a fake dating au with athlete ellie williams & shy fem!reader.
𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙲𝚄𝚁𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙻𝚈 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚉𝙴𝚁𝙾 𝚄𝙽𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝙳𝚁𝙰𝙵𝚃𝚂.
she smells like summer: sunscreen, sweat, weed and freshly cut grass that combine into something heady. you smell like panic: shared strawberries, cigarette smoke, sweet ice cream and secrets that crawl under your skin and find a home for themselves there. and yes, maybe you did bring this on yourself, but hey— in your defence, the emails were never meant to be sent.
featuring accidentally-sent emails, slowburn romance, gold chains, soccer practices, shared joints, an inescapable santa barbara heatwave, a ferris wheel and a fake dating plot that won't stop thickening. don't forget your aftersun- this is a summer that'll leave a burn.
aka a hefty slowburn fake dating oneshot featuring soccer!ellie and shy fem!reader. college au. eventual smut.
a fake dating au with athlete ellie williams & shy fem!reader.
𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙲𝚄𝚁𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙻𝚈 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚉𝙴𝚁𝙾 𝚄𝙽𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝙳𝚁𝙰𝙵𝚃𝚂.
she smells like summer: sunscreen, sweat, weed and freshly cut grass that combine into something heady. you smell like panic: shared strawberries, cigarette smoke, sweet ice cream and secrets that crawl under your skin and find a home for themselves there. and yes, maybe you did bring this on yourself, but hey— in your defence, the emails were never meant to be sent.
featuring accidentally-sent emails, slowburn romance, gold chains, soccer practices, shared joints, an inescapable santa barbara heatwave, a ferris wheel and a fake dating plot that won't stop thickening. don't forget your aftersun- this is a summer that'll leave a burn.
aka a hefty slowburn fake dating oneshot featuring soccer!ellie and shy fem!reader. college au. eventual smut.
݈݇— pairings: The Creature(2025) x Reincarnated!reader
݈݇— themes: Interview With The Vampire meets Pride and Prejudice. 1800s Era, Gothic Romance, Reincarnation, Time Skip, Social Divide, Timeless Love, First Sight Fascination. No use of y/n.
݈݇— summary: Adam is 208 years old and society has been a lot less cruel and more accepting as years add up to him. An aspiring journalist interviews him about the journal she found in her basement.
A/N: The greatest ideas always do come when you do something random like brushing your teeth LOL.
The McKay mansion glowed as if it had been lit from within by a hundred little moons. Candlelight flooded the tall windows; garlands of ivy looped the stair rails; laughter and violins tangled in the air, bright as ribbon. Your sisters had been chattering since the carriage turned onto the drive—about who wore what, who said what, and, most especially, who Mr. Jack Blackwood had brought with him from town.
“Four in his party,” one whispered, peeking from behind her fan. “And one of them a mystery—taller than a church door.”
“Possibly handsomer than Mr. Blackwood himself,” another declared, as if this were treason and delight in equal measure.
You smiled and let their words float past like confetti. You had heard the talk: Mr. Blackwood was handsome, wealthy, agreeable, and—according to the married ladies—uncommonly attentive.
He had been paying calls upon your family for a fortnight now, and he never missed an opportunity to ask after your preferences: book or promenade, tea or chocolate, waltz or country set.
You liked him very well, and that was the trouble. You liked him in the comfortable way of a well-aired room. There was nothing to push your pulse, nothing to trip your step. Liking was respectable; it was not the sudden quiet that fell in the heart when something true walked in.
A footman announced Mr. Blackwood’s arrival, and a small shiver passed through the crowd—ladies lifting their chin feathers, gentlemen squaring their shoulders as if their jackets fit better that way.
Mr. Blackwood entered with three friends at his back, every one of them perfectly arrayed. He cut a fine figure in black and silver, his half-mask leaving his smiling mouth visible, his eyes crinkling the way eyes do when a man is accustomed to being liked.
Behind him came the taller figure.
