Send “Who did this?” for your muse to discover my muse with a black eye or a busted lip
Moxxie tried to turned his face face away from Kero as quickly as he could. He had hoped to avoid anyone coming back into the office. Just grab his things and head home. He especially did not expect to see Kero. But when she asked what she did, he avoided eye contact.
"It's work-related," he lied.
Never good at that though. And feeling the hypocrisy prick at him. He would have chided her for the same. Or at the very least urged her to it would be okay to tell the truth. So he sighed. "Nobody worth worrying about."
Author's note:
I WAS TRYING TO MAKE AN ANGSTY CHAPTER BUT IT MADE ME SO SAD I CRIED AND ENDED UP MAKING COMFORT FLUFF INSTEAD I HATE Y'ALL AND MYSELF THESE TWO ARE SO PATHETIC THEY MAKE ME WANNA ASDFGHJKLPOIUYTR
The fan made a low, wheezing sound overhead—half-hearted and uneven, like it too was too tired to carry on. Outside, the summer heat boiled against the windowpanes, turning the edges of everything into gold and sweat.
Inside, Maranata sat on the edge of the narrow bed, knees pulled up, arms around her stomach, trying not to cry.
Her dress—simple, floral, a pale yellow cotton thing—lay sprawled across the nearby chair, limp as her resolve.
It was the third morning she had tried.
She had laid out the clothes. She had brushed her teeth. She had washed her face.
And then she had stood there, towel clutched to her chest like armor, staring at the mirror above the chipped sink.
She couldn’t do it.
Not today. Maybe not tomorrow either.
The mirror, cruel and honest, showed too much—how her arms curved too soon from shoulder to elbow, how her waist softened rather than dipped, how her thighs pressed together even when she stood apart. The outline of her own body undid her.
She hadn’t even looked at her side profile. That would be too much.
Her skin itched where sweat clung. Her chest felt too tight for breath. A nausea was brewing in her gut again.
She couldn’t bring herself to get dressed.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go. She did. The children were waiting, barefoot and bright-eyed and full of questions. They always waited. And she loved them—loved their curious voices, their hunger for knowledge, the way they hugged her without hesitation.
But her body wouldn’t let her leave.
Or maybe it was her soul.
She sat there, trembling, a soft trembling that didn’t seem to come from her muscles but from something deeper. Something hollow.
What was wrong with her?
She had translated for women who had seen their daughters raped in front of them, women who bled out in silence because hospitals refused to treat them, girls who hadn’t been old enough to bleed and yet were already carrying life inside them.
She had read testimonies, held trembling hands, swallowed grief until it drowned her tongue.
She had listened—listened—to horror and had not broken.
But now she couldn’t even put on a dress.
What kind of selfishness was that? What kind of pathetic, petty suffering was this?
The world was full of real pain. She had swallowed it. Interpreted it. Helped carry it across borders and bureaucracies.
And here she was—gagging at the thought of her own skin. Crying because she couldn’t make herself be less. Or disappear. Or—God help her—feel human in the body she had never asked to be born into.
It was the same battle every morning.
The clench of the throat. The sting in her stomach. The desire to be holy and good and brave—and the disgust at being anything but invisible.
She didn’t want to be looked at.
She didn’t want to look.
Her hand hovered near the dress again. Her fingers shook.
She closed her eyes.
No mirror. No reflection. No profile. Just cotton and prayer.
Just fabric and function.
She whispered under her breath—something that wasn’t quite Scripture but came close:
Lord, cover me with Yourself. Hide me under the shadow of Your wing. Let no one see me today. Not even me.
The words trembled as they left her mouth.
She pulled the dress over her head. Didn’t look. Didn’t breathe. Just dressed in the dark of her own eyelids.
When she opened them, the mirror waited.
But she didn’t face it.
She tied her braid with practiced hands, picked up her Bible, and stepped outside—carrying the weight of a world she could bear…
…except her own.
The call came during the hottest part of the afternoon, when the fan had already given up and the sky outside was pale from exhaustion.
The landline rang twice. Three times.
Maranata stepped out of the bathroom with wet hands and damp temples, barely remembering to wipe them on her skirt before picking up.
“Bueno?”
“Maranata?”
“Stephen?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Sorry for the long-distance outta nowhere. I’m bored outta my mind.”
She exhaled, smiling faintly. “Where are you?”
“New Orleans. It’s humid. Smells like sweat and jazz and I think I heard three different street preachers in the last hour.”
She laughed, then sat down on the bed.
“How are you?” he asked, his tone softening.
She hesitated. “Alright.”
“That’s not convincing.”
“I’m tired.”
He paused. “Are you still going to England?”
“I leave next week.”
“Alone?”
There was another pause. Then she said, lightly, “No. Well. Yes. But not really. Goffredo invited me.”
Stephen hummed. “Mmm.”
“You could come too,” she added. “If you’re bored and dying of heat and want to escape the shouting prophets.”
There was a beat of silence.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, in a tone that already said he would. Then: “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m okay.”
“Alright. I’ll call again before you leave.”
The line went dead.
She stared at the receiver for a moment.
Then the nausea hit.
She barely made it to the bathroom in time.
It was always worst when she remembered the things she wasn’t supposed to feel anymore. She was older now. She had a degree, a job, papers, deadlines. She was supposed to have outgrown the shame. The hunger. The mirror.
But she hadn’t.
Even now, in her twenties, the voice in her mind was still a child’s voice. Still begging to wake up one day and be thin. Not even beautiful—just thin. Just unnoticed. Just unmocked.
It was her first prayer, the one she never said aloud. Long before she learned how to read the Bible. Before she could recite Psalm 91 or distinguish a parable from a proverb, she had begged God—please, please, don’t let me get fatter.
Back when other girls in Sunday school were dreaming about missionary trips or weddings or what kind of mother they’d be, her deepest, most fervent hope was that someday, her stomach wouldn’t fold when she sat down.
That her arms wouldn’t jiggle.
That her thighs would stop touching.
That someone would look at her like she was worth a second glance.
It never happened.
Not once.
She remembered the cafeteria tables, the sleepovers, the dressing rooms at thrift stores.
“You’re not fat,” girls would say. “You’re just... big-boned.”
“You’re not ugly, just... not my type.”
“It’s not a big deal. Boys are stupid anyway.”
But she saw how they got asked out. How they got complimented. How they got chosen.
And how she never did.
Later, in college, she found feminism. Or rather, feminism found her. A swirl of whitewashed activists and tatted-up lesbians, girls with buzz cuts and radical manifestos and body-positive slogans printed on cropped t-shirts.
At first, she was shy. Then she tried to join in.
Tried to open up.
And they were kind, at first. Until she told them the truth.
“I’ve never been wanted.”
They blinked.
“Never?” one said.
“Never,” she said back. “Not even once. No glances. No notes. No backseat mistakes at youth group. No unrequited crushes, because no one’s ever wanted me enough to even try to love me.”
One of them had shrugged. “Well, male validation isn’t everything.”
And something inside her snapped.
“No,” she had said, quietly. “It isn’t. But that’s because you’ve had it. You don’t know what it’s like to live without it. You don’t know what it’s like to grow up thinking there’s something fundamentally wrong with you.”
They didn’t understand.
Not the girls who had been chased. Not the ones who had turned down confessions or gotten too many messages on MySpace or cried over boys who wanted them but just not enough.
She would have killed to be “not enough.”
To even be something.
She didn’t want to be loved.
Not really.
She just wanted to be possible.
Now, as she sat hunched over her sink, staring at the shape of her forearm, she felt the same hollow ache. The same longing she had tried to starve and pray and learn away.
And it wasn’t just about Goffredo.
Not really.
But God, how she hated him.
How she hated loving him.
Because it meant she still hadn’t killed that little girl inside her—the one who wanted to be held. The one who watched other girls get twirled and kissed and held, and thought: I will never be anything but useful. Never desired. Never loved for beauty.
She wanted to burn that girl down.
But she couldn’t.
Because she was still here.
Wrapped in a bath towel. Holding a Bible.
Trying not to cry.
And failing.
Again.
The airport was colder than expected. Not the air—just the atmosphere. Fluorescent lights made everything look paler than it was. Even Stephen’s laughter seemed too bright here, too sharp against the sterile backdrop of gate announcements and clattering wheels.
He had his arm around her shoulder. She let him. It was comfortable, and she needed the anchor. Etienne and Lucas were chattering about fromage or camembert or some other dairy nonsense, half-listening, half-arguing like children.
