warning: ANOTHER TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF GO SEE YOUR DENTIST
summary: after spending domestic times together, joe's trip to japan makes both of you realize something. also, his sisters clicked it when they found out you're not a grandma.
issy talks: thank you so much everyone for supporting this fic. also, thank you to @eller41 so suggesting joe's sister found out she's not a grandma and tells him he's inlove by the way he's talking about her.
part 1 part 2 taglist: @bdllvr @sensiblyfreshtroll @roseosstuff @maferin @valentine-night @batmanssssss @eller41 @dramallama9 @psicodelica-me @fionaisinlove just tell me if u want to be added to the taglist, mwa!
With Joe Keery’s schedule getting tighter lately, your guitar lessons have turned into something flexible—moved around between rehearsals, interviews, late-night studio sessions, and sudden flights.
Every time he apologizes for rescheduling, he looks genuinely guilty about it. And every time, you just smile and tell him it’s okay. Because it is.
You understand. At least, that’s what you keep telling him, it doesn’t really matter anyway.
Not when the two of you somehow keep finding your way back to each other.
Sometimes it’s quick elevator conversations that stretch longer than intended. Sometimes it’s coffee at midnight in your apartment while Ella Fitzgerald hums softly in the background. Sometimes it’s him sprawled across your couch with Ponkan asleep on his chest while you test recipes beside him.
And sometimes, it’s this. Joe sitting on your kitchen counter again, long legs dangling slightly as he eats the pasta you made him like he hasn’t had a proper meal in days.
Your apartment smells like garlic, butter, and something warm simmering on the stove. Outside, the city glows quietly beyond the windows, but inside everything feels softer somehow.
Joe twirls the pasta around his fork before looking at you again. “Are you really sure you don’t want anything?” he asks for what feels like the fifth time tonight.
You laugh softly, shaking your head as you take another bite from your own plate. “Yes, Joe,” you say, amused. “Please stop worrying about me and go have fun in Japan.”
He watches you carefully for a second, like he’s trying to make sure you mean it. Because underneath the excitement sitting in his chest—the tour, the music, the movement—there’s still reluctance there too.
The kind that tastes bittersweet.
“Still,” he mutters, quieter now. “Feels weird leaving.”
Something in your chest softens at that. You smile anyway. “You’ll be back before you know it.”
Joe exhales through a small laugh, setting his fork down briefly. “Yeah,” he says. “Guess I will.”
That was last night.
The memory still lingers warm in your chest—the smell of pasta sauce, the sound of his laugh, the way he hugged you goodbye at the door a little longer than usual before heading downstairs to meet his bandmates.
୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧
Being away from you is strange, not painful exactly. Just… strange in the way missing a song halfway through feels strange. Like something familiar keeps trying to play in the background of his day, but the ending never comes.
So Joe Keery texts you constantly. Not in an overwhelming way. Just little things, small pieces of his day he keeps wanting to hand to you first.
Photos arrive in your messages at random hours. A blurry picture of neon lights outside his hotel window. A convenience store snack he swears “changed his life.” His bandmates making faces in the background during dinner. A tiny kid at a fan signing holding one of his records upside down while grinning proudly.
And always, there’s a message attached.
joe: you would LOVE this place
joe: their matcha is insane
joe: like actually life changing
You smile to yourself before replying.
you: japan’s matcha is the best
you: enjoy it for me too
you: and be safe pls
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Disappear.
Appear again.
joe: yes chef 🫡
You send things too. Ponkan asleep belly-up in increasingly ridiculous positions. Fresh pastries cooling by the window. Rain against your café glass during closing time. A blurry picture of the espresso machine because “she survived another morning rush.”
Joe saves almost every single one. Especially the ones with you accidentally reflected in the glass somewhere.
One night, you send a picture of a failed pastry attempt, cream spilling sideways off the plate.
you: tragedy struck today
Joe laughs quietly to himself in his hotel room before replying.
joe: still looks better than anything ive ever made
joe: ahh i miss you
joe:...
joe: i mean NEW YORK
joe: obviously
You stare at the message for a second longer than necessary before laughing softly to yourself.
you: mhm sure joe
On the other side of the world, Joe buries his face into his hotel pillow.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters to himself.
୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧
A few days later, after a long fan signing event and an interview that drained almost all remaining energy from him, Joe finally has a quiet evening to himself.
Which should feel relaxing. Instead, he keeps seeing things that remind him of you.
A café with floral curtains.
A ceramic mug shaped like a cat.
A bakery window glowing warm against the cold evening air.
It’s ridiculous. Honestly ridiculous but suddenly all he wants is to bring pieces of this place back for you. So he calls his sisters. The second the FaceTime connects, chaos erupts.
“Joe! How’s Japan?”
“Are you having fun?”
“Can you bring me snacks?”
“Wait—how’s the grandma?”
Joe bursts out laughing so suddenly he nearly drops his phone.
“Okay okay, hold on—”
His sisters keep talking over each other anyway.
“Did she bake you more cookies?”
“Are you surviving without your old lady pastries?”
“Joe probably misses her more than us.”
“He’s not coming home to us.”
“She’s NOT a grandma,” Joe finally says, still laughing. Silence, then…
“WHAT?”
All of them stare at him like he personally committed betrayal.
“You told us she was eighty or seventy!”
“I never said eighty!”
“You implied eighty, Joseph!”
Joe shakes his head, grinning helplessly. “Okay, fine. I was wrong.”
“Oh my god,” one sister gasps dramatically. “Tell us everything immediately.”
Joe leans back against the hotel bed, rubbing a hand over his face and somehow, once he starts talking he can’t really stop.
“She just…” he pauses, smiling a little to himself already. “She likes baking and jazz and vinyls. So I thought—”
“You profiled her as elderly,” one sister interrupts.
“Yes,” Joe sighs. “And I regret it deeply.”
His sisters laugh loudly. “But then I met her and—” He stops not because he doesn’t know what to say. But because suddenly there’s too much. Too many little things.
“She owns this tiny café,” he says eventually, softer now. “Like, really small. Kinda hidden too. But it smells like coffee and sugar all the time.”
His sisters go quiet, listening now. “And she makes everything herself,” Joe continues. “Pastries, drinks, all of it. And you can tell.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” Joe says, trying to explain something that feels impossible to explain. “Everything she makes tastes… cared for.”
That earns immediate groans. “Oh, he’s gone.”
“No seriously,” Joe insists, laughing. “Like—you know when someone puts extra effort into tiny things because they genuinely want people to feel happy?”
His sisters exchange looks.
Joe keeps going anyway. “She talks about recipes like they’re stories,” he says. “And her eyes do this thing when she gets excited—” he stops abruptly.
“…what thing?” one sister asks slowly.
Joe blinks. “…nothing.”
“JOE.”
He groans, covering his face with one hand. “She just gets really happy, okay?” His sisters are smiling now. Big, knowing smiles. “And she has this orange cat,” Joe continues quickly, trying to redirect. “Ponkan. Evil little guy.”
“Not important,” one sister says immediately. “Continue talking about your wife.”
“She’s not my wife!”
“Yet,” another adds.
Joe laughs despite himself, shaking his head but then his expression softens again. “There’s just something about her apartment,” he admits quietly. “It’s… calm there.”
The room grows quieter after that.
Joe looks down briefly before continuing. “Like no matter how shitty the day was, I go there and suddenly everything slows down.”
His sisters don’t tease him this time because they hear it now too. The softness in his voice. The way he says your name without even realizing it.
Finally, one of them sighs dramatically. “Joe Keery,” she says. “You are so in love.”
Joe immediately sits up straighter. “No, I’m not.”
All sisters stare at him.
“Oh please.”
“That’s insane.”
“You literally sound like you’re describing a romance movie.”
“Are you watching romcoms now?”
Joe opens his mouth and closes it. “…is it obvious?”
“To us?” one sister says. “Painfully.”
“To her?” another adds. “Honestly? Hard to tell.”
Joe groans, falling backward onto the bed. “This is terrible.”
“No,” his sister laughs. “This is adorable.”
A beat passes then Joe sits up again suddenly. “Wait, actually, can you help me buy her something?”
All sisters immediately burst into laughter.
“There it is.”
“Oh my god.”
“He wants to buy her gifts already.”
“Don’t save him, he’s right where he wants to be.”
Joe points accusingly at the screen. “Can you focus?”
“Okay, okay,” one sister says, still grinning. “What does she like?”
