the silence wasn’t icy, just thick with things unsaid. 

They stood in the entryway, shoes half-off, tension unraveling from their shoulders like coats they didn’t want to carry anymore. 

“You didn’t have to defend me.” Y/n said quietly. 

Mina looked at her, tired but honest. “I did, because you didn’t deserve that.” 

Y/n hesitated, “And do I deserve…you?” 

That cracked something wide open. 

Mina stepped forward, slow and deliberate, stopping just close enough for her perfume to wrap around them both. 

“I don’t know if I deserve you,” Mina said. “But I know I want to try.” 

She reached up hesitantly and brushed a strand of hair from Y/n’s face, the touch was light and careful, but her eyes? Her eyes were burning with emotion. 

Y/n’s breath caught in her throat, “Are you gonna kiss me?” 

Mina’s gaze dropped to her mouth. “Don’t tempt me,” she whispered. “Not if you don’t mean it.” 

Y/n leaned in half an inch and then stopped because the air was too thick, her heart was too loud, and the space between them had never felt this loaded. 

Mina didn’t close the gap either, she just stepped back, gently. 

“We’re not ready,” she said, voice thin. “Not yet.” 

And for once, Y/n didn’t feel rejected—she felt respected and seen, because wanting could be soft and healing didn’t need to come with a kiss, sometimes it started with standing in the hallway breathless and staring at someone who finally chose to stay. 

—

Mina hated birthdays.

She didn’t say it aloud, but Y/N could tell from the way she barely acknowledged the date, the way she brushed past the well-wishes from staff like they were just another meeting, and the way her shoulders stiffened when Y/N casually mentioned a dinner plan.

“It’s just my friends,” Y/N had said, voice breezy. “They wanted to cook. You don’t have to pretend to like it.”

Mina didn’t argue. That in itself was the answer.

The apartment was warm by seven.

Soft jazz filtered through the speakers. The dining table had mismatched plates and too many wine bottles. Momo was already tipsy and trying to teach Tzuyu how to fold napkins into swans. Sana kept sneaking strawberries from the kitchen, and Nayeon was busy lighting candles like they were summoning romance.

Y/N was in the kitchen, slicing cake with Jeongyeon, when she felt it—the shift.

The silence behind her wasn’t casual.

She turned.

Mina had walked in quietly, in a fitted navy suit with her hair slightly mussed from wind and not quite enough sleep. She looked like the contradiction she always was—sharp lines and soft eyes—tired and wary. 

Out of place and trying.

Mina blinked at the chaotic warmth in the room. “This is...a lot.”

Y/N walked over slowly. “You okay?”

Mina’s gaze flicked across the room, then back to her. “You did all this?”

“With the chaos brigade? Of course.”

A pause.

“You hate birthdays,” Y/N said softly.

“I don’t hate them,” Mina replied. “I just didn’t have many that felt like this.”

Y/N’s chest squeezed. “Like what?”

“Like someone wanted me to enjoy it.”

The sentence was said so quietly, so naked, that it stunned Y/N into stillness. Mina had been unraveling thread by thread since the fever, since the fight, but this was the first time she offered her truth so openly. Without defense.

Y/N reached out and brushed a crumb off her lapel.

“Well,” she whispered, “you better start getting used to being wanted.”

Dinner was loud, Momo spilled wine, Chaeyoung brought out shots, Tzuyu laughed at every joke like she hadn’t heard human humor before and Mina—Mina just watched.

Not coldly and not critically.

She just observed the way Y/N lit up in a room, how she leaned in when Jeongyeon teased her, how she scolded Sana for eating frosting straight off the knife. Mina watched her like a secret she had the privilege of knowing first.

At some point, Y/N sat beside her, wine in hand, cheeks flushed.

“You’re staring.”

“I am,” Mina admitted. “Do you mind?”

Y/N smiled. “Only if you stop.”

Mina blinked, and then—barely there—a smile—honest and small, but real.

