it has been a very long time since i’ve been on here. It’ll continue to be that way still but! once i find my footing in this new path i made in September 2025. I’ll be back.
Summary: You were hired to help her write an album not fall for her. Ghostwriting kept you safe. Until her. Isabela Merced sees through the walls you built with every lyric. What starts as late-night writing sessions turns into something you can’t name—until it hurts not to. But your past doesn’t stay buried. And when secrets surface and pressure builds, you're left with one choice: walk away like you always do... or stay and fight for the one thing you never let yourself want.
Word Count: 3.8k
Warnings: honestly this aint a crazy story... well this chapter? yes. some violence. attempted suicide. hospital. Depression. and some more.
____________________________________
The key Vanessa handed you had a sunflower keychain attached to it.
You turned it over in your hand as you stood at Isabela’s front door. For a moment, you debated turning around. Going home. Saying you forgot. Lying. Anything.
But instead, you punched in the code she texted you two hours ago.
6735. Still saved in your head, even though you tried not to care enough to memorize it.
The door clicked open.
Empty.
Quiet.
You walked inside, already knowing she wasn’t home yet.
The clock on the oven read 6:01.
You poured yourself a glass of red wine and sat at the kitchen bar, one elbow propped up, one hand tracing the rim of the glass like it was a lifeline.
You weren’t nervous.
You were waiting.
There’s a difference.
Kind of.
6:43 p.m.
Still no sign.
You were mid-scroll through a folder of unused lyrics on your phone when you heard the door jiggle—then open.
And there she was.
Isabela, framed in the dim hallway light, one heel half-on, the other dragging behind her like a limp violin bow. Her coat slipping off one shoulder, her lips stained the color of fruit, eyes dancing in lazy spirals.
“Oh my God,” she breathed, slurring just slightly, eyes scanning. “Where—where’s…”
Then her eyes found you.
You didn’t move.
She smiled.
The kind of smile that melts structure.
Then: “There you are.”
Before you could speak, he appeared behind her.
Young.
“Hey,” he said. “Think she might’ve had too much wine at dinner.”
He moved to lean in.
Isabela swerved.
“No, I’m—m’fine. I just—” she stumbled a step, “just wanna be with her now.”
You froze.
He blinked.
She turned to him, palm on his chest. “Thank you for dinner. But I’m okay now.”
And then she pushed him out.
Like, physically.
You almost dropped your wine glass watching her tiny frame shepherd six feet of romantic misdirection out the door.
Young looked back at you once.
That same look.
Possessive.
Territorial.
But this time… uncertain.
The door clicked shut.
And Isabela turned around with a big exhale. “He’s nice. But he doesn’t feel like…”
She didn’t finish.
You raised an eyebrow.
“Like what?”
She waved a hand and skipped it entirely, wobbling toward the kitchen.
“I’m gonna cook you something.”
You choked a laugh. “Absolutely not.”
“I am,” she insisted, pulling open drawers like a raccoon with purpose.
You watched her drop a fork.
Then a ladle.
Then a knife—point down, narrowly missing her socked foot.
“Okay,” you said, standing. “You’re gonna sit.”
“But—”
You placed a hand gently on hers.
And she looked up at you.
That’s all it took.
You guided her around the counter and back to the stool you’d just vacated.
You kept her wine out of reach.
Grabbed water instead.
You started cooking without saying much.
Pulled sirloin tips from the fridge. Peeled russets like muscle memory. Butter. Garlic. A pinch of sea salt, because she once told you table salt was “a culinary crime.”
She watched you like it was art.
Like the rhythm of your knife told a story.
“Where’d you learn to do that?” she asked softly.
You flipped a pan on. “Watched my mom.”
Her eyes fell.
You didn’t correct it.
Just kept slicing.
“How was the date?” you asked, voice casual.
She made a face. “Predictable.”
“How so?”
“Pretty boy. Good at talking. Great teeth. Zero instinct.”
You smiled to yourself. “That’s cold.”
“It’s honest.”
You passed her a spoon. “Taste this.”
She did.
Eyes closed. Head tilted. She moaned a quiet approval.
Then opened her eyes slowly.
“You’re dangerous.”
You tilted your head. “In what way?”
She held your gaze.
“In the way I could get used to.”
Dinner was soft.
She ate in small bites, still tipsy, smiling between mouthfuls.
You refilled her water. Kept your wine. Stayed seated.
Then you stood, went to a small bag near the door, and came back with a tiny box.
You slid it toward her.
She blinked. “What’s this?”
“Open it.”
She did.
Inside was a single cupcake—chocolate swirl, soft and fresh. On top sat a guitar pick, pale yellow with a sun design burned into it.
She stared.
You cleared your throat.
“I know it’s not a lot. Just thought… since we never got to celebrate the whole breaking-through-the-writer’s-block thing—”
You stopped. Flustered.
Then pushed through.
“I just… I saw you these last few weeks. Saw you claw your way out of the dark. Saw how hard it was to write anything that didn’t sound like a goodbye.”
You swallowed.
“But you didn’t give up. You turned your noise into music. And that’s rare. That’s like—sunflower rare. Still grows, even if no one waters it. Still bright, even if no one sees it.”
You pulled a single sunflower from behind your bag. Placed it in front of her.
“I think you’re like that,” you said.
She didn’t speak.
She couldn’t.
Tears welled.
One slipped down without warning.
You stayed quiet.
She wiped it quickly.
And then—finally—she looked up.
Voice hushed.
“Thank you.”
You nodded.
Something heavy hovered between you.
She stared at you a long time.
Then, slowly, softly, she whispered:
“…Do you ever feel like love is chasing you, and you’re doing everything you can not to get caught?”
You blinked. Heart paused.
She went on.
“But then it catches your sleeve anyway, and you don’t pull away fast enough, and now it’s there. And you’re not sure what to do because you weren’t supposed to want this?”
Her voice cracked.
“I didn’t mean to want this.”
You didn’t know what to say.
She was drunk.
But it didn’t sound like a lie. It sounded like a confession.
Disguised as a riddle.
You stood, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. Your body. Your heart.
“I should get going.”
She stood too. Calling your name.
You shook your head. “It’s not you. I just—this is new. I’m not good at new.”
“I never asked you to be perfect.”
“I know.”
She walked up and hugged you.
Soft. Full-body. No hesitation.
It felt like a door.
It felt like home.
You swallowed hard. She pulled back.
You reached up, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
She blinked up at you.
“Text me when you get back?” she asked quietly.
You nodded.
Tried to blink back the sting in your eyes.
She noticed.
Her eyes told you she did.
She opened her mouth to say something like “I get it.” But you didn’t let her.
You turned.
Opened the door.
And left.
You didn’t text her that night.
Didn’t call.
Didn’t breathe properly either.
You sat with your back hunched in the corner of your Airbnb’s small office, every light off except the soft screen glow of your cracked laptop. Cords coiled like veins across the floor. Empty water bottles and a bottle of wine bleeding into your carpet.
You’d ripped open your notebook.
Then your voice.
Then your knuckles—after slamming them against the desk when the mic interface gave out again.
The old keyboard you’d brought with you? Dead.
Keys bent. Frame cracked.
Still, you pressed its broken spine like it could give you a song.
And maybe it did.
Because eventually, your voice started playing through the monitor.
Bare. Slow.
A demo on loop.
Your voice, barely audible, trailing off into nothing:
"You keep the light on, I’ll sleep in the dark…
You always said, I was good at falling apart."
7:02 a.m.
The sun had started bleeding into the living room. Pale peach and gray shadows.
Your Airbnb still looked untouched. Like a set you hadn’t decided to act in yet.
No photos hung. No shoes unpacked. No signs of you.
Isabela entered the code.
Her thumb shook as she turned the handle.
She hadn’t slept.
She told herself she wasn’t scared.
She lied.
The moment she stepped inside, her stomach turned.
Nothing moved. No sounds.
It was like walking into the shell of someone who hadn’t lived here at all.
She called your name once. Twice.
No answer.
Her boots padded across the wooden floor as she weaved through the space in a quiet rush.
Kitchen? Empty.
Bedroom? Unmade. But barely touched.
Then she heard it.
The faint hum of your voice, like something from a dream.
She followed it.
Found you slumped sideways on the couch in the office. One hand near the keyboard. Your lips slightly parted. Barely breathing.
Laptop open.
Audio loop playing.
Papers and pages scattered like feathers in a storm.
The board you brought with you was cracked near the base.
Her eyes flicked over the room. You. Your shoulders rising and falling like someone who’d been fighting the air itself.
She crouched beside you.
Carefully, she moved the curls from your forehead. They were damp with sweat.
Your brow was furrowed. Your jaw clenched. Even in sleep, you looked… tense. Like you were caught in a dream you didn’t want anyone else to see.
Her fingers traced lightly across your cheek.
And right then—
You stirred.
She backed up and perched at the corner of the couch, her hands folded neatly in her lap as if she hadn’t just been inches from your skin.
You blinked.
Eyes heavy.
Then you saw her.
The moment landed slow, but sharp.
You straightened, suddenly aware.
“Bela—shit—I didn’t—what time is it?” Your voice was raspy, shredded from disuse and maybe the wine.
“Relax,” she said, soft. “It’s okay.”
“No, no, I was supposed to come over—I didn’t—fuck, I—”
She put her hand on yours.
You stopped moving.
She glanced around at the wreckage.
“You working or fighting ghosts in here?”
You forced a laugh. “Little of both.”
Then she noticed the keyboard. Cracked. Bent.
“What happened to that?”
You hesitated. “It dropped.”
She tilted her head. “And hit itself repeatedly?”
You met her eyes.
She let it go.
You stood, stretching, trying to shake off the fog.
“Gimme like two minutes to change.”
She started to nod. But then—she reached out.
Her fingers curled around your wrist. You paused.
She stood. Stepped closer.
Before you could retreat, her other hand settled lightly against your bare stomach.
And everything in the room stopped.
Your breath hitched.
Hers did too.
She looked up, eyes tracing your jaw. Then your mouth. Then back to your eyes.
Neither of you said anything.
Your back hit the wall of the closet softly.
Shirt in one hand. Her fingers in the other.
She was close.
Too close.
And still—not close enough.
The air was heavy with static.
Her fingers twitched slightly, brushing your skin.
You weren’t breathing. You couldn’t.
Her eyes flicked down again.
Then—
Ring ring.
The phone.
Fucking Vanessa.
You cleared your throat and stepped sideways.
Isabela answered without looking at you, her voice trying to steady itself.
You ducked into the bathroom. Your heart didn’t slow.
Not until you pulled on your jeans. Even then—it didn’t slow much.
When you stepped out, Isabela held the phone out toward you.
“Vanessa wants to talk to you.”
You took it with a sigh.
“So glad you’re alive.” Vanessa said.
“I’m—yeah.”
“We’re talking timing now. Holidays are creeping up, and marketing wants to drop a single in a few weeks. Test the waters before Q4.”
“Okay.”
“I’m sending the address for the mastering studio. Go there by 11.”
“Got it.”
Pause. Then:
“Oh—and happy birthday.”
Click.
You lowered the phone. Looked up.
Isabela’s eyes were already on you.
You kept waiting for her to say it.
But all Isabela said that morning was, “You ready for the studio?”
No “Happy birthday.” No cheeky balloon. Not even a dumb card.
She breezed in wearing her big-lensed sunglasses and a half-tucked graphic tee that said SAD GIRL ERA in purple bubble letters.
You gave her a once-over, trying to read her.
Nothing.
“Got something we’re tracking today?” you asked.
She lit up. “Holiday single. I’ve been sitting on a melody.”
Still no mention.
You nodded. “You bring coffee?”
“Ugh,” she said, slapping her forehead. “No. But I’ll buy you wine later.”
“Red,” you muttered, mostly to cover your smile.
She didn’t look at you, but she smiled too.
___
The studio was already warm when you stepped inside.
It was the kind of session that felt like color.
You weren’t just engineering. You were catching sunlight with your teeth.
The chords were simple. Something you looped from a loose idea she hummed into a voice memo two weeks ago. Jazzy. Bright. The kind of beat that snapped but still let a voice melt across it.
Isabela didn’t need much direction. You barely even touched the reverb.
It was that kind of morning.
You sat in the control room, hands flying between the board and your notepad. A pencil rested behind your ear as you mouthed harmonies, looped bridges, tightened melodies.
“Okay, again, but lift the word ‘me’ like it’s flirting with you,” you called into the mic.
She cackled but obeyed.
When she hit it, you stood and whooped like you just saw fireworks explode.
She clapped in response, laughing as she danced behind the mic.
“Y/n, stop it!”
“You killed that!”
She leaned into the mic like she was teasing fate. “You like when I take your notes?”
“I like when you take my breath,” you muttered.
She froze. “What?”
“…I said I like how you take direction.”
“Right,” she grinned. “Sure.”
A few takes later, you were pacing in a loop behind the console, twirling the pencil between your fingers, moving your hands to the BPM like your body couldn’t help but orchestrate what you heard.
Isabela saw you through the glass.
Watched your lips move.
Then—your voice slipped out, just low enough for the room to catch it.
“I want your hands instead of gloves,
It would be lovely to pretend to be in love.”
She stopped breathing for a second.
Because you hadn’t written that line before.
Not in the lyrics. Not in the shared doc.
That was yours.
And it was for her. She knew it.
You didn’t even realize she heard it.
When the song was done, it felt like magic still hung in the vents.
You both stood there, dazed and glowing.
The board was blinking with heat and effort.
Your eyes met hers.
And she looked… off.
Not sad. Not quiet. Just full of something.
Something she wasn’t ready to spill yet.
You tilted your head. “You okay?”
She blinked. “Yeah. I just—” she grinned. “Actually, I got an idea. Cake. Cheap wine. Your place.”
“…My place?”
“Yeah.”
You raised a brow. “For what?”
She smiled. “Let’s just say I owe you for this track.”
You narrowed your eyes. “This better not be an intervention.”
She laughed and looped her arm through yours. “Come on, Scrooge. It’s Cuffing Season. Let me be festive.”
___
You were expecting awkward small talk and a glass of Cabernet.
What you got… was the door opening to laughter, confetti poppers, and a voice yelling:
“Happy mothafuckin’ birthday!”
Your whole body flinched. Then—
Romeo tackled you. “Damn, I thought you were never gonna age.”
Icy threw his arms over your shoulder. “Twenty-three, loser! Let’s goooo!”
Freddy. Victor. Your cousins.
Loud. Wild. Dressed like they thought it was a club.
And then, behind it all—
Isabela.
Standing by the record player. Holding a small cake with a single sunflower candle lit on top.
You blinked hard. Your chest tightened.
She noticed. And without a word—
Her hand found yours. She squeezed once. Steady.
She said your name softly, “when was the last time you had a birthday party?”
You didn’t look at her.
You whispered: “Since my mom passed.”
You felt her grip tighten.
You looked down at her and breathed, “Thank you.”
She smiled. But didn’t speak.
Just let the moment hold.
Her friends introduced themselves politely.
You returned every greeting with nods and smirks—but your hand stayed low.
Resting on the small of Isabela’s back.
She didn’t pull away. She leaned into it.
You didn’t talk about it. You didn’t need to.
Then the music started.
Loud. Drunk. Messy.
Romeo took a shot and said, “You know what this calls for?”
“No,” you said, backing away.
“Yes,” Icy said, pushing you forward.
Victor: “Pool time!”
You: “I am not changing—”
Freddy scooped you up in a fireman’s carry before you could finish.
You shouted as they barreled you outside.
“Save me!” you yelled.
Isabela just giggled.
Victor, the rare responsible one, handed her your wallet, keys, and phone. “You might wanna hold these. They’re about to baptize your girl.”
Then—splash.
You hit the pool. Everyone screamed. Drinks spilled.
Your cousins cannonballed in. Icy launched off a deck chair. Romeo did a backflip and hit his head on the floatie.
It was chaos.
And through it all, Isabela stood poolside, barefoot now, holding your stuff and laughing like a kid watching a sitcom.
You climbed out, soaked and shining.
She shook her head, amused.
You walked over slowly, dripping wet.
She backed up. “Don’t you dare.”
You stepped closer.
“I will scream.”
You stepped even closer.