Joe thinks for a second then his face brightens. “Oh.”
His sisters immediately notice. “Oh no,” one mutters. “That look again.”
“She collects Sanrio mugs,” Joe says. “She has this My Melody one she really likes.”
“Aww.”
“That’s actually so cute.”
“You need to buy her one.”
Joe nods immediately, already mentally committed. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I think I will.”
And the smile on his face afterward, a small, helpless, impossibly fond looks an awful lot like love.
୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧
Tokyo feels alive in a way Joe can’t fully explain.
Everything glows.
Neon signs stacked on top of each other, train stations humming endlessly with movement, tiny cafés tucked between buildings like secrets waiting to be found. The city feels fast and bright and restless—but somehow soft at the same time.
Joe likes it immediately.
Especially because every few minutes, he catches himself thinking: You would love this.
Which is exactly how he ends up stopping in the middle of the sidewalk that afternoon.
One of his friends nearly walks into him. “Dude—what?”
But Joe isn’t listening anymore because through the glass storefront in front of him, he spots something painfully familiar. A tiny pink character smiling back at him from a shelf.
Then another.
Then another.
Joe squints slightly. “…no way.”
His friend follows his line of sight. “Oh no,” he says immediately. “You’re thinking about her again.”
Joe ignores him completely and pushes the door open.
The store smells faintly like paper and vanilla-scented air freshener. Bright plushies and pastel shelves crowd every corner, soft music playing quietly overhead.
And there right in the center is the exact character printed on your mug. The same one on your bandaids.
The same one you once spent five full minutes explaining the lore of while Joe tried—and failed not to laugh.
“My Melody,” you had said seriously, holding your mug carefully. “She’s sweeter than Hello Kitty.”
Joe had stared at you. “You know lore?”
“She’s not just a character, Joe.” And honestly? The way you looked offended about it was one of the cutest things he’d ever seen.
Now, standing in the middle of a Japanese gift shop thousands of miles away from you, Joe suddenly finds himself grinning like an idiot.
“Oh, he’s smiling,” one of his friends teases quietly. “That’s bad.”
“Shut up.”
Joe picks up one mug.
Then another okay maybe six.
Then a small spoon set.
Then matching plates.
Then somehow an entire collection.
“You are absolutely in love,” his friend mutters.
“I’m literally just buying gifts.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
An older Japanese man accompanying their group notices the growing pile in Joe’s arms and laughs softly. He says something to the sales lady first before turning toward Joe with amused eyes.
“For your niece?” the man asks kindly.
Joe looks down at the mugs.
At the tiny pink bows.
At the little details he knows would make you smile instantly.
And without even thinking about it he smiles, a small fond smile.
“No,” he says softly. “For someone.”
The older man studies his expression for a second. Then his smile widens knowingly. “Ah,” he says. “Must be very special then.”
Joe should deny it or should laugh it off. Instead, he looks back at the shelf for a moment, already imagining your reaction.
The way your eyes will light up. The way you’ll hold the mug carefully like it’s something precious. The way your whole face softens whenever someone remembers small things about you.
And suddenly missing you feels a little too big for his chest.
“Yeah,” Joe admits quietly. “She really is.”
The rest of the day passes in soft little moments. Joe walks through crowded streets with shopping bags hanging from both arms, stopping every now and then whenever something reminds him of someone he loves.
Snacks for his sisters.
Keychains.
Tiny souvenirs.
But somehow he keeps finding more things for you too.
A cat-shaped spoon rest because it looks like Ponkan.
A notebook with tiny strawberries on the cover because it feels like something you’d leave recipe ideas in.
Packets of matcha he insists are “life-changing.”
His friends stop questioning it after a while. Mostly because every time Joe talks about you now, he gets this look on his face.
Soft.
Gone.
Like his heart already lives somewhere else.
By evening, he’s sitting at a tiny café tucked away from the noise of the city, a warm matcha latte between his hands. Rain taps softly against the windows. The café smells like milk bread and sugar and before he can stop himself, Joe reaches for his phone.
Snaps a picture.
Then another. The lighting is pretty, he tells himself.
That’s all.
