wishing i lived happily in another world

a quiet girl tending her little lunar garden, wishing love were more than a story Profile Pic by: SanaTheTanuki

[mylifedoesntexist]

💙🌿 Master Post 🌿💙

💙🌙 Welcome to my lunar garden, dear traveler. May the starlit path lead you gently inside— take your place among the soft blooms, curl beneath a waiting blanket of quiet warmth, and let the flowers, the fics, and the nightwind stories keep you company for a while. ❄️💠

🪻 About Me

✦ name: ks ✦ ao3: duskanddialogue ✦ late 20s, aries sun, caprircon moon & rising ✦ pronouns: (she/her) ✦ love and deepspace fanfic writer: caleb 🍎 + zayne ❄️ main (snowapple 🍎 ❄️) ✦ k-pop/indie pop/lo-fi/alternative rnb + anime enthusiast ✦ feminist • daydreamer • professional procrastinator ✦ lover of moonlit gardens, quiet nights, and stories that unfold like petals

💠🌌 Love & Deepspace – Lunar Garden 🌌💠

moonlit, cool-toned corner where my stories take root— quiet blossoms, soft stardust, and gentle worlds waiting for you to wander through.

✦ LnD Masterlist: — Zayne — Caleb (coming soon) ✦ Characters I write for: Caleb and Zayne (others Lis will be coming soon) ⤐ ✦ LnD Request Rules: — What I’ll write: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Steamy — Boundaries / no-go’s: No Smut, No Angst ✦ Current WIPs: N/A - new story coming soon!

✦ Completed Work: Titration - Dr. Zayne Li x Dietitian!Non-MC! reader ⤐

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💠 I don’t take requests, but I love to chat. Feel free to send an ask, dear traveler — my lunar garden is always open for warm conversation beneath the blue-lit blooms. 💙❄️

★ I do not consent to my work being reuploaded, modified, or used in AI. ★ Graphics credit: https://pin.it/68HvCrQjs, https://pin.it/2LeU6L76e

[mylifedoesntexist]

When The Body Whispers (Pt. 2)

Titration Related One-Shot

Dr. Zayne Li x Dietitian!Non-MC Reader

Summary: After fainting at work, Y/N was sent home under everyone’s watchful care—but Zayne can’t shake the image of her collapsing, even after she promised him she's okay. Later that night, he shows up at her apartment with muffins, electrolyte drinks, and all the love he doesn’t know how to soften, determined to make sure she finally understand that being cared for doesn’t make her a burden.

Word Count: ~6k

zayne masterlist | main story: titration chapter 1 | WTBW Part 1

***please be aware of medical inaccuracies***

୨୧ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ୨୧୨୧ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ୨୧

WHEN THE BODY WHISPERS PART TWO

Leaving feels strange.

You’re used to walking out at 5:03 with your brain still buzzing, the day clinging to you in fragments: patients you need to check on tomorrow, labs you meant to follow up on, emails you have not answered, notes waiting like a punishment. Usually, by the time you hit the staff entrance, your to-do list is already spilling into the next morning.

Today, you leave at 4:15.

The world feels slightly softer around the edges, like someone turned the volume down while you weren’t looking.

Kennedy carries your bag despite your weak protest. Lily walks beside you with your cardigan folded over one arm, because apparently you had been two seconds away from abandoning it on the back of your chair. Greyson trails behind the three of you like a very annoyed bodyguard, his expression daring anyone in the hallway to ask why you are leaving early.

At the staff entrance, the cool air hits your face, and you inhale like you haven’t had oxygen in hours.

Zayne walks beside you, hands in the pockets of his coat, posture taut enough that you can feel the restraint in him. He hasn’t touched you since the break room. He hasn’t needed to. Somehow, even with a careful inch of professional distance between you, you can feel him anyway, steady and watchful at your side.

At the door, Lily and Kennedy stop.

“We’ll text you,” Lily says. “Not about work. Just… cat pictures. Memes. Proof of life.”

“Take care of yourself,” Kennedy adds, voice thick in a way she’s clearly trying to hide. “Please.”

You smile, though it feels a little fragile. “I will. Thank you. For… dragging me back to my own advice.”

“That’s what interns are for,” Lily says, trying to sound light.

Greyson claps you gently on the shoulder, his touch careful enough that it makes your chest ache. “No more medical dramatics this week. We’ve used up our quota.”

“You got it,” you murmur.

They head back toward the elevators together, but not before Lily looks over her shoulder twice and Kennedy mouths text us with the kind of severity usually reserved for discharge instructions. Then they disappear around the corner, leaving you and Zayne in the soft spill of late afternoon light by the staff door.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

The silence between you is not empty. It is full of everything that happened in the break room, in the hallway, on the floor. It is full of his hands hovering over you, his voice going low and clinical because that was the only way he could keep it from breaking. It is full of the look on his face when you opened your eyes and found him already there.

Then he exhales.

“I’m angry,” he says quietly. “Just so you know.”

You look at him, surprised. “With me?”

“With the fact that you were put in a position where this felt like your only option,” he says. His voice is even, but there is something sharp underneath it. “With a culture that praises self-destruction as dedication. With a hospital that will take every ounce of you if you let it. With myself for not noticing sooner.”

You take a breath, slow and careful. “You did notice. Today. When it mattered.”

His jaw tightens. “I should have seen the pattern days ago.”

“Zayne—”

“You’ve looked washed out for a week,” he says, not harshly, but with the precision of someone finally allowing himself to say what he has been cataloguing in silence. “I saw it. I catalogued it. I assumed you had it handled because you always look like you have it handled.”

“You assume that because most of the time, I do,” you reply gently. “And because I hide it when I don’t. That’s… not on you. That’s old wiring. Mine.”

He goes quiet.

The set of his mouth softens, not all at once, but enough that the anger in him shifts shape. It becomes something more vulnerable. Something harder for him to name.

“You terrify me,” he says.

It is not what you expect.

You blink. “I… what?”

“You terrify me,” he repeats, quieter this time, “because you are so good at taking care of other people that you forget you’re allowed to be taken care of too. And I—”

He stops. His jaw flexes once, like the words are lodged somewhere painful.

“And I love you,” he says. “Which means watching you run yourself into collapse activates every protective reflex I have.”

The words land like a warm shock.

Your eyes sting before you can stop them. You look down because if you keep looking at him, you are afraid whatever is holding you together will loosen completely.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” you whisper.

He huffs, humorless. “You fainting in front of my unit is a significantly worse outcome than me worrying because you texted saying, ‘I’m not okay today.’”

The bluntness of it makes your throat tighten, but there is no cruelty in it. Only fear. Only the aftermath of fear.

“I know,” you say softly. “I know that now.”

He steps closer.

Not enough for anyone looking out a window to raise questions. Not enough to break the invisible rules the hospital still wraps around both of you.

Enough for you to feel his presence, solid and grounding.

“Please,” he says quietly. “Next time—before next time—let me help you pace yourself. Ask for coverage. Bring you food. Drag you to the break room. Whatever it takes.”

His voice drops even lower.

“Don’t wait until you’re unconscious to let me in.”

Your throat tightens around the answer. For a second, all you can do is nod. You are tired in a way that feels deeper than sleep, and ashamed in a way that makes you want to disappear, but underneath all of that is something steadier.

The truth.

“I won’t,” you say. And you mean it. “I promise. I don’t want to scare you like that again. I don’t want to scare me like that again.”

His shoulders ease fractionally. It is not relief, not yet, but it is the first sign that his body has heard you.

“Good,” he murmurs.

He glances toward the parking lot, then back at you. The look in his eyes changes before he speaks, and you already know what he is going to say.

“I have to go back up,” he says. It clearly costs him. “I have a consult waiting. But I’m not going to pretend I don’t want to follow you home and monitor your hydration.”

You laugh, a small, shaky sound. “I’ll live. I’m going to go home, make actual food, and then lie dramatically on my couch under three blankets. Doctor’s orders.”

“Dietitian’s orders,” he corrects. “I’m just co-signing.”

He hesitates, and for a moment you can see the war in him: the rules, the hallway, the fact that someone could come around the corner at any second. Then he gives in to one small indulgence.

He reaches out and brushes his fingers once along the back of your hand.

It is so light someone passing by might miss it.

To you, it feels like an oath.

“Text me when you’re home,” he says. “And when you’ve eaten. And when you’re lying on the couch under at least two blankets.”

“Two?” you echo.

“You fainted,” he says. “You don’t get to negotiate.”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest is impossible to deny. “Okay. I’ll text.”

He nods once, like you have just agreed to a formal treatment plan.

“Go,” he says softly. “Rest. That’s your only job for the rest of today.”

You nod.

You turn toward the parking lot, but you look back once before you get too far. Zayne is still standing in the doorway, watching until he is sure you are steady. Only then does he turn back toward the CCU, shoulders squared, posture returning to that controlled, composed version of himself everyone else knows.

For the first time in a long time, you let yourself walk away from the hospital before every box on your mental list is checked.

It feels wrong.

It feels necessary.

And that, somehow, is worse.

୨୧ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ୨୧୨୧ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ୨୧

At home, the silence is almost shocking.

No monitors. No pagers. No call lights or wheels rattling down the hall. No voices drifting from the nurses’ station. Just the hum of your fridge, the faint sigh of the heater, and the soft patter of rain beginning against the windows.

You drop your bag by the door, toe off your shoes, and lean against the wall for a moment. The quiet does not rush in all at once. It seeps into you slowly, like warm water finding its way through a crack.

You could go straight to bed.

Old habit whispers that you should. You’re not that hungry anyway. Dinner can wait. Sleep would be easier. Sleep would mean you do not have to think about the look on Zayne’s face or the way Lily’s hands shook when she passed you your cardigan or the fact that, for one terrible moment, your body had taken the decision out of your hands entirely.

You catch the thought like a nurse catching a fall.

“No,” you tell yourself, out loud. Your voice sounds strange in the empty apartment. “We don’t do that anymore.”

So you move into the kitchen.

It does not have to be fancy. It just has to exist.

You put rice in the cooker, rinse it twice because muscle memory takes over where motivation fails. You throw vegetables on a tray with olive oil, salt, pepper, and garlic, then open a block of tofu, cube it, and toss it with soy sauce and sesame oil. The motions are simple enough that your tired brain can follow them. There is something comforting about the order of it: knife through tofu, water into glass, oven warming, rice clicking into place.

While the vegetables roast, you fill a glass with water and actually drink it instead of setting it down somewhere and forgetting it exists.

You pull out your phone.

There is already a message waiting.

| Zayne: are you home?

You smile despite yourself.

| Y/N: just got in | Y/N: rice in the cooker | Y/N: vegetables in the oven | Y/N: tofu on standby | Y/N: water consumed, per your unreasonable demands

His reply is almost immediate.

| Zayne: acceptable | Zayne: send picture of plate when done | Zayne: and then of couch + blankets

You snort.

“Bossy,” you mutter, fondly, though the fondness aches a little.

You finish cooking. You assemble a bowl that would make Past You proud: half rice, roasted vegetables piled high, tofu on top, a drizzle of sauce over everything. You stare at it for a second before taking the picture, because something about the bowl feels oddly emotional. It is not just dinner. It is proof. It is an answer to the part of you that said you could keep running on fumes.

You send the photo.

| Y/N: proof of intake

Three dots appear.

| Zayne: beautiful | Zayne: I’d write a note approving this

You roll your eyes. Then, because you know he will ask, you carry the bowl to the couch, tuck yourself under the ridiculously soft blanket MC bullied you into buying, and snap another picture with the bowl balanced safely in your lap.

| Y/N: stage two complete

| Zayne: good | Zayne: how do you feel?

You pause before answering. The honest check-in takes more effort than the automatic reassurance would have. Your body is tired, but not wired. Your hands are warm. Your head is heavy in a pleasant way, not spinning. There is still embarrassment under your ribs, but it is quieter now that you have eaten.

| Y/N: better | Y/N: less floaty | Y/N: more human | Y/N: also very embarrassed

| Zayne: the only thing you should be embarrassed about is that you thought you had to do all of this alone | Zayne: and that you nearly made me perform a full workup in a hallway without coffee

You smile, then press the heel of your hand lightly to one eye because the smile is dangerously close to tears.

Another message comes through.

| Zayne: I meant what I said earlier | Zayne: you deserve the same care you give everyone else | Zayne: please try to believe that | Zayne: even a little

You breathe in. You breathe out.

Rain taps at the window. The rice bowl is warm in your hands. Your apartment is quiet, but it does not feel as empty as it did when you first walked in.

| Y/N: I’m trying | Y/N: today helped | Y/N: thank you | Y/N: for catching me | Y/N: for not making me feel… | Y/N: like a burden

His answer lands like a blanket.

| Zayne: never a burden | Zayne: your existence is non-negotiable for my continued cardiac function | Zayne: finish eating | Zayne: then rest | Zayne: I’ll check on you tomorrow | Zayne: and if I find out you haven't eaten breakfast...I will stage a coup

You choke out a laugh.

| Y/N: I believe you | Y/N: and I am finishing | Y/N: goodnight, Z | Y/N: and… | Y/N: thanks again

There is a longer pause this time. Long enough that you picture him wherever he is—probably in some corner of the unit, phone held low, face carefully unreadable while something much softer moves behind his eyes.

Then:

| Zayne: goodnight | Zayne: rest well | Zayne: please don’t make a habit of collapsing in front of my residents | Zayne: they’re dramatic enough

You set your phone on the coffee table, bowl empty, blanket tucked up under your chin.

Your body feels heavy.

Not the punishing kind. Not the kind that comes from being dragged under by exhaustion you ignored for too long.

This heaviness is different. It is the kind that comes after finally giving your body what it has been begging for. Food. Water. Warmth. Permission.

You close your eyes.

For once, you don’t fight the quiet. You let yourself sink into the couch, into the blankets, into the rain tapping softly against the windows. The television murmurs in the background, some episode you barely remember starting. Its light flickers gently against the walls, turning your living room blue and gold by turns.

You do not fall asleep right away.

Instead, you sit there in the dim light, listening to your apartment breathe around you. The hum of the fridge. The faint hiss of the heater. The rain. Your own breathing, slower now than it has been all day.

Your phone lights again.

You reach for it lazily.

| Zayne: one more thing

Your mouth curves before you even unlock the screen.

| Y/N: you said goodnight

| Zayne: I changed my mind

| Y/N: very professional

| Zayne: eat breakfast tomorrow | Zayne: actual breakfast | Zayne: not coffee and moral superiority

You laugh so hard it comes out as a tired wheeze.

| Y/N: that was one time

| Zayne: it was this morning

You stare at the screen.

Then you type:

| Y/N: …fair

| Zayne: muffin | Zayne: toast | Zayne: eggs | Zayne: yogurt | Zayne: something | Zayne: I don’t care what | Zayne: I care that it happens

Your chest warms and aches all at once. There is something almost unbearable about being known in this much detail. He knows your tricks. He knows the language you use to dress up neglect until it sounds like discipline. He knows the difference between you being fine and you trying to make everyone else believe you are.

And somehow, he is still here.

Still texting. Still insisting. Still turning care into something practical enough that you can hold it without feeling crushed by it.

| Y/N: okay | Y/N: breakfast tomorrow | Y/N: promise

| Zayne: good | Zayne: now I’m saying goodnight

| Y/N: goodnight for real?

| Zayne: for real | Zayne: unless you provoke me

| Y/N: never

| Zayne: that’s a lie

| Y/N: goodnight, Zayne

| Zayne: goodnight | Zayne: rest well

You smile down at the screen until it dims.

Then you set the phone down again.

The apartment settles around you. You should get up and rinse the bowl. You should turn off the TV. You should go to bed properly, brush your teeth, plug in your phone, do all the little end-of-day rituals that make you feel like a functioning person.

Instead, you tell yourself you’ll just close your eyes for a few minutes.

Just rest them.

Just breathe.

୨୧ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ୨୧୨୧ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ୨୧

You wake up once in the early evening, just long enough to register that the room is dim and your TV is still asking if you’re “still watching.”

You aren’t.

Your body feels heavy in the pleasant, post-meal, post-cry way. Blankets cocoon your legs. Your phone is on the coffee table, screen dark. For one disoriented second, you do not remember where you are in the day. Then the couch under your cheek, the soft blanket around you, and the quiet rain at the window bring you back.

Home.

You are home.

You drift again before you can decide whether to move.

The next time you come up from sleep, it is because someone knocks.

Not loud. Not frantic. Just three steady knocks, spaced perfectly.

You know exactly who that is.

You blink blearily at the clock.

8:12 p.m.

For a moment, you just stare at the numbers, half convinced your tired brain has invented the sound. Then the knock comes again, just as measured as before, and your heart picks up in your chest.

You push the blanket off, feet finding the floor, and shuffle to the door. You don’t even check the peephole. You just unlock, twist, and pull.

Zayne stands in your doorway in dark jeans and a slate-gray hoodie, the kind you’ve only seen him in on rare off-days and late-night grocery runs. His hair is damp at the edges, like he showered at the hospital. His shoulders are still held in that bracketed, careful posture that says the day hasn’t left my bones yet.

His eyes rake over you immediately: bare feet, oversized T-shirt, sleep-creased cheek, the faint mark from your blanket knitted into your forearm.

“You’re awake,” he says.

“Kind of,” you reply, voice rough. “You’re here.”

“Kind of,” he echoes, but there is no humor in it.

He is holding a paper bag in one hand and what looks suspiciously like your favorite electrolyte drink in the other.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

You step back automatically. “Yeah, of course.”

He toes his shoes off without you asking, like he has done it enough times now that it is habit. He sets the drink on your counter, the bag on the table, and then just… stops in the middle of your small living room, as if he is not entirely sure what to do with his hands.

You close the door quietly and lean against it for a second, watching him.

His Evol is not flaring. No visible frost. No sharp, brittle aura crawling along the edges of the room. He is not in crisis.

But he is not relaxed, either.

“Hey,” you say softly. “You okay?”

His eyes flick up to yours.

You are used to reading him in the hospital: triage-poker-face, subtle shifts, micro-expressions. Here, in the dim warm light of your apartment, it is all louder.

He is upset.

Not storming. Not cold. Not cutting.

Just tightly wound.