For a moment he seemed to take up all the candles at once, as though wax and wick and flame leaned toward him.
He wore a full mask—plaster white with a faint sheen, plain as an unmarked moon. The mask hid everything but his eyes, which were dark and solemn beneath the edge, an expression you could not read and yet felt, oddly, as if you ought to answer. Broad shoulders, careful hands, a stillness that drew the eye more surely than any peacock’s strut. He had the look of a man built for work rather than drawing rooms, and yet there was an air about him—an intentness, as though he listened even when no one spoke.
The ton noticed. Heads tipped. Fans fluttered. A murmur went skipping like a stone across a pond: Who is he?
Mr. Blackwood made the circuit with cheerful economy, delivering bows and compliments the way a good steward dispenses coin—freely, with a knack for leaving everyone pleased. When at last he reached your family, he took your mother’s hand with warm civility, greeted your sisters by name, and allowed his gaze to rest upon you for a heartbeat longer than was strictly required.
“And here,” he said, turning slightly, “is a gentleman I am honoured to present. Adam Franken—Pardon me, he prefers just Adam.” He clapped the tall man’s shoulder with a friendly authority. “My best man in business.”
“An employee,” the masked man said softly, as if accuracy mattered more than appearances.
His voice surprised you—low and careful, shaped like a thought before it became sound. He bowed. It was not the polished dip of the ballroom but something almost solemn; his large hand open, his head bent as if the gesture genuinely meant something.
“Mr. Adam,” your mother repeated, pleased to put any title before a name. “We are happy to make your acquaintance.”
Adam raised his head. Those dark eyes considered each of you in turn.
When they came to you, you forgot, briefly, the proper use of air. Your breath caught and then—pride warring with curiosity—you set it free again and looked away with studied indifference.
It should have ended there: introductions, a set, the usual compliments about the weather and the musicians.
But a country dance began at once, and Mr. Blackwood—ever attentive—offered you his arm. You accepted, because you liked him; because to refuse him publicly would have been unkind; because it cost you nothing to be graceful.
The violins rose. Couples arranged themselves like chess pieces that meant to be kind rather than cruel. Partners bowed; hands brushed.
Mr. Blackwood danced as he did everything—well, reliably, with a smile you need not worry about keeping. He spoke lightly of the room, the harvest, a book he claimed to have seen in your hand on Tuesday (he was right; he remembered), and he made you laugh once at a remark about gentlemen who wore spurs only to sit. Your sisters, arranged elsewhere in the set, sent you looks of triumph. Your mother glowed.
When the pattern of the dance required a change, you moved apart and then together, and then apart again. Somewhere in the turn and clap and graceful crossing of the floor, your middle sister took the hand of the masked man, and you caught, from the corner of your eye, how he seemed to measure each step and then offer it as if steps were gifts. He did not chatter.
He concentrated the way boys do when learning to tie a knot they intend to trust their weight to.
Another figure; another turn. The chain of hands drew you lightly along, until you faced him.
It was as if the room narrowed. Candlelight grew soft around the edges, and the noise of talk thinned to a hush that existed only between the two of you.
You looked up—because there was no other way to meet that height—and met his eyes. They were nearer now, and gentler than they had seemed across the room. The mask made his gaze more striking; the darkness beneath its edge made his attention feel particular, and you were suddenly aware of your own pulse in your wrist where your glove met your sleeve.
You sank into the step; he moved to meet you—and, in that second, his boot came down upon your toe.
You winced. “Ah!”
He recoiled as if stung. “Forgive me,” he said at once. “I do not dance often.”
“I have had worse injuries from my little cousins,” you said lightly, unwilling to see him so troubled. “Please, do not look so distressed.”
Some tension left his shoulders. “I would never wish to hurt you,” he said quietly.
Warmth rose in your cheeks. “Then let us keep peace between our feet.”
A small spark touched his eyes. “I shall count the steps more carefully.”
