In theory, the Eridian children have come to Grace and Simon's biodome to participate in a hands-on (clawtip-on?) physics experiment that doesn't translate well through a xenonite wall. In practice, its field trip day for the pebbles, and they are having an absolute blast exploring Grace and Simon's habitat in their teeny little xenonite envirosuits. They're picking up rocks, poking at the waves, and climbing every surface they can find. It's absolute chaos, and Grace is loving every second of it, but he's also a little bit anxious that some of the pebbles might hurt themselves. Thankfully he's not the only one keeping an eye on them. A couple of Eridian educators are there as well.
More importantly, however, Simon has apparently assigned himself as the pebbles' caretaker. He's following them around like a mother hen constantly watching over her chicks, nudging them out of the water before they can go too deep and helping them pick out the best rocks from the beach. Grace is enjoying watching Simon interact with his class; it's giving Simon a chance to unknowingly show off his gentler and more caring side.
He is surprisingly very good with the kids.
And then, one of the pebbles manages to climb too far up one of the cliff sides and starts to fall. Before anyone can panic, however, Simon rushes over and manages to catch them before they hit the ground, despite the fact that the pebble has to weigh well over a couple hundred pounds and Simon only has one arm. It's awkward and the pebble crashing against him knocks him on his ass, but Simon still sets them down gently, and makes sure the pebble is okay.
Suddenly Simon is swarmed by all of the pebbles, eager to climb all over him instead. He only has a moment to squeak in surprise, and then he's buried by a gaggle of overeager Eridian kids. Grace starts to rush over in concern, but then he hears something that completely stops him in his tracks.
Laughter.
Full-bellied laughter. Simon is lying there, laughing so hard he's got tears in the corners of his eyes, as the pebbles crawl all over him. Even though they're getting way up in his face, Simon is still being so, so gentle with them. He's letting them pet his hair and poke at his scars and the stump of his arm, their curious questions coming so quickly that there's no way that Simon is keeping up. But even still, he's smiling, and he's careful of their little bodies as he tries to sit up.
And seeing Simon sitting there, surrounded by his class, his kids, Grace just has a moment of growing awe...and dread.
Dread, because he knows those butterflies that just burst to life in his stomach. He knows these sweaty palms and dry mouth and shaky knees. His heart must have just done something weird because every Eridian within five feet of him just turned to him in alarm. Grace's face is feeling flushed, his head is spinning, and he kind of wants to throw up a little bit.
LOVE, B
librarian!bucky barnes x professor!reader [19.5k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: bucky barnes falls in love with you, his gorgeous literature professor, on his first day of college. four years and a degree later, he’s one of the librarians at the very same college he attended, and now there’s nothing stopping him from asking you out… if not for one tiny detail: his spectacularly clumsy and painfully shy nature. that’s when his colleague, several romance books and a pen come to his aid.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; she/her pronouns for reader; college au; pov switch; unspecified age gap (bucky is younger than reader and started college in his early 20s, so now he should be around 25); original characters; secret admirer!bucky; shy & clumsy!bucky; confident!reader; reader wears skirts and a dress; angst; insecurity & anxiety; mild jealousy; heavy yearning; unrequited love (according to bucky); fluff; mutual pining; smut; masturbation (m) & sexual fantasies (nipple play; riding; oral); mention of edging; public indecency.
A/N: hi barbies 🎀 this is my first ever collaboration and I'm so glad I could do it alongside the amazing, sweet people that are the stantastic members! and of course, thank you @miraclediviner for putting so much love into planning the bucky's dream house collab, and @metal-armed-muse for your feedback 🥹 hope you'll enjoy 🫶🏻
ps: read end notes if you'd like to know which books I quoted.
Back when Bucky was a student, the library had felt like a refuge, a place where every worry could be neatly pressed between the pages of a book and shelved away for later. Between the sound of pages turning somewhere in the distance and the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead that no one ever really notices until they stop working, expectations lower their voices and time stretches just enough for him to breathe.
Four years later, standing behind the front desk with a stack of returns balanced precariously in his hands, it feels… well, not so different, except that now he’s the one expected to know where everything goes.
Which, in theory, he does.
In practice, however…
“Barnes?”
Bucky blinks, the sharp sound of his name pulling him out of the slow drift of his thoughts, and as he looks up a little too quickly, the top book in his stack shifts just enough to send a brief flicker of panic through him before he tightens his grip.
“Yeah, yes,” he corrects himself mid-breath, stepping closer to the computer. “Sorry. I was just—uh—thinking.”
The blonde girl on the other side of the desk watches him mildly unimpressed, fingers drumming lightly against the wood.
“That’s usually how that works.” She replies dryly, nudging three books toward him. “Can you check these out?”
“Right. Yeah, of course.”
Bucky sets his stack down with exaggerated care, as if the pages would turn into ashes at the slightest bump, and begins scanning the books one by one, his movements just a fraction too aware of themselves. He knows how to do this, he’s done it hundreds of times. There is absolutely no reason for his hands to feel like they belong to someone else.
“Okay, so these are all set,” he hums, sliding them back across the desk with what he hopes resembles confidence. “You’re good.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah, anytime. I mean, during open hours. Not, like, anytime anytime.”
The student pauses as she is putting her university badge back in her wallet just to send him a glare that reeks of poorly concealed judgment.
“… Right.”
She takes the books in silence and Bucky watches her go for longer than necessary before letting out a slow sigh, tipping his head back to the ceiling as his lips press together.
“Good recovery.” He murmurs under his breath.
“Buck.”
He doesn’t need to look to know who it is, there aren’t many people who call him that, but his head turns anyway. Steve is leaning casually against the edge of the desk with his arms crossed, expression already bordering on amused in a way that makes Bucky immediately defensive.
“You just told her not to come back.” Steve grins.
“I did not,” he huffs, words coming out a little too quickly. “I just clarified the hours.”
“I clarified.” He insists in response to his raised eyebrows, less animatedly this time, because arguing with Steve is like trying to hold water in his hands—pointless and inevitably messy.
His best friend’s grin only grows as he follows Bucky to the shelf he was previously organizing, but whatever he’s about to say next never makes it out, because at that exact moment the heavy front doors open with a quiet creak that still somehow cuts through everything else.
Bucky doesn’t think, nor decides. His body just knows, gaze lifting instinctively, like pulled by an invisible thread, and then, you walk in.
You move unhurriedly without being slow, composed without being rigid, the soft rhythm of your heels echoing faintly against the polished floor as you cross the entrance. There’s nothing ostentatious about you, nothing that demands attention in the obvious way. And yet, it gathers around you anyway, inevitable, drawn in by the quiet confidence you carry so naturally.
Bucky forgets how to breathe for a moment.
He has known you for years, but he’s never quite prepared for the way his chest seems to tighten and soften all at once, a reflex he has no control over.
“Oh,” Steve snickers beside him. “There she is.”
Bucky doesn’t respond, not when his entire focus has narrowed on you making your way to the front desk, already smiling in that easy, familiar way that feels like it belongs in this space just as much as the books do.
Darcy spots you at once, straightening with visible delight.
“You’re late.” She announces, though the accusation is entirely undermined by the grin tugging at her mouth.
“I’m fashionably late,” you set your bag down with a soft thud, your tone teasing. “There’s a difference.”
“There isn’t. You just enjoy making an entrance.”
“I enjoy making you wait.”
At that point, Darcy laughs, bright and unrestrained, and you follow a second later, the sound softer, but no less captivating.
And Bucky…
Bucky sighs.
It slips out of him before he can stop it, quiet but unmistakably there, the kind of sound that belongs more to a fairytale than to real life.
Without realizing it, his body shifts, leaning slightly to the side as if captured by your melody, and the way your expression changes as you speak: the subtle lift of your brows, the absent gesture of your manicured hand as you emphasize a point, the way—
The cart.
There is a cart behind him. A very real, very solid cart, stacked with books that are waiting to be sorted.
His elbow does not meet empty air so much as it fails to meet anything at all.
His balance tilts, center of gravity rearranging in a way that is both slow and horribly inevitable, and for one suspended, dreadful moment, Bucky is aware of what is about to happen, completely incapable of stopping it.
“Oh—”
The impact is catastrophic.
The cart slams into the nearest shelf with a jarring metallic crash that reverberates through the silent open space, books jolting and tipping, one slipping free entirely to hit the floor with a heavy, echoing thud that seems to stretch far longer than it should.
When the commotion dies, a religious silence settles back in its place, thick and absolute. And Bucky is on the floor, flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer him an escape route.
“… I meant to do that.” He strains out to no one in particular.
Somewhere nearby there is a snort that is quickly hidden by a cough. On the contrary, Darcy doesn’t even try: her laughter breaks through the quiet, too loud.
Bucky refuses to look at you. He likes to believe he still has some dignity left and he intends to preserve it for at least another three seconds.
Footsteps approach, quick and entirely unsurprising.
“Jesus, Buck.” Steve frets, already crouching beside him, one hand braced on his shoulder as he looks him over. “You good?”
“Yeah,” he mutters, dragging himself up with Steve’s help, hands brushing at his clothes in a futile attempt to appear unbothered. “Yeah, I’m great. That was—great.”
“Mm-hm.”
“I just… misjudged the space.”
“You mean you forgot about the heavy cart behind you because you were too busy daydreaming?”
Blushing, Bucky bends down at once, grabbing the nearest fallen book if only to have something to do with his hands.
“I knew it was there,” he insists under his breath, suddenly feeling too warm.
Steve leans in slightly, voice close to a whisper. “She saw everything, you know?”
If a stare could kill, he would already be at his funeral.
“I’m aware.”
“You sighed.”
Bucky freezes for half a second.
His head snaps towards his friend. “I did not.”
“You totally did.”
“I breathed, Steve. Just like any other human being.”
“That was not breathing, man, that was you yearning like a damsel in distress.”
His eyes close in dejection, as if that might erase the last thirty seconds from existence.
“I hate you.” There’s no real weight behind it.
“No, you don’t.”
“… No, I don’t.”
With a satisfied grin, Steve straightens up while Bucky gathers a precariously balanced book, gripping it a little tighter than necessary.
“C’mon,” Steve adds, nudging him lightly. “Let’s clean this up before you take out a whole shelf trying to impress her.”
“I’m not trying to impress her.” Bucky mutters.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Despite every instinct screaming at him not to, Bucky decides to glance up. Just for a fleeting peak.
You’re still by the desk half-turned toward Darcy, but your attention has shifted, your frown flickering in his direction with a kind of faint curiosity that sends electricity straight through his veins. And for one ephemeral moment, it feels like you’re looking directly at him.
His grip loosens enough for the book to slip from his hands and hit the floor.
Again.
At least Steve has the decency to press his lips together to hide his laughter. “Are you going to offer her your handkerchief now that she looked at you?”
Bucky has spent a considerable amount of time—far more than he would ever willingly admit—trying to convince himself that what he feels for you can be contained within the boundaries of his own mind, that can exist without demanding anything from him other than the occasional, carefully controlled glances when he’s absolutely certain no one is paying attention. Because it would be easier to carry it if it remained small and undefined and safely unspoken. A feeling that could be tucked away between routine and responsibility like a pressed flower between the pages of a book, preserved but ultimately harmless.
The problem, unfortunately, is that it has never been harmless.
Not even at the beginning. And that is something his mind recalls with a kind of stubborn clarity that refuses to fade.
It had been his first day of college, a morning that should have easily blurred into all the others, marked only by nerves and unfamiliarity and the low thrum of anticipation that comes with stepping into an entirely new world. He had been running just slightly behind schedule, not enough to cause a scene, but the lecture hall was already filling when he slipped through the back doors, shoulders drawn in just a little as if that might make him less noticeable. His bag shifted awkwardly against his side as he scanned the room for somewhere that felt sufficiently out of the way.
The space itself had been warm with early sunlight, long beams of gold stretching through tall windows illuminated the rows of seats that were already occupied by students who seemed, at least from where he stood, far more composed and certain of themselves and their place there. And Bucky, who had never been particularly skilled at navigating spaces that required that kind of confidence, had done what he always did best in these situations: move swiftly and quietly out of the way like a scared little mouse, choosing a seat that allowed him to exist without the pressure of being perceived.
The room had smelled faintly of old wood and chalk, filled with the soft murmur of conversations that wove together into a low, indistinct hum. His notebook was rigid beneath his trembling fingers, the nervous energy still alive under his skin.
And then you walked in.
There wasn’t any dramatic shift or unnecessary urgency, yet your effortless composure altered the rhythm of the room all the same.
Bucky had looked up without thinking, his attention drawn by instinct, expecting nothing more than another ordinary face to catalogue and then promptly file away as part of the background of his new routine.
He didn’t look away. Couldn’t.
There had been something in the way you carried yourself: assured without feeling unapproachable, and that inexplicably held him captive.
Bucky had found himself marveling at you doing something as simple as carefully setting your things down. You then turned to face the room, your eyes sweeping briefly across the rows of students, almost pleased.
“Good morning, everyone.” You had started, voice clear and even.
At the time, he had dismissed the gentle pressure behind his ribs without much thought, attributing it to the unfamiliarity of the environment. This was a completely new experience and therefore bound to feel odd at first, so Bucky had resolutely turned his attention to his notebook, pen moving a little too frantically across the page as he attempted to anchor himself to a practical and tangible task.
However, as you spoke—not just about the material, but around it, through it, as if literature was not a bunch of static concepts to be memorized, but a universe to be explored—his attention kept shifting not to what you were saying, but to how you were saying it. To the way your hands moved when you explained a particularly important paragraph, to the small pauses you allowed yourself when choosing your words, because precision mattered more to you than simply filling the silence.
You were the professor. The kind that doesn’t just teach students concepts and ideas, but changes something fundamental in the way they see the world. You taught nineteenth and twentieth-century literature—British mostly, with the occasional American detour—and spoke about it in a way that made it feel alive and still unfolding.
You could recite passages without looking at the pages, entire lines of Pride and Prejudice slipping easily into conversation as if they had always belonged there, as if they were simply another language you spoke fluently. And you quoted your favorite poets with the same certainty. Never showy, never exaggerated.
You carried that knowledge with that poised, quietly seductive composure of someone who knows—knows that she knows—and because of that, never needs to raise her voice to be listened to.
Watching you interact with students was fascinating. You truly listened, fully immersing yourself in their words to the point that even hesitant responses felt worth being heard. But most importantly, Bucky noticed the way your glossy lips curled around a smile each time someone was brave enough to participate—a genuine and unguarded curve that seemed to belong more to you than to the role you were occupying.
At first, he told himself it was normal. Students notice things about their professors all the time; admiration—academic or otherwise—is not unusual, it doesn’t mean anything beyond a simple appreciation for someone who is good at their job.
He held onto that explanation for longer than he probably should have.
Through the first few weeks of returning to that lecture hall, he always chose the same general area in the back that allowed him to exist without drawing attention to himself.
Except distance, Bucky would eventually realize, did very little to lessen the effect you had on him.
Somewhere along the way, his thoughts of you had become more constant and less easily dismissed. Bucky began to notice not just the obvious aspects, but the smaller, more specific details that had no real reason to matter to a student, and yet traitorously lingered in his mind before falling asleep.
Your fingers played with the corner of the page whenever you were concentrating on a passage. Your head moved in a small, curious tilt to an unexpected answer, because as you always said, “there is no correct, absolute way to interpret literature.” Your handwriting curved just slightly to the right across the board, neat but not rigid, structured but still distinctly yours. Your voice softened when reading aloud, as if you were stepping into the text rather than simply reciting it.
And Bucky found himself anticipating those moments.
It was a gradual, subtle change that sinked rather than struck, growing steadily in the background of everything else until one day, without any clear warning, Bucky became aware of it in a way that could not be easily undone.
Sitting in that same lecture hall, long after most of the other students had left, his notebook opened in front of him though he had long since stopped writing, and listening as you gathered your things at the front of the room, he realized that what he felt had extended far beyond anything that could be reasonably categorized as harmless or temporary.
Yet, he had not said anything. Because even allowing the words to take shape in his mind had felt like crossing a line he had no right to approach, let alone step over.
So Bucky had done what he deemed best at the time.
Keep it contained.
He finished the course, handing in his assignments and accepting your feedback with reverent attention, all while maintaining that same distance he had cultivated from the beginning.
He had graduated.
He had left.
He had told himself, at some point, that it would fade. That time would do what it’s supposed to do.
Except it failed.
Because now, standing in the same building years after his first day of college—the same quiet hum surrounding him, the same soft rays filtering through the windows—and watching you laugh across the room as if no time has passed at all… his heart still tilts toward you, inevitably drawn to your light.
It was a root that burrowed deeper instead of retreating, patiently lying dormant until it became, without his permission, far too ingrained to pull free. And the truth is, he did not just develop a passing affection, or carry a fleeting admiration that lingered longer than expected.
Bucky fell in love with you.
Silently.
Completely.
And he never really found a way to fall out of it.
By the time the library begins to empty, the building itself seems to settle back after holding its breath for the entire day. Chairs sit askew where students have left them in a hurry, some pens lie abandoned on the desks, and the overhead lights seem just a fraction too bright now that there are fewer people around.
Bucky has always liked this part of the day. There is something comforting in the slow winding down and the small, predictable tasks that come with closing. It gives him something to focus on that doesn’t involve thinking too much about the way your smile lingers behind his eyelids each time they flutter close, or how his own reaction to your sole presence was… deeply unfortunate.
You had left not long after his embarrassing fall.
He had not watched you go. Not obviously, at least. But Bucky had been aware of the subtle shift in the air when you moved toward the door, your voice lowering as you said something he couldn’t quite hear from where he stood, that made Darcy smile in a knowing, almost conspiratorial way.
He had pretended not to notice.
Bucky likes to think he is very good at pretending. Which is exactly why he doesn’t immediately react when he hears footsteps approaching the desk, lighter than Steve’s, accompanied by the casual sound of hands dragging across a surface, before coming to a stop right in front of him.
“Long day?” Darcy asks, her tone light to the point that it immediately raises suspicion.
Bucky firmly keeps his eyes on the screen.
“Not really different from the others.” He shrugs. The safest answer he can give without committing to anything.
She simply hums, leisurely leaning her elbows against the desk as she studies him with open curiosity.
“You fell over today.”
Bucky’s eyes flutter close for a moment.
“I tripped.” He corrects.
“You collapsed,” she counters deadpan. “There was a whole sound effect and everything.”
Muttering, he blinks at the screen to focus back on his task. “It was an accident.”
“Right,” Darcy draws the word out. “And the sigh?”
His fingers stop over the keyboard.
“What sigh?”
“You sighed.”
“I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.” She grins, far too pleased with herself. “It was, like—so romantic, yet a little tragic. Honestly, if I didn’t know better I would’ve thought you were rehearsing for one of those Netflix romantic movies.”
His lips part indignantly, but nothing comes out, because arguing will only make this worse. “I was just tired.”
“From sitting at the front desk all day?”
He squints at her, nodding once. “Yes.”
Tilting her head, Darcy considers him in a way that feels dangerously teasing.
“You know,” her fingers tap lightly on the wooden surface. “It’s kind of fascinating.”
Bucky doesn’t like that word.
“What?”
“The way you look at her.”
There it is.
He blinks, going for his best deadpan face.
“Who?”
“Her,” she repeats, saying your name. “My friend. The professor who should’ve gotten the Teaching Excellence Award last year instead of that jerk Mr. Campbell.” She rolls her eyes. “The one you definitely did not sigh at earlier.”
Bucky lets out a short, incredulous breath, a nervous scoff slipping out before he can stop it. “What? No! Why would I even do that?”
The words come out too fast and high, tripping over each other in their urgency. His head shakes just a little too quickly as he leans back slightly, like physical distance might somehow reinforce the denial.
“We barely speak to each other.”
Darcy observes him in silence for exactly three seconds. Then her lips gradually twist into a smug smirk. Not unkind, but still, it suggests she has already decided how this conversation is going to end.
“Bucky,” she starts with a raised eyebrow, regarding him almost fondly. “You look at her like she invented happiness.”
A pathetic sound claws out of his throat, caught between a laugh and a choked whimper that does absolutely nothing to help his case.
“What are you even rambling about?” He insists with an exaggerated chuckle, though the conviction is… lacking.
“Hey, it’s actually kind of impressive. I didn’t think people did that in real life.”
“Look, Darcy, I don’t—” He starts again, then his shoulders fall. There is no version of this where he wins. “I’m just… looking. People look all the time, we have eyes for a reason. It’s not that serious.”
“Didn’t know ‘not that serious’ meant staring at someone like they’re the best part of your day.”
Heat violently creeps up the back of his neck, cruelly manifesting across his face with a red blush. He turns back to the computer screen in a poor attempt to hide it.
“You’re seeing things that aren’t there.” He mutters.
She shakes her head, and her blue eyes seem to soften, but it could be a trick of the light. “Bucky, I’ve known her for years, and I’ve known you for what, a few months? And even I can tell.”
That—unfortunately—lands like a punch to his stomach.
Swallowing, his gaze drops to the way his fingers curl weakly against the edge of the keyboard.
“I don’t…” He tries again, fainter this time, because the denial thinned precariously under the weight of being seen. “It’s not—it’s nothing like that.”
Darcy doesn’t interrupt him and that somehow makes it worse.
“She’s—” He sighs. “She was my professor. She’s older, and so… amazing. And—and pretty, and she’s got her whole life together, while I’m...”
He gestures vaguely to himself, to the desk, to the library. As if that explains everything. “This.”
There’s a brief pause.
“You’re ‘this.’” Darcy repeats, her tone pensive rather than dismissive. “And what exactly is ‘this’ supposed to mean?”
Bucky huffs a small, humorless laugh.
“Temporary,” he swallows. “Unimpressive. A guy who falls over carts in the middle of the day because he can’t—” He cuts himself off abruptly, pressing his lips together.
“Because he can’t what?”
Bucky shakes his head again, eyes hardening. “It doesn’t matter.” With his back straightening a little, he mentally retreats back into that safe cocoon made of denial and insecurity that has protected him since middle school.
She is quiet for a moment longer, studying him far less amusedly now.
“It’s been years, hasn’t it?”
His whole body stills and that says more to her than words ever could.
Sighing, she pushes herself off the desk. “You know,” her tone is casual as she adjusts her glasses. “She likes books because they say what people can’t bring themselves to say out loud.”
Bucky glances up at that, caught slightly off guard.
His colleague simply offers him a knowing smile.
“Just… something to think about.” She adds with a light tap of her knuckles on the desk, before turning, already stepping away as if the conversation has reached its natural conclusion.
“Darcy.” Bucky protests tiredly, but the words don’t quite form anything coherent. She’s already waving him off without turning back.
“Lock up, Barnes.” She calls lightly over her shoulder. “And try not to fall over anything on the way.”
The door closes behind her with a final click, plunging the library back into a deafening silence.
Bucky stands there for a moment longer than necessary, his hands resting against the edge of the desk and his gaze unfocused as her words echo in his mind in a way he doesn’t particularly appreciate.
She likes books because they say what people can’t bring themselves to say out loud.
Exhaling and with a hand dragging down his face before letting it drop, his shoulders tighten as a sense of discomfort begins to surface in his chest.
Because it would be easy, in theory.
To do something.
To say something.
Huffing a quiet breath, Bucky shakes his head with a sad smile. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He mutters.
The idea alone is absurd, so dangerous that he doesn’t have the courage to examine it too closely.
Because what would he even say? How would he say it?
The image forms anyway, uninvited and entirely unhelpful: him standing in front of you, words tangling somewhere between his brain and his mouth, his fingers fidgeting awkwardly and unnecessarily because they never know where to go, his voice catching on something as simple as your name—
He grimaces.
“Yeah,” he murmurs dryly, reaching for the stack of keys as he steps out from behind the desk. “That would go so well.”
He moves through the library methodically, switching off lights one section at a time, the space dimming in stages as shadows stretch across the shelves. By the time he finishes, the only light left is the soft, warm glow on the desk.
He pauses there, keys still jingling in hand, his tired reflection faintly visible on the black computer screen. With a tired sigh, Bucky reaches forward and turns the lamp off.
The click of the lock echoes faintly in the empty space, and just like that, another day is over.
Morning, in theory, is supposed to fix things.
It’s a universally accepted fact: sleep settles thoughts. Tangled and overwhelming woes will loosen with rest, and even a few hours of unconsciousness create order and resolution where there was none. A reset that doesn’t require effort.
Unfortunately, this morning proves, with irritating efficiency, that theory and reality have very little interest in aligning. Because when Bucky wakes up, there is only a dull, persistent pressure behind his eyes that comes from thinking too much and sleeping too little, and the immediate awareness that nothing has been resolved overnight. In fact, if anything, as soon as his eyes snap open, his stomach starts somersaulting in ways that make focusing on anything else significantly harder.
His first conscious thought is, inevitably, you.
His second is the memory of yesterday.
He exhales slowly into his pillow, pressing his face against it like that might physically muffle his thoughts.
“Shit.” He mutters, voice still rough from hours of disuse.
He lies there for a moment longer, staring at nothing and fully aware that going back to sleep is not an option. Lingering in bed will only allow his mind to spiral harder.
So he gets up and carries it with him anyway.
By the time he reaches the library, the day has already begun without him. Once he pushes the door open, it’s the echo of familiar voices easily threading together that hits him first, suggesting an unspoken complicity built over shared breakfast and coffee breaks lasting more than they should.
Steve is leaning against the front desk, coffee in one hand and posture relaxed in that effortless way that means he has been awake and productive for hours. Sam is right beside him, mid-sentence, gesturing lightly with a half-eaten pastry, while Darcy stands across from them behind the desk, her own cup balanced precariously in one hand as she guffaws at something Sam has just said.
It’s… too lively. Especially for someone whose brain is still trying to catch up with the rest of his body.
“I’m telling you,” Sam warns jokingly. “If he falls again today, I’m not helping him.”
“Mind to remind us exactly when you ever helped?” Darcy asks, incredulous. “From where I was standing, you looked like you were choking on your own laughter.”
“Hey, I offered emotional support. And don’t act like you weren’t cackling on this same desk.”
“Sam, you almost fell from your chair. You had tears in your eyes.”
He side-eyes Steve offended. “Because I was thinking about his wellbeing, man.”
Bucky seriously considers turning around. Ultimately, he decides against it, because that would be suspicious and he is already operating at a disadvantage.
When he steps fully inside, all three heads turn toward him almost automatically.
There is a brief, collective pause, before chaos descends upon him.
“Well, look who survived the big, bad cart.” Sam smirks with entirely too much energy.
Bucky simply sighs, regretting getting up from his bed.
“Good morning to you too.” He mutters, walking toward them and hoping they will drop the topic if he doesn’t engage too much.
“Good morning.” Steve echoes, his tone noticeably lighter than usual, which is never a good sign.
Darcy, on the other hand, narrows her eyes at him.
“You look terrible.”
“Thanks.” Bucky replies flatly.
“You’re welcome.”
Sam leans forward on the wooden surface, arms crossed and eyes studying him with a barely concealed grin. “Did you sleep at all, or did you just lie there thinking about your life choices?”
Bucky doesn’t answer, which does nothing to stop him.