And then, with one sly grin and a low “Sorry”—you pulled her in.
The splash echoed like applause.
When she surfaced, she gasped. Then laughed.
Then wrapped her arms around your neck, just for balance.
And you both froze.Because that was the moment.
That almost moment.
Where your lips were close. Where her hands were on you.
Where your eyes flickered. But you didn’t do it.
Not yet.
___
Much later, the house was quiet.
Bodies passed out in the living room.
A few of Isabela’s friends crashed on air mattresses. Your cousins? Probably sleeping in the backyard hammock like idiots.
You were in the music room. Dry clothes. Fresh hoodie.
She walked in—wearing a shirt that was clearly yours.
One you didn’t remember giving her. But also didn’t mind.
“Stealing my wardrobe now?” you asked softly.
“I like how you smell.”
You swallowed. Hard.
She curled up on the carpet. You stayed near the desk.
“I wanted to say,” you murmured, “your vocals today… that song. Cuffing Season—you really killed it.”
She smiled. “Only because you were there.”
“No. Even without me? It would’ve been art. But I’m glad I got to be part of it.”
She didn’t speak. Not right away.
Then—she stood. Crossed the room.
Pressed a kiss to your cheek.
Your breath caught. You turned your head slightly.
She froze. Face inches from yours.
“I didn’t mean—” she whispered.
You grabbed her face gently.
“I know,” you whispered. “Stay.”
She did.
___
The smell of smoke and sun-drenched laughter hung in the air.
Your crew and Isabela’s had blended together like it was always meant to be.
Romeo manned the grill like it was his life's purpose. Icy was harmonizing to some random playlist with one of Isabela’s backup singers. Freddy and Victor were doing cannonballs in the pool, naturally.
And Isabela?
She was next to you.
Always.
Her thigh brushed yours under the picnic table. Every few minutes, your fingers touched—too long to be accidental, too quiet to be bold. When she laughed at something you whispered, her hand would linger on your arm.
You were calm.
For once.
You let yourself believe it was safe.
That everything, for this small moment, was soft.
“I still can’t believe you’re the reason Maren Morris got her Grammy,” one of Isabela’s producers said, tilting their soda at you.
You chuckled, rubbing the back of your neck. “Let’s just say she liked the bridge I ghostwrote.”
“She didn’t like it,” Isabela corrected. “She owed it to you.”
You shrugged.
No alias. No secrets.
For once, you weren’t “Hiraeth.”
You were just you.
Until he showed up.
The gate rattled once. Then opened.
Everyone turned. And there he was.
Young.
Drunk.
Hair a mess. Button-down halfway open. Smile crooked, not in the charming way.
You stood slowly, instinct already prickling. He swayed as he stepped into the yard.
“Some party,” he slurred. “Heard the mystery girl turned twenty-three.”
Freddy stepped toward him. “You weren’t invited.”
Young lifted his hand. “Relax. I just came to say something.”
You were already tense.
Isabela stood beside you. “Young—go home.”
He laughed. “No no no. They all deserve to know who their little favorite ghost really is.”
Your jaw tightened.
“You know,” he said, turning to the group, “she used to go by Hiraeth. Yeah, that Hiraeth.”
Murmurs.
People shifted. Eyes darted.
Young grinned wider. “The genius. The prodigy. Disappeared after her mom died. Rumor was she cracked. Lost it. Institution. Pills. Poof.”
His eyes found yours. “Guess the rumors were true.”
And that’s when something snapped.
You blacked out.
But you saw everything. Felt your feet leave the ground.
Felt the sound of blood in your ears, so loud it drowned out everything but the beat of your own fury.
He stood six feet tall. But he looked small now.
You were five-nine and burning. You didn’t even remember grabbing him.
You just saw the panic in his eyes.
Then your fist. Once. Twice.
The shouting blurred. Hands were on your arms. Your waist.
Isabela’s voice broke through—screaming.
Not at him. At you.
“Y/n! Stop!”
“Y/n! Please—”
Romeo’s voice. Freddy’s weight pulling you back.
Then you hit the ground. On your ass.
Breathing like a dying engine.
You blinked once. Twice. And saw him.
Young.
Blood at the corner of his lip. Face already swelling.
Someone had called for a car.
Freddy muttered, “I’ve seen worse. Remember the Tampa show? That guy didn’t walk for a week.”
“Not now,” Romeo hissed. But it was too late.
The words echoed. Worse. Worse was back.
The air went thin. Too many faces. Too many memories.
The panic crept in like smoke under the door.
And then—
You couldn’t breathe. You were shaking. You were small.
You were back there.
The hospital. The cuffs.
The silence in your mother’s room. The sirens in your own mind.
Then—
Hands. Small. Warm. On your face.
Fingertips at your cheeks. Thumbs pressing lightly under your jaw.
Her.
Isabela.
Her voice was there. Muffled. Then clearer.
“hey. Look at me. Y/n. Please.”
You blinked. Your vision focused.
And there she was.
Hair a mess from the wind. Eyes red. Mouth trembling.
Holding you like you were glass.
You saw her. Really saw her.
And that made it worse. You shook your head.
Tried to speak. Couldn’t.
Tears welled. You didn’t blink them away.
“I didn’t want you to see this,” you croaked. “Not you.”
You hated yourself for how raw it sounded. But you meant it.
The voices were crawling back in. The ones that said you ruin things.
That love was always the rope you’d eventually hang from.
And as she leaned in to wrap her arms around you—
You pulled away. Slipped out of her grip.
Everyone called after you.
Victor.
Icy.
Freddy.
But Isabela… she saw it.
That look.
The look she feared.
The one you wore the night you first met her. The one hidden under all your strength. The one that screamed—
I’m not safe.
And then—
You ran.
___________________________
A/N: This is actually a short book :) But strap in not on mfssss (I swear im funny.)
Summary: You were hired to help her write an album not fall for her. Ghostwriting kept you safe. Until her. Isabela Merced sees through the walls you built with every lyric. What starts as late-night writing sessions turns into something you can’t name—until it hurts not to. But your past doesn’t stay buried. And when secrets surface and pressure builds, you're left with one choice: walk away like you always do... or stay and fight for the one thing you never let yourself want.
You end up cleaning the Airbnb together, two weeks of notebooks, old takeout, water bottles, and tangled chords getting packed into boxes and gear bags. Isabela follows you room to room like a shadow.
At one point, she asks, “You got somewhere to drop your stuff before the flight?”
You nod. “Need to run it back to the apartment. Feed Hades.”
She pauses at the door. “Can I come?”
You look over your shoulder. “You want to meet my dog that’s built like a Greek statue and doesn’t trust strangers?”
She shrugs. “I’m very charming.”
You laugh. “Come on, then.”
Your apartment is smaller, more lived-in. Not flashy, not expensive—but home.
Navy walls with a matte finish. Exposed pipework. LED strips that aren’t too neon. And when you open the door, Alexa kicks in automatically:
“Now playing: ‘Glory Box’ by Portishead.”
You hear Isabela laugh behind you.
“Okay, I knew you were cool but this confirms it.”
You shrug. “She knows the vibe.”
She steps inside like it’s a museum—hands in her pockets, turning slowly as her eyes take everything in.
There’s a wall of sneakers by the door. Mostly Jordan Retros. Some classics. Some customs. One pair in a glass box.
There’s an incense burner shaped like a hand on the windowsill. A framed poster of a 90s Outkast tour. A black-and-white photo of Hades as a puppy, ears too big for his head.
Then she turns.
And sees the wall.
Dozens of plaques.
Framed gold and platinum certifications, no names on the front—just logos. You’d have to know what to look for.
She squints at one. “Wait. Is that… Khalid?”
You nod from the kitchen. “Yeah.”
She steps closer.
“Kehlani… Noah Kahan? Maren Morris?!”
You pour water into Hades’ bowl. “Country bag. Couldn’t pass that one up.”
Her eyes widen. “You ghostwrote half the charts.”
You lean against the counter. “Not half. Maybe a generous sliver.”
“Why doesn’t anyone know?”
You shrug. “Because ghostwriting’s the best invisibility cloak.”
She walks through the hallway to your room. You follow.
Your room is modern, clean, but personal. Sage bundle tucked under your mirror. Candle burned halfway through. You keep your hats hung up in order of color—some fitted, some faded. Your class ring glints from the edge of your desk.
Isabela leans against the doorway.
Watches you move.
You toss shoes into a bag, fold shirts with single flicks of your wrist, toss in the old guitar strap she’s seen you use every day for two weeks.
You don’t notice the way she’s watching you.
But she’s watching.
She sees your rhythm. Your peace. Your presence. Something about it makes her chest ache. And she doesn't know why.
Maybe because you’re not trying. And yet—you're still unforgettable.
“You always move like that?” she says softly.
You glance up. “Like what?”
“Like you don’t notice people watching you.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Do you want me to?”
She grins. “Maybe.”
You shake your head and chuckle.
She looks down. Then, quietly, she says:
“…Secreta.”
You look up. “What’s that?”
She shrugs, teasing. “First language.”
You pause. “Secret.”
She freezes.
You zip the bag shut.
Then meet her eyes.
“Don’t be surprised I understood you,” you say. “We’re writing in every language now.”
At the airport, you’re all nerves.
Isabela’s got her hoodie up and sunglasses on. But you? You’re practically vibrating.
Tapping your foot.
Bouncing your knee.
Wringing your hands.
You’re quiet.
Too quiet.
She notices.
“So… how’s Hades?”
You nod. “Fine.”
“Your sister—”
“Good.”
She bites her lip, choosing silence.
You board first-class, and it’s a private seating area. Just you and her, two rows across from each other.
You sit stiffly. Gripping the armrest like it’s going to try and escape.
You stare at the window, then away, then back again.
Then you close your eyes.
Isabela notices.
She pulls her AirPods Max from her bag. Gently leans over, places them on your head.
You open one eye.
She smiles softly.
“Just listen.”
You hear it.
It’s “Lovin Kind.”
Mixed. Mastered. Your chords. Her voice. Your words. Her story.
You close your eyes again. Grip the armrest.
And then… you feel it.
Her hand slides into yours.
Warm.
Steady.
Sure.
You don’t open your eyes.
Neither does she.
But somehow,
up there in the sky,
you both exhale at the same time.
The plane landed smoother than you expected. The wheels kissed the runway, the cabin filled with a light clatter of seatbelts and softened applause, and somehow—somehow—you were still breathing.
You pulled the AirPods off and handed them back to Isabela like nothing had happened.
“I told you I’d be fine,” you said, stretching your legs dramatically.
She stared at you for a full second.
Then: “You were shaking so hard I thought the seat might file for a restraining order.”
You scoffed. “That’s bold. I was calm.”
“You whispered ‘we’re not built for the sky’ like three separate times.”
“Philosophical,” you muttered. “Not panicked.”
She grinned. “Mmm-hmm.”
Outside, a black SUV pulled up curbside.
Vanessa hopped out in a pinstriped jumpsuit, tossing her phone into her purse mid-call. “Welcome to L.A., kids. Let’s make some hits.”
She handed you a key fob. “That’s for your Airbnb. Only a five minute walk from Bela. No excuses for being late to sessions.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You set this up?”
Vanessa smirked. “You think I trust you two not to vanish in a city full of distractions?”
Isabela leaned in. “We are the distractions.”
“Exactly.”
The Airbnb was nice—too nice for you, if you were being honest. A sleek little Spanish-style cottage tucked behind bougainvillea and warm brick walls, with glass doors that slid into a small patio garden. Minimalist decor, record player in the corner, a vinyl of Stevie Wonder’s Songs in the Key of Life already on display.
You didn’t even finish unpacking before Isabela texted:
“Let me show you around. You need city feet.”
You’d barely tied your Jordan 5s before you were in her car again.
It started with a casual drive. Palm trees zipped past your window, the sun stretching warm fingers across your face. Isabela rattled off neighborhood names like song titles—Los Feliz, Echo Park, Silver Lake.
You weren’t really paying attention.
Because you saw it.
A storefront. A faded mural of MJ in a dunk pose. A neon Jumpman in the window.
Your breath hitched. “Pull over.”
“What?”
“Sneaker spot.”
Isabela blinked. “You’re joking.”
You were already out the door.
Inside, it smelled like heaven. Leather. Floor wax. Anticipation.
You moved like a kid in a candy store—eyes wide, hands hovering near displays like they were sacred relics. You struck up a conversation with one of the workers about a rare pair of Cement 3s, bonding instantly. (Need them 3's. Swear I'll sell a kidney)
Isabela stood back, arms crossed, watching the whole thing unfold with a quiet, amused expression. The worker laughed at something you said and clapped your shoulder.
And then…
She saw it.
The smile.
Your real one.
The one that crinkled your eyes and pushed your dimples into the spotlight. The kind of smile you hadn’t once given her in all your two weeks of sessions, of late-night chords and heart-thin lyrics. And something inside her… shifted.
Not in jealousy.
Just in longing.
She wanted that smile.
From you.
For her.
Hours later, after a detour at a taco stand and a long sunset drive, you finally followed her to her home.
You were still riding the high from the sneaker shop. Until you stepped inside.
Laughter. A deep voice.
You tensed.
You called her name.
No answer.
The laughter led you down the hallway.
You rounded the corner.
And froze.
He was tall. Confident. Smiling like the room was built for him. A bouquet of deep red ranunculus flowers in hand. He wore effortless charisma like a second skin.
Isabela was laughing. Genuinely. Her eyes bright in a way you hadn’t seen before.
And that smile?
That was the one you wanted for you.
It burned.
You straightened your back. Folded your arms.
Isabela noticed the shift in you instantly.
The man turned. “Oh—didn’t know we had company.”
You said nothing.
Isabela gestured between you two. “oh!, this is—”
“I gotta head out. Studio’s tomorrow, right?”
She blinked. “Yeah, but…”
“I’ll meet you there.”
She tilted her head. “You sure? We could ride together.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
You turned.
And walked out.
She followed halfway, her voice at your back.
“You don’t even know where the studio is!”
You stopped at the door. Looked back just once.
“I’ll figure it out.”
And you closed the door before she could say anything else.
Inside, Isabela stood frozen, one hand hovering where the door had just been.
Young Mazino walked back in. “Everything okay?”
She blinked.
“Yeah,” she lied.
But it wasn’t.
Because that you?
That version she just got?
Cold. Distant. Quiet.
It was the opposite of the person she had come to know in that echo room. The opposite of the girl who wrote in broken metaphors and whispered lines that felt like confessions.
It was a stranger.
And somehow…
That hurt more than she expected.
A slow, echoing hurt.
Like a song stuck on repeat inside her ribs.
The studio smelled like synth and sunlight.
You’d arrived early. Always did.
The room was clean—too clean. Booth untouched. Monitors still sleeping. You liked it that way. You got to move in silence, tune in without the world watching.
You stood in the center of the sound booth, fingers adjusting the mic stand, lowering it just an inch. Then another. Just to the right height. Not yours.
Hers.
You paused a second, just looking at the mic—tilted toward where her lips would be. A strange warmth crept up your neck.
Behind you, the door clicked open.
You didn’t turn.
You knew it was her.
Isabela stood by the glass, watching. Watching the way your hands moved with purpose. The way you tilted the mic like you’d done it a thousand times just for her. Even though you hadn’t.
She didn’t say a word.
Didn’t need to.
Because in that moment,
she forgot she was mad.
She forgot about slamming doors, and that stiff exit you gave her.
She just remembered your hands.
And the way you always remembered her height.
She slipped in quietly as you started queuing up the mix.
You didn’t look over.
You felt her presence like a shifting temperature. Just behind you. Warm.
“Morning,” she said softly.
“Morning,” you replied, casual. Too casual.
She crossed her arms. Waited. “You’re early.”
You nodded. “Gotta get the levels right.”
She watched you move, wrist flicking faders and scrolling through stems on the board. She’d watched engineers before. Producers. Ghostwriters.
But never like this.
Never like you.
And the silence was killing her.
So she cut it.
“You’re really not gonna talk about it?”
You blinked, slow. “Talk about what?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Last night.”
You shrugged. “Wasn’t much to talk about.”
“Oh come on.”
You finally turned your chair around. Met her eyes.
Calm. Steady. Detached.
“I had a long day. Didn’t want to crowd your moment.”