“I finished my last consult,” he says. “Greyson bullied me into leaving. He said something about ‘pointless wandering around the unit like a ghost whose girlfriend fainted,’ and then took my chart.”

You choke out a tiny laugh. “That sounds like him.”

He does not smile.

“Then I went home,” he continues. “Tried to decompress. Showered. Changed. Made tea.”

He stops.

Your stomach twists.

“And?” you ask gently.

“And it didn’t work,” he says. “I could still see you on the floor.”

The confession lands quietly, but it hits with the weight of something he has been holding down for hours.

You wince. “Zayne…”

He takes a breath like he is controlling his own. “So I came here. Because if I’m going to be haunted, I’d rather at least confirm the patient is alive, hydrated, and under sufficient blanket coverage.”

“You have your priorities,” you murmur.

This time, the corner of his mouth tugs up, but it does not reach his eyes yet.

You push off the door and step closer. “I’m okay.”

He studies you carefully, as if checking your words against his own assessment.

“Headache?”

“Little one,” you admit. “Not bad. Mostly groggy.”

“Dizziness?”

“Only when I stand up too fast. I’ve been horizontal most of the time.”

“Any nausea?”

“No.”

“Have you eaten since you got home?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately. “Cooked. Ate. Even drank the water you ordered from afar.”

He huffs. “Good. Any chest pain, palpitations, shortness of breath?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you doing a full ROS on me right now?”

“I nearly watched you face-plant in my unit,” he says. “You’re lucky I’m not ordering labs and an echo.”

You soften, because under the clinical questions is the part of him that had to watch you go still on the floor and then keep functioning anyway.

“I’m okay,” you repeat. “Really.”

He holds your gaze for a long moment.

Then he exhales, and some of the stiffness drains from his shoulders.

“I know,” he says. “I just… needed to see it.”

You nod.

Silence settles for a beat.

You can feel there is more. Something sitting just behind his sternum, waiting.

You walk past him to the couch and sit, tucking one leg under you and leaving enough space beside you for him.

“Sit,” you say gently. “You’re making the room tilt.”

He obeys, moving like the weight of the day is finally catching up with him. The cushion dips under his weight, and the familiarity of him—clean skin, faint jasmine-tea smell, the quiet solidity of his presence—wraps around your frayed nerves like another blanket.

He does not touch you immediately.

That is how you know he is still spinning.

You turn toward him, one hand resting on the back of the couch. “You can say whatever it is. You look like you’re trying not to.”

He presses his lips together.

“It’s not…” He stops, recalibrates. “I don’t want to lecture you. Or make you feel like a child. Or like you’ve disappointed me. That’s not what this is.”

You swallow. “But?”

He looks at you.

And there it is.

“Today scared me,” he says quietly. “More than I let myself show. More than I’ll ever tell the residents. And the worst part is… it wasn’t a surprise.”

That lands heavy.

You blink. “What do you mean?”

He shifts, turning to face you more fully. One arm rests along the back of the couch, the other on his knee. Even now, even here, he looks like he is choosing every word with care.

“I’ve watched you run on empty before,” he says. “Less so in the last few years. You’ve grown. You’ve healed. You’ve built habits. But these last weeks? You’ve been dimming.”

A little defensive spark flares in your chest.

“I’ve been busy,” you say. “Everyone has. The admission load—”

“Is brutal,” he agrees. “I know. I’ve been there too. But this isn’t just census numbers. It’s the way you’ve been skipping lunch consistently. The way your texts have shifted from ‘I took my walk today’ to ‘forgot again, oops.’ The way you brush me off when I ask if you ate and say ‘don’t worry about it’ like that’s a sufficient answer.”

You look away, throat tight.

It is one thing to know you have been slipping. It is another thing to hear the pattern spoken aloud by someone who loves you enough to remember the shape of every small retreat.

“I didn’t want to be dramatic,” you mumble. “Or needy. Or that partner who can’t handle a busy season.”

“You are not dramatic,” he says. “You are not needy. And you handle more in a day than most people do in a month. That’s not the issue.”

“Then what is?” you ask, irritation laced with shame.

“You know what the issue is,” he says softly. “You tell your patients every day. I’ve heard you. Self-care isn’t optional. It’s not a reward for being productive enough. It’s the base requirement. The groundwork. You of all people know what happens when you ignore it long enough.”

Your chest hurts.

“I know,” you whisper. “I do. I just thought I could handle it. That it would pass. That cutting a few corners for a couple weeks wouldn’t matter. I didn’t want you to worry, or Yvonne, or the interns, or—”

He cuts in gently.

“You fainted in front of my nurses,” he says. “Whatever you were trying to protect me from already happened. All that’s left now is what we do next.”

You sit with that.

It feels fair.

Awful, but fair.

“I’m not angry,” he says after a beat. “If it sounds like I am, it’s because I haven’t quite separated fear from frustration yet.”

Your eyes sting.

“Frustrated with me?” you ask, small.

“Frustrated with the habits that hurt you,” he corrects. “Frustrated with a hospital that will take everything you offer and then ask for more. Frustrated with myself for seeing you fade and not pushing harder before you hit the floor. But mad at you?”

He shakes his head.

“Never that. I’m scared for you. That’s all.”

You look down at your hands, twisting in your lap. “I hate that I did that. Scared you. Made it visible. I’m supposed to be the one who knows better. I preach this in my sleep.”

“Knowing better and doing better are two different skill sets,” he says. “Everyone falls short sometimes. Even the cardiologist who lectures residents on sleep hygiene and then goes three nights on four hours.”

You snort weakly. “Hypocrite.”

“Obviously.”

The corner of your mouth tugs up despite everything.

He watches it like it is a sunrise.

“I’m not here to punish you,” he says quietly. “I’m here because I love you. And loving you means I don’t get to ignore it when you treat your body like it’s an optional accessory instead of the reason you’re here at all.”

The raw tenderness in that nearly undoes you.

You swipe at your eyes with the heel of your hand. “I don’t want to do that. Not anymore. Not like before. I just slid. And once I was in it, I told myself it wasn’t that bad. That I was being dramatic. That other people have it worse. You know the script.”

His face softens in that way it only does when the ghosts of your shared past walk through the room.

“I know the script,” he says. “I also know how it ends if no one interrupts it. We’re not letting it get that far again.”

You nod, a tiny movement.

“Okay,” you whisper. “So… what now?”

He exhales slowly, as if he has been waiting for that question.

“Now,” he says, “we make an actual plan. Not just vague intentions. Real, boring, unromantic logistics that keep you from hitting that wall again.”

You sniff. “The least sexy conversation.”

“Maintenance isn’t sexy,” he says. “It’s just necessary.”

You manage a wobbly smile. “Okay. Hit me.”

“First, non-negotiable lunch. Every shift. I don’t care if it’s twenty minutes and half a sandwich. You leave the unit. You sit down. You eat something with more than ten grams of protein and more than fifty calories.”

You grimace.

“I sound like your cardiology patients,” you mutter.

“You are worse,” he says. “They at least admit they’re skipping meals. You try to outsmart the data.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

You sigh. “Fine. Lunch. Non-negotiable.”

He nods once. “I’ll text you at twelve thirty. Not to nag. To remind. And if you tell me you ‘forgot,’ I will come downstairs and physically escort you to the break room, regardless of witnesses.”

Your eyes widen. “You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would,” he says. “And you know they’d all cheer.”

Unfortunately, you do.

“Okay,” you say. “Point made. I’ll eat.”

“Second, we build rest into your week. Real rest. Not the kind where you ‘just finish a few notes’ for three hours. One afternoon where your laptop stays closed and your badge stays on the hook and you do something that doesn’t involve the words ‘fluid restriction.’”

You chew your lip. “I don’t know if I remember how to do that.”

“Then we learn,” he says simply. “Together. I’m not exempt from this. I’m as bad as you are. Worse, some days.”

“You did seem glued to the unit today,” you say.

His jaw ticks.

“It was easier to stay and hover,” he admits. “In case something else happened. Dropping you on your couch and leaving felt like abandoning a patient against medical advice.”

You blink.

“Zayne,” you say softly. “You didn’t abandon me. I asked you to go back. You had responsibilities. I was safe here. Fed. Horizontal. Surrounded by blankets and threat-texts from the interns. You did the right thing.”

He does not reply immediately.

You see the conflict—doctor instinct versus partner trust—play across his face.

“Logically,” he says at last, “I know that. Emotionally, I’m still catching up.”

You scoot closer on the couch until your knee brushes his. “Hey. You’re allowed to be scared, too. We both are. Doesn’t mean we did something wrong.”

He meets your gaze.

“I’m going to try,” he says. “To take care of myself with the same intensity I use on other people. Especially you. It’s overdue.”

You smile, small and sincere. “A mutual non-self-neglect pact. Very romantic.”

“The height of intimacy,” he agrees, dry.

You nudge his thigh. “What’s third?”

He hesitates.

Then:

“Third, you tell me when you start to slip. Before you pass out in my hallway. If you realize you’ve skipped two meals in a row, or if the thoughts get loud, or if you find yourself thinking ‘I’ll eat later’ too many times in one day… you text me. Or MC. Or Yvonne. Or someone. You don’t have to carry it alone until your body rebels.”

Your throat closes up.

“That feels like a lot,” you whisper. “Asking for help. Admitting it. It feels like failing.”

He shakes his head immediately.

“No. It’s the opposite. It’s intervention. It’s success. It’s you catching the pattern early instead of punishing yourself for being human.”

You stare at him.

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It isn’t,” he replies. “It’s hard. It’s terrifying. I know. But you’re not doing it alone this time. That’s the difference.”

Emotion swells behind your ribs, thick and hot.

You blink fast, but tears still gather.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Look at me.”

You do.

His eyes are softer now, the earlier sharpness melted down into something gentler.

“I’m not angry with you,” he says again, slowly, like he wants every word to land. “I’m not disappointed. I’m not tallying this against you. I’m scared because you scared me. And because I want you here. For a long time. On your feet. Eating more than protein shakes and stubbornness.”

You laugh, watery. “I had actual food.”

“Good. That’s the baseline. We’re aiming higher.”

A tear escapes and tracks down your cheek.

Without thinking, he reaches up and wipes it with his thumb.

“You’re allowed to fall,” he murmurs. “You’re just not required to fall alone anymore.”

Something in you gives.

You lean forward, closing the space between you, and press your forehead to his shoulder, hands fisting in the soft fabric of his hoodie. He wraps his arms around you instantly. Not careful like you might break. Firm, encompassing, like he has been waiting all day to close this loop.

You breathe in.

He smells like clean cotton and tea and the faintest trace of hospital soap that even showers cannot fully erase.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you whisper, voice muffled.

His chest expands under your cheek. “I forgive you. On one condition.”

You pull back enough to see his face, eyes red-rimmed but clear.

“What condition?”

“That you forgive yourself,” he says. “At least a little. And that tomorrow, when you wake up, you eat breakfast like it’s your job. Because it is.”

A wet laugh escapes you.

“I’ll try,” you say. Then you correct yourself, because you can already hear him preparing to object. “No. I will. Breakfast. Lunch. Snacks. The whole pyramid.”

He nods once, satisfied.

“Good. Because I brought reinforcements.”

He reaches down and pulls the paper bag closer, opening it.

Inside are individually wrapped muffins—blueberry, from the bakery near your apartment—and a box of herbal tea.

“Is this bribery?” you ask.

“Positive reinforcement,” he corrects. “Also, I needed to see you eat something that didn’t come out of a hospital container.”

You shake your head, a smile tugging at your lips despite your tiredness. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So are you,” he says. “We match.”

You take one of the muffins, peel the paper back, and take a bite. It is simple, sweet, and real. You chew slowly, consciously, tasting instead of just swallowing. He watches, eyes softening more with each swallow, like every small act of care you give yourself lands in him, too.

When you finish half, you offer him the rest.

He accepts, taking a bite.

“See?” you say. “Mutual maintenance.”

“Mutual maintenance,” he agrees.

You sink back against the couch, tucking yourself into his side this time, your legs curled under you. His arm comes around your shoulders, hand resting warm and solid on your upper arm. You can feel his pulse where your temple rests against his chest.

Steady.

Real.

“I’m going to fall asleep on you,” you warn.

“Good,” he says. “Then I’ll know you’re actually resting instead of scrolling through PubMed.”

“Called out.”

“Accurate,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes. His hand moves in slow, soothing strokes along your arm, and the room settles around you again, but differently this time. Earlier, the quiet had been something you had to survive. Now, with Zayne beside you, it feels like something you are allowed to enter.

“Zayne?” you mumble, already sliding.

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” you murmur. “For worrying. For… not yelling.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “I don’t yell. I seethe quietly.”

“Semantics,” you whisper.

His grip tightens just a little.

“I love you,” he says suddenly, the words low and rough against your hair. “Even when you scare me. Especially then. So do me a favor and keep that heart of yours fed, okay? It’s very important to me.”

Your chest twists, but in a warm way.

“I love you too,” you breathe. “And I’ll try. Really. To treat myself like I’m worth all this.”

“You are,” he says, without hesitation.

Sleep pulls at you, heavy and persistent.

This time, you let it.

Your last conscious thought is that earlier today, your body had to shout to get your attention.

Tonight, you are whispering back.

I hear you.

I’ll do better.

We’ll do better.

And wrapped up in Zayne’s arms, with his heartbeat under your ear and his promise in your bones, you believe it.

Just a little.

And tonight, a little is enough.

୨୧ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ୨୧୨୧ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ୨୧

A/N: omg, i finally got part 2 out. i'm so sorry for making you guys wait so long. i honestly wasn’t in the best spot after failing my third attempt on my exam, and it’s been really hard and discouraging trying to pick myself back up from that.

but i also didn’t want to keep this part away from you guys forever. writing has been one of the few ways i can actually turn my brain off and not think about everything for a little while, so i really hope you guys liked this part. it means a lot that you’re still here and still supporting this little story.

i should be a bit more active soon—maybe posting once every 5 days starting monday, 6/29. thank you again for all your support, patience, and love. 🩵

love, ks 🩵

୨୧ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ୨୧୨୧ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ୨୧

original titration taglist: @animegamerfox, @michexoxo, @lurkersharkie, @mortisimosiy, @thelittlebutton, @nikkittan, @kykulol, @kingraspberry12-blog, @blessdunrest, @applecaviar, @shirufiel, @themoonfeltmyvibes, @zayniacforreal

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine being Caleb's non mc fiance.

Imagine after four whole years with Caleb, not once had he ever made you questin whether he loved you. Maybe that was what made this hurt so much. Because the cruelest part wasn't the possibility that Caleb stopped loving you. No. You knew him too well for that. Even now, even later, even after everything that would happened tonight, you knew Caleb loved you.

Imagine you knew it with terrifying certainty, you knew it in the way he always reached for you first in crowded rooms. In the way he memorized your routine better than you did. In the way exhaustion never stopped him from driving hours just to spend a night beside you. In the way he still kissed your forehead absentmindedly while half asleep.

Imagine Caleb loved you. Which was exactly why your chest hurt so badly these past few days. Because something was wrong and you could feel it. It was not obvious enough for accusations. Not dramatic enough to start fights. It just felt wrong. Tiny things, small pauses in conversations, moment where Caleb looked distracted before immediately covering up. How he checked his phone more often lately, and sometimes went quiet in the middle of your conversations like he was thinking too hard about something.

and Imagine every single time you noticed it, he would pull you closer afterwards, kiss your temple, then ask about your day. He looks at you with so much warmth it made you feel guilty for doubting him at all. Which only made your anxiety worse. Because if Caleb had been cold, distant, cruel... This would have been easier, but he wasn't. He was still loving you exactly the same. Still calling you endearing nicknames in that soft voice that always melted you. Still showing up at your apartment carrying your favorite food after long shifts. Still sleeping with one arm wrapped tightly around your waist like he physically couldn't rest properly otherwise. Still loving you.

so Imagine, why does your chest feel so heavy? You hated yourself for overthinking. Hated the way old conversation started resurfacing in yout mind again. Military wives whispering warning during gatherings years ago. "Distance change people." "Sometimes they stop telling you things first." "Men stationed far away get lonely." You used to brush off those comments confidently because Caleb wasn't like that. Your Caleb wasn't careless with hearts.

Imagine he loved too deeply for that. Still, the anxiety stayed. Quiet and persistent like your instincts were trying to warn you about something your heart didn't want to see. For an entire week, sleep became difficult, finding yourself rereading old text at night like reassurance, listening to his voice messages repeatedly, trying to convince yourself everything was fine. And maybe, maybe if you had just stayed home that evening, maybe things would have been fine, maybe ignorance really woud have been kinder. Because a part of you would spent the rest of the night wishing desperately that you had never gone there at all.

Imagine the way you just wanted to surprise him. That was all. Caleb had been stuck near base almost nonstop lately because of his transfer to the new unit and you missed him terribly. So after work, you bought dinner and drove toward his apartment near the base with the spare key he once pressed into your hand months ago.

"For emergencies." He told you back then and you laughed. "What counts as emegency?" "You missing me." God, you almost broke down just remembering it.

Imagine the drive there felt normal. You even smiled stupidly at red lights thinking about how surprised Caleb would look seeing you unexpectedly. Maybe he would pull you into one of those crushing hugs you secretly loved. Maybe he would complain dramatically about how exhuasted he was until you played with his hair. Maybe the anxiety would finally disappear once you saw him again. You wanted that desperately, wanted assurance. You wanted your Caleb back.

Imagine the hallway outside his apartment was quiet when you arrived. You balanced the food carefully in one arm while unlocking the door. And then your entire world titled sideways. Because there, right there was a woman sitting inside his kitchen. Wearing Caleb's shirt. For one horrible second, your brain genuinely failed to process what you were seeing. She looked comfortable there. Too comfortable sitting casually at his dining table with coffee in hand like she belonged in that apartment. Like she belonged in his space. In your space. The oversized shirt hanging off her shoulder was unmistakably his too. You knew it immediately becasue you bought that shirt for him last winder after he complained about the old one fading.

