ginger bois lover

milky | 20 | she/her | aries

[milkybbun]

🐇 pinned !! 🍫🧺

hi !! welcome to this cozy lil corner on the internet 🧺 ✨i'm milky (she/her, 20) aries sun 𐙚 enfj 𐙚 iced-coffee-dependent

i mostly write about my silly ginger bois !! roy harper (target, pun intended, of 98% of my delusions tbh), wally west & other redheaded fictional men from dc comics and beyond

masterlist 𐙚 taglist

pls be nice, stay hydrated, and enjoy the soft posts. reblog anything u like 𐙚🐰

[wonderrheartt]

fancasting young ewan mcgregor as roy harper

[milkybbun]

i suddenly remembered how worried i was about fancasting ewan as roy when i got the ask on my blog but now i see more and more people saying that they also see him as roy and it's so cute!!

also, the post is simply beautiful!! the layout is peak aesthetic 🥹🩷

[milkybbun]

Heyyy milkyy,

I hope you’re doing well!!!

Miss seeing you on the dash (take your time tho)💗💗

- @/luviery

OMG HI LUV!! 🩷

i am so sorry i missed your ask for so long!! my life's been pretty chill, how are you?

i honestly had a dreadful realization that i gave dc comics (and all fandoms tbh) a bit of a cold shoulder 😭

i'm a huge fantasy fan like with that game of thrones x dc post i made awhile back so i got pulled into a knight of the seven kingdoms but i'd never write anything for that universe. it's in that mental space for me where i just want to read and see the wonderful fanart but not actually contribute. alsooo there are no good ginger bois in akotsk and i'm too traumatized to write about robb stark

i hope i'll get back to enjoy my beloved fandoms but the spark died a little for me ngl

even roy harper can't motivate out of that

[pixelbfs]

red ultra-hot chilli peppers ₊⊹⁀➴ r.harper (pt. 3)

summary: you promised you'd spend more time with him — so today, you're accompanying him at his soundcheck and meeting his family.

content: college au, popular!roy x gn!nerd!reader, roy teaches reader how to play the drums, reader meets the GA 2001 arrow fam, reader opens up about their bad high school experience, READER IS SMART BUT DUMB. THEY'RE PAINFULLY OBLIVIOUS, lover boy roy comes in to save the day ❤️

wc: 2.5k

a/n: awe man... sorry for the slow updates! uni just started and my schedule's insanely packed. anywayssss i got this done and hope you guys like this update <333

part one part two

You owed him this.

You promised Roy, after everything he's done for you, it's your turn to follow him around — social anxiety be damned.

Today's schedule was packed. In the morning until noon, you were going to be accompanying him for his soundcheck. Apparently, his band earned a last-minute booking for an on-campus event arranged by one of the fraternities. It called for a lot of rushed practicing in a short timeframe.

Now, you just stayed backstage, working on the latest assignment that's been burdening you. Even though you were at the back, the sound of the guitar and the beat of the drums messed with your focus.

With a sigh, you closed your laptop, rising from the couch to see how Roy was doing.

You took a peek from the back of the curtain, spotting Roy on his drums, hydrating himself with a few gulps from his water bottle. The harsh spotlight makes the sweat on his body more noticeable, glistening on the freckled skin.

His eyes lit up upon spotting you. "Taking a break from work?" He asked, motioning his head to the side to encourage you to come closer.

"Yeah," you stretched the cramps away while walking over to him, picking up one of his drumsticks and hitting the snare. At the sight of that, a rather fun idea pops into that wonderful head of his.

He scooted the stool behind, making some space for you before patting his lap. "C'mere, let me teach you how to play." He said, arms opened invitingly.

"And… sit on your…?"

He was quick to reply. "It's only weird if you make it weird."

You gulp down your nervousness, masking it with an eye roll before reluctantly sitting on his lap (which, you dare say, was rather comfortable.) You picked up the other drumstick, both sticks feeling rather foreign in your palms. "So, how do I…?"

Your questions were answered with his hands on yours, guiding your movements. Roy's chin was almost resting on your shoulder — he's getting too comfortable in the current position. "Don't hold the drumsticks too tightly," he instructed, his breath fanning against your ear. You had to physically fight the shiver running up your spine. "You'll restrict your movements and lose precision."

You loosened your grip, letting him control your drumming to play a simple duh-dum-tssh. "Yeah, just like that," his voice was uttering those words lowly — it's far too intimate for you to keep your cool, but you tried your best, anyway.

You took control of the drumsticks with his large hands still on yours, playing a bum-ba-dum-tshh. The large, calloused hands holding your wrists slide down to your waist. While you're losing your composure, he's acting as if none of this were a big deal. "You're doin' great," he murmured, "but you're still hitting it too hard, try again."

How could you not hit it too hard? His hands were on your waist while you sat on his lap, listening to his praises and instructions uttered in a literal bedroom voice.

He's just a friend — those thoughts weren't even supposed to cross your mind, but yet they did, taking root in the crevices of your brain and growing into thoughts that were way too far from platonic.

"Like this?" You hit a few random drums after composing yourself. The beat sounded surprisingly good, despite the nerves bubbling in your stomach.

Roy leaned back, looking at you with a glimmer of pride in his eyes. "You're a fast learner, aren't you? My star student."

You mentally utter a 'holy shit'. Those words were definitely not supposed to make your heart rate speed up that much.

You immediately stood up from his lap, accidentally dropping the two drumsticks in the process. "… Guess that's enough for today's lesson. I should let you focus on your soundcheck."

You don't notice the way his shoulders slumped while you were picking up the drumsticks. He liked teaching you how to play — it was like a love language to him. Despite that, he kept his displeasure to himself. "Yeah, you're right. You should keep doing your assignments too," he said, forcing a smile on his face.

When you walked away, his gaze lingered on your frame. His heart was beating so fast that it literally ached. The only thing running through his head now was the nerd who's somehow captured his heart.

Roy stared at his drums for a few moments before taking a deep breath, gathering himself and getting his head in the game. "Hey, Mal! Let's do Californication again!"

He held your books for you as you left the studio with him. Despite your many efforts to make him understand that you can hold them by yourself, he insisted on helping you. It was slightly annoying, but his heart was in the right place.

"Sooo, you hungry?" He asked once the two of you were buckled up in his car. "Ollie's having another chilli night. Dinah said I've missed out too much already, so… you wanna join in?" His palms on the steering wheel suddenly felt extremely sweaty. "Plus, you could finally meet the fam."

"I can?" you raised an eyebrow, "I mean, hell yeah. But am I even ready for Ollie's chilli?"

He chuckled, "Probably not. But I could whip up some omelettes for you if you don't want the chilli— I'm real good at them."

It's your turn to laugh, giving him a slight nudge with your elbow. "Sure. I'd like some of Roy Harper's world-famous omelettes as a side."

The apartment was cozy and well lived-in. It smelled of incense, lit up with warm lights that made it feel much more homey. Almost all of his furniture had wooden frames. Judging by your knowledge of interior architecture, they were definitely vintage — sometime in the 70s, you assumed. On the walls were many framed newspaper clippings alongside many photographs. For some reason, he seemed to be really into Green Arrow.

You followed Roy from behind, using his large frame to hide yourself.

"Ginger Spice, you made it!" Mia squealed, tackling him with a hug from behind. Roy's talked about her once or twice to you — according to him, you'd 'definitely hit it off' with Mia. "Oh," she paused, a Cheshire cat grin forming when she sees you, "it's a pleasure to finally meet you. This guy here's been talking about you non-stop."

"That's hyperbole." Roy quickly interjected, narrowing his eyes at her. He puts his hand on your back, guiding you away from Mia. "Ignore her, she's weird."

The next person you met was Connor, who was curled up on the couch, reading a book. Roy reached out to ruffle his hair, snapping him out of his focus.

"Dude!" He grinned, dabbing his brother up before turning around to face you. The excited smile on his face turns into a grin as mischievous as Mia's. "Nice to meet you," he said, leaning in closer to whisper in your ear, "Between us two — Roy here can't stop talking about you, ever. It's clogging up the family group chat."

Roy doesn't give you enough time to reply before he pulls you away from Connor, glaring daggers at him. "Ignore him and Mia, they're both way too overdramatic," he said, hands on your shoulders as he steered you away from the two blondes, "And for the record, I don't talk about you that much."

Those words were a complete and utter lie.

The two of you walked over to the kitchen, met with the sight of Oliver lip-locked with Dinah while some of the chilli on his spatula dripped on the floor. Roy cleared his throat, causing the couple to immediately pull apart, cheeks red while they introduced themselves to you.

Oliver quickly composed himself, walking towards you with an excited grin. "A new mouth touches the chilli!" he announced, putting his hands on your shoulder as he walked you over to the pot of chilli. The smell of spices filled your senses once he opened the cover, making you squint and sniffle just a little bit.

Roy gulped, arms crossed as he watched Oliver scoop some of the chilli in a spoon, "Ollie, I don't think—"

"Calm down, Roy!" he waved his hand dismissively, offering you the spoon. "You know what you're getting yourself into, right?"

You nod, blowing the steam coming from the scoop of chilli. "I can handle my spices, Roy. No need to worry, trust me." You said as an attempt to calm him down. Roy looked too worried for you, despite it just being some chilli. You've had some in your life; they've been harmless to you.

With everyone watching, you tasted the infamous Oliver Queen chilli.

"Hey, hey. C'mon, drink up." Roy whispered, gently rubbing circles on your back. While you were vomiting in the toilet bowl, he came prepared with your fifth cup of ice water.

You groan, taking the glass from him and swishing the water on your tongue, trying to calm down the insane level of spice. Roy sighed, his hand still on your back. "You really didn't need to eat that much, y'know."

You grabbed some toilet paper and blew your nose into it. "I—I thought it'd be rude not to." You mumble pathetically, fingers reaching out to find the cold glass again.

Despite your misfortune, the statement makes him laugh. He raised an eyebrow, looking at you with half-disbelief, half-disappointment. "You're unbelievable." He whispered, running his fingers through your hair in a gesture of comfort.