“Man,” Sam continues, shaking his head. “You really committed to the tortured lover bit.”
“It’s not a bit.” Bucky sighs, dropping his bag on a chair.
Steve simply watches him, quieter and more observant, his gaze flicking briefly over the tension in Bucky’s shoulders and the slight heaviness in his movements.
“You okay?”
Bucky simply shrugs. “Fine.”
His friend hums doubtful but doesn’t push. Sam, however, is desperately waiting for a reaction.
“So,” he claps his hands once. “About yesterday—”
“No.” Bucky’s head snaps toward him.
Darcy beams. “Oh, we’re absolutely talking about yesterday.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” Bucky insists, already bracing himself.
“You fell.” Sam counts on one finger.
“For fuck’s sake—I tripped.”
“You sighed.” Steve adds.
“I breathed.”
“You were in absolute awe.” Darcy counters with a beam.
“I was just curious.”
“I thought you were about to fall to your knees and ask her to marry you in the quad.” Sam smirks, taking a sip of his coffee.
“What—” He sputters, his cheeks quickly turning red at the slight implication of you... marrying him. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means,” Darcy cuts in, her tone taking a more serious note. “That you need to do something about it, Barnes. Now.”
Bucky looks at her like she grew a second head, then tucks his chin down, fidgeting with a stack of random papers lying close to the computer.
“Can we not do this right now? I slept like shit, my head is throbbing and I’m only running on a cup of coffee because I didn’t have any cereal left. Just… please.”
Sam exchanges a fleeting, subtle look with Steve, before his lips part, eliciting a stressed groan out of Bucky.
“What if,” he hums, like the thought has just occurred to him, nothing more than a passing idea with no real weight behind it. “You just… didn’t talk to her.”
Bucky frowns.
“Is this a joke? I already don’t.”
“No, I mean on purpose.” He clarifies, eyebrows raising knowingly. “Like, instead of overthinking every conversation into oblivion.”
With a tired exhale, his eyes close momentarily as if the action alone could give him the strength to deal with his nosy friends. “Sam, that doesn’t make any sense.”
“It does,” his friend insists, straightening up. “Okay, listen. You’re bad at talking—or whatever it is that you do with her—we’ve already established that.”
“Thank you.” He replies sarcastically.
“So stop trying to talk!”
Bucky stares at him deadpan, mouth opening and closing as his brain elaborates.
“That is the worst advice you’ve ever given me!”
“Not talking is not the same as saying nothing.” Steve corrects quietly.
Bucky’s eyes land on him, more suspicious than confused. “What are you getting at?”
Darcy sets her coffee down with an air of finality. “Sam’s trying to suggest an alternative method.”
“Which is?”
Said man gestures vaguely. “Anything that isn’t you standing there and short-circuiting in real time.”
All three look at him with different degrees of amusement, to which he can only sigh, tension leaving his shoulders at once.
“… Okay, I guess sometimes I kind of short-circuit.”
“Sometimes, he says… ” Sam coughs. “Anyway, just don’t put yourself in a position where you have to speak.”
“So what should I do?” Bucky asks sincerely curious for the first time that morning.
At his friend’s shrug, his head falls back dejected.
“This is going nowhere.”
At that point Darcy crosses her arms, leaning forward on the desk, eyes solemn and fixed on Bucky’s.
“Barnes, you don’t have to tell her… everything. No one’s expecting you to stand in front of her and confess your feelings like a fucking Hallmark movie.”
“Good,” Bucky mutters. “Because I’m not doing that.”
“But you could communicate something.” She continues.
“It’s not like I never talk to her.”
“I mean, you say ‘hi’.” Steve shrugs, grimacing at the memory of his friend nearly tripping over his own feet the time they ran into you in the hallway last month—one of the rare times they’d managed to pry him away from the library for more than five minutes.
Bucky points at him, pleased. “See?”
“Barnes, that’s barely a syllable.”
He frowns. “Okay, so what do you want me to do then?”
There’s a brief pause, the silence too heavy for Bucky to sustain and he’s ready to put an end once and for all to this useless discussion, but then Darcy shrugs nonchalantly.
“Write it down.”
He freezes.
“What?”
“Write it down,” she repeats, like it’s obvious. “You’re better when you have time to think, not to mention the effect her mere presence has on you. Right? So think. Then write.”
“That’s—no,” Bucky frowns. “No, that sounds so much worse! That’s permanent.”
“It’d be on a piece of paper.” Sam quips up. “It’s literally the least permanent thing. One wrong gust of wind and puff, it’s gone.”
“You don’t even have to sign it.” Steve adds.
Hesitation glints in his blue eyes as they silently jump between their hopeful faces.
“You’re asking me,” he says slowly. “To write her a note.”
“No,” Sam corrects. “We’re asking you to write her a love note.”
“There is a difference.” Steve’s eyebrows wiggle teasingly.
“A very important one.” Darcy nods.
Sighing, Bucky’s gaze drops briefly to nothing in particular, his thoughts already starting to move faster than he can keep up with.
It’s a bad idea. It tastes like something he’s going to definitely regret a few months from now, like taking on a hobby you were so certain it was going to be funny and stimulating, but now it only steals your patience and money.
And then what’s he going to do when you are going to eventually find out the notes came from him? Resign and move to another state? How is he going to face you?
But what scares him the most, is the fact that the idea of confessing doesn’t feel as impossibly pathetic as it did yesterday night.
“He’s thinking about it.” Sam sings songs into his cup of coffee.
“I’m not—” Bucky starts, then shakes his head. “I wouldn’t even know what to say.”
Darcy takes a sip of his coffee. “I think you do, but you don’t have to come up with something from scratch. You already know the kind of books she likes.”
Bucky’s chest tightens faintly.
“Yeah.” He sighs, eyes timidly meeting the floor. “That I do.”
“Borrow something,” she continues. “Then make it yours. Oh! If it helps,” she perks up. “She’s coming by later for The End of the Affair. We’ve got this weird tradition going on every spring—I randomly pick one book for her every week and she treats it like rewatching a comfort show, except it’s all different love stories on pages instead of seasons on a screen.”
Bucky lets out a slow breath, his shoulders dropping just a fraction, not exactly in defeat but in something closer to reluctant consideration. His lips press together, before resolutely looking his friends in the eyes.
“One.” His voice breaks embarrassingly, like it costs him everything to say it out loud. “Just one and… we see how it goes.”
Sam’s grin lights up the entire room.
“All we need is for you to try.” Steve gives him a pat of encouragement, though Bucky could use a lot more than that right now.
Just a note and they’ll finally leave him alone.
You arrive later in the day, the end of your teaching hours bleeding into the tranquil part of the afternoon, when the library becomes more about the familiar rhythm of study sessions and exchanging small pieces of conversation that never feel particularly rushed.
When you walk in, Bucky is at the front desk, pretending to be busy with some books he has already sorted twice.
“Hello, James.” You greet him easily, his name warmly rolling on your tongue like this is just another part of your day and not a personal attack to his soul that makes his entire nervous system briefly forget how to function.
Bucky looks up and immediately regrets it when he meets your eyes.
“Hi.” He answers, too quickly, too quietly, and then clears his throat as if that might fix the way it came out. “Hi.”
It doesn’t fix it at all. His ears go slightly red but you don’t seem to notice. Or if you do, you are kind enough to not comment.
“Long day?” You set your bag down and lean into the desk’s edge, one hand closing softly as your temple rests against it.
“Uh, kinda. Well, it’s nothing compared to that of a professor.” His fingers fidget nervously.
You smile faintly at that, like you understand more than you let on. “Don’t underestimate your job, James. You’re surrounded by voices that refused to disappear. And you take care of them. That counts for more than you think.”
His lips part slightly, failing to find any words that could rival your beautiful mind. He isn’t used to hearing his job described like it holds weight, more meaningful than a temporary position and a set of tasks he performs without thinking too much about them.
Before he can think about anything worthy enough, your eyes glance sideways as Darcy appears from the back.
“There you are,” she bubbles. “I was starting to think you’d abandoned me.”
“I would never skip our afternoon gossip session.”
Bucky watches as the conversation flows without effort, leaving him standing just slightly outside of a bubble he doesn’t quite know how to enter. It’s actually adorable how his eyes try to stick to the books in front of him, yet still end up on you.
Darcy disappears again almost as quickly as she appeared, muttering something about “perfect placement” and leaving you and Bucky in a quieter space that immediately becomes more noticeable.
“I swear she gets more dramatic every week.”
Bucky huffs something that might be a laugh if it were louder.
“Seems… consistent characterization.” He manages, regretting it the second it leaves his mouth.
There’s a pause in which Bucky considers walking into the nearest shelf and staying there, but then you smile. At him. Because of him. It’s a shy curve, amused and fleeting, that makes his heartbeat accelerate just enough to hope you won’t hear it.
His eyes are already flying away from your beautiful face, hands reaching for the nearest thing like it might save him from the way his blood is pumping wildly in his veins.
His fingers close around a stapler. A fucking stapler.
Your eyes follow his movements, until they are distracted by a book lying nearby with a yellow post-it stuck to the cover, your name elegantly written on it.
“Oh,” you perk up. “She picked it already?”
“Yeah.” Bucky nods once, your fingers lingering over the cover as if touching an old friend. The shift in your expression is immediate: the tiredness doesn’t disappear so much as it gives way, naturally bringing you back to life. He watches it happen with quiet wonder, struck by how easily something simple as a book can reach the very core of your soul.
“Mmh,” you turn it in your hands. “Good one to start my yearly re-reading.”
“Yeah,” he agrees softly. “Thought so too.”
You glance up at that, curious, but before the moment can stretch too far, Darcy reappears again to insert herself between you both with suspicious efficiency, and the conversation drifts easily into lighter territory, from complaints about deadlines to a sarcastic comment about your best friend’s enthusiasm for emotionally ruining you with the book she picked.
Bucky listens more than he speaks—as usual—until eventually, you gather your things, saying your goodbyes with the same lovely smile, and then you are gone again, slipping back out into the world beyond the library. One where Bucky can’t follow you.
So he stays behind, his stomach churning as your perfume invades his nostrils, and his cheeks warm, the same color of a strawberry.
The parking lot is less busier than expected as you settle into your car with ease, dropping your bag onto the passenger seat. A soft exhale claws out of your throat, your shoulders finally loosening and your head momentarily resting back against the headrest.
It’s only when you reach for your bag to adjust it properly that something about the book feels slightly off.
The edge of a white paper is sticking out from between the pages, just barely, but enough to catch your attention. You pause, frowning at it as you pick it up carefully. For a moment, you assume it must be nothing: maybe a forgotten bookmark, or a note Darcy accidentally left there. It wouldn’t be the first time it happens. She often leaves her things at your apartment, later in the week complaining about having lost them.
Still, there is something about the way it’s folded that makes curiosity swirl in your stomach as you open it with caution.
“I couldn’t have thought of her more. Even vacancy was crowded with her.”
Of course you would recognize it immediately given how many times you have already read it. It’s a passage from the book itself, written in careful handwriting. Deliberately selected. And it’s… beautiful in its simplicity; romantic in a way that makes your breath slow without you meaning it to.
You read it once again, smiling softly at the gentle words.
And then you finally notice the second part.
“I hope your day was kind to you.
Love, B”
The shift in your expression is immediate. Because that is something personal, directed not toward a character, but toward you.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the edges as your heart gives a small, unexpected lurch, catching you off guard to the point you bring your palm to your chest just to make sure your body is still functioning. Sitting still, your mind tries to make sense of what you are seeing, and the thought of the note being a mistake crosses your mind pretty quickly.
A misunderstanding, right.
Maybe this B left the note for someone else.
Maybe it’s a joke.
But the words are too intentional. A quiet, sincere message that doesn’t feel performative yet is entirely too thoughtful, causing your cheeks to heat up. It seems to be directed at you but you don’t link the signature to anyone in particular.
Your stomach twists in a strange, fluttering sensation as you read it one last time. Then, you finally lower the paper and stare at the parking lot in front of you for a moment longer, before carefully folding the note back up with trembling fingers, your pulse still uneven and your thoughts scattered in a way you don’t fully trust yet.
It could be nothing. But it doesn’t feel like nothing.
Once the note is safely placed back inside the same pages, almost reverently, you slip the book into your bag, out of your sight.
The sky is gradually darkening with soft hues of orange and pink and you still need to stop by the store to buy some produce, yet you allow yourself to sit in silence for a couple of minutes, hands lightly resting on the steering wheel and gaze lost somewhere far away. And when you finally decide to start your car, the radio blasting some latest pop song, your thoughts can’t help but circle back to the words you just read.
You
say… do you know anything about a certain piece of paper inside the book you gave me?
Darcy
a piece of paper?
oh shit is it the receipt for that blue shirt I’m supposed to return tomorrow? bc if I miss it again I’m gonna lose those 60 dollars for good 😭
You
I thought you returned that yesterday? btw I don’t know what it is, looks like a love note I think? is this your umpteenth “subtle” way to tell me I have to start dating?
Darcy
no you said you were coming with me tomorrow
oh? I have no clue what you mean 😇
maybe the books took pity on your nonexistent love life and are finally starting to write back to you? wouldn’t that be something?
You
fuck off 🙄
Darcy
love you too <3
“He could not be mistaken. There were no other eyes like those in the world. There was only one creature in the world who could concentrate for him all the brightness and meaning of life. It was she.”
You don’t notice it, but your smile lights up every corner of my world.
Love, B
The following week, the book comes home with you without attention, just another familiar weight in your bag that you don’t think twice about once class starts.
It’s only later in your apartment, when you are finally allowed to exist without answering to anything or anyone, that you reach for it again almost absently. Now comfortable on your couch, you are already halfway into the thrilling anticipation of losing yourself in yet another story that has nothing to demand from you, except attention.
Once you open it, something small slips out before you even register the change in weight. The folded piece of paper lands on your knees with no sound, yet you flinch anyway. For a long moment you just stare at it with wide eyes, because this can’t be an accident, not anymore.
The first note could have been an oversight, something forgotten, or probably meant for someone else. That’s why it had been easy, then, to push it into the background of your thoughts and let it become a harmless detail in an otherwise ordinary week.
Your fingers move before your brain fully agrees to it, the paper already familiar in its structure now: the same placement of a line from the book first, and beneath it, a simple, personal addition, almost disarming in how unremarkable it tries to appear.
Your eyes trace the words slowly, as if savoring every letter.
There is a particular kind of attention in it that doesn’t feel casual. Not in the way people are ordinarily kind, or polite. This feels like someone has been observing without announcing it, leaving behind traces of themselves instead of explanations.
When was the last time anything in your life felt like it was aimed at you specifically, rather than at the role you occupy, the version of you that is expected to respond in proper, predictable ways? And who would do something like this? Not in the dramatic sense of confessions, but in this understated, quiet way of slipping fragments of themself into pages, trusting that you would find them when you were meant to.
It feels almost intimate in its restraint.
And as your mind tries to analyze that, it naturally reaches for an old memory—an unconscious comparison. A place where you’ve been before, back when everything at work still felt new and open.
At some point in the last months of your previous relationship, your ex was part of your life like those people who exist just close enough to feel superficially involved. There were evenings you’d come home carrying the day still alive in you: students who had sparked a debate with their brilliant answers; stimulating discussions that had shifted something in your thinking; all the small, unremarkable moments that shaped your job into something more than a simple obligation.
He listened as if you were talking about the weather.
And over time, you learned how to adjust yourself around that. To smooth out the edges of your enthusiasm before offering it.
Your jaw tightens at how miserable you were.
After you broke up, you didn’t stop loving love. You just stopped expecting it to arrive in a form that chose you back. Books filled that space more easily than people ever did, love stories especially—those could be held at a distance, experienced without consequence. You could allow yourself to feel everything without needing to risk what came after.
Until now.
The note in your hand doesn’t feel like it was ever meant to remain tucked away between the pages of a book. But you have to remind yourself to keep your feet on the ground. It’s too easy to misread things like this, assigning meaning where none is intended.
You should stop here. You almost fold it back and place it on the coffee table like an afterthought, ready to jump straight into the first page. But then, uninvited, a face appears at the edge of your memory.
The person you have seen behind the desk more than once. The way he looks up too quickly when you approach, as if he can sense your presence the moment you cross the threshold. The carefulness of his voice when he speaks to you. The way he seems to take up less space when you are near.
James.
You exhale sharply, as if that alone can dismiss the thought.
Sweet, kind and clumsy in a way that makes him easy to underestimate and difficult not to notice. But also younger, and most importantly, your student once, even if those years have settled behind you both by now.
There are boundaries that people like you don’t cross. And yet, the thought refuses to leave.
Sighing, you fold the note with precision, as if returning it to order might also restore the sense of control you are gradually losing track of. You tell yourself, as you set it aside, that there is probably a logical explanation behind this. Many things sound unreasonable when analyzed under the microscope between the walls of your own mind. But even as you try to convince yourself of that, you are aware that something in the air between you and that possibility has shifted. This is starting to become a pattern, and patterns begin to ask for interpretation whether you want them to or not.
The thought of someone seeing you as a creature that could hold that kind of light is enough to make your lips curl into a serene smile for the rest of the night.
“Do I love you? My god, if your love were a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches.”
You seemed a little tired today. I hope you’re being gentle with yourself.
Love, B
Sam is the reason Bucky is outside at all.
“Man, if I have to watch you reorganize the same shelf one more time, I’m reporting you.” He had said an hour earlier, already halfway to the front door before Bucky could argue. “You need air. Sunlight. Human interaction that isn’t whispering.”
“I talk to people.” Bucky had protested under his breath, grabbing his jacket anyway.
“Yeah,” Sam shot back, holding the door open. “At a volume only ghosts can hear.”
Now they’re crossing the quad on their way back to lunch, the faint bitterness of coffee still lingering on his tongue as the campus feels alive but not too overwhelming. Students are scattered across the grass, their smiles tired and their bags dropped carelessly by their side.
Sam is talking about something Bucky isn’t entirely following, gesturing with what remains of his drink, when it happens.
The collision is light, but the consequence is deadly for his poor heart.
You’re walking toward them from the opposite path, a heavy tote bag slipping slightly from your shoulder, completely focused on something you’re pulling out of it.
Bucky sees you before you see him but he doesn’t move out of the way fast enough. The impact of your arms bumping is barely more than a firm brush, but it’s enough to knock the balance out of what you’re holding.
“Oh shit, I’m so sorry!” Bucky startles, already reaching forward as the books in your arm tilt dangerously. You manage to catch most of them, but a few slip free anyway, hitting the concrete with a dull thud.
“No no, it’s okay, that was me.” You apologize quickly, crouching down to pick them up, though you’re a fraction slower than usual, like your body is lagging behind your intention.
He is already on the ground, hands closing around your books before you can reach them, then arranging them in a neat stack.
“Sorry.” He mutters again, offering them back to you, though he doesn’t let go right away, not when you look this tired. Your fingers brush against each other for an ephemeral moment, causing a shiver to run down his spine, and when you straighten up, your eyes finally land on him.
“Oh, James!” Your eyebrows lift in surprise, voice warming almost instantly. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Bucky parrots back, a little breath caught in the word.
Up close, it’s easier to notice the heaviness under your eyes and the lazy curve of your smile—it takes a bit more effort to reach your face. Yet it’s the sparkle he’s used to see in your movements that worries him the most. The energy is still there but buried a little deeper than usual.
“You okay?” The question slips out before he can filter it, his eyebrows furrowing.
You blink, caught off guard not by the question itself but by how swiftly and directly he gets there.
“Yeah.” You nod at first. A small, polite answer that is meant to close the subject rather than invite more questions.
Although Bucky doesn’t say anything, something in his expression must give him away, because you let out a small breath that turns into a self-deprecating chuckle.
“Is it that obvious?”
He shrugs, a little awkward now that he realizes he crossed a line.
“Only if you’re paying attention.” He mumbles, then promptly looks down, like he’s said too much.
“Okay, I’m a little tired.” You admit, shifting the books against your chest. “It’s been a long week, nothing to worry about.”
Bucky hums pensively, like he’s been expecting that answer. “Yeah, you look—” He stops himself, frowning. “Not bad. Just—tired.”
You beam properly for the first time that day, a hint of amusement breaking through the lack of sleep.
“Wow. You really know how to cheer a woman up.”
“I didn’t mean—” His eyes go comically wide. “I just—”
The words trip over themselves before he can stop them.
“You are always beautiful.” He blurts out, too fast, too honest.
You still, eyebrows raised in shock. But as Bucky feels his stomach drop somewhere near his shoes, your expression brightens in a way that he almost feels like he has died and gone to his own personal heaven.
“Oh, thank you.” You momentarily glance down, a coy smile taking over your lips. Your voice is a low, breathy thing, but it lands heavier than anything else in the conversation so far.
His brain scrambles uselessly for damage control, for something to say that might undo the moment, but everything just sounds worse before it even forms completely.
Behind him, Sam lets out a quiet, poorly concealed snort, but Bucky ignores it.
“I—” He starts again, yet you’re still smiling at him. Which, somehow, makes it infinitely worse.
“You should get some rest,” he swallows, in a last, desperate attempt to direct the conversation. “If you can.”
It’s simple, a bit clumsy even with the way he can’t seem to meet your eyes as you study him like you’re not used to people saying that and meaning it.
“I will,” you nod. “Thank you, James.”
His hands twitch at his sides, wishing he could offer to carry your books, your bag, or say something useful, something that might actually help and not further push him to hide forever—but words fail him, dying in his throat.
You shift your weight slightly, lips parting as if you are about to say something else, when your gaze flicks past Bucky’s shoulder and lands on the man watching the scene like his favorite reality show.
“Oh—Sam?” You greet him, a little surprised.
His friend straightens immediately, stepping forward with a grin that’s just a little too knowing.
“Miss—” He starts, out of instinct more than anything else.
You groan softly, already shaking your head. “Oh God, no. Please don’t. We are not doing that.” You chuckle. “We are almost colleagues at this point. Or close enough, Doctor Wilson.”
Sam lifts his hands in surrender. “Force of habit.”
“It makes me feel ancient.” You add jokingly.
“You look far from ancient, professor.” Sam shoots back easily with a friendly wink.
Bucky glances between the two of you laughing like two old friends, a knot forming in his throat at how naturally the conversation unfolds, how easily Sam fits into it.
“How are you doing?” You ask him, genuine interest threading through your tone.
“Good,” Sam crosses his arms to his chest. “A lot more busy. They’ve got me running around a lot, but I guess that’s part of the deal.”
“You’ll be great at it.” You state without hesitation.
Sam grins. “Yeah, I know.”
You laugh at that, shaking your head.
“I’m serious,” you add a tad more serious. “You’ve got the right instinct for helping people.”
Sam briefly glances down at that, not used to compliments. “I appreciate that.”
There’s nothing wrong—nothing Bucky can point to and say this is why—and maybe that’s what makes it worse. Your interaction with his friend isn’t forced, not tentative in the way it always seems to be with him. It flows, not leaving room for hesitation, and hesitation is the only language Bucky’s ever been fluent in.
His hands keep hovering uselessly at his sides before one of them comes up to rub the back of his neck, an old habit he falls into when he feels disquieted. For a moment, he considers stepping in, adding something—anything—but he wouldn’t even know where to begin. He would rather leave in silence than try inserting himself into a rhythm that would carry on just fine without him, and probably end up being ignored. Even if he knows rationally that neither of you would do that to him.
So he stays where he is, half a step behind, listening. As usual.
You nod once, satisfied, then glance back at Bucky.
“Well,” you give him a little smile, drained but real, adjusting your grip on the books again. “I should let you both get back to it.”
“Yeah,” It comes out as an involuntary whisper, so Bucky quickly clears his throat. “See you.”
“See you around, James.”
You give Sam a small wave, then turn, walking across the quad until you gradually blend back into the movement of the campus.
There’s a beat of silence in which Bucky is still looking longingly in your direction, when Sam exhales.
“Wow.”
“I mean, wow.” He repeats at the lack of response, dragging the word out this time. “You just stand there and do that with no warning?”
“Do what?” Bucky mutters, already starting to move again.
His friend falls into step beside him, shaking his head. “You ever notice you stop blinking around her or is that just me?”
Bucky shoots him a look. “Shut up.”
“I’m serious,” he continues, completely undeterred. “You were gone. I could’ve run around naked and you wouldn’t have even noticed.”
“I wasn’t that distracted.” Bucky replies flatly.
“Liar,” Sam counters. “You didn’t even know I was still there until she spotted me.”
Bucky can’t argue, because for once he’s right, but Sam doesn’t need to know that.
His friend shoots him a sidelong glance, lips already twisting into a small smirk. “You’re in trouble.”
He sighs tiredly, yet doesn’t even try to deny it.
“You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope... I have loved none but you.”
I get the feeling I’m already in deeper than I have any right to be.
Love, B
Darcy called it a “fair” exchange, half-sprawled against the front desk earlier that afternoon while Bucky pretended to log the latest entry of the day, hopeful she would eventually forget the whole thing if he looked busy enough.
“I helped you with the note thing,” she stated, like it was a perfectly reasonable transaction. “I require my payment now.”
He had eventually agreed, which in hindsight felt like the first mistake of the day.
It’s simple, really. In and out. Pick a pastry, hand the money and run back to the library where words are predictable and the space knows his name.
But the cafeteria is loud, exposed. Trays clattering, chairs scraping, too many conversations overlapping so nothing can be separated cleanly. And too many people existing too close together without thinking about it.
Bucky moves through it like he’s slightly out of sync with the floor beneath him. He’s been here before throughout these past few years, of course. With Sam, Steve… even Darcy recently, when she drags him out on their breaks, talking the entire time so he doesn’t have to. But being here alone makes such an ordinary task sound impossible. He is suddenly aware of his damp hands and how he shouldn’t let them hover uselessly at his sides. Of his posture, too straight or not straight enough. Of the fact that no one is guiding him through the space with casual familiarity, splitting the crowd ahead of him with easy conversation that makes him feel less like an intruder.
Bucky eventually reaches the display case feeling like he’s halfway through a side-quest that tastes more and more like an ambush. Pastries sit behind the glass in neat rows, almost judgmental in their little safe corner, yet he doesn’t really see them. His focus keeps slipping, attention unable to find anything to attach itself to for more than a second.
Two options blur together in his mind.
He should just pick one. It doesn’t matter, it’s just pastries.
But he hesitates too long. A couple behind him shifts closer. Someone laughs too loudly nearby and it hits his ears too suddenly, his shoulders tightening instinctively, like his body is trying to make itself smaller.
He should choose. He should leave. He should do anything that involves not standing still like an idiot.
And then, without his permission, his eyes dart away mindlessly, stopping right to the far end of the room, on a face he knows too well. And the chaos is entirely forgotten.
You are here—always somewhere inside the rhythm of the building. But Mr. Fowler is here too, seated across from you like it’s the most natural arrangement in the world.
Professor Fowler is a math genius. He is always composed, always too comfortable in spaces that aren’t entirely his, sporting that cunning smile as if he were the sole keeper of the secret to having the last word in every conversation.