She scoffed. “That’s what you’re calling it?”
You stood, walking toward the booth to adjust the levels on the guitar mic. “Let’s just make music.”
She stared at your back.
“No,” she said. “Because that’s what you do when you’re feeling something. You bury it in chords and rhyme schemes. You don’t say anything. You just sing it and hope nobody reads between the lines.”
You froze.
She stepped closer.
“You stormed out because you saw something you didn’t like. You were jealous. Or hurt. Or something. But instead of talking, you came here early to avoid me.”
You turned.
Met her eyes.
And said nothing.
She crossed her arms. “So am I wrong?”
You licked your lips, considered lying.
Instead: “I’m not jealous.”
She tilted her head. “Then what?”
You sighed. “I’m…not built for people like him.”
Isabela softened. “I didn’t ask you to be.”
“I know. Still doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting.”
The silence returned.
And this time, you broke it.
You slid your phone across the table.
A waveform pulsed on screen. A song titled “Now We’re Strangers (Remix)” — draft version. You hit play.
The room filled with the low hum of your voice. Deeper, more vulnerable than she’d ever heard it.
I left pieces of me at your place / now I drive past, can’t look the same.
You held my hand when my mother was fading / now I can't even text you on birthdays.
She listened. Still. Completely still.
The lyrics spilled out like something you hadn’t meant for anyone to hear.
The truth was, you hadn’t.
“Throwaway,” you muttered.
“For who?”
“Central Cee. Never sent it. Felt too raw.”
Isabela stared at you.
“You wrote that for yourself.”
You didn’t reply.
“I didn’t know you lost her.”
You nodded, eyes still on the console. “Wasn’t trying to lead with grief.”
“But you do,” she said. “Every lyric of that song is grief disguised as detachment.”
You shrugged. “Sometimes that’s all you can do.”
She looked at you differently then.
Like she was seeing the fault lines.
Like she wanted to press her hand into them and see if you’d crack.
She walked over.
Opened her mouth to say something—
And the door opened behind her.
“Yo! This the genius zone or what?”
You both turned.
Young Mazino.
Black leather jacket. Flowers again. Always the damn flowers.
He grinned. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
You straightened your back. Your jaw set before you even realized.
Isabela blinked. “Young, I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Wanted to see you work,” he said, eyes bouncing from her to you. “Is this the famous SW?”(SongWriter)
You nodded once. Cool. Distant. “What’s up.”
He extended a hand.
You shook it once. Brief. Your fingers didn’t curl.
He noticed.
So did she.
Isabela stepped forward, gesturing toward the vocal booth. “We were just going over scratch vocals.”
Young smiled. “Perfect. I’ll sit back and learn from the best.”
He flopped into the couch like he owned the room.
Isabela turned back to you. Her eyes searching your face.
But whatever softness had been there before—
had already gone cold.
You were avoiding her.
Again.
Sinking behind your soundboard like it had a steering wheel and a destination somewhere far, far from her eyes.
And yet…
She wouldn’t leave you alone.
She sat on the edge of the console, just barely not blocking your view, dangling her feet like she didn’t have a single care in the world—but every glance was a plea.
You clicked through samples. Opened closed folders. Re-routed cables that didn’t need re-routing.
She didn’t move.
“You’re mad.”
“Nope.”
“Y/n.”
“I’m working.”
She slid a little closer. “Then let’s work.”
“I am.”
“Together.”
Your fingers froze on the board. Just for a second.
That was all she needed.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said carefully. “The contract said I needed features. Right? You’re in the contract.”
You looked up, slow. “Isabela.”
“I’m just saying.”
“You’re using the contract?”
“I’m honoring it.”
You let out a small laugh, not the funny kind.
Then you sipped your water, turned back toward the board—
“I mean, if you don’t want to finally put your voice back out there—”
You choked.
Water hit your throat sideways. You coughed once, turned back to her with a look.
“I’m fine staying behind the scenes,” you said, clearing your throat.
“But you shouldn’t be.” Her voice was quiet now. Firm.
And then…
Young.
“You know,” he said from the corner, lounging like a well-dressed shadow. “I could always jump on a verse. Just say the word.”
She didn’t even glance his way.
Her eyes were locked on you.
You sighed. “Bela…”
“You get to do it your way,” she said. “Your sound. Your structure. But I want you on this record.”
You looked at her. At the way she was leaning forward just slightly. Not pushing. But not backing down.
Your throat tightened.
You looked away.
“…Fine.”
She grinned.
“But we do it my way.”
You pulled up the session file: Miles Around. An open-space melody. Light guitar laced with a faded drum pattern. Vocals left blank. Instrumental bleeding with potential.
You’d written the hook weeks ago. Never sang it.
Now…
You did.
And she followed.
She stayed in the booth as you fed her line after line, your words folded inside her voice like a letter sealed and never sent.
You didn’t even notice how long it took.
You didn’t notice how Young had stopped smiling.
Then it happened.
She sang a line you wrote—but changed it.
You looked up.
“You said I was safe, then you left the locks unlatched.”
It was yours, originally.
But now it came out as:
“So used to being rejected and brokenhearted”
She was looking at you.
The entire time.
You said nothing.
You couldn’t.
You just watched her sing your words—remixed into her perspective. Her truth.
And something about it left your chest a little hollow.
But you kept going.
And when it was your turn, you sang. Rapped. Poured the smoke in your throat out into something melodic. You weren’t showy. You weren’t polished.
But God, you were honest.
And she watched you like you were rewriting the sky.
By the end of the track, the booth felt like a heartbeat.
You finished your final note. Let it echo into silence.
And before you could open your eyes…
She crashed into you.
Laughing. Breathless. Throwing her arms around your shoulders and squealing against your chest.
You froze.
For a second.
Then—your arms found her waist.
Held her there.
It felt… wrong how right it felt.
You hadn’t liked touch. Not in years.
But your body didn’t flinch this time.
You just… held her.
And Isabela melted.
Somewhere behind you,
Young was still in the room.
You’d forgotten that.
Until you stepped out of the booth.
And there he was.
Engulfing her in his arms.
His hands on her waist—just like yours had been. Holding her too long. Too close.
She laughed, oblivious.
You noticed everything.
Especially the way Young looked at you when he hugged her.
He was staking claim.
And he was daring you to say otherwise.
You didn’t.
She turned to praise you.
“That was insane. Like—why are you not headlining Coachella already?”
You waved her off with a crooked grin. “Maybe I just like being your secret weapon.”
She blushed a little. You didn’t point it out.
Then—Young struck again.
“Bela, you free tonight?”
She blinked. “Um… I think—”
“I want to take you out,” he said. “Like a real date.”
You froze.
She looked surprised. “Oh. I mean—yeah, sure. I guess.”
And there it was again.
That ache.
Like being punched in the gut by a ghost.
She turned toward you, halfway between guilt and goodbye.
“You gonna be okay here?”
You nodded. “I don’t want to mess up your love life.”
That hit her.
She caught the jab. Let it slide.
And stepped closer.
She grabbed your hand. Held it gently.
Thanked you with her fingers.
And walked away.
Young waved at you.
You didn’t wave back.
But then—
The door burst open again.
Her boots hit the floor in fast steps.
You turned just in time to see her jog in, breathless.
She grabbed your jaw.
Kissed your cheek.
Hard.
“You’re coming over later,” she whispered. “Dinner. We’re celebrating.”
Summary: You were hired to help her write an album not fall for her. Ghostwriting kept you safe. Until her. Isabela Merced sees through the walls you built with every lyric. What starts as late-night writing sessions turns into something you can’t name—until it hurts not to. But your past doesn’t stay buried. And when secrets surface and pressure builds, you're left with one choice: walk away like you always do... or stay and fight for the one thing you never let yourself want.
“We’ll start the first session at your apartment. Tomorrow. Noon sharp.”
You freeze mid-sip of your watered-down Hennessy, glass hovering in the air like it’s been photoshopped there. Your throat goes dry before you even swallow.
“My… apartment?” you ask.
She waves a hand. “You said you had space, yeah?”
You force a nod. You did say that. Technically.
Vanessa starts gathering her things like nothing happened. Isabela doesn’t. She’s watching you. Not in that celebrity-way, not in that “What’s your angle?” way. Just… seeing you.
You’re biting the inside of your cheek, jaw tense. You don’t even realize you’ve gone stiff until your shoulders lock up and your hand grips the table’s edge.
“Actually,” Isabela says, casual as hell, “my Airbnb’s got better acoustics. We can use my setup. It’s out of the way. No distractions.”
Vanessa doesn't even pause to think. “Even better.”
You glance at Isabela and catch the smallest flicker of a smile. Like she knows she just pulled you out of a house fire before you could light the match.
You nod once, subtle. She nods back. Two secrets exchanged in silence.
The meeting ends. Vanessa gets a call and disappears again into the parking lot, swearing under her breath. You’re halfway to your car when you hear it:
Your name being yelled.
You spin around too fast, knocking the side of your head right into the edge of your car door.
“Shit,” you hiss, rubbing the spot just above your temple.
Isabela’s laughing when she catches up. “You okay?”
“No,” you deadpan. “But thanks for asking.”
She reaches into her back pocket, pulls out her phone, and taps something quick.
“I sent you my number,” she says. “And the address.”
You glance at your phone. There it is. A new message:
Isabela (No Stage Shit)
📍 713 Whisper Pines Rd
Before you can say anything else, shouting echoes from across the lot. Vanessa. Cursing out someone about stage lights or time slots or possibly both. It’s hard to tell.
Isabela listens to it, then turns back to you with a grin.
“…Mind if I ride with you?”
You blink. “Wait, what?”
She shrugs. “Vanessa’ll be on that call for an hour. I can meet her there later.”
You glance at your dusty 2014 Nissan Altima. “I don’t exactly drive a G-Wagon.”
“Cool. I don’t exactly like G-Wagons.”
You laugh once through your nose and unlock the door. She gets in like she’s done it a hundred times before.
The drive’s quiet, but not awkward.
She hums along to whatever’s playing—Mac Miller, something off The Divine Feminine. You don’t talk much, and she doesn’t push.
You drop Hades food off at your sister Michelle’s. She comes out in socks and a hoodie, hugging the dog like a child hugs a weighted blanket.
“Hades!” You coo, ruffling his ears. “Missed you, handsome boy.”
“Only person he listens to besides me,” you say.
Michelle grins. “Because I don’t yell like you do.”
You roll your eyes, then glance at Isabela waiting in the car. Michelle follows your gaze.
“…Is that…?”
You shoot her a warning look. “Yup.”
“Oh my God.”
“Don’t.”
“OH MY GOD—”
“Goodbye, Michelle.”
You shove Hades’ food into her hand and drive off before she can embarrass you further.
The Airbnb is tucked away in the edges of North Dallas, nestled behind a wrought-iron gate and half-hidden under trees that look like they’ve been watching the world end in slow motion.
You whistle low. “Damn.”
“Told you,” she says, unbuckling.
You both step out and take it in—tall windows, warm stone walls, a wraparound porch, and the kind of silence that cities forget. A breeze carries the scent of cedar and dust. The air feels like it’s holding its breath.
“You sure this isn’t your actual house?”
She snorts. “What, too spooky?”
“Just the right amount.”
Inside is even worse. In a good way. Hardwood floors that sing under your boots. Wall-mounted vinyls. A shelf full of books that range from Audre Lorde to Bon Iver lyrics. An upright piano sits by the window like it’s watching the yard.
You whistle again. “Jesus.”
She smirks. “You done?”
“Absolutely not.”
She watches you look around like a kid in a record store, eyes drifting across the vinyl collection, the guitar stand, the empty whiskey glass on the windowsill.
“Your taste in cribs is like someone who’s been in love with love.”
She blinks. “What does that even mean?”
You shrug. “It’s a compliment. Kind of.”
She gestures toward the back. “C’mon. I’ll show you the room we’ll work in.”
You both head down the hall, where the sound gets a little different. The kind of quiet that echoes.
“Right here,” she says, opening the door.
You step into a room with tall ceilings, unfinished walls, and zero furniture except a single bean bag chair and a rug that looks older than both of you. You stomp your foot once and listen to the sound bounce.
“Yep,” you say. “This is the one.”
She goes to grab her gear. You’re left alone with the stillness and the strings.
There’s a guitar in the corner. Left-handed. The good kind.
You pick it up.
The chords come easy, slow and mournful. A rhythm you don’t have to think about. Your voice follows after—raw, quiet, not for show.
"If there’s something that I’m missing, go and tell me, cause I’m used to finding out things the hard way. So… What is on your mind?"
You fall into it without trying. Your eyes shut. Your foot taps the rug. Your hand grips the neck of the guitar like it’s keeping you steady.
You sing the next line softer:
Is she prettier than me? Wait please don't answer that, I may not be a 10, but I'd always have your back. So why? Does my heart hurt?
“I want that.”
You flinch.
Isabela’s standing in the doorway, holding a mic in one hand and a notebook in the other. She’s not smiling. Not smirking. Just staring.
“That’s not for the album,” you say, voice still thick with whatever place the song dragged you from.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s mine.”
She nods, slowly.
“I mean, the feeling. The story,” she clarifies. “That song hurts. In a good way.”
You shrug. “Some things come out like that.”
“Can we write around it?”
You look up.
“I’m not asking to take it,” she says gently. “I just want to know what kind of pain makes someone sing like that.”
You meet her eyes. Something clicks. Not a flirt. Not a crush. Just a mirror—reflecting back the parts of you that people usually miss.
“…Alright,” you say, setting the guitar down. “Let’s write.”
She smiles and tosses you a pen. You catch it one-handed.
“Let’s call this chapter,” you say, “The Hard Way.”
It starts with a lyric about mirrors.
You’re sprawled across the floor with your notebook open and the guitar still warm in your lap. Isabela sits cross-legged a few feet away, pencil between her fingers, brows furrowed. Her lips keep moving, silently mouthing phrases as if she’s auditioning every line in her head.
You write:
You only ever loved me when I wasn’t looking back.
She glances over.
“That a chorus or a threat?”
You smirk. “Depends on the melody.”
You strum a low chord. It hums through the floor. She lets her eyes close briefly—head tilting toward the ceiling like she’s tasting the sound.
“Play it again,” she says.
So you do.
It loops for a while—guitar under her breath, then piano, then nothing at all. Just words spoken like spells:
I’m always your favorite when someone else wants me. Always your secret when someone else sees me.
You don’t say anything. Just nod.
There’s no clock in this room. No phones out. Just pencil scratches and the faint buzz of dusk settling through the windows. Somewhere in the silence, she hums the chorus to “Back to the Start”—slower this time, rawer. You recognize it, but she’s not performing. She’s remembering.
I left my heart where I lost my name, I traced it back, but it don’t feel the same.
You set the guitar aside and watch her for a minute. Her lips keep moving. The melody softens into silence.
“You always sing like that?” you ask.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re afraid it’ll hear you.”
She pauses. Then laughs, once. Not loud. Almost sad.
“Maybe I am.”
You raise an eyebrow. “The music?”
She nods.
“I don’t trust it. Not all the way. Not when it sounds too close to the truth.”
You sit forward.
“Let it crack,” you say.
She looks at you.
“Let it be ugly,” you add. “Real. Like it hurts. Like you mean it.”
She stares at you for a second too long.
Then—quietly—she sings again.
I tell the silence all my secrets, But you, I kept in the noise.
Her voice breaks on the word kept.
It’s beautiful.
You don’t move.
You don’t breathe.
You just look at her like she’s something ancient being uncovered.
The montage begins.
Day bleeds into night.
You scribble lines on post-its. She sings them into the air like wishes.
You play chords on loop while she records scratch vocals with trembling breath and bare feet on hardwood.
At one point, she stands behind you while you write, and you feel her eyes on the curve of your neck. She doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.
Another time, you brush her hand accidentally while passing the mic.
She doesn’t pull away.
You don’t either.
One afternoon, you’re recording an idea she came up with while brushing her teeth—something dreamy, like the ghost of a heartbreak.
She hums the start.
You add a harmony.
She glances at you mid-line. You meet her eyes.
And just for a second, there’s no air between you.
Then she sings:
I loved you like a bad habit / and left like one, too.
And it’s over.
