ryn

20’s / writing fics for fun

[rynwrites4fun]

MASTERLIST | RYNWRITES4FUN

Hi! I’m Ryn. I write for fun. (Mostly self-indulgent fanfics when ideas pop into my head and I just have to get them out lol)

Please do not repost my work on other websites or social media. Reblogs are appreciated, but do not copy or upload my fics elsewhere without permission.

List of my fics below! Enjoy!

- Ryn

THE PITT

MICHAEL "ROBBY" ROBINAVITCH / JACK ABBOT

SERIES

ACROSS THE HALL | Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x F! Neighbor/Teacher Reader [Completed]

STILL | Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x F! Ex Reader [On going]

AFFINTY | Jack Abbot x F! Popstar [On going]

SLICE OF LIFE | Jack Abbot x F! Best Friends Sister Reader [On going]

HELPING HAND | Jack Abbot x F! Single Mother Reader [On Going]

SINGULAR FICS

BABY FEVER | Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x F! Wife

ANIMAL KINGDOM

ANDREW "POPE" CODY

SERIES

LOVE YOU ANYWAY | Andrew "Pope" Cody x F! Brother's Best Friend Reader [On going]

CONSTANT AS SCARS | Andrew "Pope" Cody x F! Paramedic/Friend Reader [On going]

SOUTHLAND

SAMMY BRYANT

SERIES

SAFETY | Sammy Bryant x F! Witness Reader [On going]

READY OR NOT 2: HERE I COME

TITUS DANFORTH

SERIES

TILL DEATH | Titus Danforth x F! Wife Reader [On going]

[rynwrites4fun]

No bc what do you MEAN Shawn Hatosy is going to be in New York City and he’s going to be on The Tonight Show on Thursday but I leave Tuesday?! 🫪🫠😭 (I swear EVERYTIME I’m visiting somewhere someone I like shows up right after. worst luck everrrrrr)

[rynwrites4fun]

YA GIRL IS OFFICIALLY ON SUMMER VACAY!!! I am free from my shackles and can finally update!!! Thank you being patient! I apologize!!!

[rynwrites4fun]

one more week of work then I’m off for the summer 🤩 can finally work on catching up on my fics 😭

Thanks for being patient!!!

[rynwrites4fun]

Can I please be added to the Till Death series?

yes yes 🙂‍↕️

[rynwrites4fun]

Safety update sometime this week!

[rynwrites4fun]

I miss Jack Abbot 🤧

[rynwrites4fun]

Till Death (3) | Titus Danforth x Reader

Titus Danforth x F! Wife Reader

Summary: Titus takes you out into the forest to train or what he calls “practice hunting” for Mr. Le Bail’s twisted games and rituals.

Words: 5712

Warning: Age Gap (No specified), Arranged Marriage/Marriage of Convenience, Dark Romance, Swearing, Physical altercation (tackling)

Author's note: Hey. It's been a minute omggg very sorry. I hope you all are well. I've got 3 weeks of work left then I’m off for the summer lol can't wait. Enjoy - Ryn

TILL DEATH | MASTERLIST

“Is this really necessary?” you ask through a yawn, your voice rough with sleep as you trail behind Titus through the forest bordering the hotel property.

The grass brushes against your shoes, slick with cold morning dew. Pale light filters weakly through the trees, not quite enough to warm anything yet.

You haven’t been out here in years, not since you, Titus, and Ursula used to disappear into these forests as kids, playing around and daring each other deeper between the trees. 

Titus had dragged you out of bed before sunrise to begin training, what he called “practice hunting”, for Mr. Le Bail’s twisted version of hide and seek.

You’ve heard the stories. That particular game is rare, almost once in a blue moon, lasting from dusk until dawn. And when it does happen, it’s nothing short of a bloodbath—gory, chaotic, something you want no part of. But being married into the Danforth family, and the wife of the Chair of the High Council, meant you didn’t really have a choice.

At your complaint, he whips around to face you. Irritation already carved into his expression.

“Yes,” he says sharply. “This is necessary.”

Sure, you could throw a punch when you had to. You could fight someone off if anger or desperation pushed you far enough. But that wasn’t the same as being prepared.

Titus needed more from you than that. Speed, sharper thinking, efficiency. Especially if there ever came a day when you had to play in any of Mr. Le Bail’s twisted games. 

Or worse…if something ever happened to him. If he lost his position, or had to fight to reclaim the ring and the Chair of the High Council. Anything could happen in their world. And in that kind of uncertainty, “good enough” wouldn’t be enough to survive it.

“But like now? At this hour? And outside? Couldn’t this be done in a gym or something?” you complain, swatting irritably at a mosquito circling your face.

All you want is to be back in bed or at the very least somewhere indoors instead of standing out here in the cold, half-awake and barely functioning.

“This isn’t about comfort,” he says. “It’s about readiness.”

He glances at you then, briefly enough to make sure you’re actually listening.

Titus exhales sharply through his nose, already losing patience.

“A gym doesn’t teach you how to survive,” he says.

He turns away from you again, gaze already scanning the treeline like it might move when he isn’t looking.

“Controlled environments make people soft. Predictable.”

“A gym has walls. Clean lines. Predictable space,” he continues. “Real situations don’t.”

Then he adds, sharper this time, “And Le Bail doesn’t care what time it is when he decides to play.”

“If anything ever happens ... .if the Council fractures, if I’m gone, if you’re the one standing in my place, you don’t get to wish you were ready.”

His gaze holds steady.

“You either are… or you’re not.”

The two of you step into a small clearing tucked between the trees. You stop instinctively, arms folded against the lingering morning chill, while Titus continues moving through the space, surveying it with quiet purpose like he’s already planning something.

You spot a pine cone near your shoe and nudge it around the dirt absentmindedly, already bored waiting for Titus to give you directions. 

After another minute, you bend down and pick it up, turning it over in your hands before tossing it lightly into the air to entertain yourself.

One careless throw sends it flying farther than you meant—

Thunk.

It smacks Titus square in the back of the head.

Your eyes widen immediately. A sharp gasp escapes you before you quickly press your lips together, both hands slipping behind your back like that might somehow make you look less responsible.

The stare that follows is immediate—flat, unimpressed, and quietly annoyed.

You give him a small, awkward smile. The kind that already knows it’s in trouble.

“Sorry,” you mumble.

Titus exhales through his nose.

“Now is not the time to be fucking around, Pip. I’m serious.”

“I know, I know,” you say quickly. “I hear you.”

He holds your gaze for another second longer, then finally rolls his eyes and lets the pine cone fall from his fingers back onto the forest floor.

Silence settles again between you.

“Alright,” he says at last, stepping back into position. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously, not sure what he wanted you to do. 

“Run. I’ll give you a head start” 

You blink. “What?”

“I need to see your weaknesses so I know what to fix,” he says matter-of-factly. “How you think under pressure. How fast you react.” A pause. “So you hide… and I’ll seek.”

“Say if Mr. Le Bail’s game of hide-and-seek were to happen or another game…. ritual I don’t want to take part in. What would happen?” you ask. 

