warnings. ⚠️ MATURE / NSFW WARNINGS While this specific excerpt is "NSFW-adjacent" (heavy yearning/panting)
an. I think Zuko in a tailored charcoal suit is neat, but Zuko completely unraveling because the reader smells nice is even neater ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ He is down bad, your honor. 34 going on clinically insane.
enjoy xx
(CHAT I KNOW IT'S SHORT. there will be parts to this dwdw)
P1 (you're here) | P2 | P3
The glass-and-steel expanse of the Caldera Heights penthouse was always quietest in the late afternoon, just as the sun began to dip behind the sprawling metropolis of Republic City. It was a residence designed for a specific kind of architectural prestige—sharp angles, polished basalt floors, and minimalist furniture that seemed to discourage the actual mess of human living. For Zuko, the silence of the apartment was both a sanctuary and a cage. At thirty-four, he was the chief executive of Fire Nation Global Holdings, a sprawling industrial conglomerate that required him to spend his days locked in boardrooms, navigating the treacherous corporate politics of a globalized world. He was a man defined by a permanent, rigid discipline, his tailored charcoal suits acting as his suit of armor to hide the jagged burn scar that covered the left side of his face—a remnant of a volatile childhood that had left him permanently guarded.
His marriage to Mai was an extension of that same quiet, structured discipline. They had been together since their early twenties, a match that made perfect sense on paper and in the high-society columns of the financial papers. Mai was an archivist and an estate lawyer, a woman of aristocratic bearing whose emotional spectrum was notoriously narrow, characterized by a cool, unbothered detachment that mirrored the basalt floors of their home. They didn't fight; they didn't scream; they simply existed in a state of polite, parallel alignment. But when their daughter, Izumi, was born five years ago, the sterile perfection of the penthouse had been forced to accommodate a sudden, chaotic burst of life that neither of them was entirely equipped to handle alone.
That was how you had entered the periphery of his vision.
At twenty-two, you were a senior at the local university, pursuing a degree in early childhood development while scrambling to find a flexible part-time position that could accommodate your unpredictable schedule. When the fellowship you worked for paired you with the prominent corporate executive, you had walked into the high-security penthouse with nothing but a canvas backpack, a gentle disposition, and a total lack of intimidation regarding the family’s immense wealth.
To Zuko, your presence over the last four months had been a slow, systematic disruption of his carefully calibrated environment. You were a magnificent, striking young woman, possessing the kind of natural, unforced beauty that made his focus curdle the moment you stepped into a room. You had a soft, curved frame, expressive eyes that always seemed to find the humor in Izumi’s endless tantrums, and a way of holding yourself that was entirely devoid of the stiff, performative elegance that characterized the women in his social circle.
He couldn't help but stare. It had become a private, deeply unprofessional habit that he couldn't break. He would find himself lingering at the kitchen island in the mornings, nursing a cup of black coffee he had already finished, just to watch the way you interacted with his daughter. You were an absolute saint with Izumi, turning mundane tasks like eating breakfast or tie-dyeing t-shirts into grand, imaginative adventures. Even more staggering to Zuko was the way you navigated Mai’s notoriously difficult temperament. Where other domestic workers had quit within a week due to Mai’s biting, monosyllabic critiques, you remained sickeningly sweet, offering a serene, unflappable warmth that left even his wife without a single weapon to deploy. You treated Mai with an impeccable, deferential kindness, always ensuring her favorite blends of loose-leaf tea were prepared before she left for the firm, establishing yourself as an indispensable, flawless fixture of their domestic life.
But beneath the professional veneer, Zuko was drowning in a silent, boiling lake of attraction that felt entirely inappropriate for a man of his standing and age. It was the sensory details that destroyed his discipline. Every time you passed by him in the narrow hallways of the penthouse, you left behind a faint, intoxicating wake of sweet vanilla oil and clean, sun-warmed skin—a scent so completely different from the expensive, bitter perfumes Mai favored that it felt like an explicit provocation to his senses. He would catch himself watching the way your soft lips parted when you laughed at Izumi’s jokes, or the way the fabric of your casual sweaters stretched across your plush breasts when you bent down to tie the five-year-old’s sneakers. He was a married man, a father, and a public figure, yet his mind was increasingly occupied by dark, vivid fantasies of pressing your delicate frame against the polished basalt and tasting the sweetness he could smell on your neck.
The ultimate fracture in his restraint occurred on a sweltering Friday afternoon in mid-June. The city was trapped in a heavy, oppressive heatwave that made the glass windows of his downtown office building heat up with thermal tension. Zuko had left a quarterly financial review an hour early, his chest feeling tight, his tie already loosened as he rode the private elevator up to the penthouse. Mai had called earlier to inform him she would be detained at a corporate merger gala until past midnight, meaning the vast apartment would be quiet.
When the elevator doors slid open directly into the foyer, the apartment didn't possess its usual air-conditioned chill. Instead, the massive glass accordion doors that separated the main living area from the expansive outdoor terrace and the infinity pool had been thrown completely wide open. The sound of bright, high-pitched childish laughter echoed off the high ceilings, mixed with the rhythmic, wet splashing of water.
Zuko set his leather briefcase down on the entry table, his jacket already draped over his arm as he walked slowly toward the terrace. His leather loafers made no sound against the stone floor as he stepped through the threshold, the hot, heavy summer breeze immediately hitting his face, carrying with it the sharp scent of chlorine, sunblock, and that unmistakable, sweet vanilla oil that always signaled your presence.
He stopped dead in his tracks right beside a massive potted palm, his breath locking completely in his throat as his eyes adjusted to the glaring afternoon sun.
Izumi was splash-pad training in the shallow end of the infinity pool, wearing a bright pink life vest and kicking her feet with a frantic, joyful energy that sent glittering sheets of water into the air. But Zuko’s gaze didn't stay on his daughter for more than a fraction of a second. His eyes were instantly, helplessly pinned to the woman standing in the center of the pool beside her.
You were standing in waist-deep water, your back turned slightly toward the apartment as you reached down to catch Izumi after a particularly vigorous kick. The afternoon sun was hitting your skin perfectly, turning the water droplets clinging to your shoulders into a scattering of tiny, diamond-like stars. You had your hair pinned up in a messy, wet bun at the crown of your head, exposing the long, elegant curve of your neck and the pale, vulnerable expanse of your upper back.
Zuko felt a physical, heavy blow hit his chest as his eyes dragged down the reality of your body. You were wearing a simple, two-piece bikini that was a deep, forest green—a color that made your skin look impossibly creamy and warm. The fabric was a thin, stretchy material that was completely unequipped to handle the lush, plush reality of your curves. The top piece was straining violently against the weight of your breasts, the soft meat of your cleavage spilling over the center seam as you bent over, the fabric so tight that the round, full undersides of your breasts were visible just above the water line.