You built up the strength to face him again, seeing the previous expression replaced by a tender glint in his eyes. "Stop that. You're lookin' at me weird." You slurred, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

"Yeah," His gaze remained, still looking at you like you hung the stars. "I am."

This wasn't like the drum lesson earlier — there was nothing sexy about throwing up in front of your close friend. Your noses were almost touching; his breath fanned against your quivering lips. It took almost all of his self-control not to lean in and close the gap between you.

A knock on the door makes him jump, pulling away from you. "Are you okay?" Dinah sounds as worried as Roy was — it makes a tinge of guilt pang in your heart, you didn't want to worry her too much.

"I'm fine!" you answered, immediately getting up from the tiled floor. You were still slumped against the toilet bowl when you heard the door creak open, revealing Dinah leaning against the doorway, accompanied by Mia and Connor being nosey.

Roy walked outside, his hands gently squeezing your shoulders. "They're alright. Can you get some milk from the fridge?" Connor nods, being the one to fetch it for him.

When Connor walks away, Oliver catches sight of you. He beamed at the sight of you standing up. "See! You took it like a champ, kid!"

No one laughed — the entire apartment was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop.

Despite your earlier predicament, you stayed to help Roy clean the kitchen and the dishes. While you're bent down in front of the fridge, rearranging the items inside to make way for the leftovers, you hum a tune an old teacher of yours used to love.

Roy's ears perked up, closing the dishwasher. "Haven't heard that song in a long time — reminds me of high school." He said, replaying memories in his head, "I think I would've loved going to prom with you."

A dry, self-pitying laugh leaves your lips. "…I never went to prom." You confessed, sitting on the kitchen counter beside him. "Didn't have a date, and my friends left me out of their plans, so I spent prom night playing bingo at the retirement home."

"You didn't have a prom date?" His jaw dropped, as if the mere concept of you being alone on prom night was unbelievable, "No high school sweethearts?

Gosh, despite how nice he's been to you, you wish you could slap him for wording it like that. "No. No college sweethearts either." You muttered.

"So you've been single your entire life?" Even though you can tell he's being sincere, he's still rubbing salt in the wound.

"Yep." You sighed, shaking your head and looking away from him — hiding the display of humiliation present on your face.

When he noticed your visible discomfort, he stopped speaking. For a few moments, there's nothing but silence between the two of you.

Suddenly, you heard the opening notes to the song you had hummed earlier, followed by the scratchy vocals of the 80s one-hit-wonder. The lights were then turned off, leaving only the yellow refrigerator light illuminating the small space of the kitchen. You finally turned around, seeing him in front of you. The song was coming from his phone placed on the kitchen counter, playing it from his Spotify.

"C'mere," he smiled, pulling you closer. Those hands smoothly slid onto your waist, holding you close, "I'm your prom date now."

It took all your courage for you to wrap your arms around his neck, holding the eye contact that makes your heart thump violently against your ribcage. You swayed to the music with him, unable to hide the smitten smile forming on your face. "Isn't it a little too late for that?" you playfully asked as he twirled you around, causing a giggle to escape your lips.

He caught you again. "Nah," he shook his head, the hand on your waist daring himself to pull you closer. 'It's only weird if you make it weird,' those words echoed in his head as he slowly rested his chin on your shoulder. Truth was — he was hoping you'd make it weird. He wanted to ruin the friendship, but he wanted you to be the one who did it.

You spin once again, and now his chest is against your back. His large arms — still in contact with yours — went down to wrap around your waist. "If I'd known you then, I would've asked you to be my prom date."

Instead of your usual dismissal, you found yourself playing into it. "Yeah?" you chuckle, "And what would the promposal be like?"

He laughs at that, tilting his head down for a moment before finally answering you. "Well… I'm a simplistic guy. I think I'd just attach a note on an arrow and fire it into your room."

You snorted. You couldn't believe you forgot he had an ego the size of a skyscraper. "And you think it'd land in my room? Without hurting me?"

"Oh, yeah. Definitely." He said it like it was a fact — because it probably was. "I never miss, which means I can miss on purpose."

You decide to take his word for it, nodding while you let a smirk form on your lips. "So, is this…"

"A date? Yeah, it is." He chuckled, looking at you with an unfamiliar softness in his eyes, one you've never been the recipient of.

You know not to get attached. After the Polaroid you found in his car a while ago, you know you shouldn't assume any of this meant anything apart from Roy being a caring friend. But for tonight — in Ollie's kitchen with your head nuzzled into Roy's neck — you let your guard down and finally had your first prom dance.

likes & reblogs are appreciated ♡

dividers by @/pixopix

taglist: @batwngs @cherryvvave @xmosskin @emmaaagb @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @the-demoninside @bloomcissa @forgotten-totoro @permanent-chaos @ftkats

[milkybbun]

I LOVE THIS ROY SERIES 😭🩷🩷

everybody go give it all the love it deserves NOW

every single detail is perfect. PERFECT. the title, the drumming lesson, the arrow fam shenanigans, the ginger spice nickname roy has, AHHHHWWWW

[milkybbun]

hi, guys!! i just realized that it looked like i was ignoring everyone but that's not the case, i promise 😭

unfortunately, when i get really into something, i tend to lowkey neglect everything else (pls tell me i'm not the only one) and i loooove my moots and writing here so i got a little behind with my college studies... so now i'm trying to get back on my feet with comp sci 🫠

miss everyone and hope that i'll get a chance to read your works and post some of mine some time soon 🥹🩷

[milkybbun]

twenty-something

roy harper x reader

includes 🧺 sfw,, somewhat unusual birthday fic,, reader is anxious,, roy and lian are wholesome,, quiet and reflective vibe

masterlist

you wake before the alarm, before the world has quite decided to exist.

it’s not a thought that comes first. not a word, not a memory. just a feeling, thick, immediate, lodged somewhere beneath your ribs. your body knows before your mind catches up. it always does.

you stare at the ceiling, the pale wash of early morning light turning it into something almost featureless, like a blank page you’re expected to fill. the silence in your apartment is uninterrupted. no footsteps overhead, no laughter bleeding through thin walls, no evidence that the world has marked the day in any special way.

and then your brain finally supplies it.

your birthday.

twenty-something.

not old. not young enough to be forgiven for not knowing what you’re doing, either.

you let out a slow breath, one that doesn’t quite reach the bottom of your lungs, and keep staring. the ceiling offers no revelations. no sudden wisdom descends to crown you for surviving another year. you feel exactly the same.

which, somehow, feels worse than anything.

you thought once that by now things would look different. that you would feel different. more certain. more… assembled. like all the scattered, half-finished versions of yourself would finally click into place and form something solid.

instead, you feel like you’re still in pieces. just older pieces.

your friends are good people. you know that. they care about you in the quiet, inconsistent way life allows. messages when they remember, plans that almost happen, affection that never quite gathers into anything tangible. they’re scattered across schedules, cities, and obligations.

no one’s throwing you a party.

you didn’t want one. you tell yourself that automatically, the defense rising before the wound can fully form.

but the absence of even the question—hey, should we do something?—leaves a faint, aching outline. like a space that was never filled but still managed to be empty.

your gaze drifts to your phone on the nightstand. the screen is dark, but you already know what’s waiting there.

your mind skips instead to smaller things. that outfit you saved, the one you told yourself you’d wear when there was something worth dressing up for, is still sitting in your online cart. untouched. a small, glowing symbol of maybe later. of not yet. out of reach in that quiet, practical way that makes dreams feel childish.

your apartment is fine. you glance around without moving your head. the walls are a neutral color you didn’t choose but don’t hate. the space is small enough that everything feels within arm’s reach if you stretch. it’s clean, mostly. lived-in, but not in a way that tells a story. more like a pause between them.

your neighbors would hate a party anyway.

you almost laugh at that. it comes out as a soft exhale instead.

excuses line up easily. they always do.

you shift slightly, the sheets whispering against your skin, and try to take inventory of yourself.

do you feel wiser? no.

stronger? not really.

different? not in any way that feels significant.

just tired.

just the same.

the realization settles over you like dust. it’s persistent and impossible to brush off completely. you close your eyes for a moment, as if that might reset something. it doesn’t.

it’s fine, you tell yourself, the words forming with practiced ease. it’s just another day.

you don’t need anything big. you don’t need attention, or noise, or people crowding your space with expectations you don’t know how to meet.

you don’t even want that.

the lie lands softly, but it doesn’t dissolve. your chest feels too full for something so intangible.

you reach for your phone.

the screen lights up instantly, almost eager. notifications bloom across it in cheerful colors.

apps you barely use are the first to greet you. bright, enthusiastic banners, confetti emojis, and discounts you didn’t ask for. happy birthday! they declare, as if they know you. as if their acknowledgment counts for something real.

then the messages, just a few from friends.

you open them one by one, your thumb moving in small, habitual motions. happy birthday!! hope you have the best day ❤️ miss you, let’s celebrate soon!

your lips press together, something warm and distant flickering in your chest. you do appreciate it. you know you do.

you just don’t know how to hold that feeling properly.

your fingers hover over the keyboard before you start typing.

thanks so much! ❤️

you send it.

then another.

thank you!! means a lot 💕

the words come easily. too easily. they feel prewritten, like lines you’ve delivered a hundred times in a role you never auditioned for.

you mean them.

you just don’t know how to mean them louder. in a way that fills the space this day seems to demand.

the light in the room shifts slightly, sliding across the wall, brushing against your face. time is moving, whether you participate or not.

you should get up.

shower.

go to work.

be normal.

the script is there, waiting for you to step into it.

instead, you set your phone down and press your palms against your eyes, blocking out the light. darkness blooms behind your lids, soft and immediate. you breathe in slowly and deeply this time, trying to anchor yourself to something real.

air in.

air out.

your heartbeat steadies, but the weight doesn’t disappear. 

it’s fine, you tell yourself again, quieter this time. not convincing. not entirely false, either.

it’s just another day.

and for a moment, you stay exactly where you are. suspended between getting up and giving in, between who you thought you’d be and who you are right now. breathing in the stillness, letting the truth and the lie exist side by side in your chest.

roy wakes like he’s been dragged up from underwater.

air hits his lungs too fast, too sharp. his skin is damp, a thin sheen of cold sweat clinging to his back, his neck. for a second he doesn’t know where he is. the ceiling above him swims into focus in fragments: the faint crack in the paint near the corner, the lazy rotation of the fan, the soft gray light of a morning that hasn’t fully committed yet.

then his brain catches up.

his eyes go wide.

oh no.

oh no, no, no—

he bolts upright, breath catching halfway up his throat like it’s trying to escape him. the feeling hits all at once.

he had a month.

a whole month.

and he meant to do something. god, he did. he’s not that guy, the one who forgets, the one who shrugs it off with a last-minute apology and a gas station bouquet. he’s better than that. he knows he is.

he tried to be.

his phone is somewhere in the sheets. he fumbles for it, hands still clumsy with sleep and dread. the screen lights up under his thumb, too bright, too honest.

the date stares back at him.

unblinking.

final.

today.

his stomach drops like he’s just missed a step on a staircase that wasn’t there.

