saint

trop sensible

[lenteheure]

˶ˊᜊˋ˶ lenteheure, she / her, crépuscule

##blogger ##fics ##boyliife ##vie

🪽 music lover, avid reader, film watcher, fashion obsessed.

⋆˚࿔ currently rewatching the virgin suicides, elephant, hot summer nights, me and you and everyone we know.

꩜ .ᐟ masterlist

[lenteheure]

backstage

hollis frazier-herndon x fem!singer!reader

summary: you thought you were done with him, that you’d moved on, but seeing him still hits different. turns out, some feelings don’t just fade away

word count: 1182

authors note: this is my first time writing something like this, so please let me know what you think especially if it’s corny, be honest. i’m also gonna try posting more regularly… no promises though but nonetheless profitez bien, mes angels.

the bass from the main stage hums through the dressing room walls, vibrating under your feet. you sit at the mirror, fixing your hair one last time while the usual pre-show chaos swirls around you — stylists brushing past, walkie chatter in the background, the electric hum of the crowd waiting beyond the curtain.

you’re co-headlining tonight with him. your ex. the one you’ve spent months trying not to think about, even though his name is printed right next to yours outside.

“hey.”

you hear him before you see him. leaning in the doorway, calm like he owns the space, like he always does.

“what do you want?” you ask, keeping your eyes on the mirror.

“my jacket’s stuck.” he steps in, letting the door swing closed behind him. “you always knew how to fix these.”

you exhale and finally turn. leather jacket, white tee, dark jeans, that silver chain you gave him years ago. familiar in a way that makes your chest tighten.

“you have people for that,” you say.

“they’re busy.” he moves closer. you catch the faint scent of his cologne. “we have time.”

you stand and cross the room. your fingers find the zipper caught in the teeth. you work it loose, aware of how close he is, the warmth radiating off him.

“you know,” he says quietly, “roman told me some interesting things last weekend.”

your fingers stilled for just a moment before continuing their work “oh yeah?”

“mhm, said you got pretty drunk at his party and spent about twenty minutes talking about me. about how much you miss me. about how no one else has ever—"

"roman is a liar and a shit-stirrer." you laugh, the sound sounding a little too bright, too forced. "i didn't say any of that."

"no?" he leans a little closer, close enough that you can practically feel the weight of his gaze "because he was pretty specific. said you told him i was the best you ever had. that you think about me when you—"

"ookay, that's enough." you finally yanked the zipper free and stepped back. "your jacket is fixed. we're done here."

he doesn’t move. instead, he grins—subtle, like he’s already won something you haven’t admitted out loud yet—before leaning in closer, close enough that his breath brushes your ear.

“i know you want me,” he murmurs. “i see it every time you look at me.”

a shiver slips down your spine, and you hate that it does. hate that he notices things like that. hate that he’s not wrong enough.

“you’re delusional,” you say, but it comes out softer than you meant, a little uneven. “we’re on in fifteen. go"

“then we have time.”

his mouth was on yours before you could protest, and the kiss was hungry and demanding, nothing like the gentle boy you had dated all those months ago. this was a man who knew what he wanted, and he wanted you. you should have pushed him away. you should have slapped him or stormed out or done anything other than kiss him back with equal desperation.

"fuck," you gasped when he pulled back, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt.

"tell me to stop," he said, his forehead pressed against yours. "tell me you don't want this, and i'll walk out that door right now."

you couldn't. may god help you, you couldn't.

his hands found your waist, spinning you around and walking you backward until your hips hit the vanity table. he lifted you effortlessly, setting you on the surface and stepping between your parted thighs. the mirror behind you rattled with the impact.

"hollis—" you started, but he cut you off with another kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your head spin.

“do you want this?" he murmured against your lips, his hands sliding up under the hem of your top. his thumbs traced circles on your bare skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

you nodded, your eyes half-closed.

"use your words," he commanded softly. "tell me what you want."

"i want this," you breathed. "i want you."

he smiled—and then his hands were everywhere, tugging at your clothes, sliding beneath fabric to find bare skin. you fumbled with his belt, desperate and clumsy, until he batted your hands away and handled it himself.

"look at you," he said, his voice dropping to a low rasp. "so desperate for me. all that pretending you didn't care, and here you are, dripping wet and shaking for my cock."

"shut up and fuck me," you snapped, but there was no real venom in it.

he laughed, the sound sending another wave of heat through you. "since you asked so nicely."

he pulled you to the edge of the vanity, and you felt him position himself at your entrance. then he was pushing inside, and you gasped at the stretch, you body opening to accommodate him after so long without. he stilled for a moment, letting you adjust.

"still okay?" he asked, and something in his voice softened.

"yes. don't stop."

he started to move, each thrust deep and deliberate, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises. the vanity shook beneath them, makeup bottles rattling and threatening to topple over. you bit down on your lip to keep from crying out, but he reached up and pulled your lip free with his thumb.

"i want to hear you," he said. "let me hear those pretty sounds you make."

his pace increased, and you stopped trying to be quiet. moans spilled from your lips, punctuated by gasps of his name. the sound of skin against skin mixed with the muffled bass still thumping through the walls, creating a rhythm that was almost intoxicating.

"god, you feel incredible," he groaned against your neck. "so tight. so fucking wet for me."

his hand slid between their bodies, finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles that made your vision blur. you could feel the pressure building low in your lower abdomen, coiling tighter with every thrust.

"hollis, i'm—"

"i know. cum for me. let go."

the orgasm crashed through you like a wave, your whole body trembling as you clung to his shoulders. he followed moments later, burying himself deep with a groan as he spilled inside you.

you stayed like that for a moment, both breathing hard, his forehead resting against yours. then he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips—softer than any of the ones before.

"you okay?" he asked quietly.

you nodded, not trusting your voice.

a sharp knock on the door made them both jump.

hollis pulled back, already tucking himself back into his jeans with practiced efficiency. he gave you a quick grin that made it hard to decide whether to pull him back in or shove him off.

"hollis! y/n! you're on in ten!" his manager's voice called through the wood. "get your asses to the wings, like, yesterday!"

"you better hurry up, wouldn't want to keep our fans waiting."

[lenteheure]

the way u write seems like u js chat gpt it

i’ve gotten this before 😭 i think it’s the em dashes and how i phrase things lol. english isn’t my first language so my writing can sound a little repetitive sometimes, but it’s all me i promise

[lenteheure]

whens the next soulmates update twin

so like it’s #out

[lenteheure]

soulmates

gunner shepardson(nettspend) x fem!reader

part iiii

summary: after a tense morning and even messier live interview, what was said and—what wasn't—starts to matter more than either of them expected. when he tries to smooth it over, you finally stop meeting him halfway.

word count: ~1,900–2,200 words.

authors note: hi so, i know i said this part would be longer + more interesting, but i just need to get this out now so bear with me. also if anything feels off or a little corny lmk im still figuring the tone out.

i also forgot some ppl on the last taglist, im sorry!! if you want to be added to the taglist, don’t be afraid to comment or message me.

anyway as always, feedback is always welcome and actually needed so don’t be shy but nonetheless profitez bien, mes angels.

p.s, ntm on the photos i got lazy again, i’ll change it later

you don’t move right away.

you’re still standing in the same spot, phone in your hand, staring at nothing in particular.

ten minutes.

that’s what he said.

you glance around your apartment again.

it’s not messy.

it just isn’t how you left it.

small things.

a glass on the table. a hoodie draped over the chair. your bag half open on the floor.

stuff you didn’t notice before.

now it’s all you can see.

—

the knock comes faster than you expect.

not aggressive.

just—

there.

you freeze for half a second.

then move.

slow, like it’ll change who’s on the other side.

you already know.

you stop at the door anyway, leaning slightly to check through the peephole.

and yeah.

of course.

it's him.

hood up, head slightly down, phone in his hand like he almost texted and didn’t.

you close your eyes for a second.

just a second.

then unlock the door.

—

you don’t swing it open.

just enough.

he looks up immediately.

“hey.”

you don’t answer that.

just step back and let him in.

he hesitates for half a second—like he’s checking if you’re actually letting him—then walks past you.

the door clicks shut behind him.

quiet again.

—

“you weren’t gonna answer?” he asks, glancing around like he hasn’t been here a hundred times before.

you shrug, already moving toward the kitchen.

“i did.”

“after i called you three times.”

“you survived.”

he huffs a quiet breath at that, following you.

“you always do that.”

“you always say that,” you shoot back, grabbing your phone off the counter like you need something to do with your hands.

he stops on the other side of it.

watching you.

“you’re acting like i didn’t come over,” he says.

you glance up at him.

“you said you would.”

“and i did.”

“okay?”

that lands a little flatter than he expects.

you can tell.

—

he leans forward slightly, hands resting on the counter.

“why you acting like that.”

you let out a small breath, not quite a laugh.

“like what?”

“like—” he stops, searching for it. “like i did something crazy.”

you look at him for a second.

really look.

then—

“you didn’t do anything,” you say.

and that—

that’s worse.

his expression shifts.

“what’s that supposed to mean.”

you shrug again.

“exactly what i said.”

he shakes his head, a short exhale leaving him.

“nah, don’t do that.”

“do what.”

“that,” he says, pointing slightly at you. “make it sound like nothing when you’re clearly—”

“when i’m clearly what?” you cut in.

he stops.

you wait.

he doesn’t finish it.

—

you lean back against the counter, arms crossing loosely.

“you don’t care,” you say, like you’re just stating it.

he frowns.

“that’s not true.”

you tilt your head slightly.

“then why does it look like that.”

“because it was on camera,” he says, quicker now. “you think i’m about to sit there and—what—say everything?”

“you didn’t have to say everything,” you reply. “you could’ve said something.”

“i did.”

you almost smile.

but not in a nice way.

“no, you didn’t.”

he exhales, running a hand over his face.

“you’re making it bigger than it was.”

“am i?” you say, quieter now.

that makes him pause.

“you saw it,” you add. “you saw what they’re saying.”

he doesn’t answer right away.

which is an answer enough.

you nod slightly.

“exactly.”

“i don’t care what they’re saying,” he says.

you look at him.

“that’s the problem.”

that hits.

you can see it.

“so you want me to what,” he says, a little sharper now. “go online and argue with everybody?”

“no,” you say. “but you could act like it matters.”

“it does matter.”

“not enough.”

silence.

tight again.

but different this time.

less back-and-forth

more… sitting in it.

—

he moves first.

stepping around the counter instead of staying across from you.

closer now.

you don’t move.

you just watch him.

“you think i don’t care about you?” he says, quieter.

you don’t answer.

he’s right in front of you now.

close enough that it shifts the air a little.

“you really think that?” he presses.

you hold his gaze for a second.

then—

“i think you make it easy to think that.”

he exhales slowly.

nods once.

like he doesn’t like it, but he gets it.

“aight,” he says quietly.

another step closer.

his hands settle lightly at your waist.

not forceful.

just there.

giving you time to move if you want to.

you don’t.

“i’m sorry,” he mutters.

it’s not loud.

not dramatic.

just—

close.

you feel it more than you hear it.

he leans in slightly, pressing a soft kiss just below your ear.

another.

slower this time.

“i’m sorry,” again, quieter.

you close your eyes for a second.

your hands rest against the counter behind you, but you don’t push him away.

don’t pull him closer either.

“you’re annoying,” you murmur.

there’s no bite to it.

he huffs a small breath against your skin.

“i know.”

another kiss.

lingering a little longer.

his grip tightens slightly at your waist, pulling you just a little closer.

you exhale slowly.

and that’s the shift.

the one you were holding back.

—

your hand moves without really thinking, resting lightly against his arm.

not stopping him.

not encouraging.

just there.

—

his phone buzzes.

once.

he ignores it.

—

again.

he exhales against your neck, annoyed this time.

“don’t,” you say quietly.

he pauses.

then pulls back just enough to check it.

his expression changes almost immediately.

“what.”

he glances at you, then back at his phone.

“i got an interview,” he says. “i forgot.”

you blink.

“…you’re serious?”

“in like an hour,” he adds, already running a hand through his hair.

you stare at him.

then let out a short laugh.

“of course you do.”

“i actually forgot,” he says, half defensive, half distracted now.

“mm,” you hum.

you push yourself off the counter slightly, creating just a little space between you.

“are you gonna say something there?”

he looks at you.

“about what.”

you give him a look.

he knows exactly what.

“i don’t know,” he says. “depends what they ask.”

you nod slowly.

not impressed.

“right.”

he frowns slightly.

“what.”

“nothing.”

“no, say it.”

you hold his gaze for a second.

then—

“just don’t act like it’s nothing again.”

quiet.

but clear.

—

he studies your face for a second.

longer than before.

then nods once.

“aight.”

you don’t respond.

but you don’t look away either.

—

his phone buzzes again.

more insistent this time.

he glances down at it, then back at you.

“i gotta go.”

you shrug slightly.

“then go.”

but it doesn’t sound like earlier.

he hesitates.

like he wants to say something else.

doesn’t.

instead, he leans in quickly, pressing one last kiss just below your jaw.

softer this time.

less rushed.

—

“i’ll fix it,” he mutters.

you don’t say anything.

—

you just watch him as he pulls back, grabs his phone, and heads for the door.

the door barely shuts before your phone buzzes.

you don’t move right away.

just stand there for a second, staring at the space he left behind like it’s supposed to settle into something.

it doesn’t.

—

buzz.

you exhale, finally grabbing your phone.

—

gunner:

i’ll make it up to you

another one.

gunner:

promise

—

you stare at it.

your thumb hovers.

you don’t answer.

—

buzz.

gunner:

you watching the interview?

—

you frown slightly.

you weren’t planning to.

—

who’s interviewing you

—

send.

—

typing…

—

gunner:

streamline

live one

—

your stomach drops a little.

of course it is.

—

you open youtube before you can think too much about it.

it’s already scheduled.

“LIVE IN 2 MINUTES”

his name in the title.

capitalized like it means more than it should.

—

you click it.

sit down on your couch

arms crossed loosely like you’re not about to watch something that might annoy you.

—

the stream starts.

comments moving too fast to read.

host already smiling like she knows something everyone else doesn’t.

“we’re live—okay. today’s guest, you already know him—”

you roll your eyes slightly.

—

then him.

same hoodie.

same everything.

just… cleaner.

more put together.

like the last twenty minutes didn’t happen.

—

“you okay?” the host asks, half joking.

gunner nods, relaxed.

“always.”

you scoff quietly.

—

it starts normal.

music.

tour.

numbers.

stuff you don’t care about.

you half-listen, half don’t.

—

then—

“okay,” the host says, leaning forward slightly. “we have to talk about what’s going around right now.”

your grip on your phone tightens just a little.

—

gunner doesn’t react right away.

just leans back slightly.

“what’s going around.”

the host laughs.

“don’t do that. you know what i’m talking about.”

comments start moving faster.

you can see the words even if you don’t read them fully.

the video

the girl

last night

—

“there’s a clip,” the host continues, “you outside your car, arguing with—people are saying your ex?”

a pause.

small.

barely noticeable.

unless you’re looking for it.

you are.

—

gunner shrugs.

“people say a lot.”

your expression stills.

—

the host grins like she expected that.

“so it’s not what it looks like?”

gunner lets out a quiet breath, like it’s not a big deal.

“it’s just… old shit,” he says. “nothing serious.”

—

you blink.

once.

slow.

—

“old shit?” the host repeats, eyebrows lifting.

“yeah,” gunner says. “we don’t even be on that.”

—

that one lands.

harder than it should.

—

the host leans in more.

instigating.

“so you guys aren't talking? not dealing with each other?”

gunner shakes his head slightly.

“nah.”

quick.

easy.

—

you let out a short laugh.

no humor in it.

just—

disbelief.

—

the comments are moving even faster now.

you don’t read them.

you don’t need to.

—

“so what was that then?” the host presses. “because it didn’t look like nothing.”

gunner smiles slightly.

that same one.

the one that smooths things over.

“it wasn’t nothing,” he says. “just not what people think.”

—

you stare at the screen.

waiting.

—

he doesn’t say anything else.

—

the host watches him for a second.

then laughs.