As you laughed, lifting Izumi into the air, you tilted your head back, and a heavy cascade of pool water rushed down your face. Zuko watched, completely paralyzed, as the water tracked down the delicate slope of your chin, running in thick, glistening streams down the center of your throat before pooling in the deep, shadow-filled valley between your breasts. The water slicked the fabric of the green top, making it cling so tightly to your skin that the prominent, tight shadows of your nipples were faintly visible through the wet material.
The visual was a carnal execution to his discipline. A sudden, violent surge of pure, unadulterated lust slammed into Zuko’s lower stomach, the heat radiating outward until his veins felt like they were filled with boiling oil. His jaw locked tight, his breath emerging in short, ragged puffs as a thick, unyielding erection formed instantaneously against the front of his tailored trousers. It was a brutal, rigid swelling that pressed uncomfortably against the heavy cotton of his dress pants, his pulse throbbing so hard against the fabric that it felt like a physical heartbeat.
He didn't move. He couldn't. He stood in the shadow of the terrace doors, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the fabric of the suit jacket in his hand, his eyes wide and dark with a predatory, starving hunger as he watched the water fall over your body. He was completely, utterly ruined by the sight of his daughter’s nanny, the moral boundaries of his life dissolving into the pool water before him.
"Daddy!"
Izumi’s high-pitched squeal suddenly broke the spell. The five-year-old had spotted him through the palm fronds, her small arm pointing frantically toward the terrace as she splattered water with her hands. "Look! Daddy's home early!"
You turned around instantly at the sound of her voice, your wide, pretty eyes locking directly onto Zuko’s silhouette standing in the shade. A sudden, soft flush of pink stained your cheeks as you realized how intensely he was staring at you, but instead of scrambling for a towel or looking uncomfortable, a slow, incredibly sweet smile pulled at the corners of your lips. You waded through the water toward the steps of the pool, your breasts bouncing slightly with every step against the resistance of the water, making the erection against Zuko’s pants throb with a fresh, agonizing spike of pain.
"Ah, Mr. Corporate is home early," you murmured, your voice a low, velvety purr that seemed to carry across the hot air of the terrace with an explicit, hidden warmth. You stepped out of the pool, the water streaming in sheets down your thighs and your stomach, pooling around your bare feet on the hot basalt. "The heatwave must have shut the office down. Izumi and I were trying to stay cool. I hope you don't mind."
"I don't mind," Zuko managed to rasp out, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone that sounded completely foreign to his own ears. He stepped out of the shadows, his eyes never leaving the way the green fabric of your bikini top dipped low across your chest. He felt like a man walking into a trap he had spent months building for himself, the empty penthouse behind him offering nothing but a silent permission to finally break.
Can I request piwon as your ex headcannons? who would be the type to yearn for you to come back to them, who’s the type to just let it go, and ect? I love your writing btw<33
pairing: P1Harmony x reader
warnings: Alexa play "Happier" from Ed Sheeran....that's it
Keeho looked the same. Same easy posture, same grin that arrived before he did, like it was sent ahead as a warning. Three months. No texts. No accidental likes. No late night slip ups. You had built your life carefully around the shape he left behind, and suddenly he was right there, leaning against a railing like nothing had ever cracked between you.
“Wow,” he said, eyes flicking over you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Small world, huh? Universe has no boundaries. Very rude of it.”
You laughed because everyone else laughed. It came out thinner than you meant it to. Your hands stayed busy, phone in your grip, bag strap adjusted twice for no reason.
Keeho noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed.
He filled the space anyway. Jokes stacked on jokes, commentary on the weather, on the friends who dragged you both here, on how awkward reunions were in theory but not this one, see, totally normal, very chill. He flashed that familiar grin like a shield, like if he kept talking nothing sharp could get through.
You nodded. You smiled when you remembered to. Your body leaned away even when your eyes didn’t. Every time he laughed, your chest tightened just a little, like muscle memory didn’t get the memo that things were over.
When someone pulled you into another conversation, you felt relief and guilt at the same time. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. You could feel him watching anyway.
Keeho stayed cool until you left.
He stayed cool all the way home. Told himself it went fine. That you were fine. That he was fine. He replayed his own jokes and winced at half of them, congratulated himself on the other half. He told himself the tight feeling in his chest was just leftover adrenaline.
Then evening came. Quiet. Phone face down on his desk.
It buzzed.
Your name lit up his screen like it had been waiting.
It was nice seeing you again today.
Keeho picked up his phone immediately. Too immediately. Fingers already moving before his brain caught up.
Yeah, it was nice. Hope you got home safe.
Sent.
The message whooshed away, and the room felt very still.
“Idiot,” he muttered, staring at the screen like it might apologize to him. He dropped the phone onto the desk and leaned back, eyes on the ceiling.
Three months. He had survived three months. He had trained himself not to reach for you when something funny happened, not to open your chat when he felt tired or proud or lonely. He had convinced himself that distance was proof of growth.
And then one text, and his heart reacted like nothing had changed.
He grabbed the phone again. Read your message. Read his reply. Wondered if it sounded too eager. Wondered if you noticed how fast he answered. Wondered if you were overthinking it too, thumbs hovering, heart doing something stupid.
He hated that he cared. He hated that seeing you uncomfortable earlier had hurt more than he expected. Hated that all the jokes in the world hadn’t erased the fact that he missed you in a quiet, aching way.
Another buzz.
Nothing. Just his imagination.
Keeho sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, smile gone now.
He missed you. That was the truth. No punchline, no clever framing. Just a feeling that sat heavy and familiar in his chest, like it had been waiting patiently for him to slip.
And he wondered, not for the first time, if you had felt it too.
☁︎Theo☁︎
Theo sat on the edge of his bed with his back against the wall, phone heavy in his hands like it had gained weight just to spite him. His room was quiet in the way that made thoughts louder. No music. No distractions. Just the soft hum of the air and the glow of his screen.
He scrolled slowly.
The gallery opened like a door he should not have unlocked. At first, it was easy. Screenshots. Random photos. Blurry shots of food and notes and nothing important. Then your face appeared. Then both of you.
He paused only for a second before pressing delete.
One photo disappeared. Then another. You at a café, smiling at something he said but could no longer remember. Deleted. You half asleep in his hoodie, hair a mess, eyes soft. Deleted. The two of you reflected in a mirror, shoulders touching like it was the most natural thing in the world. Deleted.
His thumb moved steadily, mechanically, like if he kept the rhythm his chest would not cave in. Each photo vanished with a small confirmation that felt far too final.
He told himself it was necessary. That holding onto these things only slowed healing. That moving on required proof, some visible act of letting go. He swallowed hard and kept going.
Memories slipped in anyway.
You laughing quietly so you would not wake anyone up. You reaching for his hand without looking. You listening when he talked, really listening, like his words mattered more than the noise around you.