“shit,” he breathes, the word barely making it past his lips.

he swings his legs over the side of the bed, already running through it. he has notes. he knows he has notes. lists buried in his phone: restaurants you mentioned offhand, things you lingered on in store windows, gifts you never asked for but clearly wanted. ideas for something bigger, too. maybe a night with the titans, or the outlaws, or both. everyone loves you. that part was easy. they’d have shown up in a heartbeat.

he just… never locked anything in.

patrol bled into late nights. work stacked on top of it. lian needed him—homework, nightmares, the quiet, everyday things that mattered more than anything else. life didn’t ask permission before it filled up every available space.

and somewhere in the middle of all that—

the month evaporated.

he pushes a hand through his hair, gripping at the roots like he can physically pull himself back in time. “no, no, no—” he mutters, pacing once, twice, the floor cold under his bare feet.

he could still fix it.

right?

flowers. he could get flowers. not the cheap kind, the good ones, the ones that look like he planned this. dinner, too. somewhere nice, somewhere you’d like. maybe he could call in a favor, pull a reservation out of thin air. hell, he’s done harder things.

a grand gesture.

the thought lands and immediately curdles.

you don’t like grand gestures.

not when they feel like pressure. not when they feel like they’re trying to compensate for something missing underneath.

you’d smile. of course you would. you’d thank him, soft and genuine, because that’s who you are.

and he’d know.

he’d see it in the way your eyes didn’t quite settle, in the way your shoulders held just a little too much tension, like you were carrying something you didn’t want to name.

he exhales sharply, dragging both hands down his face, palms rough against skin that still feels too tight. his mind is already spiraling, building worst-case scenarios with the efficiency of long practice.

he’s still standing there, half-dressed, half-awake, catastrophizing in nothing but boxers, when he hears it.

a small voice.

high. clear.

dangerously smug.

“daddy,” it says, with the calm authority of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. “you forgot.”

roy freezes.

slowly, so slowly he almost hopes if he moves carefully enough reality won’t notice, he turns toward the doorway.

lian is standing there.

arms crossed.

race car pajamas slightly askew, one sleeve pushed up higher than the other, her hair a soft, sleep-tangled halo around a face that is entirely too composed for this hour.

she raises one eyebrow at him.

he straightens instinctively, like he’s just been caught doing something illegal. “i didn’t forget,” he says, too quickly, the lie stumbling out on reflex.

lian doesn’t blink. it’s not even an accusation. it’s worse than that. it’s knowing.

a long, quiet beat stretches between them.

roy gestures vaguely with one hand, as if the right explanation might materialize if he just gives it enough space. “i didn’t,” he insists, doubling down, because backing out now would require admitting defeat and he’s not ready for that. “i’ve got it handled.”

she tilts her head.

then she uncrosses her arms, steps into the room, and says, with all the gravity of a tiny general surveying a battlefield.

“is okay. i got you.”

lian doesn’t give him time to spiral again.

she grabs his wrist, small hand, firm grip, and tugs.

“c’mon.”

roy stumbles after her on instinct alone, still trying to piece together reality as she marches him out of his room and straight into the kitchen like a commander escorting a very confused soldier to a briefing.

the table is prepared. that’s the only word for it.

there’s a folder sitting dead center. not just any folder, a real one. slightly bent at the corners, bright in a way that suggests it didn’t originally belong to roy, with little colored tabs sticking out from the side at uneven intervals.

roy stops.

stares at it.

then at her.

then back at it.

“…what is this?”

lian climbs into her chair with practiced ease, like she’s done this a hundred times, and folds her hands on the table.

“birfday mission,” she says simply. “i been workin’ on it. whole month.” she pauses, then tilts her head at him, eyes narrowing just enough. “’cause somebody—” she gestures vaguely in his direction, “—was too busy runnin’ at night.”

roy winces.

“kid—”

“open it.”

it’s not a suggestion.

he exhales slowly, then reaches for the folder like it might bite him. the cardboard is warm from the sunlight spilling across the table, the tabs labeled in careful, uneven handwriting.

he flips it open.

the first page is a map. hand-drawn, colored in with what looks like every crayon lian owns. it takes him a second to recognize it, but then it clicks.

your apartment. or her version of it. rooms are slightly misshapen, proportions entirely off, but the intent is unmistakable. little labels dot the page in wobbly letters:

quiet spotsunny spotgood light for pitchurs

there are arrows. stars. a heart in the corner of what must be your bedroom.

roy’s chest tightens.

he turns the page.

a list, this time.

your favorite snacks.

written in thick, uneven crayon that presses so hard into the paper it almost tears through.

berrieschoco bunniespetzels with black dots on top

he huffs out a quiet, disbelieving breath at that one, something warm creeping into the edges of the panic still clinging to him.

next page.

a coupon book.

he blinks.

each one is its own little drawing, carefully cut and stapled together, the edges uneven but deliberate. he flips through them slowly.

one free hug—a stick figure with very long arms wrapping around another. one story time—a book that looks suspiciously like it’s smiling. i will let you do my hair—lian, unmistakable even in crayon, sitting very still while someone stands behind her with what might be a brush. or a weapon. hard to tell.

roy snorts, the sound escaping before he can stop it. he glances up at her.

“…did you get this idea from shrek 2?”

lian looks offended.

“you’re silly,” she says immediately. “it’s shrek 4 idea.”

“of course it is,” he mutters, shaking his head as he looks back down.

the last page is different.

he stills when he sees it.

it’s a drawing.

three figures.

one with messy red scribbles for hair—him. one smaller, with wild loops of black and a wide smile—lian. and between them—

you.

all three of you are holding hands.

there’s a sun in the corner. too big for the page. smiling.

roy’s throat goes tight.

“lian…”

she shrugs, suddenly a little less smug, like she’s trying to pretend it’s no big deal. there's so much roy in this little genius girl. sometimes, he can barely believe it but moments like this prove it all over again. 

the park is still shaking off the last of the morning.

dew clings stubbornly to the grass, turning everything just a shade too bright when the sunlight catches it. the air smells faintly of damp earth and something sweet from a nearby tree beginning to bloom. it’s quiet but not empty. a dog barks in the distance. a stroller wheel squeaks rhythmically along a paved path.

and behind the chipped plastic wall of a children’s playground structure there's roy harper crouches like a man on a stakeout.

in his hands is a toy bow.

it’s small. ridiculously so. bright plastic, slightly scuffed, the string a little too loose to be taken seriously by anyone who’s ever held a real weapon.

and yet, he holds it with the same focus he would a compound bow.

because this matters.

because you matter.

beside him, lian sits cross-legged in the wood chips, entirely unbothered by the covert operation unfolding. she’s humming something under her breath, swinging one sneaker lazily back and forth, like this is just another tuesday.

roy peeks around the edge of the structure again.

empty path.

he exhales through his nose, then leans back, running a hand through his hair.

“okay,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “we’re good. we’re early. early is good.”

lian glances up at him, unimpressed.

“you said that five times.”

“yeah, well,” he shifts, adjusting his grip on the bow, “it was true all five times.”

this ridiculous setup is your thing.

it started small. a joke, almost. one morning when he didn’t feel like texting, didn’t feel like reducing something soft and real to glowing words on a screen. so he showed up here instead, hiding like an idiot, and shot a foam-tipped arrow at you with a note tied around it.

good morning.

you laughed.

god, you laughed.

and just like that, it stuck.

now it’s a tradition. a strange, quiet ritual carved out of ordinary mornings. no texts. no notifications.

just the soft thwip of a toy arrow and a note meant only for you.

hopeless romantic. he’d deny it if anyone asked.

roy shifts again, eyes flicking toward the path, then down at the bow, then back up. his knee bounces once, twice.

he only gets one shot.

not because of the bow, though, yeah, accuracy isn’t exactly guaranteed, but because of timing. the moment has to land right. casual. effortless. like it always is.

a small voice interrupts his spiral.

“hi.”

roy startles slightly, head snapping to the side.

a little boy stands there—about lian’s age, maybe a year older. he’s holding a bright red toy truck, wheels still too clean, like it was unboxed this morning. his eyes are locked onto the bow in roy’s hands.

he shifts from one foot to the other.

“can i play with that?” he asks, pointing.

roy blinks.

for a second, the question doesn’t compute. his brain is still too full of plans and timing and the weight of getting this right.

the boy lifts the truck a little, offering it like a trade.

“i give you this.”

roy’s grip tightens instinctively.

“no,” he says, too quick, too sharp. “i don’t need your truck! the bow is mine!”

the boy freezes.

his face changes not dramatically, not all at once. just a small falter. a flicker of something uncertain, something hurt.

“oh,” he says quietly.

roy barely registers it. he’s already glancing back toward the path, recalculating, checking the angle, the distance—

the boy’s lip wobbles.