It was later, long after the others had trickled out and the apartment had fallen into candlelit quiet, when it happened.

Y/N stood by the window, arms crossed, staring out at the city glittering like spilled glass.

Mina walked up behind her, hesitant.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For showing me that birthdays can feel like...this.”

Y/N turned slightly. “Messy?”

“Warm.”

Y/N didn’t say anything, just tilted her head, watching her.

Mina stepped closer. “You’re always this soft with people you care about?”

“No,” Y/N said, voice low. “Only the ones I fall for.”

Mina exhaled shakily. “You’re falling for me?”

Y/N smiled sadly. “I think I already did.”

Mina didn’t respond. She just stared—at Y/N’s mouth, at her eyes, at the curve of her neck where vulnerability clung like perfume.

And then she kissed her.

Not like a CEO. Not like a woman with walls built sky-high.

Like someone finally letting herself fall.

It wasn’t perfect, a little hesitant, a little too long coming but it was honest and when Y/N kissed her back, softly cupping her cheek like she was something worth holding onto, Mina let out the smallest sound—a breath, a gasp, a surrender.

When they pulled away, Mina rested her forehead against Y/N’s.

“I’m terrified.”

Y/N smiled. “So am I.”

They didn’t fix everything with one kiss but they started something real.

And this time, neither of them walked away.

[keervah]

THIS IS SO FUCKING GOOD MYA

ITS MY FAV MINA FIC NOW 🥹

Thank u so much 🫂🫂

[natsaffection]

Innocence. pt 1 | N.R

Older!Sargent!Natasha x Younger!Soldier! Reader

Warnings: None for now.

Word count: 5,1k

A/N: First of three parts is here! This one covers the very beginning, what we mostly go through during the first few days after leaving the comfort. The pacing might feel a bit slow while reading, but in person, it’s like you’ve already been there for weeks… and your body definitely isn’t thanking you.

The aircraft swayed just slightly with turbulence, but you barely noticed. You were sitting straight-backed in a seat along the right wall, harnessed in, hands resting atop your gear bag like you were afraid to let go of it. Your fingers itched with nerves, not the kind that made you panic, but the kind that made you wait. Watch. Think too much. You weren’t afraid. Not really. You were just…aware. Of everything.

The soldier across from you had his eyes closed, music bleeding faintly from one side of his headset, something with guitar, low and steady. Two others sat a few rows down, murmuring to each other over a bag of sunflower seeds, occasionally laughing too loud before catching themselves. One guy was bouncing his leg fast, his helmet tipped forward like a makeshift blindfold.

Everyone had a way to sit with their nerves. You just stayed still.

You watched the red glow of the overhead light paint everything in harsh shadow, hard edges on uniforms, tight lines across tense mouths. You could smell oil and canvas, gunmetal and worn leather. The air was dry, and warm. Somewhere far ahead, you knew the pilot was calling out distance markers. They were close.

And out there, already on the ground, already waiting..was her. Staff Sergeant Natasha Romanoff. Your new commanding officer. And the one woman you weren’t sure you knew how to impress…but desperately wanted to try.

Four Weeks Earlier

You stood stiffly at the desk, file in hand. The officer on the other side, some square-jawed sergeant you barely knew, was looking at you like he’d just broken bad news and didn’t want to say it twice.

“I’m sorry.” he said, “Aplha-One didn’t select you. High marks, yes. But they’ve got their own standards.”

You stared at the floor. Your mouth was dry. It wasn’t fair to cry, this was part of the game, you knew that..but still. You’d killed yourself for this unit. Two years of discipline, sweat, tests, sacrifices. Aloha-One was the goal.

“However…” he continued, sliding a second file toward you. “You scored extremely high in tactical reasoning and zero-error protocol under stress. Another team saw your data.”

You looked up slowly. “They want you in Echo 9. SSGT Romanoff’s division.”

Your fingers twitched on the edge of your folder. “Echo 9?”

