Reader!mother X Yandere Batfamily X neglected! Y/n daughter
Prologue : You die remembering you had been reborn and lived as the mother of the neglcted Y/n Wayne from the popular fanfic troupe of Neglected! Reader & Yandere Bat family. After painstaking cursing them in your ghost form, you end up back in time before it all happened. What joy!
<-Chapter 1 // Chapter 3->
Chapter 2 :
The walk to the Gotham elementary school was merely fifteen minutes.
Tiny feet and a head filled with nothing but bright thoughts and a warm smile remained on your daughter's cheeks. Her little arms swung as she walked, leaping with the bag pack on her back.
The sun was bright. One of the rare days when mother Gotham decided to spare its residents from the normal clouds or shallow darkness. Other people were walking on the streets, some families, other corporate workers, and children were rushing to their schools.
It was a particularly nice day.
You couldn't help but let yourself relax for a moment. Your steps slowed, shoulders loosened and eyes dazed yet still focused on the surroundings.
“ Mommy, hurry up!” Y/n said, turning her whole body and waving with loud and affectionate splendor. You could see those cheeks puff up and a smile break over your own face. “ Yes yes, coming.”
Her eyes glittered in the light and the blue hue looked even prettier. And just for a moment, his eyes reflected in hers. Dark, broading, lost in pain - the arms that caressed your back and bit into your neck.
You staggered. Breath caught somewhere in between.
Your hand tightened into a fist.
Looking up, your daughter blinked back. Small, you thought.
Your nails dig deep into your palm. So small.
Yet those bastards were truly inhumane. Vigilantes my foot. Your daughter deserved so much better. If only you hadn't died. You were going to—
You felt a tug at your forearm, looking down - your daughter was holding onto your sleeve pulling it. She had that look she got when she was trying to gauge your mood. You look in a breath and put on a smile.
Now wasn't the time.
“ Let's go, Honey.” You said, your daughter looked reluctant. Would you look at this child, you couldn't help but swallow, she must have seen the sadness in your eyes. She changed her face, jerking it to show you she was fine and she hoped you were too.
By the time you and Y/n arrived at the school, the bell had already rung.Though just by the amount of children still in sight, it must have just rang.. Sounds of footsteps rang as far as they could with a rowdy bunch of children together.
“-Hurry-! ”
“-I didn't do my homework. Hey, Luke, let me borrow yours-!” a child's voice sputtered.
Another child scoffed, before rushing in. “-As if, do your own-”
“-Children, make way to classes-” The teacher said.
Your daughter's eyes looked over the scene with no particular emotion. Her hand still gripped yours. Your eyes softened, you held onto it gently as well.
You greeted the teacher standing at the entrance and patted your daughter's head. “ I'll pick you up when classes end. Have a good day sweetie.” She agreed before running off.
You could spot her taking the hand of another girl and a few other children surrounding them before the teacher ushered them away.
Cute.
Saying goodbye to the teacher you walked off.
The lips faded, a bit of a smile remained. You checked your watch. It was 9:30am.
The cafe isn't too far. You can arrive if you hurry.
The building stood before you, not too crowded yet not empty either. It was well known enough that locals or regulars were the main source of the crowd. You entered the cafe as the bell over the door rang.
“-Welcome customer-”
The figure sat at the corner of the room. Light hitting over the slender pale wrist, fingers tapping in rhythm. Black hair breezed back in a flutter, sitting over the shoulders and resting just below the chest. The other hand raised the cup and took a sip before setting it down.
“ Rosette.”
The woman's face turned and her black eyes narrowed. The golden strands of colour that stood out in her overall black hair dipped over her face. Your eyes met hers as you took a seat. “ (Name).” She said,
Your back pressed against the seat, legs crossed and arms over the table. “ How have you been ?” you asked.
“ Perfectly well. As one would be.” She grazed.
“ I see.” You took a sip of coffee she'd ordered for you. Sweet. Just as you liked it.
Her brows furrowed, “...First you suddenly—now-” You knew what she wanted to ask. The way she stopped, changed her words , wasn't anything you didn't expect. But those words slipped your mouth before you could stop them.
She pushed her back and yanked the cup of tea quickly before setting it down and looking at you. That tea had got to be warm, still, this girl.
You picked up a napkin and passed it to her. “Here.”
She whipped her face, red flashing her ears. Her eyes narrowed in complaint. “ What happened?” She finally said, losing the previous child-like softeners.
“-- I know you wouldn't contact me so suddenly without reason. Not after that…elder sister.” The last words leave her mouth as if she had tasted something bitter.
“ You know me well, Rose.” You used her childhood name.
You inwardly felt a heap of regret. No, it was more. Regret was too small of a word. Your eyes flickered to your watch again.
Tick
“ Is it money?” She hesitated. You said nothing.
Tick
She held the napkin and wrinkles started to form from how tightly it was held. “ Is your daughter hard to care for now?...” She continued. “ After you left mom, dad and me. She-” She scoffed yet the hint of hurt echoed through.
“ Sister—-”
Tick
You looked up , met her gaze unwavering and just as you did, the ground shook with trembling waves. The glasses and cup clattered. Some hit the ground.
It stopped.
She looked at you, shivering and your jaw jerked.
‘-- It's just been reported that five of the felon Penguin's bombs went off. The number of casualties are currently over 30, injured amounts remain unknown but it's estimated to be in hundreds-” The news anchor voice blended in with chatter of people getting up and stabilizing themselves.
You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. Your sister looked as if you were a ghost. You were before, literally but you did it. The smile overtook your face. You prevented her from being there.
She wouldn't be one of the Casualties.
Your face bent down, hand over hand, shoulders hunched - it worked.
It worked.
Rosette got off her chair and with arms still trembling she grasped yours. “You're bleeding, stupid!” She said, the tremor in her voice ranged. She looked over at one for the part-timers and asked them to bring first aid.
She looked pained as she tended to you. But all your mind felt was you stopped her accident. You knew well how Y/n ended up meeting that man.
It was three months after your sister's accident. Two weeks after you'd rejected her invitation to meet, to at least let mom and dad in your and your daughter’s lives. But you were stubborn.
The shame of that one night and those pained eyes were too much.
You were the last one to arrive at the hospital. You still remembered the sound of machine beeping and your mother's screams. The glass had plunged into the area just above her clavicle, avoiding the major artery by pure miracle.
The doctor—
Your eyes moved to your sister who was holding your wrist, tending to a small little scar that would stop if you left it for a few seconds. Your pupils dilated and you grasped her shoulders.
“ What are you-” She tried to say.
“ You're the one bleeding.”
“ What.” her eyes followed and just like you said, she was bleeding but it was worse. Far worse than you. But luckily it wasn't as much as then–
You took up the cotton and applied the alcohol swipe. She hissed in pain. “ I'm fine-” She tried to say. “ Rose, be quiet.”
She bit her lips, holding back another hiss. “ Fine.”
A thought ran thought your head and headache followed. Don't interfere with fate. What is to happen ,shall, even with intervention. Don't make it worse for yourself.