Imagine the way your stomach dropped so violently it hurt. The woman looked up at the sound of the door opening. Then blinked in surprise seeing you. And somehow, seeing her expression looked more curious than guilty like she genuinely didn't know who you were. That made your throat tightened painfully. No. No no no no. This didn't make sense. Because Caleb loved you. He loved you. You knew he did. So why? That was when you noticed the marks near her neck. Your vision blurrred instantly. Love bites, fresh enough to still look angry against her skin. Your breathing became uneven immediately. The room suddenlt felt too small. Too hot. Too loud despite the silence.

Imagine the way the woman slowly lowered her coffee cup while studying you carefully. "Caleb didn't tell me a friend was visiting." Friend? You open your mouth. Nothing came out. Because your thoughts were crashing too violently against each other. Who is she? Why is she here? Why is she wearing his clothes? Why does she look so comfortable? Why are there marks on her neck? Why... Why? Why?! You wanted Caleb to walk out right now and laugh. Tell you this was ridiculous. Tell you there was explanation. Because there had to be. Then the bathroom door opened.

and Imagine there he was, fresh from the shower, hair damp, towel around his neck, relaxed, domestic, comfortable. The exact imagine of a man at home with someone. Then his eyes landed on you and you watched everything change instantly. Shock, real shock. Then immediate panic, not guilt, not exactly. Panic. You knew Caleb well enough to recognize it immediately. His eyes widened sharply as if his brain was calculating too many things at once. You saw him realize what this looked like and saw the fear hit him in real time.

"Baby-" something inside you snapped. Because innocent people explained immediately. Innocent people didn't look terrified like that. So you turned and ran before he could say another word. "Baby!" You ignore him. Your chest hurt so badly it felt difficult to breathe. The hallway blurred around you as tears burned instantly behind your eyes. You heard the apartment door slam open violently behind you. Then footsteps, fast, panic filled. "Baby wait!" Your thoughts spiraled uncontrollably. All those insecurities you thought you outgrew suddenly came flooding back at once.

Imagine he's handsome, successful, and surrounded by people constantly. Maybe eventually someone better caught his attention. Maybe distance really did change things. Maybe those women years ago were right. But no... Because even now, even while running away crying like your heart was being ripped open. You still couldn't fully believe Caleb cheated on you. That was the worst part. You didn't think he stopped loving you. You thought he was hidding something. Something big enough to hurt you anyway. And somehow that pain felt deeper. Because if Caleb cheated, at least the betrayal would make sense. But this?

Imagine this felt like watching the person you trusted most slowly drown while refusing to let you help him. Then a hand suddenly grab your wrist. You spun instantly and slapped him hard on the face. The sound cracked violently through the parking lot. Your nails scratching his cheek deeply enough to leave blood behind. Your own palm burned afterwards. And Caleb barely reacted. He didn't even defend himself, he just held your wrist carefully, breathing hard like he had run after you without thinking. Purple eyes frantic, devastated.

"Listen to me." He said immediately, voice rough. "That's not what it looked like." Your laugh came our broken. "Then what is it?" Silence. Not long, but long enough to destroy you. Because you watched Caleb struggle, actually struggle. Like the truth physically sat there inside him clawing to come out. "What is it, Caleb?" His jaw tightened painfully. "Tell me." Nothing. Tears finally spilled fully down your face. "Tell me!" Your voice cracked violently. "Because right now it looks like you've been lying to my face for weeks while hiding another woman in your apartment!"

"It's not like that." "Then explain it!" His expression twisted. God, he looked horrible. Not defensive, not angry. He was horrified. Like every second of this conversation was killing him too. "I can't." Your entire body went still. Not I won't but I can't. And somehow, that hurt worse. Because you believe him. You believe he physically could not tell you. And that realization shattered something inside your chest completely. You stared at him through tears. "Do you understant how much that hurts?" Caleb's face crumpled slightly. "Bab-" "You're hurting me." Your voice came out smaller now. Broken. "And you know you're hurting me."

Imagine that made his grip on your wrist loosened slightly. Like the words physically wounded him. You cna see it all over his face. That was the cruelest part. You knew Caleb loved you, even now. Even standing here bleeding from the cheek after you slapped him. Even now while watching your heart break apart in front of him. Because of him. He still loved you. You could see it so clearly. Which only made this unbearable. Because if he loved you this much. Then whatever secret he was protecting had to matter more than your relationship right now. And that thought destroyed you.

"Just tell me the truth." You whispered desperately. "Please." Caleb looked wrecked. Actually wrecked. Like he wanted to say it so badly. But instead he just whispered again. "I can't."

Imagine the way something inside you gave up. Not angrily, not dramatically. Just... Collapsed. "I see." You tried pulling your wrist away but he still held on weakly, desperately. Like if he let go now, he would loose you forever. And maybe he would. Your hans trembled violently as you reached for your engagement ring. The second Caleb realized what you're doing, real fear crossed his face. "No." You pulled the ring off slowly. The skin beneath suddenly felt enbearably empty. "No- baby, please-" "What am I supposed to do?!" You asked shakily. "Stand there pretending I didn't see another woman wearing your clothes?" His breathing became uneven.

"This isn't what you think." "Then what is it?" Silence again. And God, that silence hurt more than screaming would have. Because you knew Caleb was choosing this silence for a reason. Which meant he believed he had no choice. And maybe that was what truly broke your heart. Not betrayal. Not cheating. But that there was a wall between you neither of you knew how to cross. You shoved the ring weakly against his chest.

"Get out of my way." He looked destroyed, but eventually stepped aside. You got into your carnumbly. Your shared car. Everything suddenlt felt shared, painfully. Outside, you watched Caleb paced near the vehicle helplessly, back and forth. Hands shaking slightly. The cut on his cheeks still bleeding. He looked like he wanted to drag you into his arms and never let go. But he didn't, maybe because he no longer had the right.

Imagine you looked at him through blurry vision and somehow, even now, you still loved him so much it physically hurt. Which made everything even worse. Because a part of you desperately wanted to rewind tonight entirely. Wanted to unknown what you saw. Wanted to go back to his morning before anxiety pushed you here. Because if you never visited, maybe you and Caleb would still be happy right now. Maybe tonight would have ended with him holding you in bed enstead of watching you leave him behind. Maybe ignorance would have sabved you both. That thought haunted you the entire drive home.

and Imagine, later that night, as you curled motionless in your shared bed, staring blankly into the darkness while his scent still clung to the pillows, you phone buzzed.

Apple: I love you.

Apple: Please trust me.

Imagine the way you chest caved inward. Because the thing is you did trust him. Trusted that he loved you. Trusted that whatever happened tonight wasn't a simple betrayal. Trusted him enough to know he was suffering too. And somehow that made this infinitely more painful. Because you knew love wasn't enough to fix this. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. Tears blurred your vision completely. Hands shaking violently, you blocked his number. Then buried your face into the pillow and cried until breathing hurt.

: advance happy birth day my loveeee! This is one of my bday gift for you :)

: hearing Hawks talk give me flashback of both my exes and lovers lmao all i can hear is, and i need you now tonight edit on tiktok. Ps. Sorry for the typos :( i think i cant spell XD

[mylifedoesntexist]

love to feel my heart breaking at 9 AM on a Wednesday 💔

[byallmeans1]

[marry1293]

Chapter 17: While Falling

Masterlist

AU: Ace x f!r

Synopsis: You are a busy editor currently working on publishing the next novel of the novice author Deuce. At the presentation of his book, you catch the eye of his best friend Ace, a songwriter. Can something happen between a womaniser who believes he doesn’t deserve love, and a self-absorbed woman with trust issues?

So sorry! I know I'm about a week late with this post. I always try to upload a chapter a month, but I've had a ton of work.

Characters: Ace, Robin, Nami, Franky, Usopp, Koby, Helmeppo, and others.

Warnings: occasional sex mentioned, alcohol, drama, cursing, anger

Listen to: While Falling by MAVICA

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Life had fallen into a rhythm you’d never thought possible. It was eerily comfortable. You had your usual workload, the constant hum of deadlines, the stress of being an editor, and on top of that, a boyfriend. Somehow, impossibly, it felt balanced. Yes, you and Ace still fought from time to time; neither of you had the kind of temper that lent itself to peace. Where Ace was short-fused, all heat and eruption, you were icy and cutting, anger distilled into a blade. But lately you’d started to learn each other’s buttons, to sidestep them before they went off. Or maybe you were just momentarily happy —royalties had been good this year, and happiness softened your sharp edges.

You were making dinner when Ace arrived, dragging himself through the doorway like the day had wrung him dry.

“Hey, you,” you said, sautéing the frozen fajitas in the pan, steam curling up into the light.

He only growled in reply, slipping behind you to wrap his arms around your waist, chin settling heavily on the crown of your head.

“Tough session again?” you asked, already knowing the answer. You’d noticed lately that when exhaustion pressed too hard on him, he always came here instead of going back to his own place.

“Yeah…” His voice was muffled in your hair. “We’ve got all the songs in different stages, but Apoo and I can’t seem to agree on the album’s structure.”

You turned the heat down, stirring absently. “What do you have in mind?”

Ace sighed, shoulders rising and falling against your back. “I was sort of thinking of a timeline. Apoo wants a love story: beginning, middle, end.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder. “Aren’t they pretty much the same thing? A timeline and a story structure?”

“Sort of… but the problem is, some of the songs I wrote at the same time. Others I started and didn’t finish until months later, after, everything had already changed. So the timeline is…”

“Not really a timeline,” you finished for him with a chuckle, plating the food.

“Exactly.” He nodded, helping you carry things to the table.

You sat down and picked at your plate absentmindedly, thoughts circling. Then, leaning on your elbow, you asked, “So, if Apoo wants structure… which tracks are giving you the hardest time?”

Ace huffed out a humorless laugh. “All of them.”

You tilted your head, waiting.

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes on the table. “But if I had to pick… maybe Unknown.”

You prompted him with a look.

“It’s…” His breath caught before spilling out, rough and reluctant. “It’s a song I wrote after one of our fights.” 

You let out a soft ‘oh’ not sure what to say.

He kept his gaze fixed anywhere but on you. “I couldn’t figure out if it belonged at the start, or the end, or if I should even put it on the damn album.”

You leaned forward, narrowing your eyes slightly. “Can I hear it?”

For a heartbeat, he hesitated, the flicker of doubt shadowing his expression. Then, without a word, he reached for his phone and played the song.

The recording was rough, just his voice and a guitar, but the rawness cut deeper for it. You listened in silence as the melody unfolded, lyrics catching like barbed wire, heavy with hurt, loneliness, the frozen distance that followed anger. You didn’t need him to tell you which fight it was. 

When the last note faded, silence fell thick around you both. You tapped your fingers against the wood of the table, then let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Huh.” The smirk tugging at your lips was faint, touched with sadness. “Yeah. That was an ugly fight.”

His eyes flicked up, the uncomfortable truth of how hurtful your relationship could be at times there, but you met them evenly. Then you shrugged, lightening the weight pressing down. “Look. If you want my opinion, don’t overthink beginnings and endings. Just put the songs in the order in which things happened. Think about what came before, what came after. That’s your timeline. If you loved me one day, and the next one hated me… that’s just how things happened.”

Ace leaned back, a lighter chuckle escaping his chest. He thought for a moment, turning your words over, a faint grin pulling at his mouth. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I think I can work with that.”

“Of course you can. I’m brilliant,” you teased, grinning.

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re worse than Apoo.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you shot back, laughing with him.

…

The next day, Ace walked into the studio with a folded sheet of paper clutched in his hand. He’d thought about what you said all night —about songs being moments, strung one after another like beads on a cord. And the more he turned it over, the more it settled into place. He’d taken the mess of their relationship, the fights and reconciliations and fragile silences, and somehow carved a structure out of it.

“Here,” he said, tossing the paper onto the mixing console in front of Apoo. “This is the album.”

Apoo leaned back in his chair as he unfolded the paper. His eyes darted down the page, brows quirking. “Mmm… Isn’t it a bit chaotic?”

Ace grinned, teeth flashing. “Yeah. But love is supposed to be messy… so you wanted a love story, you’ve got yourself a messy love story.”

Apoo barked out a laugh that echoed against the soundproofing. “Man, you’re insane.” He slapped the paper back down. “Fine, I’ll take it. Now…” His tone shifted, eyes narrowing. “The singles?”

Ace winced like he’d been caught stealing.

“You haven’t chosen the singles?” Apoo’s glare could have melted plastic. “Ace, I swear to god… if you don’t give me an answer right now, I’ll pick them myself!”

Ace leaned back in his chair, hands up in surrender, but the grin never left his face. “Alright, alright, don’t get your headphones in a twist.” He reached over, dragging the paper back toward him. “Singles, huh?”

If looks could kill, Apoo would have been serving a life sentence. He glared across the console like Ace had just confessed to burning down the studio.

But Ace ignored it. He’d been turning the decision over in his head for weeks. Singles were the most public songs, the ones people would hold up as the heart of the album. The presentation letter. Which one could he confidently send into the world and say: Here. Listen to how fucked up my feelings are about a girl.

“You’ll want the singles with a video?” Ace asked, leaning back in his chair like he was testing waters he already knew were ice cold.

“Yes,” Apoo shot back immediately. “And that is not up for discussion. You’ll release at least two videos. I won’t force you to push more, but that’s the bare minimum I can work with.”

Ace groaned, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Great. Nothing says fun like performing my emotional breakdown on camera.”

“Exactly.” Apoo smirked, tapping a pen against the tracklist. “Misery sells, my guy. Lucky for you, you’re a goldmine of material.”

Ace dragged a hand down his face, muttering, “I should’ve burned those demos when I had the chance.”

“Too late now,” Apoo said. “So, tell me. Which two are we selling your soul with?”

Ace’s shoulders sagged, resignation falling over him like a weight. “Fine. I guess From Eden and Would That I would be the two songs that best describe the album.”

Apoo’s brows shot up. “Then we have to fucking finish recording those two. No more stalling, no more sessions where it’s just you and a guitar. I need full instrumentation, Ace. Drums, strings, the works.”

Ace grimaced. Up until now, he’d kept it stripped down, mainly vocals and guitar. Clean takes. The skeleton of an album. But Apoo was right. If these two songs were going to carry the whole thing, they had to hear them fleshed out, every instrument layered in, the chaos and beauty working together.

And that meant no more hiding behind rough drafts.

“So, should I pick the musicians, or do you want to choose?” Apoo asked, leaning back in his chair.

Ace hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek. It would be easier if he knew the people. No surprises, no strangers fumbling around in the dark with his songs. “Izo and Haruta are good,” he said finally.

“Alright. Strings and keys covered.” Apoo jotted it down with a snap of his pen. “What about backing vocals?”

Ace drummed his fingers on the table. “Is Banshee available?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Apoo tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “That leaves a drummer.”

Ace leaned back, sighing. He knew a couple of drummers who were solid, but the one he really wanted —the one who could give the songs the right kind of heartbeat— was behind a bar these days instead of a kit. His mouth curved into a wry grin at the thought.

“If I could drag that bastard back, it’d be perfect,” he muttered. “Wouldn’t mind Marco’s ear around, even if he’s retired from gigs.”

Apoo raised a brow, catching the shift in his tone. “You’re calling in the old guard?”

“Maybe.” Ace shrugged, mouth twitching. “Serves him well for putting me in this spot in the first place.”

Apoo grinned, sharp as a blade. “And how exactly are you going to convince him to come back?”

Ace leaned back, and scrubbed a hand through his hair. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Marco wasn’t the type you could bribe, and he sure as hell wouldn’t budge for flattery. The man had walked away from gigs for a reason, choosing the quiet rhythm of pouring drinks over the noise of the industry.

But Marco was also the reason Ace was in this mess at all. He was the one who’d shoved him onto the stage at The Phoenix, telling him to sing his damn heart out if he wanted you back. He was the one who’d filmed it and slipped it to Apoo. Without Marco, there wouldn’t be an album.

Ace’s mouth twisted into a wry grin. “Don’t know yet. But he owes me.”

Apoo snorted. “From where I stand, you owe him.”

“Semantics,” Ace shot back, standing and grabbing his jacket. “Anyway, it’s Marco. If anyone can convince him, it’s me. I’ll figure it out.”

Apoo rolled his eyes, “Be my guest. Just make sure to have his ass sitting on the drums by Wednesday.”

“Deal,” Ace said, standing up and going to the cabin ready to start recording.

……

After what felt like the longest day at the office, doing an insane amount of interviews for the new openings, you made it home. You kicked off your boots by the door, starving and dying to drop dead on your couch. The buzz of your phone lit up. Grandpa.

You exhaled, bracing, before picking up. “Hey, Clover.”

“Finally,” his voice rumbled, equal parts gruff and warm. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to go chase you to see if you are alive.”

You smiled despite yourself, dropping into the couch. “I’m alive, grandpa.”

“I see,” he said, then fell quiet for a beat. “How are you, little one?”

The old nickname tugged at something in your chest. “Busy,” you said automatically. “The publishing house is doing well. Big launch last month…”

You curled, phone pressed to your ear, words spilling before you even thought them through. Launches, contracts, manuscripts piling in for next year. He listened the way he always did, with no interruptions, just the soft rasp of his breath on the line, steady as a tide.

When you finally trailed off, you could hear a soft laugh through the phone.

“Business sounds good,” Clover said, warmth cutting through the gravel of his voice. “I’m proud of you, little one.”

You smiled faintly into the dark. “Thanks, grandpa.”

There was a pause a bit too long.

“Grandpa?” you said hesitantly.

“Yes?” he answered, patient as ever, as though waiting for you to finally gather the courage to admit your latest misstep.

You gripped the phone tighter. “I’m… seeing someone.”

The words hung there, fragile and strange, like you’d plucked them from a place you didn’t dare go often.

On the other end, you heard him shift, the creak of his old chair, and then a quiet chuckle. “Well. About time.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

“What were you expecting? For me to forbid it?” His chuckle was rough. “You’re grown. You can be with whomever you like. I’m just glad you’re letting yourself.”

Relief threatened to soften you, but then came the inevitable: “So, tell me. Who is he?”

You hesitated, chewing your lip. “His name’s Ace. He’s a musician. Works mostly as a producer.”

Clover grunted, noncommittal. “A good musician or a I-need-you-to-pay-my-bills musician?”

“Don’t start, Grandpa.”