“Care alone will not do,” you said, following the next turn. “The heart of dancing is to let the music guide you.”
He inclined his head. “My thoughts often run ahead of me, like a hound. They return when called, though not always at once.”
The image surprised you into a laugh. “And are you skilled at keeping such a hound in line?”
“I try,” he said earnestly. “But mine runs very fast.”
Your laughter came again, softer now. “Then we shall catch it together. Follow my lead.”
“Gladly,” he murmured.
The pattern required your hands to meet. His palm dwarfed yours, but his touch was light—careful, as if he handled delicate things for a living and feared to startle them.
He stepped when you stepped; when you turned, he watched your shoulders rather than your feet, learning you as a map rather than a set of instructions. Most men insisted upon leading even when their sense was poor; this man permitted your guidance as though it were the most natural offer in the world.
“You do not dance often?” you asked, when the circle loosened enough for words.
“I walk,” he said. “I lift; I carry. I place things where they should be and keep them from harm. The floor does not usually need adornment.”
“The floor is kind,” you said. “It will forgive you.”
He looked down as though the floor were an old friend. “Then I am grateful,” he said so seriously that you had to bite back another laugh. The edges of his eyes warmed, as if he noticed and was pleased.
“Mr. Blackwood calls you his best man in business,” you said, teasing gently. “He means to boast of you, I think.”
“Mr. Blackwood is generous,” he said. “He gives me honest work and treats me well.”
“You speak as if fairness were rare.”
“It is rarer than one hopes,” he said softly. “But easier to find than despair, if one keeps trying.”
“You are persistent then?”
“I am alive,” he said, almost to himself. Then he seemed to think he had spoken too plainly. “Forgive me. I am not skilled in idle talk.”
“I have little fondness for idle talk myself,” you said. “It brings nothing back with it.”
“And what should it bring?”
“A better question,” you said with a faint smile. “Or a kinder silence.”
He thought about that. “A kinder silence,” he repeated. “What does that sound like?”
“Like understanding,” you said quietly. “Like being seen, not displayed.”
He looked at you for a moment. “Then I hope I am not loud to you.”
“Not loud,” you said. “Steady.”
A faint warmth touched beneath his mask, and though you could not see the full of it, you felt the change in the air between you.
The dance carried you apart again, and then the pattern drew you back. He took greater care with his steps now—counting, yes, but trusting you to guide him. When the set required the ladies to cross, you caught, through the shifting figures, Mr. Blackwood’s glance in your direction. He was speaking to a trio of matrons, his smile easy, his posture relaxed—waiting, but not really yearning.
“You laugh with your eyes,” Adam said when you returned to him.
“Do I?” You tried to sound composed. “And how does one do that?”
“By keeping the rest of the face calm,” he said, almost shy. “But the eyes do not obey.”
“You sound as though you have studied them.”
“I study most things that refuse to obey,” he said, and the answer made your pulse stir. If you had been less properly raised—or if this had been a different sort of gathering—you might have asked what else he had learned to handle so carefully.
“Tell me,” you said instead, “if you do not dance, what do you enjoy?”
“Work that is honest,” he said after a pause. “And words on a page. They wait for me. I can take them apart and put them back again. Often they are better after.”
“You read,” you said warmly.
“I learn,” he corrected. “Books are patient. They repeat themselves without complaint.”
“Which are your favourites?”
“Plutarch,” he said. “He speaks clearly of what is noble and what is not. A little astronomy, though it makes me lift my head at night—and that is good for any man. And—” He hesitated. “Poems. I do not always understand them, but I keep them. They hold their shape, even in the dark.”
You faltered for half a heartbeat, though the rhythm carried you on. “Poems kept in the dark,” you said softly. “That is exactly what they are for.”
“Then I have not mistaken them,” he said, sounding almost relieved.
“Not at all,” you said gently.
The violins slid toward the end of the set, slow and sweet as a curtain drawn. The figure of the dance ceased its mischief; partners did not swap again. You stood before him for the final bow. He inclined himself—not showy, not practiced, but sincere—and something in that simplicity made your chest ache.