A/n : Chapter 2 is out folks! I hope this chapter was enjoyable even if the Batfamily wasn't present. Though don't worry they're appearing soon. We're seeing the plot play out, will reader get our and save her daughter or will the neglected yandere tragedy repeat?
synopsis: after your best friend of 19 years decided to leave you behind to study abroad, you were left completely devastated. no messages, no calls and no letters. six years later he returns unknowingly - the love you once had for him returning at an instant. but your hopes got shattered when you saw an engagement ring on his finger.
pairings: childhoodbsf!jk x fem reader
genre: fluff, angst, eventual smut, slowburn, second chances (?)
warning: jungkook is a complete idiot in this fic to say the least. this fic will eventually contain smut in the future
chapter wc: about 5,880
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a/n: oh my godddd thank you so much for the love i got on the teaser! i did not expect it to even reach more than fifty likes lmao.. im so grateful for each and everyone one of you. in return, i've been working on this chapter for two days straight. i hope it reaches your expectations! mwa mwa mwa
|CHAPTER 1 - 7 122|
You've liked Jungkook for 19 years.
19 years and 6 months.
7 122 days.
Not entirely like, you were hundred-percent sure it was love. You didn't know much about that word. Didn't know why people's eyes blossomed with hearts in their depths whenever they talked about the people they loved romantically. But, 3 months after you turned fifteen four years ago, you realized the warm feeling you get whenever you looked at Jungkook weren't platonic at all.
You realized for the past 19 years (your entire life) of knowing him, you didn't just see him as a friend. You saw him as your everything. And suddenly, the word "love" started making sense.
But that's definitely something you wouldn't confess to him. Not because you were embarrassed, but rather because you valued your bond with Jungkook too much to risk it in such a foolish way. You'd hide your feelings forever if it meant seeing his smile forever.
Tonight was no other than any other night. You were sprawled out on your bed with your phone held tightly in one hand. Your finger swiped on the screen whenever you grew bored of the video you were watching, the dim light of your phone screen casted a subtle glow against your face and the light made your eyes wince. The day's events started kicking into your body and you could feel your eyelids growing heavier by the second.
Just as your eyes were ready to close shut and drift yourself off into a deep, needed slumber, your phone's ringtone immediately woke you. The lively melody made you groan in annoyance, but when you saw Jungkook's name flash across the screen you didn't waste any time to answer the phone call.
"Hey," his warm voice filled your ear drums through the speaker. Your hand unknowingly clutched your phone tighter, a habit you had picked up whenever you called him late at night. His voice usually sounded more real at night - not rushed, not slowed, just.. perfect.
"Hi, Kook," your voice filled the quiet and dark bedroom in response. "What's up?"
On the other line of the phone you could hear something shift in the background, but you weren't quite sure what it was. You just shrugged it off.
"Can you come to the park near your house right now?"
You frowned. At this hour? You lifted the phone from your ear to check the time - 10:13PM.
"Can't we just meet up tomorr-"
"No. Please, it's important, I just.."
Silence stretched between the two of you as you patiently waited on him to finish his sentence. The odd silence made you chew on the inside of your cheek nervously.
"Just come."
And he ended the call. He didn't even give you an option of whether you want to go or not, so you basically had no other choice but to leave your warm bed and get dressed in decent clothes.
It took you about ten minutes to arrive at the park. By the time Jungkook noticed you from the swing he's sitting on, he flashed you a quick, soft smile and gestured with his head towards the swing next to him.
You followed his (what felt like a) command, tiredly plopping down with a sigh on the black tire-like material of the swing.
"You look dead," his voice came off as teasing and the slight smirk on his lips didn't go unnoticed by you. It made you scoff slightly in response before rubbing your burning eyes.
"So make it quick," you mumbled and looked his way this time. Something in his expression flickered - something you couldn't quite make out. Jungkook were always good at hiding his emotions, even now.
It was something you admired yet despised so much.
He looked down, his dark eyes taking in the detail of the a light, warm beige colored sand beneath his feet. His shoes dug into the sand in silence - as if he's thinking. Thinking carefully of what to say next.
Your heart jumped. A lump in your throat formed and your eyes unknowingly widened. You could only think of one thing at this very moment; he probably feels the same way towards you. He wants to confess.
God, you were more than ready for that. Have been ready for the past 19 years. So, you waited patiently, your eyes remaining on his figure next to yours. Your ears suddenly felt warm. Well, not just your ears - your entire body.
As the minutes seemed to tick by your patience grew thin and the curiosity only grew within you. The night fell completely silent at that very moment - you couldn't even hear the crickets anymore. You weren't sure whether they disappeared into nothing or if your brain just decided to cut them out, decided to only focus on Jungkook's voice if he were to speak up.
He cleared his throat, his eyes remaining on the sand down at his feet. His shoes were now completely covered in sand - this must be a big deal for him. He only usually did things like that when he grew nervous or anxious.
"Y/N."
Here it comes. The confession you've been waiting for.. basically your entire life. This intimate and quiet moment between the two of you only made you realize how much you actually loved him. The moonlight shining at a perfect angle against his face gave you access to every detail on his face. The faint sweat visible on his face, the mole underneath his bottom lip, his pupils dilating absently. It reminded you of how real this moment felt.
Your eyebrows slightly shot up and your hand gripped the swing tighter. As soon as his mouth opened to speak you bit your bottom lip impatiently.
"I'm leaving tomorrow."
Now he looked at you.
You looked at him.
The only difference is, your eyes were getting watery. His eyes seemed completely normal. Grounded. Emotionless?
You weren't expecting this. You were expecting anything but this. The smile on your face fainted as slow as it came before he dropped this bomb on you. The grip you once had on the swing loosened as the words seemed to sink in deeper and deeper into the raw flesh of your skin.
"For college. I'm going to the States, and.." he trailed off slowly.
You didn't respond - you couldn't respond. The words that formed inside of your mouth couldn't get them out into a sound.
".. I don't think I'll be returning."
Your eyelids slowly opened, the sunlight creeping through the window made your eyes wince in response. Your laptop next to you on your desk - opened but completely forgotten - got hit by your own elbow once you shifted yourself to sit up. Slowly, your mind woke up from it's slumber then realization hit you.
You had that same dream again.
As if your brain is purposely scratching at parts you thought you had buried a long time ago somehwere in the back of your mind. It was cruel - seeing the way your own mind seemed to betray you every chance it got.
Everytime you finally seemed to get a good night's rest, it would be ruined halfway with your brain replaying that specific memory. The last memory you had of him.
It's ironic, really. During the day your mind must be too occupied with work-related topics so your brain waits until night-time to attack.
What's pathetic to you is how even in your dream you can't seem to find a response to his words. As if that was the only correct reaction - even though you knew you should've said something. But, instead, you stayed silent and he left. Completely left you. After millions of promises he had given you to stay by your side for eternity - even if one of you were to die first.
Now it's like he died. Not actually died, but his presence did. And when he did, he took everything with him. His voice, laugh, habits, even his scent. You had forgotten everything about him you once knew so well.
Pushing your heavily overthinking thoughts aside, you closed your work laptop. You've been working overtime at night non-stop just to get a stupid raise your boss mentioned earlier this month. Well, not entirely stupid. It was a much needed raise you wanted, you call it stupid because of the amount of work you put in just for your boss to notice you. It's pathetic, in a way.
Heading for the shower, you grabbed some clean clothes from your closet you had left open for the past week. Not bothering to close it even now, you eventually made your way to the bathroom with a headache slowly forming in your head.
Not even halfway out of the shower your mother decided to call you. She always had the worst timings for things like this.