“They don’t recruit often. But when they do, it’s for a reason. You caught someone’s attention.”

You hesitated. You’d heard the stories, Romanoff’s unit was covert, fast-moving, low profile. Their ops were real, and rarely spoken about.

Alpha-one had been the dream. But Echo 9? That was…something else. You blinked back the sting in your eyes and nodded. “I’ll take it.”

Back to Present

You rolled your shoulders gently. You kept looking at the door, the one that would open and spill you into dust, hot wind, and the start of whatever came next. You’d land near an isolated base camp in a desert region, you knew that much. Some recon op tied to sensitive cargo and possible extraction. High alert. Your first true deployment outside the wire.

Your chance to see her.

You’d only met twice, once during evaluation, and once during the fastest, coldest briefing you’d ever been through. Romanoff had scanned you like she already knew everything, your past, your stats, your tells. Like you’d already said enough by standing in front of her.

Two Weeks Ago

You were sitting cross-legged in the middle of your paper mess, balancing your tablet on one knee and typing with your thumb. A to-do list bloomed across the screen:

• Cancel lease

• Storage unit rental

• Forward mail to Mom

• Emergency contact

• Get tactical gloves (broken stitching)

• Sell old field jacket

Your fingers paused. You looked around the space, still half-lived in. Walls still had photos. Fridge still had magnets. The place didn’t feel like it was missing you yet. But you were already halfway gone.

A few hours later, your best friend Harlow came over to help you pack. You stuffed gear into crates and duffels, argued over which mugs to leave behind, and finally just collapsed onto the couch, still sweaty from lifting boxes.

“I can’t believe they picked you..” Harlow teased, nudging you.

You threw a pillow. “Screw off.”

“No, really. Romanoff? Echo 9? That’s wild. You’re gonna have stories.”

You smiled faintly. “If I come back with stories, it means I didn’t mess it up.”

Harlow looked at you. “You won’t mess it up. You’re meant for this.”

Back to Present

You let out a slow breath, fogging the air just slightly. Someone nearby tightened a strap; someone else cracked their knuckles.

Almost there. And somehow, in the middle of all this..the adrenaline, the altitude, the silence between heartbeats, you felt something else rise in your chest.

Pride.

With a sharp hiss, the hydraulic doors cracked open, and in the same instant, it hit you- The heat. It slammed into your face like a physical wall, dry, thick, pulsing with sun-baked intensity. Your breath caught for a moment, involuntarily. Not from shock, but from the weight of it. It wasn’t just hot, it was the kind of heat that crawled down the back of your neck, sat in your boots, and stole the moisture from your lungs.

You blinked, eyes adjusting to the brutal midday glare. The light was white. So bright the sand looked like it was glowing. A wasteland of tan and beige, mountains ghosting in the distance, like mirages wavering in the heat lines. Your boots clunked against the ramp as you followed the line of soldiers off the aircraft, dust already collecting around your ankles.

“Welcome to hell.” someone muttered behind you. You didn’t reply. You just kept walking, adrenaline mixing with sweat.

The group gathered in formation just beyond the landing zone, sweat already beginning to pool beneath gear not meant for this kind of sun. The tarmac shimmered. A breeze kicked up, hot and sharp with the scent of sand, diesel, and sweat. A tall man in a scorched tan uniform approached, clipboard in hand, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses hiding his eyes.

“Listen up!” he barked. The chatter died instantly. “Today’s the twelfth. It’s 122 degrees out. That’s forty-nine Celsius for you metric-lovers. Hydrate, don’t pass out. You’re not heroes if you collapse on Day One.”

Someone coughed behind you. A few nods. The air was too hot for anything more. The man paused, then added with a dry smirk, “Romanoff’s waiting at Command. You’ll meet her shortly.”

And just like that, the atmosphere shifted, not from the sun this time, but from the name. Romanoff.

You felt a twinge in your chest. Sharp, curious, alert. “She really as hot as they say?” someone to your left whispered under his breath. His voice was low, but not low enough.