Theo exhaled through his nose and scrolled faster.
His finger hovered over your name in his contacts by accident. He backed out immediately, heart jumping like it had been caught doing something wrong. For a moment, he imagined pressing call. Imagined hearing your voice say his name again. Imagined pretending it was casual, that he just wanted to check in.
His thumb trembled.
He locked his phone and set it face down on the bed, staring at the wall until the urge passed. When he picked it up again, he did not open his contacts. He went back to the gallery. Back to deleting.
Photo after photo vanished. The album thinned. The past became lighter, emptier, quieter.
Then he reached a selfie.
It was taken on a day he remembered clearly. You both leaned into the frame, faces close, eyes slightly squinted from smiling too hard. You looked happy in that effortless way that never felt posed. He looked softer than he ever allowed himself to look anywhere else.
Theo stared at it.
His thumb hovered over delete and stayed there. Seconds passed. A minute. He zoomed in without meaning to. Saw the way your cheek pressed against his shoulder. The way his eyes were fixed on you instead of the camera.
His chest tightened.
He imagined the photo gone. Imagined never seeing this version of you again. Not the real you, just this frozen moment where everything had still been okay.
His thumb lowered, then stopped.
Theo sighed quietly and let the phone rest against his palm. He did not make excuses. He did not justify it as sentimental or harmless. He simply acknowledged the truth.
He liked this picture. He liked who he was in it. He liked who you were together.
He backed out without deleting it.
The rest of the photos stayed gone. The album felt sparse now, like a room after moving boxes out. But that one image remained, tucked away among the emptiness.
Theo locked his phone and placed it carefully on the nightstand. He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, chest rising slowly.
He did not text you. He did not call.
He just let himself keep one quiet thing.
☁︎Jiung☁︎
Jiung filled his days until there was barely room to breathe. Morning workouts that left his muscles burning and his mind blank. Long hours in the studio, headphones on, pen moving fast across paper like if he stopped writing the thoughts would catch him. Late nights with friends where he smiled too wide and laughed too loud and said all the right things.
“I’m good,” he told everyone. “Really. It was necessary. Made me stronger.”
He said it so often it started to sound like a slogan. He lifted heavier. He wrote brighter melodies. He talked about growth and lessons and timing like he had read the manual on how to be okay.
People nodded. Some smiled. Some exchanged looks when he turned away.
Jiung ignored that part.
He chose optimism like armor. Every ache was progress. Every quiet moment was a chance to improve. He told himself he was better now, lighter, freer. If his chest tightened sometimes when he was alone, he brushed it off as leftover emotion. Normal. Temporary.
That was what he told himself as he pushed open the door to a café one afternoon, earbuds in, playlist upbeat. He ordered quickly, thanked the barista with a grin, picked up his coffee to go.
He turned around.
And walked straight into you.
The impact was small, barely more than a bump, but it stopped time anyway. Your shoulder brushed his chest. His coffee sloshed dangerously. You both froze, eyes lifting at the same moment.
For half a second, the world went quiet.
Then you smiled.
It was soft. Careful. The kind of smile that asked permission before existing.
“Oh,” you said. “Hey.”
Jiung’s heart stuttered, then raced to catch up. He pulled his earbuds out, hands suddenly unsure of where to rest.
“Hey,” he replied. His voice sounded steadier than he felt. He smiled back automatically, muscle memory kicking in like a reflex.
You both stepped back at the same time. Awkward. Polite.
“How have you been?” you asked.
“Good,” he said immediately. “Yeah. Busy. You?”
“Same,” you replied. “Busy.”
There was a pause. Not uncomfortable, just fragile. Like one wrong word could crack it open.
He commented on the weather. You nodded. You mentioned the café being crowded lately. He agreed. Everything stayed safely shallow, skimming the surface of what you used to know about each other.
You looked well. That realization landed quietly and hurt more than he expected.
“Well,” you said after a moment, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder. “It was nice seeing you.”
“Yeah,” Jiung said. “Nice seeing you too.”
Another smile. Another pause. Then you stepped aside to let someone pass, and the moment broke.
He waved once, short and polite, and pushed the door open. Cold air hit his face as he stepped outside. The bell chimed behind him, and just like that, you were no longer in the same space.
Jiung walked a few steps down the sidewalk before stopping.
His hand tightened around the coffee cup. His chest felt hollow, like something had been scooped out without warning. All the noise he had filled himself with went quiet at once.
He inhaled, slow and shaky.
He was not okay.
The optimism slipped, cracked at the edges. No amount of workouts or songs or smiles had prepared him for the way your voice still settled into him, familiar and dangerous. For the way one brief smile had undone weeks of pretending.
Jiung stared down the street, jaw tight, eyes stinging.
Stronger, he told himself again.
But this time, the word did not stick.
☁︎Intak☁︎
Anytime someone brought you up, Intak smiled like it was instinct, like his face had memorized you even if his heart pretended it had moved on. He leaned back, arms crossed, acting relaxed, acting easy.
“Oh, her?” he said once, grinning. “She’s amazing. Always has been.”
Someone joked that you were probably annoying sometimes. Intak’s smile sharpened instantly.
“Not really,” he replied, voice light but firm. “You just didn’t get her humor.”
The room went a little quiet. He did not notice, or pretended not to. To him, defending you felt natural, like breathing. He talked about you like you were still a safe topic, like your name did not pull something tight in his chest every time it left his mouth.
He told himself it was normal. You had ended things on decent terms. You were a good person. Of course he would speak well of you. That did not mean anything.
That was what he told himself.
Later, they all sat sprawled around the practice room, bodies tired, conversation loose. Keeho leaned against the wall, phone in hand, thumb scrolling lazily. Intak watched him from across the room, half listening to someone else talk.
Then Keeho’s face changed.
It was subtle. A pause. A tightening around his eyes. His thumb stopped moving.
Intak noticed immediately.
“What?” he asked, sitting up. “What did you see?”
Keeho locked his phone a little too fast. “Nothing.”
Intak stood and crossed the room in two steps. “Show me.”
Keeho sighed. “Bro.”
“Show me,” Intak repeated, smiling, but his stomach had already dropped. He knew. He did not know how, but he knew it was you.
Keeho hesitated, then unlocked his phone and held it out.
Your Instagram story filled the screen.
You stood somewhere bright, laughing, head turned toward someone beside you. A guy. Tall. Close. Too close for Intak’s liking. His arm was not around you, but it did not need to be. The way you leaned toward him felt intimate anyway.
Intak’s smile disappeared.
His jaw tightened as he stared at the screen, eyes tracing details he hated himself for noticing. The guy’s hand near yours. The ease in your posture. The fact that you looked happy.
“Who’s that?” Intak asked quietly.
Keeho shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably just a friend.”