With a towel wrapped around your wet and naked body you rushed out of the bathroom to grab your phone from your bedroom. You didn't even bother to look back at the wet trail of footprints you left behind you (it's a suprise you didn't slip).
With a sigh you dried off your one hand against the towel around your body and used it to answer the unexpected call from your mother.
"Y/N, sweetie! Why don't you call me anymore?" Your mother's concerned voiced echoed through the speaker of your phone against your ear and it made your eyebrows knit. That is clear evidence of why you don't like answering your mother's calls - she asks too many questions. Though, you knew it was out of love so you didn't really make a scene out of it.
"Hi to you too, mom," you grumbled in response as you made your way to the kitchen a few feet away from your bedroom. "And i've been busy with work. You know that."
"One call a week won't interrupt your busy schedule."
You could practically feel the frown on your mother's face on the other end of the line.
With the phone now rested between your shoulder and ear, you occupied your hands with making yourself a much needed cup of coffee.
"Whatever you say, mom," you said with a soft sigh before adding, "How are things there?"
"Same old, you know the drill by now, sweetie. Your father just started the new medication his doctor gave him yesterday, we just hope it works this time."
That made guilt chew on your insides. Suddenly, you regret not calling them more often when you heard your mother remind you about your dad's ill condition. Before you could reply you accidentally dropped the milk container on the floor. A soft curse managed to escape your mouth as you grabbed a nearby kitchen cloth to clean up the mess you just made.
"Aunt Jeon invited us for dinner tonight. I called to ask you if you'd like to join? Just to.. unwind a bit."
Your mother's voice sounded soft and genuine, it made your heart swell slightly.
Crouched down on the kitchen floor you managed to clean up the splatter of milk that had falllen onto the kitchen tiles.
"Mrs. Jeon? I thought they're on vacation?"
You didn't mind going to dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Jeon - infact, you loved it. Their house always had this certain presence of warmth which managed to take your mind off things a bit. After all, Mrs. Jeon did still see you as her daughter.. even after he left.
Your mother chuckled through the speaker. "They returned five days ago already. Is work taking over your life?" Though her voice sounded teasing, a hint of seriousness could be heard from her tone.
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I'll be there," you responded to the question she asked a few minutes ago and completely ignored the new question. Your mother wasn't stupid - she knew the truth, but she also knew enough to not push the subject.
"Okay, sweetie. I'll text you details of things you need to get at the shop. Be here at six. I love you."
The call ended just as you muttered "I love you" back. You now stared at a blank phone screen, your face reflecting from it. The bags underneath your eyes that were slightly visible only reminded you of your mother's words.
"Is work taking over your life?"
The words seemed to echo through your mind. Because she was right, it was taking over your life - you chose for it to be that way. You used anything as a distraction from the hole Jungkook had left inside of your chest. It's not like you haven't moved on - you did. Though, even if someone move on, and even if someone bury the memories far away they once had with that person, it never really leaves. It's still there, waiting to be unfold. Unfold by constant reminders of him.
One time you went on a date with a guy, really good guy at that. He was decent - a great job with a clean presence. He cracked one joke - one joke Jungkook had said once in high-school, and you left. Ghosted him after that. You figured the only way you won't be reminded of him was to work. Working yourself until your body begged you to sleep was the only solution.
You removed and deleted everything you once had of him. Gifts, photoframes - which used to be in your bedroom - photos on your phone, clothes which had his scent on. You forgot his laugh, his habits - but one thing stayed clear. And that was his face.
You'd see it every night when you managed to fall asleep, every morning being a reminder of how he left you years ago.
Nayeon, your best friend you made at work, had to find out the hard way about Jungkook. It happened when you got drunk at her place. What was suppose to be a relaxing girls hangout turned into a sobbing mess by the end of the night. The words you kept to yourself for so long finally bubbled out, one by one, in very specific detail. Nayeon listened to every word, comforting you as much as possible. From there on, you've labeled her as your best friend. She's the only person who truly listened after Jungkook left.
You enjoyed your coffee outside on the balcony (yes, with still just a towel on), before heading inside to actually get clothes on.
"No offense, Y/N, but you're twenty-five with no bitches. That's not really a flex," Nayeon's voice spoke up as the both of you browsed through the shop with a shopping cart. Her hand pushed her brown-colored hair back over her shoulder as she grabbed a bag of chips, throwing it into her own cart.
You frowned at that and pursed your lips. "And for what possible reason do I need bitches?" The annoyance behind your voice couldn't be covered - a clear reminder on how the topic of dating made you feel.
A scoff left Nayeon's red tinted lips. "Uhm, hello? To date? Go out? To actually stop working for once?"
Nayeon for sure didn't hesitate to give you the same amount of attitude you were about to give her.
You just shrugged, stopping in front of the section which contained a variety amount of spices. "I don't need a partner in order to go out. Besides, working is not that bad."
Your eyes scanned each spice carefully before grabbing the one named "STEAK SPICE."
A sarcastic hum were left in response by Nayeon and you silently prayed in your head for her to not continue whatever topic this was. You hate to be reminded of the fact that you're spending your weekends at home drinking an entire bottle of wine on your own.
"What happened to that guy you went on a date with anyway?" You casually asked as you pushed your cart to a different section - clearly trying to change the road this conversation were headed to.
Nayeon groaned and rolled her brown eyes. "Don't even remind me! He told me he wanted to keep it 'casual'-" she made quotation marks with her fingers before contuining, "- literally a day after hooking up with me. Who even does that?!"
You quietly chuckled at that. "Atleast you still got something out of it. Don't worry, there's many other guys who.." you thought for a moment before finishing, "Won't keep things casual after hooking up."
She atleast laughed at that, bumping her shoulder playfully with your own. "Yeah, right," she mumbled.
You grabbed a bottle of wine - you figured you'd need alcohol in order to actually make it through dinner tonight.
"I'm gonna go grab a few other things, meet me at the cashier?" Nayeon asked as she grabbed a bottle of wine for herself. You nodded in response before she walked away to a different section on the other side of the store, leaving the scent of her tropical perfume behind.
You figured you'd use this time to get the things you actually needed for the dinner your mom had invited you to earlier. You grabbed a few things - more spice, some basic ingredients you figured Mrs. Jeon could use, and some flowers. It would only be polite to bring flowers in apologies for not seeing them in a while, evidence of how work managed to take up all of your time.
Just as your hand reached out to grab the white roses that were displayed on a table, your movements got interrupted by another hand reaching out for the same flowers. Your hand pulled back and immediately your eyes went to the unknown person's face.
It was a girl. A beautiful girl at that - long silky black hair with feather bangs, smooth pale skin with not even a wrinkle or pimple in sight, her eyes were only complimented even more with the make up style she chose to do. Her fashion seemed foreign - not that your country had a specific fashion type it followed, but rather the different clothing brand's she was wearing gave it away that she was indeed not from around here.
"I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention at all."
Even her voice sounded perfect. It was soft - almost delicate. It matched her face really well.
"I'm not quite from here, so I'm still trying to get used to everything.." She gave a chuckle and you could've sworn it sounded like music. A tune someone could listen to all day.
A reassuring smile flashed across your face and you immediately waved off her apology. "It's nothing. Here," you gently handed her a bouquet of the white roses. As her hand reached out to take it from you, a silver - what seemed like an engagement ring - flashed on her finger underneath the lightning of the shop.
"I hope you're enjoying your stay so far."