Stephen leaned in. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I should have warned you they were this annoying.”
She cracked a smile. “Don’t worry. I get it. I know they have a… condition. From birth. Truly saddening.”
“Oh?” he raised a brow. “Do they now?”
“Yeah,” she said dryly, eyes still on the departure board. “They’re French.”
He laughed, warm and full, like he didn’t know he had just hit a nerve.
And that was the problem. He didn’t.
Stephen was kind. And beautiful. And tall. And warm.
But he didn’t see her.
Not really.
Not the way Goffredo did.
She let out a small breath. Her shoulder ached where Stephen’s hand rested. Not from pressure, but from memory. From absence.
Suddenly it hurt. All of it. The weight of being seen and still not wanted. The old wound reopened so quickly she didn’t even have time to brace.
That sick throb started in her stomach. The kind that told her she was about to cry or throw up. Maybe both.
Her eyes stung. Her throat closed. She wanted to disappear.
So she turned—maybe to walk away, maybe to breathe—
And then she saw him.
Across the hall.
Still as a statue, as if carved from old grief and new resolve.
Goffredo.
She stopped breathing.
There was no mistaking it: the thick brows furrowed like storm clouds, the lean frame in a too-formal coat, the dark eyes that had once looked at her like she was both a gospel and a heresy.
He was standing. Holding nothing. Saying nothing.
But he had come.
He came for me.
The thought burst through her like sunlight through stained glass.
Stephen’s voice faded.
The sound of the airport vanished.
There was only him.
His gaze was locked on her—and her heart collapsed. Not because she didn’t expect him, but because she had. And because she hadn’t believed he actually would.
And now he was here.
And now she was here.
And now, she was loved.
Without thinking, without words, without permission from the parts of her that still carried pride—she ran to him.
Her bag nearly slipped. Her shoe almost caught on the edge of the escalator. But she didn’t stop.
And he didn’t step away.
She threw her arms around his neck, folding into him like the missing part of something ancient.
His arms closed around her waist instantly.
She felt his breath catch against her shoulder. He held her like someone who had counted every minute of absence and carved them into his ribs.
“Goffredo,” she whispered, “you look terrible. Are you sick?”
“I missed you too, cara.”
And in that one word—cara—she found a peace she had not known in weeks.
She held him tighter.
She didn’t care who saw.
She didn’t care if Stephen noticed or if Lucas whispered or if Etienne laughed.
For one sacred moment, the world bowed.
Because Goffredo had come.
And she had run.
The bus rattled gently down the winding English road, hedgerows casting soft shadows in the fading light. Etienne and Stephen were laughing somewhere toward the back, locked in a strangely animated discussion about cheese—“unpasteurized is the only way, I don’t care what your FDA says”—while Lucas grumbled about French snobbery with half a smile.
But Goffredo heard none of it.
He was sitting beside her.
Her.
Maranata. Warm in a soft cardigan, her braid tucked over one shoulder, the pink Bible clutched like a passport in her lap. The side of her thigh brushed his. It was maddening.
So near.
And yet...
“You look terrible,” he said, without thinking.
She let out a small, joyless laugh. “...I know.”
“I know.”
He frowned, then reached for her chin and gently tilted her face toward him.
She let him.
His fingers brushed her skin—warm, familiar, beloved. His eyes took in the hollowness of her cheeks, the bruised crescents beneath her eyes. “Do they even let you sleep at work?” he murmured.
She didn’t answer. Her eyes flickered down.
His thumb rested lightly against her jaw. She was thinner than he remembered, and not in a graceful way. Overworked. Underfed. His dove, starved and stumbling through the wilderness.
She folded slightly, clutching her stomach. A grimace crossed her face.
“Does it hurt?” he whispered.
“A little,” she admitted. “It’s just my stomach. It always gets like this when I’m... tired.”
He looked away for a second, jaw tightening. He hated this. Seeing her like this. The crumpled version of the woman he’d dreamed of each sleepless night. The woman he wanted to shield from every hunger, every ache.
He thought: Maybe when we marry, we’ll wait a bit to have children. Let her rest. Let her recover. Give her months of sleep and tea and baths.
And then—like a whip—he caught the thought and winced inside.
Wait to have children?
Who was he?
He was a Roman Catholic man. A traditionalist. A believer in fruitful households. Wasn’t that the point? Didn’t God say be fruitful and multiply? Wasn’t it his duty to raise up an army of children, baptize them, feed them catechism before they could walk?
He looked back at her.
Her lashes fluttered. She pressed a hand to her side. Her forehead had a sheen of sweat, barely visible under the soft light.
She was his. His beloved. His fragile rib bone. His helpmate. His storm.
And she was suffering.
He hated how soft he’d become. Hated how the scent of her shampoo—mild and almondy—made him forget centuries of doctrine. He was Goffredo Tedesco. A priest. A theologian. A soldier of the Church.
And yet...
He brushed a stray curl from her temple, gently. She leaned into the touch without speaking.
Maybe—just maybe—this was the kind of priesthood God was calling him to.
Not pulpits. Not incense. Not lace-trimmed albs.
But late-night medicine runs.
And baths drawn for aching limbs.
And rocking a baby—his baby, their baby—while whispering Psalms into the soft crown of its head.
He closed his eyes.
He wanted her. Not just in body.
But in every impossible, inconvenient, immortal way.
And in that moment, with the wheels humming beneath them and the sound of foreign laughter in the air, he realized:
He would sacrifice everything.
For just one life where she didn’t look this tired.
She folded again, sharp and sudden, her hand pressed against her lower belly as her body curled in on itself. Goffredo stiffened, reaching instinctively—but gently—his palm hovering near her shoulder, unsure whether to pull her in or let her breathe.
Her breath came in shallow waves.
Then, through gritted teeth and a bitter attempt at humor, she whispered, “I don’t know how I’m supposed to survive childbirth if pre-period cramps leave me defeated.”
She laughed, soft and strangled, like someone trying to shake off a fever dream.
He didn’t laugh. Not yet.
“You want children?” he asked, low, careful.
Of course you do, tesoro. You will bear my seed, and I’ll carry the weight of providence. We will be fruitful and multiply. You’ll sing lullabies in two languages, and I’ll rock them to sleep quoting Augustine and Tertullian. You’ll give me girls and boys and—
“Only girls,” she said suddenly, voice still tight but eyes glinting with mischief, or maybe desperation.
He blinked. “Only?”
She nodded. “I want daughters. All daughters. I want a home full of little girls who wear too many colors at once and cry because the moon looks lonely.”
He let out a breathless laugh. “Sounds poetic. And exhausting.”
“Exactly,” she smiled weakly. “Like the Psalms.”
He looked at her, that face drawn with fatigue but still full of fight, and warmth filled him in that achingly familiar way. That way only she could fill.
“Well,” he murmured, “I want both.”
She raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Both?”
“Yes.” He turned slightly to face her better, voice steadier now. “Girls, so I can do their braids and teach them how to knead dough and walk them to school when they’re nervous. I want them to know their father listens.”
“And boys?” she asked, lips quirking.
“And boys,” he said firmly. “To teach woodwork. How to build a shelf, how to handle a knife, how to stand up for something. To pray with. Man to man.”
She laughed again, this time less strangled. “You know girls can learn woodworking too, right?”
“Of course,” he smiled. “But boys won’t sit for braids unless bribed.”
She shook her head and leaned against the bus window, the glass cool against her temple. “You sound like you’ve already decided the names.”
“I have,” he said without missing a beat.
She glanced sideways. “Really?”
“Mmhmm.”
A beat.
“And what would you do,” she asked playfully, “if you ended up with only boys? Or only girls?”
He tilted his head, pretending to ponder. “I’d be frustrated,” he admitted. “Not because I don’t love them—but because I want the full picture. I want to witness everything. The softness and the storm. The questions and the loyalty. I want to teach a boy how to tie his shoes while his sister draws on the wall behind me.”
She looked at him a moment longer, and something in her expression softened. “You want a home.”
He didn’t answer with words.
He only took her hand. Slipped his fingers between hers, warm and steady.
Outside, the landscape blurred into green and grey. Inside, they were silent, but not because there was nothing left to say.
It was the silence of knowing.
Of two hearts that—despite pain and oceans and endless wrong turns—still beat in time.
Goffredo chuckled, the sound escaping him before he could stifle it. “Why only girls?” he asked again, more amused now than curious.
Maranata didn’t miss a beat. “I wouldn’t stand men in my house.”
