Ok riddle me this because why aren’t people in the X-men universe more grateful Charles Xavier is a good guy
like
he could just
do shit
kill you with a thought, control everyone in the room, collapse your mind in on itself as if he were crumpling a piece of paper, dig up your worst fears until you shit your pants, anything
and he chose to be kind
now I’m not saying that’s bad, no no no! Quite the opposite because hell yeah being kind is bloody awesome hey guys let’s be kind like mama or whatever
but holy moly buddy sometimes you just gotta kill a bitch if they’re genuinely horrible (like Shaw!)
I mean I will say Magneto did nothing wrong because his reasoning is totally valid and he gets shit done
like grow a spine (get it? Cuz he was shot in the spine? No?)
Okay but what you should take away from this is to be kind in spite of everything wrong, not that you should go on a murder spree
if you do end up doing that… well, just don’t tell the police I told you to cuz that ain’t cool pal you can’t prove anything
In my head so many of Eli Bradley’s decisions in the original Young Avengers run come down to his desperation to be “good” but not in any like, strict morality code sense of the word but instead in a moral ocd sense yk.
Obviously this is in his want to lead and his need to do things his way even when that clashes with Kate and sometimes the others, but also in the way that when everyone else finds out about the mutant growth hormone he spirals HARD, in a way that’s more than “I believe I messed up and should be better in the future” but in a “I did something irreparable and now I am Broken and Bad and people are right to be angry with me forever” sort of way.
Just. His obsession with some unattainable “good” and “right” that he can never really achieve and the way he spirals and almost punishes himself for “failing” to achieve it is a very obsessive compulsive cycle. To me.
I apologize for the spelling mistakes; English is not my native language.
I think the biggest mistake people make when writing fanfic is insisting—and swearing—that their work is strictly based on the original series, anime, manga, comic, or book, when in reality, it is merely an interpretation (and sometimes a superficial one at that).
It is better to state from the start that it is an interpretation—your own vision—and to show how you develop that character and their story.
Why do I mention this? Because many people boast about being "based on the source material," yet the entire fanfic turns out to be based on a fandom interpretation or a very superficial understanding of the work.
Truly understanding a work means interpreting, questioning, and developing the elements that catch our attention; it means recognizing that there is more than what meets the eye. After all, what makes fanfic so special is the opportunity to develop characters further and question the choices made within the story.
It isn't about copy-pasting the original plot or strictly adhering to the source material; it is about interpreting the story we read—and the story we want to tell about a character we love—in a better way.
Yes, interpretations that aren't entirely faithful are also valid, provided they work well and allow you—whether as a reader or a writer—to have fun and enjoy the experience.
What isn't right is claiming your fanfic is "faithful to the source material" when you know full well it is actually your own interpretation, or one adopted from the fandom.
(The tags are from the fandoms where I've read the most fanfics)
He loved places: his home, his bedroom, Gotham, the tower, his work, the manner.
He loved things: science, photography, mechanics, learning and studying, fighting… winning.
He loved people: his parents, his friends, Bruce and Dick and Alfred and Cass.
He had loved Steph something fierce. A burning passion that made him feel alive with every argument and moment of open honesty between them. He would always mourn what they had and what they never got the chance to keep.
He loved Bernard. He was so sweet and kind and so utterly entertaining. He listened to every theory Tim had and responded with a dozen of his own. He wasn’t a hero and he didn’t expect Tim to do all the hard tasks. He was beautiful and warm and- safe.
Tim also loved Kon.
Oh God did he love Kon.
His love for Kon wasn’t just born deep, it was in his veins and travelling like a steady stream throughout his body, making camp in his heart before moving on to explore again. It was a heat that would never burn, only warm the cold spots of Tim’s life.
He felt it in his finger tips as they ran across keyboards and stitched wounds.
He felt it in his lungs when he breathed in deep as soon as he woke up.
He felt it in his eyes when they burned from staring at screens too long or holding back tears.
Kon was apart of him. The love he held for the clone was all over him, in body, mind and soul. If he was left incomplete then Kon held the missing part. If souls were made of four parts then Kon must have been his direction.
Tim could never express any of it, never knowing how to string words together in a way that made them sounds even remotely similar to what he was feeling. He wasn’t never a poet, despite how much he had tried, and maybe that was why he never got to have what he so desperately wanted.