You made sure your voice sounded friendly, almost trying to copy the softness of her voice. It was the presence she gave off - the warmth her tone held in the depths of it.
The mysterious girl gave the same smile you gave her earlier, placing the bouquet of white roses into her own shopping cart gently to make sure not to harm any petal. With that action alone you could tell she's soft-hearted.
"It's a beautiful country. It's my fiancé's home country, actually. He just got back after a few years so I'm getting his family flowers to atleast look.. presentable. In a way," she gave an awkward laugh at that.
"Well, I'm sure they will love you. And congratulations on your engagement." You grabbed yourself a bouquet aswell, taking the last one on the table.
"Enjoy your stay," another smile appeared on your face. As if her presence alone could make anyone smile without them even knowing about it.
She thanked you politely before you decided to part ways from her. She sounded sweet - the complete opposite of what people around you normally sounded like.
By the time you finished paying for your own things you met Nayeon outside, who seemed to be busy talking to some random guy you've never seen before. You weren't really surprised - you knew the impact Nayeon had on guys. But somehow it still managed to amaze you just how many people stop to admire her beauty.
Quietly you made your way beside her, clearly not wanting to interrupt whatever conversation they were having. At the sound of your shoes against the pavement you cursed yourself mentally when the both of them looked your way. The last thing you wanted right now was to be introduced to someone you didn't know at all.
"Oh, Y/N! Perfect timing. This is Taehyung, he's one of my co-workers," her manicured fingers gestured towards the man - seemingly named Taehyung - infront of her. You looked at him, your eyes practically taking in every possible detail you could see from where you were standing. He was handsome - absolutely no doubt in that. He seemed to be on Nayeon's level when it came to physical appearance; angelic-like.
"Taehyung, this is Y/N."
His eyes met yours and an awkward smile formed on your face as he seemed to be doing the same thing you did. Your hand quickly moved on it's own to fix a few strands of hair hanging annoyingly over your eyes trying your best to look presentable.
Nayeon leaned your way a bit more. "He's single, by the way," she whispered into your one ear - and he clearly heard it as well with the way his face seemed to turn a shade of red.
You slapped the side of her arm softly and pushed her away using your shoulder. "Nayeon, I swear to God-"
"It's okay. Atleast you're pretty."
His voice sounded like honey - sweet with faint evidence of bitterness beneath it. His lips were now shaped into a boxy smile.
You just chuckled, clutching the shopping bag in your one hand tighter. "Uh, thanks?"
Nayeon practically face palmed herself at your response. It was clear that her way of playing "cupid" were not working. At all.
"Sorry, she's socially awkward and can't talk to guys-"
"Anyways," you interuppted her with an awkward and dry cough, but not without sending a warning glare her way. "I'd love to stay and talk about.. me being socially awkward-" you made sure to punctuate the words 'socially awkward' by gritting it through your clenched teeth, "- but I better get going before I end up late for my dinner plans."
It seemed like Taehyung opened his mouth to reply but Nayeon beat him to it. "Oh, right. I forgot about that. Text me when you get home, okay?"
And there it was again - the soft Nayeon you loved so much. A side (you've noticed) not many get to see.
"Ofcourse. You two have fun."
With one final, tight hug from Nayeon you waved them goodbye and then proceeded to leave towards your car that were parked in the parking lot - just a few feet away from them.
The dinner weren't suppose to start in another two hours, but you really didn't feel like talking to another guy you'd potentially end up ghosting - again.
You promised yourself you wouldn't spend hours trying to choose an outfit (specifically infront of your mirror), but here you are. Two different dress options in hand.. in front of your bedroom body-length mirror.
The grey colored dress in your left hand caught your eye first. The delicate black flower patterns lightly visible on it only caught your attention towards it more. The only problem was the color. It was dull, almost boring - not to mention the fact that old people will definitely think it screams, "hey, i'm a depressed piece of shit who's still trying to figure out her life."
With a (maybe exaggerated) sigh, you threw the grey dress over your shoulder onto your bed. You needed to look good, needed to remind your parents and the Jeon family how 'well' you're doing with your life. How much you're enjoying your twenties. With that in mind, you figured the second white colored dress in your left hand wouldn't be such a great option too. You threw it next to the grey dress and then with a huff you made your way back to your closet.
You grabbed a simple pair of jeans with a beige colored shirt to go with it. It was just dinner, after all - you had absolutely no idea why you're making such a big deal out of it. Probably because you felt like getting dolled up in what felt like ages ago. You wanted to look pretty for once - do your make up, your hair and atleast get a good outfit to go with it. So, still with the jean and shirt thrown over your shoulder (incase you don't find anything else), you opened the other door of the closet which contained all of your dresses.
You scanned each one with a quick glance, taking in the variety of different colors and patterns. The lack of color in your clothes only reminded you how dull you were actually - and it reminded you to go do a shopping spree as soon as possible. Every single dress got thrown out of the closet in hopes of finding a bright colored dress somewhere, anywhere. You can't be lacking that much in fashion after all, right?
Determined to find a colorful dress, you noticed you have thrown almost every dress you own out of the closet, forming a pile of clothes on the floor next to you. You stood there in complete disbelief. You should've took Nayeon's advice a month ago when she ordered you to go shopping with her, but ofcourse, binge-watching Twilight seemed more appealing to you.
As you looked back at the closet a light pink color were slightly peeking out from the back. You don't recall owning anything by that color - let alone a dress of that sort. Curiously you reached out and grabbed the unknown fabric, somehow managing to pull it out from the back of the closet.
The moment your eyes got access to the full dress you froze. Your entire body went cold with realization and your knees felt weak at this very moment.
It was the dress Jungkook gave you as a present on your 19th birthday. Just a few weeks before he decided to vanish.
Your chest felt like it started closing up and you dropped the dress against the floor. You hated the way he still had this impact on you - the way you'd completely shut yourself down at memories or mentions of him. His presence was haunting you, eating you up alive from the inside and you couldn't do anything about it. You tried, God, you tried so incredibly hard to get rid of the effect he still had over you - the power he seemed to be holding over you without even knowing.
You often question if he felt the same? If your laughter and the stupid jokes you used to make haunt him the same way? If it lingers to him like his own shadow?
Your body seemed to be moving on it's own - grabbing the dress harshly from the floor with a tear forming in your one eye. The amount of anger you suddenly felt made this situation even harder.
Absently you threw the dress into the kitchen bin, closing the lid with more force than necessary. You stared at it for a long time, questioning whether you just made the right choice for yourself. You have thrown everything away he once touched or gave you - but you must've forgotten about this one specific item. Yet, the thought of throwing this away, the last thing he ever gave you, made you question your decision even more.
Hesitantly and slowly, you opened the trash can and pulled the dress out. It was exactly still in the same condition from when you recieved it six years ago - no mark and not even a hole. Probably because you've never worn it before.
And then the idea hit you. This would be the perfect dress to wear for a casual dinner, wouldn't it?
Your white car parked slowly in the driveway of Mrs and Mr. Jeon's house. There were a few other cars parked on the property aswell, and it made you question if your mom told you the truth about this dinner. Perhaps they decided to invite some more people, family or even neighbors. You didn't seem to mind it though - luckily you decided to wear a decent dress with your make up and hair done.
Turning the car's engine off by using your key, you opened the car door with a deep breath. Why were you getting nervous all of a sudden? It's just dinner with a bunch of old people - who would most likely ask you about your plans in the future and what you plan to do with your life. No big deal.