Intak scoffed. “Doesn’t look like just a friend.”
“It’s one picture,” Keeho said gently. “You’re reading into it.”
Intak handed the phone back, fingers stiff. His chest felt hot, restless, like he needed to move or say something or do anything except stand there.
You were allowed to move on. He knew that. He had told himself that so many times it should have stuck. Still, the idea of someone else standing that close to you felt wrong in a way he could not explain.
“Could be a coworker,” Keeho added. “Or a friend of a friend. You don’t know.”
Intak laughed, short and humorless. “Yeah. Sure.”
He turned away, pacing a few steps, hands running through his hair. Jealousy buzzed under his skin, sharp and embarrassing. He hated that Keeho had seen it first. Hated that you had not thought twice before posting it. Hated that he cared this much.
“You’re overthinking,” Keeho said.
Intak stopped and looked back at him. “No,” he said, quieter now. “I just know her.”
And that was the worst part.
Because knowing you like that meant he knew exactly how easily someone could fall for you.
☁︎Soul☁︎
Five months had passed since she was the one who ended it, five months since Soul had learned how quiet heartbreak could be. He carried it silently, tucked between schedules and rehearsals, letting time do what it could. Tonight was supposed to be loud enough to drown everything else out.
The club pulsed with light and sound, bass crawling up the floor and into his bones. Soul danced with the others, movements loose, sharp, a little reckless. Someone handed him a drink. Then another. Laughter blurred at the edges, neon streaking across the room like color spilled too fast.
He was almost okay.
Then Jongseob grabbed his wrist.
Soul leaned in so he could hear him. Jongseob did not say anything. He just tilted his head toward the bar.
You stood there.
The room narrowed instantly. Sound dulled. Light softened. You wore confidence like it had grown into your skin since the last time he saw you. Hair different. Smile the same. Soul’s chest tightened, attraction rushing back without asking permission.
“Oh,” someone said behind him. “No. Absolutely not.”
“She’s here?” Keeho added, already shaking his head.
Soul barely heard them.
“I’m going to say hi,” he said, voice calm, like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.
Hands grabbed his arm. Someone protested. Jongseob muttered something about bad ideas and worse timing.
Soul stepped forward anyway.
He wove through the crowd, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the music. When he reached the bar, he stopped just behind you, close enough to feel your presence, not close enough to touch.
“Hey,” he said, grin sliding easily into place.
You sighed, like you had expected him, like you had known this moment would come. Then you turned, and your face softened into a smile.
“Hey,” you replied.
For a second, neither of you spoke. The air between you hummed, familiar and dangerous.
“You look good,” Soul said, eyes flicking over you before he could stop himself.
You nodded, accepting it without flinching. “Thanks. You do too.”
He smiled wider without meaning to, something warm and unmistakable slipping through. You noticed immediately.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you said, but there was no heat in it. Just a warning wrapped in humor.
Soul chuckled, lifting his hands slightly. “Like what? I’m just standing here.”
“Mm,” you hummed, unconvinced.
He leaned against the bar. “Can I get you a drink?”
You raised your glass slightly. “I’m good. I’m paying for my own drinks tonight.”
He stayed. He did not crowd you. He did not push. He just looked at you, eyes soft, expression open, like five months had not taught him how to hide it better.
You felt it. He knew you did.
A faint blush crept into your cheeks. You lifted your drink in a small salute. “It was nice seeing you.”
Soul nodded slowly. “Yeah. It was.”
You turned to leave, weaving back into the crowd. Soul stayed where he was, eyes following you longer than he should have, chest aching in a way that felt almost hopeful.
Then you stopped.
You turned around once more, catching his gaze. You smiled at him, quick and bright, like a secret.
Soul smiled back before he could think.
As you disappeared into the crowd again, he exhaled, hand tightening around his glass.
This was not over.
He felt it settle in his chest, certain and steady, like a door left deliberately unlocked.
☁︎Jongseob☁︎
Jongseob did not announce his heartbreak the way others might have. He folded it inward, tucked it between beats and lyrics and schedules. He stayed busy on paper. Always working. Always thinking. From the outside, it looked like focus. Discipline. Maturity.
Inside, it was loud.
His thoughts kept drifting back to you no matter how hard he tried to anchor them elsewhere. A melody would spark, and suddenly he remembered the way you used to hum without realizing it. A lyric would land too close, and he would stop writing altogether, staring at the page like it had betrayed him.
He replayed everything.
The moments he spoke too fast. The times he chose logic when you needed comfort. The silences he assumed were fine because you did not complain. He broke things down like a problem to be solved, like if he examined it carefully enough, he could arrive at a different ending.
He told himself it was for growth. For learning.
But sometimes it just hurt.
One afternoon, the city moved slowly around him. Traffic noise, footsteps, conversations blending into a steady hum. Jongseob walked without much direction, headphones in but no music playing, lost in thought.
Then he saw you.
You stood across the street, sunlight catching in your hair, posture relaxed in a way that made his chest tighten immediately. You looked real. Unfiltered. Not a memory softened by time, not a version shaped by regret. Just you, standing there, alive in the same world as him.
Jongseob stopped walking.
He watched you like he was afraid the moment would disappear if he blinked. The way you shifted your weight. The small expression on your face as you checked your phone. Everything about you felt achingly familiar and painfully distant all at once.
He felt the yearning settle heavy in his chest, deep and slow. Not desperate. Just honest.
You did not notice him.
Part of him was grateful for that. Part of him ached anyway.
He imagined walking over. Saying your name. Apologizing better this time. Saying everything he had practiced in his head late at night when sleep refused to come. He imagined you listening, imagined the outcome in a dozen different ways.
None of them felt safe.
You moved slightly, adjusting your bag, turning your head as if you sensed something. Jongseob’s heart jumped into his throat.
When you turned around, his body reacted before his mind could catch up.
He stepped back. Then another step. He turned sharply, blending into the flow of people like he had never stopped moving. He did not look back. He did not give himself the chance to see if you had noticed after all.
He walked faster than necessary, breath shallow, chest tight.
Jongseob told himself it was better this way. That some feelings were meant to be carried quietly. That wanting did not always mean reaching.
Still, as he disappeared down the street, your image stayed with him.
🤍 Notes: HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE! This one is for all of you 🤍 let's all leave this fuck ass year behind and look forward to better days ahead.
You didn’t care about New Year's Eve. But your friends did. Sometime in the last two weeks, your indifference had snowballed into a full-blown party.
Everyone was here. Everyone except him.
You sipped your drink and let your eyes scan past the gold balloons and neon lights flickering across dancing bodies. Past the guy in the corner who’d been trying to make eye contact with you all night.
Still no sign of him.
The music thumped, the liquor flowed, and somewhere in the corner of your mind, the same thought kept spinning like a record.
He’s not coming.