Kon would accept it, would take Tim’s love and hold it with gentle hands.
But Tim knew it wouldn’t matter if Kon held it for him because the weight was too strong for even a Kryptonian to bare.
Tim couldn’t handle the love he had for Kon.
He wasn’t using Bernard as a replacement, he could never strive to be so cruel.
It’s just that Bernard’s love was safe. Safe, simple and comfortable.
It didn’t tear apart his mind and make him feel consumed with the agony of endless devotion and the unstoppable urge to give and give and give and sacrifice anything and everything for the love that fuelled each breath and formed each word and made Tim feel so utterly inhuman he had to step back from the work he loved.
Tim was obsessed like a priest to a god.
Tim wasn’t a fool, he knew that he would go too far eventually. Be too eager to protect and defend Kon. To quick to act that he would fail to think. Be too smothered in the feeling process the rules he set himself.
He knew that one day he would get an opportunity to kill for Kon and he would take it.
He would break everything he stood for.
He would shatter his relationships and honour.
He would forsake his humanity.
And he just couldn’t let the risk stand.
Tim Drake loved Kon El, and the world was in too much danger because of it.
in this dessert…
assassin!reader writes the truth of their desertion of the League of Assassins in a letter addressed to Talia al Ghul.
flavor: angst, no happy ending (I'm sorry, I'm in a certain mood...)
wc: 400+.
contents: Talia al Ghul x gn!reader. Epistolary format, flowery writing. Unrequited love, reader loves Talia al Ghul, Talia loves Bruce Wayne, mentioned brutalia. Reader has contempt for Bruce Wayne. Not a happy ending.
baker’s notes: Talia my beloved... butchered by the writing of racist white men, sigh. I'm sorry this is so short, the ideas just fizzled out of my brain. I took this as a way to explore this format more, I think it's very interesting. enjoy!
Dear Talia,
I write this without knowing whether I'm going to be able to send this to you. Still, I couldn't rest still on my bed if I didn't take pen to paper and smear all my thoughts in red ink over it.
As the moon glints through my window, I don't even know how to formulate this. By the time you may read this, I'll be long gone. A deserter. A traitor to the League.
And if you're wondering whether your most loyal confidante (and I'd like to think we were more than that) has left you… I regret to say this, but it's true.
I feel sick as I write this. You must wonder if I've left you in favor of some other organization. Betrayed you as if you were a mere afterthought. As if by betraying you I weren't betraying my own heart.
This is the truth I'm trying to escape, beloved: that my heart intertwined with yours somewhere along the way, and I can't untangle myself. So I ran, like a coward.
How could I not? When the word beloved, so priced to me, comes through your lips to refer to another. In my darkest, most desperate moments I've pretended to be someone I'm not, just so I could pretend I could ever be yours. But how could I? How could I, when Bruce Wayne exists? Not only does he exist, but he's the sole possessor of your heart. A heart I'd die to be worthy of.
How can I come between a love story as great as yours? How can I, without shredding the bloody organ that beats inside my ribcage? But I'll tell you a secret, my beautiful Talia: it's all yours. This tattered, worthless heart is all yours. It's all it's ever been, it's all it ever be, until it stops beating. Even if I hide, and escape, my heart can never escape the love that runs through my veins.
But I can protect my mind. And so I run. I must confess that seeing you kissing that bat-dressed man filled me with disgust. But don't get me wrong. You could never disgust me. And even if these emotions of mine are peculiar, and hurt me more than any tempered blade ever could, I still cherish them. I can't bring myself to taint your memories.
It feels cathartic to write this. I won't think of you reading it, I won't subject myself to further torture. But if you ever do, I hope you have it in yourself to forgive me… for the sake of doomed love.
Tim meticulously preparing and planning for the arrival of his child from conception to pregnancy to birth makes my brain go brrrrrrr especially if it’s a heat of the moment thing for the baby making and then he is panicking because his girlfriend is pregnant and everything isn’t following his laid out adulthood plans. Reader just in for the ride :p chill af
The Best Laid Plans
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requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
Tim Drake had a plan.
He'd had a plan since he was approximately eight years old, which was around the time he'd figured out that plans were the only reliable thing in a world that kept rearranging itself without asking him first.