“okayyy. so we're keeping it mysterious.”

gunner shrugs.

“ain’t no mystery.”

—

you close your eyes for a second.

then open them again.

still watching.

even though you don’t want to be.

you don’t look away from the screen.

not yet.

—

“so no girl?” the host says, like it’s a joke but not really.

gunner shakes his head, easy.

“nah.”

—

you’re about to click off.

you should.

—

but the host leans forward again.

“like at all? nobody in the picture right now?”

there’s a pause.

small.

just enough.

—

gunner shrugs.

“i’m focused right now,” he says. “not really on that.”

a half-smile.

“keep it simple.”

—

that does it.

you exit the stream immediately.

—

"not really on that?” you repeat under your breath.

like saying it out loud will make it make more sense.

it doesn’t.

—

you set your phone down.

but it doesn’t help.

minutes pass.

you don’t keep track.

you just move around your apartment, doing nothing and everything at the same time.

fixing things that don’t need fixing.

touching the same objects twice.

trying to shake the feeling off.

you can’t.

—

your phone buzzes.

you don’t look.

—

again.

—

you exhale sharply, grabbing it.

—

gunner:

you good?

—

you laugh.

actually laugh this time.

—

another message.

—

gunner:

you watched it?

—

you stare at the screen.

your jaw tightens.

—

you don’t answer.

—

your phone starts ringing.

his name.

again.

—

you let it ring longer this time.

long enough to prove a point.

not long enough to ignore it completely.

—

you answer.

—

“what?” you say.

your voice is sharper now.

no effort to hide it.

—

“why you sound like that,” he says immediately.

you blink.

once.

slow.

“like what.”

“you know what,” he says. “what’s wrong.”

you let out a short breath.

“what’s wrong?”

you repeat it like you don’t believe he asked that.

—

“yeah,” he says. “what—”

“you just went on live and said you’re not dealing with anyone,” you cut in.

—

a pause.

—

“that’s not what i said,” he replies.

you laugh.

“that’s literally what you said.”

“i said i’m focused right now,” he says. “you twisting it.”

you shake your head.

“no, you said enough for people to think that.”

“i didn’t lie,” he repeats.

“you basically did,” you shoot back.

—

silence hits for a second.

—

“so what you want me to say,” he says, frustration creeping in again. “that we—what—”

he stops himself.

too late.

—

“that we what?” you press.

he exhales.

hard.

“you know what i mean.”

“no,” you say. “say it.”

—

another pause.

he doesn’t.

—

you nod to yourself.

even though he can’t see it.

“exactly.”

—

“you’re dragging it,” he mutters.

that sets you off.

—

“i’m dragging it?” you say, louder now. “you’re the one who went on there and acted like i’m just—nothing.”

“i didn’t say that.”

“you didn’t have to.”

—

your voice drops slightly.

quieter.

but way more serious.

—

“you keep doing that,” you add. “you say just enough so you’re not wrong, but not enough to actually stand on anything.”

—

that lands.

you can tell.

—

he doesn’t respond right away.

and for once—

he doesn’t have something quick to say.

—

“…i told you i’d fix it,” he says finally.

you close your eyes for a second.

there it is again.

—

“how?” you ask.

“by saying the same thing twice?”

—

he exhales.

“you don’t get it.”

you laugh, quieter now.

“no, i do.”

a beat.

—

“i just don’t like it.”

—

silence.

longer this time.

not tense.

just heavy.

—

“so what now,” he asks.

you don’t answer right away.

you glance around your apartment again.

the same light. the same space.

it suddenly feels… smaller.

—

“i don’t know,” you say finally.

—

he exhales on the other end.

“so that’s it?”

you frown slightly.

“what does that even mean.”

“like—what are we doing,” he says. “you just gonna be mad or—”

“i’m not doing this again,” you cut in.

not loud.

just firm.

—

a pause.

—

“i told you what it was,” you add. “you heard me.”

“yeah, and i said i’d fix it,” he says, frustration slipping back in. “you just not listening.”

you shake your head.

“no, you’re just saying the same thing.”

—

silence.

tight.

—

he starts to say something

“so what you want me to—”

you pull the phone away slightly, already over it.

—

“i have to go,” you say.

it’s quick.

not an excuse.

not explained.

—

he pauses.

“…what?”

you don’t answer that.

—

“go where?” he asks.

—

“i said i have to go.”

—

“you serious right now?” he says.

there’s something under it now.

annoyance.

something else.

—

you don’t respond.

—

“so you just gon hang up?” he presses.

that almost makes you laugh.

almost.

—

“i’ll talk to you later,” you say.

but it doesn’t sound like a promise.

—

“nah, don’t do that—”

—

you hang up.

—

silence.

immediate.

clean.

—

you stare at your phone for a second.

then lock it.

@honeyperched @lattetwirll @sweet2sin @y-yasminn @kingoveverything @ibelieveinfairyz @222cellmate

[lenteheure]

afterparty

hollis frazier-herndon x fem!reader

summary: a party full of people, and somehow she still feels like the only one he doesn’t see.

word count: ~1,050 words

authors note: i’ve never really done a text fic before, so that’s why the timestamps are a bit all over the place. there’s an image limit too, so i had to use a gif just ignore that. anyway feedback is always welcome and actually needed so pls don’t be shy, but nonetheless profitez bien, mes angels

the music is too loud. it’s in your chest, your ribs, your teeth.

you’ve been standing off to the side all night, watching him get passed around between people—friends, industry, the same three girls who keep laughing a little too hard at everything he says.

his friends are somewhere behind him, hyping him up, talking over each other about the show, numbers, how crazy the crowd was. someone’s got a hand on his shoulder, someone else is pulling him into another conversation.

he doesn’t look for you once.

you wait longer than you should.

then you don’t.

you grab his sleeve. not gentle.

“can you come here?”

he turns, already half distracted. “right now?”

“yes. right now.”

he sighs, says something to them—“i’ll be back”—like he means it, like he always means it.

you pull him into the bathroom, shut the door, and the noise dulls just enough to hear yourself think.

“what is your problem?” he says first, low, irritated.

you blink. “my problem?”

“yeah, you’ve been acting weird all night.”

you let out a short laugh, like you can’t believe that’s what he got from this. “i’ve been acting weird?”

“yeah,” he shrugs, already defensive. “you’re being off.”

“you’ve ignored me for three hours.”

“i have not ignored you.”

“you literally haven’t spoken to me unless i came up to you first.”

“because i’m busy,” he snaps, like it should be obvious. “this is my afterparty.”

“i know what it is,” you cut in, voice tightening. “i’m here, aren’t i”

voices bleed through the door—

“that show was insane—”

“nah he actually went crazy tonight—”

“bro the crowd—”

you stare at him. he glances at the door for half a second.

that’s all it takes.

“you care more about them than me.”

his head turns back fast. “that’s not true.”

“then why does it feel like it?”

“because you’re overreacting,” he says immediately.

there it is.

you shake your head, stepping back like the word actually hit you. “i’m not overreacting. i’m telling you what’s happening.”

“no, you’re making it into something it’s not.”

“it is something,” you press, voice rising before you can stop it. “you haven’t looked at me all night.”

“i’ve been talking to people—”

“to everyone,” you cut him off. “except me.”

he runs a hand over his face, frustrated now. “what do you want me to do? stand there and babysit you?”

your stomach drops. “babysit me?”

“that’s not what i—”

“no, say it again,” you push, stepping closer. “because that’s what you think this is? me asking you to acknowledge me is babysitting?

“you’re twisting it—”

“i’m not twisting anything,” you snap. “you’re just finally saying it out loud.”

there’s a knock on the door. laughter right after.

“yo, hollis—where you at?”

he looks at it again.

again.

you let out a breath, shaking your head. “every time.”

“what?”

“every time something else is happening, you check out,” you say, quieter now but worse. “like i’m the interruption.”

“you are interrupting,” he says before he can stop himself.

silence.

you stare at him.

“wow.”

he exhales hard. “that’s not what i meant.”

“no, it is,” you say, voice going flat. “that’s exactly what you meant.”

more noise outside. louder. closer.

“hollis, come on—”

“we need you out here—”

“bro where’d he go—”

he closes his eyes for a second.

you watch it happen.

the choice.

“you’ve been different,” you say. “all night. all week, honestly.”

he doesn’t respond.

“you don’t even act like i’m yours anymore.”

that one lands. you see it. but he still doesn’t fix it.

“i can’t do this right now,” he says finally, quieter, but firm.

you let out a small, humorless laugh. “of course you can’t.”

“not here,” he adds, like that makes it better.

“when, then?” you ask immediately. “because it’s never ‘right now’ with you. it’s always later.”

he doesn’t answer.

you nod slowly. “yeah. okay.”

another knock.

“yo—seriously, where are you?”

he looks at the door.

then back at you.

but it’s already decided.

“we’ll talk later,” he says.

you don’t even react this time.

“yeah,” you mumble. “sure.”

he hesitates for half a second.

then he leaves.

the door opens—noise floods in, voices, laughter, his name, all of it swallowing him back up—

and then it shuts.

you stand there, staring at nothing, the bass still shaking the walls.

you don’t stay.

not after that.

you open the bathroom door and the noise hits you all over again—music, people, voices spilling into each other, his name somewhere in the middle of it.

he’s already back where you left him.

like nothing happened.

his friends are around him again, someone’s got an arm slung over his shoulder, a girl leaning in close, saying something that makes him laugh.

you pause.

just for a second.

waiting—

for him to look up,

to notice,

to realize you’re there.

he doesn’t.

so you leave.

the door shuts behind you and it’s quiet for the first time all night.

no one follows.

you don’t text him.

not when you get home.

not when you change.

not when you’re lying in bed staring at your ceiling, the silence louder than the music was.

you let it sit.

if he notices, he notices.

he doesn’t.

not that night.

not the next morning.

it’s early afternoon when your phone finally lights up.

his name.

you stare at it longer than you should before opening it.

you leave it.

his last message sitting there, unanswered.

“i don’t know”

read.

you lock your phone like that’s the end of it.

like you’re done.

you’re not.

because ten minutes later—

your phone lights up again.

[lenteheure]

if you were looking

hollis frazier-herndon x fem!reader

summary: hollis lives in a midwestern town where nothing really changes, until he sees a girl standing at the edge of a field no one else seems to notice. the more he tries to hold onto the moment, the less he's sure if she was ever really there at all.

word count: ~661

authors note: another little blurb, a bit different this time. i don’t know, i just wanted to try something new, anyway feedback is always welcome and actually needed so pls don’t be shy, but nonetheless profitez bien, mes angels

nothing here feels important while it’s happening. that’s kind of the point.

hollis lives in a place that doesn’t really end or begin.

it just keeps going in the same shape. backroads that fold into themselves.

power lines stretching like they’re holding the sky in place out of obligation.

gas station lights flickering like they’re arguing with the night and losing.

it’s blue-collar in a way that doesn’t announce itself.

worn jackets. dirty hands. things fixed instead of replaced.

people who don’t say much because saying it out loud wouldn’t change anything anyway.

he wakes up late. same floor. same jacket. same air that smells like cold metal, old smoke, and something you can’t quite call industrial but know isn’t natural either.

school is noise without direction.

lockers slamming like punctuation nobody agreed on. conversations that never really land anywhere.

afterwards it’s always the edge of town. where the pavement gives up and becomes gravel and then becomes nothing.

someone’s always got something they shouldn’t—something to pass, something to hide, something to do with their hands so they don’t have to think about the fact that nothing changes here.

that’s where he first sees you.

not like a moment. not like an entrance.

more like you were already part of the landscape and he just finally looked long enough to notice.

you’re standing at the start of the field where everything turns overgrown too fast to feel normal. corn too tall for the season. air too still for how far out you are. a white dress that doesn’t move the way fabric should in windless heat.

you don’t look like you’re waiting.

you don’t look like you’re lost.

you look like you belong to something older than the field and don’t care if anyone understands that.

hollis doesn’t say anything at first. nobody else is even looking in your direction.

his friends are behind him, half-laughing about something that doesn’t matter enough to repeat. one of them has a shovel resting against his shoulder like it’s just another accessory to a normal afternoon.

hollis looks back at them once, then at you again.

“you see that?” he asks.

“see what?” his friend says without turning fully.

hollis gestures toward the field.

his friend squints, annoyed more than curious. “there’s nothing there.”

no hesitation.

no second thought.

just fact.

but you’re still there.

and when hollis looks back again, you turn your head.

slow. like the air is heavier where you are and it takes effort to move through it.

your eyes pass over him like he’s not the point of anything, like noticing him is incidental. not kind. not unkind. just unnecessary.

then you start walking.

not toward anything he can identify. not away from anything either. just continuing, like standing still was never meant to last.

and the strange part is how quickly the world tries to correct itself after that. like it doesn’t want to admit anything was added to the frame.

his friends are still talking. same rhythm. same volume. same nothing.

“what are you even looking at?” one of them asks eventually.

hollis opens his mouth, then closes it again.

because saying it out loud feels like it would make it smaller.

or worse—make it disappear faster.

“nothing,” he says.

and it lands easier than the truth would have.

later, on the walk back, nobody brings it up again. like the world agreed to drop it.

like it never had to decide whether you were real.

that night, hollis tries to remember you the way you looked standing still.

but the more he focuses, the less the memory behaves.

not your face.

not your shape.

just the space you occupied—like the air around you was slightly out of sync with everything else.

and it leaves him with the quiet thought he can’t quite name yet:

that in a place like this, things don’t usually vanish.

they just wait for you to stop paying attention before they change shape.

[lenteheure]

tonic bar regular

hollis frazier-herndon x erewhon!fem!worker

summary: a guy keeps showing up at your job without ever actually ordering anything, just excuses and too much time spent at your counter.

word count: ~920 words

authors note: tbf i don’t even really like erewhon but this little blurb is soso cute, anyway feedback is always welcome and actually needed so pls don’t be shy, but nonetheless profitez bien, mes angels

you work the tonic bar at erewhon.

it’s not as bad as people think. the drinks are overpriced, yeah, but the job’s easy enough. you blend, you pour, you smile, you call out names that sound like they came from pinterest boards.

and sometimes celebrities come in.

not too big of a deal. they usually grab something expensive, take a few pictures, maybe tip, maybe not. in and out.

you don’t really care anymore.

—

until him.

—

you don’t recognize him at first.

just another guy walking in like he knows people are looking at him. blonde hair tied back, something dark and sheer layered over his frame like he doesn’t care if it draws attention.

it does.

someone stops him near the entrance. quick picture, quick smile.

then he’s walking toward the tonic bar.

toward you.

—

you almost mess up an order.

it’s subtle, but you notice it. the way your hand pauses mid-reach, the way you double-check the label like you suddenly forgot how to read.

he notices too.

“busy?” he asks.

his voice is calm. a little amused.

you don’t look up right away. “always.”

“good,” he says. “means you’re good at it.”

—

you glance at him then.

just for a second.

he’s already looking at you.

—

“what can i get you?” you ask, professional.

he leans slightly against the counter, like he’s not in a rush.

“don’t know yet.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you came up here without knowing what you want?”

“i had an idea,” he says. “just forgot it when i got here.”

—

you don’t smile.

but you almost do.

—

you start wiping down the counter instead, waiting.

he doesn’t leave.

—

“what’s your name?” he asks.

you say it without thinking.

he repeats it back, slower.

“that’s cute.”

you blink at him. “you say that to everyone?”

“no.”

he tilts his head slightly. “just you.”

—

you finally let yourself smile, just a little.

“you still haven’t ordered.”

“right.”

a pause.

“so what would you pick?”

—

you tell him something random. something overpriced. something people only order because it looks good on camera.

he nods like it matters.

“sounds fine,” he says.

you wait for confirmation.

he doesn’t give it.

—

“so is that a yes?” you ask.

“not really,” he says. “i just wanted to stand here a little longer.”

you stare at him for a second.

“that’s not how this works.”

“it is today.”

—

he doesn’t move.

you sigh, but it’s not annoyed.

“you’re wasting my time.”

“you don’t look that busy.”

“i am.”

“then i’ll be quick.”

he leans in slightly.

not too much.

just enough.

