hi friends!! i finally opened my etsy shop if anyone is interested 🥺
i won't be selling anything i haven't designed myself (i.e. paintings/cross stitches i've made with patterns found on google/pinterest), but i do have a lot of bracelets and necklaces to list. i have 12 things up so far as a sort of test run just to get used to actually selling (sorry it's only shipping inside the US right now but international is intimidating lol)
i've been absolutely terrified to do this but as one of my favorite quotes says: ✨ do it scared ✨
and if you can't buy something, a simple reblog is just as appreciated 🩷💜
Shop items by earthtodanielle located in Indiana, United States.
i’m curious what arbitrary and specific flavors people dislike are. rb and tag a Taste you simply don’t fuck with. for flavor reasons not texture reasons. for me? i do not like elderflower or caraway for whatever reason
Summary: A marriage of convenience with Felix turns into real love
Warnings: None
Word Count: 5.6k
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Your parents are in the hospital, pale and still and surrounded by machines that beep like a foreign language. The car accident came out of nowhere. The bills came even faster.
You stand in the hallway outside their room with a man in a suit who keeps using words like “coverage” and “options” and “limited.”
You have a nursing degree, but you are just a new hire at a small clinic. You know how expensive everything is. You know exactly how long the money you do not have will last.
It is not long.
“Can we work something out?” you ask, voice small. “I can pay in installments. I can take extra shifts.”
The man looks sympathetic, which somehow makes it worse. “I’m sorry. The deposit has to be paid by the end of the week. Or we’ll have to move them to a different facility.”
A worse one. You know what that means.
You step outside to breathe because the walls feel too close.
Your phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Y/N?” It’s your uncle, the only family who still calls. “Someone wants to talk to you about… a proposal.”
You almost hang up. You do not have time for weird side quests. But then he says a name that makes your stomach drop.
“Lee Felix.”
You meet his parents first.
They’re kinder than you expect. Gentle, even. His mother has tired eyes, like she has spent many nights worrying long before you showed up. His father is quiet, fingers laced together on the table, studying you like he is trying to see if you can be trusted with his whole heart.
“We know this is… unconventional,” his mother says. “If there was another way, we wouldnt ask this of you.”
You sit in their living room, hands wrapped around a cup of tea you can barely taste. Felix is not here yet. That feels intentional.
“What exactly are you asking?” you say. “I need to hear it clearly.”
They dont sugarcoat it.
They tell you about Felix’s career. The strain. The loneliness. The way he comes home wired and exhausted and with no one who is just his. They tell you about rumors and scandals and the fear that one day some stranger with bad intentions will latch onto him because of his name.
“We want someone we can trust,” his father says quietly. “Someone who will care for him as a person, not just a public figure.”
It almost hurts, how much they love their son.
“We would support your parents’ medical bills,” his mother says. “Fully. We would make sure they are cared for in the best hospital. And we would compensate you for your time. You would not have to worry about rent or basic living costs.”
You stare into your tea. “In exchange for… marrying your son?”
“Yes.”
It sits in the air between you like something heavy and old.
You swallow. “What are the conditions?”
They share a look. You know the answer before they say it.
“No infidelity,” his father says. “From either side. No divorce. And… an heir.”
You flinch. “You want a child.”
His mother hesitates. “We want our son to have a family. We wont force you to have a house full of children. But one… we would be very grateful.”
You think about your parents. The machines. The nurse pointing at a chart and saying something about the next twenty four hours being critical.
You think about your bank account.
“Will he agree to this?” you ask. “Felix.”
“He already has,” his mother says softly. “He told us if this helps you and your parents, he’ll do it.”
Your chest aches.
“Can I meet him?” you whisper.
He’s awkward in person.
You dont know why that surprises you. Youve seen him on screen a hundred times. Laughing, shining, eyes crinkling when he smiles, voice deep in a way that feels like it does not belong in such a soft face.
In real life, he fidgets.
He shows up at the cafe in a mask and cap, slides into the booth and takes them off only when he is sure no one is looking.
“Hi,” he says, voice small. “I’m Felix.”
“I know,” you say, then wince. “Sorry. I mean. I’m Y/N.”
His mouth curves. “I know.”
Silence stretches. The coffee between you grows a skin.
“Did my parents explain everything?” he asks.
“Mostly,” you say. “I wanted to hear it from you.”
He rubs his thumb along the edge of his cup. “I don’t like this.”
You flinch. “Oh.”
He looks up quickly, eyes wide. “No, I mean, not you. I mean the situation. It feels… unfair.”