“I’m not starting,” he said evenly. “I’m asking. Does he take care of you? Does he respect what you’ve built? Because you’ve worked too hard for anyone to drag you back down.”

The words stung more than you wanted them to. “I wouldn’t be with him if he didn’t.”

“I know,” Clover said, softer this time. “I trust your judgment.”

Your throat tightened. “This isn’t like last time.”

“Good.” Another pause. “Then bring him by. Let me see for myself.”

“It’s… it’s still early, Grandpa.”

“Early or not, if he matters, I want to meet him. And if he doesn’t… well, then I’d rather you didn’t waste your time.”

You closed your eyes, head dropping against the couch. The weight of his steady voice pressed against all the places you tried to keep closed. “Soon, I’ll bring him soon,” you said finally.

“Better be.” His voice warmed again, gentler. “And don’t forget, little one: I only care if he treats you right. That’s what matters.”

“I know,” you said quietly.

From the corner of your eye, you caught movement in the doorway. The soft scuff of Ace’s boots against the floor.

“I have to hang up, Clover. See you soon.”

“Don’t make me wait till Christmas to meet him,” he warned. “Love you, little one.”

“Love you too.”

You ended the call, phone heavy in your hand.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Ace said, dropping onto the couch beside you and brushing a quick kiss across your forehead. “Was that your grandfather?” he asked casually.

“Hey, fireboy… yeah, it was Clover.” You tried to keep your voice even, tamping down the nervous pitch creeping into it.

Ace didn’t push at first, but you could feel his gaze on you, steady and too perceptive, while you picked at your nails like they held the answers. The silence stretched thin.

“And… who are you bringing soon?” he dropped finally, voice low.

Your stomach flipped. You kept your eyes on your hands. “He was just asking how everything was going.”

Before he could say anything else, you shifted, swinging a leg over to straddle his lap, kissing him with a sudden intensity that felt almost reckless. A desperate move, and you knew it. His hands found your hips instinctively, grounding you, kissing you back.

You broke the kiss, hoping that it had been enough distraction and softly asked, “How was your day? Is Apoo happy with the singles?”

Ace looked at you for a moment, wondering if he should bring back your grandfather to the table. At the end, he sighed. He didn’t understand why you avoided the topic, but he could wait till you were ready, because god knows that if you were nervous about that meeting, he was just as nervous. So, he let it go, for now. 

“Yeah, I think he is,” he finally answered. 

“And you?” you  asked, softly. 

He chuckled, “Yeah I think I’m too.”

…..

Ace had had the time to talk to Marco yesterday after he finished recording. He had decided to go to your place instead. So, he was here today, because talking to Marco was way easier than talking about your grandfather.  The Phoenix was calm, with the soft murmur of a bar that just opened and was handing its first beer. Marco stood behind the bar, polishing glasses like he didn’t have anything better to do.

Ace slipped in, falling into familiar steps. Marco clocked him instantly, mouth tugging as he reached for a glass.

“You’re early,” Marco said, pouring a beer without asking. “Studio kicked you out?”

“Wrapped quick,” Ace muttered, dropping onto a stool. He took the glass, grateful for the first swallow. “Thought I’d get a drink.”

Marco gave him a look that said I know better, and leaned on the bar. “So, you need a drink because of your girlfriend? You’ve actually been doing well lately.”

Ace barked a laugh, shaking his head. “No, not that. And screw you.”

Marco’s grin widened. “Ah. Then it’s the album.”

“Yeah,” Ace admitted, “Apoo wants a drummer. And I…” He hesitated, swirling the beer in his glass. “I want it to be you.”

Marco’s brows lifted in surprise. “Me?”

“You,” Ace repeated firmly. “C’mon, don’t give me that look. You’ve heard half the songs already. Hell, you’re the one who shoved me into this in the first place. If anyone knows how they’re supposed to sound, it’s you.”

Marco chuckled, though his eyes searched Ace’s face. “I’m out of practice.”

“You could never be out of practice,” Ace shot back, waving him off.

Marco laughed. “I don’t have time for those egos.”

“It’s only my ego you’ll be dealing with,” Ace countered, taking another sip. “And you’ve been handling that for years without batting an eye. You’ll be the drummer for the recording, that’s it.” His voice dipped, almost grudging. “And I want you in the room for it.”

For a moment, Marco didn’t say anything. Then he poured himself a glass, clinked it against Ace’s, and finally said, “You don’t make anything easy, do you?”

Ace smirked. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Marco shook his head, laughing under his breath. “Alright. I’ll think about it. But if I come back, you’d better not waste my time with half-assed takes.”

Ace’s grin widened, a spark lighting behind it. “Deal.” He downed the rest of his beer in one go. “See you tomorrow at Apoo’s,” he said, already scurrying out as quickly as he’d come in.

“Hey! I haven’t said yes! And pay your damn beer, asshole!” Marco called after him.

Ace turned back long enough to flash the brightest, most childish smile. And just like that, the knot in his chest eased.

……

You left the office early, six on the dot, and made your way to Robin’s place. Olvia was visiting and had pretty much demanded you to show your face. The smell of lasagna hit you the second you stepped in, warm and comforting, voices already carrying from the kitchen.

“Hey! I brought wine!” you called, holding up the bottles. Robin took them with a smile, and you made a beeline for Olvia, wrapping her in a hug.

“Hello, sweetie. It’s good to see you!” she said, hugging you back before sinking into the stool at the kitchen bar. “How are you?”

“Good. Lots of work, lots of projects. I’m planning on taking more books next year,” you said, slipping off your coat. Then, catching Robin’s eye, you pressed a finger to your lips in mock secrecy.

“Won’t say a word,” Robin answered with her calm smile, already pulling down wine glasses. “Are you going to hire more people?”

“Yes.” You rolled your eyes dramatically, setting cutlery on the table as Robin uncorked a bottle. “I didn’t feel like selling my baby to those vultures at Whole Cake! I’d rather die of exhaustion before letting them have my work.”

Robin filled each glass, passing one to you before taking her own.

“They offered to buy you?” Olvia asked, eyebrows lifting.

“Yeah…”

“And you said no out of pride?” She gave you the look of a mother who’d already sat through a dozen of your rash decisions.

You shook your head quickly. “No. It wasn’t pride. It was to protect my project. Not everything is about money. I’ve been doing good so far.”

Olvia rolled her eyes, taking her sip. “Guess you’re right, it’s your baby. If you’re happy with your decision, it’s a good one.”

“I am. It’s not the easy path where I can ignore salaries and royalties and just float along… but I get to work how and with who I want. And I’m not burnt out yet, so I’ll take that as a win.”

Robin slid the lasagna dish onto the table, steam rising. You followed with plates, while Olvia eyed you knowingly.

“You know your grandfather is worried about you. You haven’t visited him in months. All you do is work. Unless…” she paused, eyes twinkling, “…there’s someone else eating up your time?”

You glanced at Robin, but she busied herself checking the oven mitts, not meeting your eye.

“Yeah… I’ve been seeing someone.”

Robin gave you a sharp look over her shoulder. You sighed, throwing your hands up. “Fine. I’m with someone. His name’s Ace. But I bet Robin already filled you in on that gossip.”

Olvia chuckled. “A little bit. But I want to hear it from you.”

You gave her a small, almost shy smile, suddenly feeling fifteen again, caught with your first boyfriend. “Well, we’ve been together for a couple of months now,” you started.

So you told her a clean version. How you’d met through a mutual friend, what he did for a living, the kind of portrait you’d want a parent to hear. Carefully omitting the part about it starting six months ago with casual sex and poor decisions.

By the time you finished, Olvia turned toward Robin. “Is all of this true, or is she sugarcoating it?”

Robin let out a soft laugh, setting down her fork. “It’s mostly true. He’s good for her.”

Olvia smiled, eyes returning to you. “Oh. So this is serious. When am I going to meet him? When are you bringing him home so your grandfather can meet him?”

You inhaled sharply through your teeth, the wine catching in your throat. “Soon. I promise,” you said, though you had no real idea what soon meant. Ace had already dragged you into his circle — family barbecues, siblings, the whole lot — and yes, you’d been nervous, but it had been easier for him. He had an advantage. You already knew Luffy, had crossed paths with Sabo before, and their family was the type to hold loud Sunday barbecues that doubled as excuses for new faces. For him, there had been a place to slot you in. For you… 

You only had your grandfather and Olvia, and that was a different kind of weight. The last man you’d been with hadn’t needed an introduction —everyone knew him already. You avoided going back home not because you didn’t love your grandfather, but because going back meant questions you had no answers for. Zoro had been a jerk, yes, and he’d earned himself a quiet ban from both Olvia’s and your grandfather’s house, but that didn’t erase the fact that once upon a time you’d been steady, living with someone, wearing a ring, building something that had looked like a future.

And now? Now you were the woman who buried herself in manuscripts until her eyes burned, who chose deadlines over sleep, who soothed stress by fucking strangers. At least, until Ace. So, no. You weren’t anywhere near ready to sit across from your grandfather and let him ask the inevitable — Are you living together? What are your intentions with my granddaughter? Do you see a future together? You loved your grandfather but you also knew that he was going to put both of you through hell just to make sure you’d never go through what you did last time. He wanted to see you happily in love. 

Dinner carried on easily after that, drifting from publishing gossip to Robin’s latest project, Olvia always circling back to you, asking, prodding, making sure you were eating well, sleeping enough, not burying yourself entirely in work. She laughed until she had tears in her eyes when Robin teased you about your hungover airport fiasco, and she gave you a knowing, gentle smile when it slipped out how Ace had taken care of you that morning.

By the time the lasagna was gone and the wine bottle stood empty, it was close to ten. Your phone buzzed on the counter. 

Ace: Outside.

You slipped your jacket on. “My ride’s here,” you said, trying to sound casual.

Olvia leaned over, giving you the look only she could. “Don’t forget what I said. Go visit, or else I swear I’ll bring Clover to the city.”

“Alright, alright.” You laughed, though your stomach tightened at the thought. “I promise.”

She rose to hug you, firm and warm. “Don’t be a stranger, please.”

You squeezed her back and then waved, stepping out and closing the door. Once out of the building you still felt the weight of eyes on your back. Glancing up, you caught Robin and Olvia at the window, their faces half-shadowed by the glass.

Your jaw tightened. You tugged your jacket closer even though the night wasn’t that cold, quickening your steps toward the curb where Ace waited on his bike.

He clocked it instantly —the way your stride had gone just a little too brisk, your shoulders a touch too square. His gaze followed yours up to the window, then back to you, and he couldn’t help but wonder where all that unease was coming from. Your family… or him.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, softly.

“Hey, let’s go.” you said quickly. 

The engine roared to life, swallowing the silence you didn’t dare answer.

…..

It was game night at Sabo's place. Once in a while, the brothers liked to spend Friday nights goofing around and competing at racing games. Although this time, Koala had insisted that you should join, particularly because she was starting to love the idea of having another girl in the party. It was your turn at the console, racing against Koala and Luffy. The rules were simple: the winner got to keep the control, the losers had to switch with the other two. Ace and Sabo were at the kitchen bar, having a beer while waiting their turn. 

"Not gonna lie, she's better than I expected," said Sabo, looking at you toeing Luffy. 

On screen, Koala’s car spun out, Luffy cackling as he cut her off and smashed into a wall himself.

“Cheater!” Koala shrieked, while you zoomed past both, narrowly clinching the lap.

Sabo chuckled into his glass. “Seriously. She’s holding her own.”

Ace’s grin turned smug. “For a bookworm, she’s not bad at video games.”

“You say that like you didn’t look half-in love watching her win,” Sabo teased.

Ace shot him a side-eye, but didn’t bother denying it. He swirled his drink, shoulders loosening just a little.

For a moment, they just watched the chaos on the couch —you leaning forward, fierce concentration in your eyes, Luffy’s wild laughter rattling the walls, Koala yelling something about sabotage.

Then Sabo tipped his head, voice lower. “So. She met us. Met Dadan, Koala. She’s basically family dinners already. What about her side?”

Ace let out a slow breath, not looking at him. “That’s… complicated.”

Sabo raised a brow. “Complicated, or you’re letting it get in your head?”

Ace finally glanced over, jaw tight. “I don’t know. She hasn’t said anything  about it. She keeps dodging her family,” his voice dropped, “For all I know, they might not even know about me.”

Sabo raised his eyebrows in surprise, “You’re kidding, right?”

Ace sighed, “I think they know, but I have no idea what she’d told her grandfather.”

“And do you want to meet him?”

“Of course!” Ace said, glaring at his brother. 

“Just checking you hadn’t spent the last two months avoiding the issue. I can’t remember the last time you went to meet someone's parents,” Sabo teased. 

Ace let out a nervous laugh. “Me neither. I think it was at that wedding Reiju dragged me to.”

Sabo let out a soft whistle. “That was like, what? four years ago? You are such a whore, bro.”

“Shut up,” Ace said, punching his brother on the arm. 

“So…?” Sabo insisted. 

Ace sighed, “I don’t know. She’s nervous, but I don’t know if it’s because of me… or her family.”

From the couch, Luffy whooped in victory as his car crossed the finish line. 

“Damn it! So close!” you said.

Koala sighed, “Guys your turn.”

Sabo clapped Ace on the shoulder. “Talk to her, brother. Don’t just stew on it.”

Ace groaned, grabbing the controller Koala shoved at him. “Stewing’s easier,” he muttered, flopping onto the couch beside Luffy.

The night rolled on, laughter and arguments spilling over each race. At some point, you disappeared down the hall with Koala, only to return grinning and smug with a bottle of wine she’d apparently “forgotten” in the cupboard. The chaos resumed, controllers swapping hands, Luffy yelling at the screen.

Much later, you ducked into the bathroom, leaving Ace to refill drinks in the kitchen. Koala followed with the empties, setting them in the sink before leaning on the counter.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she said, glancing at him as she rinsed her hands.

Ace shrugged, twisting the cap off a bottle. “Just tired.”

Koala gave him a knowing look. Then she smiled, quick and easy. “Well, it’s probably because you brood too much. You’ll lose your edge in the next round.”

Before he could answer, you came back down the hall, laughing at something Luffy yelled from the living room. Koala winked and slipped past you toward the couch, leaving Ace leaning against the counter with the sting of her words and his own thoughts crowding louder than the noise of the game.

…

You arrived home late, both of you still carrying the buzz of laughter from the night. You’d had a blast —hours of racing games, playful bickering, easy camaraderie. It was easy to fit in among the brothers.

“You had fun tonight, gorgeous?” Ace asked as you kicked off your shoes, his eyes flicking to the grin still tugging at your mouth.

“A blast. Not only did I crush you in racings, but Koala had so much gossip about you,” you teased.

Ace pulled a face, mock-horrified. “Oh no.”

You laughed, leaned in to press a quick kiss to his lips, and padded off toward the bedroom. He followed at his own pace, stripping off his jacket while you babbled about how you needed a rematch against Luffy, how you were convinced you only needed a bit of practice to regain your old skills.

But somewhere between brushing your teeth and pulling on an old shirt, you realized Ace hadn’t said much at all. He’d smiled, he’d nodded, but the usual warmth in his voice was missing.

You frowned, glancing at him. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched slightly, running a hand through his hair like he was lost in thought.

“Ace?” you asked lightly, trying to draw him out. “You’re quieter than usual. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

He sighed, hesitating for a second, Sabo’s voice echoing in the back of his mind. “Nothing.” He didn’t want to push.

You stiffened, too familiar with that nothing. “Is this the kind of nothing that’s going to cost me a couple weeks of brooding, only to explode in my face later?”

His shoulders slumped. Great. No point avoiding this. He took a deep breath. “Fine. It’s just… Why do you keep skirting around the topic of your grandfather?”

Your lips pressed together. Damn it. Of course it was that. “I’m not…”

“Yes, you kind of are.” 

You sighed. “No. I mean, you know he is the only family I have, apart from Robin and Olvia. He lives all the way in a small town near Ohara. I don’t know, there’s not much to talk about.”

He let out a heavy sigh. “See?” His voice sharpened, an edge scraping through. “You’re doing it right now.”

You fidgeted with your nails, that nervous tick you hated, before snapping back, “Fine. What about my grandfather?”

“I don’t know,” Ace shot back, frustration bleeding through. “Do you want me to meet him? Does he even know you’re with me?”

You turned, sharpness already cutting into your words. “Of course he knows about you. Do you seriously think I was hiding you?”

His jaw ticked, eyes burning into yours. “Honestly?” A humorless laugh slipped out. “I don’t know. You don’t exactly keep me in the loop here.”

The words slammed into you harder than you expected. Your chest tightened, defensiveness rising like a shield. “You think that little of me?”

Ace stood up from the edge of the bed, frustration sparking hot. “What else am I supposed to think, when every time I even hint at it, you shut down? You act like it doesn’t matter.” His voice cracked, louder now. “But it does matter, to me.”

You bit your lip. God. It was the girlfriend thing all over again—something Ace wanted that wasn’t easy for you to give. And once again, fear crept in like a tide you couldn’t hold back. Because your relationship with your past was complicated to explain. It was a part of you that not many people knew of and that you didn’t like to show off.

Your voice wavered, softer but still bristling. “I’m not hiding you. It’s just… I don’t know if you’re ready. I’m sure as hell not.”

The words hit sharper than you meant them to. For a second, the room went still.

Ace blinked, the fire in him flaring again at the edge of your doubt. “Not ready?” he echoed, incredulous. “I’m the one asking to meet your family. I’m the one trying to move forward. How much more ready do you need me to be?”

You winced, realizing too late how your words had cut. “That’s not what I meant… It’s complicated.”

“Try me,” Ace shot back, voice low, unwavering.

You looked at him, a storm in your eyes —anger, fear, hope, all flaring at once.

“Fine.” The word came sharp, almost a dare. “You want to meet my grandfather? You’ll meet him under one condition.”

His brow furrowed, waiting.

“Whatever you hear there, whatever your wild mind starts to think,” you said, voice tightening, “you fucking tell me the second it crosses it. You don’t brood over it. You don’t bottle it up and let it rot until we’re both bleeding from it. You say it. Out loud.”

For a beat, Ace just stared at you, chest rising and falling, caught between confusion and something like relief. Then, slowly, a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth — crooked, stubborn.