You tilted your head back to take a shot and let the bass drown it out.
“You okay?” someone asked, shouting over the beat.
You nodded automatically, flashing a smile. “Totally.”
Lie. But you sold it anyway.
You hadn’t stopped checking your phone. Or the door. Or the time. Deep down, under the glitter and carefully applied lipstick, you were still that girl with one stupid wish.
Let him show up. That’s it. Just show up.
You slipped out and told no one. Just snuck through the door, through the hall and up the stairs, to the rooftop. You walked straight into the cold.
The air bit at your skin. The wind picked at your hair. The city spread out below you. From up here, it was quieter. A little less fake. A little more room to think.
You leaned against the railing and looked up at the sky.
Empty.
Just like this moment. Just like you.
You exhaled bitterly, and let yourself feel it. The disappointment. The ache. You’d thrown this entire night together like a net, cast wide enough in hopes that maybe he would walk through that door.
But now he hadn’t come at all.
You leaned against the railing and closed your eyes.
“Hell of a party.”
His voice starled you so badly, you were terrified to believe it was even real. But real he was, standing right there in the doorway. His hands were in the pockets of his tailored slacks, jacket unbuttoned, blonde hair a little mussed from the occasional sharp wind.
Your eyes went wide. “You came.”
He shrugged, walking toward you with that cool confidence that always made your pulse skip. “You didn’t think I would?”
“I wasn’t sure,” you admitted.
“I was.”
You tried to breathe. More than anything, you tried to hide the fact that your heart was hammering in your chest like it was trying to break free.
“You’re late,” you whispered.
He stopped just in front of you. He was close enough that you could smell the clean spice of his cologne and the warmth of him baked into the fabric of his jacket. The heat of him chased the cold off your skin.
“I know.”
And then he leaned in, just enough to say it low against your ear, “If I’d shown up any earlier, I wouldn’t have made it through the night without doing this.”
The words hadn’t even cooled on his breath before his mouth found yours. Fast and certain, like he’d already made the decision before he even climbed those stairs.
The kiss tightened your chest and unraveled everything else. You inhaled sharply through your nose, hands braced against his shoulders, fingers bunching the fabric.
The kiss tilted. He chased it. Now there was only the heat of him pressed against you. The taste of him, bittersweet from whiskey, clean from mint, familiar and brand new.
His hands didn’t fumble. One slid up the side of your neck, thumb grazing the edge of your jaw. The other hand curved around your waist. His tongue swept against yours. Your pulse responded like it had been waiting all night to be summoned.
You didn’t mean to drag your fingers up into his hair, but you did. You didn’t mean to roll your hips against the line of his thigh, but your body had already made the call.
It wasn’t performative. It was chemical.
He tasted like everything you shouldn’t let yourself want, and everything you couldn’t stop craving. The rooftop lights buzzed overhead, catching the gold in his hair and the hesitation in his eyes.
“I didn’t know if you wanted me to come.”
You laughed quietly. “You seriously don’t know by now?”
“I know what I want. But I didn’t want to assume I was invited to be anything more than a name on your guest list.”
You met his gaze, throat closing on every word. “I only threw this party for you.”
The words were out before you could stop them. Just the honest, stupid truth.
He froze. Then he stepped closer, hands bracing against the railing on either side of you. “You what?” he asked.
“You heard me.”
He stared at you like he’d never seen you before.
“All of this—” you continued, voice shaky. “I thought if I gave you enough reasons to show up, maybe you would.”
His fingers curled into fists. His head dropped, like he was trying to hold himself back.
“I needed to know if I mattered,” you whispered.
Cody looked up. Something in his expression broke wide open with surprise.
“You matter so fucking much.”
Then he kissed you again.
It wasn’t careful or shy.
It was all the missed chances. All the almosts. Unspoken feelings and texts that always stopped one word short. It was every time you’d looked across a room and caught him already watching you. It was every breath you’d held when he was near, hoping, waiting.
His hand slid into your hair, the other grabbing your hip, pulling you flush against him as his mouth moved over yours, undeniable.
Behind you, the city shimmered, reflections of the light flickering in his blue eyes.
You glanced down at his watch. "11:59."
Ten. His lips found your neck, open-mouthed and slow, tongue flicking against your pulse like he was seeing how fast he could made your heart race. “I was scared I wouldn’t get here in time.”
Nine. His hands dragged under your coat, across your hips, greedy with friction. “I didn’t want to ruin it," he continued.
Eight. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer until your hips brushed, until you felt how hard he was already. “I’d take you right here,” he whispered, low and teasing. “Don’t think I won’t.”
Seven. His mouth trailed lower, teeth grazing your collarbone. “You want that?” he murmured against your skin. “Want me to ruin that pretty little dress before the year even starts?”
Six. You couldn’t speak. You just nodded. He groaned in your ear in response.
Five. You felt his thigh slide between yours, parting your legs slightly. His hands curled tighter around your waist, holding you where he wanted you.
Four. He looked at you now, eyes heavy-lidded with everything he hadn’t said all year. “I want you shaking for me.”
Three. You exhaled shakily. “Stay.”
Two. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said.
One. He leaned in, so close his words melted into your mouth before he kissed you. “Every second after this? Yours.”
Midnight.
“Happy fucking New Year.”
His lips crushed into yours. Below, people shouted with joy and confetti started to fall like snow.
As I'm finished writing and now just in the editing stage of the final chapters of She'll Wait No Longer, I have begun work on its prologue: What None Saw. This will be a dual-POV mostly canon-compliant multi-chapter Elriel fic leading up to ACOSF Solstice. I wanted to explore interactions with them that we didn't get to see in the first four books, and I've been having so much fun writing it. It's unfortunately not smutty, but a whole lot of mutual pining, angst, and fluff. We're talking a WHOLE lot of soooooooft Azriel and blushing Elain. Preview below ;)
🎨: padawan.carol, commissioned by stephdaydreams
“Another question?” Azriel asked her, as if he could sense that void still pulling on her. Elain nodded again.
Azriel considered for a few moments.
“What did you dream of becoming, when you were a child?”
Elain blinked. She gazed down into her tea again.
“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. “When my mother was still alive, she expected me to marry and unburden the family of my care, I suppose. Or perhaps bring them further fortune. I was only ever encouraged to think, act, and look like a highborn lady. I played the pianoforte, I learned to read and write with my tutors, and I attended society events. I was never told I could be anything other than a wife and mother.”
A pang of guilt swept through Elain at the thought that Feyre did not get that chance to learn to read and write, and that she and Nesta had done nothing to teach her.
Azriel only watched her, impassive, so she continued.
“When we lost our fortune, I had no time to dream. I became quite skilled with sewing, as we could not often afford new clothes and ours always needed repairs. I gardened seldomly, only when I could afford seeds and had the time to. I helped keep our cottage in working repair and cooked in my father’s stead, because he was injured. The only thing I ever allowed myself to dream about was falling in love and marrying. Partially because it was something I desired, but also because it was a way out.”