“I have not thanked you,” he said. “For your patience. And for forgiving my clumsy foot.”
“I am repaid,” you said, “by seeing how well you have learned.”
He glanced down at his shoes, as if they deserved the praise. “I shall try to stay in their favour.”
“Do,” you said with a smile. “The floor remembers its enemies.”
“That must be why I heard it warn me,” he said with such seriousness you laughed again.
The music ended. Applause rippled through the room. Conversation swelled. You should have gone to your sisters, or to Mr. Blackwood, but you lingered, your hand still in Adam’s, unwilling to disturb the quiet you had found—a silence that felt whole, not empty.
He seemed to feel it too. He did not move closer; he did not retreat. He simply stood there, steady, waiting.
“Will you dance another?” he asked at last, and you heard how carefully he spoke, as if unsure you might say yes.
You should have refused—for manners, for appearances—but you looked across the floor and saw Mr. Blackwood, pleasant and polite, already turning toward an eager cousin. He was good, and would remain good. But your heart reached elsewhere—to the man before you, whose hands had held your steps as though you were something fragile and rare.
“I will,” you said.
He did not boast or beam. He only nodded, as if you had entrusted him with something precious. “Then I shall try,” he said, “to let the music guide me.”
“And if your hound runs?” you teased softly.
He looked almost—almost—mischievous. “You will help me call it back.”
“I will,” you promised.
The musicians lifted their bows. Couples formed again. Somewhere, your sisters were whispering; somewhere, your mother’s fan fluttered. Mr. Blackwood’s gaze found you, then passed on, all grace and good humour. He would be fine. And so, perhaps, would you.
× × × ×
The air in the garden was cooler than the ballroom, the night brushed with the scent of lilacs and damp stone. Lanterns glowed along the path like patient stars, and the murmur of other couples drifted through the hedges—soft laughter, polite flirtations, the clink of a dropped fan. The music inside had become a distant memory, a pulse beneath the dark.
You walked beside Adam along the gravel, the rhythm of your steps as easy as the quiet between you. He did not fill it with needless words; instead, he seemed to listen—to the wind in the leaves, to the soft crunch of your shoes, perhaps even to your thoughts.
“Do you always prefer the open air after a dance?” he asked at last.
“When I can steal it,” you said, smiling faintly. “The rooms grow warm with too much chatter. Out here, people seem more honest.”
He nodded. “Walls have ears. Trees have hearts. The choice is clear.”
You looked at him, surprised into another small smile. “You have a poet’s way of thinking.”
He hesitated. “I have read enough to borrow one, perhaps.”
Ahead, laughter burst—a young couple, breathless with mischief, racing around the fountain in the center of the walk. The girl’s skirts caught the moonlight like wings; the gentleman reached to steady her, but she twisted free, her giggle sharp and thoughtless. They veered too close.
Before you could step aside, the lady collided against Adam’s shoulder. The jolt was enough to loosen the ribbon that tied his mask. It slipped, struck the gravel, and lay there—white against the dark.
Adam froze. His hand rose halfway, then stopped. A quiet, terrible panic crossed his posture, subtle but unmistakable.
“Forgive me,” he breathed, and turned his face sharply away. His fingers covered his features, trembling slightly. “Please—look away.”
You blinked, startled. “It is only a mask. You need not—”
“Please,” he said again, firmer this time. “Do not look at me. I am… I am not as others are. I’m hideous.”
The couple who had caused it were already gone, their laughter vanishing into the hedges. You shot them a hard glance they could not see and then looked back at him, torn between curiosity and care.
“I did not mean to startle you,” you said gently. “But I assure you, you have nothing to fear from me.”
He shook his head, keeping his palm pressed to the side of his face. “You are kind. But it is better this way.” His voice was steady, but the quiet beneath it carried shame, old and heavy.