You are leaning forward, hands moving animatedly as you talk about something that matters more than anything else in the room. Maybe a student’s absurd answer in one of your quizzes. Or maybe is it something more personal? It doesn’t really matter, because Fowler is laughing and there’s nothing polite about that. He genuinely finds it funny. There is no hesitation, no carefulness.
And you answer that at once, smiling at him so easily.
That’s the first word that comes to mind, uninvited and unhelpful. Ease, Bucky realizes with unpleasant clarity, has a shape, and you and Fowler fit inside it without effort.
He has heard things before. Even if they came from voices that don’t matter, they start to form patterns when they repeat often enough in passing corridors, in the kind of giggles that bubble when something is slyly assumed.
Your names are linked together too lightly, followed by a glance that suggests there is nothing to confirm and nothing to deny, just the ultimate assumption everyone makes when two well-matched people keep ending up in the same orbit: both of them good-looking, established, sharp in their own fields. The sort of pairing that doesn’t need to be announced to feel plausible, which somehow makes it worse than a confirmation would have.
Bucky realizes he has stopped breathing properly at some point during that realization. His hands still hold nothing useful, and the counter is now farther than he remembers, his body having gradually drifted away without noticing.
Across the room, Fowler says something, and this time you laugh—properly, head tipping back and eyes squeezing shut. And there is nothing performative in it, only familiarity unfolding candidly between you like it has always been there.
It feels real.
And it doesn’t include him.
He should have left the moment this stopped feeling like speculation and started looking like certainty.
There are people who move through the world as if it already recognizes them, and people who don’t quite manage to step into that recognition without friction. So Bucky turns away and doesn’t look back.
There is no point in that, not when your smiles are for another man.
When he finally reaches the library, Darcy’s voice catches him before he can fully disappear into the stacks.
“Barnes,” she calls, far too bright for the way his day has just fractured. “Where is my muffin?”
“They ran out of pastries.” The shock at the way his own mind promptly provides him with a convincing lie doesn’t manifest on his face.
Darcy squints at his back like she is trying to decide whether something happened or it’s just one of his days. “You okay?”
With a non-committal hum, Bucky keeps walking until he’s standing in his usual dark corner, no memory of the steps in between and the people he brushed past along the way. The books are already there, waiting in the same order, and for a moment he simply stands in front of them.
Then, almost mechanically, he begins to rearrange them. Not because they need it.
“She did not understand the beauty he found in her, through touch upon her living secret body, almost the ecstasy of beauty. For passion alone is awake to it.”
Sometimes I think standing too close to you would be enough to undo me. I find myself stopping thoughts before they become something I can’t easily take back.
Love, B
A single touch of his shoulder was enough for his cock to stir. Well no, it wasn’t just that.
Bucky was talking with Steve in front of the library when he spotted you and Darcy making your way back after your break.
He didn’t realize he stopped speaking mid-response until Steve glanced at you and then back at him with understanding.
The effortless grace in your movements made it impossible for him to look away, a mixture of admiration and longing dancing in his own blue eyes... until they landed on your outfit. The skirt you were wearing moved differently than the ones he was used to, shorter and tight enough to sinfully cling onto the flesh of your thighs covered by sheer, light fabric that made his breath hitch embarrassingly loud.
And then you had come closer, and his knees almost buckled when he noticed how much skin your shirt was revealing. It’s pretty hot today and you were here for a conference organized by the Department of Literature. It’s only normal for you to put a little more effort in your outfits when you are not in class; you could be a little bit bolder.
The open collar was covering almost all of your breasts, still, the curve of your tits was completely visible for his eyes to feast upon.
The final blow was you touching him. You’re mid-sentence, when your foot caught on the uneven pavement, and his body just had to react before thinking. His hand was already around your waist, your fingers going for the nearest thing for support: his shoulder. You ground yourself for a moment as you corrected your step, thanking him with a sweet smile that will haunt him for weeks.
It was barely contact. An instinctive touch and nothing more.
Still, now he can’t stop the phantom brush of your digits on his covered skin from giving him goosebumps. Or the tingling sensation on his palm as it closes uselessly around nothing, trying to remember what the curve of your waist felt like.
It wasn’t long before Bucky had to excuse himself, conveniently holding his jacket in his arms because of the hot weather and low enough to hide his big bulge.
The walk to the restroom was nothing short of humiliating. He felt like every single pair of eyes was burning through his skin, judging him for popping a boner in the middle of a conversation with the prettiest woman in the world wrapped in tight silk and nylon.
It’s not the first time Bucky comes with your name on his lips, and images of you moaning and crying out under him rolling in his mind like the lewdest of movies. Still, it never happened in a public place.
As soon as he locks the door behind him, Bucky’s slacks are so unbearably tight he clumsily unhooks his belt, lowering them enough to relieve the growing pressure on his erection. He wishes to indulge in one of his perverted fantasies so bad, but it doesn’t feel right. Not here.
In a desperate attempt to calm down, he presses his back against the wall, sweat causing his hair to cling to his forehead and eyes squeezing shut. Until the image of the swell of your breasts comes back traitorously behind his closed eyelids, and that soon transforms into your naked tits bouncing in front of his face, nipples hard and glistening with his spit after he thoroughly kissed and sucked and pinched the sensitive nubs.
Yes, in his mind you are a sensitive little thing that needs her breasts worshipped. If he had a little more experience, Bucky is certain he could make you come just by toying with your nipples.
And then he thinks about that damn skirt. His fingers would lightly trace your soft skin covered by the pantyhose, ripping the fabric apart just to hear you gasp, and then taking his time in covering your pretty thighs with his mark.
Bucky always starts with the best intentions: slow, light touches, trying to make the pleasure last as long as possible. But he is far too eager to wait. He could learn to be patient for you, though. Edge you and himself for hours until you can’t take it anymore, indulge in your shaky thighs squeezing his head as his tongue teases your clit to bring you so close... and then pull away just to hear you beg and whimper for him to fuck you until you pass out, until the only thing your mind can remember is his name, and your pussy the shape of his cock.
A whimper claws out of his throat when his fingers instinctively reach down, wrapping around his length. Bucky is both long and thick, his palm sliding up and down, following the upward curve so easily. A shiver runs down his spine when he focuses on the tip, smooth and rounded, his hips jerking forward as his thumb smears precum across the crown.
He is sure you wouldn’t have any problems taking him. You are a determined, strong woman, and even if the stretches would burn at the beginning and your cheeks would be wet with fat tears of overstimulation, you’d still look down at him like a goddess with her favorite devotee, stubbornness burning in your eyes as you’d ride him with the little strength left.
Brows furrowed in concentration and head thrown back against the white wall, Bucky strokes his cock at a steady pace, lips parted around muffled breaths and low groans that fall into the palm pressed firmly against his mouth. At some point his eyes snap open, traveling down to the space between his legs, and his brain must really hate him, because it offers the image of you knelt there, shirt unbuttoned and skirt bunched at your hips, enough to expose your wet core. Your hand plays with his balls while your glossy lips stretch around his cock.
“Just like that, baby—fuck—”
His hips twitch in wild, frantic thrusts, the sloppy, wet sounds of his fingers picking up their pace echoing in the empty restroom. He is throbbing at the phantom feeling of your tongue tracing the veins and your lips closing around his tip to suckle on it like a damn lollipop.
He isn’t prepared for the violent, abrupt wave of pleasure that hits him only a few seconds later. Ropes of cum steadily paint his palm, a few, thin stripes spurting on the floor as his choked groans die behind pressed lips.
When the room finally stops spinning, Bucky tiredly slumps back against the wall, eyes accidentally falling on the mirror right in front of him. His chest heaves with rugged breaths and his hands are now dirty with his own cum. The sight makes his already red cheeks look like two tomatoes.
His cock is still out and half-hard—it makes such a crude picture next to his creased pants and underwear.
Only then shame curls hot in his belly.
“I have for the first time found what I can truly love—I have found you. You are my sympathy—my better self—my good angel.”
There are people you admire, and then there are people who quietly become part of how you think about everything else. I didn’t expect the difference to feel this irreversible.
Love, B
Classes have just let out, so the hallway is still quite full but thinning at the edges, students spilling out in clusters to move toward exits; some linger just a little longer than they need to. Bucky is standing off to the side, a folder tucked under his arm for the administrative office, waiting for the flow to clear before he moves.
You come out of one of the classrooms a few steps ahead of him, mid-sentence, turning slightly as you finish saying something over your shoulder to a student who stands by the door.
“That’s actually a really good point—just don’t stop there, okay? Push it a bit further and you’ll see where it goes. Actually, you know what? I have some articles about the psychological function of the Gothic in nineteenth-century literature, and I believe they could be very helpful for your essay. Just send me an e-mail to remind me, okay?”
The student nods, half-confident, half-lost, and you give her an encouraging smile before she heads off. You fully step into the hallway while adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, and only then your distracted gaze lands upon him.
You shift the thick stack of papers in your arms, catching Bucky’s attention.
“Monthly assignments?” He guesses.
You glance down at the stack, then back at him, lips already curling knowingly.
“Unfortunately, yes.” Your shoulders move with a deep sigh. “And they all seem to have been written at three in the morning, which makes them… pretty creative.”
He huffs a quiet chuckle, a mix of sympathy and amusement.
“Yeah, can’t blame them.”
“I don’t even mind the lack of sleep,” you continue. “It’s the confidence. They’ll write something completely unhinged and still conclude it like it’s the most solid argument ever made.”
That pulls a real smile out of him.
“Honestly, I respect that.” He says before thinking too hard about it. Then, almost immediately, “Not—the unhinged part. Just... the confidence.”
Something about your laugh shakes the butterflies in his stomach.
“No, I get it. There’s something admirable about committing to a bad take.”
He nods along, then hesitates like he’s deciding whether to say the next part.
“Are they actually bad? Or just… not what you were expecting?”
Your head tilts a little, considering him for a moment.
“Some of them are bad,” you admit quietly. “But some are... uh, unfinished thoughts, yes. Like they’re almost there, but they stop right before it gets interesting.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s worse, I think.”
Your eyebrows shoot up curiously.
“Because they could’ve been good... if they’d dared to go further.” He quickly explains, then immediately wonders if that sounds stupid. Too obvious. Too—
“Yes, exactly. Dare is the right word.” You sound elated to be finally understood. “They get scared.”
There’s a small pause in which you hurriedly look for one paper in particular, pulling it out from the middle of the stack.
“This one actually had a really good point,” you mumble to yourself as you frown at it, eyes smoothly skimming the text. “About how emotional restraint in early twentieth-century fiction isn’t absence, but displacement.”
Bucky looks up at that, interest showing on his features.
“Like—redirected?”
“Exactly,” you nod, a little more animated now. “But then they just didn’t follow it through.”
“They could’ve tied it to narrative voice,” he muses. “How what’s left unsaid actually shapes the way the story is told.”
“Yes!” You smile. “That’s what I thought.”
There’s a flicker of something in your expression—approval, maybe, or just satisfaction—that gives Bucky enough confidence to continue.
“Do you ever…” He clears his throat. “I mean—do you ever feel like they just don’t trust their own ideas enough?”
Your smile turns a little gloomy.
“All the time.” You shake your head. “They think there’s a ‘correct’ answer they’re supposed to land on, so they don’t follow their real thoughts on the matter.”
He nods, more certain now that the conversation is finding its rhythm.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Like they’re writing for approval instead of… figuring something out.”
You hold his gaze for a second longer than before.
“You read my mind.”
The words settle between you with finality, your gaze meeting his, surprised at first, like you’re still turning the conversation over in your mind. And Bucky doesn’t lower his eyes like he usually would.
He holds it, because stepping away first would mean breaking this rare moment he gets to enjoy just existing with you. Because there’s a soft attentiveness in your expression that makes it hard to pull back from.
Like he’s worth listening to.
The moment stretches for a second too long. Then another, until it no longer feels like a mere pause in a conversation, and giving away even the slightest of hints about his feelings for you is enough to scare Bucky into talking again.
He clears his throat first, the sound cutting abruptly through the quiet hallway as he looks down at the papers like they’ve suddenly become very important.
“Uh—” He has no idea how to finish that.
You blink like you’ve just been pulled out of a dream, your posture adjusting slightly as you look away as well, fingers tightening just a little around the stack in your arms.
A small, almost embarrassed breath leaves you.
“Yes—” You murmur, then shake your head faintly, as if resetting yourself. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s—” He mentions at the same time, then cuts himself off, heat uncomfortably creeping up the back of his neck.
The brief, clumsy overlap of words goes nowhere, but then you shift your weight, grounding yourself back into something familiar, something safe.
“Actually,” you take a small step closer, a little more composed now. “While I have you—”
His head snaps up a bit too fast at your wording.
“I wanted to ask you something about one of the students who’s been coming to the library a lot—tall, always looks like he hasn’t slept in three days? His name’s Peter. Peter Olson.”
Bucky blinks, searching his memory.
“… That doesn’t narrow it down much.” He admits hesitantly.
An embarrassed chuckle falls from your lips. “Fair. Mmh, well he usually sits by the back tables. Keeps switching books every couple of hours like he’s looking for something and not finding it.”
“Oh,” Bucky perks up. “Yeah. I know who you mean. The one who wears the same grey hoodie every day?”
“Yes, that’s him!” You snap your fingers. “I was just wondering if you knew him, since he spends so much time there. Has he ever said anything to you?” Your brows furrow. “Or anyone you know? He’s been struggling in class, and I can’t tell if it’s the material or something personal.”
It’s not the question per se that catches him off guard, but the way you ask it. Not like it’s your job, like you’re obligated to care.
“He doesn’t talk much,” Bucky starts slowly. “But he stays late. Sometimes he just plays games on his phone until we close.”
You nod pensively, like that confirms something.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I might check in with him,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him. “Just... in general.”
You glance back at Bucky then, a soft smile already brightening your features.
“Thank you so much.”
He shrugs, hoping to come across as nonchalant as Sam. “Yeah, of course. Anytime.”
You shift your grip on the papers again, but you don’t move away immediately. Instead, you squint at him.
“Hey, are you doing okay?”
The question lands unexpectedly.
He blinks. “Yeah.”
You tilt your head slightly. “Just yeah?”
He chuckles at that. “I swear,” he repeats, a little more honest this time. “I’m good.”
You hold his gaze for a second longer, like you’re deciding whether to believe him or not. Despite your initial doubts, you nod anyway.
“Okay.”
No lecture, no attempt to force him to speak.
“Well,” you announce ruefully, taking a step back. “I really need to go and start grading these now. Thank you again, James.”
“No problem,” he gives you a thin-lipped smile. “See you around, and good luck with those.”
Bucky stays there minutes after the shape of your body has disappeared behind a corner, the folder meant for the administrative office still waiting in his hands.
Nothing big just happened. It was just a normal conversation, honestly. You didn’t say anything extraordinary, nor did anything that should linger in his chest like this. You talked about literature and essays. You exchanged ideas. You asked about a student. You asked about him... And then you let it be enough.
Later, when he’s alone, it comes back to him in pieces—the subtle pride burning in his chest at being on the receiving end of that kind of attention, like he exists in the same category as everything else you choose to care about.
“Her presence altered the flow of time itself, making the hours feel lighter when she was near and heavier when she was gone.”
I’ve started measuring time around the moments you are by my side. I didn’t realize how much that would change things until I started noticing the difference when you are not there. Something in me refuses to settle properly without you in my day. Am I going mad, or does that happen more easily than people like to admit?
Love, B
Irritation curls hot in his chest as Bucky focuses on his phone, on the message from Steve warning him he’s running late. Waiting alone like this has never sat well with him, not when the constant sense of not belonging thrums high in his veins.
He steps forward in line anyway—they discovered this quaint café years ago while looking for a place to study for the days they actually didn’t feel like opening a book at all—barely paying attention to what he’s ordering, until a familiar voice cuts through the jazz melody coming from the speakers.
“James?”
He turns around in surprise, because there you are, sitting at one of the tables by the window, one hand wrapped around a cup, the other lifting in a small, happy wave when you catch his eye.
His body stiffens at once.
There’s no distance of a desk between you, no quiet formality shaping the interaction, like a college hallway. You look… softer, somehow. Draped in light fabric that catches the faintest movement of your body even when you’re still. It’s a dress that falls more naturally than the usual careful lines of trousers and shirts he associates with you.
Why does Bucky feel like he’s committing the sweetest kind of sin, seeing this version of you that belongs entirely to yourself?
His phone is still in his hand, screen gone dark, but he doesn’t even register the weight of it, because in that moment, there is just you in a pretty dress and afternoon light, smiling up at him like you are an angel genuinely delighted to see him.
Only then does he remember he is supposed to respond.
“Oh—hi.”
“Hi,” you echo, your smile growing—easy and relaxed, fitting perfectly into a sunny Saturday morning. “What are you doing here?”
“Uh—waiting. For Steve.” He gestures vaguely with his phone. “He’s late.”
You laugh, a quiet, knowing sound. “Always the last one to arrive and the first to go away. I see nothing has changed.”
Your hand points at the empty chair in front of you. “You can come sit, if you want. I’m waiting for my friends too.”
It’s said so casually, like it doesn’t require consideration.
Bucky hesitates anyway.
“Are you sure?” He is immediately aware of how unnecessary the question is.
“Of course! We can keep each other company.” You bubble. “I don’t bite.”
That gets a small, startled huff out of him—half laugh, half whimper—before he steps closer to you than he’s ever been.
The first few minutes are clunky.
Bucky sits a little too straight, hands not quite knowing where to go, fingers brushing the edge of his cup like he needs something to keep him anchored to reality. His answers are short at first, slightly off-beat, but you don’t let the conversation stall.
“How’s work been?” You rest your chin on your closed hand.
“Uh—good. Quiet. Mostly just… books.” He winces a little at his lame answer.
“That’s literally my favorite category of things!”
A quiet chuckle escapes him, some of the tension easing from his shoulders thanks to your cheerfulness.
“Yeah, I figured.”
“You get to spend your whole day around them,” you continue. “That sounds like a dream to me.”
He shrugs, a reflex more than a response. “It’s just… temporary. You know, nothing serious.”
You don’t answer that right away.
“Temporary doesn’t mean meaningless,” you explain calmly. “And being around something you love every day isn’t small, James. Most people don’t even get close to that.”
He opens his mouth to respond—out of habit more than anything—but doesn’t have anything ready for that, in fact. And you don’t push it, opting to take a sip of your drink.
Sometimes silence says more than words ever could.
Somewhere along the conversation, things shift.
Maybe when you start telling him about one of your classes and how a student arguing with you over an interpretation somehow made you rethink your own reading of the text. Maybe when he finally finds himself asking a question without rehearsing it first. Maybe when you laugh again, and this time he doesn’t freeze around it.
“You let them argue about Joyce with you?” His eyebrows shoot up, a hint of disbelief slipping through.
“Of course!” Your eyes widen, like it’s obvious. “That’s the fun part. Otherwise it’s just me talking to a bunch of nodding heads for two hours.”
The corners of his mouth lift properly this time, not the small, careful version he usually allows in public.
“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”
You agree with a shake of your head, taking a sip of your second cup of latte. “You’d be good at it, actually.”
That catches him off guard.
“At… teaching?” He tentatively asks.
“Yeah. You pay attention. That’s half the job.”
He doesn’t know what to do with that either. So he just nods, a little slower this time.
“Have you ever considered that?”
His brows furrow in surprise. “Actually... no.”
You don’t react immediately, and for a moment he thinks the conversation might just drift away on its own, like so many of the others have, but instead you tilt your head slightly, studying him with that same quiet attentiveness that never fails to bring a blush to his cheeks.
“I’m serious,” you add, softer now. “You make people feel like what they’re saying matters. That’s rarer than knowing things, honestly. You can always study content, but some people never learn how to make someone want to keep talking.”
No one has ever framed him like that before, as if it were something worthy of praise rather than just a byproduct of him being timid, or quieter than most people.
His distant eyes drop briefly to the table as if the surface might offer him something solid to hold onto while his thoughts rearrange themselves around the idea, his fast heartbeat almost drowning any other sound at how beautifully you keep describing him and his job.
“I never thought about it like that.” He murmurs, not sure if it was meant for himself only.
You don’t push it further, just lean back into your chair with a serene smile.
“I’m telling you, there is a difference,” a voice behind you abruptly ripples through the quietness. “You can’t just say a flat white and a latte are the same thing.”
You flinch at the rising volume of the statement.
“They are basically the same thing,” another voice argues back, annoyed. “It’s milk and coffee. That’s it.”
“That’s like saying all literature is just words on paper. Don’t be ignorant, Joe.”
Bucky’s gaze flick up to you at once, a sparkle of amusement dancing in his eyes, like he’s silently asking if you’re hearing this too.
You are, clearly, because you’re biting your lips so hard to avoid laughing and draw their attention.
“There’s a texture, there’s a ratio—there’s an actual difference if you pay attention.”
“I am paying attention,” Joe replies, sharper now. “I just don’t think it’s worth pretending it’s deeper than it is, Mary.”
“That’s not pretending,” she counters quickly, almost cutting over him. “That’s just… caring about things.”
He lets out a short, disbelieving snicker. “No, that’s overcomplicating things that don’t need it.”
“Right, because you hate when things get too complicated.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know very well what I mean, Joe.”
“It’s coffee, Mary.” The guy insists exasperated, but there’s something defensive in his voice now, less certain. “You’re acting like it’s a personality trait.”
“Maybe it is,” she snaps back. “Maybe the way people choose things does say something about them.”
“Or maybe you just want it to.”
“Or maybe you just don’t notice anything.”
And just like that you watch Mary stomp out of the coffee shop with a sighing Joe right on her heels.
There is a brief, silent pause in which you and Bucky just stare at each other, before you both burst out laughing.
“They’re not wrong, you know?” You breathe out, still smiling. “People get very attached to their preferences to the point it becomes a personality trait.”
Bucky leans back a fraction in his chair now, more at ease than he had been at the start.
“I think it’s less about the coffee,” he crosses his arms to his chest. “And more about wanting to be right about something.”
You hum around a sip of your drink. “Or wanting something small to feel important.” You argue back. “It’s easier to defend a preference than to admit it doesn’t really matter.”
“Do you think people actually taste the difference,” he asks after a moment. “Or they just decide they do?”
A grin takes over your lips.
“I think sometimes they decide first,” you rest your chin back against your hand. “And then convince themselves their senses agree with them.”
It feels like that explanation applies to more than just coffee, to more than just the harmless debate that unfolded right behind you between two strangers who you will probably never meet again.
His gaze lingers on you for a second longer than necessary before he looks down again, almost unconsciously.
“Well, I think I’m in trouble.” His grin is poorly concealed.
That makes you smile. “Why?”
“Because I don’t think I’ve ever made a defining coffee decision in my life.”
“That’s fine,” you gesture with your hand. “Not everyone needs to be a person of conviction.”
He squints his eyes at you. “I feel like that’s not a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
He huffs out a laugh through his nose, shaking his head at your serious expression.
“Movies are like that too.”
That catches his attention a little more.
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone has one classic opinion they feel morally obligated to defend.”
“That’s… accurate, unfortunately.” He rolls his eyes, suddenly reminded of his sister and her obsession with Casablanca.
You lean back a little in your chair. “Like people who act like you personally attacked their family if your favorite movie is not some... I don’t know—” You gesture loosely with one hand. “French, silent short film from the twenties.”
Bucky closes his eyes tiredly, head falling back. “God, I hate those people.”
“I kinda am those people.” You eventually admit with a smirk.
That earns you a look.
“I’m joking!” Your giggle is so contagious his own lips twist into a small smile. “Well, maybe sometimes...” Your index finger rhythmically taps your chin as you think for a few seconds.
“I just love classics.”
“I don’t... actually like most classics.” He scrunches his nose.
You blink, slightly taken aback. “That sounded like a confession.”
“It felt like one. I’ve never told anyone.”
You lean forward in interest, whispering conspirationally. “Okay, so which ones don’t you like?”
He hesitates for a moment, like he knows this is about to become a problem. “Grease.”
Your expression falls at once, humor slipping away just as quickly as it came.
“What?”
“I didn’t say I hated it.”
“That’s worse.” Your eyebrows shoot up.
“How is that worse?” He frowns.
“Because it means you watched it and still chose neutrality.”
He stumbles over his words, hands raising in defeat. “Wait, wait. I didn’t choose anything. I just didn’t... connect with it.”
You straighten up slightly. “That’s not allowed.”
His lips press together, trying to hide a smile. “Why not?”
“Why?” You balk. “Because it’s Grease, James!”
“That’s not really an argument.” He squints his eyes at you.
“It is culturally! It’s been around forever for a reason.”
That makes him laugh properly this time.
“Well, now I feel like Joe.” You chuckle at that, shaking your head in fake disappointment.
“This is exactly what I meant about people having strong opinions about things they don’t care about.”
You tilt your head at that, mildly affronted. “Excuse me, I care deeply.”
“It’s a musical.”
“It’s one of the musicals.”
At that point Bucky leans back on his chair with a glint of delight dancing in his eyes. “So I’m not allowed to just… not like it?”
“No.” You shrug, lips already twisting into a grin.
It makes him smile again, his ears burning a little at the fleeting realization that he just had a funny banter with you without making a fool of himself.
“Okay.” He sighs resignedly. “Then what do I get to dislike without being judged?”
You think about it seriously, arms crossing to your chest as you look out of the window.
“Ah!” Your face lights up. “Modern remakes of classics.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “That’s safe?”
“That’s universally safe.”
“I feel like you’re setting me up.” He squints at you.
“I swear I’m not,” you lift a hand in sincerity. “That’s just objective truth.”
Bucky’s blue eyes study you for a moment with something you can’t fully decipher, ultimately opting for a thin-lipped smile. “You’re impossible.”
His gaze inevitably falls on your lips, so lost in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice the way your own lies on his.
However, your phone lights up, the strong vibration of an incoming text breaking the spell. Bucky suddenly straightens up, expression sobering now that he has been pulled out of whatever quiet complicity had settled between you. Meanwhile, you throw the screen a quick glance, then your eyes fall back on him.
“My friends are here.”
Bucky moves quickly, pushing his chair back with too much strength, the scrape of it against the floor making a few heads turn.
“Steve isn’t here yet, right?” You ask, and then, more tentative. “Stay.”
As if surprised by your own request, you correct yourself frantically. “I mean, if you want to, of course. I just… I’d really like it if you stayed. I can introduce you to my friends.”
That’s when Bucky stops entirely.
Your eyes are so hopeful and devastatingly pretty, your expression open at how uncomplicated the request is even if it clearly costs you something to make it.
He almost says yes.
It’s there, immediate, unfiltered, so close on his tongue. Because there’s no calculation, no expectation dressed up as politeness. Just the simple, disarming fact that you want him there.
Then the door opens. Voices spill in. Energy, movement, a kind of ease he hasn’t been part of in a long time.
And then—
Fowler.
Of course he’s here. Of course he belongs to this part of your life too.
Bucky bites his tongue and shakes his head before you can say anything else.
“No, it’s—I should go, really.” He is already stepping back. “Steve just texted. He can’t make it. I’ve got… stuff to do. Groceries.”