“you’ve got really pretty eyes,” he says.

—

you pause.

recover.

“you don’t even know me.”

“i do,” he says. “you just don’t know i do yet.”

"oookay then,"

you turn to grab a cup.

“anything else?”

“no.”

—

and then he leaves.

—

no drink.

no receipt.

nothing.

—

you stand there a second longer than you should.

then go back to work.

like it didn’t happen.

but it does happen again.

and again.

—

until it stops feeling like chance.

—

“you don’t even like this place,” you say one afternoon when he shows up again.

he leans on the counter like he owns the time.

“i like it fine.”

“you’ve never ordered anything.”

“i’m not really here for that.”

—

you glance at him. “then what are you here for.”

he doesn’t answer right away.

just looks at you like the question was always obvious.

—

“whatever you’re making,” he says.

—

you shake your head slightly.

“that’s still not an order.”

“doesn’t need to be.”

—

you study him for a second.

then turn back to the blender.

“you’re weird,” you say.

—

he shrugs.

“you know you like it.”

[lenteheure]

i think you knew

nerd!nate subbiondo x sorority!plug!fem!reader

summary: a college party starts like any other—loud, crowded, easy to get lost in—but shifts when two people keep finding themselves in quieter spaces than the rest of the night. what begins as routine turns into something harder to ignore, even if neither of them says it out loud.

word count: ~4,238

authors note: soso i really really like this one and i hope you guys do too & im going to start writing for hollis very very soon btw, as always, feedback is always welcome and actually needed so don’t be shy but nonetheless profitez bien, mes angels.

you pace around the living room for the third time in ten minutes.

it’s already set up.

lights strung across the ceiling, bottles lined up on the counter, speakers tested twice, pong table ready—everything exactly how delta gamma parties are supposed to look.

loud. easy. full.

you told your president you’d host tonight.

now you kind of wish you didn’t.

your eyes flick back to the bottles.

then to your bag sitting half-zipped on the counter.

you hesitate for a second.

how much of your supply are you actually about to let random people touch… for free?

you exhale, quick, shaking the thought off like it doesn’t matter.

it’ll work itself out.

it always does.

—

your room is quieter.

music low, something soft playing off your speaker while you sit at your vanity, fixing your makeup like it’s any other night.

it almost feels normal.

almost.

the door opens without a knock.

you glance up in the mirror.

nate.

he lingers in the doorway like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to be there.

which—he kind of isn’t.

but he always shows up anyway.

you’ve known him for a while now.

statistics class. a few rows ahead. always answering questions no one else understands.

quiet. smart. keeps to himself.

the first time he talked to you was at a sigma nu party—voice low, awkward, asking if what he heard was true.

that you sold.

he could barely get the words out.

you remember laughing a little.

not in a mean way. just—

he didn’t look like someone who’d be asking you that.

but he came back.

again and again.

always the same thing.

always quick. quiet. no small talk unless you start it.

—

he shifts slightly in the doorway now, like he’s debating stepping in or not.

someone must’ve let him up.

your sisters all think he’s your boyfriend.

you’ve never corrected them.

well maybe once or twice

it’s easier that way.

you turn in your chair, giving him a quick once-over.

gray zip-up hoodie. unzipped just enough to show there’s nothing underneath.

jeans. simple.

he looks like he threw it on without thinking.

his hair falls into his face while he rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking up to you for a second before dropping again.

you lean back against your vanity, arms loosely crossed.

“you’re early,” you say.

he shrugs a little.

“you said before it starts.”

his voice is low. careful.

like he doesn’t want anyone else hearing, even though it’s just you.

you watch him for a second.

he still hasn’t fully stepped into the room.

“door’s not gonna bite you,” you add.

that gets him to move, finally stepping inside and closing it behind him.

quiet again.

“i’m here for my usual,” he says, glancing at you like you might say no. “you said i could swing by.”

you tilt your head slightly, studying him.

he looks the same as always.

a little tense.

a little out of place.

but still here.

you push off the vanity slowly.

“yeah,” you say. “i remember.

you walk toward him, close enough to notice the way he shifts slightly, like he’s not used to being that close to you.

or maybe he is.

he just acts like he isn’t.

you stop just a little too close to him.

not enough to be obvious.

just enough that he notices.

he straightens slightly, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

you do.

you notice everything.

“your usual,” you repeat, like you’re thinking about it.

“you ever switch it up or…?”

he huffs quietly, almost defensive. “it works.”

you glance up at him, a small smile pulling at your lips.

“right. wouldn’t wanna take risks.”

he shifts again, rubbing the back of his neck.

“i mean—no, i just—”

he stops, like he hears himself.

you let the silence sit for a second.

just to make it worse.

“you just what?” you press, softer now.

his eyes flick to yours for half a second, then away.

“nothing.”

you hum like you don’t believe him.

“you’re bad at this, you know that?”

that gets a reaction.

his brows pull slightly. “at what?”

you tilt your head, stepping around him slowly, like you’re circling the conversation instead of answering it.

“talking to me.”

he lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh but not really.

“i’m talking to you right now.”

“barely,” you say.

you walk back.

you reach your vanity again, opening a drawer like you’re not paying attention anymore—even though you are.

he watches you.

you can feel it.

“you only talk when you need something.”

you glance at him through the mirror.

“kinda rude.”

he shakes his head slightly. “that’s not—”

he stops again.

you wait.

he doesn’t finish.

you smile to yourself, pulling something out but not turning around yet.

“so you do talk more?” you say, casual. “or is this all i get?”

he exhales, this time actually letting out a small laugh.

“you’re doing that on purpose.”

you turn now, leaning back against the vanity again.

“doing what?”

he looks at you like you already know.

you do.

he hesitates, then—

“making it weird.”

you grin slightly. “i think you’re doing that yourself.”

that lands.

he looks down for a second, shaking his head under his breath.

“i’m just here to—”

“get your usual,” you finish for him.

he nods, relieved you didn’t drag that out longer.

you take a step closer again, holding it out—but not giving it to him yet.

“you know,” you say, quieter now, “you’re a lot less nervous than the first time.”

his eyes flick up.

“i wasn’t nervous.”

you raise a brow.

he pauses.

“…okay, maybe a little.”

you let out a soft laugh.

“you could barely look at me.”

“you were talking loud,” he mutters. “about prices.”

“ohh,” you nod slowly. “so that’s what it was.”

he doesn’t answer.

he just looks at you like he knows you’re not gonna let it go.

he notices that too.

of course he does.

“you’re still kinda bad at eye contact, though,” you add lightly.

he scoffs under his breath, but there’s a hint of a smile now.

“i’m fine.”

“yeah?” you lean in just slightly. “look at me then.”

he does.

for a second.

two.

then looks away again.

you smile, satisfied.

“thought so.”

—

you let the silence sit for a second.

not awkward.

just… stretched.

he’s still holding your gaze for half a beat longer this time before it drops again, like he caught himself.

you don’t say anything about it.

just watch him.

then you glance down at what’s still in your hand.

“you always this impatient?” you ask lightly.

he looks at it, then back at you. “you’re the one holding it.”

“yeah,” you shrug. “and you’re still here.”

that almost gets a smile out of him.

almost.

you step a little closer again, closing the space just enough to make it noticeable.

this time you don’t pull it back.

you hold it out.

he reaches for it, slower than before.

like he’s thinking about it now.

your fingers brush his —soft, quick—

but you don’t let go right away.

just a second too long.

long enough for him to notice.

long enough for him to hesitate.

then you let go.

he clears his throat quietly, looking down at it for a second like he needs something to focus on.

“thanks,” he mutters.

“mhm.”

he tucks it away, movements a little more careful than they need to be.

like he’s buying himself time.

you tilt your head slightly.

“you gonna leave right after?” you ask.

he pauses.

just for a second.

“i mean… i don’t have to.”

you nod slowly, like you expected that answer.

“there’s a party,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward downstairs. “in case you didn’t notice.”

he huffs a quiet breath. “kinda hard not to.”

“you could stay,” you add, casual. “if you want.”

you don’t look at him right away when you say it.

like it doesn’t matter.

like you’re just throwing it out there.

it hangs for a second.

he shifts his weight slightly.

“i don’t really—” he starts, then stops.

you glance at him. “don’t really what?”

“parties,” he says. “not really my thing.”

you nod once, like you get it.

you do.

but still—

“you came to one when you met me.”

he looks at you again.

“…yeah.”

“and you survived,” you add.

that pulls a small smile from him, quick but real

“you don’t have to stay long,” you say. “just… don’t disappear right away.”

the wording is light.

but it lands heavier than that.

he notices.

you can tell.

there’s a pause.

then he nods once.

“i’ll stay. for a bit.”

you smile, small.

like that’s enough.

“good.”

from downstairs, the music gets louder.

voices starting to build.

the party’s actually starting now.

you glance toward the door, then back at him.

“try not to look so out of place,” you add, teasing again.

he shakes his head, a quiet laugh slipping out.

“no promises.”

“figured.”

you move past him toward the door, brushing his shoulder lightly as you go.

you don’t look back.

but you know he’s still standing there for a second before following.

—

by the time you get downstairs, the party’s already started.

not slow, not easing into it—

just loud.

music heavy, bass shaking through the floor, people packed into the living room like it’s been going for hours already.

you barely pause.

this part is easy for you.

someone grabs your arm the second you step off the last stair.

“you finally came down,” one of your sisters laughs, already a little gone, red cup in hand.

you smile, quick, slipping right into it.

“had to make an entrance.”

she laughs again, pulling you into a quick side hug before getting distracted by something else.

you’re already moving.

talking, smiling, grabbing a drink without really thinking about it.

it’s automatic.

like you never left.

—

nate doesn’t follow as easily.

he lingers near the bottom of the stairs at first, taking everything in like it’s too much all at once.

which it probably is.

people brush past him without noticing, music too loud for anything to feel grounded.

he stays off to the side.

hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly tense.

watching.

mostly watching you.

—

you catch it eventually.

not right away.

but after a few minutes—mid-conversation, laughing at something someone says—you glance across the room and there he is.

exactly where you left him.

you excuse yourself without thinking too hard about it.

slipping through people, past bodies and noise, until you’re standing in front of him again.

“you look uncomfortable,” you say.

he lets out a quiet breath, like he’s been holding it.

“i told you this wasn’t my thing.”

“yeah,” you nod.

he glances at you.

“…yeah.”

you tilt your head slightly, studying him.

“c’mon,” you say, grabbing his wrist before he can react.

he stiffens for half a second—just surprised—but doesn’t pull away.

you lead him further into the room.

“you can’t just stand in the corner all night. that’s weird.”

“this is already weird,” he mutters.

you laugh lightly.

“you’ll be fine.”

—

it doesn’t take long for people to notice.

it never does.

especially when you’re the one pulling him through the crowd.

a couple of your sisters glance over, exchanging looks you don’t miss.

one of them leans toward another, whispering something with a small smile.

you ignore it.

mostly.

until—

“wait,” someone says as you pass. “is that your boyfriend?”

you don’t stop walking.

“no.”

too quick.

too easy.

but it doesn’t matter.

they’re already smiling like they don’t believe you.

—

you finally stop near the kitchen, letting go of his wrist.

he looks at you.

then at the people around you.

then back at you.

“they think i’m your boyfriend,” he says.

you shrug, reaching for a drink on the counter.

“they think a lot of things.”

he watches you for a second.

“do you correct them?”

you take a sip, then glance at him.

“sometimes.”

there’s a beat.

you just set your cup down, leaning back against the counter like this is nothing.

like this is normal.

he shifts slightly closer, still not fully relaxed but less stiff than before.

“you do this every weekend?” he asks.

“pretty much.”

he nods slowly, taking it in again—but this time it’s different.

less overwhelmed.

more… curious.

his eyes flick back to you.

“you look like you belong here.”

you raise a brow.

“i do.”

he nods again.

“…yeah.”

there’s something in the way he says it.

not teasing.

not awkward.

just honest.

and it sits there for a second longer than anything else has tonight.

it doesn’t take long for it to get too much.

the music gets louder.

people closer.

you get pulled into conversations, handed another drink, then another—laughing, moving, slipping further into it like it’s second nature.

nate doesn’t.

he stays near you at first.

then a little behind.

then off to the side again.

you don’t notice right away.

—

until you turn to say something and he’s not there.

you scan the room once.

twice.

then you spot him near the hallway, shoulders tight, already halfway out of the crowd like he’s been trying to leave without making it obvious.

you sigh quietly to yourself, setting your cup down.

“hold on,” you say to no one in particular, already moving.

—

you catch up to him just as he reaches the back door.

“you’re disappearing already?” you say.

he glances at you, a little caught.

“i was just—getting some air.”

“mm,” you hum, not fully buying it.

you push the door open before he can say anything else.

cool air hits instantly.

quieter out here. not silent, but enough that you can actually think.

you step onto the porch, leaning lightly against the railing.

he follows, closing the door behind him.

for a second, neither of you says anything.

you can still hear the music through the walls, muffled now, distant.

he exhales, running a hand through his hair.

“sorry,” he mutters. “it’s just a lot.”

you glance at him.

he looks more like himself out here.

less tense. less… out of place.

“you don’t have to apologize,” you say. “i dragged you into it.”

“you didn’t drag me,” he says. “i said i’d stay.”

“yeah,” you tilt your head slightly. “you did.”

a small pause.

you watch him for a second.

then, like it just crosses your mind—

“you haven’t paid me yet.”

he looks at you, blinking once.

“…seriously?”

you shrug, lips curving slightly.

“what? business is business.”

he lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“you waited this long to say that?”

“i was busy,” you say. “hosting.”

he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone.

“how much was it again?”

you don’t answer right away.

just watch him for a second longer than necessary.

“you don’t remember?” you ask.

he pauses, glancing up at you.

“…i do. i just wanted to make sure you didn’t change it.”

you smile a little at that.

“i don’t do that.”

“you literally just said ‘business is business,’” he points out.

“yeah,” you nod. “not bad business.”

that gets another small laugh out of him.

quieter this time.

he looks back down at his phone, unlocking it.

you push off the railing slightly, stepping closer—not all the way, just enough.

“it’s the same,” you say finally.

he nods, typing it in.

you watch the screen light reflect off his face for a second before your phone buzzes in your hand.

you don’t check it right away.

just look at him.

“you always this serious about it?” he asks.

“about getting paid?” you say. “yeah.”

he glances up again.

“figured.”

you check your phone now. the payment’s there.

“good,” you say, slipping it back into your pocket.

another pause.

but this one feels different.

less transactional.

more… lingering.

you lean back against the railing again.

“you okay now?” you ask.

he nods once. “yeah. it’s better out here.”

you look toward the door, then back at him.

“you don’t have to go back in,” you say.

he studies your face for a second.

“you do,” he says.

you shrug slightly. “i always do.”

that sits between you.

quiet.

the music thumps faintly behind the door.

people, noise, everything waiting on the other side.

but neither of you moves yet.

the door swings open behind you.

music spills out louder for a second, voices overlapping.

“there you are,” one of your sisters says, already halfway through a sentence before she even fully sees who you’re with.

her eyes flick between you and nate.

pause.

a small smile.

“oh,” she says, dragging it out slightly. “my bad.”

you don’t move away from him.

don’t explain.

she looks between you again, clearly reading into it.

“we need you inside,” she adds, like she suddenly remembers. “someone’s asking for you. like—really asking.”

you sigh softly, glancing toward the door, then back at nate.

the moment’s gone now.

or at least… paused.

“of course i'll be in soon,” you say.

she just grins and slips back inside, leaving the door half open before it swings shut again.

quieter.

but not the same as before.

you look back at him.

you glance at nate.

“give me a minute,” you say, already stepping back.

he nods. “yeah.”

you pause mid-step, looking at him again.

“don’t disappear.”

he huffs out a quiet laugh this time, shaking his head.

“i won’t.”

“okay. good.”

you hold his gaze for a second.

then turn, pushing the door open and stepping back into the noise.

it takes longer than a second.

of course it does.

someone stops you the second you walk in.

then someone else.

music louder again, lights too bright, everything pulling you back into it like you never left.

you move through it automatically—talking, nodding, laughing when you’re supposed to—

but your attention isn’t fully there anymore.

not really.