“Death.” Titus says bluntly. The word lands heavy.

“Right…” you say quietly after a beat. “Okay. Yeah, that was a stupid question.”

You let out a small breath, trying to steady yourself. “Well…” you swallow, hesitating as your voice trails off.

When it came down to it, the twisted version of hide and seek reduced everything to two choices: prey or predator. You either hunted, or you were hunted. Survival meant doing whatever it took including killing to come out alive.

“What are the rules of his version?”

“Usually, you get the full range of whatever property you’re on,” he explains. “But since this is only practice, we’re keeping it in the forest. Smaller area. Easier to control.”

He pauses, then adds, “You’re allowed one weapon of your choice, but I want to see how you manage without it first.”

“If the hider wins by killing all the seekers or simply surviving until dawn…the seekers die. But if the seekers manage to find and sacrifice the hider before sunrise, then they’re the ones who live.”

“That’s the basic version of the game,” he continues. “Mr. Le Bail switches it up sometimes. Changes conditions, adds variables. You never really know what you’re walking into”

“Okay…” you murmur with a small nod, trying to take in the rules despite the uneasy weight settling in your chest.

“I’ll give you a head start”

“How long?” you ask.

“A few minutes.” His gaze drifts toward the trees. “Use them wisely.”

You glance past him, deeper into the woods. Like the forest itself is waiting to see what you’ll do.

“And if you catch me?” you ask. 

“Then we start over,” he says simply. “The point is to teach you how to move, think, and survive under pressure. Panic gets people caught faster than anything else.”

His gaze drops to the watch on his wrist.

“Time starts now.”

Your breath catches.

Instinct has you backing away from him before your body fully processes the words. Titus lifts a brow, unimpressed by your hesitation.

“Come on, you’re wasting time, Move!”

The command snaps something into place.

You turn and bolt out of the clearing, branches scraping against your arms as you disappear deeper into the trees.

Every few seconds you glance over your shoulder to see if Titus is following, expecting to catch sight of him immediately.

But there’s nothing there.

You slow until your steps finally stop, chest rising and falling a little too fast, more from the run than anything else. The clearing feels distant now. Far enough that you assume, maybe, he’s not close behind you anymore.

You press a hand against a tree trunk to steady yourself, scanning the forest as your breathing evens out. 

“Okay…” you say quietly, like saying it out loud will make the next choice clearer.

You stay still for a moment, weighing nothing in particular and everything at once. Keep moving? Find cover? Circle back and risk it being seen? Your mind races through each possibility, trying to figure out what would actually keep you alive if this were real.

You drift toward a fallen log and crouch beside it. It’s an obvious hiding spot. Which immediately makes it feel like the wrong one.

Yeah. That’s the kind of thing Titus would spot in seconds and call out just as fast.

Staying here won’t help.

You step away from the log, eyes lifting back into the trees. If anything, standing still feels worse than making the wrong choice. At least moving means you’re not an easy target.

You keep moving. For a moment, you almost convince yourself you’re fine. That you have some time before he catches up. It doesn’t last long.

Titus finds you.

It happens too fast to process. One second there’s only the forest around you, the next he’s there. He cuts in from the side, crashing into you before you can even turn.

A sharp, startled sound tears out of you as the impact knocks you off your feet.

You hit the ground hard, dead leaves and dirt exploding up around you as you skid against the forest floor.

He stands over you like he didn’t just knock you flat like it was nothing.

“What the fuck, Titus?!”

You roll, pushing yourself up on your elbows, wincing as leaves stick to your palms and your back protests the impact.

He doesn’t offer you a hand. Instead, Titus looks down at you like you’ve already failed.

“You let your guard down,” he says flatly. “The second you stop paying attention, you’re dead. Never let it down.”

Your breath is still uneven, more from shock than pain. Leaves clinging to your shirt. “You knocked me out of nowhere.”

“That’s the point,” he cuts in immediately. No heat in his voice, just fact. “Out here, there is no ‘warning.’ There is no fair moment where someone announces themselves before they take you down.”

He steps back half a pace, finally giving you space but not comfort.

“Again,” he says.

Just that.

One word. No softness. No encouragement.

You let out a sharp huff through your nose and push yourself up. You brush dirt and dead leaves off your pants. Your palms sting a little from the impact, but you don’t look at them for long.

Instead, you reset your footing, shoulders rolling once as you try to shake off the hit.

“Fine,” you mutter under your breath. 

– 

The second time, you don’t move right away.

You wait for him.

He’s close…you can feel it.

You force yourself to stay still, refusing to flinch or make the first move. Seconds drag out painfully slow. Nothing. No sound, no movement, nothing except the tension winding tighter in your chest as you wait for him to strike.

Your focus locks onto one spot in the trees, certain that’s where he is hiding.

Then he moves.

Not from the direction you’re watching. Not from the place your attention is fixed.

You hear him a fraction too late. By the time your body reacts, your thoughts are already behind him. You try to adjust, to turn toward the movement, but the correction never fully lands.

Your balance is ripped out from under you.

The ground hits hard and fast, knocking the air from your lungs in a sharp burst. For a second, all you can register is the impact and the sick realization that you hadn’t even seen it coming properly.

“What was that?!” he snaps.

“I was paying attention,” you snap back before you can stop it.

You exhale through your teeth and push yourself up, irritation building. 

“No,” he says, voice rising. “You weren’t. You were waiting. There’s a difference.”

He doesn’t let the silence settle before continuing.

“You’re not reading the attack—you’re trying to predict it,” he says sharply. “You’re standing there waiting to figure out exactly when and where it’s coming from, like you’ve got time to gamble on being right.”

His eyes stay locked on you, cold and unblinking.

“You don’t.”

He exhales through his nose, like the answer is obvious and frustrating all at once.

“In a real situation, hesitation is what gets you killed,” he says. “You don’t wait for confirmation. You react to what’s actually happening—not what you think is about to happen.”

“Again” he demands. 

—

The third time, you don’t stand still at all.

You keep moving, eyes scanning through the trees, trying to stay unpredictable instead of reactive. Not waiting. Not letting him set the rhythm.

For a moment, it almost works like you’ve finally found some control.

Then your foot catches something half-buried under the leaves. Small. Barely anything. But it’s enough. Your stride breaks, just for a second, but that’s all it takes. Your momentum stutters, and you already know it’s over.

Titus is on you before you can recover.

The hit knocks the air out of you, and you go down yet again. 

“That was sloppy,” he says immediately.

A beat.

“At this rate, you don’t need an opponent,” he adds flatly. “You’ll end up killing yourself before anyone else gets the chance.”

You push yourself up, jaw tight, still catching your breath, already trying to reset.

Titus doesn’t ease up.

“You’re not tracking your movement,” he continues. “You’re just drifting through it. No control, no awareness. Like your body’s always a step behind your mind.”

A sharper pause.

“You have to be intentional with every move you make,” he says. “Every shift, every step, every breath. If you’re not choosing it, you’re already losing it.”