Elain had never admitted any of this to another before, and she didn’t know why she did now.
But Azriel just listened, so quietly and thoughtfully, and the words falling from her felt like…a relief. A grounding. He listened to her without judgment or concern, only honest curiosity.
“What did you dream of becoming as a boy?” She asked him.
Azriel kept his cool, collected mask on his face, even as Elain swore she saw something flicker through his eyes.
“I had no dreams as a child.”
Shame flooded Elain at what an insensitive question it was. Azriel had just told her he was locked in a dungeon for eleven years. Of course he wasn't thinking about becoming a warrior or a courtier or an artist. He was just trying to survive.
Azriel must have seen the guilt on her face because he considered.
“I suppose I dreamed of freedom.”
Elain let out a breath.
“As did I,” she answered.
Their gazes locked and they simply stared at each other for long moments.
“What is your favorite dessert?” Azriel asked her. Elain felt the smallest semblance of a smile tug at her mouth.
“Do you enjoy sweet things, Azriel?” She asked him, surprised once again by his question. She couldn't imagine the warrior eating a slice of chocolate cake or lemon tart.
Azriel grinned a bit, too. “I do enjoy sweet things, Elain,” he answered, holding her gaze with intensity.
And despite everything, despite her doomed engagement and the unfolding war and her stolen life and her daunting mating bond, Elain felt a blush kiss her cheeks.
She looked down, feeling bashful.
“Strawberry shortcake,” she told him.
Azriel grinned a bit broader at that.
“Strawberry shortcake,” he repeated, nodding thoughtfully. “I have never had that.”
“Really?” Elain asked. “Is it not eaten here?”
Azriel shook his head. “No, I have never heard of it.” After a few seconds he added, “Perhaps I can try it one day with you.”
Elain fought a blush once more.
“And you?” She asked, curious now.
Azriel leaned back, considering.
“Honey biscuits.”
And despite herself yet again, Elain swallowed a laugh. Azriel raised a brow at her reaction, which made a true giggle escape her lips.
“I'm sorry,” Elain laughed.
Azriel's mouth twitched at her amusement. “What is it?” He asked her.
“It’s just,” she chuckled. “Honey biscuits are rather a…a youngling snack, are they not? A snack for a hungry toddler stomping his feet?”
Azriel chuckled a bit himself then, smiling truly. Shadows flitted around his head as if in response to his laughter.
"Yes," he answered, leaning back and crossing his arms. "I suppose they are."
Elain giggled once more. She imagined Azriel munching on honey biscuits in a secret Spymaster lair and laughed harder still.
"But can you deny their perfection?" Azriel asked her with an amused smile.
"No," Elain answered, shaking her head with a smile. "No, I cannot."
Azriel's smile seemed to falter as he gazed at Elain's face.
"That's the first time I've heard your laugh," he noted.
I think what breaks me about “I missed you” is that it’s never just a statement.
It’s a question.
A hope.
A quiet plea for confirmation that your absence meant something.
You’re not just saying “I missed you.”
You’re saying:
⋅ Did you feel it too?
⋅ Was the silence loud for you too?
⋅ Did you ever think about breaking it?
And sometimes, the ache isn’t even in the missing.
It’s in the wondering:
If they knew you would miss them,
and chose to stay silent anyway.
Or worse, if they missed you too…
but waited for you to say it first.
So yeah.
I want Buck to say “I missed you.”
And I want Tommy to say “I know. I missed you too.”
Not because he needed to hear it first,
but because he felt it too.
And maybe, just maybe, he was hoping Buck did.
Because that’s the kind of silence that deserves to be broken.
Mulder kept pressing redial. Still no signal. The call to Scully wouldn’t go through. Not even voicemail. His phone flashed “No Service” again and again like a taunt. He stared at the screen, jaw tight, as if sheer will could force a connection. It couldn’t.
Beside him, Diana sat rigid in the passenger seat, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, radiating tension like heat off sun-scorched pavement.
“I asked you a question, Fox,” she said evenly, the note of entitlement unmistakable. “You never answered me.”
Mulder didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed on the road.
“My relationship with Scully is none of your business.”
“You blew me off.”
He exhaled, tired and sharp. “We’re chasing a killer. That’s the only thing that matters right now.”
A beat. Then Diana turned toward him, her voice dropping. “You didn’t say no.”
Her mouth tightened, but he was already gone—mentally miles away.
Because the truth was, he hadn’t said no. He hadn’t needed to. The answer was carved into his marrow, woven into the sinew of his silence. The answer had been living inside him for years.
Scully.
Mulder loved Dana Scully with a quiet, brutal permanence. It wasn’t the cinematic kind of love—loud, possessive, adorned with grand declarations. No, it was something older, deeper. Cellular. Coded into his DNA like a second truth. She lived in him—in the stillness between thoughts, in the locked places he’d long since buried.
And he could never tell her.
Not because it wasn’t real. But because it was too real. Too sacred to risk contaminating with the wrong timing, or the wrong words, or the wrong version of himself. Because Mulder knew he wasn't enough. Not for her. Not in the way she deserved. She was disciplined and had mercy, fury and grace.
And he—he was all rough edges. Half-spoken apologies and haunted obsession. A man too often ruled by ghosts.
He loved her, and it was the one truth that humbled him. She erased every other possibility. Even when she wasn’t in the room, every other woman faded into static.
What kept him up at night wasn’t uncertainty about his own feelings—it was uncertainty about hers. Sure, there were moments. Moments that burned bright and then vanished, like lightning over water. Glances held too long. Breath shared too close. But he’d convinced himself that if all he ever got from her was partnership, friendship—her—that would be more than he’d ever deserved.
So he loved her in silence.
________________________________________
Scully stood outside the suspect’s modest home, a salt-weathered cottage just beyond a coastal ridge. A name was etched on the mailbox: R. Chester Cain.
She knocked. A moment later, the door cracked open.
A young woman stood framed in the doorway—early twenties, pretty in a muted, worn-down way. Her eyes were wary but polite.
“Hi. Can I help you?”
“Dana Scully. FBI.”
The girl’s eyes widened. Her grip on the door tightened just slightly.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nothing urgent,” Scully said quickly, softening her tone. “There have been a few deaths in the area, and we’re talking to local residents—just trying to narrow things down. It’s routine. I just have a few questions, and then I’ll be out of your way.”
The girl blinked, then slowly nodded. “Okay. Sure. Come in.”
The inside of the house was spare but tidy. The living room smelled faintly of the sea and something medicinal. Scully noted a low humming—freezer, maybe. Or filtration equipment.
“Would you like something to drink?” the girl asked, already moving toward the kitchen. “Water? Tea?”