“Oh, she’s more than hot..” another guy replied, cracking a grin. “They say she can kill a man and give him a boner at the same time.”

Several soldiers chuckled, their laughter quick, dirty, laced with the kind of bravado that only came when they thought they were out of earshot. Your jaw tensed. You didn’t know Natasha well, yet..but something about the casual, sexual tone made your stomach twist. This wasn’t the kind of place you joked like that. Not about your people.

Then, a silence. It didn’t come slowly. It snapped into place like a rope pulled tight. You turned just slightly. There she was.

Natasha was walking toward you, slow and composed, each step measured, boots kicking up puffs of dust in her wake. Her uniform fit like it was cut for her alone, sleeves rolled up, tags tucked in, not a wrinkle on her. She carried no visible weapon, but no one needed proof.

She was the weapon.

Every soldier in the group straightened, even those who didn’t realize they were doing it. And her eyes, flat, cold, and controlled, landed directly on the man who’d made the joke.

“Name?” she asked, voice like ice under fire.

The guy swallowed. “Uh…Private Miles, ma’am.”

She walked up to him. Close. Too close. Their boots were almost touching. You couldn’t see her eyes anymore, but you saw his. They widened a fraction. His shoulders stiffened. The grin was gone.

“Private Miles..” Natasha said softly, voice barely above a whisper, “if I ever hear you speak about another soldier that way again, especially one in my command, I will personally make sure your transfer home includes a medical dishonorable discharge, and a broken jaw to explain it.”

The air around you didn’t move. Even the breeze seemed to stop. Miles stood like a statue. No response. No breath.

“And if you’re wondering whether I’m ‘as hot as they say,’” she added, stepping just slightly closer, her tone a thread away from venom, “I suggest you test your theory in a combat scenario. I’d love to see how long you last.”

Then she stepped back. “Eyes front.”

The entire group snapped to attention. You felt your pulse in your throat. You hadn’t moved, hadn’t blinked. It was like watching lightning strike just beside you. Romanoff turned to face everyone now, still calm, still unreadable.

“I’m Staff Sergeant Romanoff.” she said, tone level, eyes scanning the line. “You’re now part of Echo 9. That means your record matters less than your performance. You are responsible for each other. If you want to act like civilians, I suggest you turn back now.”

No one moved.

“Training begins tomorrow at 0500 (5:00am). Briefing starts at 0430 (4:30 am) sharp. You’ll receive bunks and assignments from base command in the next ten minutes. Hydrate. Unpack. Do not be late.” She paused. “Dismissed.”

Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked back toward the base structure, heat swirling behind her in shimmering waves.

No one spoke for a long time. You swallowed, throat dry as bone. You couldn’t tell if your heartbeat was from the sun, or from her.

The base wasn’t much to look at, a sprawl of beige and metal, containers turned into housing, makeshift fences, worn banners catching the wind like tired flags. The ground was cracked and sun-bleached, the heat radiating off the concrete like an invisible second sun.

You followed the thin trail of other soldiers toward the housing row. A clipboard had been shoved into your hands moments after Romanoff’s departure, listing your bunk number and clearance ID. A container near the outer edge. Far enough from command to feel temporary. Close enough to hear the weight in every bootstep.

When you reached it, you paused. The container was basic, standard military housing. Matte green. Bolted shut with a manual handle. But it was yours. At least for now. You lifted the latch and stepped inside. Cooler air hit your face immediately, not cold, but not scalding either. A cheap mercy.

Inside, there were two narrow bunks, one metal locker each, a shared footlocker in the center, and a cracked mirror bolted above a dented sink. Sparse, lived-in, but clean. And someone was already unpacking on the left side.

She was bent over her duffel, sorting through rolls of gauze, small vials, medical wraps, her dark hair pulled into a messy low bun. She looked up when you entered and grinned.

“You must be Y/l/n.”

You blinked. “Yeah. That’s me.”