“Go again” he turns walking away.

—

The fourth time, you didn’t wait for him to come for you—you went for him.

You move first trying to seize control before he can take it from you. There’s no hesitation in it, no space for doubt. Just the idea that if you act before he does, you won’t end up behind him again.

He’s right there in front of you. Clear. Unaware. Like he hasn’t even registered you yet.

Your focus locks in. Finally,  

You go for it faster, more committed. No hesitation, no second-guessing. For a split second, it feels like it works. Like you’ve actually figured something out. This time you’re going to get him. 

Then a sound pulls at your attention something deeper in the forest, off to the side. Instinct drags your eyes away before you can stop it.

It’s only a second. When you look back, he’s gone.

And that’s when he gets you again.

Frustration sits heavy in your chest as you stay on the ground a beat too long, fingers curling into the dirt.

“You almost had me!” Titus says.

But this time there’s no edge of approval in it, no faint acknowledgment of progress. It lands flat, immediately followed by something worse.

He straightens halfway and his voice snaps up.

“Almost doesn’t mean anything out here!”

He takes a step closer, not offering a hand. Just standing there over you as you lay there. 

“You saw me!” he says louder now, frustration cutting clean through each word. “Right there in front of you! Clear as day and you still managed to fuck up your opportunity!”

Your jaw tightens. You don’t answer him. 

The irritation hits faster this time, sharper. Heat rises under your skin, turning the embarrassment into something more volatile. You can feel it building…anger pressing in on the edges of your control.

“That’s your problem,” he says, voice sharpening further as he points at you. “You don’t stay locked in. You drift. One sound, one movement, one thing out of place and you’re gone. Just like that.”

He gestures sharply toward the trees, the direction that pulled your attention away.

“That? That wasn’t even an attack. And you still lost me to it.”

His tone rises again, fully losing patience now.

“If it’s that easy to pull you off your own target, then don’t act surprised when someone better uses it against you. You’re not being outmatched…you’re handing it over.”

He exhales hard through his nose, pacing half a step away and back like he’s trying to keep himself from saying more than he already has.

Then he looks back at you, gaze cutting and steady.

“You want to get ahead of me?” he says. “Start by not getting in your own way.”

“Again!”

—

Over and over, mistake after mistake, he takes you down.

After a while, it stops feeling like separate attempts. It blurs into one continuous pattern you can’t quite break out of like the moment you think you’ve adjusted, he’s already stepped ahead of it again.

Just another step closer to getting yourself killed. Another failure waiting to happen. Like you’re already bound to fail if it was ever time to play Mr. Le Bail’s games and take part in his rituals. Another reason you’ll fall short of what’s expected…of what the Danforths want, of what all of this is supposed to turn you into.

You’re done with the practice. Done with the training. Done with Titus standing there like nothing you do is ever enough.

He’s done nothing but yell, correct, cut you down like you can’t do anything right, like you’ve been proving that same point your entire life already.

The final time, you don’t hold anything back.

You’re exhausted, frustration sitting heavy in your muscles, in the way your breath doesn’t quite settle. Sick of ending up on the ground. Sick of it feeling inevitable.

The second Titus moves, you meet him head-on.

You don’t just react, you push. Hard. Less technique, more instinct sharpened into irritation, built from every failed attempt before this one. You drive into him instead of yielding space, refusing to give the same ground you’ve lost again and again.

It doesn’t change the outcome. He still takes you down. Of course he does. But this time, you don’t go quiet with it.

The moment your back hits the forest floor, something in you breaks loose.

You shove at him immediately clumsy, forceful, all frustration and overload spilling out at once. Dirt and dead leaves scatter as you twist underneath him, movements rough and uncoordinated, like your body can’t keep up with what you’re feeling.

It’s messy. Uncontrolled. All emotion, no structure.

A sharp, strained sound catches in your throat as you struggle against him. The tension in you finally spilling past the point of containment.

“Hey—” he starts.

Your reaction throws him off just enough for him to hesitate, his grip shifting. For the first time, his focus flickers not irritation now, but concern  like he’s trying to recalibrate what he’s seeing instead of what he expected.

You don’t let him finish. You push again, harder, trying to unseat him. Trying to make something, anything, shifts in your favor. Your movements are sharp but unrefined, desperation bleeding through every attempt to break free.

“Stop.”

His voice cuts sharper this time.

You barely register it.

You keep going anyway, managing to flip the position for half a heartbeat before he counters with controlled ease and turns it back over like it was nothing at all.

“Pip, stop!”

He pins your wrists above you, not rough, but firm enough to end the motion. He’s straddling your movement more than your body, holding you still without hurting you.

You try to fight it for another second.

Then another.

And then you begin to cry.

Your tears break through whatever you were trying to hold together. At first it’s quiet like your body is still trying to hide it from him, still trying to keep control even now. But it catches fast, and you can’t stop it from showing anymore.

Your breathing stutters in uneven pulls as the fight drains out of you completely. The tension goes with it, leaving only exhaustion and that sharp, humiliating frustration with nowhere to land.

He lets go of your wrists, and your arms immediately come up to cover your face.

Titus shifts his weight and climbs off you, no longer pinning you down.

You turn away from him, rolling onto your side so your back faces him instead. Your shoulders shake as you try to fold in on yourself, but the sobs keep coming anyway. 

He watches you for a beat too long.

It lands late, but it still lands. He pushed too hard.

He saw you trying. He knew you were. But it still wasn’t working, and instead of slowing down, he kept correcting you, kept pushing through every mistake like force alone could shape you into something stronger. Not out of cruelty, but out of a conviction that anything gentler would get you hurt for real.

Now that conviction starts to crack.

None of this was you. Not the way he’s been trying to make it.

The thought sits heavy as he looks at you curled on the forest floor.

You’ve always been kind. Sweet, even since you were kids. That’s just who you are.

And that’s the problem.

You weren’t made for this…not the world he’s trying, against his better judgment, to prepare you for.

You’re the good he isn’t. The part of life he doesn’t know how to protect without risking breaking you in the process.

For a moment, he just sits there.

You’re not a killer. And no amount of forcing it will change that.

He tells himself he was only trying to prepare you. He won’t always be there to protect you. You have to be able to hold your own.

He can hear Ursula’s voice in his mind. He can hear her saying that he went all in too fast. That he should’ve built you up instead of throwing you straight into it. 

“Alright,” he says at last, voice quieter now. “We’re done.”

He stands up, brushing the dirt from his clothes. “Come on.”

He’s above you now, holding his hand out.

You look up at him over your shoulder, still pouty. Your crying has eased, replaced by that shaky, sniffly quiet that comes after. After a moment, you sit up and take his hand. He pulls you to your feet.

You’re a mess. Eyes puffy, face streaked with dirt. Arms and clothes smeared with grime, leaves tangled through your disheveled hair.

You brush yourself off again for the millionth time today. 

Titus plucks the leaves from your hair in silence, movements quieter now. Careful. Patient in a way that feels out of place after everything else.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

Eventually, you both make your way out of the forest and onto the open stretch of the golf course.