The plan had sections. Subsections. Color-coded subsections, if he was being honest, which he usually was, at least with himself.
The general structure went like this:
Finish college. Establish himself at Wayne Enterprises, independent of Bruce's name, on his own merit. Achieve financial stability that wasn't reliant on a trust fund. Travel, because he'd spent most of his teenage years in Gotham or a cave, and he deserved to see things. Date seriously. Fall in love at a reasonable pace. Move in together after a sufficient cohabitation evaluation. Propose somewhere between twenty-eight and thirty. Marry. Buy property. Then — and this was important, this was a specific bullet point with its own sub-bullets — then have a child.
He had notes on the child part. What age made statistical sense? What financial position made the most sense? What neighborhood, what school district, what—
The plan did not account for a Tuesday in March.
Specifically: a Tuesday in March after a terrible week, after a case that had gone three days too long, after he'd come home at two in the morning to find you still awake with leftover takeout and a movie you'd paused and that specific look on your face that meant I'm not going to ask how bad it was, just come here —
The plan had not accounted for that Tuesday at all.
He found out on a Saturday.
You'd been quiet in a way that wasn't your regular quiet — you had a comfortable quiet, the kind that meant nothing needed to be said, and this wasn't that. This was the quiet of someone choosing their words carefully before they'd decided what the words were.
Tim noticed. Tim always noticed things. It was the whole problem, really.
"What's wrong," he said, not a question, over coffee.
"Nothing's wrong," you said.
He waited.
You'd learned early on that Tim Drake waiting was a specific and patient thing, and that it always, eventually, worked.
You put down your mug.
"Okay, so," you said.
He waited.
"You know how I was feeling weird last week."
"Yes." He'd catalogued it. Mentally. Because he catalogued everything.
"And I thought it was stress, and then I thought it was something I ate — "
"Yes."
"And then I took a test this morning." You looked at him with the expression of someone who had made peace with a thing and was now watching someone else begin the journey. "And then I took two more. Because one felt statistically insufficient."
Tim went very still.
"Three tests," he said.
"All the same result."
The kitchen was extremely quiet.
"Okay," Tim said.
"Okay?"
"Okay, I'm — " He stopped. Started again. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine, actually. Kind of calm." You tilted your head. "How are you feeling?"
Tim opened his mouth.
Closed it.
"I need a minute," he said, very precisely, and stood up and walked to the window and stood there looking at the street below with the posture of someone doing complex internal mathematics.
You drank your coffee and let him have the minute.
He came back after four.
"My plan," he said, sitting back down, "had this at thirty-one. Earliest. After the property acquisition and — there's a whole section, I have it in a document — "
"I know about the document, Tim."
"You've seen the document?"
"You left it open on the laptop once. I wasn't snooping." You paused. "It's very thorough."
"It had reasons. Financial projections. There were charts."
"I remember the charts."
He put his head in his hands.
You watched him with the expression you'd perfected over two years of being with Tim Drake, which was fond and patient and quietly, genuinely entertained.
"Tim," you said.
"I'm fine," he said, into his hands.
"I know."
"I'm just recalibrating."
"I know."
"The plan needs — there are variables now that weren't — "
"Tim." You put your hand on his arm. "We're going to be fine."
He looked up. His eyes were doing the thing where they'd gone very focused, which meant his brain had shifted from reaction to processing, and processing with Tim Drake was something to witness.
"Yeah," he said, slowly. "Yeah, we are." A beat. "I'm going to need a new document."
The new document was something to behold.
You found it open on the laptop three days later — he'd clearly meant to close it before you saw, but he'd gotten distracted, because Tim always got distracted mid-task when a new branch of thought appeared — and you sat down and read the whole thing with your coffee going cold in your hand.
It was called: Revised Timeline and Preparation Framework (v1.0).
There were sections.
Section One: Immediate Medical. GP appointment, OB referral, prenatal vitamins cross-referenced with current supplements to check for interactions. A note that said confirm folic acid levels, don't assume, verify.
Section Two: Financial Restructuring. Which was thirty-two bullet points long and involved words like liquidity and education fund initiation, and, at the bottom, in smaller text that felt almost like a confession: update will and beneficiary designations. Do not put this off.