She laughs as soon as the recording stops. “That’s too sad.”
“Nah,” you say. “It’s perfect.”
You write it down.
Later, you both argue over one line for half an hour.
Isabela: “You can’t say ‘I died a little just to keep you warm’ without sounding dramatic.”
You: “Since when is music not dramatic?”
Isabela: “Since people started tweeting my lyrics like punchlines.”
You: “Then make them tweet the pain.”
She rolls her eyes, but she keeps the line.
You win.
Sound bleeds into memory.
She shares her voice memo folder with you—unreleased things, private stuff. Fragments of “Lovin Kind” with scratch vocals, notes about a bridge that never felt finished.
She confesses she always hated the second verse. You fix it in two bars.
“I trust you,” she says, without thinking.
You glance up.
She seems surprised she said it out loud.
So do you.
Night. Echo Room. Week Two.
There’s pizza on the floor. Your fingers hurt from playing. She’s sitting across from you, hoodie pulled over her head, notebook open in her lap.
You play the intro to “My Heart Hurts” again.
She hums the melody this time.
Softly.
“if there’s something that I’m missing,
go and tell me…”
Her voice breaks again—on purpose this time.
You look up at her, surprised.
“Keep going,” you whisper.
She does.
“cause I’m used to finding out things the hard way…”
The room feels smaller.
Your pulse louder.
You strum the last chord and let it ring.
Neither of you speaks for a long time.
“I want that to be our spine,” she says eventually.
“Our what?”
“You said every album has a skeleton. A spine. I want this to be it.”
You blink. “That song?”
“No,” she says. “That feeling. That… breaking and rebuilding. That tender wreckage.”
You pause. Then nod. Slowly.
You get it.
You do.
Later, she sits beside you on the floor, cross-legged, face turned slightly toward yours.
“You ever write about someone you didn’t want to write about?” she asks.
You chuckle. “All the time.”
“And?”
You hesitate.
“Sometimes I write them out of me. Sometimes deeper in.”
She nods. “What about me?”
You glance at her.
“Not sure yet,” you say. “You don’t feel written.”
She tilts her head. “Then how do I feel?”
You rest your arm across your knee and smile faintly.
“Unfinished.”
Her voice hits the final chorus and fades into silence, and all you can do is watch.
Not the kind of watching that’s performative or polite. Not the kind where you clap after. Just... still.
She’s sitting on the floor of the echo room, eyes still half-closed, one hand resting lightly on the mic, the other pressed into her thigh. The air around her hasn’t quite settled yet. It’s vibrating—something between ache and arrival.
She opens her eyes. Finds you looking at her. And for once, she doesn’t smile.
She just says, “That’s the take.”
You nod, slow. “Yeah. It is.”
You start packing up quietly, gathering cables, zip-tying chords with instinctual hands. You’re half-distracted. Half-stuck in the echo of her voice saying:
“I needed someone who needed me soft…”
There’s a long silence before she speaks again.
“I think I have to fly back to L.A. in a few days.”
You pause.
She watches your back as you wrap the mic cord.
“I heard Vanessa on the phone,” she adds. “Said you're coming with us.”
You nod. “Contract says I gotta help finish the album. Doesn’t really end just because we change zip codes.”
She stands, stretches once. “You ever been to L.A.?”
You hesitate. “Never been on a plane.”
She blinks. “Wait—seriously?”
You chuckle, a little shy. “Grew up grounded. Literally.”
She grins. “That’s kind of adorable.”
You make a face. “Nah, it’s terrifying. Heights are not in my business plan.”
She picks up one of the XLRs from your bag, looping it slowly around her wrist like it’s a bracelet.
“I’ll fly with you,” she says suddenly.
You glance at her. “You’re going anyway.”
“No,” she says. “With you. You can fly with me. First class. That way, I can help you breathe when the turbulence hits.”
You laugh. “Bold of you to assume I’ll be breathing at all.”
She follows you into the hall, trailing behind as you unplug her keyboard. “Come on, you helped write half my heart back into that song. Least I can do is keep yours from stopping midair.”
You throw her a look. “You’re way too casual about dying.”
“I’m casual about flying. You’re the one acting like we’re being launched into orbit.”
You laugh again—nervous, light. “I make good money, yeah, but not Isabela Merced money. Can’t do first class.”
She shrugs. “So I’ll cover it.”
You stop mid-pack.
“Bela…”
“It’s done. Non-refundable. Sorry.”
“It’s not even booked.”
“It will be.”
You stare at her.
She grins like a kid who knows she’s getting away with something.
And before you can argue more, she’s walking away humming “Lovin Kind.”
_______________________________
A/N: Yall im a little nervy on sharing my song, but yes. that is me. Yes i was hurting like a lil bitch.
Summary: You were hired to help her write an album not fall for her.
Ghostwriting kept you safe. Until her. Isabela Merced sees through the walls you built with every lyric. What starts as late-night writing sessions turns into something you can’t name—until it hurts not to.
But your past doesn’t stay buried. And when secrets surface and pressure builds, you're left with one choice: walk away like you always do... or stay and fight for the one thing you never let yourself want.
Word Count: 2.5k
Warnings: Honestly I dont think so- oh! Anxiety lol.
I aso have a soundtrack for chapters. yes. im smooth like that.
"Criminal" – Fiona Apple
"Say It Right" – Nelly Furtado
"Dreams" – Fleetwood Mac
"False Confidence" – Noah Kahan
"Eventually" – Tame Impala
I said I was gonna post some of her. You're welcome.
You wake up before the sun, same as always. There’s a certain kind of silence before the world starts making noise again—before traffic hums, neighbors argue through walls, and someone’s kid starts kicking a soccer ball against the hallway. That silence? It’s yours. Sacred. Like the half-second before a song drops.
The alarm never goes off. You beat it. 4:42 AM. Muscle memory guides your hand across the nightstand to silence the buzzing it never gets to complete. The bedroom is dim, painted in navy shadows. A single strand of light from the streetlamp slips through the blinds, cutting across the floor like a sword. You sit up and roll your shoulders. Your body creaks like it’s lived more than twenty-two years.
First thought? Coffee. Second? What day is it. Third? You should probably take Hades out before he pisses on your new rug again.
The apartment’s not big, but it’s clean. Minimalist, but lived in. One wall is all windows. A worn leather couch. A record player on a reclaimed wood shelf. A giant canvas with muted reds and golds leans half-finished against the wall—one of the rare times you tried painting your feelings and just ended up angry at the brush. There’s a guitar case leaning under the window you haven’t opened in months.
The Spotify speaker starts playing without asking. You set it up that way. Shuffle playlist: Wake the Hell Up. First song? "Criminal" by Fiona Apple. Then maybe Mac Miller. You never know.
You stretch, your Greek mythology sleeve flexing with the movement—Achilles' heel bleeding into Hermes' wings, Medusa's eyes threading up to your shoulder. It took four years and more pain than you'd admit out loud, but it's your story. Or the parts you let people see.
Your hair is still flattened on one side as you tug on a pair of boxers and gray sweats. Sports bra. Loose tank. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror: tired eyes, messy mullet, and that treble clef behind your ear that only shows when your hair is up.
You touch it sometimes without thinking. A melody without a home.
Hades scratches the door. You open it before he can bark. He’s big—obsidian-black doberman, ears cropped, eyes smarter than most people. You swear he’s part therapist. He waits while you leash him, nudging your thigh with his head like he already knows you didn’t sleep well.
Out on the pavement, it’s still dark. You jog beside him, earbuds in, letting Nelly Furtado’s "Say It Right" set the tempo. A mile. Two. You don’t track distance anymore—you track how many songs it takes to get your head quiet.
Back home, it’s protein shake, then a hot shower. The steam makes your hidden tattoos sting a little—the one on your ribs you got the night your mom stopped calling, and the one on your thigh you’ve never shown anyone, not even your ex. It’s a line from a Sappho poem, but no one would guess from how often you wear jeans.
You dress in something loose but intentional: dark jeans, open flannel, boots. A single gold chain. The class ring catches in the mirror, the way the sapphire shines against your skin. You hate it and love it. 2021. A year you earned but barely survived.
You check your email. Nothing exciting. An old professor inviting you to a Zoom panel. A royalty statement from the poetry book you ghostwrote last fall. A Spotify payment from some girl in Brooklyn who sang your lyrics like she wrote them herself.
Then your phone rings.
Unknown number, LA area code.
You hesitate, thumb hovering. Then:
“Yeah?”
They say your entire name.
You lean on the counter. “Depends who’s asking.”
“This is Vanessa. I’m calling on behalf of Isabela Merced. She’s looking for a writing partner for her next album—someone to help shape the narrative. We heard about your work through a mutual contact.”
You blink. “Merced as in...?”
“Yes. That Isabela.”
A pause. Hades lets out a low growl, like even he doesn’t trust what’s coming.
Vanessa continues, professional and clipped. “She’s been writing on her own, but she’s hit a wall. She’s asking for someone who doesn’t treat her like a product. You come highly recommended. She’s read your ghost work.”
You cross your arms. “Okay. But why me?”
There’s a pause. Then:
“She liked your writing. Said it felt... honest.”
A beat. That word doesn’t sit easily on your shoulders.
“She wants to meet. She’s in town for a few weeks. Can you be at Hollow Sun Cafe by four?”
You glance at the clock. 9:23 AM.
“I’ll be there.”
As the call ends, you stare out the window. You weren’t supposed to fall into music again. You were supposed to write from the shadows. But now?
Now the light’s creeping in.
You stand in front of your closet like it’s the final boss.
The first thing you pull out is your favorite fit: oversized graphic tee—vintage Nirvana print, cracked like it’s been through hell—cargo pants with a dozen pockets you don’t use, and the Jordan 3 Retros you waited four months to cop. You toss on your fitted Rangers cap and gold jewelry: a class ring with your birthstone, chain glinting low on your collarbone, watch she saved up for before she passed.
You look good.
But then you remember—it’s your first impression. And not at a cipher or a bar. This is business. Big business.
You sigh, swap the tee for a fitted cream shirt that still matches the Retros. Swap cargos for black jeans. Keep the jewelry—your mom would’ve cursed you if you didn’t. The cap stays. That’s non-negotiable.
As you check the mirror, something settles in your stomach. You’re not nervous. But you’re not ready either. You haven’t written for anyone big since… since before. Since the funeral.
Your mom was the only one who ever heard your demos and cried like they meant something. The only one who called your voice a gift instead of a gimmick. She would’ve told you to go, to stand tall. But still—this feels like a quiet war inside your chest, and no one else will understand why.
Hades nudges your leg. You ruffle his ears.
“Let’s go, monster.”
Your 2014 Nissan Altima waits in the lot like an old friend. Dusty, sure, but she runs smooth. You crank the ignition and let the playlist roll. Noah Kahan’s "False Confidence" plays. It’s too on the nose.
You cruise through your part of Dallas—old neighborhoods trying to be new. Coffee shops with unfinished murals. Cracked sidewalks and boutique gyms. It’s home in a strange, half-gentrified kind of way.
You swing by your sister’s apartment. Michelle answers in a hoodie and socks, her curls tied up, mug in hand.
“You’re late.”
You smirk. “You’re dramatic.”
She rolls her eyes but smiles when she sees Hades. He darts in like he owns the place.
“You look nice,” she says, half surprised.
“Big meeting.”
“Someone cute?”
“Professional.”
Michelle raises a brow. “You didn’t say no.”
You toss her his blanket. “Be nice to him. He’s in a judgmental mood.”
“He gets that from you.”
You head back out before the conversation can get too real.
Hollow Sun Cafe is tucked behind a row of glass buildings in Uptown, Dallas. Big steel door, exposed brick, subtle signage like they know you should already know where to go.
Inside, it smells like incense and ambition. A wall of platinum records. A quiet receptionist who buzzes you in without looking up.
You step into the studio lounge. Vanessa, you assume, is sitting by the console in a navy blazer, tablet in hand. She doesn’t smile.
Then—Isabela.
She’s smaller than you expected. Compact, radiant. Wearing a hoodie like she’s hiding, but her face is pure sun. Hair up. No makeup. And yet, there’s something about her that stings your vision like you looked straight at a star.
She glances up at you. Stops mid-sentence.
Her eyes catch yours and still there. Not because you’re famous. Not because you said anything clever. Just… your eyes. You know the look. You’ve gotten it before. Gray eyes. That shade that looks like a storm’s thinking.
Vanessa speaks first. Introducing you.
Isabela’s voice is softer than you thought. “You don’t look like a ghostwriter.”
You grin. “Good. Ghosts don’t pay rent.”
A pause. A small smile from her.
Vanessa sets the contract on the table. “This is standard. NDA. Creative credit waiver. Scope of work. We’re looking for eight tracks, possibly more if the chemistry’s right.”
Chemistry.
You meet Isabela’s eyes again. She’s watching you like she already wrote a song about this moment.
Vanessa talks on, but the room’s gotten smaller. Isabela’s knee bounces. Your fingers tap a rhythm against your ring.
You sign the contract without a word.
Let the music speak first.
Vanessa’s phone buzzed once. She didn’t even flinch. Buzzed again. This time she sighed.
"I'm sorry, this is- it's about a venue drop." She stood, pressing her palms into the edge of the booth as if grounding herself. “Just talk music. I’ll be five, ten minutes, max.”
You give her a small nod, watching her sleek black heels disappear around the corner of the dimly lit lounge. The booth you're in has navy cushions and gold-rimmed coasters. A candle flickers lazily between you and Isabela. Her silhouette glows like it belongs in a painting- chin in her hand, fingers half-hiding her lips, eyes unreadable.
Your throat feels a little tight. Not the kind of tight that makes you choke, just the kind that makes you remember you’re alive. And maybe a little bit nervous.
You tap the table twice and say, “Henny and Coke.”
Isabela raises a brow. “That bad already?”
You flash her a deadpan stare. “Look, either I drink or I start pacing, and this booth doesn’t come with a panic room.”
She lets out a small chuckle—genuine, even a little surprised. It’s the kind of laugh that doesn't get recorded often.
A server appears. Young, maybe college-aged. Way too invested in the moment.
You nod at him. “Make it two.”
You don’t even look at him.
He glances awkwardly between you both, clearly waiting for some sort of confirmation from the actress-slash-pop-sensation. But she shrugs.
“Guess we’re drinking then.”
He scurries off.
“She likes control,” you note, mostly to yourself.
Isabela tilts her head. “Who?”
“Vanessa.”
She leans back a little, tracing the rim of her water glass with her finger. “She has to. It’s the job.”
“And what’s your job?” you ask.
“To let her.”
You pause at that. You weren't ready for her to match your depth that quickly.
The drinks come. You clink yours to hers without fanfare. No toast, no bullshit. Just the universal language of cheers to existing.
It’s quiet again for a second. The kind of quiet that isn’t uncomfortable. Just hanging there, like an unopened letter.
“So,” you say finally, “concepts.”
Her lips part, but nothing comes out. Her eyes flicker- not to you, but somewhere far off.
“Don’t tell me I lost you already,” you say. “That’d be a new record.”
She blinks, coming back. “Sorry. You didn’t.”
“Then what was that look?”
She shrugs. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
“Everything I write lately feels like a goodbye letter. I want this album to be about… something more.”
You nod slowly, leaning forward a bit. “What kind of more?”
Isabela crosses one leg over the other. “Heartbreak, sure. That’s the easy part. But also… recovery. Growth. The loneliness that comes after healing. The way love shifts when you’re alone long enough to love yourself. That kind of more.”
You take a slow sip, letting her words settle. There’s something heavy behind them. Not rehearsed. Not press-junket deep. Actual gravity.
“That’s a lot,” you say finally. “But I think we can find the skeleton.”
She raises a brow. “Skeleton?”
“Yeah. Every album has one. A spine. Even the messy ones. We just gotta figure out where the bones are.”
She smirks, genuinely entertained. “Okay, that’s… poetic. In a vaguely forensic way.”
You shrug. “I’ve been worse.”
A few more beats pass. Your anxiety’s softened, replaced by a slow curiosity. There’s something familiar about this moment, even if you’ve never lived it before. Maybe it’s the candlelight. Maybe it’s the way her hair falls just a little into her eyes. Maybe it’s the way you’ve both been trying not to look too long.