“Deal,” he said, and this time there was no heat in his voice. Just certainty.

[mylifedoesntexist]

When The Body Whispers (Pt. 1)

Titration Related One-Shot

Dr. Zayne Li x Dietitian!Non-MC Reader

Summary: During a brutal CCU admission surge, Y/N pushes through missed meals and exhaustion until her body gives out in the hallway, where Zayne catches her before she hits the floor. Surrounded by worried coworkers, she is forced to confront the fact that self-care is not something she has to earn, and the chapter ends with her choosing rest, food, and the first small step toward listening to herself sooner.

***please be aware of any medical inaccuracies***

Word Count: ~4.5k

zayne masterlist | chapter one: orbit

WHEN THE BODY WHISPERS (PART ONE)

You don’t notice the exact day it starts to go wrong. Not at first.

It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t some cinematic unraveling, some sharp and obvious moment where you stand in front of a meal and decide, with full awareness, no. You’ve lived too much life to mistake danger for control that easily anymore. You’ve done too much work, had too many hard conversations in quiet rooms, spent too many hours learning the difference between self-discipline and self-punishment. You know the warning signs. You know the language. You know what it means when the body starts making requests before it has to make demands.

That is what makes it so easy to miss.

Because this doesn’t feel like slipping. It feels like being busy. It feels like a consult that runs long, a family meeting that overlaps your lunch break, a tube-feed adjustment that needs to be finished before pharmacy closes. It feels like a patient’s daughter looking at you with wide, terrified eyes and asking whether her father will ever be allowed to eat his favorite soup again. It feels like Lily waiting near the nurses’ station with a question she has clearly rehearsed twice, and Kennedy hovering outside your office with a folder pressed to her chest, trying to look prepared when everyone can tell she’s overwhelmed.

So you tell yourself you’ll eat after this note. After this page. After this reassessment. After you check on 224. After you update the team. After rounds. After the hallway conversation that turns into a twenty-minute teaching moment because someone’s family finally asks the question they were too scared to ask during rounds.

After, after, after.

Then suddenly it’s 4:30 p.m., your water bottle is still nearly full, your lunch is untouched in the break-room fridge, and “after” never came.

Still, you tell yourself it’s fine. Temporary. Understandable, even. The CCU has been drowning for three weeks, and everyone is making ugly little bargains with their own bodies just to get through the day. Nurses are charting with one hand and eating crackers with the other. Residents drift past the station with the haunted look of people who have forgotten what natural sunlight feels like. Even the attendings seem worn thin, their calm stretched over exhaustion like a coat that no longer quite fits.

So when your stomach twists with hunger and then quiets down, you barely register it. When your head begins to ache behind your eyes, you blame the fluorescent lights. When your hands tremble faintly over the keyboard, you blame the coffee.

You are not trying to hurt yourself.

You are just trying to keep up.

And somehow, that feels different enough that you let it happen.

─── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ───

The Tuesday three weeks into the admission surge starts too early and already behind. You barely remember breakfast beyond the fact that there was toast involved, maybe half of it, eaten while you were pulling on socks and answering a text from Lily about renal formula substitutions. Coffee is clearer in your memory: too hot, too fast, swallowed in the car while your mind was already running through the patient list waiting for you upstairs.

By the time you walk from the parking lot to the staff entrance, music humming low in your earbuds, your body is technically present but your brain is already in the unit. CCU 212 needs reinforcement on sodium and fluid restriction after new diuretic changes. 220 needs tube-feed reassessment post-extubation, with labs that may push you toward a formula change. 224 is post-MI, nauseated, barely eating, and trying to pretend they aren’t scared. Step-down has two renal patients, one GI consult, and a discharge education that may or may not happen depending on whether the team changes their mind for the third time.

You clock in at eight. The board already has three new consults.

For one long second, you simply stare at it. The nurses’ station buzzes around you, phones ringing, monitors calling out their mechanical little warnings from open doorways. Someone laughs too loudly near the med room, the sound edged with exhaustion. The air smells like coffee, antiseptic, and the faint plastic scent of tubing. It is a normal morning in the CCU, which is to say it already feels like the day has teeth.

“Morning, Ms. Y/L/N.”

Yvonne is at the nurses’ station with coffee in one hand and a stack of charts braced against her hip, her scrub top covered in tiny cartoon hearts that do absolutely nothing to make her look less formidable. She gives you one quick glance, and you can feel the exact moment her nurse-brain stops seeing coworker and starts assessing patient.

“You look tired, honey,” she says, quieter now. “You get any sleep?”

“Enough,” you say, adjusting your badge.

Yvonne gives you a look that could peel paint. “Make sure you eat something today. Don’t make me page you for a nutrition consult on yourself.”

You huff a laugh, because it is easier than admitting how directly the warning lands. “Noted.”

And you mean it. That’s the worst part. You actually mean it.

You picture the day sensibly: morning rounds, yogurt around ten-thirty, lunch by one, water somewhere in between like an adult with a working understanding of physiology. Nothing dramatic. Nothing heroic. Just basic maintenance.

The hospital has other plans.

By ten, you’ve already had four separate conversations about why sodium matters when “he’s eaten this way his whole life.” You keep your voice soft, your explanations patient, your smile steady. You talk about fluid retention, heart strain, taste adaptation, herbs, alternatives, moderation. You watch fear turn defensive and then slowly, carefully, become questions. That part still matters. Even tired, even hungry, even with your schedule sliding sideways minute by minute, it matters when someone’s shoulders drop because they finally understand that nutrition is not punishment.

By ten-thirty, you’re in 220, discussing tube-feed tolerance and checking labs while Aunt Linda asks, with alarming sincerity, whether a little vodka in the PEG tube would be acceptable for “holiday cheer.” The patient’s son looks as if he would like to evaporate. You maintain a professional expression through what can only be divine intervention.

Somewhere in there, you are supposed to have a snack. You don’t.

─── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ───

When you step out of 220, Lily catches you in the hallway. The unit is loud around you, but she speaks carefully, like she’s approaching a skittish animal.

“Hey, Ms. Y/L/N. I updated the intake/output on 224 and 228.”

“Perfect,” you say, already scrolling through labs. “Thank you. Did you see the phosphorus on 220? I might switch formulas.”

She nods, then hesitates. It is tiny, barely a pause, but it is enough to make you look up.

“Did you want me to run down and grab your usual from the cafeteria?” she asks. “They still have the yogurt parfaits out. I can get you one before they switch everything over.”

For half a second, your brain doesn’t understand why she is asking. Then it does. Breakfast: rushed, barely there. Snack: nonexistent. Time: 10:42 a.m. Body: quietly annoyed.

“I’m good,” you say automatically. “I’ll grab something after rounds.”

Lily’s expression says she does not believe you, but your pager goes off before either of you can sit inside the truth of that for too long. You give her a grateful look you don’t have time to explain and move on.

By noon, you’re in a family meeting for 212. The conference room is too cold, the chairs too close together, the tissue box already half-empty in the center of the table. The patient’s daughter keeps twisting a ring around her finger. His wife asks about soup three different times, each time as if the answer might change if she finds the right wording. The cardiology attending speaks in careful, measured sentences. The social worker takes notes with the quiet competence of someone used to grief changing shape in front of her.

You explain sodium gently. Thoroughly. You draw little examples in the margin of a handout and talk about comfort, flexibility, and the difference between restriction and support. You answer the same question three different ways because sometimes people need to circle the truth before they can stand close to it.

At 12:17, you glance at the clock and tell yourself you’ll eat after this.

The meeting runs until 12:54.

By then, 224 is waiting, 218’s nurse has left you a message that says “when you have a moment” in the way nurses say it when the moment should have been ten minutes ago, and your lunch break has become a shape you can no longer quite see.

When you finally step into the CCU break room at 1:30, the room feels smaller than usual. The fridge hums too loudly in the corner. The fluorescent light flickers once overhead. Someone has abandoned a half-eaten granola bar beside a coffee cup with lipstick on the rim. The microwave smells faintly of soup no matter how many times people wipe it down.

You open the fridge and see your Tupperware exactly where you left it: rice, roasted vegetables, tofu. A meal packed by a version of you who believed the day could still be handled.

You stare at it for longer than you should.

The idea of taking it out, heating it, sitting down, chewing through an actual meal while pages keep coming and notes keep piling up makes something in your chest tighten. It isn’t disgust. It isn’t fear. It’s fatigue — heavy, gray, and practical-sounding. The kind that disguises itself as efficiency.

You glance at the clock.

1:32.

If you sit down now, you’ll lose twenty minutes. If you lose twenty minutes, your notes will bleed past five. If your notes bleed past five, tomorrow starts worse. Your brain makes the cruel little leap before you can stop it: you’re already failing.

So you close the fridge and grab a protein shake instead.

It is not nothing, you tell yourself as you twist off the cap and head back toward the unit. It is practical. It is temporary. It is a bridge.

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The afternoon tilts after that.

Not all at once. That would be easier to respect. It starts as a minor headache behind your eyes, a faint tremor in your hands when you type, a lag between thought and action that makes every task feel like it has been wrapped in plastic. The unit keeps moving at full speed around you. Pagers trill. Monitors beep. Phones ring. People call your name from doorways, from behind desks, from halfway down halls. Each request is reasonable. Each one matters. It is the total weight of them that begins to press down.

Around 3:20, Kennedy appears in the doorway of the nutrition office. You look up from your laptop, blinking, and realize she has probably been standing there for a few seconds.

“You’ve been staring at that screen for, like, five minutes,” she says gently.

You glance down. The cursor blinks after a half-finished sentence: Recommend advancement to…

You have no idea what you meant to write.

“I’m recalibrating,” you say.

Kennedy’s brow furrows. “You didn’t eat lunch, did you?”

“I had a shake.”

Her expression says, very clearly, so, no.

“They still have hummus boxes downstairs,” she says. “And the good apples, not the mealy ones. I can grab you something.”

She sounds so earnest that you almost say yes. The word rises right to the back of your throat. Then you picture the unfinished notes, the waiting consults, the way the afternoon is already pulling apart at the seams.

“I’ll be okay,” you say. “I just want to finish these before five. If I don’t, they bleed into tomorrow, and then everything snowballs.”

“I get that,” Kennedy says quietly. She steps into the office, lowering her voice even more as someone passes behind her in the hall. “But also, no offense, you look like you’re about five minutes from face-planting into your keyboard.”

You try to smile. “I’m fine, Kennedy. I promise.”

It is mostly true in the way people use “fine” when they mean “not actively on fire.” You are upright. You are speaking. You are still useful.

Kennedy hesitates, then nods, but she leaves with the expression of someone who has decided to worry about you on purpose.

By four, the nurses’ station is a controlled storm. The overhead lights flatten everyone’s faces into shadows and angles. A monitor alarms from 214 until someone silences it. Two residents argue quietly near the med room. Yvonne moves through the chaos with terrifying efficiency, and when she catches sight of you leaving 220, she intercepts you like she has been waiting.

“You eaten yet?”

“I had something earlier,” you say, which is not technically a lie but feels close enough to one that you can’t quite meet her eyes.

“Something is not a food group.” Yvonne’s gaze sweeps over your face, and whatever she sees makes her mouth flatten. “When is the last time you sat down and actually ate a meal?”

You search your memory and find yesterday’s dinner looking back at you.

Your silence answers for you.

Yvonne sighs, but beneath the exasperation is something warmer and more worried. “I knew it. You’re running on fumes. Your face is too pale, and your eyebags have eyebags.”

“I’ll grab something once I finish 224,” you say. “They’re still borderline intake-wise. I promised I’d circle back.”

She studies you for a moment. The hallway noise swells around both of you, but her attention does not move. Then, surprisingly, she doesn’t argue.

“Okay,” she says. “But if you walk past this desk after that and you haven’t eaten, I’m stopping you with physical force.”

“I believe you,” you murmur.

“You should.”

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You don’t remember exactly what you say in 224 the second time that afternoon. You remember the patient’s tired smile when you negotiate a compromise between nausea and calories. You remember writing will continue to monitor PO intake and feeling, absurdly, like the phrase is mocking you. You remember thinking, one more note and I can breathe.

Then you step back into the hall, and your body files a formal complaint.

The edges of your vision fuzz first. The bright hallway lights seem to flare, sharpening every reflection on the tile until the floor looks slick and far away. Your heart kicks a little too fast for the amount of walking you’ve done. The sounds of the unit stretch strangely — a monitor beep, a phone ringing, someone laughing near the station — all of it arriving a fraction of a second too late.

You pause and lower your tablet. Your palm finds the wall.

The coolness helps.

Barely.

You know what this is. Not in a panicked way. In a humiliatingly familiar way. The floaty disconnect. The cotton pressure in your head. The body, tired of polite requests, beginning to raise its voice.

You tell yourself to sit down. You tell yourself you’ll get a snack from the break room. You tell yourself you’re fine, but the word no longer lands with any authority.

Someone calls your name down the hall.

“Y/N?”

You turn toward the voice on instinct.

The hallway tilts.

Your knees soften before your brain can make sense of it. The tablet slips against your fingers. The ceiling sways. The floor moves too far away.

Your last coherent thought is quiet and oddly calm.

Oh. This is bad.

You never hit the ground.

Hands catch you before impact, one bracing your back, the other finding the inside of your elbow with precise, immediate pressure. The fall turns into a controlled slide, your body guided down instead of dropped. The world narrows to white lights overhead, the squeak of shoes on tile, and the scent of soap and something familiar enough that your body knows him before your eyes do.

“Easy,” Zayne says, close to your ear. “I’ve got you.”

You blink hard, and the hallway slowly assembles itself around his face.

His expression is controlled in the way cliffs are controlled — solid, unmoving, held together by forces you cannot see. But his eyes give him away. They are too sharp, too dark, too awake with fear he has not yet allowed into his voice.

“Can you hear me?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you manage, though your voice sounds thin and far away. “Sorry. I think I—”

“Don’t apologize,” he says immediately. “Talk later. Right now, breathing.”

Around you, the CCU shifts. Not loudly, not dramatically, but with the terrifying efficiency of people who know exactly when a hallway has become a treatment space. Greyson is suddenly at your feet, lifting your legs onto a folded blanket. Yvonne appears with a cuff and pulse ox. Kennedy vanishes and then reappears breathless with glucose strips, her face pale beneath her determination. Somewhere behind them, someone redirects traffic without being asked. A nurse pulls a curtain half across the nearest doorway to give the illusion of privacy.

The unit keeps beeping. Patients still need things. Phones still ring. But inside the small circle forming around you, everything narrows.

“I’m fine,” you whisper, because apparently even horizontal on the CCU floor, your pride has not learned anything.

Yvonne doesn’t even look up from wrapping the cuff around your arm. “Shhh. You can lie later. Right now we’re checking.”

The cuff tightens. The Velcro scratch sounds enormous. Your head swims, and Zayne’s hand remains at your shoulder, grounding and immovable.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Greyson asks.

You squint. “Four.”

“Excellent. No emergent neurology deficit. Just poor judgment in self-care.”

“Greyson,” Zayne says, voice low.

“It’s a clinical finding,” Greyson mutters, but he looks frightened enough that the joke doesn’t quite cover it.

Yvonne reads the cuff and her mouth tightens. “BP is 88 over 52. Pulse 114.”

Kennedy takes your hand carefully, her fingers too gentle for someone trying not to panic. “Little poke, okay? One, two—”

The meter beeps.

“Glucose is 61,” she says.

Zayne exhales through his nose. It is the smallest sound, but you feel it move through the entire circle.

“Hypotensive and mildly hypoglycemic. Symptomatic.” His voice smooths into clinical calm because clinical calm is clearly the only thing keeping him from becoming something much colder and more frightened. “How dizzy do you feel on a scale of one to ten?”

“Seven?” you say.

“Juice,” he says. “Now.”

Kennedy moves before the word finishes leaving his mouth.

Zayne’s thumb brushes once over the back of your hand. It is almost too small a gesture for anyone else to notice, but you notice. You notice because his fingers are steady and his eyes are not.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs. “Keep looking at me.”

So you do.

Because it is easier than looking at the hallway, easier than looking at Yvonne’s worried mouth or Greyson’s tense shoulders or Kennedy sprinting back with juice like she is carrying a crash cart.

When the straw reaches your lips, Zayne’s voice lowers. “Slow sips. Don’t chug. We’re not in a frat house.”

A weak smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it.

The juice is too sweet, too bright, and exactly what your body wants. You take one sip, then another, and slowly the cotton in your head begins to thin. The ceiling becomes acoustic tile again instead of a distant white galaxy. Your heartbeat stops trying to climb out of your chest.

“I’m okay,” you murmur.

“You’re getting there,” Zayne corrects.

By the time they move you to the break room, the worst of the dizziness has passed, but the embarrassment has arrived fully awake. The CCU break room feels too small for everyone’s worry. The fridge hums. Rain taps faintly against the fogged window. Someone’s abandoned coffee has gone cold on the table, and the air carries the stale smell of reheated soup and peanut butter.

Yvonne has somehow produced crackers, peanut butter, string cheese, a banana, a yogurt, and one of the better granola bars, arranging them in front of you with the stern precision of someone building a care plan out of whatever the staff kitchen can offer.

“Pick at least two,” she says. “Carbs and protein, or I will smack you with that lab printout.”

You stare at the food, and the room seems to hold its breath.

It is not that you don’t want it. That would be easier to explain. It is that being watched while needing something makes an old, ugly shame twist under your ribs. You can feel everyone trying not to look too directly, trying not to make you feel cornered while also being unwilling to let you disappear into competence again.

Kennedy quietly makes a plate and slides it toward you. Crackers. Peanut butter. Half the banana.

“You would never let us skip a meal and then go back on the floor,” she says. “We’re just returning the favor.”

The kindness stings worse than any lecture would have.

The first bite tastes like cardboard and shame. The second is easier. By the third, your body remembers the point, and the room begins to soften around the edges.

Zayne sits across from you, close enough that his knees nearly brush yours beneath the table. He lets everyone else fuss first. He lets Yvonne scold, lets Greyson joke badly, lets Lily arrive breathless and teary from downstairs. He says very little, but his attention never leaves you. You can see him tracking your color, your hands, the speed at which you eat, the way your shoulders gradually lower.