“Not even a husband?” he raised an eyebrow, turning to face her more fully.
She smirked. “He can sleep on the porch. I’ll set up a newspaper and a little water bowl. If he behaves, maybe I’ll let him come in when there’s thunder.”
Goffredo sighed, long-suffering. “Per l’amor di Dio, woman.”
She grinned, leaning back with all the indignant satisfaction of a prosecutor who had just won a case. “Don’t blame me. I’m just practical.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why do you hate men?”
“I don’t hate men,” she said, eyes wide with mock offense. “I come from a man. My friend is a man. I—” her voice faltered a little, “I had a brother. I have... had—” she stopped, breath catching.
Goffredo’s teasing fell quiet. But she cleared her throat, shook it off like a dog shaking rain, and barreled forward with sudden fervor.
“I just don’t think they should be running countries,” she said. “They’re far too emotional. Have you seen a football match? Or watched two grown men argue over who gets to press the elevator button first?”
Goffredo barked a laugh. “That’s not emotion. That’s competition.”
“Same thing. Emotional constipation with more yelling.”
He held a hand to his chest, feigning deep injury. “You wound me.”
“You’ll survive,” she said sweetly.
“Barely.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the sound of the bus rattling over cobblestone and the occasional snort of laughter from Stephen and Etienne talking about cheese up ahead.
Goffredo glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
They stirred at the same time.
The engine had gone still, the low hum replaced by birdsong and the scrape of luggage wheels on gravel. Someone—Etienne, probably—was laughing outside. The bus was empty.
But inside, two drowsy figures blinked into awareness.
Maranata stirred first, lifting her head slowly—only to realize it had been resting on his shoulder. A thin string of drool clung traitorously to the corner of her mouth. Her eyes widened in horror.
Goffredo, blinking groggily, followed her line of panic with a groan. “Dio mio, how do you produce that much fluid in your sleep?”
Before she could respond, he unscrewed his water bottle with one hand and yanked a napkin from his coat pocket with the other. No ceremony, no warning—just a splash and then the soaked fabric came crashing against her face.
“Goffred—!” she sputtered, the napkin smushed across her lips and cheek like some papal decree of indignity.
He squinted. “Is that worms? Do you have stomach worms, Maranata? Should I be worried?”
She shoved him hard, scandalized, and he let himself fall sideways with the overdramatic weight of a martyr.
“You’re disgusting,” she mumbled, reaching into her bag and popping a small mint from an unmarked tin. She passed him one too. “And you smell like… like one of those convents for old nuns.”
“Better than sulfur and pride.”
She scowled, cheeks flushed. “Did you just call me Lucifer?”
“No,” he said sweetly. “Lucifer was elegant.”
Her eyes narrowed. He grinned.
They chewed in silence, the mint dissolving slowly as the fog of sleep gave way to a strange quiet.
She was still puffy with sleep—eyes a little swollen, lips faintly pink from pressure, the ends of her braid tangled where it had pressed between them. There was something about her right then, Goffredo thought, something almost unbearably soft. Like those velvet hymnals old women kept in drawers with their rosaries and love letters.
He reached forward, without thinking, and cupped her face in both hands.
Her eyes widened—huge and dark like a weeping puppy.
He leaned in slightly. So did she.
His heart lurched—This is it. This is when I kiss her. This is when—
He caressed her cheeks with his thumbs and looked her in the eye.
Leaned closer
Pulled her closer
She was not showing any resistance and tilted too
Goffredo parted his lips
But then he panicked.
He panicked completely and bit her nose.
She shrieked.
“You feral man!” she cried, swatting at him.
He grinned, sheepish, biting back a laugh. “You looked so—so kissable, I had to do something!” He paused, then winced. “Wait. That sounded wrong. Not like that.”
“Then how?”
“Like—like the kiss of peace! But in—nose format?”
She stared at him.
Then she laughed, covering her mouth.
He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d held. That laugh—it saved him every time.
“You’re an idiot,” she murmured, still smiling.
He bowed dramatically. “And you’re drooling again.”
“I am not—!”
But they were both laughing now, red-eyed and rumpled and vaguely unholy in the back of a half-empty bus, with the whole world waiting outside.
The hotel was modest, but pleasant. An English sort of pleasant—dull in the corners, but clean. Goffredo had made the reservations himself weeks in advance. The receptionist had already recognized him by name. “Ah, Signore Tedesco. The two doubles and the suite—yes, everything is prepared.”
Two doubles and the suite.
He had requested a double room for Etienne and Lucas—obviously. They were insufferable alone and even worse apart. Like splitting an illness between two lungs. The French were used to each other, which made them the only two people in the world qualified to endure one another.
Goffredo, on the other hand, had reserved a small, tidy room for himself. One with the door next to hers.
He wasn’t a shameless degenerate.
He wasn’t planning to share a room with her.
He wasn’t going to touch her or dishonor her or make her feel compromised in any way.
But he had wanted proximity. The possibility of prayer before bed in the same hallway. A knock on her door in case she needed water. Or tea. Or reassurance that the world was not as cruel as it sometimes seemed.
Instead, Stephen had arrived with casual grandeur and an American expressiveness that grated.
“Oh don’t worry about it,” he’d said with an easy laugh. “I booked a suite—king-sized room split in two. Plenty of space. She gets her own bed, I get mine. We do this all the time.”
The receptionist had nodded, entirely unfazed.
And the way Maranata hadn’t blinked—had just smiled, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world—rattled something loose in Goffredo’s chest.
They do this all the time.
He tried to remind himself of what he knew: that Stephen was a lifelong friend, a man she trusted, that the two of them shared a strange, holy bond forged over letters and crises and activist dreams.
But still.
Still.
He had to grit his teeth and accept it. He was the one who had invited her here. The one who had spent the train ride rehearsing how he would tell her the truth—all of it.
Instead, now, he was standing in the middle of a hotel lobby while a stranger carried her luggage to the suite.
His hands tightened around the strap of his satchel.
“Everything alright, Professore?” Maranata’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts.
He turned to her. Her curls were still mussed from the bus ride, but she had changed into a soft linen blouse, clean and faintly wrinkled, and something about the vulnerability of her posture made his frustration ease.
“Yes,” he said. “I was just thinking of the woman I met earlier. At the station.”
Her eyes brightened slightly. “Oh? What woman?”
“She was elderly,” he said. “Catholic, I think. Rosary around her neck. I helped with her luggage. She asked where I was going, and I told her—”
He paused, tongue catching against the roof of his mouth.
He didn’t dare look at her.
But then she said, so softly he barely caught it: “That was kind of her.”
He glanced at her now.
She was fidgeting with the strap of her bag.
She wasn’t smiling.
But she wasn’t pulling away either.
“Let’s go have lunch, there is a restaurant down here.”
Her blouse was soft lavender today. A delicate pair of earrings, no more than tiny gold circles, caught the light whenever she turned her head. She was quiet, not sullen, but tired in a way he could not touch. As if her soul had packed too much into the week and had left no space for casual cheer.
He wanted to say something kind, something that would reach her gently. So he chose something familiar.
"How’s your family?" he asked softly, leaning just enough to show her the question was sincere.
She blinked, then smiled faintly. “They’re alright.”
“I’m glad,” he said, pausing, searching her face. “I visited Nonna before coming here.”
Her eyes flickered with recognition, and something almost fond stirred in them. “How is she?”
“Still ruling the kitchen like a monarch,” he said. “She gave me a blessing and a warning.”
Maranata chuckled under her breath. “Sounds about right.”
He tilted his head. “And yours?”
“Hm?”
“Your grandmother.”
She looked down for a moment, as if surprised he’d remembered. Then her voice softened. “She’s still alive. Gloria. I always liked her.”
There was a beat of silence between them.
Then she went on, her words slow, careful, but not distant.
“Love stories between old people are more like crime confessionals,” she said with a wry smile. “Teen girls betrothed to grown adults—no, that’s not okay. Not at all. But Gloria… hers was different. Or maybe I just needed to believe it was.”
Goffredo listened. The background faded.
“She was the oldest of seven,” Maranata continued. “Her mother died when she was seven. Her father remarried, and the new wife—” She hesitated. “Well. Let’s say Cinderella would’ve wept. Gloria took care of the little ones. She was a child, but nobody looked after her.”
Her voice quieted. “Then one day, at a wedding—someone else’s—she met a man. Older, yes, but not cruel. Not controlling. They danced, and for weeks he brought her things—figs, scraps of lace, little pressed flowers. She didn’t know what to do with it. She’d never received anything just for her.”