—

when you finally slip back outside, the air feels different.

quieter again.

you spot him right away.

same place.

exactly where you left him.

you walk back over, slower this time.

“see,” you say lightly, “you didn’t disappear.”

he glances at you.

“told you.”

you lean back against the railing again, closer this time without thinking about it.

“you doing okay out here on your own?” you ask.

“yeah,” he says. “it’s better.”

you nod, watching him for a second longer than necessary.

then—

“you don’t act like this with everyone, right?” he asks.

you tilt your head. “like what?”

he gestures vaguely between you. “this.”

you smile slightly.

“you don’t act like this with everyone either.”

that shuts him up for a second.

you both know it’s true.

the space between you feels smaller now.

not physically.

just… different.

like something’s about to happen or be said.

he shifts slightly closer without realizing it.

“you’re kinda—” he starts.

and then stops.

you wait.

he doesn’t finish.

“kinda what?” you ask, softer.

he shakes his head, looking away again. “nothing.”

you smile a little.

“you do that a lot.”

“yeah,” he mutters. “i know.”

another pause.

longer this time.

you could say something.

you don’t.

neither does he.

and it just—

hangs there.

right on the edge of something.

you look at him for a second longer.

then exhale, glancing away.

“you wanna just—”

you stop, like you’re deciding how to say it.

“we could go upstairs,” you add, more casual now. “it’s quieter.”

a small pause.

you nod toward the house. “my room.”

he looks at you.

really looks this time.

like he knows that’s not just about it being quieter.

“…yeah,” he says.

not hesitant.

just… quieter than before.

you nod once, like that settles it.

“okay.”

you push off the railing, brushing past him lightly as you reach for the door.

“c’mon.”

you push the door open, the noise hitting you again for a split second before you slip back inside.

he’s right next to you this time.

closer than before.

you don’t stop in the living room.

don’t get pulled into anything.

you just move.

past people, past voices calling your name, past hands reaching out—

“wait—where are you going?” someone laughs, grabbing at your arm for a second.

“upstairs,” you say, already pulling away. “i’ll be back.”

you don’t wait for a response.

you can feel him keeping up next to you, not saying anything, just following.

—

your room is the same as before.

quiet.

dim.

like the party doesn’t exist.

you shut the door behind you, leaning against it for a second like you’re letting the silence settle.

he lingers a few steps in.

same spot as earlier.

like he hasn’t decided what to do with himself yet.

you glance at him, a small smile pulling at your lips.

“you can sit,” you say.

he nods slightly, moving this time—sitting at the edge of your bed, hands resting loosely like he’s trying not to touch anything.

you push off the door, crossing the room.

sitting back at your vanity.

“relax,” you add. “it’s not that serious.”

“i am relaxed,” he says.

you raise a brow.

he exhales, glancing away.

“…i’m trying to be.”

that makes you smile a little more.

you sit up and move around your room like it’s routine—because it is.

drawer. bag. lighter.

everything where you left it.

he watches you.

again.

you can feel it without looking.

“you always this quiet?” you ask, not turning around yet.

“you always ask that many questions?” he shoots back.

you glance at him over your shoulder, a hint of a grin.

“only when people don’t talk.”

he shakes his head slightly, but there’s something softer in it now.

less tense.

you finally turn fully, stepping closer.

“you don’t have to act weird in here,” you say. “it’s just me.”

he looks at you.

“i’m not acting weird.”

“you are,” you say simply.

a small pause.

then—

“…okay, maybe a little.”

you laugh under your breath.

“thought so.”

you sit down beside him, not too close at first.

just enough.

“better than outside?” you ask.

he nods once.

“yeah.”

his voice is quieter again.

not shut off.

just… lower.

like he doesn’t feel the need to compete with anything in here.

you lean back slightly on your hands, looking at him instead of the room now.

“you almost left,” you say.

he glances at you.

“…i didn’t.”

“mm,” you hum. “but you were going to.”

he doesn’t answer right away.

then—

“it was a lot,” he says.

you nod.

“i know.”

a small pause.

“you didn’t have to stay,” you add.

he looks at you again.

“…i wanted to.”

that lands.

you don’t react right away.

just hold his gaze for a second longer than usual.

“yeah?” you say, quieter now.

he nods.

“yeah.”

the room feels smaller again.

like outside.

but different.

more contained.

you shift slightly closer without really thinking about it.

“you’re not as boring as i thought,” you say.

he lets out a quiet laugh. “you thought i was boring?”

“you sit in the front of a stats class,” you shrug. “what was i supposed to think?”

“that i’m smart,” he says.

you smile a little. “that too.”

he shakes his head, looking down for a second.

then back at you.

“you’re not what i thought either.”

you tilt your head.

“what did you think?”

he hesitates.

of course he does.

you wait.

“…different,” he says finally.

you smile slightly.

“that’s not an answer.”

you watch him.

it’s the only one i’ve got.”

—

silence settles again.

but it’s not empty.

it’s full in a way that makes everything feel slower.

you shift slightly closer again without really meaning to.

or maybe you do.

it’s hard to tell anymore.

his gaze drops for a second—just briefly—then comes back up.

like he noticed something he wasn’t supposed to.

you don’t move away.

you don’t move at all, actually.

“you’re doing that thing again,” you say quietly.

“what thing?”

your voice softens a little.

“thinking too much.”

that gets something out of him—not a laugh, not exactly—but a small breath that almost is.

he leans in a fraction.

not enough to be obvious.

enough that it changes the air between you.

you notice it immediately.

you don’t stop it.

he doesn’t either.

for a second, neither of you speaks.

just the space closing slowly, like it was always going to.

his eyes flick to your mouth.

just once.

then back up.

you notice that too.

and for a second—just a second you think he might actually—

laughter. footsteps. someone calling your name.

the moment snaps in half almost immediately.

you both pull back slightly at the same time without acknowledging it.

like nothing happened.

like it wasn’t there.

a beat passes.

he looks away first.

you stand up slowly.

“i should go check that,” you say, like your voice didn’t just change. “i’ll be right back.”

he nods once.

“yeah.”

another pause.

he stays seated.

you don’t look back too long.

but you can feel it still sitting there when you leave the room.

he stays seated after the door closes.

quiet settles back in, but it doesn’t feel the same anymore.

he exhales through his nose, almost a laugh.

rubs his palms once against his jeans.

“…yes.”

his hand tightens into a fist for a second before relaxing again.

[lenteheure]

soulmates

part iii

gunner shepardson(nettspend) x fem!reader

summary: a leaked clip of you and gunner spreads online, and suddenly a private moment isn’t private anymore. the next morning feels off in a way you can’t ignore.

what follows is a tense exchange that blurs what was real, what was said, and what everyone else thinks they saw.

word count: 1,931

authors note: hi guys, i really enjoyed writing this part. unfortunately, it’s kind of a filler chapter, so it’s a bit short, but i promise part four will be much more interesting and longer, so don’t hate me. also, if you want to be added to the taglist, don’t be afraid to comment or message me!! anyway hope you all enjoy this little continuation of soulmates. as always, feedback is always welcome and actually needed so don’t be shy but nonetheless profitez bien, mes angels.

p.s, ik these photos kinda suck it’s because i got lazy, i’ll change it later

morning feels quieter.

too quiet.

your room’s still dim, curtains barely letting anything in—the kind of light that makes everything feel slower than it should.

your phone’s already in your hand before you’re fully awake.

you don’t remember grabbing it.

you just did.

your notifications are worse now.

way worse.

you stare at the number for a second.

then open it anyway.

—

@popwatchdaily: so there’s a clip circulating from outside last night’s venue showing rapper nettspend and a supposed ex in what looks like a pretty heated argument

video is silent. car is parked for a few minutes. no audio context, just visible tension, heavy gestures, and a vibe people are already running wild with

later footage appears to show the passenger door opening a few blocks down, with her getting out and walking off alone while he drives away shortly after

attached: 2 videos

—

you click it.

the video loads.

no sound.

just the two of you.

him in the driver’s seat.

you standing outside the car, saying something no one can hear.

your own face looks unfamiliar like that.

sharper.

colder.

not how it felt.

you exit.

scroll.

big mistake.

—

she look like she arguing w herself

didn’t he say they don’t even fw each other anymore???

why she walk off like that 😭

he better than me i would’ve left sooner

that’s embarrassing ngl

she doing too much

you frown.

“…do i walk funny?” you mutter.

like they can hear you.

you scroll.

—

they def still hooked on each other

this giving toxic exes

he could do sm better

lol she look crazy

you pause.

read that one again.

then keep scrolling anyway.

like it’s gonna get better.

it doesn’t.

—

your messages are worse.

people you barely talk to.

random numbers.

IS THIS YOU??

omg are you okay

girl what happened 😭

be so fr rn

—

you don’t answer any of them.

you open the video again.

watch it.

pause.

zoom in like that’ll change something.

it doesn’t.

you sigh, dragging a hand over your face.

“this is so—”

you don’t even finish it.

your phone buzzes again.

different this time.

not a notification.

a text.

you pause.

then open it.

—

gunner: you good?

—

you stare at it.

that’s it?

no “hey.”

no “about last night.”

just—

you good

you let out a small breath.

half disbelief.

half something else.

“of course,” you mutter.

you type something.

yeah im fine

you stare at it.

delete.

type again.

did you see—

delete.

your thumb hovers.

you read his message again.

like last night didn’t happen.

like none of it stuck.

you drop your phone back onto the bed.

turn over.

pull the pillow over your head.

like that’ll block it out.

—

your phone buzzes again.

probably him.

you don’t grab it.

—

you last maybe a minute.

then you sit up.

run a hand through your hair.

exhale.

“god, im hungry.”

your voice sounds rough.

you don’t even care.

—

the loft is quiet.

too clean.

too open.

sunlight’s starting to come through now, hitting the floor in long strips that make everything feel exposed.

you walk into the kitchen, opening cabinets without really looking.

nothing good.

of course.

you settle for something easy.

bare minimum.

cereal.

leaning against the counter while you eat like you’re not really there.

your phone buzzes again.

you glance at it this time.

same name.

you sigh.

pick it up.

—

gunner: you just not gonna answer?

another message.

right after.

gunner: i’m not on weird shit

you stare at the screen.

you scoff.

you set your phone back down.

take another bite.

try to ignore it.

—

buzz.

again.

you close your eyes for a second.

already annoyed.

you grab it.

—

gunner: did i do something or you just mad

—

you let out a short laugh.

no humor in it.

“oh my god.”

you type.

you’re serious?

pause.

delete.

type again.

you don’t see what the problem is?

you look at it.

then delete it.

your jaw tightens slightly.

you toss your phone onto the counter this time.

—

it buzzes again.

you don’t move.

—

another one.

longer this time before you grab it.

—

gunner: answer me

—

you let out a short breath.

not loud.

just enough.

you unlock your phone.

type.

stop.

delete.

type again.

—

you’re acting like nothing happened

—

you stare at it.

then hit send.

—

it shows delivered.

read.

almost immediately.

—

nothing.

—

you wait.

just for a second.

then set your phone down again.

this time you don’t pick it back up right away.

you just stand there, leaning against the counter, staring at nothing.

—

your phone buzzes.

you don’t reach for it right away.

just stand there for a second longer.

then you grab it.

—

gunner: i didn’t say nothing happened

—

you stare at it.

your expression doesn’t change.

—

gunner: you walked out

—

another one.

—

gunner: what u want me to say

—

you let out a quiet breath.

set your phone down.

pick it back up.

type.

stop.

delete.

type again.

—

you could’ve said anything

—

you hover over it.

then send.

—

read.

almost instantly.

—

typing…

stops.

typing again.

—

gunner: like what

—

you stare at that longer than you should.

because it’s such a simple question.

and somehow—

there’s too many answers.

and none of them at the same time.

you don’t type.

—

gunner: you the one that got out

—

that one lands.

you look away from your phone for a second.

jaw tight.

—

you type.

—

you drove off

—

send.

—

read.

a little slower this time.

—

no typing.

—

a minute passes.

maybe less.

feels longer.

—

your phone buzzes again.

—

gunner: u wanted me to chase you or something

—

you let out a small laugh.

this time there’s something in it.

not funny.

just—

frustrating.

you type faster this time.

don’t overthink it.

—

no

but you didn’t even try

—

send.

—

read.

—

typing…

stops.

typing again.

—

gunner: you always do that

—

you frown slightly.

—

gunner: make it something else

—

that shifts it.

just a little.

you stare at the screen.

thumb hovering again.

—

something else?

you don’t send it.

you already know what he means.

or at least—

you think you do.

—

you lock your phone.

set it down.

this time you actually walk away from it.

a few steps.

not far.

just enough.

—

it buzzes again.

you don’t turn back right away.

but you don’t leave either.

just standing there in your own kitchen.

quiet again.

but not the same quiet as before.

your phone buzzes again.

you don’t turn right away.

just stand there.

then—

you walk back.

slow.

like it doesn’t matter.

you pick it up.

—

gunner: so what now

—

you stare at it.

that question feels bigger than it should.

for a second, you almost don’t answer.

then—

you type.

—

what do you mean

—

send.

—

read.

—

typing…

—

gunner: idk

—

another one.

—

gunner: you mad or we just acting like we don’t talk again

—

you let out a quiet breath.

lean back against the counter.

your fingers hover over the screen.

—

you’re the one who said that

—

send.

—

read.

—

a pause this time.

longer.

then—

typing…

—

gunner: yeah

—

you wait.

—

gunner: doesn’t mean i meant it like that

—

you frown slightly.

—

then how did you mean it

—

send.

—

read.

—

typing…

stops.

typing again.

—

gunner: you know how it is

—

you stare at that.

“no,” you mutter.

you don’t.

or maybe you do.

you just don’t like it.

—

no i don’t

—

send.

—

read.

—

another pause.

—

gunner: i can’t be saying allat on camera

—

you exhale slowly.

look away from your phone for a second.

then back down.

—

so you just say nothing?

—

send.

—

read.

—

typing…

—

gunner: i said enough

—

you let out a short laugh.

there it is.

—

you didn’t say anything

—

send.

—

read.

—

typing…

stops.

—

gunner: you came though

—

that throws you off a little.

your expression shifts.

just slightly.

—

gunner: i asked you to come and you did

—

you don’t answer right away.

—

yeah

—

send.

—

read.

—

typing…

—

gunner: so why u acting like i don’t care

—

you stare at that.

longer than everything else.

your grip on your phone tightens just a little.

—

because you act like you don’t

—

send.

—

read.

—

no typing.

—

a few seconds pass.

then—

your phone starts ringing.

—

his name.

calling.

—

you just look at it.

don’t move.

it rings.

and rings.

and rings.

—

you decline it.

—

immediately—

buzz.

—

gunner: don’t do that

—

another one.

—

gunner: just answer

—

you stare at the screen.

then hit call.

—

it rings once.

twice.

he picks up.

—

“what?” you say.

your voice is flat.

quieter than you expected.

there’s a pause on the other end.

like he didn’t expect you to call back that fast.

then—

“…you good?” he says again.

you close your eyes for a second.

“you already asked me that.”

“yeah,” he says. “you didn’t answer.”

you let out a breath.

leaning your head back against the wall.

“what do you want me to say?”

a pause.

you can hear something faint on his end.

movement.

maybe a door.

“i don’t know,” he says. “you’re acting weird.”

you laugh.

this time it’s clearer.

“i’m acting weird?”

“yeah.”

you shake your head slightly, even though he can’t see it.

“okay.”

silence.

not empty.

just… tight.

he exhales.

“you left.”

you open your eyes.

“you drove off.”

“you got out,” he says.

“because you weren’t saying anything,” you shoot back.

“what was i supposed to say?” he says, a little sharper now. “you were already—”

he cuts himself off.

you catch that.

“already what?” you ask.

he doesn’t answer.

just a quiet exhale.

that’s worse.

you look away, jaw tightening.

“exactly,” you mutter.

“it’s not like that,” he says.

“then what is it like?”

another pause.

longer.

he doesn’t have a quick answer this time.

and you can tell.