“hey.”

lian’s voice cuts through, calm but firm.

roy looks down.

she’s already on her feet.

“is okay,” she tells the boy, stepping closer to him. her tone softens immediately, all the smugness gone. “he’s just bein’ grumpy.”

“i am not—” roy starts, then stops when lian turns and gives him a look.

a look.

the kind that is entirely too mature for someone in race car sneakers.

“daddy,” she says pointedly.

he winces.

right.

right.

he exhales, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck as the realization settles in, slow and heavy.

he just snapped at a kid.

a kid.

over a plastic bow.

“hey,” roy says, crouching down a little to be eye-level with the boy. his voice is gentler now, rough with something like regret. “sorry. that was—” he gestures vaguely, searching for the word, “—not cool.”

the boy sniffs, still clutching his truck.

“i just wanted to try…”

“i know,” roy says quickly. “i know. and normally, yeah, i’d let you. it’s just—” he hesitates, glancing briefly at lian, then back at the kid, “—i kinda need it for something important right now.”

the boy looks unconvinced.

lian steps in again, like she’s done this before.

“we’re on a mission,” she explains, lowering her voice like it’s a secret. “birfday mission.”

the boy’s eyes widen a little.

“oh!”

“yeah,” she nods, serious. then she gestures to his truck. “that’s a really cool truck, though.”

he brightens, just a bit, holding it up. “it’s new.”

“i like the wheels,” she says, inspecting it with great care. “they look fast.”

“they are,” he says, more confident now.

roy watches the exchange, something in his chest easing and tightening all at once.

“hey,” he says, softer this time. “i’m really sorry, okay? that was my bad.”

crisis averted.

roy exhales, shoulders dropping.

“…i made a kid cry,” he mutters, turning back to his watching post.

he straightens slightly, attention snapping back into place, eyes flicking toward the path—

and then there you are.

appearing like you always do. walking into the frame of his morning like you belong there.

his breath catches.

everything else falls away in an instant, replaced by something sharper. clearer.

focus.

that’s his shot.

roy rises in one smooth motion, the toy bow settling into his grip like it was always meant to be there. he adjusts his stance, just slightly, eyes tracking your movement, calculating distance, angle—

thwip.

the arrow lands at your feet with a soft, familiar tap.

you don’t even flinch.

you just look down and there it is. bright foam tip, a little crooked from repeated use, a string tied carefully around its base. the sight of it pulls something loose in your chest before you can stop it.

of course.

of course he’s here.

you glance up, instinctively scanning the park, and you know he’s watching. you can’t see him yet, but that’s part of the ritual. the unseen presence, the quiet anticipation. it makes your lips curve despite yourself.

you crouch, fingers brushing the arrow, and untie the note.

the paper is slightly wrinkled. folded with care, but not precision. very him.

you open it.

happy birthday, sweetheart.

you’re not allowed to make plans today.

come over later. it’s definitely not a surprise.

there’s a little scribble underneath. something that might be a heart, might be an attempt at one.

you laugh.

it slips out of you, soft and real, carried away by the morning air before you can hold onto it. the sound feels lighter than anything you’ve managed since waking up.

“definitely not a surprise,” you murmur, shaking your head.

you read it again.

and again.

and somehow, the note stays with you all day.

folded, unfolded, smoothed out between your fingers when no one’s looking. you tuck it into your pocket, take it out again, read it like it might change if you give it enough attention.

it doesn’t.

but you do.

you try to be normal.

you go to work. you smile when someone remembers—“hey, happy birthday!”—said with the casual kindness of people who don’t really know what that means for you. you thank them. you mean it.

you sit at your desk. answer emails. nods and polite laughter, the rhythm of a day that doesn’t pause just because it matters to you.

lunch is quiet.

a container you packed without thinking and eaten without tasting much of it. you scroll for a bit. open the note again.

you’re not allowed to make plans today.

you huff a quiet breath through your nose.

“bossy,” you whisper.

your chest tightens anyway.

you tell yourself it’s fine.

you’ve been telling yourself that all day.

it is fine.

roy remembered. of course he did. not just remembered—he showed up. did something small and thoughtful and entirely him. something that fits into the space you occupy together like it was made for it.

and lian… you don’t even know what she’s planning, but the idea of her being involved at all makes something in you ache in that soft, dangerous way.

you’re lucky.

you know that.

so why… why does it feel like this?

the thought creeps in quietly, almost reasonable.

roy has a life.

not in the abstract way people say that, but in the real, tangible sense. a history. responsibilities. a child who depends on him in ways that are immediate and non-negotiable. he moves through the world with a kind of practiced competence. juggling things, prioritizing, adapting.

he knows what matters.

he’s had to learn.

and you—

you stare at your computer screen, the cursor blinking patiently back at you, and feel something small and sharp twist under your ribs.

there’s a gap there.

you can feel it.

rationally you know there is no problem here. except the one you’re creating.

you know that.

and still, it doesn’t stop the feeling.

it follows you through the rest of the day, quiet but persistent. a background noise you can’t quite mute.

by the time you leave work, it’s settled into something dull and heavy.

you walk slower than usual.

not enough to be noticeable. just enough to stretch the distance between where you are and where you’re supposed to go.

roy’s place.

you reach his building before you’ve fully decided how you feel about that.

your hand lingers near the door for a second longer than necessary.

you glance down at the note again, smoothing the edge with your thumb.

come over later.

you exhale.

it’s fine.

it’s just another day.

you adjust your grip on the strap of your bag.

exhale.

knock.

the door opens before your hand fully drops.

roy’s apartment is… not subtle.

there are banners, crooked, overlapping, and aggressively cheerful. balloons hover at different heights, some already drifting toward the ceiling like they’ve given up on structure entirely. something sparkles from nearly every available surface, catching the light in chaotic flashes.

it’s too much.

it’s perfect.

and then—

“you’re here!”

lian’s voice cuts through everything, bright and ringing and thrilled.

she barrels toward you at full speed, socks slipping slightly on the floor before she collides into your legs with zero hesitation. her arms wrap around you in a fierce, uncoordinated hug, like she’s been holding onto this moment all day.

you laugh.

not the polite kind. not the measured, careful version you’ve been carrying since morning.

real laughter.

it breaks out of you like something finally let loose.

“oh my god—hi, baby—” you bend immediately, scooping her up despite the awkward angle, pressing kisses all over her cheeks as she squeaks and squirms and laughs back, her small hands grabbing at your shoulders like she’s anchoring you here.

“i did it!” she announces proudly, like a mastermind revealing her grand design.

“you did this?” you ask, pulling back just enough to look at her, eyes wide with exaggerated awe. “this is incredible.”

she beams.

behind her, roy leans against the doorway, arms crossed loosely, watching you with something quieter in his expression. relief, maybe. something soft that settles deeper when he sees you smile like that.

“hi,” he says, casual, like he didn’t just orchestrate half a celebration and nearly lose his mind doing it.

“hi,” you echo, softer.

your eyes flick past him.

gifts.

wrapped in unmistakably expensive green paper, edges crisp, bows tied with a precision that does not belong to roy.

you blink.

“did oliver—”

“yep,” roy cuts in immediately, not even pretending otherwise. “i lost that battle before it started.”

lian nods solemnly. “grandpa ollie helped.”

of course he did.

you huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head, something warm spreading through your chest again, this time deeper, steadier.

the cake looks… suspicious.

not bad. uncertain.

roy stands beside it like it might detonate.

“okay,” he says, holding up both hands slightly, as if disclaiming responsibility will help. “full transparency—this was made by my friends.”

you glance at him.

“and that’s supposed to reassure me?”

“they said they followed a recipe,” he adds quickly. “from their butler.”

you blink.

“they seemed very confident about it.”

you stare at the cake.

then at him.

then back at the cake.

“we’re gonna eat it,” you decide.

lian gasps in delight.

roy exhales like he’s just been granted temporary amnesty.

the first bite… is actually good.

music starts at some point.

you don’t remember who turns it on.

just that suddenly the room is filled with something loud and familiar—your music. the kind that thrums through your chest, that makes your pulse sync with it without asking permission.

lian lights up instantly.

“this one!” she shouts, like she’s been waiting for it.

“you know this one?” you laugh, already moving.

“daddy plays it!”

you glance at roy.

he shrugs, unapologetic. “what? i’m raising her right.”

and then you’re dancing.

in the middle of his living room, surrounded by crooked banners and drifting balloons, with a five-year-old spinning in circles between you like she’s discovered gravity for the first time.

you throw your head back, laughing again as lian grabs your hands and pulls you into her orbit. roy joins in a second later, less graceful but just as committed, his movements loose, unfiltered.

for a while that’s all there is.

no thoughts.

no comparisons.

no quiet, gnawing doubts.

just this.

it’s later when roy clears his throat.

you turn toward him, breath still uneven from dancing.

“what?”

he scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking… younger. almost unsure.

“i, uh—” he gestures toward the gifts. “there’s one more thing.”

you raise an eyebrow, stepping closer.

“another not-surprise?”

“something like that.”

you crouch, picking up the one wrapped a little less perfectly than the others. the paper is simple but still charming, the tape visible if you look close.

you glance up at him once before opening it.

inside, there’s fabric.

soft and familiar.

your breath catches.

you pull it out fully.

it’s exactly how you imagined it.

no, better.

because it’s real. because it’s here. because it’s in your hands instead of sitting untouched in some digital cart you kept telling yourself you didn’t need.

you look up at him, something unsteady in your chest.

“roy…”

he rubs the back of his neck again, glancing briefly at lian before looking back at you.

“it’s not a big deal,” he admits. “really.”

“it is to me.” you murmur, voice soft with something that feels dangerously close to overwhelming.

you look back down. there’s something else tucked inside.

two tickets.

you pull them out, frowning slightly as you read.

a music event.

your eyes flick up again, sharper this time.

“roy.”

he shrugs, trying for casual, failing just enough that you can see the nerves underneath.

“there’s an open mic,” he says. “later in the night.”

you blink.

“and?”