Goffredo felt something tighten in his chest.
“She told me once,” Maranata said, eyes distant, “that the first time he said ‘I love you’, she just stood there. Frozen. Like she couldn’t believe it was meant for her. Like the words were too big to wear.”
There was a silence.
The kind that begged not to be filled too soon.
She did not say it, but Goffredo heard it anyway:
I know how that feels.
He wanted to reach across the table. He wanted to take her hand.
Instead, he said, with quiet reverence: “She sounds strong.”
“She was,” Maranata said. “And kind. Which is rarer.”
Their eyes met.
In that moment, with silverware clinking faintly around them and laughter from the other end of the table, there was a stillness. Not awkward. Just sacred.
Like the hush before a vow.
Then Stephen called her name, breaking the spell, and she turned, nodding to something he said.
But Goffredo kept his eyes on her a moment longer.
She had not been loved, not truly, not in the way a soul recognizes as holy.
Deep down, he hoarded the hope that one day he could be the man who said I love you, and meant it.
And this time, maybe she wouldn’t freeze.
Maybe she would believe it was meant for her.
Maranata and Goffredo sat at a small table near the window, their meals already half-eaten, the plates scattered with crumbs and glistening traces of olive oil and balsamic. The golden light framed her profile, made her look like a portrait too tender for glass.
They were speaking softly—about their grandmothers, about the strange ache of being raised on women who bore the world without asking for applause—when a new shadow fell across the table.
“There you are.”
Stephen’s voice was warm, his smile wide. He wore a linen shirt rolled up at the forearms, and sunglasses still perched in his curls like he’d forgotten they were there.
Maranata turned, surprised. “We thought you were still with Etienne and Lucas.”
“I was,” he said, hands in his pockets. “But I thought I’d find the two nerds in here.”
Goffredo stiffened.
Stephen glanced between them with a grin, then pulled out a chair without asking. “Let me treat you two to dinner tonight.”
Maranata blinked. “Dinner?”
“I made a reservation at Le Noir.”
She nearly dropped her fork. “That place has a six-month waiting list—how could you possibly—?”
Goffredo didn’t speak. His knife was cutting into a piece of bread that didn’t need slicing.
Stephen lifted a hand as if to wave away the question. “Come on, it’s just an hour from here. We can rent a car at the agency down the road—” He leaned forward slightly, voice lower, conspiratorial. “I’m treating you. You may question my methods,” he winked, “but not my results.”
Maranata laughed, because it was impressive. And absurd. And Stephen.
Goffredo did not laugh.
He set down his knife, folded his napkin with practiced restraint. “Do you often use your charm for logistical miracles, Mr. Stephen?”
Stephen leaned back. “Only for the people I like.”
“I’m flattered to be included.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
Maranata cut in quickly, her hand brushing Goffredo’s wrist without thinking. “It’s kind of you to invite us.”
“Kind?” Stephen feigned offense. “I’m being generous. Kind is when I pretend Lucas’ stories about cheese are interesting.”
Goffredo forced a small smile, but his chest was tight.
She had leaned toward Stephen when she laughed. She had smiled that smile.
It was petty, ridiculous. But it boiled in him nonetheless.
“I don’t need charity,” Goffredo said, too quietly.
Maranata turned. “What?”
“I said,” he repeated, “I don’t need charity. I can afford to take you to dinner.”
Stephen raised an eyebrow. “Nobody said you couldn’t.”
“Good.”
Another silence. Not the sacred kind. The competitive kind.
Stephen clapped his hands once and stood. “Well. Car’s being reserved in ten minutes. I’ll let you two finish your meal and look at each other longingly a little longer. I’ll be at the desk.”
He disappeared, and for a moment neither of them spoke.
Maranata looked at her plate.
Goffredo finally exhaled. “Why is he here?”
“He was in New Orleans,” she said, simply. “He was bored. I told him to come.”
“And he just did?”
She looked at him. Her voice was soft, but tired. “Stephen is one of the few people in the world who actually shows up.”
Goffredo said nothing. He looked back at his bread, now torn into nervous pieces.
She sighed, and looked out the window. “Don’t ruin this.”
He didn’t answer.
But he watched her. Her wrist resting lightly on the table. The edge of her jaw. The way the sunlight slid down her temple like a benediction.
She’s here, he thought. That should be enough.
Then again, enough was a word no man in love had ever truly understood.
They walked side by side, the English air sharp with the clean scent of upcoming rain. Maranata had a scarf knotted at her throat and her braid looped low, dark against the cotton of her dress. She walked quickly, as if being still might make her unravel.
Goffredo, beside her, matched her pace with a sort of reverent awkwardness. He wanted to hold her hand. He did not dare.
Instead, he asked, with a softness he masked behind an attempt at levity, “...Did you ever get asked out?”
She glanced at him. He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at the cobblestones like they had something to tell him.
“Only once,” she said. “It was a joke.”
He frowned, looking up. “Oh.”
Then, as if he could outrun the silence by reversing it: “Did you?”
He regretted it immediately. He always thought too much and spoke too soon.
“Men are the ones that do the asking out,” she answered, flatly.
“I have asked out three people in my life.”
That surprised him. He looked at her—her soft face, the flushed cheeks he loved so much.
“What did they say?”
“They all rejected me.”
He blinked. There was no bitterness in her voice, only quiet resignation.
He shouldn't have said anything else. But he did.
“What did they say?” he asked again, voice low.
She stopped walking. So did he.
Her eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in calculation, as though weighing whether the truth would be worth its weight in pain.
“…You want me to tell you what each of them individually said?”
“No!” He raised his hand as if to wave it away. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean— I don’t feel like— You don’t have to—”
She started walking again. He scrambled to keep up.
There was a pause. And then, almost clinically, she said:
“They all said I was cute.”
The words dropped like stones into the space between them.
“That’s the default compliment fat girls get,” she added, softly. “That’s the only nice thing ugly women are told out of pity. ‘You’re cute.’ Or ‘kind.’ Or ‘give great hugs.’”
He didn’t speak.
The pain in her voice was old. Fossilized. Not theatrical. Just a scar that had learned how to breathe.
He wanted to say something, anything—But you are cute, you remind me of a beige bunny I saw last week.
It was true. She did. Full, round cheeks. Two front teeth. Fluffy hair that curled like spring and softness. That beige bunny had pressed its nose against the glass of a shop window and looked at him like it knew him. Like it forgave him.
He swallowed the words. They would have sounded like mockery.
Instead, he let the ache thrum through him, watching her in profile.
She made him feel like a child. Safe, like his mother’s shoulder or Nonna’s shawl. Then she'd say something brilliant and sharp and broken, and he’d want to wrap her in every prayer he knew.
Love was weird.
Sometimes he tripped over his own desire to be noble and ended up looking foolish. Sometimes he wanted to press her face into his chest and say I’ll kill whoever made you feel like that.
And sometimes—God forgive him—he wanted to pin her down, just to see if she could finally believe she was loved.
He had never known what to do with wanting.
He still didn’t.
They reached the bookstore in silence. She pushed open the old wooden door, and the smell of paper and dust and ink wrapped around them like a hymn.
And still, he said nothing. Because she was here. And he was here. And for now, that was enough.
It wasn’t enough.
It had never been enough.
Her body moved beside his like clockwork—easy, habitual, familiar. But inside, the gnawing ache had flared again. That old, sour voice.
She didn’t look like women who were loved.
She knew how they looked.
The ones whose boyfriends brought them lunch.
The ones who wore rings that caught the light when they lifted their hands to wave.
The ones who never doubted—because someone else’s certainty had answered their questions before they even asked.
They had a look.
She didn’t.
Not the soft-skinned brightness of pampered wives. Not the glossed hair and tailored dresses of girls with wealthy men. Not the glowing, fluttered lashes of a woman called bella over breakfast.
She didn’t even own a hairdryer.
I don’t look like women who are loved.
I don’t sound like them.
I don’t move like them.
She didn’t look like someone you wrote poetry for. Or bought jewelry for.
She didn’t look like a woman who would be chosen in a crowd.
She looked like someone you tolerated.
Someone you loved for her intellect.
Someone you pitied for her pain.
And how could she expect anything else?
The bookshop door chimed softly as she stepped in, her fingers trailing along a display of stiff-backed novellas. The air smelled like binding glue and wood polish, with something faint and lemony beneath it—old books and cleaned windows.