He knows you can see through his lie, but he doesn’t really care to fix it right now. Still, that small shift in your expression—disappointment flickering in your eyes before you smooth it over with a polite smile—shatters his heart to pieces.
“Oh. Okay,” you nod. “Well… I’ll see you on Monday, then?”
“Yeah,” his voice dims. “Yes. Monday.”
He doesn’t trust himself to stay longer than that.
Outside, the air suddenly feels colder than it should for a morning of late spring.
His feet don’t stop moving until he’s across the street. Then he turns back, even if he knows what’s going to see will make him lie awake all night.
Through the window, he can still spot you—only now you’re not across from him, not contained in that small, manageable space of a shared table.
You’re part of an organized mess, alive and warm. Inside jokes repeated over the years and questions that require only a knowing look.
Your friends lean in, talking over each other, laughter overlapping easily, and you’re right there in the middle of it—the center of it all—responding without hesitation, without that small pause he’s come to recognize when you speak to him.
Fowler is closer than that day in the cafeteria, seamless in the way he occupies the space beside you. You laugh at something he says, and it’s probably the same laugh he has heard just a few minutes ago. It shouldn’t matter but Bucky stands there longer than he means to. Long enough for the pit in his stomach to return and set him a few steps back in your blooming friendship.
Could he even call it that, what you had? Talking about literature, stopping for a meaningless chat in the hallways, and randomly bumping into each other on a Saturday morning?
He is just an acquaintance. Those are your friends. They fit in a way that doesn’t require adjustment, that doesn’t need to be questioned.
And Bucky thinks about how long it took him to stop tripping over his own words, how even at his best, it had taken effort to reach something that, for Fowler, seems to exist without trying.
He thinks about his job. Replaceable. A placeholder more than a direction.
He thinks about the way his life still feels like it’s waiting to start.
Your life looks full, complete in a way his isn’t. And the people in it... they belong there. They’ve already figured out what he’s still trying to understand.
He exhales slowly, the sound barely leaving his chest.
Whatever existed in that small space between the two of you inside that café, it’s meant to stay there. It doesn’t extend here and it never will.
This time, when he turns away, he doesn’t stop again.
By the time Bucky reaches the end of the street, the decision has already been made, agonizing but certain.
Tomorrow will be his last note.
“The human heart has a way of making itself large again even after it's been broken into a million pieces.”
I didn’t know how to write these notes in a way that didn’t sound like I was still your student trying to impress you. I think I’ve been confusing proximity with possibility, standing too close to something I was never meant to touch. I’m still a temporary version of myself, still borrowing space. Time. Confidence. And I don’t think I’m the kind of man you would ever choose. You… you’re not temporary. You come into people’s lives to brighten them with your presence, and I don’t believe I am worthy enough to deserve that kind of warmth.
So I think this is the right thing to do.
I am going to let you go.
Not because I want to, but because I don’t know how to keep loving you without shattering into pieces, until there’s nothing left to recognize.
Always yours, B
You don’t make it home today. The thought of this small, unexpected thing finding its place in your life without asking permission, like it has belonged there all this time, always returns persistently in the back of your mind. It has translated into pure anticipation of what you’ll find next inside your books, and today it has been impossible to ignore since the moment your eyes opened. You catch yourself thinking about it between lessons, tasks, in the small pauses where it blends with the image of a certain person, already fantasizing about what’s going to happen the next time you’ll see him again.
By the time you step into the library, you’re already smiling to yourself. It’s ridiculous, you know that. Nothing about a person anonymously writing you love notes should matter this much, it shouldn’t feel this addictive.
Despite the fact that the initial on the notes had been easy to dismiss at first, something vague enough to ignore, it gradually became impossible not to imagine a certain someone behind those words. You told yourself you’re being irrational, but as much as your brain tries to keep you grounded, it can’t stop your pulse from picking up every time that possibility takes hold in your thoughts.
You don’t rush, not outwardly. But there’s a lightness to your steps, a quiet impatience that shows in the way your fingers tighten slightly around the cover, in how quickly your gaze moves past Darcy. The world feels just a little less interesting compared to what you’re about to read.
It’s been a long time since anything has made you feel like this. Or, anyone.
You slip away from the main aisle, drawn toward a quieter corner where shelves grow narrower and the sun doesn’t quite reach that far in. Your fingers are already finding the page before you’ve fully stopped walking, a warm sensation blooming in your chest in a way that feels embarrassingly close to a suffocating excitement. And when the folded paper finally reveals itself, tucked exactly in the middle of the book, your smile grows, unguarded and bright.
For a brief, suspended moment, everything feels exactly as it should.
You finally stop between two rows of thick books, hands closing around the edges of the note with a familiarity that shouldn’t feel so natural. For a second, your thumb presses along the crease, tracing it once—enough for you to take a deep breath and calm down your wild heartbeat.
The quote registers first—your mind catching its tone before its meaning fully settles—and then your eyes move down, desperately looking for the rest. For an explanation.
Each line feels like a stab to your heart, those words completely stripped of the gentleness that had softened them until now. There’s no careful distance here, no hesitation disguised as sweet restraint. Whatever has been building silently inside your secret admirer has become an uncontrollable, raging sea, inevitably crashing your heart against the cliffs.
By the time you reach the last line, your breathing has changed.
Your palm rests on your mouth in an instinctive attempt to contain a sob. Your eyes sting without permission, blurring the edges of the words still lingering in your mind.
You read it over and over again.
It’s a goodbye.
And it doesn’t make any sense.
Nothing in the notes before had prepared you for this abrupt ending, for the certainty that your fate has already been decided without you. You try to trace it back, to find the moment where it might have shifted, something you might have missed—a look, a conversation, anything that could explain how it reached this point.
But there’s nothing.
Only the unsettling realization that someone has been feeling this deeply, this painfully, somewhere just outside your awareness. And now they’ve chosen to step away.
Your grip tightens around the paper.
The ache that follows in your chest surprises you more than anything else. These notes had become a small but constant reminder that someone out there saw you as something more than your role and a polite smile. You hadn’t fully realized how much of them you carried with you every day until now.
It had become a possibility you never allowed yourself to name. And now it’s being ripped away from you before you’ve even had the chance to decide if you wanted it.
A wet breath leaves your lips, the paper trembling faintly between your fingers as you lean back against the sturdy shelf, hands stiff on your thighs as you clench your jaw, trying to stop your chin from wobbling so embarrassingly fast in a public space.
That’s why you don’t hear him at first.
Bucky lethargically turns into the aisle with a few books in his arms, already half-thinking about where they belong. He slows when he notices someone ahead, instinctively preparing to move past without disturbing them.
Then he recognizes you, and his body locks into place.
You’re standing too still, your posture drawn inward in a way that doesn’t belong to you. Your bag has slipped from your shoulder, probably without you noticing, because it hangs awkwardly in the bend of your elbow. The fabric of your shirt was dragged with it, the collar now slipping just enough to expose the slope of your shoulder and your collarbones, the seam no longer primly sitting where it should.
You look… undone, in the most mortifying of ways.
And then his gaze drops. In your other hand, a book barely held, your fingers curled around it without intention, like you forgot it was there.
Realization hits fast enough to make his stomach turn, sharp and sudden.
His note.
The air leaves his chest in a shallow breath.
He had imagined you finding out, vaguely, distantly—but not like this. Not with you standing in one of the darkest corners of the library, alone and crying for the very thing he had convinced himself would never affect you so much.
A soft, shaky sniff pulls him sharply out of his thoughts, so Bucky decides that this is enough.
He steps forward, careful like approaching a wild, injured animal.
Your name comes out of his lips more hesitantly than he wants to admit.
Your chin lifts, a flicker of surprise, brief and disoriented, crosses your features, before you realize who is standing before you. At that point you straighten abruptly, instinctively composing yourself, though the traces of what you were feeling can’t disappear with a single swipe of your fingers.
“James.” You greet him with a slight bow of your head, your voice fainter than he has ever witnessed.
His heart hurts at the sight.
“Are you okay?” He whispers.
You nod too quickly. “Yes!” You exclaim, nodding eagerly. “Yes, of course. I’m fine, it’s just—” The sentence falters, dissolving before it can take shape. You shake your head then, swallowing. “It doesn’t matter.”
Bucky should leave. He set the decision in stone last night as he crafted his last note, deliberately, with the kind of resolve he doesn’t usually manage to hold onto for long. And even if right now you are shaken—holding onto that piece of paper that clearly matters to you more than he ever intended—Bucky should step back, let it end cleanly, before it could turn into something more complicated, more humiliating.
You’ll move on. In a few days, maybe a week at most, the notes will blur into a simple memory. You’ll return to your life, to the steady rhythm of it, to things that are real and lasting and meant for you. And eventually—months from now, years, it doesn’t matter—you might remember this with amusement. A strange, fleeting experience. A story to tell with a soft smile to your kids, about that shy, awkward student who hid behind borrowed words because he never quite had the courage to stand in front of you and speak them himself.
It’s exactly what he wanted.
But you’re still holding that damn piece of paper, and he knows every word written there.
“You don’t have to pretend.” He mumbles.
Your eyes lift to his again, searching now, something in his tone catching where everything else might have passed unnoticed.
“… James?” Uncertainty threads through your voice.
There’s a moment where he almost steps back, almost lets this dissolve into something safer.
“I didn’t think you’d read it here,” he blurts out, his voice strained at the edges. “I thought you’d take it home, or… later.”
Your back slowly straightens to face him as realization dawns on your face.
“You wrote this.”
Bucky nods, just once.
“I’m sorry.”
The apology comes quickly, choked, like it has been waiting all along in his throat.
“I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean for it to end up like this.”
“Like what?” You ask, voice steadier despite tears still blurring your vision.
“Like you having to deal with it.”
You shake your head, a small, almost disbelieving movement.
“That’s not—” Your eyelids flutter shut momentarily, chest raising and lowering with a deep breath as you try to find the right way to say something that suddenly feels more complicated than it should be.
“Why would you think this is something I have to deal with?”
He lets out a short, humorless breath.
“Because it is,” he says with too much certainty. “It’s not something you asked for.”
“And you decided that for me?”
He hesitates. “No. I just… didn’t want to make it harder for you.”
“Harder how?” You press, stepping closer without fully realizing it.
Bucky takes his time to look at you, properly, and whatever he sees in your expression seems to unsettle him more than the fear of being rejected.
“Because I’m not—” His jaw clenches as he searches for words that don’t sound as inadequate as he feels. “I’m not someone you would choose.”
You stare at him with furrowed brows, because of how easily he says it, how certain it sounds, like he has already accepted it as an absolute, indisputable fact.
“That’s not your decision to make.”
“I’m not deciding anything,” he replies, though his voice breaks. “I’m just being realistic.”
“You’re not,” you say, taking another step closer. “You’re assuming.”
“I’ve seen enough to know,” he sighs, and there’s something in the way his voice tightens that suggests he hadn’t meant to say even that much. “It’s not—this isn’t about whether I feel something. That part was never—” He stops, swallows back an embarrassing sob that dissolves his words into a whisper. “It’s about where I fit beside you. And I don’t.”
You silently study how he’s holding himself tightly, slightly leaning back, like he’s already preparing to flee.
“That’s not your decision to make.” You shake your head, stepping closer again. “You’re being afraid.”
He can’t deny that.
And that’s when you close the distance.
Your lips meet in a tender kiss. It isn’t rushed, but it isn’t hesitant either. It’s a decision made without overthinking, without giving him space to retreat behind that safe prison of insecurity he built to protect himself from being hurt.
Initially, Bucky doesn’t move, eyes wide and arms rigid at his sides.
This doesn’t make sense. Your lips on his.
It’s only when one of your hands touches his cheek, warm and hesitant, the other settling over the uneven rhythm of his heart, that his palms lift, almost cautiously, like he’s afraid you’re going to disappear with a single brush of his fingers. Just a figment of his imagination. A beautiful, sweet lie.
He cradles your cheeks, the touch so fragile, like a breath caught between speaking and silence. And your lips part gracefully against his, his tongue gaining more confidence the more you tease it with yours.
Bucky’s a mess by the time you pull back, his ears ringing and his breath shaky. You don’t leave him completely, the tips of your noses still brushing as his eyes desperately search yours for the slightest hint of regret. But he finds none.
“I don’t understand,” he breathes out. “Why would you—”
“Because I want you, James.” You answer simply.
“That’s not—That’s not supposed to go like this.”
Your eyes close with a sigh, and when they flutter open again, Bucky has to swallow back another apology as a set fresh of tears makes them glow so prettily under the dim-light.
“What if I don’t see you the way you see yourself?” Your head tilts. “If I don’t think you’re temporary. If I don’t think you’re out of place in my life.”
There’s a long moment where he just observes you in awe, the certainty of being unwanted he held onto for so long unraveling piece by piece, replaced by something far more delicate yet warm. So warm his chest feels full.
“Then why didn’t you—” His voice breaks, the question catching in his throat.
“Because you never gave me the chance.”
This time, Bucky doesn’t look away. His shoulders loosen, gradually, finally allowing himself to live in the moment. One of his hands shakily moves from your face, like he’s still not entirely sure you are real, and settles lightly against your waist. His eyes follow the movement, grounding himself in your body to convince himself this no longer feels like a ridiculous dream.
“Can I—” His lips press together at your grin.
He doesn’t finish the question. Instead, he simply leans in.
This time, the kiss is his.
— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💛
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist + collab masterlist
books quoted:
1. The End of the Affair by Graham Greene
2. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
3. The Princess Bride by William Goldman
4. Persuasion by Jane Austen
5. Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence
6. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë
7. Il barone rampante by Italo Calvino
8. The Bridges of Madison County by Robert James Waller
time to expose myself: I've never read some of these books. yes I suck, I'm a terrible person, I'm illiterate, whatever you want 😩 some I just studied; others I discovered thanks to this story. all the quotes come from a long, thorough and agonizing research on different websites about romantic quotes (😭) and reddit (I swear I always find some interesting info every time I look up a topic I have no knowledge about). I tried to make sure each quote comes from a book with love/romantic relationships as one of the themes, but again, I had never even heard about some of them until a few weeks ago, so my knowledge entirely comes from google. I apologize if the english translation of some quotes is not 100% correct, I had to translate those myself because I could only find them in their original language.
www.twst › IS THIS THE GREATEST 3-1 COMEBACK IN RSA'S LEGACY?
💭: arriving in a whole new world sucks, but finding a job there? thats crazy. thankfully, you stumble upon a website called cupid's hotline—a romance forum dedicated to everyone's love life!
you've been enjoying the financial benefits of it until one day, your recent client asks for advices on how to get close to his crush, who, unbeknownst to both of you, ends up being... you?!
pairing. rielle corallia x gn! reader
wc. 10.8k (holy yap)
warnings. fluff, rsa! reader who is also from another world, potentially ooc rielle (written before full release), rielle YEARNING for like 9k words, nct is canon in twst here, oblivious(?) reader for the sake of the plot, mutual pining, not proofread
a/n. lord ok there was supposed to be a part for minajael too but i lowk got carried away making rielle's... so now im planning another seperate fic for him 🥹 wow first twst fic and its abt rsa
You’re convinced this entire Royal Sword Academy experience in a world called Twisted Wonderland is nothing more than a humiliation ritual that is specially curated for you.
First of all, (and for the record, you would like to say that none of the circumstances mentioned hereafter is your idea) you are magicless—utterly, thoroughly, embarrassingly magicless, in an academy where magic is the fulcrum of all its ideals. To put this in an analogy, it would be like entering a swimming competition without knowing what water is.
Despite your initial reserves and protests, your gracious headmage—Ambrose LXIII—decided to enroll you anyway, regardless of your lacking prowess in all possible magical areas. Though your mental fortitude is on the brink of crumbling at the thought of having to suffer through academic hell, it’s the most favorable outcome considering the freaky, all-knowing mirror apparently said your world is basically non-existent.
Not to mention, without a valid identity or credentials recognized anywhere in this world, you are—legally speaking—either a student or a trespasser, and only one of those options comes with a viable meal plan. If you’re going to suffer with a curriculum pulled from the devil’s asscrack, you might as well enjoy seared salmon steak with mushroom gravy every single day while you’re at it.
With that said, being a magicless student in RSA means that you sit through explanations of magical theory and practical evaluations like you’re trying to understand a mana power-scaling system in some historical fantasy manhwa—which isn’t really that good of a comparison now that you think about it, granted that you are living through it real-time—and history lectures just feel like you’re playing Akinator with blindfolds. Good sweet lord, you literally have every single line in the textbook colour-coded in vivid, eye-straining highlighters, so you wouldn't play guess who this is every other day.
You don’t even want to talk about magical mathematics.
Now, academic stress is one thing—being pocketless is another. You don’t think you’ve ever felt that degree of mortification and dread when you study calculus as you did the moment you patted your pockets and found absolutely nothing.
Naturally, at first, you planned to sort this predicament out with Ambrose, but something about being more indebted to that old grandpa genuinely gives you the slight shiver me timbers, so you decided to deal with it yourself and get some sort of job… somehow, with no prior experience, qualifications, or any academic certificates.
Thankfully, however, you have found a goldmine of a Reddit-equivalent website on the school-issued phone that Ambrose gave you, and verbatim, “to stay updated on school announcements,” which you have used exactly zero times for school announcements.
That heavenly gift leads to your discovery of cupid’s hotline—a romance forum where the lovelorn, the hopeless, and the genuinely delusional all congregate to dissect their situationships, spiral about their crushes as if the forum is just one big confessional booth—one that also offers services such as providing love advices, and occasionally commissions other users on the platform to write their confession letters for them.
You found the website entirely by accident, and ever since then, you have never left it, considering the financial benefits. By week two as an active member of the forum, the mailman is probably tired of seeing your face nearly every single day to deliver sealed envelopes that contain the fruits of your hard labor (read: writing a shit ton of love letters instead of doing your history essay)—sweet piles of Thaumarks.
Now, you wouldn’t exactly call yourself an expert or professional in this whole love business, per se, it just happens that you have consumed an irresponsible amount of romance media over the course of your entire life and have been the designated third wheel often enough to have developed opinions, which are, arguably, tantamount to having a lifelong familiarity with love, no matter how theoretical it is.
A person pleading on the platform for a love letter to be written, and that the service will be paid for on top of that? Consider it done an hour after you slipped in their DMs. Advice on how to confess to your childhood friend? There’s already a clean numbered list in their inbox.
You’re acquainted with the duke of the north and engaged to the 4th prince, who is openly flaunting his affair? You have a very solid idea of what they should do.
The point is, after spending a month on the forum, you think you have seen every romantic trope, cliche, and complex relationship this website has to offer. You would argue that you have seen too much, read the posts like your bedtime stories, and delivered enough advices to know exactly how all of these stories will likely go.
In short, you are a growing expert on something that will never happen to you—or so you thought.
Rielle has always noticed you.
That phrase alone could not encompass the gossamer tangle of wonder and want that has rooted itself deep somewhere in one passing heartbeat and the next.
The prince has met humans aplenty during his stay on land—some eyes are sharp and turbulent, while some are gentle and mirthful. It never fails to fascinate him, the way humans carry the weight of nameless worlds within them.
The prince has met humans aplenty during his stay on land—yet you, he thinks, are something else entirely. Whenever you’re in sight, he can’t help but let his eyes drift back to you, as though it is the most natural thing in the world.
Whether you’re hunched over the library table, clicking your pen absentmindedly in that rhythmic way you do when something isn’t clicking, or simply passing by him in the corridor, heading toward your next class with your peers without a second glance at him, his eyes always instinctively try to seek out your familiar figure, regardless of where he is.
He’s not exactly sure what it is about you that captivates him so deeply, only that every time he tries to untangle the threads, the fragile thing shifts like light on water—like something just beyond articulation.
You unravel him—dangerously so, in a way that he is rendered completely and utterly helpless without recourse. He doubts you know you’ve rewritten the word love to him in the shape of your name. Rielle has always thought love at first sight would induce a symphonic, earth-shattering revelation—something with more fanfare and rapidly thundering heartbeats, similar to that of the Mermaid Princess’ tale.
He never thought it would be something so full of warmth like the afternoon sun against the tides—delicate like the brush of spun sugar and woven along the moment like flowing silk.
Still—for all that it settles into him like something inevitable and right—Rielle finds, almost confoundedly, that he cannot seem to do anything about it.
He is not, by nature, someone who struggles with people. In fact, it’s the contrary—the distance between stranger and someone he knows has never felt particularly vast to him; he never has to think too much when it comes to it.
That is, until you came into the frame.
The moment you so much as glance at him, something burrowed deep in his chest seizes up like a wave caught mid-pull, and whatever he had been meaning to say evaporates cleanly from the tip of his tongue like seafoam against the morning sun. He has replayed the scenarios enough times in the quiet enclosure of his room to know that what he feels extends beyond casual admiration—beyond anything he has ever felt before.
It’s frankly near embarrassing how he finds himself completely speechless by just a mere glance. So instead, he does what he knows.
He watches from afar as your eyes catch the light from the stained glass windows of the library when it all clicks together after a long study session. He learns the way you unconsciously straighten your uniform blazer when you get too nervous for an upcoming test or quiz that day, or how you prefer to pair heavily savory meals with a more refreshing and refined beverage like warm oolong tea.
As infatuation continues to be nurtured every day, Rielle begins to find things that remind him of you in the small, unguarded parts of his daily life—a smooth stone by the campus pond, a pressed flower bookmark from Mrs. T’s stationary corner, a music box from the market that carries a soft melody that you might like—and he anonymously leaves them somewhere you’ll find them, because at least this way he can give you something without his voice betraying him entirely in the process.
It is not, he is aware, a particularly brave approach.
“You’re doing it again, Your Highness.”
Rielle snaps out from his dazed stupor, turning his head to meet face-to-face with Bastien—his closes companion, confidant, and the most reliable witness to every embarrasing moments he has gone through—who is staring right at him with knowing eyes, and a faint smug smirk of a person who has heard all of his friend’s rambles about his little crush and is now watching the evidence present itself in real time.
The young prince merely blinks at him, “Huh, doing what?”
“You’ve been standing in the same spot for the past 5 minutes.”
“I just like this spot, and the birds make a lovely sight.” Now he’s partly lying from his ass—sure, the courtyard does have pleasing birds to gaze at, but he’s got a different subject in mind.
Sitting tucked away in the quietest corner of the courtyard, you tap your pen against the thick pages of your book, seemingly too immersed in your studies for someone who’s not aware that a stray robin has perched itself on your head.
You don’t notice the robin until it sharply pecks you square on the crown of your head—at which point your other hand flies up with an indignant yeowch!, just in time to feel the brief, departing ruffle of wings as it immediately departs as though it has somewhere more important to be.
The expression that crosses your face is one of such pure, wordless indignation that Rielle has to press his lips together very firmly, lest he accidentally laughs.
“...I just think they’re wonderful, Bastien.”
Bastien exhales slowly through his nose, in the manner of someone quietly adding this to a very long mental list.
“I know, Your Highness,” he responds, muttering underneath his breath along the lines of he’s a lost cause. “You might want to tell them that someday.”
“I know! It’s just—” the prince starts, ears uncharacteristically dusted red that it seamlessly blends in with his hair, “I don’t know what it is—I can speak to anyone, I’ve never had any problem with it! But the moment they… look at me I just—”
He gestures vaguely, almost sheepishly.
“You just,” Bastien repeats, with the careful neutrality of a man who knows exactly where this goes.
“Yes!” He nods vigorously, with a helplessness so genuine it was almost endearing. “Everything I mean to say just instantly goes like it was never there—and I’ve tried, Bastien, I’ve really tried! But every single time they’re in front of me, my brain just completely—”
He gestures again, the blush on the apple of his cheeks growing increasingly bolder by the second.
“Goes.” Again, Bastien finishes for him, without wasting a beat—which is a sad indicator of how many times they’ve had this exact conversation.
“Goes…” Rielle agrees, once again nodding miserably before the humbling truth.
A long beat of silence veils itself over them, during which Bastien appears to be doing some internal contemplations and calculations.
“Well, there is this one forum,” he begins, bringing his thumb and index finger to cup his chin in thoughtful suspense, “that has been making its rounds lately—cupid’s hotline, and apparently, people go there to sort out precisely this kind of…”
He waves a hand, “Catastrophe—sorry, situation.”
“A romance forum, if you will. They have a lot of other users who help you figure out what to say or do.” He pauses for a second. “Users who are, presumably, better at this than you currently are, Your Highness.”
Considering what his tone implies, apparently, the bar is not high.
Rielle has the grace to look slightly bashful, “...You think it will help?”
Bastien thinks back about all the late-night rambles of you, the obvious stares that the prince has been shooting at you, the smile he usually sports on when he’s too distracted daydreaming about you—yeah, no, he may as well will lose what little remains of his sanity if this keeps on going.
“Your Highness,” Bastien starts, his lips easing into a polite smile that is more exasperated than anything. “At this point I would try anything—so, yes, I think you should try the forum, for both our sakes.”
“A hand mirror today, huh?” You turn the gold-leafed hand mirror that was previously situated by your front door, closely inspecting the intricate carvings.
It’s been a good few weeks—possibly a month or more—since the daily gifts dropped by your “secret admirer” have come rolling in. You use the term loosely, considering you are no closer to figuring out who they are than you were on day one—no leads, no suspects, and no idea what you did to deserve this level of dedicated, anonymous attention.
Which, at this point, is either a testament to their discretion or your own obliviousness.
You set aside the hand mirror with the rest of the collection before sitting down on your bed, pulling out your school-issued phone to log back into cupid’s hotline with the same energy as clocking in your shift.
It is, by all accounts, a normal day on the forum—someone is spiraling, someone needs a letter written, and a bunch of r/AITA posts that are enough to be your personal bedtime stories for tonight.
Though there is one specific post that makes you pause.
I need help and my friend told me to try this forum
Hi! I was told this is the place to go for this sort of thing, and I’ve been—well, my friend has been telling me for a while that I need to do something about my situation, and I think he’s right, so here I am!
There’s someone that I really like a lot, more than a lot actually, if I’m being completely honest. The thing is, every single time they’re in front of me, I’m not sure what to say or do…
I’ve been leaving them gifts anonymously in the meantime, which I honestly don’t know if that’s been helpful or just confusing them.
I just want to tell them how I feel properly. Can anyone help me figure out how? I would really appreciate it!
The post is straightforward enough—earnest, genuine, and nothing a few simple advices can’t fix.
Someone who knows exactly what they feel and simply doesn’t know how to deal with it? All they need is a nudge in the right direction, and let romance sweep them off their feet.
Leaving them things, though?
Your eyes involuntarily drift to the collection of small trinkets that has been scattered across all your other belongings—the hand mirror on your desk, the musicbox perched on your bookshelf, the pressed flower bookmark you had tucked between the pages of your history textbook.
You glance back at your screen.
…Hm.
There is a brief moment when a thought, half-formed and flickering, begins to assemble itself somewhere at the back of your mind—it tries to draw about speculations, yet you forcefully dissolve the thought.
It’s a very common practice; there are a lot of people like that in the world.