Finally, when the room has settled into a quieter kind of concern, he asks, “How long has this been happening?”

The question is mild.

Too mild.

You look down at the napkin in your lap. “Since the admission spike. Some days were better. Some weren’t. I kept meaning to take breaks, but there was always someone who needed something. Then I was behind, and then I told myself I’d eat after, but after kept moving.”

“And you decided your own needs could be the first thing cut,” he says.

You flinch because he is right.

“I can’t be seen as the dietitian who can’t even manage her own nutrition,” you admit, and the confession scrapes something raw on the way out. “We already have to prove our worth three times over. If I’m the one fainting in hallways, what does that say to anyone who already thinks this role is optional?”

The room goes quiet in a different way.

Not awkward. Not empty.

Heavy.

Lily’s eyes fill. Kennedy looks down at the table. Greyson’s jaw tightens. Yvonne’s face softens with the kind of anger that has nowhere safe to go because the thing she wants to fight is larger than the room.

Zayne moves his chair closer.

“You fainting does not say anything about your competence,” he says. “It says something about workload. About a system that takes dedication and squeezes until it looks like self-destruction. About expectations no one should have to meet.”

His voice gentles, but his gaze does not move from yours.

“And it says that even now, after everything you’ve survived, some part of you still believes you have to earn the right to basic care.”

Your throat tightens.

“What if I do?” you whisper. “What if I’m just supposed to handle it? Other people do.”

“That’s not a success metric,” Greyson says immediately. “That’s a safety hazard in a coat.”

A wet, startled laugh slips out of you.

Zayne does not smile. He reaches across the table and places his hand palm-up between you. He cannot pull you into his arms here. Not in front of everyone. Not with the unit still moving outside the break-room door. But he can offer.

You stare at his hand for a moment before placing yours in it.

His fingers close around you, warm and steady.

“That is not how this works anymore,” he says quietly. “You do not have to damage yourself to prove your value.”

The room is too warm. Too small. Too kind.

You blink hard. “I don’t want to go back. To old patterns. Old thoughts. I’ve worked too hard. I just thought I could push through a few weeks and be fine.”

“You are not the same person you were then,” Zayne says. “This is not that. But your body remembers. And today, your body lit a flare because it could not keep whispering.”

No one speaks for a moment.

Outside the break room, a phone rings at the nurses’ station. Someone laughs softly. A monitor alarm chirps and is silenced. The hospital continues, indifferent and hungry.

Inside the room, everyone looks at you like you are something worth stopping for.

That is what finally undoes you.

A few tears slip free before you can catch them. You wipe them away quickly, embarrassed.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “For making this a thing. For being seen.”

Zayne’s thumb strokes once over the back of your hand.

“Being seen is not a crime,” he says. “Collapsing under invisible expectations is not either.”

Yvonne clears her throat, suspiciously brisk. “From now on, you check into the break room by one. If you don’t, I start hunting.”

Greyson folds his arms. “I’ll page you as a consult. Reason: dietitian requires urgent sandwich.”

“Abuse of paging privileges,” you mumble.

“Appropriate use,” he says.

Kennedy sniffles, then lifts her chin. “Lily and I can start snack rounds. For you, for us, for everybody. Non-negotiable.”

Lily nods fiercely. “Everyone needs carbs. This is science.”

You laugh, shaky but real, and something in the room loosens with it.

By the time Yvonne checks your vitals again, your blood pressure has climbed back to 104 over 68, your pulse has settled to 86, and your hands no longer tremble around the water cup.

“She’s pink again,” Yvonne announces. “Not ghost-adjacent.”

“Good,” Zayne says.

Then he looks at you.

“You’re done for today.”

You open your mouth automatically. “I can—”

“You’re done,” he repeats. His voice is not harsh, but there is no space in it. “You have given this hospital more than enough for one shift. It does not get to ask for more today.”

You look to Yvonne, half-expecting resistance.

She only raises an eyebrow. “If he hadn’t said it, I would have. You faint in my hallway, you go home. That’s the rule now.”

And for once, surrounded by the hum of the fridge, the rain against the window, the uneaten yogurt and empty juice bottle and the quiet, stubborn concern of everyone who refuses to let you vanish into usefulness, you do not argue.

You nod.

“Okay,” you say softly. “I’ll go home.”

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A/N: IM BACK, MY LOVES ♡

It has definitely been a while since I’ve been on Tumblr, but I’m in a slightly better spot right now, and I’ve been wanting to start writing again — slowly but surely. I figured I’d ease back in by sharing some Zayne-related one-shots I had saved, and this one in particular took me a while to finish.

I ended up deciding to break it into two parts, so consider this the beginning of something soft, emotional, and very self-indulgent. Also, the new Caleb x Non-MC fic will hopefully be shared by mid to late June, and maybe even a little birthday one-shot for our Lebby 🧡

I’m really glad to be back, and I hope you guys enjoy what’s coming next. :)

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original titration taglist: @animegamerfox, @michexoxo, @lurkersharkie, @mortisimosiy, @thelittlebutton, @nikkittan, @kykulol, @kingraspberry12-blog, @blessdunrest, @applecaviar, @shirufiel, @themoonfeltmyvibes, @zayniacforreal

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[damn-i-exist]

🤫

[niisancomplex]

[mylifedoesntexist]

Lil Update!

Hi my lovelies! I hope you’re all taking care of yourselves. ♡

It’s been a minute since I’ve posted on here. After finishing Titration, I ended up taking a small break from Tumblr. I do miss writing, but I’ve also been in a bit of a funk and have been struggling to start the Caleb x Non-MC story.

I’ve written a few versions of the prologue, but I haven’t been happy with any of them, so I’ve decided to take a little step back from it for now. I hope you guys understand the time I’m taking away from writing.

To be honest, I’ve also been overthinking this new fic a lot. Part of me worries that it won’t be as good as Titration, or that people will expect it to be just as good — or even better. That fear has been sitting with me for a while, and right now I’m scared to share anything because I’m worried about what people might think or comment.

I’m also not in the best place mentally at the moment. I do deal with depression, and lately I’ve been saying a lot of negative things to myself (verbally and mentally). Nothing is making me feel happy or interested right now. A lot of things haven’t felt interesting to me. I haven’t really been able to enjoy music, TV, or YouTube, and even logging into LADS has felt difficult lately. The gym has honestly been one of the only places where I feel something.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the new banner — and everyone came home safely! — but something in my routine just hasn’t felt right.

On top of that, I got another job recently — back to being a barista lol — and I’ve been trying to focus on studying for my RD exam again. Hopefully the third time’s the charm. I also decided to try and qualify for a CrossFit competition in August (and submissions for the qualifiers are on May 18th), so this week has been a mess for me. It’s been taking a toll on my body and my mind, and I’ve just been really tired lately.

But there is some good news: I do have a couple of Dr. Zayne Li x Dietitian!Non-MC!Reader (Titration-related) one-shots written. I just haven’t had the time or energy to post them yet.

Thank you for being patient with me and for giving me the space to move at my own pace. I appreciate you all more than you know. ♡

love, ks ♡

[marry1293]

Chapter 16: Beautiful Things

Masterlist

AU: Ace x f!r

Synopsis: You are a busy editor currently working on publishing the next novel of the novice author Deuce. At the presentation of his book, you catch the eye of his best friend Ace, a songwriter. Can something happen between a womaniser who believes he doesn’t deserve love, and a self-absorbed woman with trust issues?

Characters: Ace, Robin, Nami, Franky, Usopp, Koby, Helmeppo, and others.

Warnings: occasional sex mentioned, alcohol, drama, cursing, anger

Listen to: Beautiful Things by Benson Boone

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Chapter 16

You and Nami were dragging your sorry, hungover asses through the airport. After one more round of “playing business,” the two of you had decided last night that it was time for an after-party of your own. You’d dragged Robin, some of her colleagues, and a few of your old coworkers from Amazon Lily with you. It had been glorious — a true purge of stress — everyone downing drink after drink like tomorrow didn’t exist.

Except tomorrow had come way too fast.

By the time the bar kicked you out, you and Nami had barely an hour to collect your things and head to the airport for another inhumanly early flight. Fucking cheap flights. Bege had been forced to convince the security guard you weren’t drunk, which hadn’t been easy when you both reeked like a minibar and held bottles of water on shaky hands.

By some miracle, you’d survived the flight without puking. Barely. And now here you were, shuffling through arrivals, regretting every single life choice that had led you here.

You were fishing for your phone to call a taxi, Nami sitting with her head on her knees, when a voice came out of nowhere:

“Hello, gorgeous.”

You turned too fast. Your skull throbbed in protest, punishing you for those last tequila shots.

“Ace?” you blinked at him, disoriented. “What are you doing here?”

He gave you a once-over, eyes caught between laughter and concern. “You asked me to come get you.”

“I… did?” you asked, baffled, glancing helplessly at Nami.

Nami only shook her head slowly, as disoriented and confused as you were.

Ace yawned, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “Yeah. Around two in the morning. Not gonna lie, you scared the shit out of me. But…” his mouth curved, fighting a grin, “judging by the state of you two, I think I can piece together what was happening at two a.m.”

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face.

“Come on,” he said, already snagging the bigger suitcase from each of you like it was nothing. “Let’s go. You both look like shit.”

“Oh god. He’s a keeper,” Nami mumbled, a little too loudly.

Ace chuckled.

By the time you got to the car, Nami had collapsed in the back seat like a corpse. You slid into the front passenger seat, immediately rolling down the window and sticking your head out like a dog desperate for air.

Ace snorted under his breath, stealing a sideways glance as he started the engine. You still wore the remnants of last night — the carefully styled hair trapped in a band, the smudged makeup clinging stubbornly under your eyes, and a skin tone that hovered somewhere between ghostly pale and vaguely green. He couldn’t help the grin tugging at his mouth. He’d seen you drunk before, but this… this was a whole new level.

It was a selfish thought, but he liked that you’d called him. As if your subconscious had slipped up and betrayed you. Instead of pushing through on your own, like you always did, you’d thought of him.

“So…” Ace said lightly, fingers drumming the steering wheel, “judging by the look of you two, it seems like it was one hell of a party.”

“It was a shitty pretentious cocktail, as always. We went to a pub,” you mumbled, voice hoarse and flat with exhaustion.

“That explains a lot,” Ace said, lips twitching as he shifted gears.

You only groaned in response, eyes already shut, head leaning back on the seat as if you could block the world out by sheer will. Ace glanced at you again, catching the stubborn little crease between your brows even in sleep-deprived misery.

Through the rearview mirror, he noticed Nami had already tipped over, dead to the world, her head lolling against the seat. The car filled with the quiet hum of the engine, the occasional hiss of tires against the road.

Ace let out a slow breath, the grin setting into a quite comfortable smile. He liked the silence. Liked that you trusted him enough to fall apart for once, instead of always holding everything together. He tightened his grip on the wheel, eyes back on the road, carrying you both home.

…

It wasn’t until past three that you started to feel vaguely human again. Your body ached in protest as you rolled out of bed, padding barefoot to the kitchen in search of salvation. The fridge greeted you with a sight that almost made you believe in god: a neat row of electrolyte drinks and, sitting right beside them, a bowl of mac and cheese. The perfect hangover combo.

You didn’t need a note to know who had stocked it there. Ace had thought ahead. Always chaos incarnate, and yet sometimes startlingly thoughtful.

You cracked open one of the bottles, gulping greedily before tossing the food in the microwave. The hum of the machine and the salty, cheesy smell felt like heaven on the way. A bite later, your body remembered what gratitude tasted like.

It was good to be home.

After you’d taken care of the most basic survival needs, you dragged yourself into a long, much-needed shower. Hot water pounded your skin, washing away the residue of old makeup, sweat, tequila, and airport hours. Now fresh, functional, and wrapped in a comfy hoodie, you started to unpack, as if putting order into your suitcase might spill over into the tangle in your head.

When Ace came back around eight, he found you sprawled on the couch, notebook open across your lap, staring at the void.

“Well, look at that. She lives.”

You turned your gaze to him, giving a half-smile, rolling your eyes. “Of course. Takes more to put me down.”

Ace leaned against the doorway, still in his jacket, grinning like the menace he was. “Really? Because this morning I could’ve sworn tequila had kicked your ass.”

“That was not tequila, that was…” You paused, digging for something witty. “…laboral exhaustion.”

He snorted. “Yeah, sure. I also treat that with electrolytes and mac and cheese. Sometimes pizza works too.” He moved toward the living room, dropping down beside you.

You laughed. “Yeah, I could do pizza for dinner. Just to deal with the labor exhaustion.”

Ace chuckled and pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head. “Remind me to keep you away from the kind that’s served in shots.” He pulled out his phone, already scrolling to order food.

You shrugged, but the kiss tugged a soft smile out of you. You stared back at your notebook and, with an exhale of defeat, closed it and tossed it onto the coffee table. The exhaustion was starting to feel less like a joke.

Ace noticed. “Were you working?”

“Sort of,” you breathed, tipping your head back against the couch.

“Do you ever rest?” he asked.

“When I die,” you said flatly, though the corners of your mouth quirked. “Which feels like it’ll be soon. Anyway, how was your week?” You gave him a side glance, leaning into him.

Ace sighed. “Not much. Studio as always. I’m almost done with the sisters’ album.” He hesitated. He hasn’t told anyone about his decision. He let out a short sigh and then let it out. “And… well, I finally accepted Apoo’s offer. I’m doing the album.”

You straightened and looked at him, a genuine smile spreading across you. “You did? That’s great!” You leaned in, kissing him tenderly before resting your head back against his shoulder. “I’ll finally get to hear your music whenever I want.”

The silence that followed was warm, soft. Ace let your pride soak into him, dulling the nerves that had gnawed at him for days. A small smile ghosted over his lips.

“What about you?” he asked, absently twining a strand of your hair around his finger. “Was the circus worth it?”

You groaned. “Yeah, I guess. We made good deals, and others were…” You trailed off, Perosperos’ card flashing in your mind.

“Did you lose an author?”

“I wish,” you scoffed.

His eyes were on you, waiting. You sighed and reached for your notebook, sliding the slim pink card from between the pages. You handed it to him without looking. The Whole Cake logo glinted in gold.

“They offered to buy us out. Absorb the house into their group.”

Ace blinked, then frowned. “And what does that mean?”

“It means I have to decide between financial stability… or independence, with all its risks.”

Ace leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “Stability sounds nice, sure… but independence? That’s you.”

The words came out rough, too quick, and he cursed himself when he saw how your shoulders tightened, like the whole weight of the choice pressed harder.

He softened, reaching out to tug gently at your sleeve until you looked at him. “Unless… are you in a financial problem?”

You scoffed, “I’m always in a financial tightrope. I live out of the success artists have, just like you Ace. One wrong step and bankruptcy is knocking at my door.”

A knowing look crossed on Ace’s face. 

“Anyway,” you said, bitterness slipping through despite yourself. “The publishing house is stable now. That’s why they made the offer to absorb us now. We’re competition. Next time, if they come knocking, it’ll be because I’m drowning in debt, and they’ll only offer scraps.”

Ace studied you quietly for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, calm as ever, he leaned back. “You’re forgetting the third option.”

You frowned. “Which is?”

“Not going bankrupt,” he said simply. “Just… keeping at it. Like you always do. Bleeding out for it, stressed out of your mind,” his mouth curved into a grin, “but still calling all the shots. Happily.”

…

You called Bege to your office. You had known for a while that you would reach a point in which growth would be a big bet. You either invested more money on resources to make your catalogue grow or you sell. Ace was right, if you were going to bet on someone, that would be you and your team. Now it was time to see if your bet was financially possible. 

Bege dropped into the chair across from you with his usual gruffness, flipping open his laptop. “So. Whole Cake, huh.”

You winced. “Word travels fast.”

“Didn’t need it to. I knew who Perospero was the second he walked up. You think I’d let some random man stroll into my boss’s earshot?” He gave you a flat look. “So. What exactly did he offer?”

You sighed, drumming the table with nails. “To buy us out. Full absorption into the Whole Cake group. I’d keep the brand, stay as director, but…” You hesitated. The words tasted sour. “It wouldn’t be mine anymore.”

Bege typed something, eyes flicking over his screen. “Not surprising. That’s their style. Dangle resources in front of the independents until they fold.”

“And the resources were tempting,” you admitted. “Editors, designers, distribution, stability…” You trailed off, then shook your head. “But I won’t let them come and grab all our hard work.”

Bege gave you a gruff smile. “So, what’s the plan, boss?”

“Our goal will be to publish 8 to 10 books a year. And we need extra hands for that.” You said, sliding in front of him the knew organizer and schedule you had been drafting

Bege took a quick glance at it. “So, in-house headcount goes up by two. Freelance budget doubles. That’s what you’re asking.”

You nodded. “Can we afford it?”

Bege pulled his laptop, inputting numbers on a spreadsheet. “Possible,” he said after some minutes. “Tight as hell, but possible. The bestsellers keep us afloat. Audiobooks buy us new revenue. If the new authors land, we’re fine. If they flop, we’ll bleed but not sink. It’s a gamble. Not impossible.”

You sighed, “Tight, huh?” you echoed, “seems like we’re about to hit ceiling.”

You bit your lip in a thoughtful gesture. It was all or nothing. But it had always been that since day one, and you weren’t about to get scared now.

“So, what’s your call boss?” Bege asked.

You smiled, “Do your magic. We’re hiring two more people.”

…..

The next day you called in Nami, Usopp and Franky. The three of them sat across you. 

“So…” you started, clasping your hands on the table. It was hard being the boss, harder still when the people across from you were your friends. But at least, this time, you were carrying some good news. “We’ve survived this year thanks to our juniors. Helmeppo, Koby, Hiyori. They’ve been holding a lot more weight than we realized.”

You turned your gaze dead serious toward Nami. “But, Nami… you’re running thin. I love you, girl, but the only person who might give me a run for burnout is you.”

Nami only grinned, unbothered. “Please. I look fabulous even when I’m on the verge of collapse.”

You huffed a laugh, then shifted to Franky and Usopp. “And with the new catalogue I’m about to lay out, you two won’t be far behind.”