As you got out of your car and locked it behind you, you couldn't help but be reminded of how the outside still looked exactly the same from how you used to remember it. The same house where you and Jungkook would run into after school, throwing your belongings on the floor and immediately head towards the living room to play video games. The memory made you smile unknowingly, and for a second, you were relieved you didn't feel anxious for once by the thought of him.
Preparing yourself mentally for all the questions that lies ahead, you started making your way to the front door. Your hand gripped the medium sized purse over your shoulder and everything suddenly felt warm as each possible (bad) scenario rushed through your mind.
Before your hand could knock on the door it swung open, revealing a very smiley Mrs. Jeon.
"Y/N! Oh my, you got so skinny. Have you not been eating?" She suddenly pulled you into a tight hug, but you didn't hesitate to return it.
You chuckled against her shoulder before the hug broke. "Just busy, Mrs. Jeon. Sorry for not calling lately."
She waved it off with a laugh of her own, locking her arm arounds yours in order to pull you further into the house. Immediately you got welcomed by the nostalgia the house held behind it's walls.
"Don't be sorry, sweet pea. I know life tend to get busy sometimes."
You loved that about Mrs. Jeon. She never pushed something out of you - she always made sure to take whatever answer she gets.
"Oh, right. I got you and Mr. Jeon this," you reached out and handed her the white roses.
Her eyes softened at the kind gesture, gently taking it from you and placing a big kiss to your cheek. "You didn't have to, honey. That's very thoughtful of you. I'll go put this in a vase and you can go grab yourself a drink, okay?"
With one last hug she left the entrance of the house and headed to what you remember is the kitchen. Your eyes took in the interior of the house - it still looked the same as before. Everything were placed in the specific spot they once were, just a few changes here and there. You decided to step closer to the wall which had portraits and photoframes on it. You saw one with Jungkook, laughing at a river with this brother and it earned a soft chuckle from you. He looked so young, so innocent - the same Jungkook you once knew.
And then your eyes went to the photo next to that one - a photo of you and Jungkook at a beach when you were six. The smile slowly faded on your face and the nostalgia in your eyes got replaced with pure hurt. The same question flooded your mind once again, "how could he leave you behind after everything?"
Not wanting to spoil the evening even before it started you pushed every thought aside which had Jungkook in them, cleared your throat, and walked away to greet the people.
Greeting the people who decided to show up this evening must've taken some toll on you because you found yourself in the kitchen, pouring your first glass of wine for the evening. With a sigh you took a big sip, letting the bitter taste burn your throat - a feeling you're well familiar with by now.
Just then your mother decided to enter the kitchen with a bunch of gifts in hand. It made you frown, is it someone's birthday or something? Taking another sip of your wine you gently placed the wine glass onto the counter.
"Is it your birthday?" You teased with a smile and a chuckle. Your mother just gave a playful laugh at that and placed the multiple gifts in gift bags somewhere on the dining table. The way she fell silent suddenly made you question the situation even more.
"Not necessarily. Have you eaten something yet, sweetie?" You weren't stupid - you knew she's changing the subject for God knows what reason. But you decided not to push it, you'll find out eventually.
"Uh, not yet." Another sip of wine.
Your mother sent an unpleasant look your way before smacking your shoulder gently from the back. "Go eat something. There's snacks in the living room."
The tone in her voice left no room for debate so with a huff, you grabbed your wine glass and walked towards the living room.
In the living room there weren't alot of people but enough to make you want to go back home. The only people you actually knew were your parents and the Jeons. You walked carefully in order not to engage yourself in any conversation with the unknown faces around you, making your way towards the coffee table which had different snacks on plastic plates. You took a pretzel and then a sip of wine, using the alcohol to calm your mind a bit.
"I can't believe he's finally returning. It's about time, his mother were really starting to miss him.."
Your ears accidentally seemed to have caught the sound of some old lady's voice behind you. You weren't sure what or who they meant, so you remained silent and continued chewing on the pretzels.
Their conversation got cut off with the doorbell ringing but you didn't bother looking towards the direction. Instead, you remained near the coffee table with your wine.
Mrs. Jeon went to open the door, and as soon as it did, she started crying.
Now, ofcourse you would get curious. You look towards the direction (and noticed literally everyone else around you were looking at the front door) and holy shit.
You dropped your glass, causing it to shatter into a thousand different pieces around your feet. You didn't budge, didn't even make a sound. You couldn't - because, standing a few feet away from you - were him.
Jeon fucking Jungkook.
At the sound of the glass loudly shattering on the floor he turned his head towards the direction - your direction. Your eyes locked and everything suddenly changed. The anger you once had for him slipped away at an instant underneath his gaze.
summary: Lando Norris runs his empire with precision. As the head of The Reaper's Circle —the most influential mob in Monaco— he must be ruthless, untouchable, and always ten steps ahead.
But when a chance encounter at a quiet coffee shop leads to an unexpected connection, he finds himself treading dangerous ground. She’s ordinary and completely unaware of the world he operates in. Yet, he keeps going back. It starts as an indulgence, a curiosity—until suddenly, it’s not.
Because while Lando may be watching her, he’s not the only one.
all original characters, concepts, dialogue, and plot elements belong to me. please do not copy, repost, or translate my writing without permission. my depiction of real people is fictional, and for story telling purposes only!
The first in a series of stories exploring MC’s return after five years of silence. Others are coming soon — links will be added as they’re published.
Original ask that sparked this continuation.
CW/TW: emotional whiplash, estranged parent dynamics, mentions of past abandonment, grief & regret, yelling / intense arguments, emotional manipulation (mild-to-moderate), parental guilt, references to alcoholism (brief), weapon mention (non-violent context, antique firearm), implied past trauma
While inspired by the original characters and lore of the game, this is a personal interpretation. Some aspects of character behavior, relationships, or world-building may differ from canon — especially given the five-year time gap and the impact of traumatic events. Consider it an alternate emotional timeline, shaped by growth, grief, and what-ifs.
Rafayel | Caleb | Zayne | Xavier (coming soon)
(He never lets go. Not really. So when the world bends just enough for their paths to cross again—he grabs the thread like a man who’s been drowning for five goddamn years.)
The scent shouldn’t have hit him like that.
Bergamot and peach — too specific to be coincidence, too cruel to be real. It lanced through the mall’s artificial air, slicing straight into the part of him that had learned to rot in silence.
He stopped mid-step, black gift bag swinging at his side like dead weight. He hadn’t meant to be here. Just killing time before a meeting, maybe grabbing some pointless toy for Kieran’s son.
But that scent.
He followed it — not fast, not frantic. Just... pulled. Like gravity had shifted without asking his permission.
He rounded a corner. Walked past the blinding colors of a candy kiosk. Ignored the buzzing arcades. Stepped into the glow of the children’s department, bathed in too much light.
And then he saw him.
White hair, soft and unbrushed. Crimson eyes.
Staring down at a plastic capsule, tiny fingers struggling to pry it open, cheeks puffed in sheer, adorable defiance. The boy looked up and grinned at someone just out of view.
And then—there you were.
Crouched beside him, arms around your knees. That necklace still at your throat. Your hair longer. Your posture calmer. But it was you.
He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
You looked up. Met his eyes.
The world didn’t fall apart. It just... recoiled.