The girl stood, wiping a smudge off her cheek with the back of her hand. “I’m Rae. Rae Bishop. You snore, you die.”

You laughed, tension bleeding out of your shoulders almost instantly. “Fair enough.”

You shook hands, firm, quick. That unspoken military rhythm already forming. You tossed your bag onto the right bunk and began peeling off your outer vest, already feeling a small pool of sweat at the base of your spine.

Rae slid a canteen across the small desk toward you. “You look cooked. Drink.”

You did. It was warm, but water was water. “You infantry?” Rae asked, hopping up to sit on her bunk, boots still on.

“Combat operations.” you replied, settling on your own bunk and unlacing one boot. “Support and recon for Exho 9. You?”

“Medic.” Rae said, tapping the red cross patch on her shoulder. “Second rotation. Got here three weeks ago.”

You raised a brow. “So you’ve already survived Romanoff?”

Rae grinned. “Barely. She’s not as scary when she’s not slicing you open with her eyes. But yeah..she’s the real deal.”

You nodded. You knew that already. The image of Natasha walking through the dust, silencing that joke with only a look and a sentence, it was burned into you.

“What made you volunteer?” Rae asked.

You hesitated for a second. “Wasn’t my first choice. But this unit…feels like it might be the right one after all.”

Rae smiled knowingly. “Same.”

A knock at the metal door broke the moment. Three short raps. You exchanged a quick glance.

Rae swung the door open. Three guys stood outside, dusty, still geared-up, grinning. You recognized two of them from the aircraft. The third held a dented pack of cards in one hand and a pack of instant ramen in the other.

“Y/l/n..” the tallest one said, “we’re playing cards in the rec tent. You in?”

Rae raised an eyebrow and muttered, “Wow, no invite for me?”

“You don’t lose gracefully.” one of them shot back.

You hesitated. The memory of that crude joke on the tarmac flashed in your head. Your mouth tightened slightly, and you crossed your arms, thoughtful.

“I don’t usually hang out with people who make sex jokes about our CO.”

The smiles wavered, just for a second. One of the guys, younger than the rest, rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. That was Miles. He’s…well. He’s eating dinner alone tonight.”

The third guy nodded. “Look, no pressure. But you seemed chill. No one’s looking to mess around or anything. We’re just…unwinding.”

There was a beat of silence. The hot wind pushed dust across the open door. Inside, the cool air hummed. Then you sighed. “Alright. But if you deal me crap cards, I’m walking.”

Laughter broke out immediately, easy and welcome. Rae grinned and flopped back onto her bed. “Tell ‘em I taught you everything.”

The rec tent was barely lit, strings of mismatched bulbs hung along the corners, buzzing softly. Folding chairs surrounded a center table, already cluttered with cards, crumpled wrappers, and one old speaker playing lo-fi beats someone swore helped with morale.

You took a seat, your body still adjusting to the tempo of the place, the slight vibration of generators, the scent of old coffee, the shift in your nerves from edge to ease. You played three rounds. Lost one. Won two. Someone made fun of your poker face, or lack thereof, and you shot back with a sarcastic quip that made Rae snort water through her nose.

They didn’t talk about Romanoff again. They didn’t talk about war, or blood, or fear. Just music. Home. The taste of actual food. The way sand got everywhere. Laughter felt strange at first — awkward and too loud in the open air, but then it settled in like warmth.

Before you knew it, the sky outside the rec tent had turned from gold to steel blue. Then to black.

0500 Hours

The alarm pierced the air like a bullet. You flinched upright in your bunk, adrenaline kicking before your brain caught up. Your heart was hammering. For a second, you had no idea where you were.

The room was still dark, bathed in faint blue light from the small LED clock bolted to the wall. Your eyes tracked across the plain metal ceiling. The thin sheets twisted around your legs. The sound of Rae breathing across the room. Dust floating through a stream of early light filtering between the blinds.