“Your tattoos,” she says suddenly.
You stiffen a little, but not enough for her to notice.
“What about them?”
She gestures vaguely. “They’re… detailed. Mythology?”
You nod. “Greek. My whole arm’s a sleeve of gods nobody prays to anymore.”
“Why?”
You swirl the drink once. “Because stories outlive people.”
That answer hangs heavy. She watches you differently now—like she’s tracing lines that haven’t been written yet.
“And the one behind your ear?”
You hesitate. “Treble clef. For my mom.”
That one comes out quieter.
Isabela sits forward, resting her chin on her fist again. “She the reason you got into music?”
“More like the only one who didn’t laugh when I said I could do it.”
Her voice softens. “She passed?”
You nod. “Couple years ago.”
There’s no pity in her face. Just understanding. That’s worse, somehow.
“Sorry,” she says.
You don’t say it’s okay. It isn’t.
She shifts gears, maybe sensing the heat under your collar. “So… ghostwriter who doesn’t ghost. What’s your story?”
You grin. “That was awful.”
She smiles. “I try.”
You rest your glass down. “My story’s not really out there.”
“I noticed. I googled you.”
“Stalker vibes.”
She shrugs. “Curious vibes.”
You sigh, leaning back. “Let’s see. Raised in Dallas. Little sister. Doberman named Hades. Used to write songs under a fake alias online until one of them blew up. Got offered a label deal, turned it down. Started ghostwriting. Pay’s good. Fame’s not.”
“That’s a tagline.”
“You’re welcome to use it. Just credit me.”
She grins. “What was the alias?”
You pause. “Nice try.”
Her eyes glint. “So you’re still lowkey?”
“Like, embarrassingly lowkey. I’m probably in more playlists than pictures.”
“I like that,” she says. “Keeps you human.”
You tilt your head. “And you?”
She rolls her eyes. “Over-exposed. Managed since I was fifteen. Told to smile even when I hated what I was singing. Everyone assumes they know me. They don’t.”
“That’s gotta suck.”
“Yeah,” she says. “It does.”
You both sit with that for a moment. Two people on opposite sides of a camera flash. One hiding. One trapped.
You don’t realize how long you’ve been sitting like this—talking like this—until Vanessa’s heels click back into earshot.
She slides into the booth with a sigh and a power-suit apology. “Crisis averted.”
Isabela leans back like nothing happened. You sit up straighter, reaching into your bag for your notebook.
Vanessa claps her hands once. “Alright, let’s get back to work.”
But when you glance at Isabela again, something’s changed. Just a flicker. The way she looks at you now—it’s like she’s storing your face in a song.
And for the first time in a long time,
you don’t want to disappear.
Summary: Through Ash and Iron plunges you into the heart of Piltover’s gritty streets, where you’ve always felt the weight of your family’s failures. Rejected from the Junior Enforcer Program, your anger burns brighter than ever—until one fateful punch changes everything. The eyes of Piltover’s elite may look down on you, but it’s the wild eyes of Jinx that truly see you. She’s chaos personified, and you’re drawn to the destruction she promises. But that’s not all. Caitlyn Kiramman, a poised enforcer with a soft spot for rebels like you, offers you a chance to rewrite your future—if you can control the rage you can’t seem to escape.Torn between the order Caitlyn represents and the dangerous freedom Jinx offers, you stand at the crossroads of two worlds. As your power grows, so does the tension between these two women. One promises a chance at belonging, while the other ignites a fire you didn’t know you had. But the choices you make will change everything—not just for you, but for both cities teetering on the edge of war. Who will you choose? And how much of yourself will you lose along the way?
Warnings: Violence duh, gay panic(lol), cursing, all that jazz (whatever you seen in Arcane is what you gon see here)This is also a slight AU.(She/her)
Word Count: 3.5k
Im back, but will dive right back into hibernation lol. It was supposed to snow these last 2 days and sadly it didnt hit my side (Texas baby) and i am so upset- i got to see snowfall again after YEARS and me loving nature i cried lol. But enjoy!
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A few days later, your injuries behind you, you found yourself padding through the polished corridors of Piltover’s grand tower. This was Caitlyn’s section, her domain. The enforcers posted at regular intervals straightened at your approach, their eyes flicking toward the scars still faintly visible beneath your shirt, and you offered them polite nods in return. Their expressions held a new measure of respect, perhaps even awe; so much had transpired in so little time.
When you reached the doors to Caitlyn’s office, you gently rapped your knuckles against the polished wood, then slipped inside. She was already mid-conversation with a man you’d never seen before—pressed suit, serious features, and a briefcase clutched in one hand. Tension radiated in the space. Caitlyn looked livid, her jaw set tight as she spoke in clipped tones.
“…I need legal grounds to act,” she was saying. “I won’t jeopardize what we’ve built, but I will not let Mel roam free any longer.”
The man exhaled slowly, turning as you entered. You saw Caitlyn’s eyes soften slightly the moment she noticed you. You approached her, circling an arm around her waist in a gentle but public display of unity, and glanced questioningly at the briefcase man.
He introduced himself formally, explaining, “I’m assisting Commander Kiramman in bringing Mel to justice. But, ah, I’m afraid nothing can be done until… the wedding happens.” His voice wavered at the last part, anticipating your reaction. “Once the vows are official and there are witnesses, your status changes legally and strengthens our case. Until then, our hands are tied.”
You felt a swell of annoyance, rolling your eyes at the formality. “I see,” you muttered.
Caitlyn’s composure snapped back into place. She squared her shoulders, and that familiar Commander presence filled the room. “You have your orders, then,” she said curtly, her voice a razor’s edge. “Make the arrangements. I want every legal thread in place. I won’t tolerate any slip-ups.”
The man gave a clipped nod, gathering his papers and briefcase. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, before stepping out.
Caitlyn watched him go, then let out a ragged breath. Instantly, you pulled her closer, one arm still around her waist as you tilted your head to press a kiss against her temple. She melted, tension easing from her shoulders.
She caught your gaze, worry etched across her features. “I’m sorry about all this,” she whispered, voice so unlike her usual commanding tone. “I know it’s a mess. But after everything… I want you safe. Really safe. And I won’t let Mel walk free to threaten you, Jinx, or anyone ever again.”
You shook your head, letting your forehead briefly rest against hers. “Don’t apologize. I’m just glad I’m alive—glad we’re here. Mel can stay away forever, for all I care.”
Caitlyn’s eyes darkened. “No. That’s not enough for me. She abducted you, tortured you… threatened our future. I refuse to let her slip away without consequence. I’ve never felt this way—this protective—about anyone. And now there’s you, Jinx, Isha… This is my life. I’d risk everything—my rank, my position, everything we built—to keep all of you safe.”
Her voice cracked at the end, trembling with emotion. You cupped her cheek, your thumb brushing over her skin. “And we’ll deal with it,” you assured her. “I trust you.”
She exhaled, leaning into your touch. You felt her trembling slightly. In that raw openness, you wrapped your arms around her, holding her close, fingers tangling in her hair that had come undone from its usual ponytail. Her breath hitched, and you hummed a soft, comforting sound, feeling the frantic beat of her heart begin to steady.
After a moment, she pulled away gently, giving you a tender look. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, her voice still thick with emotion. “I wanted to show you some flowers in the tower’s garden—see if there’s anything you’d like for the… wedding.” Her cheeks colored at the word, but she bravely held your gaze.
You flashed a wry smile. “Are we sure Jinx wants flowers? She might prefer bombs and glitter.”
A hint of laughter crinkled her eyes. “We’ll compromise,” she said, stepping back and straightening her uniform. “Come on.”
The two of you left her office, walking side by side through the tower until you reached the skybridge leading to the gardens. The air here was fresher, a gentle breeze brushing past. But halfway across, you tensed: Mel was there, flanked by a small unit of her personal guards. They caught sight of you and Caitlyn at the same moment you saw them.
Mel’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile as she drank in the sight of you. You felt Caitlyn stiffen, fury emanating from her. Mel took a small step back, her eyes never leaving your form, the desire in her gaze as potent and unnerving as ever.
Caitlyn lunged forward, her face contorting with rage, but you quickly wrapped your arms around her waist from behind, restraining her. “Caitlyn, don’t—” you hissed urgently.
Mel’s expression was calm, almost amused, though the tension among her soldiers was palpable. They shifted, weapons half-drawn. Caitlyn’s enforcers rushed forward, forming ranks at the foot of the skybridge, ready to defend her.
“You,” Caitlyn spat, voice cutting through the air. “Abducted them. Tortured them. Tried to ruin everything we’ve built. You’re lucky I’m using the law first, or Jinx and I would make you pay in blood.”
Mel arched an eyebrow, smirk slipping into place. “So I’ve heard,” she purred. “A wedding, is it? How… quaint. I wonder how Piltover itself will react once they realize their stoic Commander has tied herself to a—” She paused, letting her gaze drift meaningfully to you, then back to Caitlyn. “Never mind. Congratulations, my dear.”
You could feel the tremor in Caitlyn’s body, her desire to rip free and attack. Her strength rose, nearly prying your arms off her. It startled you; you had to muster that advanced shimmer-fueled power in your veins to hold her back. “Easy,” you murmured, eyes still locked on Mel.
Mel’s eyes flicked to you, locking onto your arm around Caitlyn’s waist. “I see you’re healing,” she remarked with a sinister calm. “No matter what I did to you, you come back stronger. I admire that. Perhaps one day you’ll realize we belong on the same side.”
The statement chilled you, stirring that old rage. But you forced your voice to remain level. “Don’t try anything until everything’s in place—legally.” You caught her gaze, letting her see the quiet fury in your eyes. “You know exactly what I’m capable of now that I’m free. And trust me, if you make one wrong move, you won’t get to enjoy the chaos you crave.”
Mel smirked, but her stance betrayed a flicker of caution. “I’m not here to fight,” she insisted in a measured tone, raising her hands slightly to calm her soldiers. “A war would tear Piltover apart, after all… something I hear you’d hate to see.”
Caitlyn’s breath hissed between her teeth, and she snapped, “You’d start a war if it meant controlling them. You can’t accept that they’re beyond your reach now.”
Mel took a single step closer, eyes dancing with dark amusement. “We’ll see.”
You carefully released Caitlyn, stepping in front of her and letting your own presence bleed intimidation into the air. Her soldiers tensed at your motion, but they recognized you. Fear licked at the corners of their resolve.
“I’m no longer chained in your dungeon,” you said calmly, eyes boring into Mel’s. “And I carry a new rage I’m not afraid to unleash. If that happens, your name, your face, your entire army will be wiped from the face of the earth—Piltover and Zaun included.”
A hush fell over the skybridge. Enforcers and Mel’s soldiers alike glanced at each other nervously. Mel herself maintained her poise, but you saw it—the faint flicker of something like fear in her gaze.
Caitlyn parted her lips, a barrage of threats on the tip of her tongue, but you felt her hand tremble against yours. You squeezed it gently, a silent reminder that this needed to remain words, not bloodshed—yet.
Mel exhaled softly, turning to her soldiers. “Let’s go,” she commanded, giving Caitlyn one last mocking half-smile. “Until next time, dear Commander.”
She and her unit withdrew, the tension lifting only when they’d fully vanished into the distant corridors. The hush was heavy as you and Caitlyn remained on the skybridge, your heart hammering, your blood blazing with adrenaline.
Caitlyn leaned against you, the fury in her posture slowly dissolving. “This isn’t over,” she whispered, but her voice was calmer now, resolved.
You nodded, casting a final glance down the empty passage where Mel had disappeared. “No,” you agreed, voice gravelly with intensity. “Not by a long shot.”
With that, you turned together, guiding Caitlyn away from the confrontation. There would be more battles to come, more nights of endless strategy and tension. But for now, the city’s lights glimmered around you—a testament to all you had fought for, and all you still had to protect.
You were in the cluttered comfort of your work area, sorting through gears, ribbons, and tiny shimmering baubles you’d collected in hopes of crafting a strange, mismatched bouquet for Jinx—something that felt like her rather than the typical flowers. The hum of a single lamp illuminated the pieces, and you hummed to yourself, losing track of time as you combined metal bits and bright ribbons into a small homage of your affection.
The door swung open without a knock, drawing your focus. Jinx stood in the doorway, her lean form draped in shadows. Her eyes glittered in the low light. You smiled at her, greeting her name in a warm rush—only to feel the atmosphere drop several degrees when she stepped closer, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.
“Why didn’t you tell me about your little run-in with Mel?” Jinx’s voice was deceptively calm, a dangerous edge lurking underneath. Something coiled within you, the same dread you felt whenever she was on the cusp of real anger. You swallowed, fumbling for an explanation.
“I… meant to, but—”
The rest of your words were swallowed when she moved in, swift and practiced, pinning you lightly against the workbench. Your back pressed into a half-finished contraption, and you stilled, uncertain. Surprised more by how controlled she was rather than openly furious. She stared you down, her eyes making you feel small and, if you were honest, a little thrilled at her intensity. You breathed shallowly, waiting, until she spoke again.
“You don’t keep things like that from me,” she whispered, leaning in until you could feel the warmth of her breath against your face. “You and Caitlyn matter to me. I won’t have either of you getting hurt without me knowing. If you hide something—anything—I’ll handle it. My way.” Her gaze bored into yours, reading every flicker of emotion. All you could do was nod, your heart pounding.
Jinx’s fingers found your chin, nudging your face down to maintain eye contact. “You’re my lover,” she said, voice thick with promise, “before you’re anyone’s hero. Don’t forget that.” You parted your lips, the quiet desire stirring in your chest, leaning in for a kiss. But her grip tightened just enough to guide your mouth away, denying you. A smirk ghosted across her lips, and you could almost taste the tease on the tip of her tongue.
She stepped back as smoothly as she’d approached, leaving you momentarily unmoored. “That’s your punishment,” she purred, amusement dancing in her eyes. A swirl of her hips brushed away from you, an unapologetic display of confidence as she strode toward the door. She turned back, waving a plain envelope that bore both your name and Caitlyn’s in looping script.
“Cute how your last name looks next to ours,” Jinx called, a giggle threaded through her words, then slipped out the room. You stood there, mind spinning, the half-finished metal bouquet still clutched in your shaking hands, uncertain whether to laugh or catch your breath first.
You followed Jinx into the hall, your footsteps soft against the metal floor as you tried to catch up. She didn’t make it easy, glancing back every time you inched closer only to flick her wrist and slip her hand away from yours. You frowned, pouting in that faintly dramatic way you knew might soften her demeanor—but she was in no mood to oblige immediately.
Finally, you managed to close the gap, your voice low and earnest. “I’m sorry,” you repeated, sounding a touch exasperated with yourself. “Really. I… I just didn’t want things to escalate further with Mel. You know how Caitlyn can be when she’s angry. I’ve never seen her that furious in my life.”
Jinx paused, turning on her heel so suddenly you nearly bumped into her. She was smaller than you but still exuded that fierce, contained power. She leaned in, her voice a hush. “Prove it.”
Your heart stuttered at the challenge in her eyes. Slowly, deliberately, you slid an arm around her waist, drawing her close. “I’m sorry,” you said, quieter this time, letting each word fall from your lips with weight and sincerity. “But you know we’re walking a thin line. One wrong move, and Mel’ll have cause to start a war none of us are ready for. And after seeing Caitlyn almost lose it…” You sighed, shaking your head at the memory. “She was at her breaking point. I couldn’t add to that.”
Jinx watched you, her gaze unreadable for a moment. Then her lips quirked into something mischievous. “You’ve gotten so soft,” she teased, though her voice held a fondness behind the jab.
You feigned a hurt expression, pressing your forehead lightly against hers. “Soft?” you echoed, sliding your free hand along her cheek and trailing light kisses from her temple down to the corner of her jaw. She gasped softly at first, but her lips curved into a shy smile. Your voice dipped lower. “I’m only saving my rage for when it’s really needed. Mel’s going to see it eventually—she won’t give us much choice. But right now, I have you, Caitlyn, and Isha to look after… I can’t leave you again.”