A bitter laugh escapes you. “It is.”
He nods, serious. “If there was another way, I’d tell them no. But there isn’t. Not right now. For you. Or for me.”
You study him. “Do you want to get married?”
He thinks about it. You respect him a little more for that.
“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I like the idea of having someone who is… on my side. Not because of my job. Just… me.”
He looks at his hands. “But like this? It feels like I’m buying a person. I hate that.”
“Nobody asked me to love you,” you say quietly. “Just to be faithful. To have your child. To be there.”
His jaw tightens.
“I’m not going to treat you like a contract,” he says. “If we do this. I’m going to try. To be… good. To you. To the baby. I just… I don’t know how to be a husband when my life is like this.”
You are surprised by the sting in your eyes.
“I don’t know how to be a wife,” you admit. “I went from daughter to nurse to… this.”
He takes a shaky breath.
“Is there any part of you that wants to run?” he asks.
“Every part,” you say. “But my parents cant run. So neither can I.”
He nods slowly. “So we stay.”
“We stay,” you echo.
You sign the papers two days later.
The first time you have sex with him, everything feels wrong.
The hotel room is beautiful. The bed is huge. The sheets feel expensive. Someone has placed champagne and chocolate in the corner like the universe is trying very hard to play pretend.
You and Felix stand at the foot of the bed and do not look at each other.
“Does it hurt?” he asks suddenly.
You blink. “What?”
“When you… have sex,” he says, flushing all the way to his ears. “I mean, we have to… if we want a baby. But if it really hurts you we can ask for help. Doctors. I don’t want to hurt you more than I have to. I mean. I don’t want to hurt you at all.”
He is rambling. You cut him off with a hand on his wrist.
“I’m not a virgin,” you say gently. “It’s okay.”
He stares at you. “Oh.”
You arch a brow. “Is that a problem?”
He shakes his head so fast his hair jumps. “No. No. Not at all. I just… okay. Good. I mean. Not good. Just. I’m going to stop talking now.”
You laugh, weakly.
“Felix,” you say. “We can just… do this. It doesn’t have to be romantic.”
Something flickers across his face. Relief. Hurt. You cant tell.
He nods. “Okay.”
You climb onto the bed and lie back, staring at the ceiling. He turns off the lamp and joins you. You both fumble with zippers and buttons, pushing clothes down just far enough.
He’s careful. Too careful. His hands are gentle and clumsy. He asks if you’re ready three times before he moves.
It’s not painful. Its not pleasurable either. It’s quick, a task completed. You close your eyes and breathe and try not to think about how this is supposed to be something else, in another life.
When hes done, he pulls away, breathing hard, guilt all over his face.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately.
“For what?” you ask.
“It was…” He struggles for a word and fails. “Fast.”
“It’s fine,” you say. “We have time.”
You do the same the next day. And the next. He never kisses you. Never touches more skin than he has to. He looks away from your face like hes afraid of finding something there he cant handle.
By the fourth day of your honeymoon, hes been gone since breakfast.
He leaves a note on the pillow.
The boys are in town. They wanted to hang out. I’ll be back late, don’t wait up.
You sit on the balcony with his hoodie around your shoulders and watch the sun go down alone.
You get pregnant.
Its almost anticlimactic. Youre late. You buy a test. Two lines. You sit on the floor of the bathroom with your hand over your mouth and laugh-cry.
Felix calls you that night from a hotel room somewhere.
“How are your parents?” he asks.
“Stable,” you say. “Better.”
“That’s good,” he says softly. “That’s really good. And you?”
You look at the drawer where the test is hidden.
“I’m okay,” you say. “Just tired.”
He hesitates.
“Y/N,” he says. “If you ever need anything. You have to ask, okay. I’m not good at… knowing. If you don’t say.”
You want to say, I’m pregnant. Youre going to be a father.
Instead, you say, “Okay.”
You wait until he’s home again. You tell him in the kitchen, hands shaking, the word “pregnant” feeling too small and too big at the same time.
His eyes widen. He covers his mouth. He laughs, then chokes on it.
“We did it,” he whispers. “We really… I’m going to be a dad.”
You nod, tears spilling over.
He catches you by the waist and pulls you into a hug, sudden and warm and real for the first time. His face is in your neck, his shoulders shaking.
“Thank you,” he says, voice breaking. “Thank you. You’re amazing. You did this.”
You cling to him, letting yourself pretend for one second that this is what you always wanted.