The space was small and warm, but surprisingly tall. High walls of shelves. Ladders perched like resting birds. There were woven rugs on the wooden floor, mismatched chairs, and baskets of bookmarks that looked handmade.
She didn’t look at Goffredo. She needed this moment to herself.
She wandered toward the back, the fiction section. The familiar old names stared back at her from the spines like friends she hadn’t written to in years.
And then—there it was.
Jane Eyre.
She paused, a small smile forming at the corner of her mouth. The old edition. Burgundy cover, a bit weathered. Gold lettering, slightly faded.
That book.
That girl.
That plain, trembling, stubborn girl who dared to want love, even when no one else had loved her.
That girl who looked at herself in the mirror and saw not pretty enough, not graceful enough, not wanted enough—but still, still found the courage to ask for something more.
She picked it up.
The pages crackled. The familiar cadence welcomed her like a hymn:
“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.”
A breath escaped her lips.
She had read it so many times, she could quote entire passages by heart. The heartbreak. The isolation. The unrelenting self-discipline. The burning love.
But today, it hit different.
Today, she wanted to scream:
Reader, he married me... but I still hate myself in the mirror.
Reader, he loved me… but only after I stopped asking to be beautiful.
She blinked hard, willing away the tears. Not here. Not now.
Behind her, Goffredo’s footsteps echoed faintly on the rug.
“Find something?” he asked, trying to sound casual, but she could hear the need beneath it.
She turned the book slightly in her hands.
“An old friend,” she said.
He leaned closer, peering at the cover. “Jane Eyre. You always liked her.”
“She wasn’t likable,” Maranata murmured. “That’s why I loved her.”
Goffredo tilted his head. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does,” she said, more to the book than to him. “She didn’t sparkle. She didn’t charm. She didn’t seduce. She was... too serious. Too plain. Too angry.”
He was watching her now. Not saying a word.
“She was always trying to be good,” she whispered, “even though it never seemed to get her anything.”
She closed the book gently. Held it to her chest.
And in her mind, a sentence echoed—one that wasn’t in the book, but should’ve been:
No one ever teaches girls like us that we can be the story. That we don’t have to be just the footnote in someone else’s epic.
She looked up.
Goffredo was standing a few feet away. Silent. Tense. As if he wanted to say something grand and redemptive—but didn’t have the right words.
That was alright.
She didn’t need rescuing.
She just needed to be seen.
Goffredo had just barely wrapped his hand more snugly around her waist to guide her gently between two tall shelves when she muttered, somewhat accusingly:
“I haven’t had coffee today.”
“You can have one after this,” he answered, not skipping a beat, his voice low and amused. “Let’s go to the store across the street. They have those sweet little pastries you like. The ones shaped like pillows.”
“You remember that?”
“I remember everything.”
They moved like they’d done this for decades—like she always leaned a little left when she read spines and he always took the right side so he could see her profile. Like he always knew when to whisper and she always knew when to sigh.
It was becoming a pattern: people gave them certain looks. The quiet smiles of strangers, the soft, warm glances of cashiers and pedestrians alike. That gentle recognition. As if they were watching two regulars at a café, a husband and wife who never sat on opposite sides of the table.
Maranata caught on to it too.
“It’s curious,” he said aloud. “When I was younger, everyone thought that my female friends were my girlfriends. Now they just assume I’m married.”
“To you, and they are not wrong.”
She chuckled softly. “We both are too damn old to be single.”
“…Yes…” he said, quieter now, his breath slower. She hadn’t said it as a joke. It landed somewhere deeper than he’d expected.
She glanced at him sideways, her eyes shadowed but clear. “Why haven’t you married?”
He looked at her just as she stood on tiptoe to reach a book on the highest shelf—her voice casual, her hands small and stretched upward like a child reaching for a lamp string.
He didn’t answer.
Because he didn’t know which answer was true.
The priesthood. The Church. Fear. Pride. Women who weren’t her.
He opened his mouth.
And then the book—a thick, clunky hardcover with an unforgiving spine—slipped and thwacked her directly on the crown of her head.
“Ah!” she gasped, stumbling half a step back.
Goffredo instinctively caught her by the shoulders.
Then he saw her face.
Oh no.
She wasn’t crying.
But she looked exactly like she was about to.
She blinked twice, the way she always did when she was trying to be brave about something dumb. She pressed her lips together. She reached for her dignity like a napkin that had just flown off a café table.
Goffredo bit his lip.
Hard.
It didn’t work.
He snorted.
Then choked.
Then wheezed.
He was laughing.
No—trying not to laugh, failing miserably.
“Don’t you dare—” she warned.
“Dio santo, Maranata—!” he sputtered, turning his back to compose himself.
“You’re an awful, awful man—” she said, eyes wide and wounded.
He turned back, still stifling laughter, and placed his hand on her head to inspect the damage.
“No blood,” he said, trying to sound clinical. “Though your skull may have dented the book.”
She glared at him. “I hate you.”
“You always say that when you’re embarrassed.”
“You deserve to be hit with a book.”
“Then marry me and do it every day.”
She froze.
He did too.
The air stopped. No one moved. Not even the dust dared to float.
They both looked away at the exact same time.
“…Let’s get coffee,” she said, cheeks hot.
He nodded. “…Yes. I’ll pay.”
“Good.”
But as they walked out of the bookstore—his hand still on the small of her back, her arm still brushing his coat—they both knew something had shifted.
The question was no longer if.
It was when.
The café’s restroom was quiet, lit with an unforgiving yellow that made the tile look grayer than it was. Maranata stood before the mirror, not crying, but close. The cold tap water she’d patted under her eyes had dried already.
She looked at her reflection and winced. Her hair was in disarray. Her forehead a little red. She looked like a mess, and the voice in her head whispered, no wonder he laughed.
She hadn’t wanted much. Just to reach a book. Just to stand next to him without being a punchline.
And then—
“Then marry me and do it every day.”
It had hit harder than the book.
That line echoed in her mind like an old cassette rewinding. That wasn’t a joke. Or maybe it was. But he said it in that half-smiling, terrifyingly serious way he always did. She remembered once, in college, having a full meltdown in Valentina’s dorm room, and Valentina—without saying a word—had peeled the plastic off a slice of American cheese and stuck it directly to her forehead.
It had worked. It had been so stupid it derailed the pain.
She needed cheese now.
Instead, she had Goffredo.
There was a knock.
She opened the door slightly and peeked out.
He stood there, holding a napkin, frowning like a doctor.
“Dove, where was the hit?”
She pointed, wordless.
He stepped inside the narrow corridor and gently cupped her face between his hands, tilting her head to inspect the spot. His fingers were warm and sure. It made her knees tremble.
“Here?” he asked.
She nodded, eyes wide.
Then, without warning, he bent down and kissed the exact spot.
Loudly.
Then again.
And again.
He exaggerated the smacking sound, like an affectionate grandmother, complete with a ridiculous mwah! each time.
She broke.
Laughed—actually laughed, a short burst she tried to muffle with both hands. But he didn’t stop.
“Stop! Goffredo!” she hissed, swatting at him through her giggles.
He grinned and pulled her close again, kissing the crown of her head. “You remind me of my nonna. When I was little, she'd do this. Like a barrage of holy kisses.”
“You remind me of my mom,” she said through the laughter. “When I was little, she used to make nibbling noises on my head and say she was eating me.”
He blinked, deadpan.
“Like this?”
Then made an outrageous nom nom nom sound right at her temple.
She doubled over, choking on laughter. “Goffredo—stop—you’re going to get us kicked out!”
She was gasping now, the weight in her chest lighter than it had been all day.
Outside, a group of teenagers sat in the café’s corner, laughing and teasing each other over shared milkshakes and clunky homework folders.
He glanced at them and suddenly—finally—understood.
His ridiculous students. Their silly girlfriends. Their giggles, their inside jokes, their outrageous, inconvenient tenderness. That’s what they had. This stupid, embarrassing joy.
And for the first time, he didn’t hate them.
He envied them.
Because he had it too—right here, in this bathroom, with a woman laughing like she hadn’t in weeks.
He looked down at her, her face flushed with warmth, her eyes soft and brimming with life.
He whispered, “Let’s get coffee, bunny.”
She nodded, wiping her eyes. “Yeah. I could use something sweet.”
He stepped aside and offered his arm.
She took it.
And for a brief, blessed moment, neither of them felt unloved.
“…did you call me bunny?”
“Sí.”
Like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like he’d been calling her that for years. Like it belonged to her the way shadows belong to trees.