A golf cart is parked nearby. Titus barely hesitates before walking over and taking it. The engine kicks on with a rough hum, followed almost immediately by shouting somewhere behind him—a guest yelling curses across the course as Titus drives off without a second thought.

You don’t stop. Don’t even turn around.

You just keep walking toward the direction of the manor, tired and sore.

The cart slows beside you a few seconds later.

“Get in.”

You keep walking like you didn’t hear him.

The cart crawls alongside you for a few more feet, tires crunching softly over the gravel path. Titus watches you in silence, one arm hooked over the steering wheel.

“You’re seriously gonna walk all the way back like that?” he asks.

You don’t answer.

Your arms stay folded tight across yourself, eyes fixed ahead.

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose, somewhere between annoyance and reluctant amusement.

“Alright,” he mutters. “Be stubborn, then.”

But he doesn’t drive off.

The cart keeps pace beside you instead, slow enough that he could get ahead easily if he wanted to. He just stays there, matching your steps. 

Then, without warning, you turn and hop onto the slowly moving cart.

You don’t look at Titus once.

Your arms stay folded tightly across your chest as you stare straight ahead, angled slightly away from him toward the right side of the path.

The second you’re fully on, Titus presses the pedal harder, the cart picking up speed as he drives back toward the manor.

—-

“Where on earth have you two been? I’ve been trying to—” Ursula cuts herself off the second you both walk into the kitchen. Her eyes widen as she takes you in. “Oh my god, are you alright?”

Compared to Titus, you look rough. You looked like you’d been dragged through the woods, which you were. 

“I’m fine,” you mumble.

You head straight for the fridge, pull out a water bottle, and crack it open before downing half of it in one go.

Her expression hardens as her gaze lands on him. She already knows. This has Titus written all over it.

Realization hits her all at once like she’s piecing together exactly what kind of “training” this was.

“Titus… you didn’t.” Her voice drops, disbelieving.

Titus straightens slightly, like he’s preparing to defend it. “She needs to know how to defend herself.”

“She needs to learn,” Ursula snaps back immediately, “not get run into the ground. You don’t teach someone, especially her by throwing her in the deep end on day one. She’s not going to magically turn into an expert overnight.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do,” he says finally.

Ursula doesn’t let up. “Then slow down.”

His eyes flick toward you again like he’s checking you without meaning to.

“I can’t afford to be slow,” he mutters.

“That’s your problem,” Ursula shoots back. “Not hers.”

The words hang there, clean and sharp.

He rolls his eyes, pushes off the counter, and walks out without another word, leaving you and Ursula alone in the kitchen.

The silence that follows feels different—less tense, more settled.

Ursula exhales, running a hand through her hair. “God, I’m sorry. If I’d known he was going to start prepping you like that, I would’ve come alone… or trained and practiced with you myself.”

She glances at you again, softer this time, taking in how worn out you still look.

“I didn’t think he’d jump straight to that level,” she adds, more quietly. “Not on day one.”

You shift a little, still holding your water bottle. The cold has mostly gone out of it now.

Ursula steps closer, leaning lightly against the counter beside you rather than hovering.

“You okay?” she asks, but this time it sounds like she actually wants the answer—not a quick dismissal.

The kitchen is calm now, but the weight of the forest still lingers on you, like it hasn’t fully caught up to the fact that you’re not out there anymore.

“Sore.”

“I bet,” Ursula replies immediately. 

She studies you for a second longer, then nods toward the hallway. “You should probably shower. And maybe eat something after.”

You glance down at yourself like you’re only now noticing how wrecked you look.

Ursula pushes off the counter. “I’ll make something to eat, yeah?”

“Thanks, Urs,” you say, already drifting toward the bedroom you share with Titus, the thought of a long bath pulling you forward more than anything else.

–

You lay back in the hot bathtub, the water steaming around you, suds drifting across the surface in a soft, foamy layer. The warmth seeps into your muscles in a way you didn’t realize you needed until now.

For a moment, everything is quiet.

You slide down, take a breath, and dunk yourself under the water completely.

The world goes muffled and distant.

When you break the surface again, blinking water from your lashes—

Titus is sitting on the edge of the tub.

You jolt so hard you nearly slip under again.

“Fuck, Titus!” you blurt out, startled, instinctively pulling your arms up even though the thick layer of bubbles already covers you.

He doesn’t react to your panic. He just sits there like the edge of your bathtub is just another place he’s allowed to be.

This time, though, his eyes aren’t on your face.

They drop briefly, carefully, to your shoulders and arms.

The waterline and foam don’t hide everything. Not completely.

Bruises. Faint dark marks along your arm, a couple across your shoulder from repeated hits, falls, and impact with the forest ground.

Marks from him. From what he pushed too far. 

Titus’ jaw tightens as he looks at them. 

He knew that during training, bruises and minor injuries could happen. That was part of it. Expected, even.

He pushed you too far, he thinks again. Not as an excuse. As a fact.

“…I didn’t handle that right,” he says at last.

It isn’t soft, exactly. Just honest in a way he doesn’t usually bother being out loud.

His eyes flick to your shoulder again, then away almost immediately like he can’t sit with it for long without something in his expression tightening.

“I pushed too far,” he adds quieter. “I can see that. That’s on me.”

“…You’re going to be sore for a bit,” he says. Not an observation meant to dismiss it. Just an acknowledgment he should’ve made earlier.

“I should’ve stopped sooner,” he adds after a beat. “I didn’t.”

A pause.

“…We’ll slow it down,” he continues. “Do it properly. And if something’s wrong, you say it. I’ll listen.”

You don’t know what to say.

You just stare at him. You recognize it for what it is, his version of an apology. Not said outright, but they're all the same, in the way he adjusts, in the way he doesn’t argue, in the way he tries to set it right instead of dressing it up in words.

“…Okay,” you say finally.

He nods once, then stands from the edge of the tub. After a brief pause, he turns and leaves you to finish your bath.

The door clicks shut behind him.

You stay still in the bath, steam curling around you again as the space settles back into quiet.

The water laps gently against your skin as you lean back, letting your shoulders sink a little deeper. The ache is still dull and honest.

You let yourself sink under the water.

—

When you come out of the bathroom, your skin still warm and your damp hair clinging slightly to your neck, you notice Titus has already showered. Probably in another room.

He’s sitting in a chair near the window, posture relaxed but distant, like he’s been there a while longer than necessary.

You step closer, holding up the icy hot bottle. “Do you mind?”

“Yeah,” he says immediately, already standing as you approach. He takes it from you, turns the cap with a quick twist, and squeezes a line of cream onto his palm. The bottle gets tossed back onto the chair he just vacated.

You shift your damp hair out of the way and lower the straps of your tank top slightly so it won’t get caught as he works.

His hands lift. His fingers settle on your shoulder first light, careful pressure that still makes you flinch on instinct. He doesn’t react to it. Just keeps his movements steady as he works the cream in, spreading it over tight, sore muscle.