“…i don’t know,” he says finally.

honest.

frustrating.

you let out a slow breath.

“right.”

silence again.

you can hear him shift on the other end.

like he’s pacing.

or standing still.

you can’t tell.

“you still at your place?” he asks.

you frown slightly.

“…why?”

“just asking.”

you don’t answer right away.

you already know where that’s going.

he waits.

doesn’t push this time.

just—

waits.

the quiet stretches again.

—

“yeah,” you say finally.

another pause.

then—

“aight,” he says.

like he’s decided something.

“i’m gonna come over.”

your grip tightens slightly on your phone.

“…what?”

“i’m not doing this over text,” he says. “or like this.”

you hesitate.

this is exactly what you didn’t want.

and also—

exactly what you did.

“…gunner—”

“i’ll be there in like ten,” he cuts in.

you go quiet.

because you know that tone.

he’s already moving.

already decided.

“don’t leave,” he adds.

softer.

then—

the line goes dead.

—

you stare at your phone.

for a second.

two.

then you look up.

at your apartment.

the light.

the mess you didn’t notice before.

your reflection faint in the window.

—

“…oh my god,” you mutter.

not dramatic.

just

realizing.

@lattetwirll @honeyperched @sweet2sin @y-yasminn

[lenteheure]

masterlist

hollis frazier-herndon

tonic bar regular

if you were looking

afterparty

backstage

nathan subbiondo

i think you knew

roman leal

forgive us our impulses

gunner shepardson

soulmates(part i)

soulmates(part ii)

soulmates(part iii)

soulmates(part iiii)

haymitch abernathy

what stays, what burns(part one)

what stays, what burns(part two)

what stays, what burns(part three)

[lenteheure]

soulmates

part ii

gunner shepardson(nettspend) x fem!reader

summary: whatever was said clearly didn’t end there. it spills into silence, into distance, into a ride that goes nowhere emotionally even as the car keeps moving. a few blocks later she gets out mid-conversation, and keeps walking like it was already decided.

he drives off anyway.

word count: 1,500–1,800 words

authors note: soooo i wasn’t planning on posting a part two but i kept getting a lot of questions about it, so here we are. also i’ve never really done a taglist before, so if you want to be a part of that just comment or message me and i’ll add you in for future posts anyway hope you all enjoy this little continuation of soulmates. as always, feedback is always welcome and actually needed so don’t be shy but nonetheless profitez bien, mes angels.

p.s, i don't know how to link part one on here so just go to my blog to find it srry

your phone buzzes again.

and again.

and again.

you don’t even have to look to know what it is.

you already saw the post.

the blurry photo. the angle. the replies stacking faster than you can read them.

you still look anyway.

mistake.

who is that with him??

wait isn’t that his ex

which one is this now

she’s so chopped oml

bro pulled up w her again???

you lock your phone.

too fast.

like that’ll stop it.

it doesn’t.

—

the car is quieter than you expected.

not silent—music low, something playing under everything—but quiet enough that you can hear yourself think.

which is worse.

he’s driving.

one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console, tapping lightly to the beat like nothing’s changed.

like the internet isn’t already picking you apart.

you glance at him.

he hasn’t said anything about it.

not the post.

not the way people were looking when you left.

nothing.

you look back down at your phone.

it lights up again.

you don’t open it this time.

“you good?” he asks, not looking over.

his voice is casual.

too casual.

you hesitate.

“yeah,” you say.

it comes out just as easy.

just as fake.

he hums like he doesn’t fully believe it.

but he doesn’t push.

—

a red light.

the car slows, stops.

for a second, everything feels still.

you glance out the window.

then back at him.

“it’s already everywhere,” you say.

you don’t mean to.

it just comes out.

he glances over this time.

“what is?”

you give him a look.

he already knows.

you can tell he does.

your phone buzzes again in your hand.

you tilt it slightly, not fully showing him, just enough.

he looks.

quick.

then back at the road.

the light’s still red.

“…people talk,” he says.

you let out a quiet breath.

“that’s not just talking.”

he shrugs slightly.

“it’ll die down.”

you almost laugh.

almost.

“you know that’s not true.”

he doesn’t answer that.

because it isn’t.

the light turns green.

he starts driving again.

—

you watch the streetlights pass instead.

one after another.

fast.

blurry.

“you didn’t have to invite me,” you say after a second.

he frowns slightly, glancing over.

“what?”

“to the show,” you clarify. “or… after.”

your voice is quieter now.

less sharp.

“you could’ve just left it how it was.”

he exhales, shaking his head once.

“i wanted you there.”

simple.

no hesitation.

you look at him.

“…why?”

he’s quiet for a second.

long enough that you think he’s not gonna answer.

then—

“because you’ve been here,” he says.

you don’t respond.

he keeps going.

“before all of it.”

his grip on the wheel tightens slightly.

“figured you should be here now too.”

that lands heavier than you expect.

you look down at your phone again.

it buzzes.

you ignore it.

“doesn’t really look like that to everyone else,” you mutter.

he huffs quietly.

“since when do you care about that?”

you glance at him.

“since it’s my name too.”

that shuts him up.

for a second.

he nods slightly.

“…yeah.”

the car goes quiet again.

but not the same kind of quiet.

—

your phone buzzes again.

this time, he glances at it.

then at you.

“you gonna keep checking it?” he asks.

you hesitate.

then turn your phone over in your lap.

“no.”

a small pause.

“good,” he says.

you look at him.

“why?”

he shrugs.

“don’t need all that right now.”

you study him for a second.

“…you don’t care?”

he lets out a quiet breath.

“i care,” he says. “just not like that.”

you don’t fully get what he means.

but you don’t ask.

—

another red light.

slower this time.

longer.

you don’t look at your phone.

you look at him instead.

“so what is this then?” you ask.

it’s quiet.

but not light.

not teasing.

he glances over.

really looks at you this time.

like he’s trying to figure out the answer himself.

“…i don’t know,” he says.

honest.

you nod slightly.

“yeah.”

you look down again before you can stop yourself.

your phone lights up in your hand.

another notification.

then another.

you hesitate—

then open it.

just for a second.

you tell yourself that every time.

he notices.

of course he does.

you don’t even realize he’s watching until—

“seriously?” he says.

not loud.

just enough.

you glance up. “what?”

he looks back at the road, jaw tightening slightly.

“you just said you weren’t gonna check it.”

“i’m not,” you say quickly. “i just—”

you stop.

because you are.

he lets out a quiet breath, shaking his head.

“it’s not that deep,” you add, a little sharper now.

“clearly it is,” he mutters.

that hits.

you turn toward him fully.

“why do you care?”

he glances at you.

“i just said—”

“no, i know what you said,” you cut in. “i’m asking why it matters if i check my phone.”

he exhales through his nose, grip tightening slightly on the wheel.

“because you’re sitting here stressing about what random people are saying.”

“they’re not random,” you say. “they know who i am now.”

“so?” he says. “they don’t know you.”

you laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“that doesn’t stop them from talking.”

he shakes his head slightly.

“you’re letting it get to you.”

“because it does get to me,” you snap, then pause like you didn’t mean to raise your voice.

the car goes quiet for a second.

heavy.

he slows down a little.

not dramatically.

just enough.

“i’m not saying it shouldn’t,” he says, quieter now. “just—why are you feeding into it?”

you look at him.

“why are you acting like it doesn’t matter at all?”

he doesn’t answer right away.

and that’s your answer.

you lean back in your seat, looking out the window again.

“…can you just pull over for a second?” you say.

he glances at you. “for what?”

“just—pull over.”

a pause.

then he signals, turning onto a quieter street before stopping along the curb.

the engine stays running.

you don’t move at first.

then you reach for the handle.

he notices.

“what are you doing?” he asks.

you open the door anyway.

cool air hits immediately.

“i think this was a bad idea,” you say.

not loud.

just final.

he looks at you.

actually looks at you now.

“what—coming with me?”

you hesitate.

“…all of it.”

you step out before he can respond.

the door shuts harder than you meant it to.

the car idles behind you.

you don’t walk far.

just a few steps.

arms crossed, phone still in your hand like it started all of this.

for a second—

neither of you says anything.

the street’s quiet.

too quiet after everything.

behind you, the car idles.

you hear him shift.

then—

“fuck,” he mutters.

low.

frustrated.

a hand dragging over his face.

you don’t turn around.

you know he’s looking at you.

you can feel it.

a second passes.

then—

“yo—” he starts.

stops.

like he’s deciding what to say.

“c’mon,” he tries again, a little louder. “don’t do that.”

you don’t move.

that’s what does it.

he exhales sharply, leaning back in his seat.

another second.

then—

“baby, please” he calls, softer this time. “don’t… just walk off like that.”

you still don’t turn.

not fully.

just enough that he knows you heard him.

it’s quiet again.

for a second it almost feels like one of you will fix it.

neither of you does.

his grip tightens on the wheel.

“…whatever,” he mutters.

not to you.

to himself.

the car shifts.

pulls away.

not fast.

not dramatic.

—

you stand there for a second after.

watching the taillights disappear at the end of the street.

your phone buzzes again in your hand.

you don’t look at it this time.

you just turn—

and start walking the other way.

@popwatchdaily: so there’s a clip circulating from outside last night’s venue showing rapper nettspend and a supposed ex in what looks like a pretty heated argument

video is silent. car is parked for a few minutes. no audio context, just visible tension, heavy gestures, and a vibe people are already running wild with

later footage appears to show the passenger door opening a few blocks down, with her getting out and walking off alone while he drives away shortly after

attached: 2 videos

view 3,116,004 replies

@sweet2sin @y-yasminn

[lenteheure]

forgive us our impulses

churchboy!roman x atheist!fem!reader

summary: a summer job at a church camp puts you back around roman leal, who never really stopped believing in anything you walked away from. a bonfire, a cigarette, and a bad deal turn into a night neither of you fully know how to leave. some things don’t end when you stop talking.

word count: ~1,720 words

authors note: i honestly don’t know how i feel about this, but i hope you all enjoy it as much as i kind of do. it’s been sitting in my drafts for a while, but i finally decided to post it. as always, feedback is always welcome and actually needed so don’t be shy but nonetheless profitez bien, mes angels.

it was supposed to start as a summer job.

you thought it would be cute—going back to your hometown, working at the little café by the park, something simple, something temporary.

but every place needed applications a month in advance, and by the time you realized that, the only thing left open was the camp.

so now you’re here.

head counselor at a church-run summer camp.

despite being an atheist.

despite your mother holding a position high enough in the church that it feels less like a job and more like a legacy you never agreed to inherit.

it’s stupid.

you don’t belong here.

you don’t really belong anywhere here.

—

you’re not close with the other counselors.

not really.

you keep to yourself, they keep to theirs.

and then there’s roman leal.

same roman leal.

the one who used to be sixteen and way too eager to be good.

the one who snitched on you after catching you smoking behind the gym.

the one who, apparently, still thinks he’s saving people.

he wants to be a pastor.

of course he does.

—

tonight there’s a bonfire for the counselors.

you only go because silence is starting to feel worse than people.

you sit with them, talk about the city, about life outside of here.

one of them listens a little too closely.

like they’re already thinking about leaving.

you notice that.

roman notices you noticing it.

he’s been watching you all night.

not subtle.

not quiet.

just steady.

like you’re something he’s trying not to lose track of.

—

by the time people start drifting off, it’s just the two of you left by the fire.

you don’t plan it.

you just do it.

a cigarette between your lips, lit without ceremony.

you don’t offer it because you’re kind.

you offer it because you know he’ll say no.

he does.

—

“you know smoking isn’t allowed on camp grounds,” he says.

you exhale slowly.

“what are you gonna do? snitch on me again?”

his face changes immediately.

“i wasn’t snitching. i was trying to help you.”

you laugh once, humorless.

“that’s what you called it last time too.”

he ignores that.

he always does.

instead, he leans forward like the conversation is salvageable.

“there’s a group,” he says. “people our age. we meet every thursday at the church basement. it could be good for you—”

you cut him off.

“no.”

simple.

clean.

he doesn’t stop.

he never stops.

“you’ve been away a long time,” he says. “it might help you feel—connected again.”

you stare at him.

then shake your head slightly.

“roman. i don’t want to be connected to that.”

“you don’t know what you’re missing.”

“yes i do.”

you exhale smoke toward him on purpose this time.

he flinches slightly, but doesn’t move away.

“fuck off, roman. i’m not coming.”

there it is.

final.

you think that ends it.

it doesn’t.

“you could at least try to understand—”

“i do understand,” you cut in sharply. “i understand you want to fix people. i understand you think you’re right. i just don’t agree with you.”

he pauses.

like that one actually lands.

the silence between you stretches.

the fire crackles.

the lake behind you moves like it’s listening.

—

then he says it again.

so carefully it almost sounds rehearsed.

“there’s a group. just come once.”

you look at him for a long second.

then you smile a little.

not kind.

not soft.

something sharper.

“i’ll make you a deal.”

his brows lift slightly.

you continue.

“tomorrow morning. during communion. i’ll take part.”

he freezes.

you tilt your head.

“you can serve me. your little ritual. your whole thing.”

his eyes narrow slightly. “and?”

you nod toward the lake.

“and you come in the water with me. right now.”

he hesitates.

then—

he agreed almost immediately. too blinded with his need to revert you back.

“you got yourself a deal.”

—

you put the campfire out as well as the cigarette before walking to the shoreline of the lake. it’s darker now that the fire is gone, but the gracious moon and stars shed their light down to you two.

—

roman’s hand shoots out to stop yours as you start pulling off your shirt.

“what are you doing?” he asks, a little frantic, confused.

“roman,” you say slowly, trying to ignore how his hand feels on your skin, “we are skinny-dipping.”

roman just grumbles as an answer. he should have thought it through but he was blinded by his need to save you. god will forgive him for this.

—

roman doesn’t say anything, turning away from you to unbutton his shorts and take off his shirt. thoughts swirl in his head— not the first time he has seen a girl naked, but the first time he has seen you naked. he kicks off the last of his clothes, sandals, socks, boxers.

turning around, he sees you already knee deep in water.

when you look back at him and give him a waiting look, roman suddenly understands why adam let eve convince him to eat the apple, and why getting kicked out from the garden suddenly didn’t seem so bad.

—

he steps in slower than you.

like the water itself is something he has to earn forgiveness from.

you watch him for a second.

“you look like you’re about to repent,” you say.

“i might be,” he mutters.

you smile faintly and turn away, wading deeper.

“relax,” you say. “it’s just water.”

“it’s not the water,” he replies.

you glance back. “then what is it?”

he looks at you like the answer is obvious and unbearable at the same time.

“…everything else.”

you hum, like you’re deciding whether that matters.

then keep walking.

“you always think everything is about saving someone,” you say.

“it is my job,” he says immediately.

you laugh under your breath. “no one asked you to take that job.”

he follows you deeper.

slower now.

less certain.

and for the first time tonight—

he doesn’t have a verse ready to fix it.

[lenteheure]

soulmates

gunner shepardson(nettspend) x fem!reader

summary: he texted you like nothing ever happened. you showed up anyway. now you’re backstage at his show again, standing in the space between what you were and whatever you are now. when he asks you to leave with him after, you say yes without fully thinking it through. by the time the internet catches you both in the same frame outside the venue, it’s already too late to pretend it meant nothing.

word count: ~2,050 words

authors note: soooo i’m back again

i wrote this a while ago after i bought rolling loud & elc tickets soooo yeah.

i promise i’m going to make a part four to what stays, what burns it is literally just rotting in my drafts judging me at this point i just need to finish a few things and stop being lazy

um so about posting once a week…. don’t hold me to that. i love the idea of it though i really do

anywayyy enjoy this “little blurb” i wrote when i was on a nett rush lol.

feedback is always welcome and actually needed so don’t be shy

je vous adore, mes angels more than life

you and gunner were together for almost two years.

before any of this.

before shows, before people knew his name, before everything started moving too fast.

back when he was just some kid skipping class, always in trouble, making songs in his room that barely got any plays.

you were there for all of it.

you remember that room more than anything.

messy, loud, too small. clothes everywhere, ashtrays that never got emptied, holes in the wall he never fixed.

but it didn’t matter.

not when you were there.

he used to pull you into him like you were the only thing keeping him in place, mumbling into your neck, half-tired—

“we’re soulmates.”

like it was obvious.

like it couldn’t change.

you believed him.

you don’t really know when it started going wrong.

it wasn’t one thing.

just… more people, more attention, more noise.

girls you didn’t know saying his name like they knew him. comments, posts, things you wish you never read.

you started feeling out of place in something you were there for first.

so you pulled back.

stopped going to sessions. stopped answering calls.

stopped showing up.

he noticed.

he just didn’t say it the way you needed him to.

and eventually—

you left.

told yourself it was for the best.

that he needed someone who could handle all of it.

you couldn’t.

that was the part you didn’t say out loud.