“It’s probably just a coincidence.” You casually shrug it off, fingers already reaching to the reply window, and start typing at record speed about your thoughts.
u/letmegohome: hi OP ! personally, here’s what u can do:
01. START SMALL, FIND EXCUSES TO TALK TO THEM !
As it turns out, Twisted Wonderland is incredibly generous with excuses when you’re looking for one.
Rielle is on his way back from his afterschool activities, phone in hand as his screen displays u/letmegohome’s post, when a splashing sound cuts through the quietude of the campus grounds and makes him perk up—the sound seems to come from somewhere in the direction of the lake nearby.
He finds you sitting in the shallow lake at the edge of campus—your uniform soaked through to a degree that it clings uncomfortably to your body enough to make you grimace, hair plastered to your face as water droplets trickled down your chin, all the while you stare at the sky, unblinking.
For a split second, his heart lodges itself in his throat, heart blaring against his ribcage at the realization that it’s you—but concern outweighs all the nervous jitters, and his body makes the decision his brain is too flustered to, already inching closer in your direction.
You had just gotten out of the lake after a good couple of seconds of marinating in the embarrassment, having gathered enough presence of mind to drag your sopping self for a change of clothes, when he worriedly runs up to you.
“Hey, are you okay?!”
You look ahead of you, and the first thought that breaches your mind is fuck, someone saw it all go down.
The second, however, is the mortifying awareness that you are absolutely drenched in front of someone who looks like that, which somehow worsens the entire predicament you are in.
Rich rosy hair that glimmers like sunlight refracted through coral beds, round blue eyes that many surely liken them to the open sky over yonder (free, boundless, brimming with a curiosity of a fledgling barely out of the nest), and the slight mingling scent of seafoam that has tethered itself to his presence—you had to remind yourself to blink, lest you make it worse by being caught red-handed oogling at him.
Holy shit, this dude looks like Ariel.
“Yeah, don’t worry about it. I uh–I just tripped,” you try to assure him, yet the words tumble out so awkwardly at the pretty boy before you, that somewhere between the line of composure and the lack thereof, you have the urge to bang your head straight on the next hardest surface you could find.
He moves closer regardless, as if your casual dismissals aren’t enough to sway him. “Are you sure? You’re completely soaked! Here, I’ll walk you to the infirmary—it’s not that far from here, and they’ll have spares of dry clothes too!”
You open your mouth to decline, which is an immediate instinct more than ever. The words are already bubbling on the tip of your tongue, something along the lines of really it’s fine or no need to trouble yourself—but all those pre-saved phrases shrivel into nothingness the moment a particularly vicious breeze hisses through your soaked uniform, and your body betrays you with a shiver that you feel deep in the crevice of your soul.
The boy looks at you with an expression that practically screams in your face that he saw that.
“...Sure.”
His face instantly beams up the moment you agree, his lips curling into a warm and immediate smile that prompts you to mirror his, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He talks the whole way there.
It doesn’t feel like those conversations where one completely overwhelms the other—there’s something in the way he speaks that makes it feel as though it feels less like being talked over, and more like being let in.
The boy—who you came to know as Rielle Corallia, the seventh prince of the Coral Sea, when introductions were due between you two—points out several shortcuts that he’d discovered over the course of his stay in the Academy, of the birds perched on trees that he loves to gaze at after he wraps up his afterschool activities, of the passionate hobby he has for collecting trinkets that intrigue him—huh, maybe someday, you should ask him about all the interesting gifts you’ve received lately.
You both arrive at the infirmary before the conversation runs out, which isn’t that much of a surprise, considering how he was intensely rambling about the unique craftsmanship of human artifacts, the history behind each one of them, and his collection back in his dorm—you get the gist of it.
The attending healer of the infirmary takes one look at your drenched form and exhales an entire 10 years of their life through their nose, before disappearing to the back of the room to fetch a brand-new uniform fresh from the laundry (probably).
You station yourself cautiously near the corner, unwilling to commit to any surface while still dripping wet. Across you, your unofficial escort settles himself on a nearby chair, swinging his legs idly as his gaze drifts across the empty infirmary with open curiosity before it finds its way back to you, to which you return his stare with a short huff that might barely count as a laugh.
“Wow, something about the healer’s reaction gives me the impression I’m not the first person to walk in like this.”
Rielle blinks at you for a moment before bursting out in an easy laugh—mirthful and unguarded.
“Well, there was a third-year last semester who walked in with an entire bird’s nest in his hair—the healers are basically used to it at this point.” He pauses, tilting his head to the side as the corners of his smile twitch into something softer around the edges.
“Though I do think that you might be the first person I’ve ever seen make falling into a lake so… memorable.”
You’re not sure if you’re supposed to be offended or graciously accept the compliment, so you choose to settle it with an incredulous chuckle in lieu, “Oh, for sure—I think I’ll remember this humiliating day until I reach my deathbed.”
Something glints beyond the azure shine of his eyes—perhaps amusement, and something that teeters dangerously close to fondness. Rielle leans slightly forward from his chair, the idle swing of his legs coming to a stop in place of directing all his focus to you.
“I don’t think I’ll forget it either!” He holds your gaze as he says it, his tone laced with a quiet finality that can neither be deflected nor perturbed, “because it led me to you, didn’t it?”
He hears it the moment it leaves his mouth.
That was not planned—in fact, that was the opposite of planned, and the rational part of his brain that has been carefully, painstakingly keeping that particular sentiment under wraps for weeks on end collectively loses its mind.
Holy Sevens, just strike him now.
You look at him, and he looks right back at you with that same carefree smile that he always seems to wear (that is also trying to tuck his discomfiture deep in the clefts of his mind), as if he didn’t just utter a sentence so damning that it lodges itself somewhere in your sternum without so much as a warning.
He is, for the record, not as unbothered as it looks.
The healer chooses this precise, strategic moment to reappear from the back of the room with their arms piled with neatly folded clothes, and you have never felt more grateful for an interruption.
“Here,” The healer places the uniform and a warm, gentle-scented towel into your arms with the practiced ease and efficiency of someone who might have done this a hundred times—that, or they’ve dealt worse. “You can change in the back, just try not to drip on the floor if you can.”
Rielle remains seated in his chair and watches you disappear into the back room, perhaps a little faster than strictly necessary, and thinks, well, that’s a start.
He picks his phone up and opens his DM’s.
u/underthesea: Hi letmegohome, I talked to them!!
It isn’t until that night that u/letmegohome responds to his message.
u/letmegohome: hey sorry for the late reply! and???? what happened
u/underthesea: I think it went well…
u/underthesea: I also may have said something I didn’t entirely plan to say…
u/letmegohome: WHAT
u/underthesea: It went well though!! I think
u/letmegohome: U THINK? nvm its ok, onto the next one
02. SHOW UP CONSISTENTLY, LET THEM REALIZE YOUR PRESENCE !
Of all things RSA’s curriculum has thrown at your face, Aquatic Civilization and Maritime History is perhaps the most miserable you’ve been in your studies—not because it’s inherently complicated, but because you lack the foundational knowledge to build on, and the textbook is written as though the reader already knew everything and was simply reading for the fun of it.
Now, at the very least, the human segments are manageable—wars, petty politics, territorial disputes—the broad strokes of it aren’t so different from the world you come from, and you can follow the thread well enough to understand—but merfolks?
Shit, dude, a two-month-old infant might have a better understanding than you.
You stare at a two-page spread on the Coral Sea with a hollow expression of someone who has reread the same paragraph 6-7 times and retained absolutely nothing, your highlighter poised uselessly over a sentence you have not processed in three minutes.
Reading walls of text for what feels like hours on end definitely fries your brain in some way or another. It is evident in the way you don’t even register a particular warmth that hovers over you, and the shadow that falls over your page.
“Oh! Are you studying the Coral Sea?”
You jolt in your seat, eyes frantically looking up to meet the summer sea that rests in the eyes you’ve come to be familiar with.
Rielle stands behind your chair with a library book tucked under one arm, looking at your open textbook with a twinkle of genuine interest—oh right, he is the seventh prince of the Coral Sea, isn’t he?
“Yeah,” you sigh in defeat, “I’ve been stuck on it for a while.”
Something lights up in his expression—that particular quality of attention that is uniquely his, the kind that doesn’t feel practiced or fabricated; rather, it feels like a hearth crackling into life—warm and steady as it crawls its way to the fore of your heart, gently soothing it.
“What part of it?”
Your gaze flickers to your scattered notes, and the bold highlights galore, “...All of it.”
He laughs—a tune so effortlessly bright and airy that the heavy weight simmering in your chest feels, just for a moment, considerably lighter—and moves to pull out a chair across from you.
“Are you sure?” you ask, nodding at the book in his hand, “You look like you were in the middle of something.”
He glances back down at the book before looking right back, “Oh, this? Don’t worry, it can wait!”
“I’m serious, Rielle, I don’t want to pull you away from your own studies—”
“Nonsense! Don’t worry about it.” There is something in the easy certainty of it that makes the protest dissolve before you can finish structuring it. He sets the book down on the table, unhurried in his ministration, before leaning forward on his elbows and tilting his head slightly.
“Think about it,” he begins, and something glints in his expression—a deliberate mischief that is found when he has a plan brewing up in his mind. “You’re studying the Coral Sea.”
“And I happen to know someone well familiar with it.”
You stare at him, utterly unamused.
Rielle looks back at you with an expectant yet barely concealed eager look of someone who has just pulled out an excellent card and is simply waiting for you to catch on.
“...You.”
“Me,” He confirms confidently, nodding his head proudly and all. What a silly guy, you think.
“You’re the seventh prince of the Coral Sea.” You quip back, deciding to humour him a little longer.
“I am.”
“And you’re offering to tutor me on your own kingdom.”
“I am,” he continues to nod along, the grin that breaks across his countenance so guileless and unrestrained that you feel your own lips betray you with the faintest twitch of a smile in response. “So, shall we?”
You glance back down at the two-page spread, the long paragraphs of text and terminologies you barely comprehend, and the highlighters that do nothing but strain your eyes—honestly, at this point, you’re completely hopeless.
“...Yeah, alright.” Finally caving in, you push the textbook across the table toward him, “Where should we start?”
Rielle, bless his soul, probably took pity on all the scribbles of a poor annotation and the vibrant mix and match colours of your highlighters. “From the beginning, I think. It would be better for you to know the general context first.”
Just like that, you find yourself being tutored on the Coral Sea by its seventh prince, who explains it the way someone explains a place they so dearly love—less like reciting from the dry tone of the textbook and more like letting you in on something personal and kept.
He weaves through the explanations with details that make the whole thing feel suddenly, startlingly real—as if you could just reach and touch. The tidal currents along the eastern shelf and their importance for navigation, the Coral Sea’s extensive musical traditions, the coral formations that predate the kingdom itself, some of which are said to have been shaped not by human nature but by the earliest merfolk who settled the deep.
You’d be plain dead lying if you tell yourself you are listening for the sake of your notes.
It starts innocuously enough—your pen moves across the page, keeping up with the flow of his explanations. Yet somewhere between trade routes and coral formations, there is an imperceptible shift that happens, and you stop writing without quite noticing you have, and you stop noticing because you are watching him instead.
You watch the way his eyes crinkle in delight when the topic reaches the recorded instances of merfolk coming to land throughout history, you watch something luminous and unbridled stir within the azure of his irises—the deep fondness of someone revisiting a memory, turning it over their hands like a smooth river stone.
His hands move as he speaks, tracing the invisible geography of a world you cannot physically see but find yourself yearning for—the southern coast, the border reefs, the stretch of coastlines where two worlds have always quietly, tentatively reached for each other in their embrace.
He talks about old tales last.
The famous Mermaid Princess’ tale, he says, who has always been drawn to the surface—to the human world and all its curious, ephemeral warmth.
“It’s considered either a cautionary tale or a love story,” Rielle mentions, momentarily snapping you out from your (hopefully not) blatant gawking at him and his damn pretty eyes, “depending on who’s telling it.”
“Which do you think it is?” you ask, the question tumbling out of your mouth before you can catch yourself.
“A love story,” he replies without missing a beat, with the certainty of someone who has never once entertained the alternative. “I think it has always been a love story.”
You hold his gaze a beat longer than necessary before tearing your eyes away to look back down at your blank notes—pristine white and untouched for the past 10 minutes. Clicking your pen, you begin to recite what you’ve remembered from Rielle’s recitation in an effort to distract yourself from the warmth that currently takes residence somewhere between your ribs.
No, the inexplicable thumps of your increasing heartbeat are simply the product of a well-done study session, and so are the twitch of your lips when you recall the smile that softened the sharp edges of the afternoon and all its weight.
Oh, you realize, this is dangerous.
Later that night, your phone lights up.
u/underthesea: UPDATE
u/underthesea: I’ve been showing up a lot more, and I even helped them study today!
u/letmegohome: woah study session? ur on a really good progress streak
u/underthesea: They even took notes about what I was saying… I feel like I’ve achieved everything in life
u/underthesea: 🐚
u/letmegohome: what does that mean
u/underthesea: It’s a shell. I thought it was fitting
u/letmegohome: boy…
03. DO SOMETHING THOUGHTFUL, CREATE A MOMENT THAT BELONGS JUST TO THE TWO OF YOU !
“What a pretty pocket watch.”
It sits unassumingly near the end of Rielle’s shelf—unapologetically opulent and resplendent in its aged splendour. The gold of its casing catches the evening light and pools it into the illusion of molten metal, so brilliant against the lacquer that you might’ve postulated it was Midas’ Touch itself, had you not known better.
Despite having been possibly underwater for decades, it still retains its immaculate lustre—unmarred and unbothered before the erosion of time.
You pick it up carefully, turning it over in your hands, and the weight of it is satisfying to speak. The casing is engraved along the edges with details that resemble flower petals, or vines—hard to tell underneath the golden light, the pattern shifting depending on the angle you hold it at.
Now, truthfully, it had started as nothing more than a passing comment on the walk back to your last class—you’d mentioned his collection in offhanded intrigue, and Rielle had lit up with the kind of enthusiasm that you have found, consistently and against your better judgment, very difficult to walk away from.
So it’s no surprise to you that the moment he extended an invitation to his dorm to see the collection yourself, you find yourself standing in his dorm room after school, moving slowly along a shelf that is considerably more impressive than you have been anticipating, while he sits perched on the edge of his desk behind you.
“Isn’t it?! I found it in an old shipwreck—the whole ship has probably been down there for ages, but the watch is still completely intact!” Rielle pipes in keenly, a permanent smile seemingly etched onto his visage every time your fingers dance to trace the various thingamabobs stored in a shelf, or each moment your eyes twinkled in interest and fascination.
“Does it still work?” You ask, twirling the golden chains attached to it in your other hand.
“Sadly, no. The mechanism stopped working a long time ago.” Well, a pocket watch that can survive underwater for that long would be too crazy impressive, you reckon.
You fiddle with the clasp, and it opens smoothly, the hinges surprisingly precise and well-maintained despite its age. Inside, the face of the watch is cream-coloured and regal, giving off a sophisticated air around it—well, you argue, I think that’s the main aesthetic it’s going for.
The same couldn’t be said for its components, however—the numerals have faded to near-illegibility, and the hands are forever frozen at a quarter past three.
“Still, the owner must’ve taken good care of it.” You hum, setting the pocket watch carefully, exactly where it had been, and continue along the shelf—a brass compass with a crack on its face, small amphora jars, candelabras, fine bone china tea cups—and somewhere between one item and another, something snags at the back of your mind.
“Oh, wait,” you begin, neatly arranging the pile of books you’ve taken out before, “this reminds me of something.”
From behind you, Rielle tilts his head. “Hm? What is it?”
“Someone’s been leaving me stuff—for quite some time now, actually.” You turn to look at him, leaning back against the empty wall next to the shelf with your arms loosely crossed.
“Anonymously, though, so I don’t know exactly who’s doing it. All the gifts they’ve given to me are really nice, actually—something similar to your collection, if I have to describe it? A hand mirror, bookmarks, cutlery sets, a music box, and pearl necklaces, to name a few.”
As you continue to ramble on about your mysterious “gift mailperson”, you fail to notice how Rielle has gone still, very still.
“...Oh!” He manages to squeeze out, despite how fast his mind and heart are racing—hell, he is probably seconds away from cold sweat dripping down his forehead.
Play it cool, play it cool, play it cool—
“That’s—wow.” He nods fervently, the word wow serving an extraordinary weight for how little it actually communicates his feelings, “Someone’s been doing that every day?”
“Every day,” You confirm, frowning slightly, “Thing is, I have no idea who it could be, so I thought I’d ask you if you know anyone who might, you know, have a similar hobby or taste like yours, since you know a lot when it comes to this.”
While you look at him expectantly, Rielle is in the seconds from jumping out the window, and swimming into the deepest trench in Sage Island. The only thing stopping him from doing so is the distant, exhausted voice of Bastien in the back of his mind saying please don’t
He prays, with every single fibre of his being, that Bastien were here—and also that Bastien were not here, because he would not live this down.
“...Aha, someone with the same hobby, you say?” he says, seemingly thoughtful on the outside and certainly on the inside as well, where his brain attempts to locate an exit from this conversation.
Uhh, oh no—should he just tell them? He could just tell them, in fact, it would only be a very simple ”Actually, that’s me! I’ve been leaving you things because I think about you constantly, and I’m in love with you!”
No, no, this isn’t it—this is not how he imagined it to go down.
“I’m—I’m not sure about that, but that’s quite something, haha! The gifts sound lovely!” Son, who are you trying to fool. Rielle nearly physically cringes at his too cheery tone—it’s a specific scene of someone who has never been a particularly good liar and is finding it out in real time.
You look at him for a beat longer than comfortable before mercifully turning back to the shelf.
“Anyway,” you continue, fingers drifting idly to the rest of the trinkets, “I just thought I’d ask you, but don’t worry about it too much—I’m not losing sleep over it, anyway.”
“Right,” he says, exhaling very quietly as though one wrong move, and he’s going to have his entire head shaved. “Right, of course! Uh, don’t worry, I’ll try to dig around for you!”
You chuckle at his words, and Rielle swears he might seriously melt into a puddle one of these days. “It’s actually kind of nice, whatever their reason is.”
“Makes this place a little less… I don’t know, far from everything—more welcoming.” Twisted Wonderland still isn’t anything close to home—there are moments when the chandeliers dim, and the hushed murmur of the night lingers more than the warmth of your hearth, where the realization pools unfathomably heavily in your chest.
Yet it passes, as all things do, and when it does, it leaves something in its wake—something quieter and warmer that you haven’t quite named yet but have stopped trying to explain away.
There remains a bleeding gap in your chest that is on the lines of home, but as the small kindnesses from a person you cannot put a face to, accumulate slowly, it gradually becomes something more bearable than it was.
“So, I’m thankful for that.” The tone of your voice seeps into something more gentle and sincerely bare, your gaze dropping back to a compass you’ve unconsciously picked up in your hands, turning it over as though the admission didn’t land directly at him.
The words settle into the room, and Rielle finds, unexpectedly, that they stir a familiar sentiment.
He knows the feeling—not in the same way, and certainly not with the same weight, but he knows the feeling all too well. The Coral Sea is not far from here, as in the way your world is far from here, yet on nights when the stars lack their usual luminosity, the absence of saltwater in the air sits strangely in his lungs, the silence of his room feels like a held breath more than anything—it is on nights like those does he find himself listening for the sounds of tides that aren’t there.
Rielle loves it here on land, don’t get him wrong—he loves it tenderly and wholly, in the way he has loved everything about the human world since before he took his first step on the grainy sands and found it waiting for him. The vibrant flush of flowers, the towering trees, the croons of forest birds—he does not regret a single moment of it.
Still, there are times—quieter times that are unlike grief or longing in the way it aches terribly so in his chest—when something wordlessly pulls at him. It’s more so a gentle and persistent reminder that the tides of the ocean are still there, a reminder that no matter how far he walks from the shoreline, or how long he’s last reveled in the ocean breeze, the sea will always be there waiting for him.
“I’m glad.” He says with a smile that is softer than his usual ones—less bright, more settled, and relieved at its edges.
You glance back at him over your shoulder.
“Glad about what?”
“That whoever they are,” he says, looking at you in that distinct way of his that you have not yet found a name for, “is making it feel that way.”
You hold his gaze for a moment, and his breath hitched imperceptibly—infinitesimally, at the sight of your eyes that settle on his, carrying a weight that reaches somewhere he hadn’t thought to guard, something that makes the distance between you feel considerably smaller than it is.
It is the light, Rielle thinks—the last of the evening, threading itself through your eyes like it has found somewhere worthy of its final, gilded reverence. It catches there, refracts, and sinks at the very depths of your gaze in a way that glimmers with the trembling brilliance of something precious—something that makes the breath stall between his lungs and lips.
You hum—soft and considering—before a delighted smile graces your lips.
“Yeah,” you say, quietly. “Me too.”
Oh, he thinks.
Your eyes twinkle like the marmoris of home.
u/underthesea: OK.
u/underthesea: letmegohome I’m going to write a letter to them. Tomorrow night. This is the moment!!
u/letmegohome: finally
u/letmegohome: idk what happened for u to suddenly get that amount of determination but god bless omg
u/underthesea: 🐚🐚🐚🐚🐚
u/letmegohome: boy stop sending me those shells and get to WORK
u/underthesea: drafting it as we speak!!
04. IF YOUR WORDS FAIL YOU, WRITE THEM DOWN !
[💌] HOW TO WRITE A LOVE LETTER 101: a humble guide by u/letmegohome
I. START WITH SOMETHING SPECIFIC, LIKE A SHARED MEMORY
“Like that time you nearly blurted out you were the one sending them gifts?”
Rielle lightly groans at Bastien’s chaff, dropping his pen onto the desk with a clatter that communicates his feelings rather well.
“I thought we agreed not to speak about that again!” The prince huffs out, shooting him a look that is intended to be withering and lands considerably short of that—it is not-so intimidating to speak, which further amuses Bastien if anything.
In return, his closest friend merely snickers—Lord, he’s having a field day, watching everything unfold as though it is all one big, theatrical soap opera. “Well, Your Highness, you agreed; I made no such commitment.”
“That’s—” Rielle starts, and then closes his mouth the next second, because he cannot, in good conscience, argue with that. To be fair, he had simply stated that they would not be speaking about it again, and Bastien said mm—and he had taken that as a binding contract, which, in retrospect, was perhaps optimistic for him.
He picks his pen back up, ignoring the knowing stare that drills at the back of his head, “Never mind that! I’m writing the letter.”
“Alright.”
“I’m not thinking about it!” He argues in his fluster, the scratching of a pen on paper seemingly emphasising his words.
“That’s good.”
“It was one moment, and it will never happen again!”
“Mhm.”
“I handled it very well, actually!” Now, maybe he needs to slow down a bit, considering the way his hand moves almost industriously against the letter.
Bastien looks down at the letter, eyes raking over the handwriting that has started as careful penmanship into something progressively what one might generously describe as abstract.
“Your Highness, perhaps the recipient would want a declaration of love, rather than a hexing script.”
Rielle buries his face briefly in his hands.
II. SAY THE THINGS YOU’VE BEEN AVOIDING SAYING
“Is this the part where you finally confess your secret identity?”
“Or is it the part where you write the heart-pounding…” Bastien playfully bats his eyelashes, his hands clasping together in a dramatic flair, “I love you?”
Rielle sputters out a sound that is not a word—something caught between indignation and an old whistling kettle that’s about to blow its lid entirely, pen nearly slipping from his fingers. The tips of his ears have gone the telling shade of pink that emerges exclusively in moments of complete and utter defeat—a colour that is doing a lot of confessing on his behalf.
Why do you need enemies when you have friends like this?
Well, cut that poor guy some slack, he had to deal with a few months of Rielle barging into his room—giggling and kicking his feet, recounting the entire day with you, debriefing every single second, while poor Bastien was just trying to mourn over the news of Mark Lee leaving NCT.
“I am not writing ‘I love you’.” Rielle manages to say between his sputters, with the dignity of someone who absolutely will be writing ‘I love you’ by the end of the conversation.
“Why not,” Bastien says, which is not quite a question.
“Because!—” The prince stops, his eyebrows furrowed in the same way every time he’s deeply tense about something. “...What if it’s too much?”
He loves you truly, in a way that it feels almost too large to fit inside something as small as a letter—and the thought of handing that to you all at once, unmediated, three words on a page, feels like setting something enormous down at your feet and hoping you don’t step back from it.
Bastien stares at him for a moment. “Your Highness, you have been leaving them gifts for months. You have memorized their tea order, their habits, and other small details about them—I think they can handle three words.”
This time, his voice takes on the tone he reserves exclusively for moments when the situation has moved past the point of gentle ribbing into something that quietly reminds Rielle that Bastien has always been in his corner.
“Rielle,” he says. “You left the ocean despite your family’s displeasure, because something up here called to you and you couldn’t ignore it. You have never once decided something was too much and turned back.”
His eyes cut briefly to the letter and back. “Don’t start now, and certainly not over three words.”
Rielle’s eyes look back at the letter before dragging the pen’s nub over the paper again.
III. DON’T OVERTHINK THE ENDING, JUST MEAN IT
“...I beg your pardon?”
u/letmegohome: huh?
Bastien turns to look at the prince—who was just on his phone, his screen displaying the familiar UI of the forum’s chat he talked about—with the air of someone who has just watched nearly four months of racked-up patience arrive at a crossroad he did not entirely anticipate.
“The letter,” Rielle smiles, with the sudden, convinced energy of someone who has just figured something out, “I know you said it’s good, but I don’t think I want to use it! I want to tell them in person—I want to see their face when I say it.”
u/letmegohome: ur not going to use it???
u/letmegohome: didn’t u spend a long time on it tho?
Bastien stares at him.
“Your Highness,” he says, very carefully, “I have sat here for the better part of two hours, watching you cross out seventeen sentences, listening to you describe your feelings in seventeen different ways that all meant the same thing. I read the letter—I told you it was good.”
“And you are now telling me you are not going to use it.”
“Yes!” says the prince, who has been stripping years of his life, “And I was thinking of how it could be done in a dramatic backdrop, like—like while we’re both out on a rowboat at sunset, with a lot of willow trees and fireflies!”
Something appropriately cinematic, something that would do justice to the enormity of what he feels.
u/undethesea: I have a plan to confess, maybe like in a dramatic setting!!
u/letmegohome: hmm
u/letmegohome: well that is nice
“Your best bet would be the shallow lake by the edge of campus, considering how I doubt you could last until our summer break.” Bastien points out, as though he had seen it coming long before Rielle uttered it.
“And, Your Highness, how are you going to acquire a rowboat and willow trees?”
Bastien regards him for a moment with the expression of someone who has watched this specific thought process play out in real time and has made peace with it a long time ago.
“The rowboat, the willow trees, and fireflies,” He begins, ticking them off one by one with a patience that is perhaps borderline admirable. “None of it is what they’re going to completely remember.”
u/letmegohome: i wouldnt exactly fuss abt the place first thing
u/letmegohome: its a nice detail but im sure they will remember you first and foremost, not the setting
“What they’re going to remember,” He continues, and Rielle wonders distantly if Bastien is an active user on cupid’s hotline like letmegohome, “is you. Standing in front of them as you say it.”
Or maybe he’s truly a shifu in romance, unbeknownst to him.