But even he doesn’t believe that anymore.
joe: okay you were right
joe: japan matcha wins
joe: i fear youve ruined american matcha for me forever
A reply comes a minute later.
you: finally. character development
Joe laughs softly into his drink.Then another message appears.
you: did you have fun today?
and God something about that question. Like you genuinely care about the answer. Joe leans back in his chair, smiling helplessly to himself before typing back.
joe: yeah
joe: but i kept seeing things that reminded me of you
He stares at the message for two whole seconds after sending it.
“…oh my god,” he whispers immediately.
His friend across the table looks up.
“What did you do?”
Joe drops his face into his hands. “I might actually be in love with her.”
୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧
Meanwhile, oceans away your apartment feels quieter than usual. You catch yourself glancing toward Joe Keery’s apartment door more often now.
Small unconscious things.
Looking up every time footsteps echo down the hallway.
Pausing whenever the elevator dings. Half-expecting his voice to drift through the walls at any second.
“Hey,” warm and easy, like he’s been there all along.
But the hallway stays still. And somehow, that makes his absence feel louder.
You miss the little things most. The soft sound of his guitar bleeding faintly through the walls late at night because he thinks no one can hear him. The way he hums absentmindedly while unlocking his apartment door.
The random knocks at your door followed by:
“I bought too much takeout again.”
As if either of you believe that anymore.
Tonight, your turntable spins softly in the corner of your apartment, but halfway through the song, you pause it. The sudden silence settles around the room.
Then very faintly through memory more than sound you remember Joe’s guitar.
The low strumming.
The unfinished melodies.
The way his music always sounded softer through the walls somehow.
Like hearing someone think out loud and against your will your chest aches a little.
Warmly.
Terribly.
“Earth to you, young lady.” The voice pulls you out of your thoughts.
You blink, looking up. Mr. 6D sits across from you at the small chess table near his apartment door, watching you with deeply amused eyes.
Your brows lift slightly. “…sorry.”
“You’ve been staring at the same chess piece for two minutes,” he says.
You glance down.
Right.
Your turn.
“Oh,” you mumble, quickly moving your knight. “There.”
The old man looks at the board. Then at you. Then bursts into laughter.
“You just sacrificed your bishop.”
You stare. “…that’s a pawn.”
“Exactly my point.”
You drop your face into your hands immediately. “Oh my god.”
The old man laughs harder, shaking his head fondly. “You miss him.”
Your head shoots up instantly. “What? No, I don’t.”
The old man gives you a look. The kind older people give when they already know the truth before you do.
“Young lady,” he says calmly, “you have spent the last ten minutes looking at Joe’s apartment door like it stole your flour.”
You gasp softly. “I have not.”
“You also just tried to move your pawn diagonally.”
You groan. “I’m pathetic.”
“No,” he says warmly. “You’re in love.”
You nearly choke. “I am NOT.”
“Hm.”
The sound alone is enough to make you defensive. “You are literally making things up.”
The old man simply moves his queen across the board. “Then call him.”
You blink. “What?”
“Call him,” he repeats. “Stop looking at the poor boy’s door like a sad Victorian widow.”
That pulls a laugh out of you despite yourself. “He’s probably busy.”
“Maybe,” the old man shrugs. “But I doubt he’d mind hearing your voice.”
And somehow that thought alone makes your stomach flutter.
You hesitate for another full minute before finally reaching for your phone. Mr. 6D watches with entirely too much satisfaction.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter.
“Young love is beautiful.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re stalling.”
You glare at him once before pressing call. The line rings.
Once.
Twice.
Then suddenly the screen lights up and there he is. Joe appears slightly breathless, hair messy which made you think he just woke up. The second he sees you his entire face softens. Like sunlight breaking through clouds.
“Hey,” he says immediately, smiling so quickly it feels instinctive.
God. You didn’t realize how much you missed that smile until now.
Your own appears before you can stop it. “Hey, Joe.”
For a second neither of you says anything. Just smiling at each other like idiots. Then both of you speak at once.
“How are—”
“Sorry, did I—”
You stop and laughs. Joe laughs too, shaking his head.
“You go first.”
“No, you—”
“You called me,” he points out.
“Right.”
Your smile grows a little sheepish. “Uh… I hope you’re not busy.”
Joe answers so fast it’s almost embarrassing. “Nope.”
You blink.
He clears his throat, trying again slightly calmer. “I mean—no. I’m free today.”