—

you still kept up with him.

not on purpose.

just sometimes. late at night.

scrolling a little too far down his many different pages, past the new posts, past everything recent—

until it was you again.

old pictures. videos. things you forgot were even there.

you never liked them.

you just looked.

sometimes you’d see new girls around him and have to close the app for a minute.

like that would fix anything.

it didn’t.

—

interviews were worse.

“are you and y/n still together?”

he’d shrug.

look away.

“nah… we don’t talk like that no more. it’s whatever”

like it didn’t matter.

like you didn’t matter.

you’d replay that part more than you should.

—

then one night, your phone buzzes.

a dm.

you almost don’t open it.

almost.

it’s him.

“y/n?”

you stare at it for a second before clicking.

another message comes in right after.

“ik we not tg but u should come 2 a show or sum”

pause.

“you was there since the start. it’d mean sum fr”

you read it more than once.

it feels weird seeing him type like that again. like nothing happened.

like you didn’t leave.

your fingers hover over the screen.

you don’t answer.

you set your phone down, like that’ll help.

it doesn’t.

a minute later, it lights up again.

“u don’t gotta stay long”

“just thought i’d ask”

just.

you exhale slowly, staring at the ceiling.

you could ignore it.

you probably should.

it would be easier.

cleaner.

but your chest feels tight in that familiar way you’ve been trying to ignore for months.

and you hate that it still works.

that he still works.

you pick your phone back up.

stare at the messages one more time.

then—

“what show?”

you send it before you can change your mind.

the reply comes almost instantly.

like he’s been waiting.

“tonight”

“same place as before”

of course it is.

you sit there for a second, phone still in your hand.

you already know you’re going.

you just don’t want to admit it yet.

you don’t respond right away.

even after he answers.

you just stare at the messages, thumb hovering like you’re about to say something else—like you should.

you don’t.

“aight,” he sends after a minute.

like he’s not expecting anything more.

like he already knows how this goes.

you type, stop, then type again before you can think too hard about it.

“okay i’ll come”

you hesitate, then type again

“do i need tickets or”

you stare at it for a second.

it feels too normal.

like you didn’t leave.

like none of this is weird.

he replies fast.

“nah u good i got u”

another message right after.

“i’ll have someone at the front”

you don’t know why that makes your chest feel tight.

“okay,” you send.

simple.

that’s it.

he leaves you on seen.

you stare at that a second longer than you should.

then lock your phone.

—

you tell yourself you’re not gonna make it a big deal.

it’s just a show.

you’ve been to like a hundred of them before.

were they his? no.

but that’s not the point.

it shouldn’t feel like this.

but it does.

your room is too quiet while you’re getting ready. every little thing feels louder than it should—drawers opening, your phone lighting up, music playing too low to actually distract you.

you change once.

then again.

stand there for a second, staring at yourself like you’re trying to see what he’s gonna see.

you hate that thought.

you end up picking something simple. something easy.

something he’s probably seen before.

you don’t think too hard about that.

or try not to.

you grab your phone, hesitate for half a second then leave before you can talk yourself out of it.

you step inside.

same smell hits first. smoke, heat, something metallic in the air.

the sound is already there too—low bass shaking through the walls even before the set starts.

you follow the guy who finds you at the front without much question.

“he said to bring you backstage,” he says, like it’s normal.

you don’t ask anything else.

just go.

—

back here is quieter, but not in a comforting way.

more like everything is happening somewhere else and you’re just not part of it anymore.

people move fast past you, talking into headsets, adjusting wires, not really looking twice.

you’re led down a narrow hallway, past a curtain, and then—

he’s there.

not performing.

just standing off to the side like he’s in between things.

hoodie half on, mic in his hand, mid-conversation with someone who immediately steps away when you walk in.

his eyes land on you.

and stop.

“…you actually came,” he says.

like he didn’t fully believe it would happen.

you shrug slightly. “you told me to.”

a faint smile pulls at his mouth.

“yeah, but i didn’t think you’d actually listen.”

“you say a lot of things,” you say, before you can overthink it.

that gets a small laugh out of him.

short. real.

then it settles again.

not awkward exactly.

just… paused.

like neither of you knows what to do with the fact that you’re both standing here.

he nods toward the side of the stage.

“you good back here?”

“yeah, your guy?” you say. “he let me in at the front.”

“my guy?” he repeats, like that’s funny.

“he was waiting for me.”

he shakes his head a little. “i told him to just let you through, not act like you need an escort or some shit.”

you glance at him. “it kind of felt like that.”

another small smile from him.

but it fades quicker this time.

his gaze lingers on you a second too long.

“you look…” he starts.

then stops.

like he’s reconsidering the rest of the sentence.

you wait.

he doesn’t finish it.

instead he just nods toward the stage again, like he can reset it that way.

“you can stay back here if you want.”

you look past him—the curtain, the lights leaking through, the sound building on the other side.

then back at him.

“i’ll just watch you from back here.”

you regret it as soon as you say it.

a beat.

he holds your gaze.

like he’s about to say something else.

something that sits right at the edge of his mouth but doesn’t quite come out.

“i was gonna—” he starts.

and then—

“yo, gunner, we need you up now.”

someone calls from behind him.

another voice immediately after.

“like, now now.”

the moment breaks.

he exhales through his nose, glancing over his shoulder.

“shit.”

he looks back at you fast, like he forgot for half a second where he was.

“we’ll talk after,” he says, already turning.

not a question.

just something he assumes.

then he’s moving.

and just like that, he’s pulled back into the noise.

you’re left standing there, watching him disappear through the curtain.

like he never really stepped out of it.

you can hear it instantly—crowd noise exploding, bass still lingering in the walls, people shouting his name like it’s not over yet.

you stay where you are.

backstage, half-hidden, watching through the gap where the curtain doesn’t fully close.

he goes out like nothing happened.

like the moment in the hallway didn’t exist.

but it’s different now.

you notice it immediately.

he performs, yeah. fully in it, voice steady, moving across the stage like he owns it.

but his eyes keep coming back.

not in a dramatic way.

just… checking.

like he’s making sure you’re still there.

you are.

you don’t move much. just lean against the wall, arms loosely crossed, trying not to overthink the fact that he keeps looking in your direction between lines.

it happens more than once.

quick glances. then longer ones.

like he forgets himself, then remembers where he is.

at one point he misses a word again.

barely catches it.

no one reacts.

you do.

you don’t know why that part sticks.

—

the set ends loud.

too loud, like it always does.

you stay where you are, half-hidden backstage, watching the last bit of movement on stage—him still up there, still finishing like nothing’s different.

but it is.

you can tell by the way he keeps glancing back.

quick. almost automatic.

like he’s not fully thinking about it, but he still does it anyway.

you don’t move.

you just let it happen.

backstage turns into motion immediately.

crew rushing in, voices overlapping, someone brushing past you without really seeing you there.

you stay out of the way until someone points you toward a hallway.

“he’s in there.”

no explanation needed.

you follow it.

his dressing room is quieter than everything else.

too quiet, almost.

door half open.

you knock lightly anyway.

there’s a pause.

then—

“yeah.”

you push it open.

he looks up immediately.

“hey,” he says.

you smile softly. “hi.”

there’s a pause where neither of you moves.

he’s still in part of his outfit from stage, hoodie half off, hair a mess like he ran his hands through it too many times.

he gestures loosely toward the couch.

“sit.”

you do.

not too far from him, but not close either.

it feels weird how natural that still is.

for a second, it’s like no time passed at all.

then it hits again that it did.

“you good?” he asks finally.

you almost laugh a little at that. “yeah. you?”

“same,” he says, but it’s automatic.

quiet again.

then—

“you still in the same place?” he asks.

you shake your head. “no, i moved a while ago.”

he nods like he’s processing that.

then, like it’s not a big deal—

“you tryna come with me after this?”

you look at him.

he doesn’t push it. doesn’t over-explain it.

just waits.

you shouldn’t overthink it.

but you do.

not because it’s complicated.

because it isn’t.

“…where?” you ask.

he shrugs. “my place.”

there’s a beat.

you can feel how easy it would be to say no.

to make it clean again.

to go back to distance.

but that doesn’t really exist anymore, does it.

“yeah,” you say finally. “i can.”

he nods like that’s all he needed.

no reaction beyond that.

-

outside, it’s colder than it should be.

the air hits different after being inside all night.

you walk beside him without talking about it.

just falling into step like you used to without noticing.

people are still outside the venue.

phones up.

voices calling his name.

someone snaps a photo.

then another.

you don’t stop.

he doesn’t either.

you’re almost past the main crowd when your phone buzzes.

you shouldn’t look.

you do anyway.

a notification pops up before you even realize you’re still looking.

you shouldn’t open it.

you do anyway.

a tweet.

“rapper nettspend seen leaving venue rn w some girl?? who is she??” attached: a blurry side-angle photo. him walking out. you slightly behind him.

not even clear enough to really see your face.

but that doesn’t matter.

the replies are already moving fast.

@waitwaitwhatt: wait that’s actually crazy 😭 who is that ↳ @nicelarp: it lowkey looks like his ex??  ↳ @l0vesickbxtch: STOP i thought they weren’t together anymore   ↳ @user4729: he literally said that in an interview tho 💀   ↳ @i37: “we don’t talk anymore” and now this is insane    ↳ @lodeddraco:y’all always assume every girl is the ex be fr

another tweet under it gets quoted:

“why do i feel like i’ve seen her before??” ↳ @chitlinslover: NO SAME like this is giving old era  ↳ @dylxn: wasn’t there like a rumor about her back in 2023??   ↳ @xx348: y’all are making lore out of a blurry photo 😭    ↳ @secratte still tho… why is he always seen w someone after shows

then someone posts:

“bro pulled up w HER again?? be serious” ↳ @ethanpp3: “HER again” like we all know who you mean 💀  ↳ @angelicjess: y’all are acting like he can’t walk out with people anymore   ↳ @user17388: it’s giving soft launch / hard confusion

another quote:

“this is messy omg” ↳ @robbielordi: messy?? or just y’all projecting 😭  ↳ @bigred🥩: idk but the timing is crazy   ↳ @userr: he literally just performed a song about moving on like 10 mins ago

the thread keeps stacking.

names, guesses, arguments, people correcting each other, people insisting they “know who it is.”

you don’t scroll for long.

you lock your phone.

[lenteheure]

what stays, what burns (part3)

haymitch abernathy x fem!reader

summary: the first day of training makes one thing clear: everything is being watched. lines are drawn without being spoken, confidence is tested, and by the end of the night, nothing feels as settled as it should.

warnings: emotional distress ,alcoholism (haymitch) power imbalance themes, implied sexual content, slow burn/tension..?

word count: ~1,900–2,100 words..? im not sure anymore 😅

authors note: hi angels 🪽🪽 sooo this shouldn’t have taken me as long as it did, and i apologize — i’ve been procrastinating for a bit too long. i hope you all can forgive me and enjoy!

(this one’s a bit longer.)

also, i think i’ll start publishing once a week, so i hope that’s something some of you can look forward to?

anyway, feedback is always needed and welcome!

p.s. i’m taking requests now ;)

morning comes slowly.

not all at once — not with alarms or voices — just light easing in through the window and the quiet awareness of another body pressed close.

haymitch wakes with his arm still around your waist.

that’s the first thing he registers. the second is that you’re warm, solid, breathing evenly, like sleep didn’t have to fight to keep you. he doesn’t move. not because he’s careful — because this is familiar enough to not require thought.

you stir first.

a small shift. you breath in. then you tuck yourself closer, pressing your back more firmly against his chest like it’s instinct, not choice. his arm tightens just slightly in response before he can stop himself.

“mm,” you mumble. “you okay?”

“define okay,” he says, voice gravelly.

you huff a quiet laugh. “hungover?”

“violently.”

“serves you right.”

“cruel,” he mutters into your hair.

you hand slides back, resting over his forearm. your thumb moves once, slow and absent, like you’re not even aware you’re doing it. he is.

outside, the capitol is pale and quiet — all glass and height and money pretending it doesn’t wake early. from up here, it almost looks peaceful.

almost.

“how long have you been awake?” you ask.

“minute. maybe two.”

“creepy.”

“you crawled into me.”

a faint smile tugs at your mouth. “did i?”

“very deliberately.”

you don’t deny it.

eventually, the quiet shifts. not broken — just edged by responsibility.

“we should get up,” you say.

haymitch exhales into your hair. “world’s a mistake.”

“still spinning.”

“unfortunately.”

neither of you move right away.

haymitch’s arm stays where it is, heavy and warm across your waist, like if he lets go the day might rush in too fast. you stay there a moment longer than necessary, listening to his breathing even out behind you. it’s steady. familiar. something you don’t question anymore.

you exhale, slow, then twist just enough to slip free. his arm lingers for half a second before dropping back to the mattress.

“bathroom’s first,” you mumble.

“tragic,” he says, voice still rough, but he rolls onto his back anyway, staring up at the ceiling like it personally betrayed him.

the bathroom light clicks on, and haymitch groans softly, blinking against it.

“too bright,” he mutters.

“you’re alive,” you say, reaching for the sink. “be grateful.”

he drifts in behind you anyway, close enough that your back brushes his chest, his hands settling at your waist like they’ve always known where to go. there’s no urgency to it. just familiarity.

“you’re hovering,” you tell him.

“standing,” he corrects. “barely.”

you tilt your head back just enough to look at him in the mirror. he gives you a crooked, sleepy smile.

“hangover’s making me sentimental.”

“like that’s new.”

you rinse your toothbrush, start brushing. he watches for a second, then follows suit, shoulders slumping as he leans a little more of his weight against you.

“you’re using me as a support beam,” you say.

“temporary arrangement.”

you laugh under your breath, elbowing him lightly. he hums, clearly unbothered.

when you finish, you reach for a towel. he steals it before you can and hands it back like he’s done something gallant.

“my hero,” you deadpan.

“i try.”

for a moment, neither of you moves. the mirror reflects you side by side, hair messy, eyes still soft from sleep. capitol sunlight creeps in through the window, turning everything pale and unreal.

“we should get going,” you say eventually.

“yeah,” he agrees, though he doesn’t move right away. “in a minute.”

and for that minute, he stays exactly where he is — close, warm, and easy — before the day asks more of you both.

by the time you reach the dining area, the quiet from the room is gone.

capitol light pours in through the tall windows, too clean, too bright, catching on glass and polished metal until everything feels exposed. calla is already seated at the table, posture stiff, hands folded neatly in her lap. her eyes track the figures moving silently between tables.

the servants glide past with practiced ease. heads down. mouths closed.

calla’s gaze follows one of them a second too long, brow creasing.

“they don’t talk,” she says softly, like she’s afraid someone might hear her noticing.

you pull out the chair across from her and sit. “no,” you say gently. “but they hear everything.”

reed sits beside her, shoulders squared, one arm draped casually across the back of her chair in a way that’s meant to look relaxed and very much isn’t. his eyes keep flicking around the room—doors, corners, anything that moves. his plate looks untouched.

haymitch lingers back for a moment before taking a seat. He doesn’t say anything. doesn’t look at anyone. he reaches immediately for the glass already waiting at his place.

you notice it instantly.

too early. again.

calla notices too—her eyes flicking from the avoxes back to haymitch, then to you, confusion knitting her expression.

“they… work here?” she asks.

“they’re avoxes,” you explain quietly. “people the capitol punished. took their voices so they’d never speak again.”

reed’s jaw tightens. “for what?”