“That’s merely the backdrop, Your Highness. What matters isn’t where you say it—it’s that you say it at all.”
Rielle looks at him and thinks of all the messages letmegohome sent as well—the carefully imagined cinematic sequence he has been building in his head, all of it, gently dissolves, leaving something much simpler and truer in its place.
Oh, he thinks—and then he’s standing up.
The night air greets him the moment he steps on campus, carrying with it the particular atmosphere of an evening that has settled into itself, the day’s warmth still clinging to the stone paths like a departing guest reluctant to leave entirely.
The campus breathes differently at this hour.
The lampposts that wind through the cobblestone paths have come on, their warm aureate glow pooling across the stone, gilding the edges of leaves and casting long shadows against the grass—and the hushed murmur of the night unravels itself against the ground, undemanding as though the world itself has exhaled.
Rielle finds you before he has walked very far at all.
You are sitting on the edge of the campus fountain, legs dangling idly over the side, face tilting upward toward the darkening sky—looking for all the world like someone who has nowhere to be and is enjoying the freedom thoroughly. There is a half-eaten snack in your hand, and your school bag sits slumped on the ground beside you like a faithful, exhausted companion.
The lamplight finds your figure the way its rays embrace everything it touches with a thin veil of golden sheen—it nestles against your hair, traces the line of your shoulder, and settles at the corner of your expression.
You look up at the sound of approaching footsteps, and your face evidently brightens at the sight of him.
“Oh, hey,” You greet him with a smile, “Perfect timing, Rielle, I was about to start talking to myself.”
“Looks like I came at the right time, then!” He laughs and comes to sit beside you on the fountain, close enough that what remains of the warmth of the night rests between you like something shared.
It is then that you begin, unceremoniously, telling him about your eventful day—and he attentively listens to every single comment you make.
He has always listened to you—it is something that never requires effort, it has never felt like something he had to remind himself to do. Your voice carries the unadulterated, unperformative lull that inexplicably draws him in the way the arches of tides are perpetually drawn to the shore.
You somberly talk about the mathematics quiz that had gone either very well or catastrophically—it truly depends on the professor’s goodwill—and then, without breaking the flow, pivot to the upcoming alchemy examination that has half of the student body sweating buckets (because the professor is lowkenuinely out for blood, you have noted—to which he can only be perplexed on what lowkenuinely means).
“Man, but alchemy sure has a lot of surprises—I just saw a third-year coming in the cafeteria with his hair up and vividly orange this morning… like those orange highlighters.”
“He just sat down and started eating,” you added, with a tone that more or less indicates you’ve been seeing things. “Like… full orange wall on his head and bro just sat down.”
“Maybe he liked it?” Rielle offers.
“He was crying a little.”
“Oh!”
You continue your rambles—you chime in about the cafeteria’s ridiculous decision to remove your favorite seared salmon from the daily menu, which you take as a personal slight against you. Then, your conversation shifts to the first-year student who had accidentally turned his entire dorm room into a swamp when he got his Unique Magic—a feat that his roommate had described as impressive in the worst possible way.
Rielle listens, and listens, and listens—sometimes throwing in his own comments, a little ooo and ahh on the more shocking details, perhaps a boisterous laugh and barely contained grin here and there when your stories reach their climax on something particularly incredulous that he can’t help but let them spill out.
Truly, Rielle listens, and listens, and listens—until he’s not, until he realizes, all too belatedly, that now, he’s too focused on looking at you.
He’s not sure when it started; maybe it’s the way the threads of light catch the edges of your hair, the way your hands move when you’re mid-story (regardless of your snack), animated and completely too absorbed in your deliverance, the way your eyes widen a fraction when you reach a segment of a story that excites you, or maybe it is when you pause halfway to think of a right word, your brow slightly furrowing the same way it does when you’re stuck on difficult problems—and something in his chest wedges up in that familiar, helpless way that he has long since stopped trying to brace for.
He looks at you and thinks of how you have absolutely no idea that he has a letter perched on his desk, and nearly four months of burgeoning feelings pressing against the inside of his ribs.
Before he can think better of it, his mouth opens.
“It was me,” he says.
You stop mid-sentence.
“...Sorry?”
“The gifts,” he finally admits, and there is something within his voice that is steadier than he feels, which is a surprise even to him, as though the words, having waited this long, have decided to come out properly, or not at all. “I was the one who gave you the gifts.”
The rushing water of the fountain murmurs softly behind you both.
“It was never really about the gifts, it was just the only way I knew how to—” he mutters out, exhaling a short, rueful sound that isn’t quite a laugh, and to his credit, he holds it well, considering the rapid thumps his heart is deafening against his eardrums. “—reach you without my brain… malfunctioning on the spot.”
You still haven’t said anything—He’s not sure if that’s good or bad, and not knowing is doing something genuinely awful for his composure.
“Every time I tried to just—talk to you, the way I meant to, it would just… go. Everything I’d gone over in my head a hundred times—it would be gone the second you look at me.”
“And I kept thinking, okay—tomorrow, I’ll just say it tomorrow.” His voice is quieter now, stripped of the careful management he’d been keeping over it. “And then tomorrow comes, and you’d be right there and I’d just—”
He briefly looks at his hands, “I didn’t know what to do with how much I meant it.”
“So I left you things instead,” he finishes, simply. “Because at least that I could do.”
He glances up at you, just enough for you to see that there is something in his expression that is neither the easy smile nor the lightness he usually wears without thinking—just Rielle, unmediated and a little undone, sitting with everything he’s just handed over and waiting to find out if you’ll hold it delicately.
“And I don’t know what to do except to tell you.” The last of his steadiness vanishes here, landing somewhere bare and true underneath it all. “I’ve tried gifts, a letter, and I had this whole plan, and—”
He lets a short, breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as though he couldn’t quite believe his own lack of restraint. “—you were just sitting here, and I—I just couldn’t wait anymore.”
The laugh fades into an amber of weighted silence—it is dense and thick, in a way that it trembles with the sudden gravity of a confession that has been months in the making.
“I left them because I’m in love with you.”
Rielle doesn’t look away this time—his eyes stay locked on yours, even as his pulse thunders a frantic rhythm against the quiet of the night, watching as the slow realization ripples across your face.
“I don’t know exactly when it started,” he continues, the golden lamplight catching the hues of his eyes that are bathed in sudden, raw honesty. “Only that somewhere along the way, it became the most obvious thing about me.”
A fuzzy feeling presses warmly and insistently against the inside of your sternum as if your own heart is trying to lean into his words.
“Rielle,” you breathe out after god knows how long, your voice barely a notch above the water’s whispers.
He winces slightly, a reflexive bracing for impact, his fingers slightly digging into the smooth stone of the fountain’s edge. “I know it’s a lot. You don’t have to say anything back! I just—I just needed you to know, haha! I’m sorry, I probably ruined the flow of a perfectly good retelling of the drama between the astrology professor and a first-year student—”
“Rielle,” you say.
“...Yeah?” He replies quietly.
You look at him for a moment that stretches long and soft at its edges before you reach out, your fingers brushing hesitantly against his, where they are still gripping the fountain’s edge. His skin is warm, you note, a sharp contrast to the coolness of the stone, and you feel the slight tremor in his hands the moment you make contact.
He stills completely, his breath hitching as if he’s afraid that moving might break the spell of your touch.
“The music box,” you begin.
Rielle blinks. Of all the things he’s anticipated to come, apparently, this wasn’t it. “...Huh?”
“The one you left me.” You look down at your hands that are in his briefly, then back up at him. “I play it every night before I sleep.”
The confusion in his eyes ebbs into something wide and vulnerable, a small oh escaping his lips as he absorbs the weight of your admission.
“It’s the only thing that makes the room feel less empty—it makes me feel less… lonely. It lulls me to sleep every single time.” You offer him a small, sheepish smile, your voice dropping to a hum that barely carries over the splashing water. “For a few minutes, while the music is playing—it feels like home.”
The silence that follows isn’t heavy anymore; it is expansive and vast in a way his surprise finally gives way to a profound, simmering sort of relief.
“You didn’t ruin anything.” You say, your voice finally finding its footing, soft but steady against the night. “And you definitely don’t need to apologize for being… this.”
Your gesture vaguely toward the space between the two of you—a shared place that feels charged with a new air.
“All those gifts,” you continue with a knowing smile, “The little things that made me feel like someone was looking out for me when I wasn’t even looking at myself… I spend quite some time wondering who could possibly be that thoughtful.”
You squeeze his hand, leaning in just enough that the salt-swept scent of the sea fills your senses.
“I’m glad it was you, Rielle. I think, deep down, a part of me already knew—or maybe I just wanted it to be you.”
“...Yeah?” He says, and the word barely makes out—barely above the breath, carrying the enormous, trembling weight of everything he isn’t saying around it.
“Yeah.” You quip, a fond smile plastered on your lips.
The bracing tension in his shoulders collapses all at once, and he lets out a long, shuddering exhale, his head bowing for a second as the sheer force of his anxiety finally hits the ground. When he looks back up, there is a flicker of something bright and hopeful, dancing in the reflection of his eyes.
“You really wanted it to be me?” He repeats, his voice cracking just the slightest bit, a boyish disbelief lacing his tone.
“Every single time.” You say, the playfulness in your voice softening into something more sincere.
Rielle lets out a breathy, melodic laugh—the kind that finally reaches his eyes and makes that incessant fuzzy feeling in your chest expand until you feel like you might as well float right off the fountain. He doesn’t let go of your hand; instead, he turns his palm upward, lacing his fingers through yours with a permanence that feels like a promise.
“You have no idea how many times I almost tripped over my own feet just trying to say ‘hello’ to you.” He admits, a sudden energy sparking in his eyes as the heavy tension finally breaks.
You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up, watching him as he continues his frantic, adorable confessions. The frantic buzz in your chest quietens, smoothing out into a deep, steady warmth—a quiet frequency that feels less like a discovery and more like an old truth unearthed.
“I love you too, Rielle.”
You collapse onto your bed, the weight of the day finally catching up to you, and unconsciously reach out for your phone. The screen lights up with a notification from the one person whose entire life feels like a chaotic fanfiction plot.
u/underthesea: LETMEGOHOME
u/underthesea: I told them
u/underthesea: I told them EVERYTHING
u/letmegohome: AND????
u/letmegohome: WHAT HAPPENED NEXT OMG
u/underthesea: THEY SAID THEY LOVED ME TOO
u/underthesea: 🐚🐚🐚🐚🐚🐚🐚🐚
u/letmegohome: HOLY SHIT
u/letmegohome: CONGRATS IM SO HAPPY FOR U!!!
u/underthesea: On another note, I think I'm gonna give them the letter someday
u/underthesea: I'm a little proud of the letter actually
u/underthesea: Here u should read it
u/underthesea: [digitalscan.pdf]
You tap the attached file—a digital scan of a handwritten letter.
As the image loads, you stop dead in your tracks because—you recognize this graceful, slightly slanted script of a handwriting.
???
Your thumb freezes over the screen of your phone, the cool light reflecting in your wide eyes. You blink once, twice, thrice, certain that the fatigue from the math quizzes is finally causing hallucinations—but the pixels don’t shift.
Your eyes snag on the very first sentence, and the air leaves your lungs in one sharp, silent rush.
“I know I’ve been a bit of a mess. I spent months leaving those trinkets on your front door because I was afraid that my words wouldn’t be enough, or that I’d say too much. I thought that if I could just give you something small to make your day better, it would be enough for me—and it was, until the moment we walked to the infirmary after you soaked your uniform in that lake; it was the first time I realized that being near you was better than any secret.”
The realization hits you like a splash of cold water—your fingers frantically typing across the keyboard before you could even fully register it.
pairing: loser shy tutor!sim jaeyun x outgoing tutee fem!reader
synopsis: you're loud, confident, and a little too good at making shy boys squirm. your only issue is you’ve always hated physics—until you meet your painfully shy tutor, jake sim. he’s awkward, brilliant, and blushes every time you call him cute. so naturally, you flirt. hard. at first, he stammers and short-circuits, but as study sessions stack up, jake starts to change. maybe it’s the way you lean a little too close or how he starts to flirt back (badly, but adorably).
featuring: jake sim of enhypen n maki from &team!!
genre: college au fluff!!!
warnings: jake has his first kiss, making-out?? kind of. a bit of jealousy, jake is just a super cute loser. lowercase intended ◡̈
playlist: nonsense by sabrina carpenter & soft spot by keshi
wc: 2.411k
a/n: i fear i will ride the loser jake wave forever! i love nerdy men <3 btw this is not proofread...
you’ve always hated physics.
not because you didn’t get it — okay, maybe a little because of that — but mostly because it was boring. theories and forces and laws. rinse and repeat. you weren’t failing physics. not exactly.
you were, however, spending an uncomfortable amount of time squinting at your textbook wondering how the hell you’d gone from memorizing song lyrics in under a minute to barely remembering newton’s third law. you told yourself it wasn’t that bad. then your lab partner dropped out, and your professor kindly suggested that you “seek out support.”
support came in the form of jake sim.
quiet. polite. a little too handsome for his own good. glasses-wearing, formula-spouting jake, with a habit of ducking his head when people talked too loudly. you’d seen him around campus before — usually alone, sometimes reading while walking (impressive), always in a hoodie two sizes too big, and baggy jeans that he almost steps on.
you’d think he was popular, but those thick framed glasses always resting on his perfect nose made you think otherwise.
your meet-cute wasn’t the typical coffee-spill-and-eye-contact thing. it happened last semester, during an elective you were both in: intro to astronomy. you’d been running late one day, flustered and frantic, only one seat left in the lecture hall. next to him. you took it.
he didn’t even glance up.
not until halfway through the class, when you leaned over and whispered, “sorry if i’m invading your orbit.”
he looked at you like he didn’t get the joke. (he didn’t.)
but later that day, you got an anonymous compliment on the university confessions page. “to the girl who sat next to me in astronomy and said something about orbits… you kind of wrecked mine.”
you knew it was him. and you never forgot.
───
“you don’t have to hover,” jake mumbled, eyes focused on the problem set in front of him.
“i’m not hovering. i’m observing… like a particle. you know, in motion.”
“that’s not… how particles work.”
you smiled to yourself. “i was hoping you'd say that.”
he flushed immediately. jake didn’t handle flirting well. hell, he had never even felt the touch of a woman, nevertheless flirted with one.
you’d learned this by session two. if you got too close, he got tongue tied. if you complimented him, he’d practically glitch. it was fascinating. like a physics experiment, but cuter.
“what happens when you apply an external force to a closed system?” you asked, tapping your pencil.
he looked up slowly, suspicious. “depends on the force.”
you leaned in, gaze playful. “what if it’s me?”
he froze.
“y/n,” he said quietly, “you’re not even trying to learn right now.”
“that’s where you’re wrong, mr. sim.” you leaned back in your chair, spinning your pencil between your fingers. “i’ve been learning a lot.”
he narrowed his eyes, skeptical but intrigued. “like what?”
you met his gaze, serious now. “like how you pretend you didn’t notice me in astronomy last semester. even though you did.”
jake stiffened. his pen slipped from his fingers and rolled across the table.
“i—i didn’t—how did you—”
“i recognized your handwriting,” you said softly. “from the confession post.”
his face went scarlet.
you tilted your head, a smile tugging at your lips. “you called me orbit girl.”
jake looked like he wanted to disappear into the earth’s mantle. “i didn’t think you saw that.”
“i did. i screenshotted it.” you shrugged casually, then added, “still have it.”
he looked like you’d just told him you’d been keeping a shrine in your closet. but beneath the panic, something else flickered — hope, maybe?
“…why didn’t you say anything?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
and there it was. the plot twist.
you dropped your eyes to your notebook, fingers idly brushing a corner.
“i was going to,” you said. “but you never talked to me again. i figured you weren’t interested.”
jake looked stunned. like he’d just missed the punchline to his own joke.
“no! i mean– um…i wasn’t not interested,” he said quickly. “i just didn’t think someone like you would ever…”
“what?” you said, raising a brow. “flirt with their physics tutor?”
jake swallowed hard. “like me back.”
there was a beat of silence. you reached across the table, nudging his pen back toward him.
“you’re cute when you’re nervous, jake” he blushed and wrapped up the tutoring session, brain too flustered to continue talking about his second favorite subject (you’re his favorite).
───
you asked around for jake’s number which proved to be very difficult.
no one had it.
so, you did the only thing you could think of. you went to every cafe within a 15 mile radius of your campus, hoping to find the shy boy.
your mission to find him ended up taking longer than anticipated, misjudging how many cafe’s surrounded decelis. you’ve been to 23 and counting, not once finding the fluffy haired boy with glasses way too big for his adorable face.
as you walk into the twenty-fourth cafe, you think you see him. striped shirt, slightly messy brown hair, around 5’9ish. you walk up to him, tapping on his shoulder when someone behind you calls your name.
“y/n?”
you whip your head around to be met with those big, dark hazel eyes you adored so much.
his plump, heart-shaped lips were wrapped around the straw of his green grape ade, softly biting the plastic. his head was strewn to the side, resembling a golden retriever.
“i found you!” you happily cheered as you made your way to the little table he was at.
“f-found me? were you… looking? for me?” he stuttered which made you giggle.
you fondly smiled at him, “yeah. i was.”
after you ordered an iced mocha, you guys sat in a comfortable silence until you spoke.
“so,” you said, stirring whipped cream into your drink, “what’s a physics genius like you doing tutoring me when you could be dating someone who understands quantum mechanics?”
jake almost spat out his coffee.
you smiled sweetly. “kidding. kind of.”
“i—i don’t think I’m a genius,” he mumbled. “and I’m not — uh — dating anyone.”
“oh, i know,” you said casually, resting your chin on your hand. “campus gossip moves fast.”
jake’s eyes widened. “wait — what do you mean? what gossip? about me?”
you laughed. “relax, jake. you’re just a bit of a mystery. tall, soft spoken, brainy, never goes to parties. people notice.”
he stared at you like you’d told him he was famous.
you sipped your drink and shrugged. “i noticed.”
the cup trembled in his hand.
“…thanks?” he said, though it sounded more like a question than a statement.
you leaned forward. “you say that like you don’t believe me.”
jake’s mouth opened, then closed again.
he was still trying to respond when the barista called out your name, signaling your pastries were ready. you winked at him on the way up and when you turned back, he was still watching you, straw halfway to his mouth, like he couldn’t believe any of this was real.
───
you had your feet up on the seat across from you, swinging gently as you skimmed your notes. jake sat across from you, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, manspreading with his textbook open on his lap.
you knew what you were doing when you stretched, your shirt riding up slightly as you leaned across the table to reach a pencil. you knew jake saw. his eyes darted down and back up so fast it was like a reflex.
“everything okay?” you asked sweetly.
“fine!” he said, voice three octaves too high. “great. normal. yup.”
you laughed, tossing your pen down. “you know, if we were measuring awkward tension in this room, we’d have to switch to the richter scale.”
jake groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “why are you like this?”
“because it’s fun watching you short-circuit.”
he peeked at you through his fingers, a lopsided grin starting to form. “you’re evil.”
“i prefer charming.’”
there was a beat of silence. then, softly—
“you are.”
your smile faltered. just for a second. “what?”
jake met your eyes, cheeks still flushed but voice steady. “charming.”
you blinked. it was the first time he’d said something like that without tripping over his own tongue.
“…jake sim,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “are you flirting with me?”
he shrugged — shrugged — with fake nonchalance. “maybe.”
you stared at him.
he stared back.
and then — his pencil rolled off the table and he smacked his head on the edge trying to catch it.
“still me,” he groaned, face down on the table. “still a loser.”
you couldn’t help it. you laughed so hard you nearly fell out of your chair. he was cute and adorably clumsy. exactly. your type.
───
the next session, you came in with your usual confidence. playful comments. flirty glances.
but jake didn’t fold this time. (immediately).
in fact, when you were about to lean over to grab his calculator, he reached past you and did it first. smooth. like he was testing you.
“looking for this?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
your eyes narrowed suspiciously. “who are you and what have you done with jake?”
he smiled — cocky, but still nervous. “maybe i’m learning.”
you tilted your head. “is this some physics thing? like, building resistance?”
“more like acceleration,” he said softly. “you keep pushing. i’m picking up speed.”
you stared at him.
he immediately panicked. “i mean — not in a creepy way — i just meant—”
you cut him off with a smirk. “careful, jake. you flirt like you solve equations — painfully accurate.”
he blushed again, but this time, he didn’t back away. instead, he looked at you for a long moment, then leaned in a little, just enough to make your breath catch.
“you said once that you noticed me before,” he murmured.
“yeah,” you said slowly.
he smiled, shy and genuine. “i think i’ve been noticing you for a lot longer.”
you forgot how to breathe for a second.
and then he bumped your knee under the table, awkward as ever. “anyway, we should… probably go over magnetic fields now.”
you grinned, heart racing. “god, you’re such a loser.”
“your loser,” he said quietly.
and somehow, that was the smoothest line of all.
───
the tutoring session was going fine.
that is, until maki showed up.
you were in the library lounge, halfway through a problem on thermodynamics, when a voice interrupted.
“y/n?”
you looked up. riki maus (known as maki). same year, tall, charming, objectively hot in that annoying way that made girls forgive him for talking through labs.
“hey,” you said, blinking. “didn’t know you were on this floor.”
jake went completely still next to you, pen frozen mid-equation.
maki barely glanced at him. “i was just heading out, but i had to say hi. you doing okay with physics? i tutor sometimes too, you know.”
jake’s grip on his pen tightened.
“oh?” you asked, amused. “you tutor now?”
maki shrugged. “not officially. but i could make time. for you.”
you opened your mouth, ready to tease him back, but jake’s voice cut in first.
“she already has a tutor.”
maki blinked, like he’d just noticed him. “right. sim, yeah? you’re in physics lab.”
“yeah,” jake said, still quiet, but there was an edge now. “i’ve got it covered.”
you turned to jake, brows lifting slightly. was he… tense?
maki grinned. “no offense, man, but i’ve heard tutoring y/n is more like surviving her. you sure you can handle it?”
jake stood.
you blinked. jake stood.
he was taller than you remembered. towering over maki, still in his soft hoodie and baggy jeans, but standing like something had clicked. like a switch had flipped.
“i can handle her,” he said, voice even. “better than anyone else.”
maki raised his hands. “okay. chill, bro.”
he gave you one last glance and walked off.
you looked up at jake. he was still standing, chest rising and falling like he was trying to keep it together.
“jake?”
his eyes met yours. there was something in them you hadn’t seen before. something fierce.
“do you like him?” he asked.
you frowned. “maki? god, no.”
he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. stepped closer.
“because i don’t like seeing guys like that flirt with you.”
you tilted your head, heart starting to pick up. “jealousy doesn’t suit you, sim.”
“i know,” he said quietly. “but you do.”
and then he kissed you.
you didn’t expect it. not from him. not like this.
not with his hand cradling your cheek so gently it made your heart ache, not with the way his lips pressed to yours like he’d been waiting for this moment for weeks — months — forever.
your breath caught. he was warm. steady. his lips moved with surprising confidence, slow at first, then deeper, more certain as you kissed him back.
his other hand found your waist, pulled you in, grounded you. like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.
your fingers curled in his hoodie, body leaning into his. he tilted his head just slightly and kissed you like a man who had solved the formula for gravity and decided to fall anyway.
wanting to deepen the kiss, you moved your thumb to his jaw, signaling him to open his mouth wider.
he (hopefully) got the hint and slowly but surely slotted his tongue right against yours. he wanted to memorize every part of you and figured he should start with your mouth.
it was as if your lips and tongues moved in perfect synchronization. like puzzle pieces.
when he finally pulled back, it was only enough to rest his forehead against yours.
you both stood there, catching your breath.
“…wow” you said, dazed. “what the hell, sim.”
he stared at you. blinked. once. twice. “w-was it okay? did i — do it wrong?”
silence.
he spoke again, “that was kinda.. my first — um — my first kiss…”
you let out a disbelieving laugh. “what do you mean that was your first kiss??? you kissed me like you’ve been rehearsing it in your dreams.”
he looked away. shy. “…maybe i have.”
you narrowed your eyes. “wait. have you?”
he winced. “that was a joke.”
it was silent for a hot minute.
“…mostly. i—i never really get close to pretty girls because i don’t— well i don’t go out. so. um. yeah…”
you grabbed his hoodie and pulled him closer until your lips were right in front of his plush ones. “stop speaking nonsense and kiss me again, sim.”
he didn’t hesitate. just smiled at you and slammed your lips on his. he kissed you like he was finally where he belonged.
and maybe he was.
because nerdy physics tutors?
yeah. they might know the laws of motion — but now he knew what it felt like to crash into you.
please reblog if you enjoyed this cute lil fic ! it helps a lot <3
— i know the end by bookinit • stranger things retelling
my favourite byler fic ever. So beautifully written and idk i feel like it made me understand the show more as well
— some sort of ripple effect by sylvianightshade • “Mike & Will have a long overdue conversation on the way back to Hawkins— by, in, and around a random motel pool.”
takes place in the two-day timeskip between Mike’s monologue and the Cali gang arriving in Hawkins. Sooo amazingly written and one of my faves, idk this fic is so *chef’s kiss*
— touch like velvet by ciders • “It was easy for Will Byers to fall in love with Mike Wheeler.
The trouble came when he had to pretend it wasn't real.”
pretty sure almost the entire byler fandom has already read this one but oh well, normally i’m not the biggest AU fic-fan but this one was AMAZING. Again — so beautifully written, and the story was so good
— he likes it scalding by CastleByersAfterDark • mike and will take a bath together
this one was sooo cute & (i’ll keep on saying it) very well-written😛
— (give me a second to) forget i ever really meant it by delusionaltogether (Whyyyyy) • “Practice makes perfect, especially when the person you're practicing with is your best friend.” (aka byler kissing practice fic)
kissing practice fics can NEVER go wrong honestly, this was such a sweet little fanfic and i had so much fun reading it
— It will always be you. by peachluv • “After a thoughtful talk and subsequent breakup with El, Mike has to renavigate his friendship with Will and the overwhelming feelings that come with it.”
a new favourite of mine!! it’s such a comfort fic even tho it’s a little angsty at one point. kind of felt like a breath of fresh air cause it doesn’t really focus on the upside down stuff that much, it was incredibly well-written aswell !!!
——> (a slight warning for emetophobes tho cause there is some v*miting in there, however as an emetophobe myself i could just skip over the more graphic stuff and it was completely fine 🫶)
— To Hell and Back Again by perexcri • “Mike and Will's Apocalypse Romcom Spectacular” - Mike follows Will into the upside down because he’s set on finding out what that painting meant, and why Will lied about it.
another fanfic that probably the entire fandom has already read, but whatever. I’m always down for a byler upside down fic and that’s exactly what that is + it’s a slow burn, so what else do we want??
— said that i was fine, said it from my coffin by ruetistic • byler wound cleaning fic
cute & kind of sad but also just…… cute☺️ honestly can never go wrong with a wound cleaning fic!!
— Mike Wheeler and the G-Word by lunii_vii • “Everyone realizes at their own times that Mike Wheeler is queer, but leave him to figure it out himself.”