The icy heat blooms against your skin almost immediately.

You let out a low grunt, eyes squeezing shut for a second as the tenderness of the bruises reacts to his touch. Your shoulders tense, then slowly ease as he continues.

His hands move across your back in unhurried passes, firm enough to reach the muscle underneath. He follows the ridge of a bruise, then shifts lower along your arm, stopping just short of another dark mark like he’s aware of every place that might still hurt too much.

When he’s finished, his fingers pause briefly at your shoulders. He adjusts the straps of your tank top back into place, a quiet, wordless signal that he’s done.

“Thanks,” you say, turning to face him.

“Ursula made lunch if you’re hungry.”

“Okay.”

An idea popped into your head.

Instead, you step closer like you’re considering him more than the lunch. Your hands come up and settle on the front of his shirt, smoothing the fabric with slow, deliberate ease.

Titus stills instantly.

His eyes flick down to your hands, then back to your face. Suspicion sharpens in his expression. “What are you doing?”

You look up at him innocently. “Nothing.”

Your fingers linger a moment longer than necessary, tracing lightly down his chest before coming back up again unhurried, almost thoughtful. Like you’re testing his patience on purpose.

He just stares at you, clearly trying to figure out what game you’re playing now. Confusion flickers across his face, but it doesn’t last long his attention settles fully on you, the space between you shrinking without him even noticing.

“Pip—”

You hook your foot behind his ankle and shove both hands hard against his chest.

Titus stumbles backward with a startled curse, completely losing his balance before crashing hard onto the floor.

The sound alone sends you into instant laughter.

For a second, he just lies there staring at the ceiling like he’s genuinely trying to process what just happened.

Then his head turns slowly toward you.

“Shit” he groans. His back is aching. “You little—”

You’re still laughing too hard as he pushes himself up onto one elbow, glaring at you with a mix of disbelief and reluctant amusement.

“Now that you got that out of your system, you feel better?” he asks, voice dry but not sharp. He’s not moving to retaliate just watching you like he’s already accepted he earned it. “Not gonna pretend I didn’t deserve that. And worse.”

Your laughter eases into a grin as you catch your breath.

“It doesn’t exactly make up for you tackling me and berating me all day,” you say, stepping closer, “you do deserve worse but this will do for now.”

“Have fun on the floor!” you call over your shoulder as you head out of the bedroom.

He watches you go, then lets out a quiet exhale through his nose, almost a laugh, almost not.

Yeah. He deserved that. 

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[rynwrites4fun]

Across The Hall | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: You’ve lived across from Michael "Robby" Robinavitch, an ER doctor, for a year. Your interactions have always been brief—polite smiles and small talk in the elevator. In your own relationship, you often feel invisible, reaching out for someone who never quite reciprocates. One evening, after your boyfriend flakes on you and leaves you feeling disappointed, Michael unexpectedly steps in, offering a kind gesture that turns the night around. What starts as an act of casual kindness begins to shift into something deeper, and you start to realize that Michael’s quiet presence might be exactly what you’ve been missing.

Word Count: 4912

Warnings: age gap (mid 20's /early 50's)

Author’s Note: i realized i should write a Robby fic so here we are. it’s prob not a good idea for me start writing a new fic when I got eyes on me going….well, the more the merrier. - ryn

Friday, 6:30am

The apartment building was still quiet, not yet alive with the usual hum of waking bodies and the shuffle of morning routines. You were getting ready to leave for work, just before seven, as always. Being an elementary teacher meant early mornings and coffee-fueled commutes. These few quiet moments of the morning felt like the only part of the day that truly belonged to you.

In the kitchen, the comforting scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air as you packed your lunch for the day. Your hands moved with practiced ease, turkey sandwich, fruit, a granola bar a well-worn rhythm. The morning light spilled through the window, soft and golden, casting long shadows across the countertop where your phone sat, still and silent.

No messages.

Not unexpected.

With one hand, you reached for the spinach to finish your sandwich; with the other, you unlocked your phone and opened your messages. For a second, your reflection flickered on the dark screen eyes a little tired, but hopeful. Always hopeful.

You typed slowly, carefully, like the words mattered more today.

Good morning Hope you slept okay. Just a reminder we’ve got date night tonight. 7pm at that Italian place you like. I’m looking forward to it. Love you.

You hit send and watched as the message slid into the thread beneath a row of older ones, mostly from you. Then you set the phone down, turning back to the sandwich as you slid it into your lunch bag.

Your boyfriend, Aiden, is always busy. Always working late, always on his phone, always somewhere else even when he’s right beside you. You sit across from him at dinner, trying to talk, trying to connect, but he only half-listens, nodding at his screen more than at your words.

You feel lonely. Not the kind of loneliness that comes from being alone, but the kind that fills the space between you. The kind that grows in unanswered questions, in the way he forgets things that matter to you. You don’t say it out loud. Instead, you try harder. You show love in the small ways you hope he’ll notice in making his coffee just right, in folding his clothes the way he likes, in letting your own needs take a backseat to his.

You never beg for love, not with words. But your actions speak louder. You’re always giving, always waiting, always hoping that this time it’ll be enough. That this time, he’ll see you, hear you, choose you.

You take whatever scraps of attention he offers. A distracted “love you,” a tired hand on your back, a night where he actually looks at you instead of his phone. You convince yourself it’s something. That it means he cares. That if you just keep being patient, things will change.

And still, despite it all, you love him. Your heart hasn’t hardened. It’s still open, still warm. You still believe in love, in connection, in the possibility that he might one day meet you halfway. Because even when your needs go unmet, you somehow still have more to give.

So, you keep softening. Keep adjusting. Keep waiting.

You grab your things and head out the door. You stepped into the hallway at the same time as your neighbor.

Michael Robinavitch. He also went by Robby, a casual nickname for a last name with too many syllables for everyday use. You, however, always called him Michael.

You’d lived next door to him for about a year now. The two of you were acquainted small talk in passing, a nod here and there, the occasional conversation while waiting for the elevator but never more than that. Not quite strangers, not quite friends.

You knew he was one of the attending physicians in the ER at the local hospital. He mostly worked day shifts, though every now and then, you’d catch him coming home late at night, shoulders sagging with exhaustion. He had kind eyes, the kind that made people feel safe even when the rest of him stayed closed off. Always polite. Always distant.

He was at least a decade older than you maybe more but carried himself with a quiet confidence that made age feel irrelevant. There was something steady about him, something grounded in the way he moved, in the calm cadence of his voice when he did speak. You’d noticed, even if you never said so.

“Morning,” he said with a quick smile as he locked his door.

He was dressed as he usually was on workdays: a fitted white shirt under a black scrub top, blue hoodie zipped halfway up, medical cargo pants. A backpack slung over one shoulder, a coffee tumbler balanced in one hand. Sunglasses perched on his head. AirPods tucked into his ears though he always popped one out to say hello.

“Hi, good morning!” you replied, cheerful as ever, juggling your bag, your water bottle, and a lunchbox covered in cartoon stickers from your students.