Something inside you ached at the sound. You turned your head obediently aside, staring at the lanternlight glinting on the gravel.
“Very well,” you said softly. “I will not look.”
For a long moment there was only the hush of the garden and the faint tremor of his breath. You heard the rustle of fabric—the sound of him kneeling, perhaps, to retrieve the mask. A scrape of ribbon. The faint snap of the knot drawn tight again.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “I did not wish for you to see what frightens others.”
“Do you truly believe I would be frightened?”
“I believe it is disrespectful to ask you to prove it,” he said simply.
The honesty of it pierced you. You turned your face halfway toward him, though you still kept your eyes lowered.
“You speak as if you have had cause to hide often.”
“I have,” he admitted. “There are those who think a man’s worth is written upon his face.”
“And you disagree?”
“I must,” he said. “Else I should have none.”
You looked up then, despite yourself. The mask was back in place, though slightly crooked; the ribbon had caught a strand of his hair. The sight moved you in a way that words could not reach.
“Then they are blind,” you said quietly. “For worth can be seen in how a man behaves, not in how he appears.”
He seemed uncertain how to answer, his hands folding before him. “You speak with a grace I do not deserve.”
“Then consider it a gift,” you said. “One that costs me nothing.”
He lowered his gaze, as though the words were too fine to meet directly. The garden was very still; only the fountain’s whisper filled the pause between you.
You took a step closer—slowly, so he might draw back if he wished—but he did not move.
Your hand rose before you realised it, a quiet motion born of something gentler than thought. Your gloved fingers brushed the edge of his mask, tracing it like one might trace a scar upon marble. The touch was light as breath, meant not to lift but to soothe.
He stilled. You felt his breath catch beneath your palm. Beneath the cool plaster, the faint warmth of his skin reached you through the thin air between.
“The world,” you said softly, your voice hardly above a whisper, “has not been kind to you.”
His reply came after a long silence. “No,” he said at last. “But you are.”
Your hand lingered there another moment, the space between mask and skin trembling with something neither of you could name.
Then, slowly, you let it fall.
He seemed to draw strength from the release rather than the touch, standing taller now, as if your gentleness had given him breath instead of pity.
The bell from the house sounded again, faint and far. You turned toward it, but he spoke once more.
“Thank you,” he said. “For looking at me as if I were not a mistake.”
You met his eyes through the mask. “You are not,” you said simply. “And I will not have you believe it.”
He bowed his head slightly, the smallest motion, reverent as any vow.
“Shall we return?” you asked.
“In a moment,” he said. “I should like to remember this—before the lights and noise remind me who I am.”
And so you did stay—standing there amid lantern glow and lilacs, the fountain murmuring secrets meant only for two souls who had, at last, found a little kindness in each other.
× × × ×
It's been days.
The rain had begun again by morning—soft, silvery, and content to linger. The house was filled with the sounds of domestic calm: the gentle tapping of rain against glass, the distant creak of floorboards, and the faint melody of a pianoforte in the room.
Your youngest sister sat at the instrument, her fingers moving with more enthusiasm than precision. The tune wavered like a bird unsure of its wings. Across from her, your other sister sat near the hearth, a novel open in her lap, the pages tilted toward the firelight. Your mother sat beside the window with her embroidery hoop, her needle flashing neatly through the fabric.
You stood near the same window, unable to be still. Your reflection moved faintly in the glass as you paced before it—five steps one way, five steps back again.
“Stop pacing like a ghost,” your mother said without looking up. The needle flashed once more through the cloth. “You are making me dizzy.”
Your sister at the piano missed a note and laughed. “She has something on her mind, Mama.”
“Clearly,” their mother murmured. She set her embroidery aside and finally lifted her gaze. “If something troubles you, child, it is better to speak of it than wear a hole in my carpet.”
You paused, your hand brushing the curtain. “I cannot stop thinking about him.”
At once, the youngest sister straightened, her fingers slipping from the keys.