Jinx tilted her head back enough to meet your eyes. Her gaze flickered with that faint glow of purple you recognized in both of you when emotions ran high—an echo of the shimmer that pulsed through your veins. She drew in a slow breath, and a softness replaced her earlier tough stance. “I’m really glad I found you that day,” she murmured, referencing that moment of chaos when you first crossed paths, Garrett’s face meeting your fist. A small, fond grin tugged at her lips. “You punching that idiot was the best thing that happened to me.”
You let out a breathy laugh. “I had no idea it’d lead to all… this,” you admitted, the corners of your eyes crinkling in amusement.
For a moment, neither of you spoke, standing there under the flickering overhead light. Jinx’s eyes flicked between your pupils, reading the depths of your soul. Then, quietly, she broke the silence. “I love you,” she whispered, so softly you almost believed you misheard. But the sincerity in her gaze—her voice trembling just so—made it undeniable.
A gentle ache filled your chest, a warmth pressing behind your ribs. You let your hand drift up into her hair, pulling her close enough for your lips to meet. The kiss was slow, purposeful, a silent testament to everything you both had endured. And in that moment, the world shrank until it was only you and Jinx, hearts throbbing in sync.
When you drew back, your foreheads touched, and the sting of tears pricked at your eyes. “I love you, too,” you murmured, speaking the words plainly and clearly for her ears alone. Nothing else needed to be said—the two of you simply breathed, letting that confession take root in the hush of the corridor.
The rhythmic click and clang of metal against metal filled the warm air of your little workspace as you carefully attached the final piece to one of your metal “flowers.” The creation was equal parts eccentric and lovely—a reflection of Jinx’s influence, no doubt. You’d gone ahead and made two bouquets: one for Caitlyn, one for Jinx. Each trinket “petal” was shaped from painted gears or shaped scraps of steel, creating a bizarre but charming bouquet.
You looked up from the workbench as the door clicked open. Caitlyn stepped inside, her hand resting gently on Isha’s shoulder. The little girl’s eyes instantly fell on the glimmering trinkets, but Caitlyn’s fell on you. A warm smile curved her lips.
“I never realized just how creative you could be,” Caitlyn teased softly, crossing the room.
You shrugged, lifting your goggles off your forehead and letting them rest around your neck. “All thanks to your partner in crime,” you joked, nodding at Jinx napping on the couch, half-shadowed by the open balcony door.
Isha, though, had other plans. She darted across the room with surprising stealth, launching herself onto Jinx’s lap. A small noise of alarm escaped Jinx as she jolted awake. “Kid!” Jinx yelped, bleary-eyed, but the surprise faded quickly into a sheepish laugh. She held Isha close, pressing a playful kiss to the top of the girl’s head.
You let out a low chuckle at their interaction, only to feel a light pressure on your shoulder—Caitlyn leaning in to kiss you. Her lips met yours with a soft familiarity that made your heart lurch in that comforting, welcome way. When she pulled back, her eyes flicked over the half-finished bouquet in your hand. “You’re full of surprises, you know that?”
“I try,” you murmured, smiling. “Besides, Jinx is the real muse behind these metal monstrosities. She’s the one who taught me ‘normal flowers are too boring.’”
Jinx’s voice drifted from behind you, still groggy but amused. “You’re lucky I have good taste,” she said, smirking around another yawn.
Meanwhile, Isha slid off Jinx’s lap, scampering across the room to your workbench. Her wide eyes shone as she studied the trinket ‘flowers.’ You laughed softly and reached for a particularly bright purple one, holding it out to her. Isha’s face lit up like a lantern, and she sprinted back to Jinx, waving the flower in her face in a triumphant display.
While your focus lingered on Isha’s happiness, Caitlyn took advantage of the moment. She slipped into your lap, one arm hooking around your shoulder. You felt the warmth of her body settle against you, the soft brush of her uniform grazing your forearm.
Her voice was a near whisper, meant just for you. “I never saw myself with such a family a few years ago.”
You teased her with a gentle roll of your eyes. “You were pretty invested in your job. ‘Commander Kiramman, the unstoppable law of Piltover’—ring a bell?”
She tried to laugh it off, but it came out as a faint sigh. “I was. Still am, sometimes. But… after we all marry, I’ve been thinking…” Her voice dropped even lower. “I might resign or at least step away from the Commander role.”
Your entire body went rigid with surprise. “What? Caitlyn—no, you’ve worked so hard for that position.”
“It’s just a thought,” she muttered, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth when she saw your alarm. “A fleeting one, maybe. But with everything that’s happened… you, Jinx, Isha. You’re my priority now.”
You shook your head, about to protest further, when Jinx’s mouth pressed a playful kiss to Caitlyn’s temple from behind, her arms circling both you and Caitlyn. She pressed flush against your back, murmuring, “Speaking of priorities, we should go see Vi and Sevika soon. They’ll want in on wedding details.”
You turned, enough to kiss Jinx’s lips in a half-twist. A quiet hum of pleasure escaped your throat. Caitlyn watched the exchange with an indulgent smile—though her cheeks pinkened slightly.
Your impromptu make-out session was cut short by a tug on your shirt from below—Isha, pointing at an unpainted gear near the base of the latest flower. You blinked, sheepishly grinning. “I knew I forgot something,” you said, picking up the paintbrush with your free hand.
Jinx clicked her tongue. “Lucky the kid’s here to keep you on track,” she teased, heat dancing behind her eyes. “Otherwise I’d punish you for that incomplete job.”
Caitlyn cleared her throat, fussing with her uniform as she tried to disguise the fact that her face had turned a few shades redder. “Don’t get any ideas,” she warned Jinx lightly, though a hint of a smile tugged at her lips.
Jinx just snickered, stepping closer to Caitlyn with an almost predatory look. “Don’t tell me you didn’t like watching me kiss them…”
Caitlyn stiffened, her ears practically steaming. “I—it’s not that, I just—” She stopped, spotting the grin spreading across your face. Rolling her eyes, she glanced away, cheeks aflame.
You could barely suppress your laughter. The moment was so domestic, so absurdly sweet in its own way. This was your life now—full of warmth and teasing, with a bright-eyed child demanding your best, two fierce women protective of your heart, and the promise of a wedding that would seal your family’s unity forever.
Summary: Through Ash and Iron plunges you into the heart of Piltover’s gritty streets, where you’ve always felt the weight of your family’s failures. Rejected from the Junior Enforcer Program, your anger burns brighter than ever—until one fateful punch changes everything. The eyes of Piltover’s elite may look down on you, but it’s the wild eyes of Jinx that truly see you. She’s chaos personified, and you’re drawn to the destruction she promises. But that’s not all. Caitlyn Kiramman, a poised enforcer with a soft spot for rebels like you, offers you a chance to rewrite your future—if you can control the rage you can’t seem to escape.Torn between the order Caitlyn represents and the dangerous freedom Jinx offers, you stand at the crossroads of two worlds. As your power grows, so does the tension between these two women. One promises a chance at belonging, while the other ignites a fire you didn’t know you had. But the choices you make will change everything—not just for you, but for both cities teetering on the edge of war. Who will you choose? And how much of yourself will you lose along the way?
Warnings: Violence duh, gay panic(lol), cursing, all that jazz (whatever you seen in Arcane is what you gon see here)This is also a slight AU.(She/her)
Word Count: 7.9k
hehe, hi...im back but i cant keep you all waiting too long. So here is what i got so far <3.
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Time stretched into slow motion, each second weighed down by heartbreak. Jinx stood paralyzed at the edge of the scene, Isha pressed tightly against her chest. The little girl trembled and sobbed into Jinx’s neck, clutching her clothes with tiny, desperate fingers. Jinx’s ears buzzed with grief, her vision blurred by tears that refused to fall, hovering in her eyes like shards of glass. She watched through a haze as your body was hauled onto the stretcher, limbs slack and head lolling in a way that sent icy terror into her bones.
A muffled voice drifted into her awareness—Vi’s. She said something about riding with you to the hospital, to keep an eye on you. Her words echoed hollowly in Jinx’s head, distorted and distant, as though spoken through water. Jinx could only nod dumbly, her gaze anchored on your lifeless form. She couldn’t tear her eyes away long enough to focus on Vi’s face. She barely caught the flash of pink hair as her sister sprinted off, hopping into the ambulance as its doors swung shut with a heavy thud.
Meanwhile, Caitlyn stood a short distance away, breathing shallowly, tears clinging to her lashes. Her entire world was disintegrating moment by moment. She replayed tiny memories: the feel of your arm around her waist, your laughter calming her racing heart, the rare moments your lips touched hers—far too few. She’d barely begun to know the texture of your love, barely savored the quiet mornings, the gentle reassurances, the silent conversations of glances and smiles. Now, it felt as if it had been stolen from her, yanked away by fate’s cruel hand. A distant figure, Ekko, reached out to comfort her, but she recoiled instinctively, shrugging him off with trembling shoulders as she staggered forward, drawn toward you even though you were already gone from sight.
The world smoldered in silence and despair. Fires of anguish danced behind Caitlyn’s eyes. The crowd around them faded into blurred silhouettes. Her chest tightened, and she struggled for air as if drowning. She wiped at her tears, her throat raw with screams left unvoiced. The city’s noise became a distant roar. All that mattered was you, and the knowledge that your heartbeat might have stilled.
Then, across a brief expanse of rubble and smoke, Caitlyn’s tear-filled gaze met Jinx’s. In that slow-motion moment, all their old grudges, their rivalries, their differences evaporated like mist in the morning sun. Both women’s hearts bled pain, reflected plainly in their eyes. Jinx, breathing unevenly, gently eased Isha into Sevika’s arms, not needing words to command Sevika to care for the child. Isha, sobbing quietly, still holding the trinket you’d made, reached out feebly as Jinx stepped away. Sevika cradled the little one, murmuring something inaudible, her own stern eyes shining with something close to sorrow.
Jinx and Caitlyn stumbled toward each other as if guided by some gravitational force. Their legs threatened to give out, the ground swaying beneath them. Every step felt like crossing a battlefield of memories and regrets, of anger and misunderstandings that no longer mattered. The dust danced in the thinning light, casting long shadows of their forms. They closed the distance, and as they reached one another, they collapsed into each other’s arms like fallen angels, wings broken, seeking comfort in the only place they could find it now.
Their bodies trembled with sobs that they tried to hold back but failed. Jinx pressed her face into Caitlyn’s shoulder, her fingers tangling in the strands of Caitlyn’s hair, clinging as if Caitlyn were the last tether to reality. Caitlyn, arms wrapped around Jinx’s waist, choked on her tears, her voice hitching as she tried to form words. They dropped to their knees, still locked in that embrace, their pain merging into a singular force of grief and devotion. They whispered half-words, promises carried on shaky breaths. The smell of smoke, sweat, and blood lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of all they had lost and were losing.
“I can’t lose them,” Caitlyn managed, voice muffled by Jinx’s collar. “I can’t. We’ve barely begun… we need them here.” Jinx nodded fiercely, tears falling freely now onto Caitlyn’s shoulder. “I know,” Jinx whispered, her voice breaking. “They’ll make it. They have to. For all of us.”
When they pulled back slightly, their foreheads touching, the world shrank to that intimate space of shared grief and determination. Caitlyn’s tears slid down her cheeks in silver trails as she managed, “Promise me, Jinx—if something happens, if… if they don’t…” Her voice cracked into silence, too frightened to say the words. “Promise we’ll stop at nothing to make sure they get justice.”
Jinx closed her eyes, pressing her forehead more firmly against Caitlyn’s. “I promise,” she breathed, voice low and strong. “No matter what happens, we’ll make them pay.”
The world beyond them continued in slow-motion chaos—Vi leaving with the ambulance, Ekko and Sevika trying to calm Isha, the crowds murmuring and praying for miracles. Above, the wounded tower bore silent witness to the heartbreak unfolding below.
Caitlyn and Jinx remained in that desperate embrace, tears merging with sweat and ash. In that instant, all rivalry, all resentment, dissolved. The cost of this war had reached too high. They had lost so much, but they would not lose you without a fight.
______
Inside the ambulance, the siren’s wail muted to a distant drone, as if the world outside no longer mattered. The cramped interior smelled of disinfectant and sweat. Vi hovered close, fists clenched at her sides, eyes fixed on your motionless form. The EMTs worked in tense silence, their gloves and uniforms damp with the condensation of frantic effort. Every breath they took, every instrument they lifted, seemed unbearably loud against the hush that fell over the van.
“Answer me,” Vi demanded, voice cracking as she struggled to maintain composure. “Is she—?” She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t voice the terror choking her. “Is she alive?”
One EMT, eyes shadowed with fatigue, spared her a brief glance. “We’re doing everything we can. Please, ma’am, let us work.”
That wasn’t enough. Vi’s heart hammered. She leaned forward, desperate for any sign of life. Another EMT knelt beside you, carefully cutting through the soaked fabric of your shirt to reach your back. The sound of tearing cloth seemed deafening in the quiet. They eased you onto your side, the vehicle rocking slightly as it sped down the streets. The EMT’s brows knitted together, and he exchanged a heavy look with his colleague. Silence thickened, dread settling over them all.
Vi’s throat tightened. “What is it?” she pressed, her voice little more than a plea. “Tell me!”
The EMT finally turned you on your back, the front of your shirt peeled away. Water droplets gleamed on your pale skin, bruises flowering darkly over your ribs and shoulders. Vi could see the bullet wound—an ugly, glistening hole—and her stomach lurched. The other EMT gasped softly, leaning closer, probing gently with skilled fingers. Another ragged piece of fabric fell away, and there it was: a second wound. An exit wound.
“Exit wound,” muttered one of the EMTs, relief blooming in his tone. He looked up at Vi, his features softening with something like hope. “The bullet’s gone through,” he said quietly. “They’re not out of danger yet, but—there’s a chance. The bullet didn’t lodge inside.” His voice faltered, and he continued more confidently, “We can stabilize her. They’re hanging on.”
Vi’s breath caught. She almost dared to hope. “She’s going to make it?” she asked, voice trembling. She tried to imagine your pain, your fight for breath, your heart stubbornly beating. Her mind replayed the scene: Isha in your arms, pressed tight against you, and then that bullet. The angle of the shot. The trinket. The memory hit her, and her eyes widened. The toy you made for Isha—crafted with love and care—must have deflected or slowed the bullet, protecting the child. Her heart twisted. Even in your desperate leap, you’d found a way to shield her.
“We have a pulse spike!” shouted one of the EMTs from the front, looking at the monitor, excitement cracking his voice.
Vi’s hand instinctively found yours, her fingers curling around your limp hand. She leaned down, her forehead nearly touching yours, voice low and raw with emotion. “You’re gonna be okay,” she murmured, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “Do you hear me? You’re not done. Not now. Not after all this.”
The EMT at the monitor let out a quiet laugh of astonishment. “A miracle,” he breathed, and the word hung sweet and tender in the tense air. They resumed their work with renewed vigor, their motions swift and determined. The van sped on, cutting through Piltover’s streets, carrying hope and heartbreak in equal measure.
Vi just held your hand tighter, praying silently you would hold on long enough for them all to see you smile again.
_____
Caitlyn sat at her desk, face set in a grim scowl. The gaslight glow revealed new lines of exhaustion etched into her features. Papers lay strewn across the surface—warrants, decrees, and official pleas—all attempts to pull Mel into a face-to-face confrontation. The tension in the room was palpable as she fiddled with her pen, occasionally tapping it on the desk with sharp, deliberate clicks. Each sound echoed her frustration. She wanted in that room with Mel so badly she could taste it, to show the councilor exactly what came of trying to tear apart the fragile peace she had worked so hard to protect.
The sound of boots in the corridor broke through her dark reverie. She nodded to the guard, a brief jerk of her chin, and the door swung open to admit Jinx. The Zaunite stepped inside with uncharacteristic calm, her eyes flicking over the documents Caitlyn had gathered. She drifted closer, eventually leaning over Caitlyn’s shoulder to scan the warrant Caitlyn intended to serve to Mel.
For a moment, neither spoke. Caitlyn’s shoulders were stiff with pent-up rage, and Jinx’s gaze narrowed as she pieced together the plan forming in Caitlyn’s mind. Finally, Caitlyn broke the silence, her voice low and steady, “Do you hate me more than before? If I do this—if I attempt something that could change so much between the three of us—will you hate me?”