The two of you walked toward the elevator in silence, a quiet routine that had somehow become familiar. You’d grown used to these brief encounters fleeting, but oddly comforting.

He smelled faintly of soap and coffee, a clean, grounded scent that stood in contrast to the overwhelming cologne your boyfriend always wore. You glanced at Michael from the corner of your eye. He looked tired, like he usually did this early but present. Alert. He was always present.

You, by contrast, were all warmth and energy, a splash of color next to his quiet gray. Still hopeful. Still full of brightness. You were in your fourth year of teaching, and though the days were long, your spark hadn’t dimmed. Not yet.

He’d noticed, even if he never said so. Just like you’d noticed the way he moved through the world weathered, maybe, but not hardened. Tired, but kind.

The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open with their familiar hum. He let you step inside first—like he always did when you caught each other leaving at the same time. He even holds the lobby door for you. One thing you liked about him: he was a gentleman.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore. It had settled into something easy. Comfortable.

He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed loosely. You glanced at him just briefly. His face was unreadable, but not unkind. There was something steady about him, even in stillness. Like the eye of a storm.

“I’m glad it’s Friday,” you said, breaking the quiet. “This week’s been exhausting.” You let out a breathy chuckle, more air than sound. It floated in the space between you like a fragile thread.

Michael didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth lifted, barely there, but real. That was usually all you got from him, and somehow, it always felt like enough. Like you’d earned it.

He shifted his weight, glanced at you sideways, like he was debating saying something. Then: “Yeah. Long week.”

You nodded, eyes forward now, watching the elevator numbers light up one by one. The silence returned, but it felt warmer this time. Companionable.

“Big weekend plans?” he asked suddenly, his voice low and a little rough, like it hadn’t quite shaken off sleep.

You smiled, surprised he’d initiated the conversation. “Just sleeping. Maybe grading. Depends on how ambitious I feel.” You tilted your head toward him. “You?”

He shook his head. “Same. Resting if I can.”

You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips. “Well… here’s to restful weekends.” 

Michael gaze lingered on you a second longer than it needed to. Then he gave a slow nod. “Yeah. Here’s hoping.”

Then, on a whim, you added, “Actually, I do have one thing planned tonight, dinner with my boyfriend. We’re going to that Italian place down the street.”

You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face. Just saying it out loud made your heart flutter a bit. “It’s this cozy spot—Bella Notte. You’ve probably walked past it a hundred times without noticing. Candlelight tables, soft music, the whole thing smells like basil and fresh-baked bread the second you walk in—”

You paused, eyes lighting up. “Their pasta is insane. Like, handmade that morning. I’ve honestly been dreaming about it all week.”

Your laugh was light, genuine. “And the dessert—don’t even get me started! They do this tiramisu, too like, real tiramisu. Not the soggy kind. Light, fluffy, just enough espresso—“

You laughed a little, almost embarrassed at how carried away you got. “Anyway. Yeah. I’m excited… “It’s silly, I know.”

But it wasn’t silly. Not to Michael. He just nodded, tucking the image of your smile into the back of his mind.

His eyebrows lifted slightly in interest. “Sounds nice. Hope you guys enjoy it.”

Michael had seen your boyfriend around from time to time, but something was off. Michael noticed how your boyfriend seemed physically there but mentally elsewhere. He didn’t act like a boyfriend should, no warmth, no attentiveness. It was almost like he ignored you, as if you were an afterthought. That disconnect didn’t sit right with Michael, but he didn’t feel the need to comment on it. It wasn’t his place. 

“Thanks,” you replied, feeling hopeful tonight will be a good date night. You glanced at the elevator doors, feeling the weight of the conversation shift. “It’s been a while since we had a real night out. I’m looking forward to it.”

Michael’s gaze lingered on you a second longer than it needed to, then he gave a slow nod. “Yeah, sometimes you need those moments to… recalibrate, right?”

The elevator reached the ground floor, and He let you out first, heading toward the lobby doors. He held it open for you, like always. You thanked him.

“I’ll see you around,” Michael called over his shoulder pulling his sunglasses down onto his face as your paths began to part.

“Bye, have a nice day- you know, saving lives and all,” you replied, watching him walk down the street, his footsteps fading behind him.

He slowed, glanced back with a faint smirk. “You too, educating the youth. Lives of tomorrow and all that.”

You laughed under your breath. “Touché.”

His footsteps faded into the quiet, and you stepped out into the morning air. Something in your chest eased. The weight of the week had already begun to lift just a little.

—

You got home from a long day at work, the noise and energy of your fifth graders still echoing faintly in your mind. During your lunch break, Aiden had finally texted you back—

Dinner’s on tonight. Can’t wait to see you. 

Just like that, your tiredness had been replaced with anticipation.

After a short rest, you got up and started getting ready. You took your time, letting yourself feel excited. You curled your hair, did your makeup just the way you liked it, and slipped into the dress you’d been saving for a night that felt special. And tonight felt like it could be, maybe even like the start of something real.

You headed outside and waited on the front steps of your apartment building, heart light, a small smile playing on your lips. He said he was on his way.

Minutes passed. Then more. You checked your phone once. Twice. The sky darkened slowly, and with it, your hope dimmed too.

You finally sat down, the concrete steps cool beneath you, heels tapping against the pavement as your nerves turned to unease.

Then your phone buzzed.

Sorry babe, something really important came up with the case. I can’t make it tonight. Rain check!

Your face dropped. The message was short, casual. Like it hadn’t just taken the air out of your lungs.

You stared at the screen, the words sinking in slowly. The butterflies in your stomach turned heavy, bitter. The excitement that had carried you through the day drained out of you all at once, replaced by a familiar, hollow ache. You blinked, willing the sting in your eyes to go away before anyone could see.

You took a steady breath and typed back:

It’s okay. Good luck with the case!

You hit send, then sit there a moment longer—makeup flawless, dress perfect, and heart suddenly a little more guarded than it had been an hour ago.

You looked down at yourself at the dress you’d picked out, the soft curl in your hair, the subtle shimmer on your cheeks, and felt foolish. Not because you’d dressed up, but because you’d let yourself.

“Hey”

You looked up. Michael was walking toward the steps, his backpack slung over one shoulder, scrubs wrinkled from a long shift in the ER.

“Oh—hi,” you said, giving him a small smile.

He stopped a few steps down and took you in, his expression softening. “Wow,” he said. “You look… great.”

He smiled, taking in the way your dress caught the last of the light, the soft curl in your hair, the effort you’d put in. He always thought you looked beautiful, but tonight, there was something else in your eyes too. Something quieter. Sadder.

Because he could see it. The way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. The way your hands fidgeted with the fabric of your dress. You were trying to hide it, whatever had just happened, but Michael had spent enough time in triage to know what a broken heart looked like, even when it was wrapped in lip gloss and heels.

You smiled, a little tighter this time. “Thank you.”

Michael lingered there for a second, like he wasn’t sure whether to stay or keep walking, then shifted his backpack on his shoulder.