“Who?” she asked, turning in her seat, her whole face alight with curiosity.
You hesitated, your teeth grazing your thumbnail before the words escaped you. “That boy. Adam.”
The room seemed to still for a moment, the piano’s last note hanging in the air like a held breath.
Your sister with the book lowered it slightly, her brows lifting. “Mr. Blackwood’s companion?”
You nodded once, not trusting your voice.
Your youngest sister broke the hush with a bright laugh, turning fully in her seat. “Oh yes! I saw you dancing together,” she exclaimed, eyes shining. “You looked entirely bewitched by a man whose face you have not even seen.”
You turned sharply toward her, though her teasing grin softened the sting. “Do not be ridiculous,” you said, though a faint warmth crept into your cheeks. “He makes a fine man—humble, and endearingly funny.”
Your mother’s needle paused mid-air. She lifted her gaze at that, one brow arched in quiet alarm.
“A fine man, perhaps,” she said carefully, “but if he works under Mr. Blackwood, then he is not of our class. You would do well to remember what such differences mean in the world we live in.”
You opened your mouth, but she continued, setting her embroidery aside. “To marry beneath one’s station is not romantic, my dear—it is ruinous. A woman may find charm in humility when she is young, but poverty quickly steals its sweetness. You would suffer.”
The words hung heavy in the air.
Your youngest sister’s smile faltered; even the turning of book pages had gone still.
Your mother sighed, softer now. “Mr. Blackwood has made his interest plain. He is respectable, wealthy, and good-mannered. Do not be unwise, my dear. The heart is easily deceived by sympathy.”
You looked down at your hands, the ghost of that night’s dance still alive in your memory—the sound of his voice, the care in his touch. For a moment, you could almost feel the his palm again through the glove.
“Perhaps,” you said quietly. “But I cannot help thinking there is more to him than the world chooses to see.”
Before your mother could reply, you turned sharply from the window, your skirts whispering in your wake.
“Where are you going?” she demanded, half-rising.
“To see Mr. Blackwood!” you called back, the words spilling out before you could think better of them. It was only half the truth, and you knew it.
“In this weather?” her mother cried. “Come back here this instant!”
But you were already halfway down the hall, the echo of your footsteps scattering through the house. The front doors loomed ahead, the rain silver against the glass.
Behind you came the rush of your mother’s voice—“You hard-headed child!”—as you flung the doors open and stepped into the downpour.
The chill struck at once, biting and alive. Your skirts darkened, clinging to your legs as you ran for the stables. The stable boy, startled, tried to protest, but you were already taking hold of the reins, your fingers trembling not from cold but from something restless and ungoverned.
The horse stamped once, uneasy, but you mounted with practiced haste and kicked off into the wet gray light.
Behind you, the front doors banged open again. “Come back here this instant!” your mother shouted, her voice lost in the sound of hooves and storm. “You will catch your death, you stubborn girl!”
You did not look back.
× × × ×
The road blurred with rain, hedges running past like green ghosts. The sky pressed low, the air heavy with the scent of wet earth and pine. When at last the trees parted, you saw it: the Blackwood timber yard, sprawling and half-shrouded in mist.
Stacks of cut logs rose like barricades, men moved between them with axes and ropes, their coats slick with rain. The sound of chopping carried faintly through the downpour—deep, steady, rhythmic.
You dismounted, gathering your soaked skirts in one hand, your breath rising in clouds. The ground squelched beneath your boots as you strode forward.
Mr. Blackwood emerged from one of the sheds, a dark umbrella blooming above his head. Surprise flickered across his face when he recognized you.
“My lady—what on earth—?” He hastened toward you, lifting the umbrella to shield you from the worst of the rain. “What brings you here?”
You caught your breath, pushing a strand of wet hair from your cheek. “I wish to see Adam.”
He blinked. “You… wish to see Adam?” A baffled laugh escaped him. “Forgive me, my lady, but—Adam?”
“Yes,” you said firmly. “Is he here?”