Section Three: The Apartment. A list of what the second bedroom currently contained, what it would need to not contain, and then a separate list of what it would need to actually contain. This section had a note that said: " Do not buy everything immediately. Prioritize. Make a staged acquisition plan. And then below that, in different colored text, clearly added later: look into glider chairs, the research on them is actually compelling.
Section Four: Reading List.
The reading list was two pages.
You scrolled through it slowly. Pregnancy development week by week. Infant sleep research — with a sub-note that said Weissbluth vs Ferber, read both, form your own conclusion. Nutrition. Child development stages. Cognitive development research. A note at the bottom that said: ask about pediatrician recommendations, don't just pick one, interview multiple.
Interview multiple.
He was going to interview pediatricians.
You closed the laptop.
Tim appeared in the doorway with two mugs of coffee.
He clocked your expression.
"You saw the document," he said.
"I saw the document."
"It's a working draft."
"Tim." You took the mug he offered. "You have a reading list."
"There's a lot to know. I don't know any of it. That's … that's a gap that needs addressing."
"It's two pages."
"I've narrowed it down."
You looked at him for a moment. He had the look he got when he was braced for you to tell him he was being excessive, which was a specific kind of braced shoulders slightly in, jaw slightly tight.
"The glider chair thing is actually correct," you said. "My sister had one. She swore by it."
Something in his posture shifted. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Good call."
He sat down next to you. "I know it's a lot."
"It's very Tim."
"Is that okay?"
"It's extremely okay." You leaned into his shoulder. "I like that you're doing this. I like that your brain immediately went to how do I make this work instead of anything else."
"I panicked first," he said, honestly.
"You had four minutes of panic and then made a document. That's practically zen for you."
He made a sound that was almost a laugh. "I still have the old document open in another tab. I keep looking at the original timeline and then looking at the new one."
"Does it bother you? That it's not the original plan?"
Tim was quiet for a moment. The real kind of quiet, not the processing kind.
"It bothers me that I can't control for all the variables," he said finally. "That there's so much I don't know yet. That I might get things wrong and the stakes are …" He exhaled. "The stakes are different now."
"They are," you agreed.
"But when I'm not thinking about the variables … " He stopped.
"What?"
He glanced at you sideways, like he wasn't sure how the words were going to land. "I keep thinking about teaching them things. Like — what they'll be curious about. What kind of person will they be?" A pause. "Whether they'll like to read."
"That's the part that's not on the spreadsheet," you said.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "That part doesn't really fit in a spreadsheet."
You stayed leaning against him in comfortable silence.
"The document is fine," you told him. "Make as many as you need."
He was already reaching for his laptop.
Week eight arrived with morning sickness that had clearly not read any kind of schedule, and Tim responded to this development the way Tim responded to all new information, which was to research it at an intensity that would be alarming if you didn't know him.
"There's conflicting data on ginger," he said, at six in the morning, sitting on the bathroom floor next to you, "in terms of whether the supplement form is more effective than the raw form. The studies are inconsistent. But anecdotally — "
"Tim," you said.
"Yeah?"
"I love you. Stop talking."
"Right. Yes. Sorry."
He handed you a cold, damp cloth and didn't say anything else.
That was the thing about Tim, which took some people a while to understand: when he finally stopped talking, he was still entirely, completely there. Present in the specific way of someone who had decided that wherever you were was where he was going to be.
He sat on the bathroom floor with you at six in the morning and didn't mention the document once.
He had opinions about the OB.
"She seemed good," you said, on the way home from the first appointment.
"She was good," Tim agreed. "I have some follow-up questions."
"You had a list."
"A preliminary list. She answered most of them. The follow-up questions are the ones that arose from the answers." He glanced at you. "Is that okay? That I had a list?"
"Tim, I love that you had a list. She loved that you had a list. You could tell."
"She did seem to appreciate the specific questions."
"She called you thorough."
"That was a compliment."
"It was absolutely a compliment." You took his hand. "You're going to be the most prepared person in any waiting room we're ever in."
"That's the goal," he said. And then, after a moment: "The heartbeat was … "
He stopped.
You looked at him.
Tim Drake, who had read seventeen books on fetal development and could tell you the statistical likelihood of any number of outcomes, had gone briefly, completely quiet.
"It was fast," he said finally.
"It was," you agreed.
"That's … that's normal, at this stage. Hundred and fifty to a hundred and eighty beats per minute, I knew that, I read that… " He stopped again. "But hearing it is different than reading it."