“and,” he continues, shifting his weight slightly, “i was thinkin’… maybe i go up there.”

you stare at him.

“you?”

“hey,” he lifts a hand defensively. “i can sing.”

“i know you can,” you say, a laugh threatening at the edges of your voice. “that’s not the point.”

he grins, just a little.

“then what is?”

you look at him.

really look at him.

at the way he’s standing there—uncertain but trying, a little rough around the edges but so intent on getting this right. at lian, hovering nearby, practically vibrating with pride.

at the room.

at the effort.

at the care.

something in your chest shifts.

roy studies you for a second, like he’s checking for cracks, for anything that might give away something unsaid.

but all he finds is you. here. smiling.

and for the first time all day, it doesn’t feel like something you have to perform.

by the time the apartment quiets, it does so gently.

not all at once—never that. the music fades first, turned down until it’s just a low hum that lingers in the walls. the balloons settle, barely shifting anymore. even the glitter seems less insistent, catching softer light now.

lian falls asleep halfway through insisting she’s not tired.

one minute she’s curled up against you, mumbling something about how next year she’s going to add “even more sparkles,” and the next she's out. completely. limbs heavy, breathing slow and even, her small hand still loosely fisted in the fabric of your shirt.

roy carries her to bed.

you watch from the doorway for a moment longer than you mean to. watch the way he tucks the blanket around her, the way he pauses just a second before stepping back, like he’s making sure the world will stay steady for her even after he leaves the room.

then the door clicks softly shut.

and it’s just the two of you.

the living room feels different now. quieter, but not empty. the aftermath of something good lingers in the air—cake crumbs on plates, a ribbon half-curled on the floor, your gift still resting where you set it down.

roy drops onto the couch beside you with a quiet exhale, like his body is finally catching up to the day.

for a second, neither of you says anything.

then he shifts closer. his arm slips around you, pulling you in until your shoulder rests against his chest, solid and warm. there’s something grounding about it, about him. always has been.

you let yourself lean.

for a while, that’s enough.

then—

“i know that look,” he murmurs.

his voice is low, careful in a way that immediately tells you this isn’t casual. his fingers trace absent patterns along your arm, slow and steady.

you go still.

“what look?” you ask, softer than you intend.

“the one you’ve had all day,” he says, "like you’re here, but also somewhere else.”

a pause.

“you wanna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

you hesitate.

it would be so easy to brush it off. to shrug, smile, say nothing, i’m just tired. to keep the day perfect, unwrinkled.

but he’s already seen it.

and he’s not letting it go.

your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his shirt.

“i just…” you trail off, searching for the shape of it. “i feel like i’m behind.”

the word lands quietly between you.

you keep going before you can stop yourself.

“not in a big way,” you add quickly, like you need to justify it. “just… compared to what i imagined. compared to you. you have all of this—” you gesture vaguely, meaning everything: the apartment, the life, lian, the way he moves through it all with a kind of earned certainty. “you know what you’re doing. you’ve lived through things. you handle things.”

your voice dips, softer now.

“and i’m still… confused. i don’t know where i’m going or even where i want to go half the time.” a small, humorless huff escapes you. “it makes me feel—”

you hesitate.

“useless.”

the word sits heavier than you want it to.

silence follows.

roy doesn’t interrupt. doesn’t rush to fill it. his hand finds yours instead, fingers threading through yours, warm and calloused, grounding you without forcing anything.

when he speaks, it’s quieter.

“can i tell you something?”

you nod, barely.

“i’ve had a lot of birthdays i don’t remember,” he says.

there’s no drama in it. no performance. just truth, laid out plainly.

“a lot of years i didn’t think i’d see the next one.”

your chest tightens. you turn your head slightly, looking at him now.

his gaze isn’t on you—it’s somewhere distant, like he’s sifting through memories he doesn’t visit often.

“and the ones i do remember…” he continues, voice steady but softer now, “they weren’t the big ones. no parties. no grand stuff.”

a small pause.

“they were the ones where someone just saw me.”

his thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow, absent.

“sat with me. didn’t try to fix anything. didn’t expect me to be anything other than what i was right then.”

he finally looks at you.

really looks.

“you’re not behind,” he says. "definitely not behind me.”

no hesitation.

no room for argument.

“there’s no timeline. there’s no race.” his grip on your hand tightens just slightly, grounding the words in something physical, something real. “you’re just… here. and here is fine.”

your eyes sting before you can stop it.

you blink, but it doesn’t really help. everything feels a little too sharp, a little too close to the surface.

you don’t look away.

“and if you want to go somewhere else,” he adds, voice gentler now, like he’s stepping carefully around something fragile, “if you want to change things, or move somewhere, or do something different…”

his thumb presses lightly against your hand.

“i’ll help you.”

there’s a small pause.

then, with a hint of something lighter threading through:

“on your bicycle.”

you blink.

“my what?”

“your bicycle,” he repeats, completely serious.

you stare at him.

“you know, metaphorically speaking,” he shrugs, one corner of his mouth lifting. “i was gonna say car, but lian says i need to be more environmentally friendly.”

a beat.

“so your metaphorical bicycle.”

you let out a soft, incredulous laugh, the sound catching somewhere between your throat and your chest.

“of course she did.”

“yeah,” he huffs. “kid’s ruthless.”

silence settles again but it’s different now.

easier.

you shift closer without thinking, pressing into him, your forehead brushing lightly against his jaw. his arm tightens around you in response, immediate and sure.

the doubts are still there.

they don’t vanish like magic.

but they’re quieter. smaller.

because you’re not carrying them alone anymore.

and for tonight, that’s enough…

“i almost made a kid cry for your birthday, you know.”

“roy?”

heeey, so here's a little belated bday fic!! this one has nothing even close to resambling structure or pacing, but i really needed it because it's all about the worries that *i believe* we all have around our birthdays. and not only around our birthdays

ty everyone for sending me so many birthday wishes!! it's the first time i ever made a big deal out of it, i really hope i didn't come off as selfish. love you all, have the bestest days 🥹🩷

milky's chocolates 𐙚 @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @that-dumb-bunny @theamazkngskye @liliesofth3valley @bonecrushingfeng @cotton-eee @gtwtina @viviannagiorgini @aturzz @splodencible @teenagellamaangel

[aturzz]

woah, happy birthday milky!

[milkybbun]

thank youuu!! and OMG ROY HARPER THEMED PARTY??

WHEN

[milkybbun]

Omg I know I'm late, but

HAPPY BIRTHDAY 🥳💕💐🎉

awww thank you!! 🥹🩷

[milkybbun]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BBY!!! ❣️❣️❣️❣️ thank u for gracing my feed with your wonderful roy fics 🥹 i hope you have a great day today

awww, thank YOU!! 🥹🩷

also, i forgot to tell you that under your fic, but ren fair roy fic is LITERAL roynaissance and it's so funny and awesome!!

[milkybbun]

twenty-something

roy harper x reader

includes 🧺 sfw,, somewhat unusual birthday fic,, reader is anxious,, roy and lian are wholesome,, quiet and reflective vibe

masterlist

you wake before the alarm, before the world has quite decided to exist.

it’s not a thought that comes first. not a word, not a memory. just a feeling, thick, immediate, lodged somewhere beneath your ribs. your body knows before your mind catches up. it always does.

you stare at the ceiling, the pale wash of early morning light turning it into something almost featureless, like a blank page you’re expected to fill. the silence in your apartment is uninterrupted. no footsteps overhead, no laughter bleeding through thin walls, no evidence that the world has marked the day in any special way.

and then your brain finally supplies it.

your birthday.

twenty-something.

not old. not young enough to be forgiven for not knowing what you’re doing, either.

you let out a slow breath, one that doesn’t quite reach the bottom of your lungs, and keep staring. the ceiling offers no revelations. no sudden wisdom descends to crown you for surviving another year. you feel exactly the same.

which, somehow, feels worse than anything.

you thought once that by now things would look different. that you would feel different. more certain. more… assembled. like all the scattered, half-finished versions of yourself would finally click into place and form something solid.

instead, you feel like you’re still in pieces. just older pieces.

your friends are good people. you know that. they care about you in the quiet, inconsistent way life allows. messages when they remember, plans that almost happen, affection that never quite gathers into anything tangible. they’re scattered across schedules, cities, and obligations.

no one’s throwing you a party.

you didn’t want one. you tell yourself that automatically, the defense rising before the wound can fully form.

but the absence of even the question—hey, should we do something?—leaves a faint, aching outline. like a space that was never filled but still managed to be empty.

your gaze drifts to your phone on the nightstand. the screen is dark, but you already know what’s waiting there.

your mind skips instead to smaller things. that outfit you saved, the one you told yourself you’d wear when there was something worth dressing up for, is still sitting in your online cart. untouched. a small, glowing symbol of maybe later. of not yet. out of reach in that quiet, practical way that makes dreams feel childish.

your apartment is fine. you glance around without moving your head. the walls are a neutral color you didn’t choose but don’t hate. the space is small enough that everything feels within arm’s reach if you stretch. it’s clean, mostly. lived-in, but not in a way that tells a story. more like a pause between them.

your neighbors would hate a party anyway.

you almost laugh at that. it comes out as a soft exhale instead.

excuses line up easily. they always do.

you shift slightly, the sheets whispering against your skin, and try to take inventory of yourself.

do you feel wiser? no.

stronger? not really.

different? not in any way that feels significant.

just tired.

just the same.

the realization settles over you like dust. it’s persistent and impossible to brush off completely. you close your eyes for a moment, as if that might reset something. it doesn’t.

it’s fine, you tell yourself, the words forming with practiced ease. it’s just another day.

you don’t need anything big. you don’t need attention, or noise, or people crowding your space with expectations you don’t know how to meet.

you don’t even want that.

the lie lands softly, but it doesn’t dissolve. your chest feels too full for something so intangible.

you reach for your phone.

the screen lights up instantly, almost eager. notifications bloom across it in cheerful colors.