In the background, one of his bandmates yells something unintelligible. Joe immediately leans away from the phone.
“Shut up!”
You laugh softly. And just hearing that sound through his phone speaker makes something in Joe’s chest melt completely.
“What about you?” he asks, settling more comfortably against the pillows now. “How’s New York?”
You glance around your apartment instinctively. “Quiet.”
The word slips out before you can stop it. Joe pauses. Something softer enters his expression immediately. “…yeah,” he says quietly. “Japan’s loud.”
You smile faintly. “I baked today.”
“Oh?” Joe perks up instantly. “What kind?”
And just like that the conversation flows easily again, warm and comfortable. Like slipping back into your favorite sweater after being out in the cold too long.
Meanwhile, across the kitchen, Mr. 6D quietly celebrates his matchmaking victory alone with tea.
Joe Keery texts you the second his plane lands. Then again while sitting in traffic. Then once more when he finally gets back into Manhattan.
joe: alive
joe: jetlagged
joe: craving your pasta already
A few minutes later—
joe: hello???
joe: did ponkan eat you
Then—
joe: beginning to take this personally now
But no reply ever comes. Which is unusual Because even when you’re busy, you always send something.
A thumbs up.
A blurry picture.
A “sorry working!!”
Something.
What Joe doesn’t know is that one of your staff had an emergency earlier that morning, leaving you alone to handle the café during one of the busiest days of the week.
And now hours later you’re exhausted.
The city outside has already dissolved into nighttime by the time you start wiping down the counters.
Your apron is dusted lightly with flour. Your feet ache. The espresso machine finally sits silent after screaming all day. And the café smells faintly of sugar and coffee grounds and tiredness.
You sigh softly, stacking cups together while the old jazz playlist hums quietly overhead. The CLOSED sign already hangs in the window.
So when the bell above the door jingles you don’t even look up.
“We’re closed now, sorry,” you mumble automatically, still focused on cleaning the counter.
A familiar voice answers almost immediately. “Welcome back to you too.”
You freeze.
Your head snaps up so fast you nearly drop the towel in your hands. Joe stands near the doorway, hands full of paper bags, travel jacket still on, hair messy from the flight.
And he’s smiling.
He’s smiling at you.
You don’t even think. Your body moves before your brain catches up. You rush around the counter and straight into him. Joe barely has enough time to laugh before you’re colliding into his chest, arms wrapping tightly around him.
The paper bags crinkle loudly between you. But Joe hugs you back instantly anyway. One arm around your waist. The other still awkwardly holding shopping bags.
And somehow despite the noise of the city outside, despite the exhaustion weighing on both of you everything suddenly feels quiet.
Joe exhales softly against your hair and wow. He missed this.
Missed you. More than he probably should.
“Well,” he says after a second, voice teasingly light, “seems like someone missed me.”
You pull back just enough to glare at him weakly. “Shut up.”
Joe grins immediately. “There she is.”
Only then you really look at him. The jetlag tired eyes. The softness in his expression the second he saw you. And something in your chest melts completely.
“You look exhausted,” you murmur.
“You look worse,” Joe replies honestly.
You gasp dramatically. “That’s incredibly rude.”
“You still hugged me though.”
“…unfortunately.”
Joe laughs quietly, warm and familiar. God, you missed that sound too.
“Oh—wait,” Joe says suddenly, shifting the paper bags carefully. “I brought you something.”
You blink. “Joe…”
“No, no. Hold on.”
He starts digging through the bags with surprising seriousness until finally pulling out a carefully wrapped box. The second you see the pink designs peeking through the packaging your eyes widen.
“No.”
Joe’s smile grows instantly. “Oh yes.”
You grab the box carefully and peel the wrapping back and immediately you gasp.
“Joe.”
Inside sits an entire Sanrio ceramic mug collection. Not just random pieces either. The specific set you once mentioned wanting but couldn’t find anymore.
Your mouth falls open. “You fucking did not.”
Joe starts laughing immediately at your expression.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, lifting one of the mugs carefully like it’s made of glass and dreams. “Joe, where did you even find these?”
“In Japan?”
You look up deadpan. “I know that.”
“I suffered for these,” he says dramatically. “You’re welcome.”
You stare at the mugs again.
Then at him.
Then back at the mugs.