“Your boyfriend is coming?” He was wondering how long you’d been out here waiting for him. 

“No actually” you say standing up, dusting the back of your dress. “Change of plans—it’s looking like a night in instead” 

He flaked, Michael thought. You didn’t have to say it. He just knew, reading the situation. The way you’d said “change of plans”, the tightness around your eyes, the way you tried to brush it off with a smile, it was all the confirmation he needed.

Michael had seen this before. He’d seen the letdown in the way people hold themselves after plans fall apart, the quiet resignation that creeps in when you’ve been let down by someone who should have shown up.

But Michael didn’t say any of that. Instead, he just nodded, letting the silence stretch between you both for a moment.

He felt bad. You’d been genuinely excited about that Italian place, you’d rambled about it in the elevator that morning. The way you lit up as you described ambiance and food.

“You know,” Michael said after a moment, “when you were talking about that Italian restaurant earlier, I couldn’t stop thinking about it all day. I just got off my shift. Long day. I’m kind of too lazy to cook tonight, and I was thinking of picking some up and taking it home..”

…He trailed off, like he was giving you room to fill in the blank if you wanted to.

You looked at him, really looked. The quiet steadiness in his eyes, the way he didn’t push or pity, just stood there, offering a way out of the evening that didn’t involve you sitting alone in a dress you’d worn for someone who didn’t bother to show.

“…Do you wanna come? I’m not sure what to get—you seem to be a Bella Notte connoisseur,” he said, a playful lilt in his voice, but something gentler behind his eyes.

You blinked, caught off guard—not by the offer itself, but by the way he said it. Not like he was saving you. Not like you were someone to be pitied. Just… included.

For a moment, the words stuck in your throat. You’d been bracing for an evening of quietly peeling off your makeup, throwing the dress into a pile, eating something frozen while pretending it didn’t matter. But Michael had given you a different choice. And somehow, he’d made it feel easy.

You smiled. This one, real. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Good,” he said, relief barely hidden in the curve of his grin. 

Then, as if sensing the fragility of the moment, he didn’t try to fill it with anything clever or overthought. He just gestured toward the sidewalk. “Shall we?”

You nodded, falling into step beside him, 

“Lead the way”

The click of your heels a steady rhythm against the pavement. The late spring air was still warm, but there was a breeze now, tugging gently at the hem of your dress, softening everything. You walked on the edge of the sidewalk closest to the road, but Michael moved you to the inside, switching places with you.

He didn’t say anything when he guided you to the safer side of the sidewalk, just a light hand at the small of your back, casual and instinctive. You noticed, of course. Not because it was dramatic, romantic, or loud, but because it was something else entirely: considerate. A gesture that spoke volumes without needing a single word.

You didn’t comment on it, but your steps slowed just enough to match his stride more closely. There was a comfort in the pace, in the sound of his shoes beside yours, in the quiet understanding between two people who weren’t trying to be anything other than present.

For a while, neither of you said much. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, it felt like a pause between beats, like both of you had agreed to let the noise of the day settle. And maybe that was what you needed most right now. Not fixing. Not a distraction. Just company.

“So,” Michael said eventually, glancing sideways at you, “if I hate this place, do I get to blame you forever?”

You snorted. “Absolutely not. But if you love it, I expect full credit.”

“Seems fair,” he said, smiling. “What’s the order then, oh wise one?”

You pretended to consider it seriously. “Cacio e pepe, bruschetta, mozzarella and prosciutto, and you’re not allowed to skip the tiramisu. It’s... important.”

He nodded solemnly. “Tiramisu. Got it. A matter of national security.”

“Exactly,” you said, and for a moment, you weren’t thinking about Aiden, or your phone, or the sting you’d felt sitting alone on the steps. You were thinking about pasta. And the way Michael had made this feel like a beginning, not an ending.

“Here it is.”

Up ahead, the golden glow of Bella Notte spilled onto the sidewalk, soft and inviting. The warm light glowed through the windows, the soft clink of dishes, and the low hum of conversation drifting out. You caught yourself smiling again.

—

You and Michael had ordered everything you'd talked about while walking, the anticipation of good food and even better company making the trip feel effortless. Like a true gentleman, Michael insisted on paying for the meal, despite your protests. You tried to argue, but he only smiled and said something about it being his treat "next time, you'll get it," he promised.

Afterward, he carried the bags back to the apartment, each step filled with an easy, quiet rhythm between the two of you. You walked beside him, your footsteps falling in sync, the warm bags of food tucked securely in his hands. The elevator ride up to the 6th floor was brief, but it felt like just enough time to enjoy the moment before the evening had to end.

You reached your doors, the quiet of the hallway wrapping around you both. You stopped just in front of your apartment, heart a little heavier at the thought of this being the last part of the evening. "Do you wanna come over and eat? Or not, I know you must be tired." The offer slipped out before you could second-guess it, an instinct you couldn’t ignore.

You liked Michael’s company more than you’d expected. There was something easy, almost natural, about being with him. You weren’t ready to say goodbye just yet, and you hoped he wasn’t either.

“Uh…Yeah, sure,” he said with a grin, his voice light. “I’m just gonna shower. I need to get the ER off of me.” He laughed, the sound easy and familiar. “I’ll be over in ten minutes. Is that okay?”

You nodded, taking the bags of food he handed you as you both stepped into your apartment. The air felt a little warmer now, like it had shifted into something more comfortable, more settled.

As promised, Michael showed up soon after. He’d clearly made an effort to unwind, out of his scrubs, into a simple white t-shirt and black sweatpants, sneakers completing the casual look. The reading glasses perched on his nose added an unexpected, almost studious touch, softening his usual confident energy. It was a different side of him, and somehow, it made him even more appealing.

The two of you sat down at your island table, the food spread out between you, the soft light from the lamp casting a warm glow over the room. There was a quiet ease in the way you both settled in, as if you’d done this a hundred times before. You unpacked the bags, the smell of the food filling the space, mixing with the faint scent of Michael’s cologne.

“Alright, let’s see if this was worth the walk,” he said, grinning as you grabbed a few napkins and handed one to him. Michael smirked, but you could see the familiar spark of excitement in his eyes, like he was just as eager to dive into the meal as you were.

He took a bite of the Cacio e pepe , pausing for a moment to savor the flavors. Then, his expression shifted, the glint in his eyes turning to one of mock seriousness. 

“So? What’s the verdict? Worth the walk?” you ask him

"Absolutely," he said, taking another bite, his voice slightly muffled by the food. "Bella Notte? 10 out of 10. You took my Bella Notte virginity. You’ve officially converted me." Michael paused again, wiping his mouth with the napkin you’d handed him, clearly impressed.

You laughed, unable to hold it in. “Well, I’m glad I could make such an impact.” went back to your own meal, secretly pleased that he was enjoying it as much as you were.

“Bella Notte has ruined any other Italian restaurant for me,” he said, shaking his head in mock disbelief.

You grinned, feeling a sense of triumph. “That’s the power of Bella Notte,” you teased, cutting into your own dish. “Once it gets you, there’s no going back. Other Italian places will just feel... meh in comparison.”