"Yeah," you said softly. "It is."
He drove the rest of the way home, not saying much. You let him have it. He was processing, and Tim's processing was its own quiet country, and you'd learned that the right thing to do was just be in it with him.
When you got home, he updated the document.
But he also just sat with you on the couch for a while. Didn't open any of the books. Didn't make any lists.
Just sat.
You thought that might be the closest Tim Drake ever got to being speechless.
The nursery became a project in a way that was very specifically Tim, which meant it was researched, phased, and occasionally argued about in the best possible way.
"The research on color and infant visual development is pretty clear," he said, standing in the middle of the second bedroom, which currently contained his backup computer equipment, three boxes of old case files, and a very sad exercise bike that had never been used. "High contrast is more stimulating in the early months. Soft colors are fine, but they’re more for the parents than the baby."
"I like the soft colors," you said.
"So do I, aesthetically." He looked around. "We can do both. Soft base, high-contrast elements. There are mobiles designed specifically for … "
"Tim."
"Yeah?"
"Let's pick a color first. Before the developmental research."
"That's fair. What color do you want?"
You looked at the sad, grey walls of the spare room. "Something warm. Not yellow. Maybe green? Soft green?"
Tim looked at the walls. "That would work with natural wood tones. And there's a specific shade — I'll find the research."
"Please don't find research about paint colors."
"It exists. That's a fact."
"Tim."
"Soft green. Got it. No research. Just the color." He made a note on his phone. "I'll get samples."
He got eleven samples.
You picked one.
He was genuinely fine with this. He'd just needed the options.
The thing about Tim — the thing you'd known for a while, but understood differently now — was that the planning wasn't anxiety exactly. Or it wasn't only anxiety.
It was care.
It was Tim's specific way of saying you matter to me, this matters to me, I'm going to make sure I do this right in the only language he'd ever been fully fluent in.
The books were loved. The document was love. The eleven paint samples and the interview list for pediatricians and the very detailed spreadsheet comparing stroller safety ratings — that was all love, expressed in the particular dialect of a person who had learned early that preparation was the closest thing to protection.
You thought about this at week twenty-two, watching him sit on the floor of the nursery — soft green now, and honestly gorgeous — with a flat-pack crib and an instruction manual he'd already read twice, methodically laying out the hardware in order of assembly sequence.
"You labeled the bags," you said.
"It's more efficient." He held up a tiny labeled zip-lock bag. "This is stage three fasteners. Once you get to stage three, you don't want to be sorting through everything looking for the right — "
"Tim." You came and sat on the floor next to him. "Can I tell you something?"
"Always." He didn't look up from the hardware.
"You're going to be really good at this."
He did look up then.
"You don't know that," he said. Not dismissive. Just be careful, the way he was careful with things he wanted badly enough that he was afraid to hold them.
"I know you," you said. "That's enough."
Tim looked at you for a moment. Then he looked at the half-assembled crib, the labeled bags, and the soft green walls.
"I keep thinking about things I don't know how to prepare for," he said. "Like — I can research sleep schedules and developmental stages and car seat installation. But I can't research the actual person. Who they're going to be. What they're going to need from me specifically."
"No," you agreed. "That part you just have to show up for."
"I'm good at showing up."
"I know you are." You leaned your head on his shoulder. "That's what I mean."
He was quiet for a moment.
"The crib instructions are actually well-designed," he said finally. "Clear diagrams. Logical sequence. Whoever wrote them was thorough."
"Highest compliment you can give."
"I thought about writing them a letter."
"Tim."
"I didn't send it."
"Okay."
"I drafted it."
"Of course you did." You kissed his shoulder. "Finish the crib."
He finished the crib.
It was perfect, obviously. Every piece exactly where it was supposed to be. He checked it three times and then once more, and then looked at it with an expression that was trying very hard to be a clinical assessment and was not succeeding.
"It's a good crib," you said.
"It's a structurally sound crib," he said.
"Tim."
"It's a great crib," he said, quieter. "It's — yeah."
Week thirty-eight.
Tim had a bag packed. Had had it packed since week thirty-four, because the standard recommendation was thirty-six weeks, and Tim Drake did not do things at the last minute.
He'd also — and you'd discovered this by accident — made a laminated card.