Blackwood shifted awkwardly, glancing toward the far end of the yard. “Well, I—he may be, though this is hardly the place for—” He stopped himself, shaking his head slightly. “It is raining, milady.”
“I do not mind.”
“Evidently,” he muttered, eyeing your drenched gown before sighing. “Very well. But—please, allow me to—”
Before he could finish, your gaze had already fixed on a familiar figure in the distance: tall as a ladder, long dark hair with that white streak, moving with deliberate grace even beneath the rain. His coat was dark, his hair damp, his sleeves rolled to the elbow as he lifted a timber beam from a cart with startling ease.
“Adam,” you breathed.
“My lady—wait,” Blackwood said quickly, stepping in front of you, his hand catching your wrist. “Just—wait.”
You pulled slightly, startled by the urgency in his voice. “What is it?”
But you didn’t wait for an answer. Your heart had already leapt ahead of reason.
You brushed past him, lifting your skirts from the mud. The rain struck your face like a challenge.
“Adam!” you called out, your voice ringing over the steady rhythm of the rain and work.
He did not turn.
You took another step forward, your pulse racing. “Are you Adam?” you shouted again, louder this time, your voice cutting through the gray veil of rain.
At last he stopped. The movement of his hands stilled; the beam slipped from his grasp with a muted thud. The sound of chopping faded, one by one, until even the rain seemed to quiet in its fall.
Slowly—almost unwillingly—he turned.
The hood of his coat hung heavy with rain, his hair plastered darkly to his forehead. The white of his mask was gone; it lay forgotten.
You could not move.
The world shrank to the space between you. His face was a map of pain and patience both: the faint ridges of scar where life had been sewn back into a man’s shape, the pallor of skin that seemed almost carved from marble, veins tracing faint blue beneath. And yet his eyes—his eyes were human. Deep, uncertain, waiting for judgment he had learned to expect.
You let the sight of him sink in, your heart staggering to catch its rhythm again. He stood motionless, rain running down his cheeks like tears that would not fall on their own.
Behind you, Mr. Blackwood sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, weary rather than cruel—as though he had seen this ending a dozen times and wished, for once, to be wrong.
Adam’s gaze flicked toward you, then fell to the ground. His voice, when it came, was hoarse. “I asked you not to look.”
You took a step closer. “And yet you turned to me.”
You shook your head, unable to find any proper words. For all your years of conversation and polish, nothing had prepared you for the rawness before you—the contradiction of strength and sorrow bound in one man’s frame.
When you spoke at last, your voice trembled like a candle in wind. “Who hurt you?”
He froze, as though he had expected every word but that one.
“I—” His breath caught. “I was made. That is hurt enough.”
You moved another step nearer, the mud tugging at your shoes, the rain plastering your gown against you. You were trembling, though not from the cold.
“No,” you said softly. “Someone taught you to believe that.”
He looked at you then, properly looked—his brow furrowed in disbelief, in something close to pain. The distance between you filled with rain and breath and something wordless that neither of you could name.
Blackwood stood a few paces behind, silent now, his umbrella useless against what had begun to unfold.
“I am not what you think,” Adam said quietly.
You held his gaze. “Then let me be the one who decides what I think.”
“My lady,” Blackwood cut in, his tone low but urgent, “you truly should not be here. If your parents learn you where you’ve come—”
“I only wish to see him,” you said, the words unshaken despite the tremor in your chest. “To speak with him.”
Blackwood’s composure slipped; he leaned closer, his voice a sharp whisper against the rain. “He is not ready to be seen—not by society.”
“Then why bring him to the ball?” you demanded, your eyes flashing beneath the wet strands clinging to your face.
Blackwood hesitated, his mouth parting to form some practiced excuse—
“Because I asked,” Adam said, cutting through the storm and the silence alike.
Both you and Blackwood turned toward him. Adam’s voice was calm, but something fierce and steady burned beneath it.