apps you barely use are the first to greet you. bright, enthusiastic banners, confetti emojis, and discounts you didn’t ask for. happy birthday! they declare, as if they know you. as if their acknowledgment counts for something real.

then the messages, just a few from friends.

you open them one by one, your thumb moving in small, habitual motions. happy birthday!! hope you have the best day ❤️ miss you, let’s celebrate soon!

your lips press together, something warm and distant flickering in your chest. you do appreciate it. you know you do.

you just don’t know how to hold that feeling properly.

your fingers hover over the keyboard before you start typing.

thanks so much! ❤️

you send it.

then another.

thank you!! means a lot 💕

the words come easily. too easily. they feel prewritten, like lines you’ve delivered a hundred times in a role you never auditioned for.

you mean them.

you just don’t know how to mean them louder. in a way that fills the space this day seems to demand.

the light in the room shifts slightly, sliding across the wall, brushing against your face. time is moving, whether you participate or not.

you should get up.

shower.

go to work.

be normal.

the script is there, waiting for you to step into it.

instead, you set your phone down and press your palms against your eyes, blocking out the light. darkness blooms behind your lids, soft and immediate. you breathe in slowly and deeply this time, trying to anchor yourself to something real.

air in.

air out.

your heartbeat steadies, but the weight doesn’t disappear. 

it’s fine, you tell yourself again, quieter this time. not convincing. not entirely false, either.

it’s just another day.

and for a moment, you stay exactly where you are. suspended between getting up and giving in, between who you thought you’d be and who you are right now. breathing in the stillness, letting the truth and the lie exist side by side in your chest.

roy wakes like he’s been dragged up from underwater.

air hits his lungs too fast, too sharp. his skin is damp, a thin sheen of cold sweat clinging to his back, his neck. for a second he doesn’t know where he is. the ceiling above him swims into focus in fragments: the faint crack in the paint near the corner, the lazy rotation of the fan, the soft gray light of a morning that hasn’t fully committed yet.

then his brain catches up.

his eyes go wide.

oh no.

oh no, no, no—

he bolts upright, breath catching halfway up his throat like it’s trying to escape him. the feeling hits all at once.

he had a month.

a whole month.

and he meant to do something. god, he did. he’s not that guy, the one who forgets, the one who shrugs it off with a last-minute apology and a gas station bouquet. he’s better than that. he knows he is.

he tried to be.

his phone is somewhere in the sheets. he fumbles for it, hands still clumsy with sleep and dread. the screen lights up under his thumb, too bright, too honest.

the date stares back at him.

unblinking.

final.

today.

his stomach drops like he’s just missed a step on a staircase that wasn’t there.

“shit,” he breathes, the word barely making it past his lips.

he swings his legs over the side of the bed, already running through it. he has notes. he knows he has notes. lists buried in his phone: restaurants you mentioned offhand, things you lingered on in store windows, gifts you never asked for but clearly wanted. ideas for something bigger, too. maybe a night with the titans, or the outlaws, or both. everyone loves you. that part was easy. they’d have shown up in a heartbeat.

he just… never locked anything in.

patrol bled into late nights. work stacked on top of it. lian needed him—homework, nightmares, the quiet, everyday things that mattered more than anything else. life didn’t ask permission before it filled up every available space.

and somewhere in the middle of all that—

the month evaporated.

he pushes a hand through his hair, gripping at the roots like he can physically pull himself back in time. “no, no, no—” he mutters, pacing once, twice, the floor cold under his bare feet.

he could still fix it.

right?

flowers. he could get flowers. not the cheap kind, the good ones, the ones that look like he planned this. dinner, too. somewhere nice, somewhere you’d like. maybe he could call in a favor, pull a reservation out of thin air. hell, he’s done harder things.

a grand gesture.

the thought lands and immediately curdles.

you don’t like grand gestures.

not when they feel like pressure. not when they feel like they’re trying to compensate for something missing underneath.

you’d smile. of course you would. you’d thank him, soft and genuine, because that’s who you are.

and he’d know.

he’d see it in the way your eyes didn’t quite settle, in the way your shoulders held just a little too much tension, like you were carrying something you didn’t want to name.

he exhales sharply, dragging both hands down his face, palms rough against skin that still feels too tight. his mind is already spiraling, building worst-case scenarios with the efficiency of long practice.

he’s still standing there, half-dressed, half-awake, catastrophizing in nothing but boxers, when he hears it.

a small voice.

high. clear.

dangerously smug.

“daddy,” it says, with the calm authority of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. “you forgot.”

roy freezes.

slowly, so slowly he almost hopes if he moves carefully enough reality won’t notice, he turns toward the doorway.

lian is standing there.

arms crossed.

race car pajamas slightly askew, one sleeve pushed up higher than the other, her hair a soft, sleep-tangled halo around a face that is entirely too composed for this hour.

she raises one eyebrow at him.

he straightens instinctively, like he’s just been caught doing something illegal. “i didn’t forget,” he says, too quickly, the lie stumbling out on reflex.

lian doesn’t blink. it’s not even an accusation. it’s worse than that. it’s knowing.

a long, quiet beat stretches between them.

roy gestures vaguely with one hand, as if the right explanation might materialize if he just gives it enough space. “i didn’t,” he insists, doubling down, because backing out now would require admitting defeat and he’s not ready for that. “i’ve got it handled.”

she tilts her head.

then she uncrosses her arms, steps into the room, and says, with all the gravity of a tiny general surveying a battlefield.

“is okay. i got you.”

lian doesn’t give him time to spiral again.

she grabs his wrist, small hand, firm grip, and tugs.

“c’mon.”

roy stumbles after her on instinct alone, still trying to piece together reality as she marches him out of his room and straight into the kitchen like a commander escorting a very confused soldier to a briefing.

the table is prepared. that’s the only word for it.

there’s a folder sitting dead center. not just any folder, a real one. slightly bent at the corners, bright in a way that suggests it didn’t originally belong to roy, with little colored tabs sticking out from the side at uneven intervals.

roy stops.

stares at it.

then at her.

then back at it.

“…what is this?”

lian climbs into her chair with practiced ease, like she’s done this a hundred times, and folds her hands on the table.

“birfday mission,” she says simply. “i been workin’ on it. whole month.” she pauses, then tilts her head at him, eyes narrowing just enough. “’cause somebody—” she gestures vaguely in his direction, “—was too busy runnin’ at night.”

roy winces.

“kid—”

“open it.”

it’s not a suggestion.

he exhales slowly, then reaches for the folder like it might bite him. the cardboard is warm from the sunlight spilling across the table, the tabs labeled in careful, uneven handwriting.

he flips it open.

the first page is a map. hand-drawn, colored in with what looks like every crayon lian owns. it takes him a second to recognize it, but then it clicks.

your apartment. or her version of it. rooms are slightly misshapen, proportions entirely off, but the intent is unmistakable. little labels dot the page in wobbly letters:

quiet spotsunny spotgood light for pitchurs

there are arrows. stars. a heart in the corner of what must be your bedroom.

roy’s chest tightens.

he turns the page.

a list, this time.

your favorite snacks.

written in thick, uneven crayon that presses so hard into the paper it almost tears through.

berrieschoco bunniespetzels with black dots on top

he huffs out a quiet, disbelieving breath at that one, something warm creeping into the edges of the panic still clinging to him.

next page.

a coupon book.

he blinks.

each one is its own little drawing, carefully cut and stapled together, the edges uneven but deliberate. he flips through them slowly.

one free hug—a stick figure with very long arms wrapping around another. one story time—a book that looks suspiciously like it’s smiling. i will let you do my hair—lian, unmistakable even in crayon, sitting very still while someone stands behind her with what might be a brush. or a weapon. hard to tell.

roy snorts, the sound escaping before he can stop it. he glances up at her.

“…did you get this idea from shrek 2?”

lian looks offended.

“you’re silly,” she says immediately. “it’s shrek 4 idea.”

“of course it is,” he mutters, shaking his head as he looks back down.

the last page is different.

he stills when he sees it.

it’s a drawing.

three figures.

one with messy red scribbles for hair—him. one smaller, with wild loops of black and a wide smile—lian. and between them—

you.

all three of you are holding hands.

there’s a sun in the corner. too big for the page. smiling.

roy’s throat goes tight.

“lian…”

she shrugs, suddenly a little less smug, like she’s trying to pretend it’s no big deal. there's so much roy in this little genius girl. sometimes, he can barely believe it but moments like this prove it all over again. 

the park is still shaking off the last of the morning.

dew clings stubbornly to the grass, turning everything just a shade too bright when the sunlight catches it. the air smells faintly of damp earth and something sweet from a nearby tree beginning to bloom. it’s quiet but not empty. a dog barks in the distance. a stroller wheel squeaks rhythmically along a paved path.

and behind the chipped plastic wall of a children’s playground structure there's roy harper crouches like a man on a stakeout.

in his hands is a toy bow.

it’s small. ridiculously so. bright plastic, slightly scuffed, the string a little too loose to be taken seriously by anyone who’s ever held a real weapon.

and yet, he holds it with the same focus he would a compound bow.

because this matters.

because you matter.

beside him, lian sits cross-legged in the wood chips, entirely unbothered by the covert operation unfolding. she’s humming something under her breath, swinging one sneaker lazily back and forth, like this is just another tuesday.

roy peeks around the edge of the structure again.

empty path.

he exhales through his nose, then leans back, running a hand through his hair.

“okay,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “we’re good. we’re early. early is good.”

lian glances up at him, unimpressed.

“you said that five times.”

“yeah, well,” he shifts, adjusting his grip on the bow, “it was true all five times.”

this ridiculous setup is your thing.

it started small. a joke, almost. one morning when he didn’t feel like texting, didn’t feel like reducing something soft and real to glowing words on a screen. so he showed up here instead, hiding like an idiot, and shot a foam-tipped arrow at you with a note tied around it.

good morning.

you laughed.

god, you laughed.

and just like that, it stuck.

now it’s a tradition. a strange, quiet ritual carved out of ordinary mornings. no texts. no notifications.

just the soft thwip of a toy arrow and a note meant only for you.

hopeless romantic. he’d deny it if anyone asked.

roy shifts again, eyes flicking toward the path, then down at the bow, then back up. his knee bounces once, twice.

he only gets one shot.

not because of the bow, though, yeah, accuracy isn’t exactly guaranteed, but because of timing. the moment has to land right. casual. effortless. like it always is.

a small voice interrupts his spiral.