She blinked, disarmed.
“I’m not a bunny…”
“I wasn’t asking for your opinion,” he replied, calm as a lake. Then, without missing a beat—
“Heretic.”
The word landed like a cherry on top—light, affectionate, deadly.
She stared at him, indignant. “You can’t just decide I’m a bunny.”
“I didn’t decide it,” he said, leading her back into the café as if nothing had happened. “I discovered it. Like Galileo.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Galileo was persecuted by the Church, you know.”
He smirked. “And you’ll be excommunicated for blaspheming against your own species.”
She folded her arms, trying not to smile. “I will sue.”
“For what?”
“Defamation of character. I am not small, fluffy, or prey.”
He gave her a long, pointed look.
Then said, far too quietly, “You are very fluffy.”
She gasped.
“Goffredo.”
“Conejita,” he sighed, like it was an old prayer. “Let’s get your coffee before you bite someone.”
She followed him, arms crossed—but her steps lighter, the ache in her forehead forgotten.
She still hated him.
But only a little.
Maybe.
“My mom always said that I was a kitten,” she muttered, sipping her coffee and not looking at him, trying to reclaim a shred of dignity after being called a fluffy woodland animal.
Goffredo scoffed. “No. Women who resemble cats are the ones who purr sensually into your ear and wear lipstick that stains your collar. You are a bunny. Smelly, fluffy, and you’d kick me in the chest if I don’t feed you soon enough.”
She blinked at him, scandalized. “Smelly?!”
“I’ve smelled your shampoo. It’s wildflower and soap. Like a meadow where a lamb just died.”
“What does that even mean?”
He shrugged. “Biblical.”
“You’re a rat.”
“Rat?!” he clutched his chest in mock betrayal. “I was going for at least... wolf. Jackal, even.”
“No. You’re a rat. Fluffy hair. White streak. Big nose. And Catholic—a religion based on monetary gain,” she stabbed the words in sweet retaliation.
“Oof.” He actually flinched, then placed his coffee down with exaggerated care. “Attacking Rome? And my nose?”
“It’s an honest nose.”
“It’s a Roman nose.”
“It’s a rat’s nose.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You Protestants always go for the jugular.”
She leaned in, voice sugary. “We believe in sola scriptura, not in papal noses.”
He smirked. “You believe in cafeteria theology and self-appointed pastors with podcasts.”
“Oh, because indulgences and gold-plated statues are the beacon of orthodoxy.”
He shrugged. “At least we don’t serve grape juice.”
She gasped. “Don’t you dare insult communion!”
“I will. Your communion is a snack. Ours is a mystery.”
“You’re a mystery.”
He leaned back, sipping his espresso slowly. “I’m a sacrament.”
“You’re full of rats and pride.”
“And you,” he said gently, eyes soft now, “are still my bunny.”
She blinked, startled again.
The flirting stopped for a breath of silence, delicate and charged.
Then she whispered, “Feed me.”
He grinned. “See? Bunny.”
“Wow, bunny!” she said, blinking wide with mock wonder. “Your ability to re-do the Madonna–whore theory using woodland animals is remarkable.”
Goffredo took a leisurely sip of his espresso, then set it down with studied elegance. “I merely observe nature. God speaks through His creation.”
“Oh, so now you're the St. Francis of misogyny?”
“No,” he said calmly, “I’m the Aquinas of affectionate taxonomy. You’re a bunny. Pure, twitchy, territorial. And I—”
“—am a rat. I heard. With a relic nose and medieval guilt complexes.”
“And excellent taste in women.”
She stared at him. “You’re unbearable.”
“And yet you sit across from me. Daily.”
“Because you keep tricking people into thinking we’re married and getting us couple’s discounts.”
He shrugged. “Is it my fault we radiate stable union energy?”
She huffed, folding her arms. “You call me smelly and territorial.”
“Lovingly.”
“You are impossible.”
“You chose to spend a week with me.”
She stabbed her fork into her salad like she meant it. “I regret it every time you speak.”
“You flirt with me like you’re signing a treaty with your enemy.”
“I flirt with you like you’re a political inconvenience I must temporarily tolerate for the sake of diplomatic peace.”
He grinned, smug and victorious. “That’s called marriage.”
She stared at him. Then shook her head slowly. “We are the reason strangers think elderly married couples must hate each other.”
“They do.”
“They don’t.”
“They pretend they don’t.”
She rolled her eyes so hard it looked like prayer.
He leaned forward, voice low and conspiratorial, “Come now, cara. Admit it. We banter like we’ve been bickering over breakfast since the 60s.”
“…You weren’t even born in the 60s.”
“Spiritually, I was married to you in 1964 and arguing over Vatican II ever since.”
She blinked. “That’s the most Catholic thing you’ve ever said.”
“Thank you.”
They fell into a silence for a moment, the kind that blooms after a good storm—rattled, but weirdly serene. Outside, the sky was dimming slightly. Somewhere, a bell chimed the hour.
Then Maranata muttered, “We wonder why people think we’re married.”
He raised a brow. “Well. I did bring your Bible to the cafe.”
She groaned. “You’re embarrassing.”
“You drooled on my sleeve.”
“And you bit my nose.”
He grinned, sipping again. “And I would do it again.”
She smiled, despite herself. “Catholic menace.”
“Heretic bunny.”
And they sat like that—laughing, sipping coffee, arguing theology like it was foreplay—and anyone passing by would swear they had been married for thirty years.
And maybe, in some deeper way, they already had.
They laughed too much for the café.
That kind of laughter that ripens in the belly before it finds its way to the throat—warm, unguarded, unrepeatable. Goffredo hadn’t laughed like that in weeks. Months, maybe. Since before Chiapas. Before England. Before the suits and syllabi, the Archbishop’s voice in his ear like silk over steel.
But now she sat before him—messy-haired, puff-eyed, insulting his nose—and it was like a breeze through a sealed room.
He watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and hide her smile behind her teacup.
There she was: his bunny. His dove. His mistake.
He swallowed.
“Catholic menace,” she said again, eyes lit with mischief.
“Heretic,” he whispered, smiling faintly.
But already, the air shifted inside him. The laughter cooled. Something older reemerged—bone-deep and hard.
Because this wasn’t sustainable. She was brilliant and wild and reckless in all the wrong ways. She wore her thoughts like veils, soft but impenetrable. She still hadn’t converted. Still clung to those Protestant phrases—Jesus knocking, no sacraments, no structure. Still refused to kneel. Still.
She made him laugh, yes. Made him dream, even. But Goffredo Tedesco was not a dreamer. Not anymore.
He looked down at his espresso. Stirred the last few grains of sugar without sipping.
They were on borrowed time, he knew that. She would see it, too. Eventually. She had to. He would make her see. Not with cruelty—God forbid—but with clarity. With love, even. The kind of love that molds.
He had already laid the groundwork. Her conversion paperwork was ready. Her catechism books were purchased. The wedding, when it happened, would be dignified, proper. The first child, God willing, would be born within the year. And slowly, she would forget all this fire in her belly. The questions, the rebellions. She would become what wives are meant to become: tender, fruitful, still.
Time would tame her.
Love would fix her.
And if it didn’t—if she kept pressing against the bounds of what was right—well, then he would love her harder. Until the protest wilted into obedience.
His hand grazed hers on the table. She didn’t flinch. Their fingers didn’t intertwine, but the pulse that jumped in his wrist was enough to make him pause.
Yes.
He would have her.
And she would become good.
The Archbishop had said it best: You’re building a future, son. Don’t let your appetite obscure your legacy.
Goffredo looked at her again. She was laughing at something. Something Lucas had said across the café. Her eyes were soft, trusting. She still believed in him.
And he loved her for it.
But more than that—he loved what she could become.
He kissed her knuckles.
She blinked, surprised.
He smiled, gently.
But inside, the wheels of empire kept turning.
“Have another slice.”
“What?”
“I see your eyes, coniglia mia. Take another. I like when you’re well fed.”
“I thought I was a dove.”
“You are a dove. Remember that day at the summer camp? You said you couldn’t understand how people struggled with the Trinity—or how Jesus could be both man and God.”
“Because it’s simple!” she said, already warming to the topic. “Jesus died. That proves He was a man. And then He rose from the dead. That proves He’s God.”
He smiled, softly, reverently.