Usopp visibly gulped, sinking lower in his chair. Franky just raised an eyebrow, arms crossed, like he was already bracing himself.

You leaned forward. “So here’s what’s happening: Nami, you always look fabulous, I know. But you are getting a marketing junior. Look for someone that can help you handle 10 marketing campaigns. Usopp, from now on Helmeppo will fully handle the design part of social media. Still supervised by you and Nami, yes, but no more splitting him like a wishbone. That’ll free you up from having to design every single aspect of the campaigns.”

“Thank god,” Usopp muttered, then perked nervously. “I mean, not that I don’t love drawing twenty-seven different banner sizes for every single release…”

“Shut up, liar,” Nami cut in with a smirk.

You raised a hand to bring them back. “But even with that shift, we need more hands. So, Usopp, I want you to put together a list of freelance designers who can help at peak calendar moments. Cover layouts, campaign overloads, whatever keeps you from keeling over.”

Usopp nodded quickly, already jotting a note.

Then you turned to Franky. “Franky, I know production has been hell this year. I need you to start looking for a junior too. Someone you can trust to handle logistics on smaller runs and keep things moving when you’re neck-deep in big releases.”

Franky rubbed the back of his neck, thoughtful. “Yeah… I’ve got a couple names. Kids from print houses who’d kill for steadier work. I’ll start there.”

“Good.” You sat back, letting the weight of the plan settle. “We’re growing whether we like it or not. So let’s make sure we grow without breaking ourselves.”

…

“Let’s try another take,” Apoo said through the mic, all casual smugness.

Ace growled low in his throat. Now he knew exactly how it felt every time he’d said those words to his artists. Karma was a bitch.

“Go slightly lower and softer this time,” Apoo added, waggling his fingers in the booth window. “Like you’re seducing her, whispering right in her ear.”

Ace shot him a look that could have burned through glass.

“What?” Apoo leaned back in his chair, grin widening. “Don’t tell me you’re not thinking about her. I can bring her in if that’ll help.”

Ace lifted his hand and flipped him off without hesitation, then shoved the headphones back on, jaw tight. He wasn’t going to give Apoo the satisfaction of knowing he was right. Of course he was thinking about you. The whole damn song was about you. That was the problem.

He closed his eyes, blocking out Apoo’s smirk, the blinking lights, the buzz of the booth. Just you. Just the way you look, you hair, your skin, your smile. The music cued.

This time his voice came lower, steadier. Less performance, more confession. And when the last note faded, the silence was so sharp Ace almost doubted if he’d even sung at all.

The intercom crackled. Apoo’s voice was uncharacteristically subdued. “...That’s the one.”

Ace opened his eyes slowly, breath still caught in his chest. Apoo was grinning again, but softer now, almost respectful.

“See?” he said, swiveling back toward the mixing board. “Told you. All you had to do was think about her.”

Ace pulled the headphones off, jaw tight. He hated that he was right. That the only way the song worked was if he let the world hear him stripped bare. “You’re a pain in the ass.” he hissed.

Apoo didn’t even let the moment linger. He spun back toward the board, pulling up the track list. “Alright. That makes eight good ones. But you know as well as I do—eight doesn’t cut it. You’re still two short for a proper debut.”

Ace slouched in the chair across from him, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I know,” he said flatly.

“Ten is the sweet spot,” Apoo pressed, fingers tapping on the desk. “Not just filler, flow. You want a record people play start to finish, not a playlist. Right now, you’ve got fire and heartbreak, but the middle’s gonna sag without balance. You need something stripped, intimate. Then a real punch at the end.”

Ace let out a low breath, eyes narrowing at the tracklist like it was taunting him. “I said I know. You don’t have to spell it out.”

“Then quit glaring at me like I’m the bad guy,” Apoo shot back, though his grin lingered. “I’m just making sure you don’t half-ass this.”

Ace didn’t answer. Outwardly he kept the scowl, the tough edge. But inside? It was a storm. He knew Apoo was right. He knew the math, the rhythm, the architecture of an album as well as anyone. It wasn’t that. It was that the only way he could write something that fits there was to bleed, and the thought of bleeding in neat, controlled patterns made his chest twist. How the fuck do you do that? Feelings didn’t follow a setlist. What was he going to do, go fight back with you so he can get a punch of anger into a song? He reminded himself that he wanted this, that he signed up for this.

“Is it too late to backdown?” said Ace leaning his head backwards.

“Yes,” answered Apoo, not even looking at him, and simply listening again to the track. “Now, go back in there and give me a couple of runs to put behind the main voice.”

Ace sighed, but went back into the booth. 

…

You were scrolling through CVs for the two new junior positions when you heard the door unlock. Without looking up, you called to Ace, “Hey. Thought you were staying at your place tonight.”

Something heavy hit the floor with a thud —probably his bag— followed by the sound of his steps shuffling closer.

“Hi, gorgeous,” Ace murmured, pressing a kiss to your cheek before burying his face in the curve of your neck. 

He stayed there breathing you in while you finished pinning some of the CVs to check later. You set your laptop aside, finally giving him your full attention. “You look exhausted.”

He just grumbled in reply, sliding down until his head was in your lap.

Your fingers found his hair automatically, combing through the messy strands. “Is being the artist turning out harder than being the producer?” you asked softly.

He cracked one eye open to look at you, mouth quirking. “Being the artist means I’ve got someone breathing down my neck telling me to dig deeper. Being the producer means I was usually the one doing the breathing.”

You chuckled, brushing his bangs from his forehead. “So basically, you’re getting a taste of your own medicine.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, eyes fluttering shut again. “And it tastes like shit.”

You chuckled, still stroking his hair. For a moment, the room felt comfortably quiet.

“By the way,” he said casually, though you caught the flicker of nerves under his tone. “My family is having a Sunday barbecue… and they told me to bring you.”

You froze mid-stroke, fingers tangled in his hair. “Bring me?”

Ace kept his eyes closed, but you could feel the faint tension in his shoulders. “Yeah. You know… they want to meet you.” He let the words hang there, heavy in the quiet, as if waiting to see if you’d pull your hand away.

You swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of the weight of his head in your lap, the trust in the way he sprawled across you like you were home. Meeting his family wasn’t casual, not for him, not for you. It wasn’t just dinner. It was a door you couldn’t half-open.

“Family meal… who am I meeting exactly?”

He open his eyes, giving you a lazy grin that didn’t quite hide the tightness around it. “Well, you know, my brothers, and Dadan will be there. But it’s just a barbecue. Food, drinks, Luffy being Luffy”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Luffy being Luffy scares me.”

His grin softened, and his hand found yours again, tugging it down to rest against his chest. “I want you there. That’s all.”

Something in your stomach flipped. A bundle of nervousness from the prospect of meeting his family and what it meant. But he was looking at you like that, with that unguarded storm of his, and you couldn’t say no. This, you could give.

“…Okay,” you whispered, softer than you meant. Then firmer, because his crooked grin was already tugging wider. “Okay. I’ll come.”

The relief in his laugh was so raw and real it undid you. He tilted his head up and kissed your wrist, quick, like a promise. “Good. They’ll love you.”

…

You looked at the mirror and sighed. Too short. The dress hit the bed in a crumpled heap before you even thought twice. Jeans and a top came next. Too casual. You stared at yourself, tugged at the hem, then stripped out again with a muttered curse. Finally, you pulled on a flowery, red midi-skirt and a top. Maybe this could work. Casual enough to blend in, still neat enough to make a decent first impression.

You stared at your reflection a beat longer, brushing your hands down your sides. God, why did it feel like your stomach was tying itself into knots?

The last time you’d had to do this, it had been easier. You already knew half of Zoro’s family, had practically spent your teens among them. When you’d shown up at Sunday barbecues with the new title of girlfriend, it had been awkward, sure, but not terrifying. You’d been familiar enough to slide into place.

But that had been years ago. And this time, you didn’t know shit about Dadan. You’d only glimpsed Sabo and Koala once —that half-forgotten music festival, when you and Ace were still pretending you were “nothing.” And Luffy… well, you knew him enough to expect he’d probably blurt something awkward that would land you right in the spotlight.

You blew out a breath, steadying yourself. It was just a barbecue. Just food, just family. That was what Ace had said. Except with Ace, family wasn’t just family. Family was sacred. The people who’d raised him, the ones who’d carried him through all the shit he’d been through. And now you were about to walk straight into the middle of that.

You finished dressing up, adding the final touches to the outfit —leather jacket, jewelry, boots. Still, the mirror didn’t stop being intimidating. You snapped a quick picture and sent it to Nami, praying for her unconditional approval. A second later, the familiar bubble popped up with nothing but a thumbs-up emoji.

You let out a shaky laugh. Good enough.

Right on cue, your phone buzzed again. This time Ace.

Outside.

Your heart skipped. Too late to back out now. You grabbed your bag, shoved your phone in, and forced yourself down the stairs before you could think too hard about it.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he greeted when you stepped out, his eyes raking over you in a way that made your pulse jump. “You look beautiful.”

Despite the nerves clawing your stomach, you smiled. “Thanks.”

He leaned down to kiss you, soft and brief, before handing you the helmet. You settled behind him on the bike, the familiar weight of him steadying you as you wrapped your arms around his waist.

The ride didn’t take long, but your head buzzed the whole way. The closer you got, the tighter your grip on him became. Each familiar turn of the streets he’d grown up in only made the reality sink deeper. This wasn’t just a barbecue. This was his home. His family.

When Ace finally slowed in front of a modest house with a cluttered yard, your heart was pounding loud enough to drown out the engine. He cut the motor, pulled off his helmet, and looked back at you with that grin that had undone you a thousand times before.

“You ready?”

No. Absolutely not. But you nodded anyway.

Ace squeezed your hand before leading you through the gate and around to the backyard. The smell of grilled meat hit first —smoke, charcoal, the tang of barbecue sauce— followed immediately by voices. Loud voices. Laughing, bickering, the kind of noise that sounded less like conversation and more like a battle.

The sight was just as overwhelming: a picnic table cluttered with mismatched plates and beer bottles, a grill smoking in the corner, and people talking carelessly.

Dadan spotted Ace first, a smoke in hand, and barked, “’Bout damn time, brat!”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. Ace only smirked, tugging you closer. “Relax, old hag, I brought someone.”

That drew every set of eyes on you.

Sabo and Koala were the first to break into grins. “Finally,” Sabo said, fully turning from the grill.

Koala shot Ace a mock glare. “Seriously? We had to hear about her from Luffy first? You’re the worst, Ace.” Then she turned to you, warmth breaking through instantly. “Hi. Glad to see you again.” Then she added, looking between Ace and Luffy,  “Thank god. I was starting to think I’ll be the only girlfriend ever.”

Before you could even respond, Luffy bounded up from the far end of the table, practically tripping over himself, to hug you. “You came!” His grin was wide, messy, genuine.

Then, Dadan’s heavy voice cut through. “So, this is the girl?”

You glanced up, meeting her gaze from across the table where she was sitting. She didn’t bother hiding her inspection, head titling like she was weighing you up on some invisible scale. 

“Yeah,” Ace said, easily, sliding an arm around your waist with casual certainty. “This is her.”

Dadan snorted. “Hmph. She looks too smart for you.”

Everyone erupted with laughter, Luffy nearly choking on his drink. 

You tilted your head slightly, trying not to laugh, a tiny smile tugging at your lips. “He already knows that. But let’s not remind him.” 

For a split second Dadan stared at you and then barked out a laugh, short and sharp. “Too smart. I like her.”

Ace rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help grin at Dadan’s gruff approval. He pulled you to the table, sitting across Koala and Luffy. 

“Here,” said Luffy, handing you both a beer.

“Thanks, Lu,” said Ace. 

You’d barely cracked your beer when Koala leaned forward, sliding the bowl of chips and dip in your direction.

“So,” she said brightly, her smile quick and genuine. “Long time no see. Ace’s been gatekeeping you for a while. I’ve been dying to properly meet you.”

The knot in your stomach loosened just a fraction. You reached for a chip, grateful for the normalcy. “I think the last time we saw each other was… at the music festival?”

Koala laughed. “God, don’t remind me. I’m still convinced I lost some brain cells from all those flashing lights and the gummies. But yeah, not exactly the best place to hold a conversation.”

“Or find Ace,” Sabo chimed from the grill, smirking over his shoulder.

Before you could respond, Luffy suddenly leaned across the table, wide-eyed and blunt as ever. “Oh! That’s why you disappeared! You guys were already hooking up back then.”

Ace made a strangled noise, nearly choking on his drink. You almost dropped yours.

“Luffy!” Koala hissed, smacking him lightly on the arm.

“What?!” Luffy blinked, completely sincere. “I’m just saying what everyone was thinking.”

Sabo chuckled, flipping a skewer with infuriating calm. “Well, you’ve got to hand it to him. He’s not wrong.”

Heat rushed to your face as laughter bubbled around the table. Koala covered her mouth with her hand, trying and failing to hide her grin.

Ace groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate all of you.”

Dadan barked out a laugh, smoke curling from the cigarette dangling between her fingers. “Don’t look at me, brat. I like her already. Takes guts to sit here while you idiots are runnin’ your mouths.”

You forced a wry smile, glancing at Ace out of the corner of your eye. “Guess is… just what I expected.”

Koala’s grin softened, a little less teasing this time. “Welcome to the family.”

Plates started making the rounds, Sabo ferrying over skewers and half-charred burgers with the ease of a man used to multitasking under fire. By the time the food was in front of you, the table had turned into a chorus of clattering cutlery and half-shouted conversations.

Koala slid a plate toward you with a wink. “Ignore them. They’ve got two hobbies: eating and embarrassing Ace. I’d rather do the former, but…” she shot Ace a pointed look “...the latter is too easy.”

Ace groaned, burying his face in one hand. You bit back a smile, cutting into your food. “Noted.”

“Anyway,” Koala went on, lowering her voice, “So, you met Ace through Deuce, right? You’re an editor.”

You nodded, thankful for Koala’s soft manners, “Yeah. I’ve got my own publishing house. Lots of work. I actually work with Nami, that’s how I also know Luffy.” you said, grinning at him. 

Luffy perked up instantly, cheeks puffed full of food. “They’re a menace when they are together.”

Ace thumped his brother on the back of the head, nearly sending him face-first into his plate. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, idiot.”

Luffy just grinned, swallowing noisily. “They’re a menace!” 

You let out a little laugh. 

“She probably has to be, if she can put up with this hot-headed idiot,” chimed in Sabo, pointing to Ace.

Ace rolled his eyes. “This is how it’s gonna be the whole, afternoon, isn’t it?”

Sabo patted his brother, “Yep. Been waiting to do it for months.”

The meal went on with chit chat, banter and laughter. At some point the brothers engaged in some absurd discussion you hadn’t been paying attention and you ended up talking to Koala and Dadan. 

Looking over at the three men that look much like children when together, you said, “May I ask, how is it that you ended up with those three?”

Dadan took a puff from her cigarette, taking her time to answer, “Well, they all have pretty troublesome parents. The first one to land on my door was Sabo, a runaway kid, who had escape his previous foster home. Then came Luffy, a crybaby of a kid, his grandfather couldn’t win custody over him. He’s a good man, he still looks over him, but social services didn’t think that a police captain who worked 12 hours a day could take care of that runt. And, finally Ace. He was ten when he came. Angry little trouble maker.”

You didn’t miss the fact that Dadan hadn’t gone into detail on Ace’s past. You hesitated, your gaze drifting back to Ace as he bickered with his brothers like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“If you don’t mind me asking…” you began, careful, “I know his mother died, but… what about his father?”

Dadan’s eyes narrowed slightly, the kind of look that measured whether you were prying or genuinely trying to understand. She took a slow drag from her cigarette before answering. “Has he told you anything about him?"

You exhaled, remembering that small piece of conversation you had had months ago. “Not much honestly. He just told me he drowned in grief after his wife death. Honestly, I don’t even know if his alive.”

Dadan nodded sowly, “He is. He kept the boy until he was ten. Loved him, in his way. But Roger was no saint. He ran with the wrong crowd, made his money the worst way you can. When the cops finally got him, Ace had nowhere else to go. That’s when he landed on my doorstep.”

Koala’s smile softened, her hands folded loosely around her drink. “Ace doesn’t like talking about it much,” she added gently, “but… he’s not his father. He never was.”

Dadan grunted, exhaling smoke through her nose. “Damn right he isn’t. Took me a long time to make that stubborn brat believe it, though.”

You glanced back at Ace again, his laughter carrying across the table as he threw a balled-up napkin at Sabo. Something in your chest tightened —an ache for the boy he’d been, and for the man he was still trying to be.

…

Ace came back from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel after stacking the last of the plates. The backyard was still humming —Luffy arguing with Dadan over the last of the cheescake, Koala doubled over with laughter at something Sabo had said. And then there was you.

You sat between Koala and Sabo, shoulders relaxed, a faint smile playing on your lips as you listened to them chatter. You didn’t notice him at first, too caught up in the conversation,  but Ace noticed you. The way you leaned in, the way you laughed at Sabo’s dry jokes, the way Koala’s eyes crinkled warmly at you.

He grinned, something deep in his chest loosening. There you were, weaving yourself into another piece of his world like it had always been yours. Ever since he’d met you, you’d had that something— that pull that made him feel like, no matter how messy things got, being with you was the right choice. Even when all the evidence had screamed otherwise.

He crossed the yard, stopping behind your chair. “How you feeling, gorgeous? Should we get going?”

You turned, startled, then checked the time. “Uff, maybe yes. It’s getting late.”

The goodbyes were a blur of noise and warmth. Luffy nearly knocked you off your feet in a hug, Sabo shook your hand before tugging you into one too, and Koala held you close for a beat longer.

“Thanks for everything,” you told her, voice bright. Then, softer, “And… for telling me a little about when they were kids.”

Koala smiled, a quiet warmth flickering in her eyes. “Anytime.”

Ace, lingering near you, caught the words. A faint shift tightened in his chest, curiosity edged with the wariness of someone who already suspected what “a little” meant.

Dadan grunted from her chair, cigarette glowing in the dark. “Don’t be a stranger,” she muttered, which from her might as well have been an invitation to move in.