You give birth without him.
Its not anyone’s fault, not really. Labor comes early. The tour schedule is brutal. The company tries to put him on the earliest flight. Theres a storm. Delays. You go from “I think my water broke” to “youre ten centimeters” faster than anyone expected.
Youre a nurse, but nothing prepares you for the moment they put your daughter on your chest. She is warm and slippery and loud, her tiny face scrunched up, her fist wrapping around your finger like she owns you already.
You sob.
“Hi,” you whisper, voice shredded. “Hi, Aera.”
The name came to you in a dream. Light. Air. Something you could breathe.
Felix makes it six hours later.
He bursts into the hospital room with his hair messy and his makeup still smudged from the stage, eyes wild.
“Where is she?” he demands, chest heaving.
You gesture to the bassinet. The nurse lifts Aera into his arms and you swear he stops breathing.
“Oh,” he says, voice going soft at the edges. “Oh.”
He stares at his daughter like the world just reset.
“She’s so tiny,” he whispers. “Hi, baby. It’s appa.”
Tears fall down his cheeks. He doesn’t wipe them away.
You watch from the bed, exhausted, aching, full in a way you didnt know was possible. For a moment, you are three. A family, in a room that smells like antiseptic and new beginnings.
Then the moment passes.
The world comes back. His schedule. Promotions. Interviews where he cant stop smiling but cant explain why yet. He squeezes your hand before he leaves and promises he’ll come back as soon as he can.
Hes not there for the first night you wake up three times to feed her. Hes not there when your stitches pull. Hes not there when you panic because she will not stop crying and youre sure youre doing everything wrong.
He calls.
He sends money.
He sends flowers.
Hes not there.
He adores her. Its obvious. He walks in the door and the first word out of his mouth is her name. He lifts her up, spins her around, makes faces until she giggles so hard she hiccups.
He takes her to the aquarium. To the park. To the studio where she sits on his lap and presses random keys on the keyboard and he says, “Genius, she is a genius.”
He posts photos with her, her face hidden, tiny hand clutching his. Fans coo over “the little one” without knowing her name. He calls from overseas to say goodnight, and she falls asleep with the phone pressed to her ear.
He loves her.
She loves him.
Youre proud of that. You dont want to take that from her.
But sometimes, when he comes to pick her up for the day and she runs past you, shoes half on, shouting, “Appa, appa,” without even saying goodbye, something twists under your ribcage.
You spend those days in the quiet apartment, cleaning toys, doing laundry, scrolling through other people’s lives on your phone and trying not to think about the fact that yours feels like it stalled somewhere between “wife” and “mother” and never figured out how to be “person” again.
Your parents recover slowly. Rehab. Physical therapy. Then one day, theyre discharged.
You expect a reunion. A reset.
They thank you for everything you did.
Then they move to another city to be closer to your aunt. They dont ask you to come. They dont say you cant. They just… go.
You stand in your kitchen holding your phone, listening to your mother say, “You have your own family now, dear. Focus on your husband and daughter,” and you feel something go very, very still inside you.
You go back to work at a small clinic near the apartment once Aera starts kindergarten.
Youre good at your job. You always have been. You take vitals, give injections, soothe nervous children, talk elderly patients through their medication schedules. They like you. They call you “nurse Y/N” and bring you snacks.
You come home to an empty apartment and a fridge full of little containers labeled with Aera’s favorite foods for when her father takes her for the weekend.
You love her. You’ve taken care of her every day of her life. Youre the one who knows which songs calm her down when she has a nightmare, which vegetables she will tolerate, which stuffed animal cant ever go in the washing machine because it will “get scared.”
She is also a daddy’s girl through and through.
“When is appa coming back?” she asks, swinging her legs at the table.
“In three sleeps,” you say.
She beams. “Three only.”
You smile and exhale quietly.
The summer before first grade, you take time off.
You plan crafts. Trips to the library. Picnics on the living room floor. You let her paint your nails with glitter polish that gets everywhere. You build a pink fort out of blankets and cushions and read stories until your throat is raw.
You dont check your phone much.
Maybe thats why the text hits you so hard when it comes.
From: Felix
Hey, love. I have a gap in schedule. I was thinking I could take Aera to Jeju for a couple weeks. Beach, fresh air, just the two of us? I miss her so much. What do you think?
You stare at the screen.
Just the two of us.
Your chest aches.
Your fingers type before your heart catches up.
Sure. She’d love that. She’s been talking about the ocean for weeks. When are you picking her up?