And before Joe can prepare himself you throw your arms around him again. This time slower.
Tighter.
Longer.
Joe stills slightly at the impact before relaxing completely into it, his chin brushing the top of your head. And quietly almost without thinking he says: “Anything for you.”
The words settle softly between you.
Natural.
Honest.
Dangerously easy.
You pull back first this time, cheeks warmer than before. Neither of you mentions it.
Joe spends the next several minutes unpacking more gifts onto the counter while you react dramatically to every single one.
Matcha packets.
Tiny keychains.
Cat toys for Ponkan.
A strawberry notebook.
A little ceramic spoon rest shaped suspiciously like your cat.
“You bought him gifts too?” you laugh.
Joe shrugs. “He’s my son now too.”
“Absolutely not.”
“He likes me more than you.”
“That is biologically impossible.”
When you finally close the café for real, Joe helps without even asking. He wipes tables while humming softly under his breath.
Stacks chairs. Dries dishes beside you. And somehow the entire thing feels strangely domestic. Like this is something the two of you have always done. Like he belongs there beside you.
At one point, you glance over and catch him rolling up his sleeves while washing coffee cups.
And for some reason that nearly kills you. Because there’s something unbearably tender about seeing someone you’ve watched on screens for years standing in your tiny café kitchen asking:
“Where do you keep the good towels?”
By the time everything is finally clean, the city outside has gone quieter. The streets glow gold beneath streetlights. The air feels cooler now. And neither of you seems in any hurry to separate again.
So you walk home together. Side by side. Shoulders occasionally bumping. Paper bags swinging gently between your hands.
Joe keeps talking about Japan while you listen, smiling softly at the sound of his voice again. And somewhere between one streetlight and the next he glances at you.
Really glances at you he notice your tired eyes. your sleepy smile. The way you hold the Sanrio bag carefully against your chest.
Like it means something.
Like he means something.
And suddenly— Joe feels it again. That awful, wonderful sweetness blooming inside his chest. Warm as melted sugar. Soft as fresh bread pulled from the oven. The kind that lingers on your tongue long after the last bite.
He’s so completely gone for you and judging by the way you keep smiling to yourself while walking beside him—maybe, just maybe, you’re falling too.
imo what makes lando so pretty is his little imperfections, the freckless. the scars, and so on. and like on the british vogue photoshoot he has so much make up on that i don't feel like we're seeing the same lando
ok, so working with journalism comes with a few perks and today i got invited to a paddock experience for the wec race here in interlagos and it might've been the best thing that had ever happened to me!!! i met jenson button and valentino rossi, so i can die as a happy girl
hello, everyone!! i've been offline for MONTHS and haven't posted anything in her for a while, but it's because i've been going through the worst writer's block of my life.
i feel like, as a journalist, i write too much on google docs, and i feel blocked as i write fiction on a place where my brain has been setup on work mode. so i was wondering if you guys know any apps or websites where it's pretty and aesthetic for me to write my stories on.
i've tried a few google recs, but i feel like they all give off the same vibes as google docs to me 😭 help a writer
Hiii gorgeous!! Happy New Year’s Eve!! I hope you have an incredible 2025 and that you come up with even more great stories to share with us!! I know I asked you a while back about it and didn’t ask again bc I didn’t want to bother you with it but have you given any thought into finishing Delicate series?🥹 like it doesn’t matter it can just be a small blurb or headcanon but that story is the one that introduced me to you and your writing and it’s one of the best I’ve ever read cause I love Hollywood aus and F1 and they’re so rare to find and yours is sooo incredible. Idk I just wanted to share that you, hopefully you’re doing okay and I hope you have a wonderful 2025!!🧡
hi beautiful!!!! happy new year, i hope 2025 brings you a lot of good things and that you had an amazing first day 💖 and thank you so so so so much for your kind words. it made my day! and i'm glad you like my writting
i was just re-reading delicate on the past few days and i feel like while it was pretty much finished, i still feel like it deserves the last chapter to wrap it up, you know? i just haven't had the time, i engaged on a new job and ended up uploading the other series because it was already all written. but i love delicate so much, and i was thinking about giving you all one more to wrap it up.
i'm going to the beach for a week vacation (thank god it's summer here in brazil), but once i'm back, i promise to look more into it 🤞
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