You laughed, thanked her too, and then finally followed Ace, crossing the yard. He pressed your helmet into your hands, his smile easy but his eyes sharper than usual, watching you.

“So… what did they tell you?”

Your brows knit, caught off guard. “About what?”

Ace looked down, jaw working as he searched for the right words. “My father.”

You flinched. You hadn’t expected him to bring it up, not now, not here. “Dadan mentioned him,” you said carefully. “Not much. Just… how you ended up living with her.”

For a second, he didn’t answer. Then he gave a short, humorless laugh. “Figures. She’s not one to spill more than she thinks you need to know.”

You studied him in the glow of the streetlamp, his profile half-shadowed, his mouth tight in a way that made your chest ache. Quietly, you reached for his hand. “I wasn’t asking for more.”

His fingers threaded through yours almost instantly, a squeeze that was rough but lingering. When he finally looked at you, the smile tugging at his mouth was small, fragile in a way you rarely got to see.

“Good,” he said simply. “I like it better that way.”

And just like that, the heaviness dissolved, carried away by the night air as he put on his helmet with a crooked grin. “C’mon. Let’s ride.”

[sunsetagain]

[niisancomplex]

home

[sunsetagain]

Until it's woven into our souls.

[mylifedoesntexist]

BARK BARK BARK

[niisancomplex]

when u come home colonel 😴🚬

[mylifedoesntexist]

sorry you had a stressful day, gege...i'm here for you!

[suzumethesparrow]

❄️ TITRATION ❄️

Author: @mylifedoesntexist

Pairing: Dr. Zayne Li x dietian!non-MC!reader

Length: 26 chapters + epilogue (main storyline)

This story has: sweet fluff, slice of life, gentle slow burn, romantic tension, humor, chaos, hospital romance, colleagues to friends to lovers, domestic fluff, side couple XavierMC, slight angst & hurt/comfort, (tw: mentions of ED - eating disorders), happy ending.

Reader's affiliations: MC is your green-flagged bestie who is super loving, supportive and protective of you. So are your colleagues. In fact, everyone loves you and ships Dr. Li x Miss Dietian (〃ω〃) ♡

❗️Disclaimers + notes:

This fic is NOT MINE. It's simply reblogged here for me to read at my own pace and also for easy access whenever I wish to reread it.

This story has a long list of chapters so it's reblogged here separately from my main Love and Deepspace compilations (in my pinned post).

You'll in fact see my reblog links down here instead of the OP's original links. I've decided to do this in case OP's account disappears and so does their fic. This had happened before and I learned my hard lesson 😔

Please leave a like, a comment and reblog the author's fic to support them if you can. With a story this good, it's baffling that each chapter doesn't have hundreds or thousands of notes as you'd expect from a great piece of fanfic.

⚠️ = contains sensitive & triggering element (ED)

*°•. Main storyline .•°*

Chapter 1 - Orbit

Chapter 2 - Titration

Chapter 3 - Off-hours

Chapter 4 - Sugar crash prevention

Chapter 5 - Titrate to tolerance ⚠️

Chapter 6 - Aftercare

Chapter 7 - The echo of impact

Chapter 8 - Equilibrium shift

Chapter 9 - Friday variables

Chapter 10 - Soft proximity theory

Chapter 11 - Variables we don't chart ⚠️

Chapter 12 - The day the body says "enough"

Chapter 13 - Temperature steady rise

Chapter 14 - When the line dips ⚠️

Chapter 15 - Kinetic energy in formal wear

Chapter 16 - Still warm

Chapter 17 - Still in the air

Chapter 18 - Superficial, no blistering

Chapter 19 - When the strong one folds

Chapter 20 - Aftershocks

Chapter 21 - Moving forward

Chapter 22 - The morning we call a date

Chapter 23 - Gravity finally wins

Chapter 24 - Borrowed kitchen light

Chapter 25 - The shape of being held ⚠️

Chapter 26 - Found family

Epilogue: Domesticity tastes like jasmine and sunlight

*°•. Mini side stories .•°*

What the heart catalogues

Zayne's perspective about many things after he met you

Entry I Entry II Entry III

The day they refuse to let pass quietly

Your birthday celebration ♪ヽ(´▽｀)/　🎂🎉🥳

[mylifedoesntexist]

thank you so much, love 😍

[lymericslimerick]

if the lads cast were benders:

xavier: the avatar. 100%. no one else in the cast is as avatar worthy as the literal destined son of philos. woke up from his little spaceship and was like ??? no one else can do this??

zayne: water bender that only really heals, but is talented enough to bend ice and specialise in it (hes a healer though. doesnt like fighting). water kingdom healer

raf: fire bender. ironic considering hes the prince of the water kingdom, but he uses fire like water. his burns so bright its blue! also maybe bc making his blue flames tricks people into thinking hes a water bender

sylus: energybending. as a little baby abomination he crawled tooth and nail to find anything to make him as powerful as possible and came across the lion turtles (bc hes old as shit). pretends to be a firebender and rules his own little kingdom

caleb: airbending. lowkey wanted to make him an earthbender BUT i realised he could just be an EXTREMELY heavy handed airbender since gravity + his need for freedom. works for the fire kingdom bc ofc

[dissociativewriter]

FEAR OF THE DARK

wc: 2765 words

cw: stalking, violence, implied murder, possessiveness, yandere tendencies, breaking and entering, cussing, not proofread

authors note: a spooky treat for halloween 😉

"Praedator sightings have increased 10% this week following a recent prison-break…"

The crackle of the bus's radio intercom drowned out as you slipped your earbuds in. It seemed every week there were more sightings, more attacks, more prison breaks. You couldn't walk in the city without receiving a warning or hearing a vendor selling defense items.

Well, you were sick of it.

For all the danger Linkon held and all the years you'd spent there, you'd never seen a Praedator. Not once. Not even from a distance. You were starting to wonder if it was even true. What if it was all just a scare tactic, meant to grant more power to the people in control once the public was sufficiently frightened?

You might not be one for conspiracy theories, but it all seemed a bit too convenient.

The bus jolted to a stop and you were quick to gather your things. You scrambled to the front, not bothering to spare a glance at the other passengers tired from another workday. You were already thinking of your warm pajamas, the leftovers in your fridge, that next episode you were waiting to watch. A bit of peace after a long day, long week, long year.

A hand tugging on the fabric of your sleeve made you still, turning to see the wide, sunken eyes of the bus driver.

"Be careful out there," he warned. "It's not safe for someone alone."

You smiled. "Thank you, but I'm sure I'll be fine."

He swallowed, wetting his lips, wrinkled hand tightening on your sleeve. "I know it's the season, but this ain't one of your Halloween flicks. Just— keep an eye out. You never know who could be after you."

You hesitated before nodding slowly. Paranoia or not, it was starting to eat at you. If the Praedators really were real, what chance did you stand against one, or two, or three? You turned and stepped off the bus, the chill of the night biting into you. Screwed, that's what you were. Absolutely screwed.

Your pace quickened, shivering at the sound of wings flapping above you. A mechanical whirr buzzed in your ear, the barely-there glance of every person you passed suddenly feeling like a threat.

As you pushed open the door to your apartment building, you thought maybe it was all the excitement of Halloween getting to you. You always did scare easily, and horror elements were by the dozen around the holiday.

Just as your hand closed around the stairwell railing, the newly-hung sign in the lobby caught your eye. You squinted, trying to make out the words:

SECURITY SYSTEM DAMAGED LAST NIGHT. Be sure to lock your doors & windows until it can be repaired.

You bristled, starting up the stairs. It's just jitters, just Halloween. Really, what's the worst that could happen? Who would target your little building?

Your hand tightened around your key. Maybe you would believe it more if it didn't sound like foreshadowing.

Your key turned easily, chest easing as you stepped into your apartment. Your nose wrinkled, though, as an unfamiliar metallic scent hit it. Your steps slowed, becoming uneasy as your eyes flitted over your furniture, walls, windows.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

You laughed, an unconvincing sound, running your hand through your hair. "One too many horror movies," you muttered.

You discarded your shoes by the door, making you way to your bedroom. Maybe you should try to go to sleep early tonight, did sleep deprivation cause paranoia? The answer is yes, of course, why wouldn't it?

You pulled your pajama shirt over your head, trying to remember when you had set them out before work in the morning. Even if you couldn't remember, you were grateful all the same.

Next stop was the kitchen, and you were digging through your fridge for your leftovers. You paused suddenly, hand ghosting over red. "When did I buy a pomegranate?" you whispered.

With a deep breath, you shrugged it off. Sleep deprivation causes forgetfulness too, right?

Settling in front of the TV, plate in hand, you pulled the blanket tighter around you. You eyed the open window, making a note to shut it before you went to bed. The apartment was dark, the only light coming from your show and the lone streetlight outside your window.

You let the darkness consume you. Let it take away the stress of work, the stress of fear, the stress of life. For a moment, it was just you and the darkness. Nothing else. And what else mattered?

You didn't flinch when the last streetlight sputtered out, though your eyes snapped to the still open window. Your brows furrowed at the single crow perched on your windowsill, beady eyes glinting an eerie red in the night. In your fingers, you rolled around a discarded pen cap you'd found on your coffee table, watching the bird carefully. "Crows like shiny things, right?" You tossed the pen cap at it, which it caught in its beak with a quiet caw of approval.

Your phone buzzed on the table and you could just barely make out the yellow warning sign icon. More Praedator sightings. You were faintly aware that you needed to close the window, but the couch was so warm and comfortable and you were so tired. Your eyelid were heavy, already falling shut.

You shifted uncomfortably when the mutter of the TV quieted, but unease soon gave way to drowsiness. You were so tired. So tired and sleep deprived that you imagined there was someone there, cradling you close and carrying you to bed.

With a phantom kiss to your forehead, you wished you could have sweet dreams like this every night.

The shrill ring of your alarm had you jolting to sit up in bed. Something in the back of your mind screamed that this was not how it was when you'd fallen asleep, but the voice at the front of your mind was focused on how you were going to be late for work.

You scrambled to get your clothes on, running out the door without a glance to your kitchen counter top, or the datura flower that rested there.

You boarded the bus with a quiet nod to the driver, expecting more warnings like last night. When no warning or friendly conversation came, you finally looked at his face. In place of worn wrinkles and kind eyes was a youthful face and tired gaze.

"What happened to…?"

"Injury," he answered absentmindedly. "Praedator attack or something. I'm taking over his route 'til he gets better." You nodded slowly, starting down the narrow aisle. "If he gets better," the driver added.

You shivered. Was it naïve of you to think it all a hoax? Was it just wishful thinking? If your kind bus driver could get attacked, whose to say you aren't next?

The bus creaked and groaned along the path and you found yourself eyeing the other passengers. There weren't many on the bus today, which probably explained why no one sat around you. You recognized almost everyone, the same few people making their usual morning commute.

There were only two you couldn't place. The ones sitting closest to you. Twins, from the looks of it, though the bottom halves of their faces were hidden by black and silver masks. You couldn't help but shift in your seat at the look in their eyes, the foreboding tangible.

As the bus pulled to a stop, you found yourself glancing over your shoulder. No one stood when you did. No one followed you out.

A deep breath.

It's just baseless paranoia.

Your office building was… quiet. Peaceful. Which may have been your bias leaking through since your least favorite coworker was gone, but you'll take what you can get.

Your desk, organized and pristine, had a single steaming coffee cup sat in the middle. You grinned, dropping your bag at your chair before seeking out your coworker.

She looked up from her files as you approached. "Hey, what's up?" She smiled.

"I just wanted to thank you for the coffee," you explained. "I can pay you back, if you like?"

She furrowed her brows. "I didn't buy you coffee this morning."

"But…" you faltered. "Then who?"

She shrugged. "Maybe you have a secret admirer," she snickered.

You nodded numbly, walking away with a weak wave. Back at your desk, you examined the coffee carefully. No name written on it. Your order was messily scrawled along the side, exactly as you get it. You eyed it suspiciously before taking a hesitant sniff. Nothing entirely out of the ordinary. Finally, you lifted the cup up, scanning the bottom of it. Your blood ran cold at the sight of the harsh yet elegant handwriting.

You trust too easily, dove.

Careful. You never know who's waiting to shut the cage.

You chucked the cup in the trashcan, hands trembling. Your computer pinged with an email.

POSSIBLY SPAM:

That's not very nice, dove. Is this really how you treat your Protector?

No matter. I'll receive your gratitude in person soon enough.

Your heart pounded in your ears. You snatched up your bag, shoes scratching against the carpet as you raced to your boss's door. The knock hardly sounded before you were pushing the door open, an air of panic sticking around you. "I'm sick," you choked out. "I'll be going home now."

"You look it," your boss chuckled. "Get some proper rest. I hope I'll see you back to work soon."

Another blank nod from you and you were out the door, feeling more detached than ever. Your eyes were downcast, watching one foot in front of the other. No bus could pick you up now, you noted numbly. You'd have to walk.

The streets were empty, the silence eerie. No buzz of crowds going from store to store, no laughter of children too young to be in school. You quickened your pace trying to shake off the feeling of eyes on your back. If you strained, you could almost hear heavy footfalls behind you.

But every time you'd turn, the street would be empty.

You pulled your bag tighter. "I will not be a fucking horror movie victim," you muttered.

Your apartment building was quiet. Go figure. Your uneven breath felt too loud in the stairwell, though even that was preferable to the silence. Your door pushed open easily, too easily, no sticking. You stepped in cautiously. It was dark, your blinds drawn shut, though you don't remember closing them. The door clicked shut behind you.

Your fingers, hovering over the light switch, twitched in anticipation. You took a deep breath. Tried to fight off the overwhelming feeling that you weren't alone. Failed. Shut your eyes tight and flicked on the light switch.

Maybe you were expecting something immediate. A warm body close by. A gunshot. The floor opening up and swallowing you whole.

Instead you were met with something worse: a calm silence. Acceptance.

You opened your eyes slowly, cautiously not all surprised at the unfamiliar glint of metal and leather in the corner of your living room.

The man sitting in your home was large, but the space he took up felt larger. The air felt tighter as his gaze flitted over you almost lazily. He stood carefully, eyes never leaving yours, chains clinking together in the silence. Completely still, just like him, you didn't know what to do next, what he would do next.

You let your gaze drag over him. His tight leather pants that looked anything but comfortable, his uncovered torso that exposed rippling muscles and half-hidden tattoos. You swallowed. This would be how you die.

The flap of wings beside you had you flinching hard, head snapping to find the source. A crow. Shiny pen cap in hand— er, beak. The same shiny pen cap, in fact, that you had tossed to a crow just last night. You leaned closer, noticing the shine of metal beneath layers of feathers, noticing your own handiwork in the repairs of the left wing. You raised your hand slowly, hovering just before the crow, but he inched closer and nestled himself in your warmth.

"You're too generous, little dove." The deep gravel of his voice, a warning and a promise all in one, had your eyes drifting up to meet his own again. His steps were as heavy as his gaze, eyes molten and boots thudding against hardwood. He stopped just in front of you, shadow overtaking you.

You took a shaky step back. He took a step closer, just barely invading your space, keeping a distance between you that he could close in an instant.

"It's alright, though," he murmured. "I'm greedy enough for the both of us." He grinned then, all teeth and sharp edges.

You shivered. Another step back. You didn't miss the way his gaze hardened, though his smile never dropped.

"After all I've done for you," he snarled. "This is how you repay me?" He stepped forward. You stepped back, your back hitting the wall roughly. "I've protected you every day." Another step closer. There was no where for you to run. "Ever since I first saw you. Since you repaired Mephisto's wing all that time ago."

The crow ruffled its feathers. The man's heat was beginning to seep into you, though he hadn't touched you yet. You braced yourself for its inevitability.

"Four hundred seventy-four days. Eleven thousand three hundred and seventy-six hours, all devoted to you. And you greet me with fear?" His hand came up beside your head, body towering over you, caging you in. His other hand ran featherlight over your arm. His breath fanned across your cheeks. "But then," he hummed, "maybe you should be scared."

Your breath shook, wanting nothing more than to shrink away from his fiery gaze. "What do you want?" you breathed.

"I thought that was obvious." His hand drifted up to brush his knuckles across the apple of your cheek. "I want you, little dove. You're mine. Have been since I first saw you." A sharp inhale and his hand was fully cupping your cheek now. "It's alright if you don't understand yet. You will. Eventually."

You gripped his wrist, ignoring the way his lips ticked up at the contact. You pulled away from him, skin burning where his hand slipped away. "I'm not yours," you spat. "And 'all you've done for me?' What exactly have you done? That list begins and ends with you breaking into my apartment."

He barked out a laugh, sharp and metallic. "Oh, my naïve little dove." His gaze was cold as his fingers traced along the column of your neck. "All I've done for you… I've chased away pests. Those that thought they could hurt what's mine. Take what's mine. Those insignificant people on the street, on the bus, in your office. The Praedators that dared to get too close in their hunts. All gone. All for you."

Your eyes widened, dropping to his gloved hand ghosting your neck. On the black leather, you could faintly make out splotches of a deep red…

Just like his eyes. Bright, intense, hiding much more than you cared to know.

"When I first saw you, wide-eyed and innocent, helping my Mephisto, I knew I had to have you," he chuckled. "You were just so sweet." His tone dropped deliberately. "I don't get a lot of sweet things in my life. You were so— so vulnerable. So many people out there, wanting to hurt you. So I simply… got rid of them."

You stared up at him, voice trembling. "But why?" Why all this? Why now? Why you, of all people?

He smirked, cutting and predatory, before he flicked the lights off again. The darkness consumed you both, heavy and hiding the darkness that lied in the man before you. He pressed into your legs, the warmth of him bleeding into your body. He pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips, hot breath falling into your mouth and mingling with your poorly stifled gasps.

His hand, large, rough, and calloused, wrapped around your throat. Tight enough to keep you still, to let you know just who was in charge, but gentle enough to make sure you knew you wouldn't be hurt. That is, if you behaved as he wanted. His hand felt every bit a collar, something trapping you, a symbol of ownership.

"I already told you," he said softly. "You belong to me, little dove. I don't intend to let anyone take you away from me, not even you."

🎃 Happy Halloween, my loves! Stay safe! <3

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