“anything the capitol decided was defiance,” you say. “sometimes rebellion. sometimes treason. sometimes nothing at all.”

calla’s hands curl into her lap. the avox passes again, silent as ever, eyes fixed forward.

haymitch takes a drink. doesn’t add anything.

you glance at him, waiting. he doesn’t look back.

annoyance flickers—brief but sharp. you swallow it down.

effie hasn’t arrived yet, which leaves the quiet hanging heavier than it should. you straighten slightly, keeping your voice calm.

“training starts today,” you say. “everyone together.”

“all districts?” reed asks.

“all of them,” you confirm. “different stations. weapons, survival skills, hand-to-hand. you’ll rotate through everything.”

“and the careers?” reed presses.

“they’ll be there,” you say. “they always are.”

calla leans forward, lowering her voice like she’s sharing a secret. “should we… stay away from them?”

“at first,” you say. “don’t let them get to you. first day’s about watching. who rushes in. who hangs back. what skills the capitol’s emphasizing.”

reed nods slowly. “why does that matter?”

“because sometimes it hints at the arena,” you explain. “climate. terrain. what they expect you to need.”

calla swallows, pushing her eggs around her plate. “and… are we supposed to make friends?”

there’s something painfully earnest in the way she asks it. like she’s trying to be polite about a situation that’s anything but.

“allies,” you correct softly. “if it makes sense. you don’t need to decide anything today. just pay attention.”

haymitch shifts in his chair. lifts his glass again. still doesn’t speak.

you look at him then—really look. his jaw is set, eyes distant, the ease from the morning gone like it never existed. iIrritation flares again, sharper this time, but you push it aside.

later, you tell yourself.

when breakfast winds down, you stand. “one step at a time,” you tell calla, squeezing her shoulder gently. “we’ll be watching.”

she nods, small and serious.

haymitch is already on his feet, bottle in hand.

the training center hums the moment they step inside.

not loud — not exactly — but constant. metal striking wood. the low murmur of instructors calling out rotations. tributes moving from station to station beneath the watchful stillness of peacekeepers lining the walls.

calla hesitates at the threshold.

it’s small — barely a pause — but reed catches it. he doesn’t touch her. just slows enough that she can match his pace. she does.

the careers have already scattered themselves through the room, easy and confident. district two claims the weapons stations. district one drifts nearby, laughing like they’re at a party. district four moves with purpose, already testing balance and reach.

calla ends up at a footwork station — mats, weighted poles, nothing sharp. her hands shake at first. she’s small, too light for the gear, but she watches closely. copies what she sees. improves.

reed takes a station nearby. grip strength. upper body control. he works through it methodically, jaw tight, eyes scanning the room between repetitions.

across the space, the tributes from eleven move quietly. efficient. focused. no wasted energy. when calla stumbles, the girl from eleven meets her eyes and gives a brief nod. encouragement without drawing attention.

calla straightens.

it doesn’t go unnoticed.

the boy from two drifts closer under the excuse of switching stations. big. relaxed. like nothing here could touch him. his partner follows a moment later, expression sharp with interest.

“twelve,” the girl says casually. “didn’t expect one this young.”

calla stiffens.

reed turns, stepping between them without thinking. not aggressive — just present.

“she’s assigned here,” he says evenly.

the boy from two grins. “relax. i’m just saying she won’t last long.”

reed doesn’t rise to it. doesn’t insult back. he just meets the boy’s eyes.

“you don’t know that.”

that’s enough.

the shove comes fast — hard to the chest. reed stumbles back into the edge of the station, breath knocked from him. he barely has time to recover before a fist connects with his cheekbone.

pain flashes bright and immediate.

calla gasps.

reed swings back on instinct — not wild, but angry — and clips the boy’s shoulder.

peacekeepers surge in instantly.

weapons raised. orders shouted. hands gripping arms, separating them before it can escalate.

“that’s enough.”

the careers are dragged back, still smiling like they’ve won something. the girl from two looks over her shoulder at reed.

“see you in the arena,” she says lightly.

training stalls. instructors exchange sharp looks, then motion for stations to resume.

reed wipes blood from his lip, jaw set. his eye is already darkening, but he doesn’t look away.

the boy from eleven steps closer while the room resets.

“they do that,” he says quietly. “to see who reacts.”

reed nods once.

calla edges nearer, fingers brushing reed’s arm like she’s checking he’s still there. he gives a small nod — i’m fine — even though it stings to move.

training continues.

calla keeps her eyes down after that, but she doesn’t shrink. she moves with more care now. quieter. sharper.

reed shifts stations. keeps himself between her and district two without making it obvious.

across the room, the girl from eleven meets reed’s eyes. brief. steady. a silent understanding passes between them.

not friendship. not yet.

just recognition.

we see what this is.

the rest of training blurs into repetition.

knots and snares.

edible plants.

balance beams over padded floors.

reed forces himself through the ache in his side and the burn in his lip. calla copies everything twice over, small hands moving fast, determined not to be the weakest thing in the room.

the careers perform.

loud. flashy. smiling like this is what they were born for.

the others learn to watch.

not how they fight — but how they think.

that’s the real lesson of the first day.

by the time they’re released, the capitol sky has already drifted toward the evening.

the ride back is quiet.

calla leans against the window, exhausted in a way sleep won’t fix. reed sits beside her, posture alert even now, like the room might still turn on them.

neither speaks until the doors close behind them in the penthouse.

only then do they both breathe out.

reed rolls his shoulder once. winces.

“you should’ve let it go,” she says quietly.

he frowns. “what?”

“with them. i shouldn’t have stared.”

“you didn’t do anything wrong,” he says at once.

“they were looking at me.”

“they look at everyone,” reed replies. then more firmly, “doesn’t mean they get to decide anything.”

she studies him like she always has — the way younger siblings look for certainty.

“they won’t,” she says.

reed nods. “not you.”

they wash up first. hot water, borrowed clothes, the strange luxury of being allowed to feel human again.

at dinner, the food looks unreal. too perfect. too much.

you’re already seated. haymitch sits across from you, one arm slung over the back of his chair, glass in hand. effie is arranging her cutlery like it might misbehave.

calla hesitates in the doorway.

you smile at her gently. “come sit. you earned it today.”

she does, small and careful in the chair. reed takes the seat beside her without thinking.

haymitch studies them both over the rim of his glass.

“how was it?” you ask.

calla glances at reed.

he shrugs. “loud.”

“that’s normal,” you say. “first day’s mostly posturing.”

calla pokes at her food. “they were… really confident.”

haymitch lets out a quiet, humorless breath. takes a drink.

“careers always are.”

you shoot him a small look. he doesn’t notice.

reed looks up. “they act like they already won.”

“because they think they’re built different,” haymitch mutters. “capitol loves a story.”

calla frowns. “that’s not fair.”

“no,” you say softly. “it isn’t.”

reed hesitates. “one of them said—”

haymitch’s gaze sharpens briefly. “what.”

reed shrugs it off. “nothing important.”

calla stares at her plate.

you clock it instantly.

“you don’t have to carry it alone,” you tell him.

reed glances at calla, then back to you. “we’ll be fine.”

she nods because he said it.

haymitch drains the rest of his drink.

the day finally loosens its grip.

calla yawns first.

“we should—” she starts, then stops, embarrassed.

reed stands immediately. “yeah. long day.”

you smile and nod. “try to get some sleep.”

calla nods and slips toward her room.

reed lingers a second. “night.”

then he follows her down the hall.

their doors close.

the penthouse goes quiet in a way it hasn’t been all day.

too quiet.

you turn slowly back to haymitch.

he’s already pouring another drink.

the clink of glass sounds too loud.

“you could try to be more helpful,” you say.

not sharp. not gentle. just honest.

he pauses mid-pour.

sets the bottle down.

“they’re alive, aren’t they?”

“that’s not the point.”

he leans back in his chair. “they don’t need me playing hero.”

“they need you paying attention.”

his jaw tightens. “i was.”

“you were drinking.”

a beat.

“multitasking.”

you stare at him.

he looks away first.

“they looked scared,” you say. “both of them.”

“they’re supposed to be.”

“they’re kids.”

he finally meets your eyes.

“so were we.”

the words land heavier than he means them to.

silence stretches.

“you disappear when it matters,” you say quietly. “that’s what scares me.”

his mouth twists. “i’m still here.”

“you’re not always.”

neither of you wins that one.

the silence that follows is thick, uncomfortable — not the loud kind, but the kind that settles in your chest.

haymitch turns his glass slowly in his hand.

“they’re kids,” you say again. quieter now.

his mouth tightens.

“so were we.”

“this isn’t about us.”

he lets out a short breath. “did anyone protect us?”

“that doesn’t mean we stop trying.”

he looks at you then — really looks.

“you still think trying changes the outcome?”

“yes.”

the answer comes too fast to be careful.

he shakes his head faintly. “that’s dangerous.”

“so is giving up.”

a beat.

“they walked into that room today thinking effort equals safety,” he says. “that gets you killed.”

“and being numb saves you?” you shoot back.

he doesn’t answer.

you inch closer.

“they don’t need you to be hopeful. they need you to be here.”

his jaw tightens.

“i am here.

“physically.”

that lands.

he looks away.

“i don’t like watching it happen again,” he says.

again.

you soften despite yourself.

“you think i do?”

his grip tightens on the glass.

“if i start caring too much, i start seeing the end before it happens.”

“and pretending you don’t care stops it?”

“no,” he admits. “it just makes it quieter.”

you study him.

“that’s not strength. that’s avoidance.”

he almost smiles at that. almost.

“you always did talk like that.”

“you always did hide behind sarcasm.”

this time he does smile — small, crooked.

“defense mechanism.”

“bad one.”

a pause.

then he says your name.

not sharply. not playfully.

soft.

“i’m not trying to shut you out.”

“then don’t.”

he exhales slowly.

“i don’t know how to stand in the middle of it without going under.”

“you don’t have to drown to care.”

he watches you for a long second.

then his shoulders finally drop.

“i’m sorry.”

the word sounds unfamiliar on him.

“i’ll do better tomorrow.”

you nod, not pushing it.

“can we just go to bed?” he adds quietly.

not flirty.

just tired.

you hesitate — then agree.

“yeah. we can.”

the hallway is quiet when you leave the dining room.

the only sounds being the soft breathing of calla and reeds loud snores

you don’t look at him until you reach your door. your hand lingers on the handle longer than it needs to.

“i’m still mad at you,” you say.

he hums behind you. close. “yeah?”

you step inside anyway.

the door shuts. soft. final.

you turn to face him, arms already crossing like habit. “don’t get smug.”

“i wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, and then he’s there — hand at your waist, thumb pressing in like he knows exactly where you’ll give.

“you’re impossible,” you mutter.

“and yet,” he says, leaning in, “here we are.”

he kisses you before you can argue it properly. not careful. not rushed either. familiar in the way that makes your chest loosen despite yourself.

you pull back just enough to breathe. “this doesn’t change anything.”

“i know,” he murmurs, mouth already trailing from your lips to your jaw, to your neck. “wasn’t trying to.”

your laugh comes out quiet, breathless. “you’re unbelievable.”

“mm,” he says, guiding you backward. “you keep saying that.”

the bed catches you and the world goes quiet. he rests his forehead against yours, breath uneven now — a second stretched thin before everything tips.

[lenteheure]

what stays, what burns (part 2)

haymitch abernathy x fem!reader

summary: the reaping comes and goes, and nothing feels settled afterward. the capitol is loud, unfamiliar, and too bright, and the space between what’s said and what’s meant only grows. tension lingers, arguments resurface, and somehow they still end up in the same place by the end of the night.

warnings: alcohol use, and i think that’s it

word count: approx. 1.4k–1.6k (idrk..)

authors note: gonna be honest, this part gave me a hard time and i’m still a little unsure about it 😭 but i wanted to get it out anyway. i’d love to hear what you all think — feedback is always welcome!!

the bowl doesn’t care that it’s his birthday.

effie trinket’s smile is bright and practiced as she reaches in, fingers neat and deliberate as she stirs the slips of paper. they whisper against one another, dry and weightless, like they aren’t about to ruin lives.

haymitch keeps his eyes on the bowl. it’s easier than looking at the crowd. easier than looking at you.

“ladies first,” effie says.

she reaches in.

“calla finch.”

the name hangs in the air longer than it should.

then a girl stumbles forward from the third row. too small. too thin. her dress slips off one shoulder like it belongs to someone else. haymitch knows the name — seam worker’s kid, father dead, mother exhausted.

her mother’s scream splits the square open.

calla freezes, then starts shaking as peacekeepers guide her up the steps. effie crouches slightly, voice softening without losing its shine.

“right here, sweetheart.”

calla is placed to effie’s right, hands clenched tight at her sides, eyes unfocused.

“and now,” effie continues, breath steady, “the boys.”

she reaches into the second bowl.

“reed ashcroft.”

the boy straightens immediately.

seventeen. already worn thin. he doesn’t look back as he steps out of the crowd. haymitch recognizes that look — the moment fear stops being useful.

reed climbs the steps on his own. effie guides him neatly to her left, posture squared, jaw tight.

“district twelve,” effie says brightly, clapping once, “please welcome your tributes.”

the applause is scattered. polite. wrong.

effie places a hand over calla’s, then reed’s, guiding them closer. “now shake hands.”

reed hesitates — just a second — then extends his hand. calla takes it, fingers trembling. their handshake is brief, awkward, but real. cameras love it.

“you may now say goodbye,” effie says gently. “three minutes. inside the justice building.”

the doors close heavy behind them.

inside, grief is loud.

calla’s mother drops to her knees in front of her, sobbing openly. calla clings to her like she might disappear if she lets go. her father stands uselessly nearby, eyes wet, hands hovering like he doesn’t know where he’s allowed to touch.

reed’s goodbye is quieter. his father grips his shoulders, murmuring urgently — run, don’t trust, stay alive. his mother presses her forehead to reeds chest, breathing him in like she’s memorizing him.

the whistle cuts through the noise.

three minutes gone.

calla screams when they pull her away. reed turns once, gives his family a single nod, then faces forward again.

the train waits.

inside the carriage, silence settles wrong.

calla curls into the couch immediately, knees pulled tight to her chest. reed stays standing, arms crossed, watching district twelve slide away like it might turn back if he stares hard enough.

effie speaks softly about schedules, about rest, about how important it is to eat.

haymitch opens the bottle.

you notice instantly.

“already?” you ask, keeping your voice low.

he doesn’t look at you. “i’ve got time.”

“you don’t,” you reply. “they’re watching.”

“they’re terrified,” he says. “i’m not going to pretend this is something it’s not.”

“i’m not asking you to pretend,” you say. “i’m asking you to stay present.”

he scoffs. “you act like that fixes things.”

“it helps,” you snap quietly. “it helps them.”

he finally looks at you then, eyes sharp. “and what about me?”

“you don’t get to disappear,” you say. “not today.”

“that’s rich,” he mutters. “coming from someone who thinks calm makes it better.”

“i think being here does,” you say. “and you’re not.”

he drinks anyway.

reed shifts, uncomfortable. “we’ll be fine,” he says stiffly.

you soften immediately, turning toward him. “we’re going to make a plan,” you say. “both of you.”

haymitch finishes the bottle before the lights dim.

when he wakes, the train hums steady beneath him. his head throbs.

“you didn’t wake me,” he mutters.

“you needed sleep.”

“i needed—"

“a stop,” you say, arms crossed. “you left me alone with them.”

“they were scared.”

“so was i” you reply. “and i stayed.”

the capitol is an insult.

lights everywhere. color. noise. everything district twelve has never been.

calla presses her face to the glass, eyes wide. “it’s beautiful,” she whispers.

reed scoffs. “they have all this,” he mutters. “and we had nothing.”

haymitch doesn’t argue.

by the time the parade comes, the kids are scrubbed clean and dressed in coal-black costumes streaked with embers, flames licking up their sleeves. they stand stiffly on the chariot as the crowd roars.

calla hesitates — then lifts her hand and waves.

the response is immediate. louder cheers. capitol citizens lean forward, delighted.

haymitch watches understanding dawn across her face — the capitol loves charm more than fear.

reed stays rigid, jaw tight, refusing to play along.