Scully hesitated. Her mouth was dry, her body sluggish. She hadn’t eaten or had anything to drink since morning, and it was well past five.
And accepting something small, like a glass of water, might lower the girl’s defenses even further. She seemed nervous and it may help make things less formal. She learned at a behavioral interrogation seminar back at Quantico that accepting a drink could lower someone’s defenses. It created a sense of hospitality, of shared space.
“Water would be great,” she said with a small nod.
The girl gave a faint smile and stepped into the kitchen.
Scully let her gaze sweep across the room. A nautical chart was pinned on the far wall. There was a photo of the girl and a man—Cain, presumably—on a small sailboat. Her pulse picked up, just slightly.
Out of sight in the kitchen, glass clinked. A cupboard opened. A faucet ran.
______________________________________
Back in the SUV, Mulder glanced at his phone. A missed call.
Scully.
He tapped her name, frown deepening as the line rang.
Voicemail.
He swore under his breath.
“Something’s wrong,” he muttered.
Diana arched an eyebrow. “She’s capable, Mulder.”
He shot her a look. “That’s not the point.”
His fingers moved quickly, calling again. Still no answer.
He started to turn the car around.
___________________________________
Inside the house, Scully’s eyes drifted to a closed hallway door.
“Mind if I use your restroom?” she asked.
The girl hesitated. “It’s down the hall. Last door on the right.”
Scully rose slowly, passing framed photos. A high school diploma. A boating license.
She reached for her phone again, trying Mulder one more time.
No bars.
Something cold moved in her chest.
She opened the door.
And froze.
Inside was a row of burlap sacks. An obsidian blade gleamed from a worktable.
The room wasn’t a bathroom.
It was a preparation site.
A shrine.
A kill room.
And she was already inside.
_______________________________________
Mulder’s wild eyes searched for the small, temporary workstation where Scully had been. He found it in the back corner, a mess of papers and a forgotten coffee cup. His gaze landed on a legal pad, the top page torn off, leaving a faint indentation.
His hand shot out, grabbing a discarded pencil from the desk. With frantic, almost desperate movements, he laid it on its side and began to lightly scratch the surface of the exposed page. An old trick. A ghost of an address, a name, began to appear, shimmering into faint legibility. R. Chester Cain. A coastal ridge.
"Cain!" Mulder roared, the name echoing in the suddenly hushed office. He was already sprinting towards the exit, his voice barking orders over his shoulder. "Sheriff! Get me a team! Uniformed officers! Now! Cain! R. Chester Cain, on the coastal ridge!"
Diana, who had followed him inside, stepped forward, her face a mask of exasperation. "Mulder, you're overreacting! You accused me of being unprofessional but this is wildly unprofessional!"
But he was already gone. The door slammed behind him, the roar of his car engine erupting seconds later as he peeled out of the parking lot, leaving Diana and the startled deputies in his wake, his mind singularly focused on the address, on Scully, on getting there before it was too late.
______________________________________
The cold was the first sensation, a damp chill seeping into Scully's bones. Then the throbbing in her head, a dull drumbeat against the inside of her skull. She was vaguely aware of rough fabric beneath her, a pungent, earthy smell. Her eyes fluttered open, but darkness enveloped her. Not just the absence of light, but a thick, oppressive blackness that pulsed with her headache. She tried to move, but her limbs felt heavy, unresponsive, as if encased in lead.
Her mind, usually a fortress of logic, began to fray at the edges, pulled into a swirling vortex of memory as unconsciousness claimed her.
She was sixteen. The sun beat down on the cracked pavement of the military base, shimmering off the endless rows of identical houses. This was Northwood, the longest they’d stayed anywhere, and home to her most devastating crush. Silas Reed. A senior. The most popular boy in school, all easy confidence, charm and a dazzling smile.
And now, he was walking towards her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic hummingbird. He moved with a languid grace, his hand extended, a solitary yellow rose held delicately between his fingers. Her breath hitched. Oh, God. If only she’d known he was coming. She’d have dressed nicer, maybe even risked trying some of Missy’s forbidden makeup. She didn’t own any herself.
A shaky smile bloomed on her face. He gestured for her to take the rose. "Thank you," she managed, the word barely a whisper, a blush hot on her cheeks.
Silas grinned, a casual, devastating charm in his eyes. "So, I heard you had a big crush on me."
Scully’s blush deepened, three shades darker, scorching her entire face. She was mortified, absolutely beside herself. "Who? Who told you that?" she stammered, frantically searching for an escape route, for the earth to open up and swallow her whole.
"Your sister," he said, a hint of amusement in his tone. Then, his smile faltered slightly. "You know, the color yellow... it's symbolic of friendship."
"Oh?" The single syllable was all she could manage.
He nodded, suddenly serious. "Yeah. Look, I'm really flattered, Dana, I am. But... I just want to be friends."
Scully nodded, a tight, painful movement. It was all she could do. The world blurred at the edges, her carefully constructed teenage composure crumbling. Silas, oblivious to the internal earthquake, turned and went up the steps to her house, knocking on the door, presumably for Missy.
Just then, twelve-year-old Danny Potts, everyone just called him Potts, ambled over. He was the neighbor kid she indulged by tossing a baseball with, mostly because it was rumored his mom was cheating on his dad, who was never around. "Well, that must have been embarrassing," Potts said, tossing his worn baseball glove into the air.
Embarrassing? Dana thought, her head dropping into her hands. It was traumatic. She prayed for the earth to open up and swallow her whole.
The front door burst open. Silas came storming down the steps, past her, Missy hot on his heels. "You're hot, Missy," Silas snarled, his voice loud enough for the whole street to hear, "but you're stupid."
Missy, looking genuinely contrite, tried to put her arm around Dana’s shoulders. But Dana brushed her off, fiercely, shame burning. "Let's toss the ball, Potts."
Missy wasn't giving up that fast. "Danes, I am so sorry, but Silas is an asshole, you are better off!"
Dana looked at her sister, incredulous. "He's all yours," she spat, venom lacing her voice.
"I don't want him!" Missy cried, genuinely distressed. "I told Silas you were interested to get him to stop pursuing me! You always go for older, emotionally unavailable guys, Dana, and it will never end well!" Missy turned, walking away dejected, leaving Dana on the steps, reeling.
She was actively tossing the ball with Potts now, the familiar thud against her glove a small comfort. "Don't worry," Potts said, his small face serious. "Missy's right, that guy is all wrong for you."
"Oh, yeah?" Dana said, still stinging, but a flicker of curiosity stirring.
He nodded gravely. "Yeah. Because I'm gonna marry you one day." He paused, then added, "I know the age gap doesn't work now, but when I turn eighteen and you're twenty-two, I'm gonna seal the deal."
Finally, a faint, genuine smile cracked across Scully's lips, a tiny beacon in the vast, dark emptiness of her current reality.