Your lips parted. He couldn’t tell if it was shock or guilt. Maybe both.
He took a step forward. Controlled. Precise. Like walking through fire and pretending it didn’t burn.
“Well,” he said, voice rough, cool, razor-sharp. “Isn’t this adorable.”
You didn’t answer.
He tilted his head, gaze dragging from the boy to you.
“You got taller,” he added, tone almost conversational. “I always said you needed better posture.”
Still, silence.
He smiled — the wrong kind of smile.
“And here I thought you were dead. Would’ve sent flowers. Or a bottle of wine. Maybe danced on your grave. Depends on the day.”
You stood slowly, one hand resting lightly against the child’s back. Protective. Subtle.
“I wasn’t hiding from you,” you said.
“No?” he murmured. “Just... the rest of reality?”
You didn’t answer that.
His eyes dropped again. To the boy. Then back up. He didn’t ask. Not out loud. Didn’t have to.
Your expression answered for you.
He exhaled once, slow, through his nose. Then laughed. Just a little.
“Of course,” he muttered. “Why not. Five years of silence, and now I get the full soap opera.”
He took another step, voice dipping low.
“Tell me something,” he said. “Was it worth it? The running? The silence? Did it help you sleep?”
You stared at him, steady.
“I did what I had to do.”
“Sure,” he said, nodding, the sarcasm now soft, silky. “And now you’re back in broad daylight, in my city, with my blood standing in front of capsule machines. Very covert.”
His fingers twitched slightly at his side. Not from rage — from restraint.
The boy turned.
“Mom?”
Your breath hitched.
“Come here, sweetheart.”
Small feet padded over. A tiny hand found yours without hesitation. Sylus watched it like a punch to the ribs.
The boy blinked up at him.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
Your voice was quiet. Even.
“Someone I used to know.”
Something in Sylus’s jaw clicked. He crouched down, not too close. Not yet.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi,” the boy replied.
“What’d you get?”
A capsule was held up proudly. “Tiny raven with red eyes!”
Of course. Sylus stared at it, almost amused.
“Good taste,” he said. “I used to have one just like that.”
The boy beamed.
Sylus rose to his full height again, gaze flicking to you — sharp now, cooled over, dangerous.
“This conversation’s not over.”
Your grip on the boy tightened, imperceptibly.
“I know.”
He didn’t linger. Just turned. Walked away like it cost him nothing.
But you saw it — the slight tremble in his fingers. And for the first time in five years — you knew: he wouldn't sleep tonight. And neither would you.
***
He doesn’t sleep. Not because of nightmares — those he’s made peace with years ago — but because of you. Because you were real again. Present. Breathing the same air. And now the silence he once ruled feels like a cage made of your absence.
He paces his study like an animal too big for its den, the whiskey glass untouched on the desk, sweating against the dark wood. The documents in front of him blur, ignored. His body is wired, restless, his mind clawing at thoughts it doesn’t know what to do with. He used to find solace in this room. Now it’s just another echo chamber.
You came back. Just like that. No warning. No apologies. As if you hadn’t torn him apart and scattered the pieces across five fucking years. And you didn’t come alone. You brought his son.
His son.
The words twist inside him like a blade. Rage flares hot and sharp — not just at you, but at himself. At the way he still aches for you. At the way his hands trembled the moment your eyes met his. You don’t get to come back like this. Not after he worshipped you. Not after he handed over every part of himself — the power, the silence, the vulnerability — and let you keep it like it was nothing.
You, who once ruled him with a smile and a whisper. You, who made the most dangerous man in the city gentle. You, who he let in so deeply that even now, after everything, his instincts still tilt toward you.
He should hate you. He wants to.
But all he can think about is the boy’s eyes — his eyes — and the fact that he didn’t know. You hid it from him. You stole that from him. And yet, the second he saw your face, all he wanted was to feel the warmth of your body again.
No. This can’t be impulsive. He tells himself that. Over and over. He has to be careful now. Strategic. This isn’t just about you anymore. There’s too much at stake. A child. Blood of his blood. If he moves wrong, if he rushes this, he could lose everything before he’s even had the chance to hold it.
You came back so openly, so carelessly — as if you knew. As if you were daring him to act.
But this isn’t a reunion. It’s a chess game. And he intends to win.
Still, all the logic in the world can’t stop the pull. His body moves before his mind can catch it. He throws on his jacket, crosses the hall in long, deliberate strides. He ignores the way his pulse hammers, the way his breath shortens. He tells himself this is reconnaissance. Observation. That he won’t knock on your door, won’t say your name, won’t touch you.
But he’s already walking to the car, and he knows — he’s lying.
Because it’s already too late. You’re a gravity he never escaped. And he’s hurtling back toward you like a star on its last, burning descent.
***
You hadn’t heard the door. You were sure you’d locked it — triple-checked, in fact. But when you stepped barefoot into the living room, the shadows shifted. And he was there.
Sylus.
Sitting in the armchair by the window, so still he might’ve been carved from shadow. His face half-hidden in darkness, but his eyes — those eyes — watched you with the slow, dangerous heat of banked coals. As if he were waiting for something. As if he’d already decided what it was.
You clutched your son’s sweatshirt to your chest, still warm from sleep, still soft with safety. Your fingers curled into the fabric like it might shield you from the inevitable.
Your throat closed around a breath you forgot to take.
“I should’ve known you’d find a way in,” you said. Not angry. Not even surprised. Just… tired. But not the kind of tired sleep could fix.
The silence stretched. And then—
“Why.”
His voice was low. Steady. But there was nothing calm about it.
“Why come back?”
You hesitated. Sat down at the edge of the couch, careful to keep distance between you. Close enough to feel the tension, far enough to pretend it couldn’t touch you. Your grip tightened on the tiny sleeve in your lap.
“I didn’t have a choice,” you said quietly.
A lie. And you both knew it.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched.
The air between you hung thick with everything unspoken — all the years, all the damage, all the silence that had grown teeth.
You tried again, voice thinner now. “Money was running out. And I didn’t want him to grow up in places that... don’t let kids be kids.”
Still no answer.
You looked down, as if the floor could save you.
“But that’s not really why I came back.”
There was a shift in the dark — barely perceptible, but enough. A muscle in his jaw, maybe. Or the faintest tilt of his head.
“I kept dreaming,” you said. “That he’d start asking questions. About who he is. Where he came from. Why he can hear footsteps down the hall before they happen. Why his teachers can’t meet his eyes. Why he knows when I’m lying, even when I don’t.”
You paused. Swallowed.
“I didn’t know what I’d say.”
For a long, breathless moment, there was nothing. And then:
“Thought maybe I was dead?”
You laughed — bitter, small, nothing like real humor.
“No. That would’ve been easier.”
He still didn’t move, but something in the room recoiled anyway. Maybe it was you.
You turned toward him, carefully, like stepping toward a storm you once loved.
“I thought if I stayed gone long enough, you’d forget. Or hate me enough not to care.”
He leaned forward slowly, like something waking up. The light from the hallway carved across his face, catching the sharp edge of his cheekbone, the faint scar at his jaw. He looked older. Not in his body — in his bones. In the way ruin settles behind the eyes and builds a kingdom there.
“Do I look like a man who forgets?” he said.
God, the way he said it. Like the last bell before a burial.
You didn’t answer.
“You ran,” he said. “Took my son. Hid him from me. For five years.”