“Every time you speak,” he murmured, “I feel the Holy Spirit moving through your words. Not fully, not yet—since you still won’t acknowledge the one true Church—but enough. You remind me of the Ethiopian eunuch in the desert. The one Philip found reading Isaiah. You have the Scripture in your hands... you just need someone to help you understand.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And your point?”
“My point is... because of the Spirit in you, you are the dove.”
And because of the Song of Songs, he thought, but you won’t know that yet, my beloved.
She rolled her eyes. “And the bunny?”
“I told you already—smelly, twitchy nose, always needing food.”
She kicked him lightly under the table.
“…and that too,” he added, deadpan.
She laughed, half-annoyed, half-amused.
And he thought: If I could only hold this moment. Just this.
She did too
For once, they agreed in something - They both needed the other, and could not be good living together, but would not survive being apart.
You’re sick. Feverish. Miserable.
Barry Allen is the most attentive boyfriend in existence.
barry allen x reader
You knew you were sick when Barry stopped teasing you.
No smug remarks. No playful eyebrows. Just soft eyes and the gentlest hands imaginable tucking you into bed like you might dissolve if he moved too fast.
Which was ironic, really.
Because Barry Allen always moved fast.
But not with you.
Not when you were like this—pale, weak, sweating through your pajamas and shivering under three blankets. Not when you could barely lift your head without groaning.
Not when he was scared.
He didn’t say it, of course.
He never did. Not the way most people would.
But you’d been together long enough to know what fear looked like on Barry Allen.
It wasn’t panic. It was quiet.
It was the way he slowed his steps when he walked into your bedroom. The way he held your tea like it was something fragile. The way he’d pressed a hand to your forehead and murmured, “You’re burning up,” and then didn’t let go for five whole minutes.
The way he never left your side without promising, “I’ll be right back.”
Like you’d slip away while he wasn’t looking.
You’re half-asleep when he comes back this time—arms full, hair windblown, still dressed in sweats and a hoodie that definitely wasn’t his when you fell asleep (Cisco’s? Maybe? You’re too feverish to care).
He sets a tray down on your nightstand, all soft clinks and quiet care. You blink up at him, dazed.
“Soup,” he says gently. “Tea. Ginger chews. Two kinds of cough drops. And—” he leans closer, grinning, “a new thermometer. Because I know the old one lies to me.”
You huff a tired laugh. “You bought a new thermometer?”
He shrugs, clearly unrepentant. “I may have stolen it from STAR Labs.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m in love,” he replies, kneeling beside the bed. “It’s a terminal condition.”
You roll your eyes, but your heart squeezes.
Barry reaches up, brushing his knuckles along your cheek. You lean into his touch instinctively.
“How’s the fever?”
“Still awful.”
He hums, reading your face. “Headache?”
You nod.
“Sore throat?”
You nod again.
He kisses your forehead softly, then mumbles, “Don’t move.”
Before you can ask why, he’s gone.
Gone-gone. Speedster blur gone.
You blink. He’s back three seconds later holding—
“A cool rag,” he says proudly, tucking it behind your neck like he’s just performed a miracle. “Dampened to exactly 74°F.”
You squint at him.
“I used my watch,” he explains.
You sigh. “You’re gonna set the bar so high for other men it’s gonna mess with the timeline.”
He smirks. “Good. Let them fear me.”
You open your mouth to tease him again but dissolve into a coughing fit. It racks through your chest, makes your eyes water. Barry’s there instantly, hand rubbing slow, soothing circles between your shoulder blades, whispering the whole time:
“I’ve got you. Breathe. I’ve got you.”
And when you finally go still, exhausted and slumped against him, he whispers something even softer.
“I hate seeing you like this.”
You rest your cheek against his collarbone. “I hate feeling like this.”
“I know.”
His arms stay wrapped around you as you drift again, body warm but safe, heart fluttering slow under the press of his.
Barry sits behind you in bed, legs on either side of yours, your blanket-swaddled body resting against his chest like a human marshmallow. You’re tired, overheated, and grumpy, but he’s determined to get you to eat something before you pass out again.
So now? He’s got a spoon in one hand and your hair tucked behind your ear with the other.
“C’mon,” he coaxes gently, bringing the spoon to your lips. “Just one more bite.”
You groan. “No more. I’m a sick little sack of soup now. I’m done.”
“You’ve had, like, six spoonfuls.”
“Which is, like, five more than I wanted.”
He chuckles softly, pressing his nose into your hair. “You’re dramatic.”
“Says the man who sped across town for three brands of cough drops.”
He shrugs. “Your suffering makes me reckless.”
You laugh—quietly. It hurts your throat. But it’s real.
Once he’s finally convinced you to sip some tea, he sets everything aside and settles in again. His arms wrap around you automatically, blanket and all, his hands rubbing lazy circles over your ribs through the fabric.
“Feel a little better?” he asks.
You nod against his shoulder. “Warm. Full. Safe.”
He presses a kiss to the side of your head.
“That’s kinda my whole brand.”
You don’t mean to fall asleep.
You just sort of drift.
Your head tucked under his chin. His hands never leaving you. The sound of his heartbeat steady in your ear, rhythmic and grounding.
And in that hazy, half-conscious space between dreaming and waking, you murmur:
“I think I wanna marry you.”
It’s soft. So soft you almost don’t hear it yourself.
But Barry goes still.
You’re too far gone to notice—eyes closed, breath even, fever making the world heavy and slow.
But he hears it.
He feels it.
And god, he’s never been so in love with anything in his life.
He holds you a little tighter. Presses a kiss to your temple. And whispers, almost inaudibly:
Quiet mornings were a rare blessing given to the group of heroes along their travels, much less the kind that present perfectly unobstructed sunny skies, warm breezes, and the gentle falling of leaves around them.
So, of course, everyone took complete advantage of the occasion.
Well…almost everyone, it seemed.
Whereas the others had decided to spend their day lounging about in the sun, perhaps performing maintenance or catching up on sleep, or perhaps even wandering the general area in search of “something cool,” there was one person who seemed to sit back from the activities. One person whom, the eldest of the heroes, found his attention on completely.
You were sitting alone, almost towards the edge of the clearing, just barely hidden from the main path the group had taken to get to the alcove in the trees. You sat against the trunk of the oak tree, covered by shade, twisting your hands as you peeked continuously around the corner. Were you expecting something, perhaps?
The hero could almost visibly see the energy around you, nervous and anxious, like a great purple aura of dread surrounding your partly hidden form. It both worried and concerned him greatly, to see you in such a state of distress. It made little sense to him sometimes, how easily you could seem to get so lost in your mind. Yet, at the same time, he found himself understanding it so deeply it almost hurt him, as well. His days in his youth, so nervous about the potential danger lurking around every corner, wondering the true intentions of the people he was around after leaving his home for the first time…it was a new world. A dreadful world, in many corners. It was frightening, the first time he’d been exposed to such a way of living…and looking down at you, he wondered if perhaps your fear could have, still, been worse than his. You had grown up in that world, after all. Full of distrust, and full of fear.
He decided then and there, that he would try to help you to understand that you didn’t have to be afraid. At least, not when you had 9 heroes up your sleeve to help you. If that wouldn’t be enough, or perhaps if it couldn’t convince you as he hoped it would…he would at least attempt to reassure you that you didn’t have to worry about him.
He walks up to where you’ve tucked yourself away in the tree line, quiet, but not silent. He wouldn’t want to scare you, none. When you didn’t look up at him, he began to wonder if maybe you hadn’t noticed him after all. But when he lowers himself to sit beside you, and you jolt in the direction opposite from him, his concern shifts into the territory of worry.
“Y/n?”
You don’t say anything at first—but that tight smile you wear, the one that tells the world that you aren’t okay, he can’t bring himself to remember why personal space was such a big deal for some people. Perhaps it was instinct, or perhaps it was sympathy, but he didn’t want to give you the chance to bury your heart under any more anxious doubt.
It wasn’t difficult, in any sense of the word, for him to be able to scoop you up, and shift so you/re draped across his lap, with his arms wrapped around you like a living, breathing frame to protect you from the world which had caused you so much pain.
His words are gone, and he doesn’t much know what to say. He tries once, then twice, to come up with something, only to ultimately close his mouth, and rest his cheek on the top of your head.
He wouldn’t let you doubt him. Not while he was right there, where he could do his best to convince you that you didn’t have to worry anymore.
"Rest well, honey. We have so much time, so many nights and days...you don't have to put it all on yourself."