“smart kid,” haymitch mutters.

dinner comes after.

too much food. too much color. too much of everything.

calla stares at the spread like she’s afraid it’ll disappear if she touches it. you tell her gently that it’s real. she tears a roll in half, tentative, then smiles despite herself.

“oh,” she says softly. “this is… really good.”

reed waits until she eats before touching his own plate.

“you don’t have to save it,” he says quietly. “they’re not taking it away.”

she shrugs, embarrassed. “feels wrong.”

“yeah,” he says. “it does.”

haymitch watches the way reed shifts closer to her without thinking. protective already.

“they were cheering,” calla says after a moment. “i didn’t think they would”

“they weren’t cheering for us,” reed replies, not unkind. “they were cheering for how it made them feel.”

“oh.” she thinks, then adds, “i liked it anyway.”

haymitch exhales. sharp kid.

reed nudges a bowl closer to her. “eat more.”

“you sound like my brother,” she mutters.

he stiffens, then relaxes. “guess that makes you stuck with me.”

she looks up at him, serious. “you won’t leave me, right?”

reed doesn’t hesitate. “no.”

“i’ll protect you,” he adds quietly. “as long as i can.”

haymitch’s jaw tightens. seventeen. already deciding things that will cost him.

later, when the tributes finally sleep, the penthouse feels too quiet.

“you shut me out,” haymitch says by the window.

“i asked you to show up.”

“you make it sound easy.”

“you make it sound impossible,” you shoot back. “you left me with them.”

silence.

“she would’ve hated this place,” he says. “lenore.”

your jaw tightens. “why do you always bring her up when things get hard?”

“i don’t get to forget her.”

“i’m not asking you to,” you say. “i’m asking you to stop hiding behind her.”

“you think i don’t care?”

“i think you’re afraid to admit how much.”

“i don’t want to lose you.”

“that’s not enough.”

he steps closer anyway, takes your wrist — grounding.

you kiss him first.

it’s slow. familiar. dangerous. his hands steady at your back, yours gripping his jacket like you might tear him apart if you don’t hold on.

when you pull away, you’re both breathing hard.

“this doesn’t fix anything,” you say.

“i know.”

“go.”

he does.

you don’t follow him when he leaves.

you wait until his footsteps fade down the hall before you exhale, slow and shaky, like you’ve been holding it in on purpose. then you turn back to your room, shut the door, and lean your forehead against it for a second longer than necessary.

you change. wash your face. slide into bed with the lights off, staring at the ceiling until your thoughts finally start to blur.

you’re almost asleep when there’s a knock.

it’s soft. careful. like he’s trying not to piss you off again.

you sigh. “haymitch.”

“i know,” his voice says through the door. “but hear me out.”

“no.”

“i can’t sleep.”

“that’s not my problem.”

a pause. then, quieter, “you told me to leave. i did. didn’t say i couldn’t come back.”

you roll onto your side, groaning. “you are unbelievable.”

the door opens anyway.

he’s in socks, hands in his pockets, shirt off, posture loose like he belongs here — because, annoyingly, he kind of does. his mouth curves when he sees you propped up on one elbow.

“i tried my room,” he says. “it’s too quiet.”

“that’s the point.”

“not for me.”

he steps farther in, uninvited but unsurprised, and sits on the edge of your bed like it’s muscle memory.

“you’re not staying.”

he glances at you. “you always say that.”

you shove his shoulder. he lets himself fall back with a laugh, grabbing your wrist as he does. not hard. just enough to keep you there.

“let go.” you say

“say please.”

you scramble over him before you can think better of it, knee digging into the mattress as you pin him down. he looks up at you, genuinely startled for half a second — then grins.

“well,” he says. “i should argue with you more often.”

“shut up.”

you lean down, not to kiss him — close enough to smell him. your nose wrinkles.

“did you drink?”

he groans, head tipping back. “god, you always do this at the worst moments.”

“so that’s a yes.”

“one,” he mutters. “maybe two. don’t get dramatic.”

“unbelievable.”

“and yet,” he says, hands settling at your hips like they’ve memorized the shape, “you’re still here.”

you freeze. curse under your breath. then shove off him and roll onto your side.

he grins like he’s won something.

“see?” he says, already scooting closer. “progress.”

he settles behind you, arm sliding around your waist — easy, familiar, like this is where it’s always meant to land.

“don’t get comfortable,” you murmur.

too late.

he presses his forehead lightly to the back of your neck. “you say that every time.”

“and every time, you ignore me.”

“because you don’t mean it.”

you don’t answer.

his breathing evens out faster than yours. sleep catches you both before either of you can say something you don’t want to unpack in the morning.

[lenteheure]

what stays, what burns

haymitch abernathy x fem!reader

summary: reaping day arrives quietly, tangled with routine and familiarity. haymitch and y/n move through the morning the way they always do — close, careful, and avoiding the things that matter most. by the time they step into the justice building, whatever they are to each other remains unspoken, swallowed by the weight of the day ahead.

word count: about nine-hundred?

warnings: none really just some angst

authors note: some background info so no one’s confused. this takes place around five years after the 50th quarter quell. because that year called for double the tributes, district twelve also ended up with two victors — haymitch abernathy and y/n.

their relationship is already established when the story begins. there are no labels, just history, familiarity, and feelings that neither of them really knows what to do with. this is my first time writing something like this so feedback is very much appreciated.

he wakes up warm.

that’s the first thing he notices, before the light, before the low ache behind his eyes. an arm thrown over something solid, familiar. he tightens his grip reflexively when you shift, fingers flexing like he’s afraid of losing his place.

you don’t pull away. you just resettle, back fitting into his chest like it’s done this before. because it has.

the room is quiet in that fragile way mornings are before the world remembers itself. pale light slips through the curtains, catching on the edges of the dresser, the worn floorboards, the slow rise and fall of your breathing.

“you’re awake,” you murmur.

“don’t spread it around,” he mumbles, voice low and rough, mouth brushing against your hair.

you huff a quiet laugh. “happy birthday.”

he exhales, long and slow, like he’s letting the words pass through him instead of stopping to examine them. “don’t make it weird.”

“that’s rich,” you say. “you’re the one holding me hostage.”

“temporary,” he says. “i’ll release you once i regain motor function.”

you shift just enough to look at him. he opens one eye in return, unimpressed.

“you always this charming in the morning?” you ask.

“only on special occasions.”

you stay like that for a while longer than either of you needs to. his arm stays heavy around your middle, grounding in a way he doesn’t question. when you finally slide out from under it, he lets you go without comment, sitting up and scrubbing a hand down his face.

downstairs smells like coffee before he even sees it. you move around the kitchen quietly, like you’ve learned how to exist without announcing yourself. he leans against the counter, watches the way you pour, the way you don’t ask him what he wants because you already know.

“you’re still here,” you say lightly, like the thought just occurred to you.

“yeah,” he replies.

there’s a beat.

“you didn’t kick me out,” he adds.

“yet.”

he smirks. “i’ve got time.”

you slide a mug toward him. he takes it, fingers curling around the warmth, and drinks without commenting. he never does. the coffee’s just… there. like him.

the knock comes firm and familiar, three raps that don’t bother pretending to be polite.

burdock pushes the door open with his shoulder, already talking. “if you two are half-asleep, that’s your problem.”

astrid follows close behind, calm as ever, eyes sweeping the room in a quick, practiced way. she clocks the empty mug by the sink, the second one in haymitch’s hand, the way neither of you looks surprised to see him there.

“there he is,” burdock says, grin wide. “birthday boy.”

“don’t ,” haymitch says, flat.

astrid steps forward and gives him a quick side hug—brief, warm, practical. “happy birthday.”

she sets a small plate on the table and lifts the cloth covering it. a single cupcake sits underneath, frosting slightly uneven, candle leaning like it almost gave up.

burdock sings first, loud and off-key. astrid joins in, steady and amused. you follow a second later, quieter, more habit than performance.

haymitch watches the flame flicker, then leans in and blows it out before they can finish the second line.

“hey,” burdock says.

“that was a mercy killing,” haymitch replies.

astrid smiles as she replaces the cloth. “make a wish?”

he shrugs. “doesn’t seem wise.”

burdock checks the time and sighs. “alright. we should get moving.”

astrid steps around the table and squeezes your arm once, grounding, before turning back toward the door. “we’ll see you later.”

she gives haymitch a nod on her way out. burdock claps him on the shoulder, solid and familiar.

“try not to cause trouble,” burdock says.

“no guarantees.”

the door closes behind them, their voices fading down the road.

the house settles again, quiet but not empty. haymitch leans back against the counter, eyes drifting briefly to the cupcake before he looks away.

for a moment, neither of you says anything.

the morning presses on anyway.

haymitch stays leaned against the counter, arms crossed now, eyes unfocused but alert in that way he gets when there’s nothing demanding his attention. his gaze drifts to you eventually, slow, unapologetic.

“well,” he says, breaking the silence, “that was almost normal.”

you glance over. “we’re very convincing.”

“terrifyingly so.”

you start rinsing the mugs at the sink, back to him. he watches the way you move—unhurried, a little stiff, like you’re pretending you didn’t just wake up tangled with him.

“you gonna eat that?” he asks, nodding toward the cupcake.

“it’s your birthday.”

“doesn’t mean i trust it.”

you roll your eyes. “you’re impossible.”

“yet,” he says lightly, echoing you from earlier.

that gets a reaction. you glance over your shoulder, suspicious. he grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“you look nervous,” he adds.

“i do not.”

“you do,” he says. “like you’re about to bolt.”

you turn around fully now, crossing your arms. “i’m not bolting.”

“good,” he says. “because i was gonna ask if you always wake up like that.”

“like what?”

“like you forgot how close you let people get.”

your mouth opens, then shuts again. heat crawls up your neck, and he notices. of course he does.

“that’s not funny,” you say.

he shrugs. “didn’t say it was.”

you grab a towel, dry your hands with unnecessary force. “you’re pushing it.”

“i do that.”

you step past him toward the stairs. he shifts just enough to block you—not touching, just close.

“careful,” he says, voice lower now, playful but edged. “you’re blushing.”

“move,” you mutter.

he doesn’t, not right away. tilts his head instead. “you always get like this when you realize i remember things.”

“i’m serious, haymitch.”

he steps aside finally, hands raised in mock surrender. “alright. i’ll behave.”

you take the first step up the stairs. then another.

“you drink without me noticing?” you call down suddenly, not looking back.

he freezes for half a second

“that’s a loaded question,” he says.

you turn at the landing, eyebrow raised. “that’s not a no.”

“i had one.”

“define one.”

he sighs. “you’re doing that thing.”

“the thing where i notice?”

“the thing where you pretend you’re not worried.”

you don’t respond. you just keep walking.

he follows.

not rushed. not quiet. like he assumes he’s allowed to.

“you’re changing the subject,” he says from a step below you.

“you’re avoiding the question.”

“i’m avoiding judgment.”

you reach your bedroom and turn sharply, finger poking lightly but firmly into his chest. “this isn’t flirting anymore.”

he looks down at your hand, then back at your face. something flickers there—amusement, irritation, something else he refuses to name.

“you started it,” he says.

“you always say that.”

“and i’m usually right.”

you exhale, frustrated, flustered, trying not to let it show. “i need to get ready.”

“so do i.”

“then go,” you say, opening the door wider. “to your room.”

he lingers anyway, leaning against the doorframe now. “you always kick me out right when it gets interesting.”

“that’s called restraint.”

“looks painful.”

you glare at him, cheeks still warm. “you’re drunk.”

“i’m charming.”

“you’re deflecting.”

“also true.”

you step closer, lowering your voice. “don’t do this today.”

that lands.

he straightens, just slightly. the grin fades into something more neutral. more careful.

“alright,” he says. “truce.”

you nod once, then gently push him back with the door. “go get ready.”

he steps back, hands up again. “happy birthday to me.”

you shut the door before he can say anything else, leaning against it for a second longer than necessary, heart racing, breath uneven.

on the other side, haymitch exhales through his nose, staring at the wood like it personally offended him.

then he turns and heads down the hall.

haymitch doesn’t go back to his own place.

he never really does on reaping days.

he changes in the spare room down the hall—the one that somehow became his without paperwork or permission. clean shirt, dark jacket, something that doesn’t scream disaster. he splashes water on his face, ruffles his curls with his hands, and decides that’s as good as it’s going to get.

standing there, buttoning the cuff, his eyes snag on the room itself. bare, mostly. a chair. a narrow bed. a place that exists because it had to.

he remembers how it started, even though he pretends he doesn’t.

after the games, after the funerals that blurred together until the ground felt meaningless, there had been a night when he’d walked you home because neither of you knew where else to go. you’d made it to the stairs before you broke. just sank down like your legs had finally given up the lie. he hadn’t tried to fix it. hadn’t said anything brave or clever. he’d just sat beside you until the shaking stopped.

he stayed after that.

no one ever asked him to leave.

he doesn’t bother knocking.

he pushes the door open like he’s allowed to be there—which, realistically, he is.

you’re at the mirror, back to him, fixing your hair with practiced focus. half-ready. unguarded. the kind of sight he pretends not to notice even though he always does.

he watches for a second too long.

then he steps up behind you and slips his arms around your waist, chin hovering near your shoulder, close enough to make his presence known without saying a word.

you get startled anyway.

“haymitch—” you say, breath hitching just a little.

he grins against your hair. “relax. you jump every time.”

“that’s because you do that on purpose.”

“maybe,” he murmurs. “i like seeing you flustered.”

“that’s not something you should admit.”

he shrugs, arms tightening briefly, like he’s testing how long you’ll let him stay there. “you haven’t kicked me yet.”

you meet his eyes in the mirror—annoyed, warm, very aware. “give me a second.”

“take your time,” he says easily, like the words don’t contradict the way he’s standing far too close.

you elbow him lightly in the ribs. he lets go with a quiet laugh and backs up a step, hands raised in mock surrender.

“fine,” he says. “but if we’re late, i’m blaming you.”

“you always do.”

once dressed you start walking down the stairs together. the house feels different now—brighter, tighter, like it forgets what day it is.

“you remember,” he says, casual in the way that isn’t really casual, “lenore used to hate reaping day.”

you don’t stop walking. “lenore hated anything the capitol touched.”

“she used to say it felt like the air changed.”

you pause at the bottom of the stairs. turn to look at him.

“why are you telling me this now?”

he shrugs. “just saying.”

“no,” you say. “you’re never just saying anything.”

his jaw tightens. “you don’t have to make it a thing.”

“you made it a thing when you brought her up,” you reply, quieter now. “again.”

he scoffs. “so what, i’m not allowed to remember her?”

“that’s not what i said.”

“it’s what you meant.”

you cross your arms. “you bring her up like she’s a shield. like if you keep her between you and everything else, you don’t have to explain yourself.”

“explain what?” he snaps.

you hesitate. just for a second. then: “us.”

the word lands harder than either of you expects.

“what do you think we are, haymitch?” you ask.

he opens his mouth. closes it again.

“that’s not—” he starts, then stops. “this isn’t the day.”

“funny,” you say softly. “you say that every day.”

silence stretches. thick. uncomfortable.

he looks away first.

“we’re late,” he mutters

you nod once, sharp. “yeah. we are.”

outside, the walk to the justice building is quieter than before. not tense—just careful. the town presses in around you, kids lining up, families whispering, peacekeepers standing too straight.

the building rises ahead of you, dark stone and iron, heavy and unwelcoming. it looks exactly like it always does: less a place of justice and more a place where hope goes to wait its turn.

inside, the air is cold. the stage looms. you take your place beside him without touching.

the capitol seal flashes on the screen overhead. the anthem plays. the video begins—polished, rehearsed, telling everyone exactly how grateful they should be.

when it ends, effie steps up to the microphone, clasping her hands together with a delighted little sigh. “oh, i just love that,” she says, clapping brightly—mostly for herself. the sound echoes awkwardly before she beams at the audience.

“happy hunger games,” she continues. “and may the odds be ever in your favor.”

haymitch exhales slowly.

the bowl waits.

and whatever you are to each other doesn’t get an answer today.