“hi.”

roy startles slightly, head snapping to the side.

a little boy stands there—about lian’s age, maybe a year older. he’s holding a bright red toy truck, wheels still too clean, like it was unboxed this morning. his eyes are locked onto the bow in roy’s hands.

he shifts from one foot to the other.

“can i play with that?” he asks, pointing.

roy blinks.

for a second, the question doesn’t compute. his brain is still too full of plans and timing and the weight of getting this right.

the boy lifts the truck a little, offering it like a trade.

“i give you this.”

roy’s grip tightens instinctively.

“no,” he says, too quick, too sharp. “i don’t need your truck! the bow is mine!”

the boy freezes.

his face changes not dramatically, not all at once. just a small falter. a flicker of something uncertain, something hurt.

“oh,” he says quietly.

roy barely registers it. he’s already glancing back toward the path, recalculating, checking the angle, the distance—

the boy’s lip wobbles.

“hey.”

lian’s voice cuts through, calm but firm.

roy looks down.

she’s already on her feet.

“is okay,” she tells the boy, stepping closer to him. her tone softens immediately, all the smugness gone. “he’s just bein’ grumpy.”

“i am not—” roy starts, then stops when lian turns and gives him a look.

a look.

the kind that is entirely too mature for someone in race car sneakers.

“daddy,” she says pointedly.

he winces.

right.

right.

he exhales, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck as the realization settles in, slow and heavy.

he just snapped at a kid.

a kid.

over a plastic bow.

“hey,” roy says, crouching down a little to be eye-level with the boy. his voice is gentler now, rough with something like regret. “sorry. that was—” he gestures vaguely, searching for the word, “—not cool.”

the boy sniffs, still clutching his truck.

“i just wanted to try…”

“i know,” roy says quickly. “i know. and normally, yeah, i’d let you. it’s just—” he hesitates, glancing briefly at lian, then back at the kid, “—i kinda need it for something important right now.”

the boy looks unconvinced.

lian steps in again, like she’s done this before.

“we’re on a mission,” she explains, lowering her voice like it’s a secret. “birfday mission.”

the boy’s eyes widen a little.

“oh!”

“yeah,” she nods, serious. then she gestures to his truck. “that’s a really cool truck, though.”

he brightens, just a bit, holding it up. “it’s new.”

“i like the wheels,” she says, inspecting it with great care. “they look fast.”

“they are,” he says, more confident now.

roy watches the exchange, something in his chest easing and tightening all at once.

“hey,” he says, softer this time. “i’m really sorry, okay? that was my bad.”

crisis averted.

roy exhales, shoulders dropping.

“…i made a kid cry,” he mutters, turning back to his watching post.

he straightens slightly, attention snapping back into place, eyes flicking toward the path—

and then there you are.

appearing like you always do. walking into the frame of his morning like you belong there.

his breath catches.

everything else falls away in an instant, replaced by something sharper. clearer.

focus.

that’s his shot.

roy rises in one smooth motion, the toy bow settling into his grip like it was always meant to be there. he adjusts his stance, just slightly, eyes tracking your movement, calculating distance, angle—

thwip.

the arrow lands at your feet with a soft, familiar tap.

you don’t even flinch.

you just look down and there it is. bright foam tip, a little crooked from repeated use, a string tied carefully around its base. the sight of it pulls something loose in your chest before you can stop it.

of course.

of course he’s here.

you glance up, instinctively scanning the park, and you know he’s watching. you can’t see him yet, but that’s part of the ritual. the unseen presence, the quiet anticipation. it makes your lips curve despite yourself.

you crouch, fingers brushing the arrow, and untie the note.

the paper is slightly wrinkled. folded with care, but not precision. very him.

you open it.

happy birthday, sweetheart.

you’re not allowed to make plans today.

come over later. it’s definitely not a surprise.

there’s a little scribble underneath. something that might be a heart, might be an attempt at one.

you laugh.

it slips out of you, soft and real, carried away by the morning air before you can hold onto it. the sound feels lighter than anything you’ve managed since waking up.

“definitely not a surprise,” you murmur, shaking your head.

you read it again.

and again.

and somehow, the note stays with you all day.

folded, unfolded, smoothed out between your fingers when no one’s looking. you tuck it into your pocket, take it out again, read it like it might change if you give it enough attention.

it doesn’t.

but you do.

you try to be normal.

you go to work. you smile when someone remembers—“hey, happy birthday!”—said with the casual kindness of people who don’t really know what that means for you. you thank them. you mean it.

you sit at your desk. answer emails. nods and polite laughter, the rhythm of a day that doesn’t pause just because it matters to you.

lunch is quiet.

a container you packed without thinking and eaten without tasting much of it. you scroll for a bit. open the note again.

you’re not allowed to make plans today.

you huff a quiet breath through your nose.

“bossy,” you whisper.

your chest tightens anyway.

you tell yourself it’s fine.

you’ve been telling yourself that all day.

it is fine.

roy remembered. of course he did. not just remembered—he showed up. did something small and thoughtful and entirely him. something that fits into the space you occupy together like it was made for it.

and lian… you don’t even know what she’s planning, but the idea of her being involved at all makes something in you ache in that soft, dangerous way.

you’re lucky.

you know that.

so why… why does it feel like this?

the thought creeps in quietly, almost reasonable.

roy has a life.

not in the abstract way people say that, but in the real, tangible sense. a history. responsibilities. a child who depends on him in ways that are immediate and non-negotiable. he moves through the world with a kind of practiced competence. juggling things, prioritizing, adapting.

he knows what matters.

he’s had to learn.

and you—

you stare at your computer screen, the cursor blinking patiently back at you, and feel something small and sharp twist under your ribs.

there’s a gap there.

you can feel it.

rationally you know there is no problem here. except the one you’re creating.

you know that.

and still, it doesn’t stop the feeling.

it follows you through the rest of the day, quiet but persistent. a background noise you can’t quite mute.

by the time you leave work, it’s settled into something dull and heavy.

you walk slower than usual.

not enough to be noticeable. just enough to stretch the distance between where you are and where you’re supposed to go.

roy’s place.

you reach his building before you’ve fully decided how you feel about that.

your hand lingers near the door for a second longer than necessary.

you glance down at the note again, smoothing the edge with your thumb.

come over later.

you exhale.

it’s fine.

it’s just another day.

you adjust your grip on the strap of your bag.

exhale.

knock.

the door opens before your hand fully drops.

roy’s apartment is… not subtle.

there are banners, crooked, overlapping, and aggressively cheerful. balloons hover at different heights, some already drifting toward the ceiling like they’ve given up on structure entirely. something sparkles from nearly every available surface, catching the light in chaotic flashes.

it’s too much.

it’s perfect.

and then—

“you’re here!”

lian’s voice cuts through everything, bright and ringing and thrilled.

she barrels toward you at full speed, socks slipping slightly on the floor before she collides into your legs with zero hesitation. her arms wrap around you in a fierce, uncoordinated hug, like she’s been holding onto this moment all day.

you laugh.

not the polite kind. not the measured, careful version you’ve been carrying since morning.

real laughter.

it breaks out of you like something finally let loose.

“oh my god—hi, baby—” you bend immediately, scooping her up despite the awkward angle, pressing kisses all over her cheeks as she squeaks and squirms and laughs back, her small hands grabbing at your shoulders like she’s anchoring you here.

“i did it!” she announces proudly, like a mastermind revealing her grand design.

“you did this?” you ask, pulling back just enough to look at her, eyes wide with exaggerated awe. “this is incredible.”

she beams.

behind her, roy leans against the doorway, arms crossed loosely, watching you with something quieter in his expression. relief, maybe. something soft that settles deeper when he sees you smile like that.

“hi,” he says, casual, like he didn’t just orchestrate half a celebration and nearly lose his mind doing it.

“hi,” you echo, softer.

your eyes flick past him.

gifts.

wrapped in unmistakably expensive green paper, edges crisp, bows tied with a precision that does not belong to roy.

you blink.

“did oliver—”

“yep,” roy cuts in immediately, not even pretending otherwise. “i lost that battle before it started.”

lian nods solemnly. “grandpa ollie helped.”

of course he did.

you huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head, something warm spreading through your chest again, this time deeper, steadier.

the cake looks… suspicious.

not bad. uncertain.

roy stands beside it like it might detonate.

“okay,” he says, holding up both hands slightly, as if disclaiming responsibility will help. “full transparency—this was made by my friends.”

you glance at him.

“and that’s supposed to reassure me?”

“they said they followed a recipe,” he adds quickly. “from their butler.”

you blink.

“they seemed very confident about it.”

you stare at the cake.

then at him.

then back at the cake.

“we’re gonna eat it,” you decide.

lian gasps in delight.

roy exhales like he’s just been granted temporary amnesty.

the first bite… is actually good.

music starts at some point.

you don’t remember who turns it on.

just that suddenly the room is filled with something loud and familiar—your music. the kind that thrums through your chest, that makes your pulse sync with it without asking permission.

lian lights up instantly.

“this one!” she shouts, like she’s been waiting for it.

“you know this one?” you laugh, already moving.

“daddy plays it!”

you glance at roy.

he shrugs, unapologetic. “what? i’m raising her right.”

and then you’re dancing.

in the middle of his living room, surrounded by crooked banners and drifting balloons, with a five-year-old spinning in circles between you like she’s discovered gravity for the first time.

you throw your head back, laughing again as lian grabs your hands and pulls you into her orbit. roy joins in a second later, less graceful but just as committed, his movements loose, unfiltered.

for a while that’s all there is.

no thoughts.

no comparisons.

no quiet, gnawing doubts.

just this.

it’s later when roy clears his throat.

you turn toward him, breath still uneven from dancing.