The apartment feels bigger when they’re gone.
You thought you understood loneliness before. This is different.
You walk past Aera’s room and see the empty bed, the toys lined up the way she left them. Her favorite pink hoodie is still draped over the back of the couch. You put it away and then take it back out again because the absence feels worse.
You try to enjoy the quiet. You sleep in. You make tea and finish it while it is still hot for once. You fill the hours with errands and books and cleaning.
By day four, the silence starts to buzz.
By day seven, it feels like an actual weight.
You check your phone more often. He sends photos. Aera with ice cream all over her face. Aera in a sunhat too big for her, holding his hand on the beach. Aera asleep on his chest, his caption a line of hearts.
She looks so happy.
You wake up, walk into the bedroom you technically share with your husband, and stop in the doorway because his side of the bed looks untouched. His hoodie is on the chair where he left it weeks ago, clean and folded, smelling faintly like him.
You pick it up without thinking and press it to your face.
It hits you harder than you expect. His scent. The ghost of his warmth. The reminder that he lives here too, that this is supposed to be your shared life.
You lie down on his side of the bed in his hoodie and curl around a pillow and start crying so quietly that at first you dont even realize its happening.
You dont sob. Theres no dramatic wail. The tears just slide down your temples into your hair, soaking the pillowcase.
Youre so tired.
Of being the good wife who never asks for more. Of being the mother who steps aside. Of being the daughter who did the right thing and got left behind anyway. Of being the nurse who takes care of everyone, always.
You did everything everyone asked of you.
You married the idol.
You had the heir.
You stayed.
Somewhere along the way, you lost the part of you that could ask, “What about me?”
You fall asleep like that. In his hoodie. On his pillow. With your cheek wet and your heart cracked open.
Felix comes back early.
He was supposed to stay one more night, but Aera fell asleep in the car on the way back from the beach and the flights worked out and he wanted to get her home.
He carries her in from the taxi, her head lolling on his shoulder, her fingers twitching in dreams. He smells like sunscreen and salt and airplane air.
He tucks her into her own bed, smoothing her hair back, kissing her forehead. She doesn’t wake.
He smiles, soft and a little sad, then pads quietly down the hall to your room.
Hes not sure what he expects.
The lights are off. The curtain is half open, city glow throwing a faint band across the bed.
He sees you.
Youre on his side, curled up around his pillow, his hoodie swallowing you. Your face is turned toward his side of the bed, lashes still wet, mouth set in a small, unhappy line even in sleep.
Something inside his chest twists hard.
Hes not stupid.
He knows youve been lonely. Hes seen the way your eyes go distant when he says he has to leave again. Hes noticed the way your hand hovers in the air like you want to reach for him but dont know if youre allowed.
He knows hes been hiding behind the contract.
He stands there for a long moment, watching you, guilt and affection and fear wrestling in his ribs.
Then, very carefully, he lies down beside you.
He fits his body along the curve of yours, one arm sliding around your waist, his chest pressed to your back. He holds you like hes wanted to for longer than he’ll admit.
You shiver in your sleep, then relax, sinking back against him instinctively.
He exhales into your hair.
“I see you,” he whispers, voice barely sound. “I’m sorry I made you feel alone. I’m so sorry.”
You make a tiny noise, something like a broken word, but you dont wake.
He tightens his arm around you, gently.
“I’ll try,” he breathes. “I promise. I’ll try to be better. If you still want me to.”
He falls asleep like that, face in your hair, arm locked around your waist like his body has decided for him.
You wake to warmth.
For a moment, you think it’s a dream. The weight of an arm over your stomach. The slow rise and fall of a chest at your back. The tickle of breath against the nape of your neck.
Then you open your eyes and see his hand resting on your hoodie, ring glinting in the thin morning light.
Panic spikes.
You go rigid.
His arm tightens reflexively.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “Please.”
“Felix,” you whisper, heart racing. “I should get up.”
He shifts, lifting his head slightly so his chin rests on your shoulder. His voice is clearer now.
“Can you stay a little longer?” he asks. “Just… a little. Please.”
You swallow hard. “Why?”
He is quiet for a moment.
“Because I’ve been gone too long,” he says. “And I came back to find my wife crying in my clothes on my side of the bed.”
Your cheeks burn. “I wasn’t crying.”
“You were,” he says softly. “It’s okay. You’re allowed.”
Something in his tone makes your eyes sting again.
“I’m fine,” you lie.
He sighs. “You don’t have to be fine with me.”
You stay very still.