“I had to,” you said, a little too fast. “You know I had to.”
“Say it.”
You met his eyes, barely.
“I didn’t want to raise him in your world.”
There was a pause. Then:
“He is my world.”
That broke something in you. The sweatshirt slipped from your lap, forgotten.
“I know,” you whispered. “I know.”
You stood before you meant to, took two small steps forward before you could stop yourself. A mistake. A betrayal of your own walls. Still, your hand lifted — hesitated — and reached out. Just barely. Fingertips grazing the side of his.
He didn’t flinch. But he didn’t hold you back either.
Not yet.
His breath caught, brushing your wrist like memory.
“I could’ve loved you softer,” he said. “But you were never meant for soft things.”
Your eyes burned. You couldn’t speak for a moment. And when you did, your voice was almost gone.
“Maybe I’m not. But he is.”
And still, beneath all of it — the guilt, the weariness, the regret that howled behind your ribs — you waited for the part that scared you most. The part where he would turn cold. Where he would say the thing you feared since the moment you left.
The part where he would take your son from your arms and never look back.
You knew he wouldn’t hurt you. Not you. Not the boy.
And still, that fear clawed at you like a curse.
So you did what fear makes people do — you attacked. With silence, with half-truths, with distance you didn’t want. You kept the mask on as long as you could, clung to it like armor, because if it slipped — if he saw how badly you still wanted to crawl into his arms and sleep like you used to, when he would whisper in that deep, velvet voice and stroke your hair until the nightmares went quiet — he might use it against you.
He might leave.
And you… you had no idea how to survive that again.
***
The night he left, you didn’t sleep.
You just lay beside your son, one hand curled protectively around his small, warm frame, the other pressed to your chest like it might keep your ribs from collapsing inward. Every breath felt like it came with splinters. He slept soundly, unaware. Safe in a world that you had built with trembling hands and stubborn silence.
By morning, Sylus hadn’t returned.
But Luke and Kieran had.
They didn’t knock. Didn’t speak. Just entered with the quiet precision of men who used to be part of your life — before you made them ghosts.
Their arms were full. Boxes, bags, toys, medicine, books. Clothes in every size. Food you hadn’t even realized you needed. And a black card, placed on the kitchen table like a detonator.
“From him,” Luke said, voice clipped, eyes avoiding yours.
You opened your mouth. To say thank you, maybe. Or I’m sorry. Or how have you been.
But Kieran was already turning away.
“Don’t,” he muttered. Not cruel. Not cold. Just done.
And it hit you, like it hadn’t hit you until that moment — not just guilt, not just regret.
You didn’t just run from him.
You ran from them too. The only people who had ever stayed. The only ones who’d held space for you when you were nothing but sharp edges and unfinished grief.
Now they wouldn't even look at you.
You stood there, frozen, surrounded by things you didn’t ask for — abundance you hadn’t earned — while your son laughed on the floor, tangled in a new toy, as if the world wasn’t cracked beneath your feet.
You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream.
But something broke. Quietly. Deeply.
Your pride was already bleeding. Your shame had nowhere left to hide. And still, it wasn’t the card that pushed you over the edge. It wasn’t the gifts or the silence or even the anger simmering in Luke’s shoulders.
It was the absence.
It was the fact that he didn’t come himself.
That he sent others. That he kept his distance — like you were already something to be managed, not faced.
And it shouldn’t have hurt. You’d told yourself a thousand times you didn’t want to see him. That this wasn’t about him. That you didn’t need his money or his empire or the echo of what you used to be.
But the truth — the ugly, humiliating truth — was this: you didn’t want his wealth.
You wanted him.
His voice. His arms. The way he used to pull you close and whisper things that made the dark quiet. The way he used to tuck you in like a secret, like something too rare to risk losing. You wanted him. And you hated yourself for it.
So you moved before you could think. Before the fear, the shame, the rational voice could stop you.
You grabbed your coat. Your keys.
Tara, bless her, had shown up just minutes before, arms full of groceries and soft reassurances, promising to stay the night if you needed to rest. You told her you’d be gone for a few hours. That everything was fine.
You kissed your son’s head — maybe a little too long, maybe a little too tight — and walked out the door without another word.
And then you drove.
Not because you knew what you were going to say.
But because if you didn’t see him now, if you didn’t make him look at you — you might shatter into pieces too small to ever come back together.
***
His estate was still the same.
Too grand. Too silent. Still heavy with ghosts you left behind.
The guards moved aside the moment they saw your face. No hesitation. No questions. Just doors opening like jaws — welcoming you back into the mouth of a beast you once dared to call home.
You didn’t knock.
You didn’t hesitate.
You stormed into the room mid-meeting — a rupture in the polished calm — slicing through tailored suits, cigar smoke, and the tight, brutal quiet of dangerous men interrupted. Every head turned.
Including his.
Sylus sat at the head like a monarch grown colder with time. Glass in hand. Eyes unreadable. And that stillness — the kind that wasn’t calm, just leashed violence.
He saw you. Took you in.
And didn’t blink.
“Out,” he said.
Just one word. Soft. Absolute.
And the bosses of N109 — men who’d burned cities, bled kings, slaughtered empires — obeyed without a sound.
The door clicked shut behind the last of them.
You stood there. Just the two of you now. Five years of silence between your ribs. His name lodged somewhere behind your teeth.
You stepped forward, fists clenched.
“So this is how it’s going to be?” you snapped. “You send your men with toys and blank checks and think that counts? You think that makes you a father?”
He arched a brow. Slowly. And then — God help you — he laughed.
It was low. Mocking. Bone-deep with disbelief.
“You’re angry?” he said, with a cruel sort of wonder. “That’s rich.”
“I’m serious—”
“Oh, I can see that. Look at you,” he gestured to you with his glass, casual, vicious. “Marching in here like I haven’t been erased from his life. Like you didn’t take a scalpel to the past and cut me out clean. And now what — two days after a chance encounter, suddenly I’m not doing enough?”
His smile was the kind that used to make people flinch.
“What exactly were you expecting? Balloons? A welcome-home banner? Me groveling for the right to meet the child you kept hidden like some dirty secret?”
You flushed. Heat crawled up your throat.
“That’s not what I—”
“No?” he cut in, voice quieter now, colder. “Because from where I’m standing, you vanish for five years, show up with a son that wears my face, and get pissed when I don’t instantly fall into step like nothing happened.”
You stared at him, stunned. But he wasn’t done.
“You don’t get to paint me as the absentee,” he said, each word deliberate, venomous. “You built that absence. You enforced it. You chose it.”
You swallowed, but your voice cracked anyway.
“I didn’t have a choice.”
He laughed again, but there was no humor in it. Just razor-sharp ache.
“Oh, come on, kitten. You always had choices. You were the clever one, remember? The strategist. The girl who read people like maps and always knew the way out. So tell me—what part of your master plan involved disappearing with my son and calling it love?”
“I was protecting him.”
“From me?” His voice dropped, dangerously soft. “Because you thought I’d do what, exactly? Teach him how to hold a knife? Make him my little monster?”
You didn’t answer fast enough.
He stepped forward, eyes burning now.
“You don’t get to disappear, reappear, and accuse me of being a bad father in the same breath. You don’t get to bury me in silence and then demand I dance the role you left me.”
And then, softer, darker:
“You think I wanted this? To send strangers to the doorstep of the boy I didn’t even know existed?”
Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.