Jinx’s brow furrowed. The question caught her off guard. She crossed her arms, leaning back, considering her words carefully. “Hate you?” she repeated, her tone subdued. “I never really hated you, Piltie. I hated what you stood for, maybe. Your rules, your neat little world that I never fit into. And Vi…” She let the name hang in the air, implying the complicated history that still weighed on both of them. “But since we all… found her,” Jinx paused, eyes distant as if remembering better times with you, “I realized I don’t have room to hate you. Not when we’ve both become better because of her. We wouldn’t be who we are without… you know.”
Caitlyn absorbed these words, nodding slowly. A reluctant respect passed between them—an understanding that the person you loved had somehow bridged the impossible gap. “Come,” she said, her voice tight with emotion, “we need the conference room.” She stood, gathering her paperwork, her gunbelt jingling softly as she moved. “I promise Mel isn’t in there.”
Jinx nodded, following her with quiet determination. They stepped into the corridor and descended into a spacious, high-ceilinged conference room lit by crystal chandeliers that seemed too bright, too pristine for the ugly truths they carried. Councilors were already assembled around a polished table. The atmosphere turned heavy as Caitlyn took her seat at the head of the table, Jinx surprisingly close by, standing at her shoulder like a loyal partner. Their presence together raised a few eyebrows, but no one dared comment outright.
Caitlyn cleared her throat, spreading the documents before her. “We’re here to address the grievous situation,” she began, her voice cold and clipped. “Mel’s involvement in abducting our… our hero.” Her throat caught slightly on that word, but she continued. “She has broken every code of conduct, threatened Piltover’s stability, and shown utter disregard for the alliances we’ve tried to forge.”
A few councilors exchanged uneasy glances. One cleared his throat and said, “With all due respect, Commander, the individual in question—this hero—is from Zaun. Legally, they hold no council position, no formal standing. What do you expect us to do? Without official status, we have limited leverage.”
Jinx’s eyes flashed, and she leaned forward with a sneer. Caitlyn, noting the tension, laid a hand on the table. Her back ramrod straight, she stared each councilor down in turn. “You’re wrong,” she said quietly, “and I’m about to prove it.”
She placed a single sheet of crisp parchment in the center of the table. “According to Piltover’s legal handbook, if an individual is legally bound—married—to a councilor, they gain immediate protections under Piltover’s laws. This includes the right to full investigation and legal action against anyone who harms them.”
A gasp rippled around the room. Jinx stiffened, her heart fluttering in her chest. She tried to hide her shock, but her jaw tightened subtly. Caitlyn didn’t look at Jinx, her gaze fixed on the councilors, daring any of them to object. “I propose marriage,” she stated, her voice unwavering, “to her. As Commander of the Piltover Army, I claim my right to marry who I choose. And once she is my wedded spouse, I will unleash every legal resource Piltover has at its disposal to bring Mel to justice.”
The councilors murmured, scandalized and astonished. They knew Caitlyn Kiramman as strict, law-abiding, measured. But this—this was unprecedented. Her eyes, glacial and steady, left no room for doubt. She was deadly serious. Anyone who dared contradict her now faced not only her wrath, but the collapse of their carefully maintained order.
Jinx swallowed hard. She hadn’t expected this. Marriage? It wasn’t jealousy she felt, but a strange, twisted surge of hope. If this could bring you back—if this could secure justice—then who was she to argue? She caught Caitlyn’s eye, and the enforcer’s stare was calm, purposeful. It was a promise. A promise of unity, of doing whatever it took to save you.
Silence stilled the room, and one councilor cleared his throat, “This is… drastic.”
Caitlyn leaned forward, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “Drastic? You think this is drastic? She has been kidnapped, tortured. Mel has crossed every line. You should be thanking me for using a legal avenue rather than burning the city down.” She scanned their faces, letting the threat hang in the air. “I am the commander of the Piltover Army. She will be my soon-to-be wedded spouse. And I will stop at nothing—nothing—to get the legal protections we need to tear Mel’s empire apart.”
After a heavy pause, she stood, papers in hand, meeting Jinx’s gaze. “This meeting is over,” she said, voice clipped. “Return to your quarters. I have much to prepare.”
The councilors stood in stunned silence as Caitlyn and Jinx turned away. Once out of earshot, Caitlyn’s hand found Jinx’s, their fingers intertwining unexpectedly. Jinx’s lips parted, but no words came. She could only nod slowly, understanding what Caitlyn had just sacrificed: her pride, her position, her future plans. All for you.
Caitlyn leaned in, voice low so only Jinx could hear. “This was the only way without destroying everything she worked for. Everything we helped build with them. We can’t let Mel win. This… it’s our best chance.”
Jinx lowered her eyes, thinking of you—wounded, alone, waiting for rescue. If this marriage, this legal claim, was the key to saving you and Isha… then so be it. She nodded, voice caught in her throat, no teasing remark this time.
“Let’s do it,” she said quietly, her voice uncharacteristically soft.
Together, they left the council room, hearts heavy but resolved, their entwined hands a silent vow to bring you home.
---------
A gentle hush enveloped the hospital room, the kind of quiet that felt protective rather than empty. The air carried the faint smell of antiseptic, mixed with the subtle scent of flowers someone must have brought. You stirred, groaning softly as pain flared in your chest. Instinctively, you clutched at the bandages wrapped snugly around your torso. Your heart hammered unevenly as reality drifted back into focus.
A chair scraped lightly against the floor. “Easy, easy,” Vi’s familiar voice cut through the haze, calm and steady. She stood and approached your bed, her presence a comforting beacon in your confusion. “You’re safe, okay? You’re in the hospital.”
You blinked, vision still fuzzy. “Vi?” you managed, your voice raspy. Your throat ached as if you’d swallowed broken glass. “What… what happened?”
Vi reached for a cup of water on the side table, carefully pressing it into your hand. “You’ve been out for almost a day,” she said quietly, her gaze warm with relief. She waited as you took a tentative sip. “After your… fall,” she began, her eyes flicking downward briefly before meeting yours again, “they rushed you here. Doctors, medics, everyone’s been working round the clock.” She paused, letting the severity of the situation sink in. “Jinx and Caitlyn are going to lose their minds when they hear you’re awake.”
Your memory was fractured, images of that brutal scene with Mel lurking at the edges of your mind. Something more important tugged at your heart. “Isha,” you croaked. “What about Isha?”
A softness touched Vi’s face at the mention of the child’s name. “She’s okay,” Vi said, her voice gentling even further. “Ekko and Sevika found her. She got pretty shaken up, but she’s safe. She’s been hovering around this place, I’m told, waiting to see you again. They’ve all been frantic.”
Relief so profound it brought tears to your eyes washed over you. You took a shallow, careful breath, wincing at the ache in your chest. “Good. That’s… that’s all that matters.”
Silence fell for a moment, both of you absorbing what had happened. The hum of distant hospital equipment provided a steady backdrop. Vi cleared her throat. “You know, seeing you fight like that…” She hesitated, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. “It reminded me of when we were kids. Remember how I used to teach you how to throw a proper punch? How to stand your ground?”
A distant warmth spread through your chest, battling the pain. You nodded, eyes distant with memory. “Yeah, I remember,” you murmured, your voice calmer now. “I must’ve driven you crazy, asking questions and wanting to learn everything at once.”
Vi chuckled softly, the sound like a balm. “You were always ahead of the class, even back then. Quicker, sharper. I was proud of you then. I’m proud of you now.” She placed a hand gently over yours, her calloused fingers wrapping around your knuckles. The gesture spoke volumes neither of you needed to say aloud.
Your eyes found hers, sincerity shining there. “Some things never change,” you whispered, voice thick with gratitude. You squeezed her hand softly, and she returned the pressure.
Just then, the door to your room eased open with a quiet creak. An enforcer stepped inside, his helmet tucked under one arm. He straightened at the sight of you awake and inclined his head respectfully. There was something different in his demeanor—an earnest kindness that took you by surprise.
“Glad to see you up and about,” he said, voice sincere. “We’ve all been worried.” His eyes flicked between you and Vi, reading the relief in the air. “Now that you’re awake, I’ve got a list of visitors waiting for permission to see you.” He cleared his throat, as if unsure how to proceed. “Sevika and the child—er, Isha—are outside. They’d like to come in whenever you’re ready.”
You blinked, still feeling disoriented, but grateful beyond words that Isha and Sevika were here and safe. “Of course,” you replied softly. “They can come in.”
The enforcer nodded smartly. “Yes, Mrs. Kiramman.” He stepped back, placing a hand over his chest in a respectful salute, then pivoted on his heel to leave, the door clicking shut behind him.
Time seemed to stop for a heartbeat. You frowned, confusion knitting your brow. Mrs. Kiramman? You turned to Vi, and found her looking just as baffled. She frowned, lips parted as if to say something but no sound emerged.
“What did he—?” you began, but your voice failed, replaced by a swirl of questions in your mind. Mrs. Kiramman. A title you never thought you'd hear associated with you. Something monumental had happened while you were fighting for your life—something that left even Vi stunned into silence.
Vi shook her head slowly, a strange mix of wonder and uncertainty painted on her face. “I’m as lost as you,” she said quietly, still holding your hand. “But it sounds like Caitlyn and Jinx did something big… something huge.” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
You swallowed hard, heart drumming in your chest. Whatever had taken place while you were unconscious, it was done in love, you were sure of it. You prayed silently that it would mean you were safe to heal and find your way back into their arms.
The hospital room fell quiet as the door swung open again. Isha burst through, her small legs carrying her straight into your waiting arms. You stiffened slightly at the initial jolt of pain, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the soft weight of her body against you, her arms clutching at your neck. You inhaled deeply, closing your eyes as you held her close, breathing in her faint childlike scent. Relief swelled in your chest.
Sevika followed at a more measured pace, her mechanical arm catching the light. You lifted your head to greet her, and she gave a curt nod. “Took you long enough,” you teased, your voice still hoarse but laced with a faint smirk.
Sevika rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “You’re alive, aren’t you?” She huffed, but you caught the flicker of genuine relief in her eyes.
“Thanks for doing all the heavy lifting while I was out cold,” you murmured dryly.
“Sure, princess,” she shot back, arching an eyebrow. “Don’t get used to it.”
Isha snuggled closer, resting her head against your chest. The tension in the room eased. Just then, the door cracked open once more, and the enforcer from before stepped inside. He carried himself differently now—straighter, more respectful. “I’ve notified Commander Kiramman and Mrs. Jinx that you’re awake,” he said. “They’re on their way.”
You blinked. “Mrs. Jinx?” you repeated, confusion tugging at your brows.
He cleared his throat. “Yes, Mrs. Kiramman,” he said, placing a hand across his chest in a salute before backing out of the room.
Your eyes shot to Vi, who stood near the window. She looked just as puzzled. “Since when—?” you began, but Vi shook her head.
“Don’t look at me. I’ve been out of the loop,” Vi said, sounding both amused and wary. She glanced at Sevika. “You know something about this?”
Sevika pursed her lips, seeming suddenly stressed. “It’s better if Caitlyn explains,” she said gruffly, offering no more.
An uneasy silence followed. You took advantage of it to rest your head back against the pillows, relief flooding you at the sound of Isha’s gentle breathing. Your hand found her tiny one, giving it a reassuring squeeze. She was safe. That was the thought you clung to above all else.
After a moment, Vi spoke again, her voice softer. “After you fell,” she started, leaning against the windowsill, “it was chaos. Jinx and Caitlyn lost it—nearly tore the city down trying to find you. Everyone did. They got in, found Isha, got you out of the water and here… It was a miracle.” She swallowed, and her voice faltered slightly, emotion slipping through. “We all thought we’d lost you.”
You closed your eyes, imagining Jinx’s fury, Caitlyn’s tears, all of them searching and fighting. “I’m sorry you went through that,” you said quietly. “Glad everyone’s okay.”
Isha stirred at the sound of your voice and, realizing she was hungry, her little stomach grumbled quietly. You chuckled softly. “Guess we both need something more than hospital broth, huh?” you teased lightly, smoothing her hair down as she blinked sleepily at you.
Vi straightened, nodding. “I’ll get on that,” she said, giving Sevika a look. Sevika nodded, and the two of them slipped out the door to let the enforcers know you needed real food.
With just you and Isha left behind, you pulled her close, cradling her against your chest. Your eyelids grew heavy, and you surrendered to the quiet moment, letting the hush of the hospital and the beat of your own heart lull you. Isha’s breathing steadied, and soon you both drifted into a fragile, much-needed slumber.
->
Time blurred as you slept. Footsteps and hushed voices in the hall pulled you back from the edge of unconsciousness. The door outside your room was guarded, and two figures approached hand-in-hand—Caitlyn and Jinx. The hallway seemed endless, every step resonating with unspoken vows and sorrow. Caitlyn’s enforcers stood at attention, parting before them. In that subtle act, something had shifted: Jinx stood at Caitlyn’s side as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Neither woman questioned it.
Caitlyn gave Jinx’s hand a gentle squeeze. “No matter what,” she whispered, voice tight with worry and resolve, “I’m putting everything on the line. My position, my authority—everything. I won’t lose them again.”
Jinx nodded, her eyes red but fiercely determined. “We’ll make it right,” she said simply.
They entered quietly, bracing themselves for what they might see. Inside, the soft hospital glow fell on your still form, Isha curled at your side. The sight broke their hearts anew. The bandage wrapped around your torso, the bruises and cuts that marred your skin, the weariness in your half-lidded eyes as you stirred—none of it should have happened. Not to you.
Jinx reached you first, her hand gently sliding into yours, while Isha’s small hand cradled your cheek, all still half-asleep. Caitlyn came to your other side, leaning down to press a delicate kiss against your temple. You opened your eyes slowly, meeting their gazes, a small, wry smile pulling at your cracked lips. “Can’t get rid of me that easily,” you rasped, voice scratchy but light, trying to comfort them both. Your words made tears brim in their eyes, relief mixing with lingering fear.
You took a breath, steeling yourself, and began to recount everything that happened in Mel’s tower—her threats, her cruelty, her twisted plans. They listened, their faces darkening, jaws clenched. Jinx’s grip on your hand tightened, and Caitlyn’s eyes blazed with a silent fury.
The door opened again, and the enforcer who had come before stepped in. He greeted you warmly, happier than before to see you awake and stable. “Should I send Sevika and Vi back in, Mrs. Kiramman?” he asked politely.
Your heart nearly stopped. Mrs. Kiramman. There it was again. You looked at Caitlyn, searching for an explanation. Caitlyn’s cheeks flushed, her eyes darting away. She looked nervous, scared even. You’d never seen her like this—Caitlyn Kiramman, Commander of the Piltover Army, rendered shy and hesitant.
Jinx raised an eyebrow at Caitlyn’s reaction, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the gravity of the moment. “Go on, Cupcake. Tell ‘em.”
Caitlyn drew a shaking breath. “While you were… recovering, I took… measures,” she began, voice trembling slightly. “Legal measures, to protect you. I proposed a marriage—” She met your astonished gaze. “To you. On paper, you’re set to become my spouse, and that grants you certain protections. Not just my protections as an army commander, but under Piltover law, we can bring Mel to justice with no question.”
Your mind swam, shock and disbelief warring with gratitude and, strangely, relief. You opened your mouth but no words formed. Your throat felt tight.
Caitlyn forced a nervous laugh, wiping at the corner of her eye. “I know it’s sudden. I’ll have a ring made for you,” she faltered, then glanced at Jinx, swallowing hard. “For both of you, actually.”
Jinx’s eyes widened, then a grin spread across her face. She leaned over your form and pressed a quick, playful kiss to Caitlyn’s cheek. “Oh, this just got interesting,” she teased, her tone lighter, if only by a fraction.
You were frozen, speechless, as your eyes flicked between them. Finally, you managed a whisper: “I… missed a lot, didn’t I?”
They both laughed softly through tears, and you realized that, despite the pain and fear, you were surrounded by love. The future might be complicated, but you were alive, and they were here. You squeezed both their hands, letting your heart speak what words couldn’t.
->->->
A few days had passed since your dramatic return from the brink, and you now found yourself settled in Caitlyn’s quarters. You’d been warned not to overexert yourself, but that didn’t stop you from limping off the plush couch in the dimly lit living space and making a clumsy beeline for the kitchen. The glow of a single lamp cast your shadow long and wobbly as you favored your uninjured side, doing your best not to hiss aloud at every step. Your eyes were set on a simple goal: a glass of water from the cabinet across the island.