“I leave you alone too much,” he says quietly. “I know that. I’ve been acting like you’re a roommate who shares my daughter, not my wife. I told myself I was giving you space. That you didn’t want more than the contract. That you were just… okay with this.”
“I agreed to it,” you say, staring at the wall. “This life. The conditions. I knew what I was doing.”
“Did you?” he asks gently. “Back then, at the hospital with your parents and the bills and everyone telling you it was the only way. Did you really have space to know what you personally wanted?”
You close your eyes.
“No,” you whisper.
He nods against your shoulder.
“I didn’t either,” he admits. “I said yes because I wanted to save you. And because I was scared I’d end up with someone worse. Someone who saw me as a paycheck or a toy. With you, I felt safe. So I grabbed it. And then I got scared of ruining it.”
You frown. “Ruining what?”
“Everything we could have been,” he says.
You turn your head slightly, just enough to see his face out of the corner of your eye. His expression is open in a way you have never seen. Vulnerable. Young.
“You thought you’d ruin it?” you repeat.
He nods. “I thought if I tried to be a real husband and failed, you’d hate me. If I stayed a little distant, you’d at least be… neutral. I thought that was safer.”
“And in the middle of all that thinking,” you say quietly, “you left me alone.”
His eyes squeeze shut. “I did.”
Silence stretches, heavy and honest.
He breaks it first.
“I saw it last night,” he says. “How alone you are. How much you’ve been holding. The way you curled up on my side like it was the only place you could fall apart. I should have seen it sooner.”
Your throat tightens. “And now?”
“And now,” he says slowly, “if you’ll let me, I want to try again. Not as the guy who signed papers for you. As your husband. As someone who loves you.”
The word knocks the air out of your lungs.
You stare at him. “You… love me?”
He smiles, crooked and scared. “Turns out spending years sharing a life and a child with someone makes you feel things. Who knew.”
You want to laugh. You do not.
“You’ve never said it,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says. “That’s on me. I told myself it’d make it too real. That I’d freak you out. That maybe you didn’t want that from me. So I just… showed up around the edges and put everything in the box labeled ‘for Aera’ and called it parenting.”
He swallows.
“But you’re not just Aera’s mother,” he says. “You’re my wife. You’re the one who held our family when I was gone. You took care of my parents when they worried. You took care of your parents. You took care of patients. You took care of everybody. And I… I let you do it alone.”
You feel your eyes overflow.
“That’s not fair,” you say, voice tiny.
“No,” he agrees. “It isn’t.”
The admission, simple and clean, breaks something and fixes it all at once.
You sniff. “What are you going to do about it?”
He huffs a soft laugh. “You’re still you.”
“Unfortunately,” you mutter.
He shifts closer, his arm firm around you, his mouth near your ear.
“First,” he says, “I’m going to say I’m sorry. Really sorry. Not just for missing the birth or the recitals or the parents’ meetings. For standing right in front of you and not really seeing you. That is the thing I regret most.”
Your chest aches.
“Second,” he continues, “I’m going to ask what you want. Not what everyone else needs. You. What do you want from me, Y/N.”
You stare at the wall and let yourself be selfish for the first time in years.
The answer rises up before you even think.
“I want a partner,” you whisper. “I want to feel like… like we’re in this together. Not me here and you in airports and hotel rooms with our daughter on weekends. I want you to stay sometimes. I want you to put your toothbrush next to mine and not throw it in a bag every week. I want to go on a date that is not grocery shopping. I want to be allowed to say I’m tired without feeling guilty because your tired is louder. I want to stop pretending I don’t care about you.”
You suck in a breath, shocked you said it out loud.
He is quiet for a long moment.
“Okay,” he says finally. “We can do that.”
“You can’t promise that,” you say automatically. “You have schedules. Tours. Fans.”
“You’re right,” he says. “I can’t promise I’ll never leave for work. I can’t promise I’ll never miss a school play. That would be a lie. But I can promise I won’t disconnect. I can change what I can control.”
“Like what?” you ask, suspicious.
“I can ask for breaks that line up with important dates instead of random weeks,” he says. “I can tell my parents they need to pick up their own calls instead of asking you about everything. I can invite you and Aera to join me for part of a tour, not just fly her in for photos. I can go with you to family therapy and figure out how to make this less of a contract and more of a marriage. I can take you out and let people see that I’m married and proud, not hiding you like you’re a scandal.”