Then, heat. That dry, ever-present warmth, already crawling in through the container’s thin insulation. The heavy scent of sand and sweat. The sound of footsteps, boots outside the wall. A voice barking out a name. A door slamming.

Camp.

Deployment.

It came back all at once. You exhaled and scrubbed a hand over your face. The ache in your spine was from the unforgiving bunk. The itch on your skin? Dust. Always dust.

You dressed quickly, muscle memory already forming after a single day. Tactical undershirt. Lightweight fatigues. Boots laced to regulation tightness. Canteen clipped, ID tags tucked, comm unit ready.

Rae stirred behind you. “Tell Romanoff I’m alive..” she muttered, voice rough with sleep.

You smirked. “No promises.”

You stepped out into the early dawn air. The sky was a hazy pink, sun just starting to rise over the distant ridges. Heat was already forming, like a warning curled around the horizon.

The training yard was a square of cracked earth and sandbags. Half the unit was already assembled, some stretching, others checking weapons or reviewing briefing notes on slim tablets. Conversations were low, sparse, and cautious.

You spotted Martinez, Johnson, a few others. Miles stood off to the side, arms crossed, avoiding everyone’s eyes. A knot of anticipation hung in the air.

Then.. “She’s here.”

Every head turned. Natasha walked across the yard with zero wasted movement. Black tactical vest over sun-bleached fatigues, combat boots spitting dust behind her. Hair tied back. Calm, controlled. Not out of breath. Not rushed. She stopped dead center.

“Morning.” she said. One word. It hit harder than any shout. Everyone straightened.

“You’ll be split between physical combat, strategy, survival theory, and behavior conditioning. Yes, it’s hot. Yes, it’s early. No, I don’t care. This unit doesn’t carry excuses.”

She turned toward a group of soldiers. “First pair-up. Hand-to-hand.” She scanned them once, then landed on her target.

“Miles.”

He stepped forward stiffly. She waited.

“…Ma’am?”

“I said combat sparring. Step up.”

He did. Hesitant. You felt the buzz ripple through the unit. Everyone knew exactly what this was about. Then Natasha looked at you.

“Y/l/n. You’re with him.”

Your stomach flipped, but not in fear. Your fingers twitched at your sides. Excitement, fire, something warm rising in your chest. You stepped forward, facing Miles.

He frowned. “We’re doing this for real?”

Natasha tilted her head, expression unreadable. “Unless you’d prefer to sit this out.”

He flinched, barely, but got into a ready stance. Defensive. Hesitant. His center of gravity too high. You didn’t wait. You stepped in, low and fast. A feint to the right, testing him. He flinched. His hands came up late.

Then he swept under, pivoted his foot..And stopped. He didn’t finish the strike.

But Natasha did. In a blink, she stepped in from the side, grabbed Miles by the collar with one hand, and drove her knee hard between his legs. The sound he made wasn’t even a word. He crumpled, knees buckling, face contorting in shocked pain as he hit the dirt.

A beat of silence. Natasha turned, looking directly at the rest of the men. Voice like ice melting on steel. “Women are underestimated in combat more often than I can count. Happens in the field. Happens in training. But do it in my unit, and you’ll learn the difference between cocky and unconscious.”

She didn’t smile. Not exactly. Just a slow, razor-edged smirk as she turned to you. “Well done. Switch partners.”

Training settled into a brutal rhythm. Mornings began with sparring and PT, climbing walls, crawling through obstacle courses, sprinting under the punishing heat. By midday, it was tactical theory. Sand-tables, holographic maps, mission simulations. Natasha drilled you on terrain advantage, split-second decisions, blind recon.

“Enemies don’t come at you clean.” she said once, pointer hovering over a digital battlefield. “They come when your boots are stuck in mud and your comms are down. Think beyond perfect conditions.”

Afternoons were dedicated to behavior conditioning. How to read a room. Spot a liar. Break a pattern. It wasn’t just about physical training, it was mental warfare.