Really fun and lighthearted fic, enjoyed reading this a lot!!
— and the shame was on the other side by andiewriteordie • “a character study on Mike Wheeler, his feelings of fear, shame, and inadequacy, and how he finds freedom from that.” - a flickergate fic
Nice little flickergate fanfic, honestly one of my favourite byler theories so this was fun to read :)
pairing: lads! caleb xia x non-mc! reader
summary: misunderstandings prevent caleb and reader from confessing their feelings until it's too late
tags: fluff, angst, unrequited love that’s not actually unrequited love, brief mention of death, inaccurate lore, ooc caleb, (not beta-read)
wc: 6.4k
masterlist
you, caleb, and mc have been friends ever since you guys were kids. despite caleb and mc being stuck to each other’s side since day one, they have treated you as if you were there since day one as well. the three of you guys whole-heartedly believed that the dynamic trio would last forever.
as you grew up with the two, you realized that caleb has always shown extra special attention to mc, but it never bothered you. their history will always precede you, and you understood where your position lies.
unbeknownst to caleb and mc, you have been feeling the cracks grow as the days pass. by the time the three of you reach caleb’s final year before leaving to skyhaven, you’ve accepted the fact that mc will always come before you despite you beginning to want more from caleb.
with finals approaching, you were sitting in the library, struggling as you study for your upcoming physiology exam. sighing, you decide to finally take a break or else you would have a breakdown in the middle of the library. resting your elbows on the table, you lean the side of your head against the palm of your hand as you glance around the room. eyes occasionally landing on the other students who mimic your exact predicament, you can confidently assume that you having a breakdown would be the last thing they would need to be added to their plate.
slightly relieved that you weren’t alone in your despair and stress, you let out another sigh as you slowly close your eyes and drop your head face down, burrowing into your now crossed arms resting upon a pile of messy papers, notebooks, and opened textbooks.
a few minutes later, your head is still buried in your arms as you hear footsteps shuffle into the library that is filled to the brim. thinking back to how you practically had to fight to find an unoccupied table early in the morning, you pity the poor soul who would clearly have to leave soon.
your attention is now fully focused on being able to identify the footsteps route in order to verify your theory. unconsciously, you hold your breath as you wait for the now approaching footsteps to pass by your table. however, you’re left in confusion when you hear the footsteps stop right next to you.
refusing to look up, you open your eyes with furrowed eyebrows as you remain in your slouched position. a minute passes by, yet you still haven’t heard a sound to hint any form of movement next to you. deciding to swallow your pride, you slowly lift your head a generous few inches as you glance to your side. you see no one. letting out an early sigh of relief, you move to check your other side.
before you could fully turn your head, you see the silhouette of someone’s face barely an inch away from yours. terrified, you jolt backward and defensively draw your arms to your chest as you snap your head to completely face to identify the person invading your personal space.
aghast, you’re still frozen in shock as you process who is in front of you. taking the silence from your gaping mouth as a sign to speak, “hi,” they whisper out in a greeting with a spreading grin on their face.
snapping out of your daze, your disgruntled expression now paired with extreme annoyance, you immediately reach to throw a pencil at caleb’s smug face. “there’s something deeply wrong with you, you know that,” you scoff out in a sarcastic tone.
despite being slightly upset at caleb, who is now trying his best to muffle his laughter as he doubles over, you move to clear up a spot to allow him to sit next to you.
gratefully taking the spot presented to him, he teasingly lets out, “you love that about me,” as he makes himself comfortable.
afraid of being caught, you avert your gaze as you hear your heart beginning to race and your face flushing, “yeah, yeah, whatever,” you murmur out as you start to return studying.
caleb, who is clearly refusing to leave you alone, scans the mess scattered around you and softly makes a comment, “is this physio, the one that you’re struggling with?”
surprised he remembered your passing complaint, you drift your gaze to meet his eyes that were already staring at yours. “yeah,” you breathe out. turning back to fully face him once again, you smile out, “you remembered.”
now, caleb is the one sporting an disbelieving expression, but before he could defend himself, you cut him off with another question. “wait,” you reach a hand up to further emphasize your desire for him to stay quiet. he happily complies with your demand and hums in response.
with a slightly bewildered expression, you take a pause to glance at him up and down to analyze his body language. patiently waiting, caleb nods his head as he lifts both eyebrows to push you to continue speaking. your eyes meet his comforting gaze as you finally question, “how’d you even know it was me sitting here,” you hint at how your face was hidden when he approached you with confidence.
caleb’s content state instantly morphs into an offended and defensive one as he rolls his eyes and accuses you, “are you serious?” at your silence, caleb leans in closer, which leaves a nose touching gap between the two of you as he confesses with a smug grin, “i’d be able to recognize you in every universe.” he pulls back and brings a finger up to flick at your forehead as your heart races even faster, “no matter what,” he finishes off as your face flushes.
trying your best to pull yourself together to prevent revealing your secret to caleb, you avoid his eyes as you attempt to break the tension between the two of you, “even in a universe where we’re animals,” you cringe at the question as you ask him.
ripping his gaze from the side of your face to focus on pulling out his studying materials, caleb plays along with you, “especially then,” he huffs out. “we’d be the cutest cat and dog duo to grace the world,” he mindlessly smiles out, “don’t ya think,” he glances at you from the corner of his eye as you hum out in agreement.
you knock your shoulders into caleb’s playfully without removing your gaze from your textbook. “the best ever,” you emphasize with a breath-taking smile growing on your face as caleb retaliates with his own shoulder shove into yours, and with that, the two of you quiet down and focus on your studies.
not even 30 minutes later, the silence between the two of you is broken by a stressed out groan as you slam backwards into the backrest of the chair. as you tilt your head to completely face the ceiling as you rub your face with your hands, you feel a foot nudge yours. spreading your fingers to allow yourself a peek at caleb, you meet his already waiting eyes that are amused, yet worriedly looking at you.
caleb questionally tilts his head to silently ask if you were okay. in response, you quickly shake your head as you return to your previous position to reassure caleb, “it’s nothing,” you sigh out. noticing that caleb refuses to move on until you properly give him an explanation, you continue speaking, “it’s just so much to memorize,” you complain.
caleb hums out in understanding before he makes an offer, “i can help you, if you want,” he shrugs in an attempt to appear nonchalant despite him repeatedly flicking his gaze between you and his papers to check on your expression.
“and how would you help me out,” you question mockingly.
“don’t knock it ‘till you try it, honey,” caleb taunts back with a smirk on his face as he mindlessly draws on random pieces of paper.
shaken up by his unusual usage of pet names towards you, you unintentionally agree with a stammer. caleb, not noticing how much the pet name affected you, beams in excitement, “perfect,” he proclaims as he scrambles to pick up your abandoned flashcards to quiz you.
clearing your throat, you stabilize yourself and begin to copy caleb’s movement to reposition yourselves to completely face each other.
“ready,” caleb questions with a quirk to his eyebrows, flashcards covering the lower half of his face. you nod as a signal for him to start.
caleb takes his turn to clear his throat as he begins his first question, “okay.” he glances up from the cards, “what’s the difference between innate and acquired immunity,” he asks.
you hum as you piece together a more generalized answer, “innate’s more general, like skin being a physical barrier,” caleb nods along, which gives you more confidence, “and acquired is more involved with antibodies to build memory and all that,” you finish off satisfied with your answer.
however, caleb raises a hand to motion for you to continue on, “and what’s an example of an APC,” he adds on when he witnesses your face morph into one of confusion. now you’re utterly lost because you don’t remember writing down this much detail on the notecards, but you go on to carefully answer, “macrophages,” you drag out.
finally content with your response, he nods as he moves to pull out a different flashcard, but you stop him by grabbing the stack of notecards. “wait,” you stare at him with suspicion as he lowers his hands that are holding onto the flashcards that are now obscured from his vision.
you begin your interrogation once you’re sure caleb has his complete attention on you, “how the heck do you know what an antigen presenting cell is,” you gawk out. caleb proudly grins as he relishes in your impressed expression while you lightly shake the pile of flashcards that he’s still gripping, “it’s nowhere on these flashcards and you don’t even take this class,” you gape.
smirking as if it was obvious, caleb confesses, “duh,” he removes your grip on the notecards. his smug expression drops to form a content, satisfied, and adoring smile and gaze aimed towards you. “i may have studied a bit on my own,” he shrugs off as if what he did was a normal everyday thing while your already dropped open mouth gapes open even wider.
your mouth snaps close as your own adoring expression slowly spreads across your entire face, “why would you do that for me,” you shakingly breathe out.
unintentionally or not, caleb leans in to close the gap between the two of you once more as he whispers out, “you make it sound like it’s hard to want to do anything for you,” he confesses, but this time without a hint of a smirk, grin, or smile, but with the most serious and genuine expression you’ve ever seen him adorn.
his confession drags a gasp out of you. maybe there is a chance, you begin to spiral as hope fills you to the brim. the tension begins to suffocate you as the two of you refuse to break eye contact. the lack of space allows you to search his eyes for any hint of hesitation, but you can only find pure sincerity radiating off him. your heart begins to beat so fast that you’re afraid it's actually a heart attack. a minute passes and the two of you remain in the exact same position, not moving a muscle. realizing that this is your chance, you take a shaky breath in, anxiously preparing to finally confess the decade of pent-up desire, care, and love you’ve held for him.
with your heart beating out of your chest and caleb’s unwavering stare remaining on yours, you open your mouth with a quiver in your lips.
then caleb’s phone goes off.
the tension immediately shatters as caleb pulls back as soon as he processes the special ringtone blaring out in the silent library. the special ringtone that he had set up for one person only, mc. after verifying the incoming call belonged to mc, caleb instantly accepts the call while simultaneously packing up.
with a single glance towards you, caleb rushes out of the library as he hurriedly responds to mc on his phone.
as soon as the library door closes, you’re broken out of your daze as you realize you’ve been abandoned. you don’t understand what just happened. you’re mindlessly packing up as you’re recovering from the feeling of having the rug pulled out from underneath you.
the only thing you know as a result of whatever incident just conspired was that you will always remain behind mc in caleb’s eyes.
you felt stupid for even believing that you had a chance. despite the crushing feeling on your heart, you refuse to let yourself cry over this. sighing, with a slight wobble of your lips, you finish packing up and move to the exit with a single thought.
this was a perfect reminder why you’ve hidden your feelings for ages, and why you will continue to until you’re finally over caleb.
—
a few weeks have passed since the library incident with caleb, and other than a few brief greetings, you and caleb haven’t had a proper conversation with how busy and hectic everything has been, especially with the preparation for caleb’s graduation
despite the awkward tension between you and caleb, you still plan on attending his graduation since caleb was officially leaving for skyhaven to attend the daa.
sighing, you glance down at the bouquet of flowers resting in your hands as you wait outside the venue for mc to show up with your tickets. you fumble about on your phone to appear busy when you hear mc call out your name.
looking up, you barely have time to move your flowers out of the way before mc tumbles into your arms. breathless from the tackle-like hug, you greet mc in a pleased tone, “you’re acting like we haven’t seen each other in years.”
pulling away from the hug and now being able to fully see your face, mc’s face brightens up even more as she greets you back, “feels like it,” she giggles out. as she drags you to the entrance of the venue, she apologizes, “sorry for being late.” she rolls her eyes as she interlinks your arms together, “caleb was being difficult as usual,” she huffs out.
the mention of caleb’s name immediately causes you to tense up, which mc instantly notices. despite your rapid attempt to cover it up, mc refuses to let the topic die out.
mc slightly tugs on your linked arms to draw your attention to her. once she meets your nervous gaze, she starts her confrontation, “listen,” she coughs out. already cringing from the incoming conversation, your face scrunches up as mc continues on, “i know something happened between you and caleb,” she confesses as the two of you make your way to your seats.
mortified at the thought of caleb telling mc everything, you freeze mid step and snap your head to face mc as she hurriedly reassures you, “he didn’t tell me anything, i swear,” she lugs you back into motion. “i did beg him to, but he wouldn’t,” she embarrassingly murmured out.
finally sitting down, you turn to face mc as she softly encourages you, “if you don’t want to, then you don’t have to.” mc gently squeezes your arm in comfort as you avert your eyes, “but i just want you to know that i’ll always be here for you.”
taking a second to pull your thoughts together, you drag your eyes to meet mc’s as you make your decision to confess, “it’s nothing,” you hesitate before quickly closing your eyes, taking a breath in, and then reopening your eyes to meet mc’s as she nods to show she understands. you shakingly puff out a breath of air as you admit, “you don’t have to worry about me.” you force a smile onto your face as mc furrows her eyebrows in confusion, “i’m slowly getting over him,” you reveal.
appalled by your insinuation, mc practically jumps up from her seat as she waves her hand back and forth and shakes her head frantically in denial. “what,” she shrieks out, which catches the attention from people around you. as you turn to reassure everyone that everything is perfectly fine, mc continues on with her horrified rant, “please, do all of us a favor,” she grasps both your hands in hers, “and don’t get over him,” she begs.
shocked by mc’s pleas, you snap your head to meet mc’s desperate gaze. however, before you could interrogate mc about her bombshell of a reveal, the graduation begins and forces the two of you to temporarily halt the conversation to your dismay.
as the valedictorians begin their speeches, your eyes refuse to leave caleb's, who is patiently waiting for his turn as his eyes frantically dart around the audience, clearly looking for someone. you secretly hope that someone is you.
caleb finally approaches the podium as the last valedictorian to present their speech. despite being in the middle of his speech, caleb’s eyes are still darting around, which are now magnified by him being displayed on the big screen behind him. you notice that he’s specifically focused on your seating section.
suddenly, caleb halts in the middle of his sentence just as you swear you meet caleb’s eyes. you immediately straighten up, and you can feel your heartbeat pick up. once caleb’s artificial smile turns into a relieved and genuine smile that brightens up his entire demeanor, you begin to fill with hope that he was looking for you. just as caleb rips his gaze away from what you assumed to be yours, mc begins to manically shake your arm in excitement. then and there, you feel the rug pulled out from underneath you once again as you realize that caleb could’ve been staring at mc instead of you.
for the rest of caleb’s speech, he speaks with a gleaming grin on his face while you’re anxiously trying to diminish the rising hope that you’ve desperately been attempting to put out.
as soon as the graduation ceremony ends, you’re quick to badger mc about the unfinished conversation, but she’s already up out of her seat and dragging you out to meet up with caleb.
terrified and unprepared to finally hold a proper conversation, you weakly yank mc’s arm back in retaliation, “wait,” you call out to mc who is clearly blocking out everything around her to focus on her one goal to personally congratulate caleb.
as the two of you eventually spot caleb outside the venue, you let out a relieved breath of air as you notice that caleb is practically mobbed by his fellow classmates. undeterred, mc, if anything, becomes more determined seeing the crowd surrounding caleb, and bulldozes her way through.
once the both of you are near the group, a few members immediately recognize the two of you from the corner of their eyes and a teasing smile grows on their face as they nudge caleb. as you and mc finally arrive, you’re instantly hounded with introductions and greetings. after introductions are complete, the group of girls don’t wait a second before they rush out questions. “so,” a giggle breaks out amongst them as they point at you, “you’re the one he won’t shut up about, huh?”
thinking that they got the wrong person, you glance at mc with a strained smile as the ugly feeling of jealousy arises. however, to your surprise, mc lights up as she empathizes with them, “oh my god, you get me,” she excitedly shouts out.
at the sight of confusion embedded on your face, the girls knowingly groan out in despair, but before they can complain even more about caleb, he seemingly appears out of nowhere.
with a broad smile on his face, caleb stares at you, but greets both you and mc, “hi,” he breathes out. ignoring the teasing shoves from his friends as they walk away, his eyes move to mc’s as she steps forward to gift him a bouquet of flowers. “congratulations,” mc shouts out as she giddily embraces caleb with a tight squeeze. caleb happily laughs out as he instantaneously returns the hug while you step back to give them their moment.
feeling out of place, you avert your gaze to the ground as you kick pebbles around on the floor, wanting the ground to swallow you whole.
however, you don’t have to wait as long as you expected when, not even a minute later, mc grabs your arm to slightly tug you forward. a bit startled, you redirect your gaze from the ground to face both caleb and mc who are already looking at you.
before you can speak, mc beats you to it, “i’m going to go meet up with my other friends to congratulate them,” she knowingly smiles as she announces her exit. just as she begins to make her move to leave, she gives both you and caleb a stern look. mc moves behind caleb preparing to rush off, “you two have fun,” she shouts out just before giving caleb a harsh shove that barely forces him a step forward towards you.
now left alone and standing a foot away from each other, you’re both silently staring at each other. you’re sporting a nervous grin while caleb is seemingly relieved that the two of you are finally about to hold a proper conversation.
“hi,” caleb whispers out.
your nervous smile turns into a proud one as you finally take in caleb who is fully adorned in his graduation gown. extending your arm, you hand caleb the bouquet of flowers you had purchased for him. “congratulations,” you cheer out.
with an impossibly wider than before smile, caleb accepts the flowers. “you didn’t have to,” he claims.
shaking your head jokingly, “what kind of friend,” caleb’s face falters at the label, “would i be if i showed up empty handed,” you tease.
being called a ‘friend’ instantly morphs caleb’s smile into an irritated, tight-lipped smile. however, before you can realize the tension, he recovers and coughs out, “hey,” forcing a smile back on his face as you peer at him with a confused, polite grin. “i’m sorry,” he forces out.
he pauses to analyze your ever-growing confused face, “about abandoning you at the library,” he blurts out.
your face immediately falls at the mention of the intimate, yet awkward moment that you’ve attempted to bury.
sensing that you were about to dismiss the topic, caleb rushes to continue clarifying the misunderstanding, “i’ve known mc my entire life,” he states the obvious. “i’ve grown used to being with her for so long that it’s practically all i know,” he bears his heart out to you as you quietly listen along while holding his gaze with shaky eyes.
the conversation is heading into an unknown area that you’re more than happy to avoid, but caleb refuses to hand you that satisfaction. despite there being multiple possible endings to this confrontation, you’ve already made up your mind on how you want it to end.
“you’re not second to mc,” he falsely claims.
breaking your silence, you close your eyes in frustration as you whisper out, “don’t lie to me, caleb,” voice cracking.
gulping, caleb hoarsely confesses, “i’m trying-”
“don’t,” you stress out as you snap your eyes open, “don’t start something you can’t commit to, caleb,” you beg. “i deserve better, more than that,” you declare as you begin jabbing your finger into his chest.
caleb furrows his eyebrows in desperation as he grabs your jabbing finger, “please,” he slowly repositions your hand to flatly rest above his heart while simultaneously interlacing them together.
shaking your head, you defeatedly admit, “i don’t know what you want me to do.” you’re tired of this back and forth and you’re ready to end it, which becomes adamant to caleb as he visibly becomes antsy with distress and breathlessly pleas out, “a chance.” he squeezes your interlinked hands, “just give me one chance.”
“you’re moving to skyhaven soon, caleb,” you hopelessly remind him. “how can you guarantee me your all while you’re going to be islands away,” you pull your hand free from his, “when you couldn’t even give me your all when i’ve been in front of you for years,” you cry out in anguish. you’re flailing your hands around, unable to hold in your pent-up emotions while caleb lets his arms fall to his sides as he feels everything unravel.
finding his voice again, caleb finally speaks out, “i didn’t mean to hurt you,” he pathetically whimpers out with a frown on his face. “don’t give up on us now,” he dejectedly stares you down as he clenches his fist in frustration.
you halt your flailing to wrap your arms around yourself in a defensive manner as you let out one last cry of disbelief, “that’s not fair, and you know it,” you spot another group of caleb’s friends rapidly approaching him from behind. caleb doesn’t notice, but you know that the end to this conversation will arrive the moment caleb’s friends reach him.
moving your gaze back to caleb’s, you harden your face, “you have no right saying that,” the group is now a meter away, “when i’ve waited years for you to wake up,” you finish right as the group ambushes caleb. despite being infuriated at his friends for interrupting the conversation that would determine his entire future with you, caleb forces himself to tear his desperate gaze from yours and strain out a civil smile on his face.
as you take a step back, preparing to leave, a few members of the group acknowledge your presence. you freeze in place as one member turns to face you with a smile as they politely question your relationship with caleb, “are you and caleb, y’know, together?” at the inquiry, caleb instantly jerks his head to face you, obviously eavesdropping while holding in his breath as he awaits for your life-changing answer.
moving your gaze to meet caleb’s with a stiff smile forcing its way onto your face, you stare into caleb’s eyes as you answer his friend, “maybe in a different universe,” you weakly confess. then, without looking back once, you walk away, not realizing that this would be your last time seeing him.
—
caleb’s dead.
the news of caleb’s death shattered both you and mc, and ever since then, the two of you have been closer than before.
you’ve known about mc’s growing conspiracy theory about the so-called truth behind the cause of caleb’s death. although you don’t completely support mc, you don’t fully shut down her ideas either. you’re still mourning and drowning in guilt that you refuse to accept, so you always try your best to avoid any mention or hint of caleb. as a result, you haven’t been anywhere near skyhaven.
however, after successfully avoiding skyhaven for months, you finally find yourself on the cursed island. sighing, you begin to hurriedly, yet stiffly, search every inch of the island for mc.
you were already anxious with how mc hasn’t been answering her phone, so you decide to poke around trying to figure out what she has been up to. after finding out that mc requested time off, and now that she has supposedly disappeared, you immediately know that she has headed off to skyhaven to continue her investigation.
your fears are proven correct when you arrive at the plaza to witness mc being attacked. without waiting a second, you jump in to help mc, who is noticeably struggling to defend against her attacker.
whipping out your weapon, you fire at the attacker, which temporarily distracts him from his focus on mc. taking advantage of his brief flustered state, you make a run to mc as she finally realizes that it’s you coming to her aid, “what the heck are you doing here,” she panically exclaims.
scoffing, you respond with the same tone, “i could ask you the same thing,” as you attempt to find cover for the both of you to hide behind while you notice the attacker regaining his bearings.
however, before the creepy man can launch another attack, he is pushed back by another attack coming from a distant third-party participant that you can’t spot. without waiting for the person to reveal themself, you drag mc behind cover as the sounds of gunfire ring out.
you don’t have to wait long for a silence to break out. after a few seconds pass by without any further sounds, you decide to come out from your hiding spot to face a single man standing in the distance. you note that the silhouette doesn’t resemble the original attacker.
while mc seems to recognize who the shadow belongs to, you’re on guard as you slowly approach the person.
then, the person slowly turns around, and you freeze mid step as you meet his eyes.
and there he stood. caleb. your caleb.
the same purple eyes that you fell for stares back at you, however, they’re no longer the same. instead of the untainted, bright and cheerful youth radiating from them, you meet a pair of eyes that reflects the worn-out, guarded man that now stands in front of you.
despite caleb being reborn into a whole new person, he still holds that same sincerity that has been making your heart race since the beginning of time.
your mind is completely scattered as the man, who you swear is caleb, begins approaching you. he’s supposed to be dead, so there is no way he can be in front of you, yet he is. you’re terrified that the grief is finally catching up to you and causing you to begin hallucinating now that you’re in skyhaven, the biggest reminder of what was supposed to be caleb’s future.
your ears are ringing as you begin to panic. you’re heavily breathing, eyes and mouth wide out in utter shock as both caleb and mc surround you.
they’re attempting to speak to you, but you still can’t hear them. all you can see is this cruel imposter imitating the one and only love of your life, and all you can think about is getting away from him. it’s too much for you to handle.
quickly raising a hand, you move to place it on his chest, putting all your strength into your shove as you shout, “get away from me,” your terrified face reflecting your conflicted state.
however, without waiting a second, the man quickly, but carefully, moves a hand to cover your hand that’s still burning against his chest. you don’t fight back as you move your petrified gaze down to your encased hand as he repositions it over his heart. you’re getting deja vu, and it’s doing anything but help you.
unable to tear your gaze away from the familiar action, you fail to notice how your shaking hand against his steady one starts to grip at his shirt, nails slightly digging into his skin. your mind is racing when you feel a hand gently push back the fallen strands of hair that slightly obscure your face.
you’re finally able to rip your stare away from your now interlaced hands when you feel the same hand that was brushing your hair back softly rest on your cheek, clearly trying his best to not startle you.
as you meet those damn purple eyes that haunt you every time you close your eyes before heading to sleep, you know it’s him, and you can’t help but crumble as the nostalgia, guilt, and heart-aching want rushes out despite spending forever trying your best to bury it deep in your heart. the strong front you put on to provide mc with some sort of stability completely shatters at once as you sob out, “caleb,” gasping for air.
sensing you slowly come out of your panicked state, a relieved smile breaks out on caleb’s face as he croaks out, “hi, honey,” he rubs his thumb in a smoothingly manner on your cheek, “it’s been a while, huh,” he attempts to reassure you.
mc, who has been quietly sitting and watching from the sidelines, mimics caleb’s relieved state as she witnesses you jump into his embrace. you’re too busy to notice, completely unravelling as you uncontrollably wail into caleb’s neck, but mc isn’t as she witnesses how caleb’s guard finally drops, lets out a heavy breath, and closes his eyes as soon as your arms wrap around his neck.
from a distance, the three of you would appear maniac, but between the three of you, there was a mutual relief at the long awaited reunion amongst the three children, at heart, who were each other’s everything.
—
on the way back to caleb’s skyhaven apartment, caleb adamantly refuses to say a word until both you and mc were fed and cleaned up. reluctantly, you comply with caleb’s negotiation.
with the both of you cleaned up, all you had to do was wait for caleb to finish up making dinner for the three of you. in an attempt to be sneaky, you offered to assist with the cooking to get him alone, but he instantly shut you down with a broad smile on his face.
thus, you and mc were both sitting down next to each other with your back against the headboard of the bed. in contrast to your position of having your knees to your chest, slouched over, mc has her legs extended as she patiently waits for you to break the silence.
after taking a moment to gather your thoughts, you eventually turn your head to face mc with your cheek squished against your knee. mc sensing your gaze burning into the side of her face, turns to meet your distant eyes as you ask her, “how long,” you exhale out.
despite lacking context, mc knows what you’re asking about right away. without losing her nerve, mc steadily answers you, “not long.” she maintains eye contact, “a few days ago, max,” she reassures you.