Persona-coded ⍰ : Seungcheol, Bangchan
✂︎ ☁︎
wc: 1k
Reader is stressed, comfort fluff, established relationship
<Read under the cut>
Sometimes, you don't realise how loud the world is until you're engulfed by silence at 1am, body pressed into the plush of the bed, the only sounds audible coming from the beating of your heart and the periodic lull of your own breathing.
The bustling drone of the morning train commute to work, the inaudible chatter of colleagues in the office. Even within the faint rhythmic clacking of the keyboard and notification chimes, your head feels like it's being cling-wrapped, the voice of your own thoughts growing increasingly fuzzy.
You get home, 'rewarding' yourself with more sound; Your phone's speakers release a wave of laughter as you accompany it with dinner, going through the daily evening routine of engaging in para-social relationships before having to go to bed to repeat it all the next day.
You could silence it yourself, but how would you live with yourself if you don't spend the little existing free time attempting to listen in on the good life?
It's become a habit for you to cover your ears at night to sleep, an irrational paranoia of something coming too close to your senses, hearing something you don't want to.
---
11.14pm, Sunday.
You shut your phone off after begrudgingly glancing at the lock screen, mind bouncing with thoughts of the oncoming week of work. Did the weekend really pass? What did you even do? You feel a heavy pressure growing in your chest as the back of your mind counts down the seconds and minutes until Monday inevitability came.
1.27am, Monday.
Your eyes were shut, lids drenched in fatigue, but you can still feel tension in your body, and it all traces back to the noise in your mind.
The muffled sound of the main door opening was followed by the quiet shuffling of feet. He's home after a long weekend of tying up loose ends on some work matters.
As you hear him continue his nighttime routine through the rushing sounds of water in the bathroom, you decide to remain in bed and turn over, keeping quiet to feign sleep.
He's tired, and so are you. You don't want to keep him up with your problems.
Finally the bedroom door creaks open and you feel the bed shift under his weight as he crawls in. You continue to face the wall, but a shaky exhale leaves you against your will.
"You awake?" He whispers.
Your voice feels caught in your throat, and you don't respond.
But you guess that he can see the tension trapped in your shoulders under the blanket, and he knows you well enough now to know when something's wrong. His arm gently reaches over and drapes over your waist, and you feel him give the back of your head a soft peck.
You string your fingers through his and give them a light squeeze. Sure that you're awake now, he gently caresses the back of your hand with his thumb.
His touch helps to ground you, the chopping of the fan's blades sounding a little bit softer and his breaths a little louder. Well, there's still a slight buzzing in the distant, but it's calmer now, more of white noise.
You blink and try to focus on his presence, the tightness of your muscles slowly melting away. A tear escapes you onto the pillow. You finally turn around, burying your face in his chest and hugging him back.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
You shake your head with a muffled noise, and he gives an understanding hum in response. He continues, letting his thoughts out without expecting a response,
"Rest well, honey. We have so much time, so many nights and days...you don't have to put it all on yourself."
"Hah...like how you spent the whole weekend saving your department's ass?"
Your stare at the shirt millimetres from your face, not trying to be mean with your comment, but a pang of guilt hits you as you realise what you said. You open your mouth again to apologise, but he speaks nonchalantly, knowing you don't mean offence
"Yea hahah, guess you're not wrong. But what matters is in how we try to treat ourselves better, right?"
You lift your head to look up at him, finding his tired lidded eyes staring back. He brushes his thumb gently under your eye, wiping the water streams away.
"We can't be perfect in what we do, or even try to feel perfect about it...Let's forget all that and try our best?"
He knows his words don't exactly make sense, and it maybe wouldn't to others too. You recall his way of doing his best, in supporting his co-workers even if it meant overworking himself, or taking care of the house despite his tiredness when he knows you're going through a rough period too.
But he also tries his best in forgiving himself when he can't do it all, in asking for your help when he really needs it, and in taking the time to heal in your embrace when you always give it.
He rolls over to face the window while still hugging you, directing you to do the same. The half-moon beams a soft glow onto your faces, and the silence of the night becomes clearer.
He's right, there's so much more outside your worries. You have him, and he has you, and there's a lot of life waiting beyond the noise inside your head.
You let out a deep exhale, one of relief this time, and allow his body heat to seep into you. You whisper a quiet 'thank you', your eyelids fluttering shut against his skin. The sounds of your breaths join in rhythm with his, silence and darkness finally falling.
.
I started writing this when I was in a pretty stressful period of my life, and now I'm not. If you're going through something similar, I hope you can take away the message that there are crests and dips in life, and we don't always have to feel or do fantastic, but like the fic mentions, "let's forget all that and try our best". Rest well!
"There's nothing wrong with what you look like, you're- you to me, and I love you for you." He punctuates his point with a peck to your forehead and two kisses on your squished cheeks.
Persona-coded ⍰ : Seungcheol, Jihoon
☁︎
wc: 850
Chubby! reader x bf, established relationship, comfort fluff
<Read under the cut>
It's the little things that make you notice yourself and how you fit in this world, literally.
Trailing behind the group as your petite friends chat chirpily ahead, you would watch with a silent smile and nod along. Giving an awkward side hug required you to muster all your courage while others casually threw themselves on each other. Opting to bring out tote bags instead of small handbags so you could cover your belly as you sat down, even if it went against your fit.
You didn't know when you started to notice these things and consciously do them, and when you started doing it subconsciously, but you probably started when you were too young to have to care about such things.
It was the same now as you sprawled out on the bed behind him while he sat at the desk mulling over his notebook, gnawing on a pen.
You so badly wanted to crawl onto and snuggle up in his lap, watch his face scrunch up in focus as he did his own thing. Maybe you had read too many manga books where the skinny and lovable female lead would hop into the male lead's embrace, landing like a feather.
You looked down at yourself. Your thighs sank into the mattress, and you felt the fleshiness of your torso rising steadily with your breath. You were taller than the average girl as well, and often fondly observed couples with big height differences; it didn't seem like you could ever 'feel' that cute, that- small in someone else's embrace.
As if he had felt your eyes glued to his head, he looked up from his book, pen dropping into his hand. His eyes creased from his smile as they met yours, and you forced out a small one in return. He frowned slightly in confusion, pushing his book away into the pile on his desk and rising from the chair. You rolled over to the side of the bed as he clambered onto it, squishing you between his frame and the wall.
"What's up?" He whispered, breath tickling your ear as you faced away from him and fixed your gaze on the blank wall in front of you. You squeaked softly in response, refusing an answer. His arms snaked around your waist, pulling you into his chest, and he rested his chin into the nook of your shoulder.
"Tell me~" He gently blew onto your neck, pulling a giggle from your gloomy mood. You relented a little, "sigh...I was just thinking about something stupid, it's alright."
He gently flipped you around to face him, noticing the tension in you small frown. "Spill."
"Don't you...don't guys ever feel that they want to hold their partner like uhh- this is weird to describe, but like- in the palm of their hands? Like the girl's always small and cute, you can lift them and swing them around, carry them with no sweat. I don't know..."
He chuckles as you struggle to find the words, "are you referring to a person or a handbag?"
You continue, "It's just that sometimes, like just now, I want to freely jump in your lap, be closer to you, but I always second guess myself wondering these kinds of stupid things? I just wish sometimes I..."
You trail off, not wanting to finish your sentence. His smile drops as he catches on to what you're thinking, expression switching to one of concern. He shifts his hands from your waist to your cheeks, holding your gaze to his and saying seriously, "I'm really sorry you feel that way...you've been made to feel that way."
He stills for a second, thinking of what to say to make you feel better. "There's nothing wrong with what you look like, you're- you to me, and I love you for you." He punctuates his point with a peck to your forehead and two kisses on your squished cheeks.
You laugh in response, but your eyes drift slightly to the side, "Sure..."
Seeing you unconvinced, he continues, "I love that when you hug me, I can feel your softness washing away the hardness of the day," he ducks his head under your shirt and blows a raspberry into your belly, earning a yelp from you, "or how your touch makes me feel grounded and calm when I get anxious."
He pulls you on top of him, his arms caging you tightly so that your head is resting on his chest and your full body weight sinks into his.
"Most of all, I love how strong AND soft you are. If that's not attractive then I don't know what is, and I hope you wouldn't wish otherwise." He rolls you back down to your original spot between him and the wall, resting his hands on the dip at your waist to emphasise his point.
The tenseness in your brows fades and you bite your cheek, blushing. You let out a hefty sigh as your shoulders relax, wrapping your arms around him and burying your face below his.
"What a monologue...but yes, message received," you chuckle, "I love you."