Caitlyn’s voice drifted from the next room, something about a meeting in the morning, but you weren’t really listening. Your entire concentration was on not knocking over that vase sitting precariously close to the kitchen’s edge. When you finally reached your target, you lifted your arm, only to realize the glass was just out of reach. You stretched, wincing, your ribs protesting loudly. You’d been through worse, right? Another stretch and—
A throat cleared softly behind you. You froze mid-stretch.
“I told you to use your crutches,” Caitlyn said pointedly, appearing at the kitchen’s threshold. She leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, eyebrows raised. Her disapproval was evident.
You tried to play innocent, but your attempted smile turned into a pained grimace. “I’m fine,” you mumbled, “I’ve been through worse. Don’t see why I’m not healing faster. I’m like… superhuman or something.”
Caitlyn snorted softly, moving towards you. “You were shot,” she reminded calmly, “nearly died, might I add, and most of your ribs are either broken or bruised.” She gently took the glass from the shelf and handed it to you. “I’m quite certain no one expects you to bounce back in a day.”
You rolled your eyes. “Thanks, Dr. Caitlyn. I didn’t know you had a medical degree.” You took the water, and before you could drink, she leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.
“I care about you,” she murmured against your mouth, “and I’d rather you not end up back in the hospital.” But you, ever the rebel, attempted to deepen the kiss, leaning in suggestively. Caitlyn pulled back just in time, shaking her head and placing a hand gently on your chest. “Easy there,” she teased, “doctor’s orders. No strenuous activity—including that.”
You pretended to pout, shuffling your way back toward the couch. “Spoil-sport,” you muttered under your breath.
Just as you were about to plop down (carefully) on the couch, the door creaked open. Jinx breezed in, Isha’s small footsteps echoing behind her. Your face lit up, smile bright. “Jinx!” you greeted with an enthusiastic wave, which caused a twinge in your side. Ouch. Worth it.
Caitlyn wasted no time. “Oh, perfect timing, Jinx,” she said, crossing her arms. “Someone here decided to go wandering around without assistance.”
You shot Caitlyn a half-hearted glare. “Traitor,” you hissed softly.
Jinx smirked, sauntering over, her purple eyes gleaming with mischief. She leaned in and kissed you softly, her lips just brushing yours. You tried to pull her closer—only for her to pull away, wagging a finger as if scolding a misbehaving puppy. “Tsk, tsk. What did the doc say? No heavy lifting, no strenuous activity. I’d say that includes making out, too.”
You groaned dramatically, grabbing a plushie—a weird, fuzzy creature Vi had gifted you with a “get well soon” note—and tossing it lamely toward Caitlyn. It soared a pitiful few inches before flopping to the floor near her feet.
Caitlyn gave you a deadpan look, and Jinx giggled, thoroughly enjoying the exchange.
Sevika and Vi had stepped out to arrange more substantial food for you and Isha, who had quietly taken a seat beside you, eyes shining as you offered her a slice of pineapple from a small bowl someone had left on the coffee table. You winked at her, tossing a piece gently across the living room, and to your delight, it landed perfectly in her mouth. Isha giggled, the sound like a tiny bell in the tense room, and you cheered quietly, wincing again but grinning through the pain.
Caitlyn and Jinx moved over to the kitchen island, speaking in hushed tones. Their posture was close, intimate in a cautious way. You pretended not to listen, but your ears perked up anyway.
“I’ve filed the necessary papers,” Caitlyn said, leaning forward, her voice steady but her nerves clearly on edge. “The council knows I intend to marry them. It’s… unexpected, but I want to make sure Mel understands what she’s dealing with. This gives us a legal edge. If they’re my spouse, I have more power, more rights to act.”
Jinx folded her arms, at first stunned by the mention of marriage. But then she cracked a smirk. “You’re serious? Marriage. Didn’t think you’d pull that card, Cupcake. But I gotta say, it’s bold.” Her tone turned thoughtful. “They’re worth it. Everything we’ve done—this fight, the pain—we owe it to them.”
Caitlyn nodded, her eyes cast down for a moment. Then she looked up, her expression softening. She reached out and took Jinx’s hand, fingers curling gently around hers. Jinx stiffened slightly, surprised by the tenderness. “Jinx,” Caitlyn began, voice quiet but firm, “I know we’ve had our differences. Hell, we used to be enemies. But I’ve come to respect you, to admire what you bring to their life. And I… I think I’ve come to care about you, too.”
Jinx’s eyes widened. She tried to play it off, a teasing gleam entering her gaze. “Careful, Piltie. Don’t get sappy on me now.” But her voice shook slightly. “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, then yeah… I guess I feel the same. We’re all tangled together now, and… I’m not complaining.”
In that soft moment, the sounds of your quiet laughter carried over. Caitlyn and Jinx glanced at you, lying on the couch with Isha. Isha giggled again as you attempted another pineapple toss, this time celebrating more quietly as it landed near her. You smiled, half delirious with fatigue and medication, and waved your free hand at them, your grin lopsided but happy.
Jinx and Caitlyn turned back to each other. It was settled, then. Their differences were trivial compared to what they’d almost lost.
As the two women straightened, Caitlyn’s cheeks tinted faintly pink, and Jinx’s smile turned mischievous. Jinx leaned in and kissed Caitlyn’s cheek, a gesture that spoke volumes—an agreement, a partnership. Caitlyn blushed harder, and Jinx chuckled softly.
From the couch, you were caught in stunned silence, your brain still registering the domestic chaos and unexpected confessions. You finally managed to whisper in a playful tone, “I must’ve missed a lot.”
They both looked at you, eyes shining with a new understanding. And in that shared gaze, something deeper formed—hope, resilience, and the promise of a future built on unity rather than division.
->->->
Late night starlight trickled through the windows, painting the kitchen in quiet hues of silver and blue. You stood hunched over the kitchen island, your shoulders relaxed, the marriage papers spread before you like a map to a future you never quite imagined. The silence was comforting. You flipped through the pages, absorbing the legalities that tethered your life to Caitlyn’s authority—and, indirectly, to Jinx and Isha. You’d recovered almost fully now, your aches and bruises reduced to faint reminders, your chest no longer wrapped in bandages. Still, you took your time reading, wanting to understand every clause, every promise lurking between the lines.
You felt her presence before you heard her. Caitlyn, leaning against the wall just out of your line of sight, arms folded softly. You knew she was there, watching. She always did that—let you have your moment, your breathing space, while keeping a vigilant eye. You didn’t acknowledge her right away, focusing on a particular paragraph that detailed the legal protections and rights transferred upon the union.
Eventually, Caitlyn spoke, her voice low and gentle. “I’m sorry it had to be this way,” she said, each word carefully weighed. “I never intended to corner you into a marriage for legal reasons. But Mel’s… actions left us with little choice. This was the best way to ensure you’d be safe, and that you’d have the power to continue your work, to keep building that bridge between Piltover and Zaun.”
You paused, letting her apology settle into the quiet. You turned the last page, running your fingertips over the ink. Finally, you lifted your gaze and fixed it on Caitlyn. Her silhouette was touched by moonlight, highlighting the concern etching her features. The purple glow in your eyes caught her attention, and you saw her posture ease when she realized the shimmer in your blood had rekindled. You were healing, truly.
Caitlyn tilted her head slightly, almost smiling. The worry in her face softened. The purple in your eyes meant something to her—strength, vitality, your unyielding spirit. “You’re getting stronger,” she said, her voice hitching a bit on that last word, as if it gave her comfort.
You leaned your elbows on the island, pushing the documents aside. “I’ve been thinking,” you began, choosing your words with care. “About Jinx, and you, and this whole arrangement. I don’t want Jinx left out. I never wanted that. I want… the both of you. For the rest of my life. No one else.”
Caitlyn’s lips parted, her eyes shining with an emotion she tried to contain. She nodded slowly. Without a word, she stepped forward and placed a small velvet box on the countertop. You raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at your lips. “Quick to get a ring, aren’t you?” you teased lightly, expecting some band for you.
With a slight, nervous laugh, Caitlyn flipped the box open. You leaned in, only to gasp softly. Inside wasn’t your ring—it was one for Jinx. A beautiful piece, edgy yet elegant, something that would suit Jinx’s wild spirit. Your eyes flicked up to Caitlyn’s in quiet awe.
She took a breath and began. “I’ve come to realize something,” Caitlyn said softly. “I’m happiest when we’re together. All three of us. I think… we’re stronger that way. And I want Jinx to know that this isn’t just about you and me, or legalities. It’s about all of us. I want her to be part of this—of us—for real.”
You felt your chest tighten with gratitude and love. You let out a soft laugh, relief and warmth flooding you. Caitlyn’s confession made your heart flutter. You reached across the island, your fingers closing around her hand. You felt the coolness of her skin, the subtle tremor in her fingertips.
In that dimly lit kitchen, surrounded by silence and the distant hum of a sleeping city, you followed an impulsive spark. You moved quickly, your body barely protesting as you lunged forward. Caitlyn gasped softly, caught off guard, as you pressed your lips to hers. This wasn’t a light kiss—this was you pouring everything into it, your soul’s breath, your heart’s yearnings, your mind’s gratitude. All the pain, the fear, the relief, the love coalesced in that single, passionate moment.
Caitlyn’s free hand rose to your shoulder, and you felt her smile against your mouth, her breathing unsteady. You were aware of the faint scent of her hair, the soft hum of her small contented sigh. When you finally pulled away, you stayed close, resting your forehead against hers. Her eyes were wide, tears welling, and in that luminous haze of vulnerability, you whispered, “I love you.”
It was simple, raw. The words came out quieter than expected, almost breaking on a sob you didn’t know you held. You loved her. You told her at last.
Caitlyn’s eyes shone as the tears finally spilled over. She let out a breathless laugh, shaky but joyful. “You…” she began, voice trembling. “You love me… I love you, too. I love you so much.” She repeated it, as if tasting the words, as if by saying it again and again she could make it more real, more permanent. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
You smiled, your face damp with your own tears. The world felt infinitely kinder in that moment. The darkness of the past weeks receded, leaving behind a fragile but glowing promise. Your heart, so long battered and tested, found solace in Caitlyn’s voice, in her words, in her love.
In the silence that followed, you thought about Jinx asleep in the other room, Isha dreaming peacefully, and Vi, Sevika, Ekko all working on a future shaped by your shared struggles. This was your family, unexpected and eccentric, forged in crisis and tempered by love.
As you stood there, forehead to forehead with Caitlyn, tears drying on your cheeks, you knew that no matter what Mel tried, or what storms lay ahead, you had something unbreakable. You had each other.
->
The city of Zaun breathed differently now—whispers of a gentler future drifted through its alleys, and the hum of machinery felt less hostile. You walked at a measured pace beside Sevika, your footsteps echoing along metal walkways and old stone paths. Rusted pipes and flickering neon signs painted a palette of subdued color over the streets, and you caught sight of fewer rough characters lurking in the shadows. It was as if the city itself exhaled a long, weary sigh and found some measure of calm.
Sevika tossed a small gear between her metal fingers, eyeing you with a guarded fondness. “You know,” she began, voice gruff but not unfriendly, “things’ve changed since you decided to play hero. Not so many muggings, not so many fights. The gangs keep to their corners, and I don’t have to watch my back every damn second.” She laughed dryly, “I’d say you’ve become a god here, but I know better than to inflate your ego.”
You snorted softly, shaking your head. “God?” you repeated, eyebrows lifting in amused disbelief. “Come on, Sevika, I’m just someone who wanted peace since I was a kid. Nothing more.” The thought made your heart warm. “I never planned on becoming some legendary figure. I just… wanted everyone to stop hurting each other.”
Sevika shrugged, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Well, you got what you wanted, for now.” She gestured ahead, where Jinx’s lair beckoned with its now more colorful lights dancing across broken beams and suspended platforms. The place looked different, touched by brighter hues and small tokens of cheer that hadn’t been there before.
When you reached the door, Sevika stopped abruptly and hesitated. Then, with a grunt that sounded too embarrassed to be anything but sincere, she pulled you into a sudden hug. Her mechanical arm clinked softly, and her human arm tightened gently around your shoulder. “Thanks,” she said quietly, her voice rough with something unspoken. “For everything. Don’t forget to invite me to the wedding,” she added, pulling back and feigning a scowl to mask how much that gesture meant.
You huffed a laugh, mock-pushing her away. “Sure thing,” you teased. “Just don’t complain about the seating arrangements.”
Sevika rolled her eyes, stepping back with a half-smile. “Whatever, I’ll take Isha with me. Give you and Jinx some time.” She waved off your thanks and walked away, footsteps heavy, as her form vanished around a corner.
Turning your attention to the lair, you entered slowly, eyes adjusting to the changing lights. The hum of music reverberated softly, a half-finished melody drifting from Jinx’s workbench. You leaned against a freshly installed railing—the edges no longer looked so sharp and dangerous. The place felt safer, more lived-in, as if Jinx had softened its edges in subtle tribute to the peace you’d fought for.
She hadn’t noticed you yet. Her goggles perched on her forehead, she tinkered with something small and metallic. The steady rhythm of her tools tapping and the quiet hum of the music created an intimate atmosphere. As if sensing your gaze, Jinx brushed her hair aside to fix her goggles and spotted you. The smile that graced her lips was different now—calmer, warmer, more full of love than mischief.
You pushed off the railing, crossing the space to her. “Working on something explosive?” you teased softly, voice low in the quiet room.
Jinx’s eyes sparked. “Maybe,” she admitted, her tone playfully secretive. “Let’s just say if Mel ever tries something again, I’ve got a few… surprises.” She turned down the music, her attention fully on you.
You stood before her, a good head taller, and as you reached out to brush a stray strand of her blue hair from her face, her lashes fluttered. She pressed closer, sliding her hands lightly over your waist. Jinx’s voice dropped to a whisper, “You’re so beautiful, you know that? The first time I saw you from above, I knew…” She swallowed hard, eyes glistening in the low light. “I knew you’d be someone extraordinary.”
Your heart twisted sweetly. Tears threatened at the corners of your eyes as you listened. Overwhelmed by how far you’d all come—Jinx, Caitlyn, you—and what it meant to be so cared for, so cherished. The tears escaped, sliding down your cheeks silently.
Jinx, ever observant, gently cupped your face, her thumb sweeping away the wetness. “You’re perfect,” she whispered, her voice quivering with intensity. “Your soul… it’s what the world needs. You, Caitlyn, and me—it’s crazy, but we fit together. We belong.”
You pulled her into a hug, your arms wrapping securely around her slender frame. She murmured reassurance after reassurance, stroking your back, calming the trembling in your chest.
As your emotions steadied, you leaned down to her ear, your breath warm against her skin. “Jinx,” you said softly, “I love you.” The words fell quiet but potent, like a secret only meant for her.
She pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. Something shifted—her pupils dilated, the hue of her irises flashing from purple to a brilliant blue, catching the faint reflection of your own eyes doing the same. A moment of quiet magic passed between you, some silent acknowledgment of a bond deeper than words. You both gasped softly, surprised and delighted by the sensation.
Jinx’s lips curved into a trembling smile, and before you could speak again, she grabbed your face and drew you into a deep, fervent kiss. You responded with equal longing, pressing her gently against her workbench. Her quiet whimpers and sighs rang sweet and gentle in your ears. She held you as if you might vanish, her fingers tangling into your hair, pulling you impossibly closer.
When finally you parted, both of you breathless, she whispered, “I love you too. More than you’ll ever know.”
For a moment, the world stood still in the silence of her workshop. Just you and her, your heartbeats aligning. The distant hum of the city seemed muted, the future stretched open before you—complicated, challenging, but bright with possibility. And at last, you understood what it meant to be not just a part of Jinx’s life, but loved by her, and by Caitlyn, wholly and completely.
idk if yall on tiktok but you know that cosplayer that plays Caitlyn?? OH. MY. GOD. I- bro- and her girlfriend plays Vi so well. BUT CAITLYN? jesus… i cant even. She’s so pretty.. and very tall😅😅😅😅😅