“you know i would’ve told you as soon as possible if i could,” she comforts you as she reaches over to rub your arm.
as soon as you smile in response, a knock resounds out through the room. mc gives you arm a light squeeze as she looks up right when caleb walks in to check up on the two of you.
although you can feel caleb’s eyes on the back of your head, you’re too scared to look up. you’re terrified that, at any moment, you’ll wake up and find out everything was a dream. however, you know that you’ll have to end up facing your fears sooner than later.
the silence extends, which makes it obvious that caleb is clearly waiting for your response. after briefly closing your eyes, you take a breath in and muster all your courage to look up.
to your surprise, when your eyes land on caleb’s face, he’s already softly smiling, “dinner’s ready,” he declares as he steps away from the door.
another stillness envelopes the room as the three of you move to the dining table. as caleb takes a seat next to you, you unintentionally tense up. you’re still struggling to cope with the betrayal of mourning for months over a man who has been alive the entire time. you understand that the two of them would never willingly hurt you and withhold such important information from you, but you can’t help but feel blindsided.
in an attempt to break the tension, mc hums out, “so,” she glances between the two of you, “are you two finally together now,” she carefully teases.
you let out a weary laugh as you mindlessly push the food around your plate. however, out of mc’s line of sight, you slightly nudge caleb’s foot to reassure him and a matching pair of small smiles breaks out on both your faces as you feel caleb nudge your foot back.
noticing the interaction between you and caleb, mc rolls her eyes as she quickly shovels food into her mouth in an attempt to hurriedly leave the two of you alone, “okay, i’m out of here,” she mumbles with a mouth full of food. after running to put her place into the sink, mc runs off to her room, “have a good talk,” she announces right before she disappears down the hall.
as soon as you hear the door close, you instantly drop your utensils and snap your head to face caleb, demanding an explanation. before he can fully set his utensils down, you command, “start from the beginning,” which he obeys without waiting a second after.
—
the next morning, mc awakens to a deafening silence. a bit concerned, especially since caleb tends to be a morning person, she goes on to investigate the unusual environment.
carefully tiptoeing through the halls, mc slightly opens the door to caleb’s room and peeks in. when she doesn’t see any sign of life, she becomes a bit more anxious as she hurriedly checks every other room and still doesn’t see anyone.
as mc is rushing down the hall to check for the presence of shoes at the front door, mc freezes when she passes by the living room. in the corner of her eyes, she spots something unusual in the midst of the living room that causes her to reroute and slowly approach the living room.
once mc gets close enough, the concerned expression on her face immediately melts to form into a beaming and teasing smile at the sight of you and caleb cuddled up and asleep on the couch. whipping out her phone, mc immediately takes photos from every angle to commensurate the moment. satisfied with the storage breaking amount of photos taken, mc begins to scan the photos of you asleep on top of caleb with your cheek squished against his neck while caleb has his face, primarily his lips, pressed against your forehead. however, the most prominent detail that instantly stands out to mc is that both you and caleb are securely gripping onto each other, even in your sleep, as if the two of you are afraid that the other will disappear when they aren’t looking.
as a snore resounds from the bundle of limbs on the couch, mc moves to take one last photo as she gently whispers out, “they better thank me at their wedding.”
⟡ 𓂃 SAME OLD HABITS . . . SAME OLD LOVE. ex!nanami kento ⊹ female reader.
exes? somewhat: your relationship with nanami now is... complicated. you aren’t together, but you’re somehow always with each other. your son is a factor, yes, but you also can’t refuse nanami. same goes for him.
( ﹫note 2 self : dont fuck ur ex who’s also ur baby daddy! )
+ love, ‘un: results may vary if u try this at home with ur ex ⸝ fngering and f!receiving oral: mature content, 18↑ only! ⸝ son’s here for a bit (he's 3)
Text me when you’re finished.
You sighed at the pop-up notification, contemplating whether to reply or let it collect dust.
Your relationship with Kento withered throughout the years. The differences between you two were akin to the final pieces of a jigsaw puzzle: in theory the pieces snug together perfectly, fitting into the curves of each other, yet in practice both pieces weren’t for each other; edges colliding instead of interlocking.
Kento pursued you — it was a known fact to anyone who’s made connections with him. He wasn’t embarrassed to deliver bouquets during your working hours, he never hesitated to make reservations for the table awarded with the best view, he was never ashamed to show his devotion towards you. Chivalry’s embedded into Kento. He’s the textbook definition of a gentleman, be it to strangers or friends. It’s one of his qualities that drew you into him.
Kento was yours, proudly, and you were his. The time spent with him left an imprint on you. He witnessed your highs and lows, he took everything from you and gave it back in abundance. A part of you believes that Kento tied his soul to yours, stealing a piece of your own when he left. It had to be — it’s the only plausible explanation.
It was a “mutual” breakup, both agreeing on co-parenting and scheduled visits. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t colour Kento’s history with you black and build a new painting over it. There was a three-year-old boy tying you to him — not just in name, but in blood as well. He resembled his father in every way possible. He’s a respectful young lad, waving to passersby with a cheerful “hello!” wherever he goes. He was sociable — much more than Kento — it’s at least something he got from your side.
“Mommy, I want yogurt too.” Little Kento said, pointing at the iron man packaged yogurts in the chilled section.
“We’ll come back for it after mommy’s cleared her list, okay?” You reassure him, ruffling his hair.
You keep your eyes on the phone screen, extending a hand out to grab the closest bologna sausage. During the monthly restock you never leave your son home. Despite skyrocketing your bill with his unnecessary snacks, he helps keep your mind busy with constant chattering or ignoring his requests to be put down instead of sitting in the trolley.
Simply guiding a trolley through lanes and filling it with items costs you $500 — VAT excluded. Everytime you’re met with the consequences of not restocking until a month later you promise to never let it happen again. Deep down, you know it’s just a white lie to ease yourself.
Readjusting your handbag on your shoulder, you gather the handles of the plastic bags together, giving the lightest one to your son before you walk away from the cashier.
“Sweetie, come here,” you called out to him, halting your movements and placing all the bags down at your feet.
He listens without fail, copying what you did. However, standing still isn’t a child’s favourite thing. He fidgeted until he couldn’t — running in an oval shape around you to entertain himself while your fingers hovered over the screen, hesitating to press send.
Hey, we're finished. How long till you’re here?
Ten minutes. Wait at the front, I’ll be there soon.
Your eyebrows raised, you weren’t expecting Kento to reply within milliseconds. Shoving your phone into the back pocket, you bent down for the bags, lifting it up with an exhale. They’re heavy, but manageable.
“Let’s go, daddy’s coming.”
—
Kento’s used to picking you up after your errands. What he’s not used to is not being able to replace your name with a petname. It’s been 2 years yet his habit remains the same. You never corrected him, unsure of whether the action comforts you or not.
“Put him in the car seat, I’ll finish packing.” Kento says, swapping the bags from your hand to his. Due to the height of his vehicle, it’s a challenge for Little Kento to do it himself.
You obeyed, lifting the younger one into his carseat, securing the seatbelt before giving him a peck on both cheeks.
“Do you want anything before daddy closes the trunk?” You asked, tilting your head towards Kento’s position.
“No. I wanna watch Paw Patrol.” He indirectly demanded for your phone, even stretching his palm out for the device.
Sighing, you give in, switching YouTube to kids mode so he doesn’t accidentally stray far. Once Little Kento’s comfortable, you seat yourself in the front, immediately pulling the sun visor down from the windshield to do a quick check in the mirror attached.
Compared to when your son’s absent, the drive to yours isn’t silent. In terms of talking, no one’s talking but the radio and silence from you and Kento is overshadowed by a Paw Patrol marathon booming at max volume. It’s not awkward — you’ve spent years with Kento, but you also don’t feel like engaging in meaningless chitchats after a grocery run.
The only time you do talk with Kento is after you’ve settled in and packed the groceries where they belonged. Kento offered his assistance but you refused, urging him to check on Little Kento instead. Somewhere along the drive back he fell asleep, the Paw Patrol marathon being used as background noise to lull him to sleep.
“Finished already?” Kento questions, softly closing the door to the boy's room and planning his steps to stand beside you.
“Mhm,” you nod, stretching your arms upwards to relieve tension.
He remains silent, soaking in your physical appearance instead. Your eyebags are what his eyes remain on — the most obvious sign of exhaustion. You can’t lie your way out.
“You should get some rest.” He suggests.
“I don’t want to sleep yet.”
Kento deadpans. You’re denying the easiest way to get your energy back. Although you’ve both grown, you kept your old habits — something he’s secretly thankful for.
“Want me to help?” He offers his services, making eye contact with you.
Your mind runs into the past, remembering how Kento usually dealt with your stubbornness. You want to deny it, arguing that a shower would rejuvenate you, but an agreement already slipped past your lips without thought.
Kento’s quick on his feet, muttering a “jump,” so he can wrap your legs around his waist. Your hands clasped behind his neck, head laying on the crook of his neck while your fingers played with his hair.
Your house is relatively new, yet he’s already familiar with the layout. The walk to your bedroom came naturally, and so did the locking of your room door. Kento gently sits you down on the edge of the bed, placing his hands on your shoulders to lightly massage them. Your head leans slightly to the side, a content sigh being your only vocal response.
“Can I take this off?” His hand lowers to the hem of your shirt, slipping his thumbs underneath.
You nod, raising your arms to allow smooth sailing. Once off, he navigates behind your back, undoing the hooks of your bra to remove it. Kento eyes your body, making a mental note of how your bare upper half looks. It’s been several months since you’ve last fucked, his memory got a bit hazy.
“Lay down, sweetheart.” He orders, removing his glasses from his face and placing them near your face-down phone on the bedside table.
You somewhat obeyed, leaning back but propping yourself up with your elbows. Your eyes tracked Kento’s movements, landing on his not-so-hidden bulge.
“Already?” You tease, surprised at how easily he gets excited with you.
He doesn’t bother responding, instead sliding the sleeves of his sweater above his elbow before he kneels down in front of your dangling legs. You keep your eyes on him, pressing your cheek against your shoulder. Kento’s hand parts your legs wide enough for him to shuffle in between. He works his hands around the waistband of your jeans, pulling them completely off along with your underwear.
A chill runs through your body. You’re completely bare while he’s fully clothed; not to mention, you’re already wet. You attempt to press your thighs together, but Kento’s body prevents it.
He lifts a finger to press it on your clit, dragging it down until he reaches your hole. Slowly, he pushes it in until it’s halfway covered. You clench around his finger, sighing at the loss when he pulls it away. Eyeing his finger, Kento watches it glisten under the light, bringing it into his mouth shamelessly.
“You’re dirty.” Your eyes widen.
“You’re sweet.” He hums, moving one hand to lift your thigh onto his shoulder while the other faces its palm upwards before entering two digits. He argues the repositioning allows him to finger-fuck you deeper.
His eyes attach to your core, watching his digits disappear and reappear coated in your slick each pump. You couldn’t resist grabbing his arm, nails digging into the skin to ground yourself. His free hand moves from your thigh to your clit, rubbing gentle circles and synchronizing both hands to how you like it.
“K-kento, ‘m close.”
You didn’t need to voice out anything, Kento knows your body like it’s his own. From the way your eyes screwed shut, mouth slightly opened, and hips twitching upwards tells him that you’re nearing an orgasm.
Your thighs squeeze against his body, nails digging into your own palm and Kento’s arm simultaneously as you whimper the closer your orgasm comes. It’s not long before it dominates, your juices coating Kento’s hand, damping the bed sheets. Your bottom lip is caught between your teeth, a desperate attempt to soften your moans. Kento kept thrusting his fingers in you slowly, urging you to ride out your orgasm but all it does is overstimulate.
“W-wait,” you say breathlessly, tapping on his bicep three times — the safe word (that’s not a word) you settled on.
Kento slides his fingers out, giving you some time to calm down from your high. He watches your chest rise and fall, guessing that you’re trying to stabilise your breathing — which you are. You’re also clenching around nothing in a rhythm similar to a pulse, already missing the feeling of his fingers filling you.
“Ready?” He softly asks, massaging your leg.
You hum in response, laying flat against the bed. The after effects of the high left you unable to keep yourself propped up on your elbows.
This time Kento places both your thighs on his shoulders, wrapping his arms around it and dragging you closer until you can feel his breath on your core.
A shaky breath leaves you, eyes closed and head turned to the side as you feel Kento’s tongue lick a long strip against your heat. Your hands wrinkle the bedsheet between your fingers when he latches onto your clit, sucking at the bundle of nerves like it’s his first meal within months.
Your hands find themselves on his head, fingers tangled in the strands of blond. Your back arches off the bed, a mewl of Kento’s name going into his hair and translating straight to this dick. This time he doesn’t allow you to move as you like, his arms tighten around your thigh, significantly stopping your squirming. Occasionally, his tongue slides into your hole to refresh the taste of you.
“Kento, Kento, Kento.” You chant his name, voice dripped in honey and bliss as you tug his hair, unsure if you’re trying to pull him away or push him closer.
Kento continues sucking on your clit, using his fingers to fuck you once more. The combination of him working on your clit like he’s making out with it and his fingers pumping in you, you couldn’t stabilise yourself. Your hips thrust pathetically into his mouth, chasing the euphoric feeling the faster your second orgasm builds up.
In seconds it washes over you, making your already sensitive body twitch violently. One hand moves to fist the sheet, then to grab Kento’s bicep, digging new crescents into his skin.
Your hand on his hair falls limp, eyes closed as you free your now bruised bottom lip from between your teeth. You try to catch your breath, ignoring your hair sticking to your forehead and the sides of your face due to sweat.
Kento removes your thighs from his shoulders, placing them down to grab the towel. With gentle swipes against your skin, he cleans your wetness from your thighs, the sweat from your face, then your slick from his own face. The sheets and clothes can be dealt with later. Once you’re cleaned up to his standard, he leans down to you, planting an arm at the side of your head.
“Should I run the bath,” he cuts himself off, caressing your cheek after he moves some of your hair behind your ear. “Or should we continue?”
“Huh?” His question falls deaf on your ears. You’re still recollecting yourself after two back-to-back orgasms.
Kento laughs, planting a kiss on your forehead, “Bath it is then.”
Summary: The writers at Smosh planted a hidden camera on you so you could test Damien, your boyfriend, on the Bird Theory trend. It went terribly well, too well that you felt guilty seeing his betrayed expression. So you promised to make it up to him fairly to apologize for what you did.
Word Count: 2,600 ish
Author Note: The Bird Theory drabble is finally done, sorry for the cringe title and ending, I was watching a game theory video lmao 🙈 This was all because of this pic of Damien and this Tumblr post I came across of one day lol bird enthusiasts don’t come after me, I did my absolute best in researching this, okay?!— 😭
******
The secret camera was small, no bigger than your thumb, perfectly camouflaged as it was clipped on the side of your upturned black hoodie around your head. It was pointed straight at the subject: Damien, your boyfriend, and the designated victim of the "Bird Theory" hidden camera prank.
The Bird Theory, according to the deep dive the crew had done, suggested a viral relationship test that gauges a man’s attentiveness by starting a mundane conversation with “I saw a bird” would trigger an intense, almost primal investigative focus that could last indefinitely.
For Damien, the resident Smosh enthusiast on everything from spooky mythical creatures to video game fun facts, and especially knowledge of birds, this was less of a theory and more of a guaranteed mental breakdown. His hyperfixation was legendary; a passing comment about a crow could lead to a thirty-minute dissertation on the cognitive problem-solving abilities of corvids. This hidden camera prank was designed to exploit the very core of his brilliant, bird-loving brain.
The setup was perfect.
Damien had just wrapped filming a long, comedic Bit City sketch, which coincidentally required him to be fully decked out in the iconic outfit of his beloved character, Augustus St. Cloud. He must have been exhausted, because when you slipped into the lounge, he was sound asleep on the longest, plushest sofa, a vision in absurd costuming.
The wig—that messy, synthetic brown ponytail—was slightly askew, and the black pigeon-print T-shirt was wrinkled. His face, however, was peaceful, resting against his hand while his phone was a few inches away on the armrest. He looked so cute, you couldn’t help but take a picture to be saved eternally on your phone’s camera roll.
You carefully settled on the edge of the sofa near him, making sure the camera angle was clear. The slight shift in weight woke him instantly.
He slowly blinked once, twice, then his large, soft brown eyes behind the black frames of his glasses focused on you. Seeing you was clearly the best part of his nap; the exhausted lines around his eyes smoothed out, replaced by a deep, genuine smile.
“Hey, beautiful,” he mumbled, his voice gravelly with sleep and affection. He shifted, sitting up and fixing the glasses’ position on his sleepy face. “Is the shoot done?”
“Just about. You passed out hard, Augustus,” You teased, reaching out to gently correct his askew ponytail wig.
He chuckled, stretching his arms high above his head with a loud groan. He didn't bother to remove the wig or the pigeon shirt.
“Five minutes of rest, and I’m ready to solve one of the world’s ninety-nine problems,” he announced, rubbing his eyes. “What’s up? Why are you sitting so far away?”
You were a bit further so the camera could have a wider footage of him but since he asked, you slid closer, adopting the casual, slightly preoccupied tone you’d practiced beforehand.
“Oh, nothing. Just thinking about something I saw yesterday. I meant to ask you about it since it’s your expertise,” I said, shrugging nonchalantly.
His attention immediately sharpened. Anything that required knowledge or solving a mystery was his immediate trigger.
“What did you see? Is it Pokémon? A new Chansey merch?”
“No, it was outside. I saw a really cool bird yesterday, thought you might want to know about it.”
The shift in his demeanor was phenomenal. Any sign of sleep was instantly evaporated. The vague, casual exhaustion was replaced by the hyper-focused intensity of a man presented with vital information on his favorite topic. He leaned in, his elbow resting on the sofa’s back cushion, his eyes fixed on you.
“Woah, wait. What kind of bird did you see? Did it look like anything you recognized?”
“Not really. That’s why I was thinking of you,” you said, trying to sound as if this was only mildly important to you. “I haven’t seen anything like it. It was medium-sized, maybe between the size of a pigeon and a crow, but really slender. Very elegant.”
He immediately pulled out his phone, but he wasn't searching the keywords on Google, he was specifically googling bird species names and opening the images so he can show it to you.
“Okay, slender is specific. That rules out most corvids and gulls in that size range. Okay, Heron family, perhaps a long-tailed Cuckoo species. Do you remember what color it was?”
You had to make this believable. Something that would make him think deeply but still a reasonable characteristic.
“Oh yeah, of course. The color was incredible. It was a deep, intense blue. Not like a navy, but a dark bluish-purplish color that was almost black in shade. But here’s the weird part: when it flew, there were these flashes of bright, shocking, almost fluorescent orange underneath its wings. Like construction cones.”
Damien’s brow furrowed, instantly absorbed. He began tapping furiously on his phone, muttering to himself.
“Bluish-purplish blue and fluorescent orange… Indigo coloration usually comes from structural, non-pigmented feathers, like on a Bluebird or an Indian Peafowl. But that intense, vibrant contrast with a fluorescent secondary color in the underwing—it’s called a flash pattern, by the way—is highly unusual for North American species of that size. That combination sounds… like it’s a neotropical bird, maybe. Gosh, this bird sounds so interesting.”
He looked up, excitement bubbling in his voice. “Did you notice the beak? Was it long and delicate, or thick and hooked?”
“Um, it…it was delicate. Almost too delicate for a bird of that size, actually. I think I vividly saw that it had a tiny, sharp, serrated ridge running along the very top edge of its beak.”
Damien halted, his fingers that were repeatedly typing birdnames also froze. He didn't even try to guess. He went straight into analysis.
“A serrated ridge on a delicate bill? That is… a unique combination. Serrated bills, like on Mergansers, are designed to grip slippery fish. But they have heavy, pointed bills. A small, delicate bill suggests seed or insect consumption. Why would an insectivore need a serrated ridge, especially one not involved in biting? Maybe it’s a specialized function for scraping algae or lichen off rocks?”
“I don’t know, man, you’re the bird expert here. I just saw it,” you shrugged, trying to sound detached. “It gets weirder, it doesn't make any conventional bird sounds. It was completely silent for a long time, but then it made a vocalization that was very distinct. It was a series of rapid, mechanical clicks—like a broken motor.”
Damien sat criss-crossed on top of the sofa now, his arms hugging a nearby cushion. The Augustus St. Cloud persona was completely gone, replaced by Damien the Bird-watching Detective.
“A mechanical whirring click… That is not a known vocalization. The clicks could be a specialized form of bill-clattering, like a Stork. Was it the sound of it beating its tail feathers? Or is it a resonant chest cavity sound, like a booming call, but muffled? Wait, no, the whirring is a sound. Maybe it’s a tiny, structural sound it’s making with specialized wing or tail feathers, like the snapping sound a Manakin makes during mating displays?”
He was spinning hypotheses at dizzying speed, trying desperately to reconcile the conflicting data points. “This rarely happens in any bird trivia I’m in, but I’m seriously stumped. The bird that you’re describing sounds so crazy cool! I wish I was there with you to see it, did you at least get a photo?!”
“I didn’t. I wish I had,” you said, suppressing the urge to confess. You glanced at your watch; the two of you had hit the twenty-five-minute mark. He had not once suspected this was fake, only that it was a real, revolutionary, and currently undocumented bird that only you saw.
Damien’s shoulders slumped. The combination of all the different scientific possibilities, it finally broke him. There doesn’t seem to be one singular bird with all the combination of characteristics you described.
“Mechanical sounds,” he repeated, sighing dramatically. He closed his eyes. “Bluish Purplish blue… Fluorescent orange… delicate but serrated ridge beak… medium-sized. I literally cannot find anything like that in my entire database. I’m so confused.”
He opened his eyes, looking directly into the camera on your hood—unaware, of course, that he was looking into a camera. He looked genuinely defeated, but not angry.
“I have no idea what you saw. It is either a highly specialized escapee from a secretive aviary sanctuary, or… or,” he trailed off, rubbing his temples. “Or I need to study more on it, just give me some time.”
This was your cue. You reached out a hand, gently tugged on the hoodie until the camera was fully visible, and tapped the lens with your finger.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t actually see any birds recently. It’s just the Bird Theory, my love,” you said softly.
He stared at the tiny lens for a full ten seconds. Then he stared at you, still wearing the ridiculous Augustus St. Cloud wig.
The truth dawned on him. The glorious scientific pursuit had been a sham.
The Augustus St. Cloud ponytail seemed to animatedly wilt following his slouching posture. He slowly sank back against the sofa, pulling the cushion over his face.
“Half an hour,” he moaned into the pillow. “I spent half an hour of my life attempting to classify a unique blue-orange colored, serrated-billed, machine-sounding bird that doesn't even exist. I was writing an entire research paper in my head!”
He dropped the cushion, putting off his black-framed glasses and looked up at you. His beautiful brown eyes seemed like large, glossy watery pools, delivering the full, devastating force of the sad puppy dog eyes. He even sniffled once, purely for dramatic effect.
You covered your face with your hands but peeked through them to look at him with your eyes, guilt-ridden.
******
The weather was crisp and sunny, perfect for a Saturday trip to the Los Angeles Zoo. Damien had traded the pigeon Augustus shirt for a vintage tee featuring a beautiful cartoon illustration of Gengar, he was vibrating with quiet excitement.
“Okay, I forgive you,” he announced as you both walked through the main gates. “No more imaginary birds and confusing bird traits. Just good, honestly real Aves.”
Your first and longest stop, predictably, was the World of Birds. You and Damien spent nearly an hour in the massive free-flight aviary, and Damien was in his element. He pointed out everything from the vibrant green and red of the Red-capped Cardinal to the delicate movements of the tiny Quail.
“Look at the way the Great Blue Turaco uses those zygodactyl feet to grip the branch,” he whispered, narrating as if you were filming a National Geographic documentary. “Two toes forward, two toes back. Perfect for climbing. It’s very cool, isn’t it?”
He was so deeply immersed that you just watched him, unconsciously smiling. His hyperfixation was one of the many things you loved about him—it was pure, unadulterated joy directed at the natural world he observed when he saw any kind of bird.
“You know, I genuinely thought I had you fooled back in the lounge,” you admitted, leaning against the railing as he watched a Hornbill preen itself.
“Oh, don’t you worry, I was completely and utterly fooled,” he said, turning to you. “For the first twenty minutes, I was convinced I had stumbled onto a major discovery. I was already planning to go with you back to the place you first saw the bird. You usually listened to me rambling all about birds so I thought it was normal, I should’ve known the moment you said you ‘saw a bird outside’. Yeah, right, since when did you ever go outside and touch the grass?”
“Hey! I do go outside, sometimes when I’m craving drive-thru fast food,” you countered playfully.
He pulled you close, resting his chin on the top of your head. “It was an ultimate betrayal. But a cute betrayal, I suppose. I forgive you, mostly because the Andean Condor show is coming up next. Woohooo!!”
You spent the afternoon meandering through the zoo. Damien was surprisingly passionate about mammals too, especially the ones with unique feeding habits, relating everything back to ornithology. The way the elephants swayed their bodies reminded him of a King Penguin’s gait. He appreciated the intricate social structures of the chimps, comparing their communication to that of certain highly intelligent parrot species.
By the time you reached the penguin enclosure—always a reliable spot for lighthearted fun—the sun was starting to dip, casting long shadows. The two of you sat on a concrete bench near the enclosure, watching the penguins zoom underwater.
“This was a perfect date,” Damien sighed contentedly as he leaned his head towards yours, squeezing your hand. “Thank you for restoring my faith in real wildlife.”
“Any time for my aviary nerd, Augustus,” you smiled, nudging him.
He looked thoughtful for a moment, watching a little African Penguin dart past the glass.
“You know,” he started, his voice suddenly thoughtful. “This got me thinking about something completely different.”
You braced yourself. Here comes the next hyperfixation. “What is it?”
“It’s about Angela,” he said, turning to face you, his eyes full of earnest excitement. “The whole reason I know so much about these animals is because I've spent so much time reading and watching documentaries. But Angela... she genuinely doesn't know what an Anteater is—even though what they do is literally in their name, or what a Meerkat looks like. Shayne had to tell her that Timon from Lion King is essentially what a Meerkat is, and she finally understood. I want to go in inside her brain one day, is broadway scripts all there is in there?”
You laughed, remembering her recent confusion over a basic mammal. “She did think a squirrel was a rodent, which is technically true, but she was very offended since she thought rodents are just disgusting rats while squirrels are cute.”
“Exactly!” he exclaimed, suddenly energized. “She’s missing out on the joy of learning about animals! She needs to see the real world—various kinds of animals and what they look like—in all its glory. And I want to be the one telling her all about it. Spencer already got dibs on teaching her and Amanda all about Resident Evil, it should be my turn next.”
He took both of your hands, his eyes sparkling with a new, beautiful crusade.
“Please,” he proposed, his voice full of hope and pedagogical zeal. “Can we take Angela to the zoo? I want to give her a guided tour. I can point out the difference between the Anisodactyl foot of a songbird and the Syndactyl foot of a Kingfisher. We can call it, ‘Angela’s Introduction to real-life Zootopia’. She needs to see the animals, dear. She absolutely has to know.”
You shook your head, smiling widely at the endless, sweet enthusiasm of the man beside you. Only Damien could turn a guilt-ridden make-up date into a mandatory, educational field trip for a coworker.
“Of course, we can,” you agreed, kissing him softly. “We absolutely can. But you have to promise not to overwhelm her with your aviary prowess, we need to make her actually want to hear more, not overstimulate her into a zoologist lecture.”
“I’ll try but I can’t promise you that,” he replied, grinning. “You know how I excited I get about these type of things.”
You squeezed his hands. “Okay then, let’s text her right now to set up a zoo field trip!”
The sun dipped behind the western hills, casting the penguin exhibit in a golden light.
It was the perfect ending to a perfectly ridiculous, wonderful date that happened all because the writers in Smosh wanted you to make it a content on how Damien would react to the viral trend on social media. But hey, it’s just a theory. A Bird Theory.