____________________________________________
Mulder's foot slammed on the brake, the SUV skidding to a halt a hundred yards from the salt-weathered cottage. The address. Cain. Scully's address. He cut the engine, the sudden silence deafening against the frantic pounding of his heart. Enraged, yes, but a cold, tactical part of his mind knew this wasn't about blind fury. This was Scully. And risking her life with a head-on assault was unthinkable.
He exited the vehicle, moving with a predator's quiet grace, casing the house from the cover of the sparse coastal scrub. The wind whipped at his clothes, a cold whisper against his ear. Then, he heard it. A man's voice, raw with fury, slicing through the air from an open window.
"You stupid bitch! What did you do! What did you do!"
A whimper in response. "I was trying to help you."
"By drugging a federal agent?" The man's voice was tight with disbelief, fear, and a chilling rage.
"We could just give her more drugs and drag her off somewhere away from here to overdose." The female voice, younger, devoid of emotion, sent a shiver down Mulder's spine.
He saw them then. A dark shape, limp and undeniably Scully's form, being half-dragged, half-carried across a patch of dim light within the house. His heart leaped into his throat, a cold fist squeezing his windpipe. No. Not again. Not her.
Mulder moved. He didn't hesitate, didn't think about procedure or backup. He circled to the back of the house, his eyes darting, assessing. He found a loose window latch, forced it open with a silent, practiced motion. He slipped inside, a shadow amidst shadows, drawing his weapon. He heard muffled grunts, the dragging sound growing closer.
He burst from the kitchen, a whirlwind of controlled force. The man, Cain, was struggling with Scully's unconscious body near a back door, the younger woman hovering nervously. Cain looked up, his eyes widening in shock. Before he could react, Mulder launched himself forward, a primal scream tearing from his throat. He used the element of surprise, delivering a swift, brutal strike to Cain's jaw. The man crumpled. The young woman shrieked, but Mulder was already past her, his focus entirely on Scully. He scooped her limp body into his arms, pulling her away from the threshold, shielding her.
The wail of sirens grew louder in the distance, a welcome chorus. He had called it in from the car, a premonition gnawing at him. He backed out of the house, Scully cradled securely, just as uniformed officers flooded the yard. An ambulance, its lights flashing, pulled up the driveway.
Mulder didn't let go. He held Scully's limp body close as the paramedics descended, gently taking her from his arms onto a stretcher. He watched, numb, as they worked, his eyes never leaving her face.
__________________________________
The sterile scent of antiseptic filled Mulder's nostrils, a familiar, unwelcome comfort. He was slumped in a hard plastic chair beside Scully's hospital bed, his head resting against her mattress, his mouth near her hand. The adrenaline had long receded, leaving him utterly spent, exhaustion seeping into every bone. He had been there for hours, a silent vigil, finally succumbing to a heavy, dreamless sleep.
A soft, groggy whisper drifted into the quiet room. "I think you drooled on me."
Mulder's head snapped up. His eyes, heavy-lidded moments before, flew open, wide with a rush of emotions so potent they stole his breath. Relief, a dizzying wave of pure, unadulterated elation. And fear. The terror of almost losing her again, a familiar phantom limb ache in his soul. He had put her in danger. Again. It was like his sister, yet profoundly not like his sister—a terrifying Schrödinger's cat paradox of loss and survival that he lived with every day. This cycle, this perpetual dance with death, it had to end. But not now. Now, he just had to be here.
"Scully," he breathed, his voice rough with unshed emotion. He pulled his head back, his eyes searching hers, memorizing the subtle flicker of returning consciousness. "How are you doing?"
He gently took her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles. "You were drugged, Scully. That girl, Cain's… partner, she gave you something. A sedative, the paramedics think. You were out cold." He paused, his gaze tightening. "Cain, the man from the house, he was the killer. He kept them in... a room. A kill room. You found it." He squeezed her hand, a silent apology for the danger she'd faced. "The police have them both. You did it, Scully. You found him."
No words now.
Only a conversation between their souls, carried in a gaze that had spoken countless times before, perhaps across lifetimes.
A well-rehearsed, choreographed dance.
It’s not your fault.
I thought I’d lost you.
You didn’t.
I’m here.
I’m afraid.
I’m afraid too.
I’m no good for you…
But I’m too fucking selfish to let you go.
You can’t let me go.
I am yours.
And you are mine.
Their eyes said everything.
And everything hurt.
Just then, Scully’s mother walked in.
Mulder rose instinctively. “You don’t have to go,” both women said, nearly in unison.
He gave them a half smile. “I’m parched. Thought I’d grab a drink.”
Then, turning to Scully with a playful glint in his eye, “If you promise to be a good patient, I’ll bring you back a root beer.”
A root beer, she groaned inwardly, watching him disappear through the door.
Somewhere, in the quieter recesses of her mind: Emotionally unavailable men.
Always offering just enough sweetness to make you stay thirsty.
Outside the hospital room, Mulder leaned against the vending machine, forehead pressed briefly to the cool metal. He closed his eyes. The fluorescent lights buzzed above him, indifferent. Still, his heart beat steady now. She was alive. She had come back to him again. And this time, he had gotten there in time. He shoved some coins into the slot, listening to the hum and clunk of the root beer dropping.
Inside the room, Scully tilted her head toward the door, her pulse syncing to something she couldn't quite name. She wasn’t sure what came next, what would become of the case, or them, or the darkness that always seemed to travel with them. But she felt something shift. Like a thread had pulled tight between them, and held. Not broken. As Mulder walked back in, holding the soda like a peace offering and a promise, she gave him the smallest, knowing smile. And despite the IV in her arm, despite the ache in her chest and the shadows that still haunted the corners of her vision, she knew they were still tethered by something invisible but unyielding, stretched across silence and time. Both of them ached to pull closer, to reach across the space and hold on, but the distance felt safer, a way to stay connected without risking collapse. That rope between them had held through so much grief, doubt, the weight of things left unsaid.
At age 10 y/n ran to eren’s house excitedly to show him her new favorite book(she and armin both had interests in what was past the walls etc), “look eren this new book i brought with me explains the idea of reincarnation and if those lover’s love was very strong it has the possibility to transcend multiple lifetimes until the lovers meet again!!” . although the 10 year old boy didn’t seem to believe or entertain the idea of it . “you actually believe in this y/n?” eren asked raising a brow catching the girl by surprise.
y/n was blushing on her cheeks to the point where it looked like it was rosy. twirling her hair with her finger hugging her knees to her chest . “I-I just think it’s nice , waiting for that person you love to reunite at last”. y/n was “cutely blushing” at least in erens eyes she was ‘shit, was y/n always this cute?’. while teal/green eyed boy was flipping through the pages of y/n’s book armin noticed a very obvious blush on eren’s face.