One session was held in a metal container rigged with sound loops and flashing lights. Designed to simulate chaos. You had to complete logic tests under pressure.

You nearly failed the first time, until Natasha stood behind you and said, calmly, “Breathe slower. Find the rhythm. You control your mind, or the mission controls you.”

By the third day, you were keeping pace. Faster. Sharper. And more confident. The soldiers around you began to notice. Some nodded as they passed. Rae snuck you protein bars and coffee tablets. Even Martinez, cocky and sarcastic, offered to swap gear tips.

Miles? Still avoiding eye contact. You didn’t mind. Not when every sunrise started with that burst of nerves, and every night ended with sore muscles, heavy lungs, and the knowledge that you belonged here more than you ever did anywhere else.

DAY 6

The room was built to look like an alleyway. Cracked walls. Sandbags. Smoke machines filling the air with grit and haze. Speakers embedded in the ceiling blared distant gunfire and shouting, sirens wailing in timed bursts. The simulation chamber was used for high-stress ops training, strategy under pressure, team maneuvering, and live tactical decisions. Everything tracked. Every shot. Every step. Every second.

You crouched low, rifle to your shoulder, sweat soaking your collar. Your breath was fast, lungs burning. You moved with your unit through the mock-up street, Rae trailing you with med gear, Martinez and Johnson flanking either side.

Target: secure a civilian in the “hot zone” evacuate to the south extraction point. Simple, on paper. But nothing ever was.

You breached the second corner, cleared the breach, and..You froze.

Two silhouettes appeared behind a scrim of smoke. Civilian or hostile? You hesitated. Your fingers tensed on the trigger. Your brain tried to assess. The figures move-

And then everything went to hell. A simulated blast went off. Too close. Too loud. Martinez dropped, “wounded.” Rae got separated. A red strobe light flashed across the chamber, symbolic of a “critical failure” in evac timing.

It was over. Simulation terminated. The smoke cleared slowly, the lights steadying. Soldiers blinked in the false dawn of debrief lighting as the system powered down. You ripped your goggles off, chest heaving. Your hands were shaking. Not from fear.

From frustration. Natasha walked in, tablet in hand. Her expression unreadable. She let the silence linger. Then she looked up, eyes slicing through the group like scalpels.

“Everyone out.” she said flatly, not looking at anyone but you. “Except Y/l/n.”

The others filed out silently. Rae gave you a small glance. Not pity. Just understanding. When the door closed, Natasha walked closer. Not looming. Just…present. You stood straighter, trying to lock your jaw. Waiting.

“I want you to explain what happened.” Natasha said.

You hesitated. “I hesitated at the corner. I.. I didn’t want to misfire. The shapes weren’t clear-”

“They weren’t clear?” Natasha repeated, voice cold. “You’ve run that drill four times. You know the shape of that alley. You know what cover looks like from thirty meters. And you froze.”

You swallowed. “Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

“Why?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. “I.. didn’t trust myself.” you admitted. Quiet.

Natasha nodded once. A slow, deliberate motion. Then she stepped forward until you were almost eye to eye.

“If this had been real..” she said softly, “Martinez would have bled out before Rae could get to him. You would’ve lost your right leg to that blast. And your hesitation would’ve put your entire team in body bags.”

Every word was a scalpel. No yelling. No rage. Just cold truth. You didn’t speak.

“You don’t get to be unsure out there.” Natasha said. “Not when people are counting on you. Not when seconds mean survival. If you doubt yourself again, do it on your own time. Not mine.”

She turned away. Walked two steps. Then stopped. “But…”

You blinked.

“…you still identified the pattern before the system ended the sim. You saw the angle of the shooter. You started moving to block Rae’s exit. That means your instincts are right. You just didn’t trust them.”

Another long pause. “I want you in my class this afternoon. Behavioral split-second response training. Two hours.”

You nodded. “Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

“And Y/l/n?”

“…Yes?”