Your heart races. “That last one…”
“Is scary,” he finishes for you. “Yeah. For both of us. But I’m tired of pretending my family does not exist so that strangers approve of me. I want Aera to see her parents hold hands in public. I want you to feel like you belong next to me.”
You turn fully now, rolling in his arms until you are facing him. His hair is a mess, his eyes are red at the corners, his hoodie looks wrong on his own body because you are used to it on yours.
“You’re serious,” you say.
He nods. “I am.”
“And if it gets hard,” you ask, voice small. “If the company pushes back. If the fans say cruel things. If I panic.”
“Then we figure it out together,” he says simply. “We adjust. We set boundaries. We cry. We yell. We ask for help. But we do it as us, not as you over there and me over here.”
You search his face.
“You said you love me,” you whisper. “Say it again.”
He smiles, slow and sure this time.
“I love you,” he says. “Not because of the contract. Not because you gave me a daughter. Those things made it clearer. But I love you because you’re you. Because you laugh quietly at my bad jokes and you argue with doctors when they talk down to your patients and you dance with Aera in the kitchen and you still apologize too much even though you’ve never done anything wrong.”
You let out a shaky laugh that turns into a sob halfway through.
He cups your face, thumbs catching the tears.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly.
You nod.
The kiss is nothing like your wedding night. No rush. No task to complete. Just his mouth on yours, warm and careful, patient. He tastes like sleep and salt and the edges of regret melting.
You kiss him back, fingers curling into his hoodie, and for the first time, it feels like you are both actually here.
Family therapy on Tuesday mornings, where you say things like “I felt abandoned when you went to Jeju without asking how I was” and he sits there and listens, really listens, instead of defending himself.
Small changes in the apartment. His suitcase spends more time in the closet than by the door. His toothbrush actually stays in the holder between trips. His shoes pile up in the entryway because he is home often enough to be messy.
Dates where he dresses down in a hoodie and mask and you walk along the river at night, his fingers laced through yours, talking about nothing and everything. Sometimes fans notice. Sometimes they take photos. You learn to smile anyway.
Aera’s school events, where you both show up, both sit in the tiny chairs, both clap like maniacs when she sings off key. The other parents stare. Some whisper. Some smile. You learn to nod back.
Late nights when he calls from a hotel room and instead of just asking about Aera’s bedtime, he asks about your day. Your patients. Your worries. You tell him. He tells you about his anxiety before a big stage, about the way his back hurts, about how he hates some outfits but wears them anyway. You both complain and laugh until you are too tired to hold the phone.
Saying “I love you” out loud more than once. In the kitchen. In the car. In texts in the middle of the day.
You still get lonely sometimes. He still gets overwhelmed sometimes. You still fight.
But you also make up.
One night, months later, after you put Aera to bed and she is finally asleep after five stories and a glass of water and three extra hugs, you find him in the living room.
He is sitting on the floor, back against the couch, looking at something on his phone. You sit beside him and lean into his shoulder.
“What are you looking at?” you ask.
He tilts the screen.
It is a photo your therapist took for you once as an exercise. The three of you in the waiting room, Aera on your lap, her head on Felix’s shoulder, his arm around both of you, your fingers intertwined.
He smiles. “Us.”
You rest your head against him.
“Do you regret it?” you ask quietly. “The contract. The marriage. Me.”
He scoffs. “No. I regret not choosing you sooner. But I don’t regret where we are now.”
You breathe out.
“Me neither,” you say.
He turns his head and kisses your hair.
“Stay tonight,” you say suddenly. “On purpose. Not by accident.”
He laughs. “I was planning to.”
You roll your eyes. “In the bed, I mean. With me. Not just because you fell asleep putting Aera down.”
He raises his brows, amused. “Are you asking me on a sleepover?”
You shove him lightly. “Felix.”
His expression softens. “I’d love to.”
Later, when you lie in bed with the lights off and his arm around your waist and your head on his chest, you realize something quiet and important.
You are not alone anymore.
Not because you married an idol. Not because of a contract. But because somewhere along the way, two people who did not know how to choose themselves learned how to choose each other.
Aera wanders in at dawn, hair wild, clutching her stuffed bunny.
She pauses in the doorway when she sees you both.
“Did appa sleep here?” she whispers loudly.
Felix reaches one arm out without opening his eyes. “Come here, little one.”
She squeals and launches herself between you both, burrowing under the blanket.
You laugh as she elbows you in the ribs, Felix grunts as she kicks him, and you all end up in a tangle of limbs and warmth.
Felix meets your eyes over Aera’s head and mouths again, I love you.