“what?”

he scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking… younger. almost unsure.

“i, uh—” he gestures toward the gifts. “there’s one more thing.”

you raise an eyebrow, stepping closer.

“another not-surprise?”

“something like that.”

you crouch, picking up the one wrapped a little less perfectly than the others. the paper is simple but still charming, the tape visible if you look close.

you glance up at him once before opening it.

inside, there’s fabric.

soft and familiar.

your breath catches.

you pull it out fully.

it’s exactly how you imagined it.

no, better.

because it’s real. because it’s here. because it’s in your hands instead of sitting untouched in some digital cart you kept telling yourself you didn’t need.

you look up at him, something unsteady in your chest.

“roy…”

he rubs the back of his neck again, glancing briefly at lian before looking back at you.

“it’s not a big deal,” he admits. “really.”

“it is to me.” you murmur, voice soft with something that feels dangerously close to overwhelming.

you look back down. there’s something else tucked inside.

two tickets.

you pull them out, frowning slightly as you read.

a music event.

your eyes flick up again, sharper this time.

“roy.”

he shrugs, trying for casual, failing just enough that you can see the nerves underneath.

“there’s an open mic,” he says. “later in the night.”

you blink.

“and?”

“and,” he continues, shifting his weight slightly, “i was thinkin’… maybe i go up there.”

you stare at him.

“you?”

“hey,” he lifts a hand defensively. “i can sing.”

“i know you can,” you say, a laugh threatening at the edges of your voice. “that’s not the point.”

he grins, just a little.

“then what is?”

you look at him.

really look at him.

at the way he’s standing there—uncertain but trying, a little rough around the edges but so intent on getting this right. at lian, hovering nearby, practically vibrating with pride.

at the room.

at the effort.

at the care.

something in your chest shifts.

roy studies you for a second, like he’s checking for cracks, for anything that might give away something unsaid.

but all he finds is you. here. smiling.

and for the first time all day, it doesn’t feel like something you have to perform.

by the time the apartment quiets, it does so gently.

not all at once—never that. the music fades first, turned down until it’s just a low hum that lingers in the walls. the balloons settle, barely shifting anymore. even the glitter seems less insistent, catching softer light now.

lian falls asleep halfway through insisting she’s not tired.

one minute she’s curled up against you, mumbling something about how next year she’s going to add “even more sparkles,” and the next she's out. completely. limbs heavy, breathing slow and even, her small hand still loosely fisted in the fabric of your shirt.

roy carries her to bed.

you watch from the doorway for a moment longer than you mean to. watch the way he tucks the blanket around her, the way he pauses just a second before stepping back, like he’s making sure the world will stay steady for her even after he leaves the room.

then the door clicks softly shut.

and it’s just the two of you.

the living room feels different now. quieter, but not empty. the aftermath of something good lingers in the air—cake crumbs on plates, a ribbon half-curled on the floor, your gift still resting where you set it down.

roy drops onto the couch beside you with a quiet exhale, like his body is finally catching up to the day.

for a second, neither of you says anything.

then he shifts closer. his arm slips around you, pulling you in until your shoulder rests against his chest, solid and warm. there’s something grounding about it, about him. always has been.

you let yourself lean.

for a while, that’s enough.

then—

“i know that look,” he murmurs.

his voice is low, careful in a way that immediately tells you this isn’t casual. his fingers trace absent patterns along your arm, slow and steady.

you go still.

“what look?” you ask, softer than you intend.

“the one you’ve had all day,” he says, "like you’re here, but also somewhere else.”

a pause.

“you wanna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

you hesitate.

it would be so easy to brush it off. to shrug, smile, say nothing, i’m just tired. to keep the day perfect, unwrinkled.

but he’s already seen it.

and he’s not letting it go.

your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his shirt.

“i just…” you trail off, searching for the shape of it. “i feel like i’m behind.”

the word lands quietly between you.

you keep going before you can stop yourself.

“not in a big way,” you add quickly, like you need to justify it. “just… compared to what i imagined. compared to you. you have all of this—” you gesture vaguely, meaning everything: the apartment, the life, lian, the way he moves through it all with a kind of earned certainty. “you know what you’re doing. you’ve lived through things. you handle things.”

your voice dips, softer now.

“and i’m still… confused. i don’t know where i’m going or even where i want to go half the time.” a small, humorless huff escapes you. “it makes me feel—”

you hesitate.

“useless.”

the word sits heavier than you want it to.

silence follows.

roy doesn’t interrupt. doesn’t rush to fill it. his hand finds yours instead, fingers threading through yours, warm and calloused, grounding you without forcing anything.

when he speaks, it’s quieter.

“can i tell you something?”

you nod, barely.

“i’ve had a lot of birthdays i don’t remember,” he says.

there’s no drama in it. no performance. just truth, laid out plainly.

“a lot of years i didn’t think i’d see the next one.”

your chest tightens. you turn your head slightly, looking at him now.

his gaze isn’t on you—it’s somewhere distant, like he’s sifting through memories he doesn’t visit often.

“and the ones i do remember…” he continues, voice steady but softer now, “they weren’t the big ones. no parties. no grand stuff.”

a small pause.

“they were the ones where someone just saw me.”

his thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow, absent.

“sat with me. didn’t try to fix anything. didn’t expect me to be anything other than what i was right then.”

he finally looks at you.

really looks.

“you’re not behind,” he says. "definitely not behind me.”

no hesitation.

no room for argument.

“there’s no timeline. there’s no race.” his grip on your hand tightens just slightly, grounding the words in something physical, something real. “you’re just… here. and here is fine.”

your eyes sting before you can stop it.

you blink, but it doesn’t really help. everything feels a little too sharp, a little too close to the surface.

you don’t look away.

“and if you want to go somewhere else,” he adds, voice gentler now, like he’s stepping carefully around something fragile, “if you want to change things, or move somewhere, or do something different…”

his thumb presses lightly against your hand.

“i’ll help you.”

there’s a small pause.

then, with a hint of something lighter threading through:

“on your bicycle.”

you blink.

“my what?”

“your bicycle,” he repeats, completely serious.

you stare at him.

“you know, metaphorically speaking,” he shrugs, one corner of his mouth lifting. “i was gonna say car, but lian says i need to be more environmentally friendly.”

a beat.

“so your metaphorical bicycle.”

you let out a soft, incredulous laugh, the sound catching somewhere between your throat and your chest.

“of course she did.”

“yeah,” he huffs. “kid’s ruthless.”

silence settles again but it’s different now.

easier.

you shift closer without thinking, pressing into him, your forehead brushing lightly against his jaw. his arm tightens around you in response, immediate and sure.

the doubts are still there.

they don’t vanish like magic.

but they’re quieter. smaller.

because you’re not carrying them alone anymore.

and for tonight, that’s enough…

“i almost made a kid cry for your birthday, you know.”

“roy?”

heeey, so here's a little belated bday fic!! this one has nothing even close to resambling structure or pacing, but i really needed it because it's all about the worries that *i believe* we all have around our birthdays. and not only around our birthdays

ty everyone for sending me so many birthday wishes!! it's the first time i ever made a big deal out of it, i really hope i didn't come off as selfish. love you all, have the bestest days 🥹🩷

milky's chocolates 𐙚 @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @that-dumb-bunny @theamazkngskye @liliesofth3valley @bonecrushingfeng @cotton-eee @gtwtina @viviannagiorgini @aturzz @splodencible @teenagellamaangel

[milkybbun]

happy happy birthday!!! 💖🫶🎂

thank you froggi!! 🩷

whenever we interact with froggi, i feel like a kid whose parents paid for them to meet their favorite celebrity 🤭

[milkybbun]

happy HAPPY birthday and congrats on over 400 followers!!! 🎉 🎂

and thank you so much for creating the girl next door and escape room aus!! i love them so SO much 🥹

Awww, thank YOU for reading and commenting and being so supportive!! your comments on the girl next door make my day 🥹🩷

[milkybbun]

OMG ITS YOUR BIRTHDAY!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY MILKY!! AND CONGRATS ON 400 FOLLOWERS OMG 🥹🎉🎉

thank youuu bunny!! mwah 🩷🐇

[milkybbun]

MILKYYY HAPPY BIRTHDAY 🎉🎉💛✨i hope you have a wonderful birthday 🫶

and here’s a gazillion flowers for you!!!🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌸🌸🌸🌺🌺🌺💐💐💐

AWWW thank you cissa 🤭🩷🩷

[milkybbun]

Wait was it your bday omg did I miss the memo???? Happy bday Milky!!! I hope you have sm fun and love and laughter this year 💘💗 may all ur wishes come true diva!!!

thank youuuu leche 🥹🩷

you can never miss a memo, mootie!!

[milkybbun]

CONGRATS ON 400 FOLLOWERSS!! and happy bday milky! i hope you have an amazing day💗💗

THANK YOU!!

really hope I'll be able to finish two birthday themed fics today because they sound pretty cute 🤭🩷

[milkybbun]

HAPPPPPYYY BIRTTTHHDAAAYYY MILKYYYY ‼️‼️‼️🥳🥳🥳💥💥💥💥💋💋💋🧿🧿

THANK YOUUU MA CHERIE 🍒🍒

it's earliest in the morning but i already have birthday jitters 🤭

[milkybbun]

idk if im like insanely early for u but wanted to pop in and wish u a happy birthday!!!! i hope ur day is amazing and filled with lots of sweets and love and that this next year brings u nothing but good luck and good vibes!! :) ❣️❣️ definitely treat urself to some sweets too lol🫡❣️

AWW THANK YOU!! 🥳🩷

it is middle of the night for me but i can never sleep on my birthday eve and i open tumblr to see my mootie!! love you sm!!

also, i hit 400 followers right around my birthday 🥹

so grateful for you guys reading my fics, for my moots being so amazing!!

i know that i have a long overdue second part of noir special... but today and tomorrow i will post birthday fics. one with roy, another with wally!!