“If you ever freeze like that again, I’ll personally send you back home with a thank-you card and a slap for wasting my time.”

Your mouth twitched. The sharpest edge of a grin. “Understood.”

DAY 11

The room buzzed with quiet suffering. The overhead lights flickered in that sickly yellow way that only military bulbs seemed to manage. Dust drifted lazily through the stale air. Everyone was slouched somewhere, against the walls, over the table, heads resting in hands, boots half unlaced beneath chairs. Not a single soul was upright by choice.

You sat near the end of the long table, chin propped in one hand, trying to pretend you weren’t blinking longer than you should.

Your thighs still burned from morning PT. Your knuckles were bruised from combat drills. Your brain was a fog of unfinished sleep and half-digested ration bars. Even your boots felt heavy. Like they’d been dipped in cement.

Rae, sitting next to you, looked dead-eyed at her half-full notebook. Johnson was using his own notepad as a pillow. Martinez had a cold pack wedged under his shirt, muttering something about “inhumane training laws” under his breath.

You were wrecked. And no one dared to say it out loud.

The door opened. And just like that, the room snapped into shape. Natasha walked in with a slow, unreadable expression. She didn’t bark a command. Didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

Her presence alone was a straight line drawn through chaos. Her expression unreadable, calm, but not soft. Alert. A storm in waiting. She walked past all of you without a word and hoisted herself up to sit on the table directly in front of the class , boots planted wide, elbows on knees.

The silence grew dense. Then, slowly, she looked at you. One by one. Not judging. Measuring. You sat straighter. Your heart, despite exhaustion, thudded once. Hard.

She reached for the remote and pressed a button. The screen behind her flickered to life. A drone shot filled the screen, a wide, aerial view of an arid landscape. Cracked land. A village reduced to fragments of stone and splinters. Roofs caved in. A single road, broken with impact craters, carved through what used to be homes.

Everything changed in the room. The fog of exhaustion evaporated. Spines straightened. Eyes locked forward. No one moved. Not even to breathe.

“This..” Natasha said, her voice low, “is the village of Qasira. Forty-seven clicks east of this base. Population, formerly nine hundred. Current? Unknown.”

She let that sit for a second before continuing. “Three days ago, an insurgent convoy passed through the area. They were hit mid-transit. Likely an airstrike from a local faction. Civilians were caught in the crossfire. Local med teams are moving in now. You’re going with them.”

The screen shifted to a satellite map. Pinpoints. Movement indicators. Roads. “This isn’t a combat op. It’s a secure-and-monitor. Your job is to escort, establish perimeter, and provide overwatch while the medics assist the injured and collect survivors.”

Her voice was firm, but there was something in her eyes , a warning, subtle but sharp. “You will be met with three types of people.” she continued. “Those who are glad to see you. Those who resent you. And those who hate you outright. All of them will be scared. Some will be armed. Some won’t.”

Rae swallowed softly next to you.

“You do not fire unless fired upon.” Natasha said. “You do not engage unless absolutely necessary. If someone spits at you, you walk. If someone screams at you, you listen. You are not here to escalate. You are here to protect the people doing their jobs.”

Another click. A street-level image filled the screen, caved-in houses, burnt-out windows, children standing in the rubble, watching the drone.

Your throat tightened.

“This is what real missions look like.” Natasha said, quieter now. “It’s not always bullets and body armor. Sometimes it’s holding a perimeter while someone bleeds out two feet away from you. Sometimes it’s walking past a woman crying over what used to be her kitchen.”

She looked at all of you. And this time, there was no cold edge. Just steel. Steady and unwavering.

“You need to be better than your instincts. You need to be professional, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

A pause. “We leave at 0700 (7am).”

With that, she stood, clicked off the screen, and stepped down. Then, she turned back.

“Gear up. No mistakes.”

The silence lingered after she left. It wasn’t fear. It was something sharper. Something real. You exhaled, slow, as if the weight of the next phase had finally landed on your chest.

-

-

-

-