“I wished to see what the world looks like when men forget to fear,” he said.
Adam’s words hung in the air, quiet but immense. Rain gathered in his hair and ran down the strong line of his jaw, dripping from his chin like beads of glass.
You stepped toward him before you could stop yourself. The world around you seemed to fade—the yard, the men, even Mr. Blackwood. There was only the steady sound of your breath and his.
“I am not afraid of you,” you said softly.
Something flickered in his eyes—pain, disbelief, a fragile hope that frightened him more than scorn ever could.
“You should be,” he murmured.
You shook your head. “You are no monster, Adam.”
He went still at the sound of his name on your lips. For a moment, his hand twitched, as if to reach for you. But then his jaw tightened, and the distance between you returned like a wall.
“Please,” he said hoarsely, taking a step back. “Do not come closer.”
Your heart sank. “Why?”
“Because this—” His breath broke, rain mixing with something rawer in his voice. “Whatever this is—cannot be. You will grow old, and I will not. I will remain what I am—half shadow, half sin. I would not curse you with that.”
You stared at him, the ache in your chest sharp and new. “You think your tragedy makes you unworthy of the possibility of being loved?”
“I know it,” he said simply.
The rain poured harder, the sound like applause for a heartbreak.
Behind you, Mr. Blackwood turned away slightly, giving what privacy he could.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, unable to look anywhere but him. “Then I pity the world,” you whispered, “if it cannot see what I see.”
For the briefest moment, he closed his eyes—as if your words had struck something deep and sacred within him. When he looked again, the decision was already made.
“Go,” he said softly, stepping back into the rain. “Before I forget myself and ask you to stay.”
He turned away, shoulders bowed, and you stood there—soaked, trembling, heart unsteady—watching the man the world called unnatural vanish into the mist like a fallen star that had refused to die.
× × × ×
2026
The recorder lay on the table between them, its red light blinking like a heartbeat. Outside, the rain drummed against the tall windows of the hotel lounge, same rhythm, same song it had played centuries ago.
She puts down an antiqued unfinished journal.
“So you walked away,” the woman said at last, leaning forward, elbows on the polished wood. Her voice was low but steady, more curious than accusing. “What became of her?”
Adam’s gaze shifted to the clock on the far wall. The gold hands ticked toward the hour with unhurried precision. “Did you not say we had only an hour?”
She blinked, caught off guard, then smiled faintly. “I did, yes. But… is that it? She just accepted it for what it was?”
He turned back to her then, his eyes older than the city around them, the kind of eyes that remembered the rain from another century. A small smile touched his mouth—tired, wistful.
He shook his head once.
“No, she swore one thing to me.”
The movement made her breath catch for reasons she could not name.
“Tell me more,” she said, her tone softening, “Please.”
He studied her for a long moment, and in the flicker of the lamp she seemed—just for an instant—to resemble another woman: the shape of her mouth, the fire in her eyes, the same patient fire. It was enough to still him.
“Perhaps,” he said finally, the ghost of that old rain in his voice, “some other time, my lady.”
you: fresh out the shower, sitting on a pillow in the living room, in front of the couch. sevika: perched on the couch, carefully detangling your hair and applying leave-in, mousse, gel, oil, anything your hair needs to maintain its natural texture. soft music playing in the background that you sing to as your girlfriend’s hands weave through your hair.
Seeing councilor sevika in the wild while you're wandering around topside. Seeing her later that night at a bar. You get up from your seat abd leave your friends at the table, heading for the bar where sevija is sat. You sit down right next to her, ordering a drink. You say hi,and she gruffly responds, somewhat surprised. She mentions you earlier that day. she buys you a drink.
the next time she sees you out and about, she gives you a little nod. You wonder how many times of bumping into her it will take to end up in her bed.
period? over. philosophy paper? in progress. girl? blogging. Alani? being sipped on (I don't think I like it I wish I got a latte but I thought I should try something new and I would throw it away but I need caffeine to finish this paper).