A laminated card.
It lived in his wallet. It had the hospital route, the backup route, the OB's number, the hospital's direct line, the relevant insurance information, and a three-step checklist for the moment things started.
"It's efficient," he said when you found it.
"It's laminated," you said.
"Lamination protects against — "
"Tim. You laminated an emergency plan."
"The ink can smear. Under stress. It's practical."
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
"I love you so much," you said.
"The lamination is a reasonable precaution," he said, but he was almost smiling.
It happened on a Wednesday, which Tim would later note was statistically neither the most nor least common day of the week for labor to begin, and which he would also note he'd somehow still not fully prepared himself for despite thirty-eight weeks of trying.
You called him from home, calm as anything: "Hey. So I think this is it."
There was a pause.
"Okay," he said, in the voice he used when he was being very controlled. "Okay. I'm — how far apart — "
"About eight minutes."
"Right. Right, okay. I'm leaving now. Don't — stay where you are, I'll be there in — "
"Tim."
"Yeah."
"The laminated card."
A breath. "Right. Yes. I have it." A pause where you could hear him finding it. "I have it."
"Then you're fine," you said. "Come home."
He was there in eleven minutes, which was impressive by any measure. He came through the door with the bag already over his shoulder and looked at you on the couch with an expression that was trying to be the checklist and was instead something much closer to the surface than that.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," you said. "I'm okay."
"I know you are." He came and sat next to you. "I brought the bag."
"I can see that."
"And the insurance card. And I called the OB, she's aware, she said when they're five minutes apart — "
"Tim."
"Yeah."
"Sit with me for a second. Before we go."
He sat. He put the bag down. He took your hand with both of his, which was a Tim Drake thing — he always held on with both hands, like once wasn't quite enough — and he just breathed for a moment.
"I've prepared for everything I can think of," he said.
"I know."
"There's going to be things I haven't prepared for."
"Definitely."
"I don't love that."
"I know." You squeezed his hands. "We'll figure those out when we get to them."
He looked at you. The expression on his face was not the document, not the reading list, not the laminated card. It was something underneath all of that — something that had been there since a Tuesday in March that had rearranged everything — and it was, you thought, the most unplanned thing about him.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay," you said.
He picked up the bag.
The birth was, in Tim's words, "not what I'd modeled."
In your words: "kind of intense, actually really beautiful, also Tim cried."
"I didn't cry," Tim said, from the chair next to your hospital bed, holding a very small person with the concentrated focus of someone who had read extensively about proper newborn head support and was now applying that knowledge.
"Tim. I watched you cry."
"I was — it was an emotional response to significant stimuli. That's different than crying."
"That's crying."
He looked down at the very small person. "She's lighter than I thought she'd be," he said. "Based on the estimated weight, I thought — " He stopped.
"What?"
"She's looking at me," he said, quietly.
"She is."
"That's — the visual acuity at this stage is limited, she can see light and shadow and movement, I know that — " He stopped again. "Hi," he said to her. Very softly.
You watched him.
Tim Drake, who had a document and a reading list and a laminated card, who had interviewed three pediatricians and researched glider chairs and color-coded his preparation into phases — Tim Drake looked at the small person looking approximately in the direction of his face, and all of the planning went somewhere quiet and he was just there, present, in the way that had nothing to do with preparation.
"Hi," he said again.
The small person made a sound.
Tim looked up at you.
"She made a sound," he said.
"Yeah," you said. "She does that."
"I — " He looked back at her. "I know what the sounds mean, developmentally, I have a chart — "
"Tim."
"I know."
"You don't need the chart right now."
He looked at her for a long moment.
"No," he said. "I don't."
He didn't reach for his phone. Didn't update the document. Didn't make a note.
He just held her, both hands, careful and completely present, in the soft quiet of a room where something had happened that no amount of planning could have fully described.
The Tuesday in March had not been in the plan.
This, Tim Drake was beginning to understand, was the best thing it could possibly have been.
(The document was updated later. He couldn't help it. But at the very top of version 4.0, above all the sections and subsections, he'd added a single line:
Some variables are not variables. Some things just are.
He never told you he'd written it. You found it six months later when you borrowed his laptop.
You didn't tell him you'd seen it.
You just loved him a little more than you already had, which was a lot, and somehow kept being more.)
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