Michael shook his head again, still not quite believing it. “I’m serious. I don’t know how I’ll go back to the regular stuff after this. This place has ruined me for every other pasta joint in the city."

You raised your eyebrows, a sly grin forming on your lips. “Okay, now you gotta try the tiramisu!”

__

The two of you finished eating, and Michael immediately jumped in to help clean up. He tossed the to-go containers in the trash, wiping down the countertop with a few swift motions. It was the kind of effortless help that made the whole process feel casual, like it was nothing, but it still meant a lot.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said, your voice a little softer than usual. You meant more than just the meal. Michael had truly saved the night. If it hadn’t been for him, you’d have been alone, cooped up in your apartment, feeling sorry for yourself after your boyfriend flaked out on dinner. But instead, here you were, laughing, enjoying a good meal, and feeling a lot more like yourself.

Michael looked up, his eyes meeting yours with that easy warmth he always carried. “Anytime,” he said with a small but genuine smile.

You smiled back, a little grateful for his presence, for the way he turned an unexpectedly rough evening into something enjoyable. Maybe even more than enjoyable, his company was better than you could have imagined. You'd gone from feeling alone to... well, you didn’t quite know how to describe it. But it was good. Comfortable.

You cleared your throat, breaking the quiet. “Seriously, Michael. You didn’t have to. But I’m really glad you did.” You were grateful, but the words still felt somehow insufficient for what he’d done. He’d shown up when no one else had, and that meant more than you could say.

He shrugged with that signature nonchalance, still wearing that easy grin. "I don’t mind. Not a big deal." But even as he downplayed it, there was something in his eyes that told you he knew it was. He wasn’t just being polite. He was being real.

“I just… wasn’t expecting tonight to turn out like this,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “I thought I’d be sitting here by myself, feeling stupid for getting my hopes up. But you made it better. So... thanks for not making me feel like an idiot.”

Michael didn’t say anything at first. He just paused, his hands stilling mid-wipe as your words settled in the quiet space between you. You didn’t have to explain, he already knew you were talking about your boyfriend. About how he flaked on the plans you’d made. How he left you sitting there, dressed up and waiting for something that never came.

There was a flicker in Michael’s eyes, something unreadable, but undeniably present. The easy rhythm of the evening shifted, like a breath held just a second too long.

He finished wiping down the counter, slower this time, more thoughtful. Then he turned to face you, expression softened, the usual smirk gone. His voice, when it came, was quiet, low and steady, carrying something that made you feel like the only person in the room.

“You don’t ever have to feel like an idiot,” he said. “Wanting something, hoping it’ll turn out the way you imagined, that’s not weakness. That’s you putting your heart out there. And yeah, sometimes people let us down. But that doesn’t make you foolish.”

The words hit you harder than you expected—not because they were dramatic, but because they weren’t. They were simple. Honest. Kind. And in that moment, you felt something inside you shift. The weight you hadn’t realized you were carrying seemed a little lighter now.

He cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the stillness in the room. “I uh…I think I should get going,” he said, his voice gentle, but with a finality that made you realize the evening was drawing to a close. He placed the rag on the ledge of the kitchen sink, his fingers lingering just a bit too long against the cool surface, like he didn’t quite want to leave yet.

“Right,” you said, your voice quieter than usual, almost an exhale. The single word felt heavier than it should’ve, and for a split second, it felt like you were both on the edge of something you weren’t quite ready to cross.

“I’ll see you around,” he added with a shrug, the smile on his face casual, but his eyes… his eyes said more. They held something unspoken, something that made your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

“Right,” you repeated, a little breathless this time. You turned to walk him to the door, the distance between the kitchen and the hallway seeming like it stretched just a little longer than usual.

When you reached the door, he paused, and so did you. There was a silence that wasn’t awkward, but quiet in a way that made the space between you feel a little more fragile.

“Goodnight,” he said, turning to face you, his voice quieter now, sincere, like the weight of everything you’d just shared was still lingering in the air. He reached for the door handle, his hand brushing against it slowly, as though trying to delay the inevitable.

“Goodnight, Michael,” you replied, your voice a little softer than usual. You stood just a little too close to the door, your fingers wrapped around the edge, holding it open for him. Your heart was beating faster than you’d like to admit, the night’s unspoken moments still hanging between you like an unfinished sentence.

For a brief moment, neither of you moved. There was something in the air, something unsaid, and you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that you weren’t ready for it to end. You didn’t want to shut the door on everything that had passed between you, not just yet.

He nodded once, a small but deliberate gesture that carried more weight than it probably should have. It felt like a silent goodbye, but also like something more. Then, with a quiet sigh, he stepped into the hallway, his footsteps soft but steady, each one echoing a little too loudly in the sudden silence.

You stood there, watching him go, your hand still on the door. The quiet stretched between you, neither of you in a hurry to break it. You kept the door open for just a breath longer than necessary, as though holding on to the space, holding on to something that had started tonight and hadn’t quite finished yet.

Finally, you closed the door behind you with a soft click, the sound breaking the stillness of your apartment. The air felt different now, not empty, but full of something you couldn’t quite define. It wasn’t loneliness, nor was it peace, but something in between. Something that made you realize, for the first time in a while, that the night had meant more than you could put into words.

Across The Hall (1) (2)

[rynwrites4fun]

Happy Anni to Across the Hall (im 4 days late lol) 😩🫶🏽

[rynwrites4fun]

Hey I just wanted to say I love your “Till Death”series and was wondering if you’ll ever make a part 3? You just write Titus perfectly!

Thank you! Yes part 3 will be coming out soon!!

[rynwrites4fun]

Hello there

Hi!

[rynwrites4fun]

LOVEEEEE TIL DEATH!!! so excited for the next chapter!!!

Thank you! Part 3 coming soon!!

[rynwrites4fun]

Can I please be added to the Till Death taglist if you're still accepting? I'm hooked!

yes will do 🙂‍↕️

[rynwrites4fun]

Checking in to say hello. Will be updating sometime soon. I know it’s been a minute. Very sorry. Been crazy irl. Thank you for being patient ❤️

[rynwrites4fun]

helping hand update towards the end of the week 🙂‍↕️

[rynwrites4fun]

I’m sorry, I was planning to update fics and whatnot, but things have gotten really busy. I’ve got about five weeks left of work, so I’m in crunch time right now, and I’ve also recently lost a family friend. Because of everything going on, I need to take a step back for a little while until things lighten up.

Thank you for understanding ❤️

[rynwrites4fun]

I know you’ve probably answered this, so please forgive me for asking again, but are you going to do a season 2 version of Across the Hall? I love that story!

I’m not sure, but im open to it! I would have to think about the plot. If I were to do it, prob won’t start it now just because I have a lot going on work wise and bunch of other fics I gotta catch up with. If I were I’d prob start it summer/fall time. But we’ll see!

[rynwrites4fun]

may i pretty please be added onto till death? 🩵i love it so much !!

yes will do!!!