He stared at you — not with hate, but with something worse. Hurt twisted so deep it no longer bled. It just settled.
“You think I wouldn’t have taught him to live?”
Your lips part. No sound.
“I would’ve taught him how to breathe in a world that eats soft things alive,” he says. “I would’ve taught him how to survive it. How to carry your laugh like a shield. How to fight for it. How to protect it.”
He’s not shouting. But each word cuts deeper than a scream.
“I would’ve laid down my empire for him,” he says. “I would’ve bled for every step he took.”
He pauses — just long enough for the weight of it to hit — and then:
“But you didn’t just take him from me.”
His voice lowers, rough and hollow.
“You took me from him. You took you from us. You didn’t just rewrite the story — you burned the whole fucking book before we even had a chance to open it.”
He steps closer, and you don’t move.
“You didn’t trust me with him. Fine. But you didn’t trust me with you either. And you—” his voice catches, jaw tightening, “you didn’t even give yourself the chance to know what it could’ve been like.”
His eyes are glass now. And every word is a knife he’s too tired to stop from falling.
“You robbed all three of us.”
You try to speak, but the words catch somewhere in your throat. A hard knot of guilt and grief you can’t seem to swallow. You want to say his name. Just his name.
But before you can, his voice changes.
It’s no longer cold. No longer composed.
It’s blistering.
“Do you know what I did the day I realized you were gone?” he says — and now it’s breathless, like the memory itself is suffocating him. “Do you?”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
So he does it for you.
“I drank,” he bites. “I tore the city apart. I hunted ghosts. I played the organ until the walls bled. Until the sound felt like your scream in my skull.”
You sway. He sees it. Doesn’t care.
“I sat in your chair,” he hisses, “and begged it to creak. Just once. Just once, like you were still in it.”
Your knees buckle.
Still, he doesn’t move to catch you.
“I watched videos of you sleeping,” he says, hoarse now. “Kept that ugly little mug you always hated — because your lipstick was still on the rim.”
You cover your mouth with both hands as your breath shatters open.
“I slept in our bed fully clothed,” he whispers, “because I couldn’t let the sheets forget your shape.”
He finally takes one step forward — and then stops. Something in him splinters.
With a growl pulled straight from his chest, he turns and hurls the whiskey glass into the fireplace.
It explodes in flame and glass, the sound like a gunshot, like a scream. Fire licks up the wall as the liquor catches, dancing high and fast.
You flinch. Cover your face.
But not from fear. From shame.
You drop to your knees, hands shaking uncontrollably, sobs raking through your ribs. You can’t see through the tears anymore, and your voice is barely there when you whisper—
“I didn’t know how to love you without losing myself.”
There’s silence for a beat. The kind that hurts worse than screaming.
Then his voice — softer now. Almost gentle. Still raw.
“Kitten,” he says. “Was I really such a monster that you had to vanish with a newborn? Cage yourself in pain and loneliness for five years?”
You can’t look up.
“Did it help?” he asks. “Did it ever help?”
Your voice comes out choked.
“No... no,” you cry. “It felt like I was dying every second. I called for you every night. I prayed you’d come.”
He exhales sharply through his nose.
“Maybe your pride didn’t let you call loud enough.”
His words hit like lashes — and they’re meant to. You hear the fury under them. The wound he’s trying to cauterize with cruelty.
“And now what?” he snaps. “You think I’ll just let you use me again? Let you touch me again? And then vanish with my son all over again? Is that the plan?”
“Sylus, please...”
Your voice cracks as the sobs take over. The panic. The helplessness. You’re unraveling at the seams.
“Please don’t do this. Please—” You clutch at your chest, as if trying to physically hold your heart together. “You’re cutting me open— You’re cutting me alive— I made a mistake— so many mistakes— I didn’t know how to come back— I was scared— I was so scared— I didn’t know how to fix it, I didn’t— I never— I never—”
You can’t breathe. The words collapse.
But one thing pushes through.
“I never stopped loving you.”
Everything halts.
His expression breaks. Not shatters — breaks, quietly, like a fault line slipping beneath the surface.
And then he’s moving.
Down to the floor. To you.
His knees hit the marble hard. He doesn’t feel it.
His arms are around you in the next second, pulling you in, wrapping you up like a shield against everything — even himself. Even your shared grief.
You sob into his chest, into his collar, into the hollow beneath his jaw that still smells like night and memory and danger and home. Your body convulses with it, trembling like the child you once were in his arms.
And he holds you. Tight.
Because there’s nothing else left to do.
And now, with you in his arms again — trembling, broken, real — something in him gives way.
Not all at once. Slowly. Inevitably.
You feel it before he even realizes it’s happening: the way his muscles start to loosen, the way the sharp lines of rage soften, his breath slowing against your temple as his hands begin to move. Hesitant at first. Then helpless.
He’s touching your hair — slowly, gently — like he forgot what softness felt like. His fingers slip through the strands, curl at the nape of your neck, anchor there. One hand presses against your spine, the other strokes up your back, down again, grounding you with each motion like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your grief against his skin.
Your sobs soak through his shirt, seep down to his chest, dampen his collar and slide down his neck. And he lets it happen. Welcomes the burn. Because after five years of silence, your tears feel like the only thing real.
You cling to him like the world’s collapsing again — but this time you’re dragging him into the rubble with you. Your arms around his shoulders. Your knees curled against his sides. Your legs wrapping around him like instinct. Like survival.
He doesn’t flinch.
He welcomes the ache of it. Every breathless grab. Every tremor in your limbs. Every desperate mark your body makes against his.
Because it means you’re here.
Because it means he still feels something.
And then your voice — a wrecked, shaking thing — finds its way through the ruin:
“I came back… because… because I couldn’t give him what he deserves. I tried. I tried so hard to be everything. But how can I show him joy, or love, or hope — when I live in the ashes of something beautiful I destroyed?”
Your voice cracks.
“How can I teach him love, when the only thing left in me is the bitter taste of everything I ruined?”
His arms tighten around you.
Your voice drops to a whisper.
“I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. Not now. Maybe not ever. I don’t even know how to fix myself. Let alone… heal you.”
You press your face into his chest, as if that could protect you from what you’re about to say.
“But please,” you whisper. “Please help me find the path back. What do I do? What do I say to make you stop hating me?”
There’s a pause.
A long, dangerous pause.
Then he exhales slowly — like the weight of your question cracked something inside his chest.
His lips find your temple.
Tentative. Testing.
He lingers there, breathing in the scent of you, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to want this.
Then he moves. A little bolder now.
Your hairline. The crown of your head. Your forehead. The slope of your cheek. His lips brush over each point like it’s a litany. Like he’s not kissing you, but praying through you.
He kisses your nose. Your brow. Your eyelids.
And then—your lips.
Or almost. Just close enough for his breath to mix with yours.
Each kiss a scar he’s trying to erase with his lips. Each touch a memory he’s begging not to lose again.
He doesn’t say your name.
He devours it.
“I hate that I still love you like this,” he breathes between kisses. “I hate that even now, after everything, all I want is you.”
You gasp. Half-sob.
“I hate that just being here… makes me want to forgive you.”
And then he’s kissing you, not like before. Not like memory. Not like longing.
Like a man drowning. Like someone trying to inhale every second he lost, burn it into his lungs before it’s torn away again.
You kiss him back — shattering into him, against him, with him. Arms tight. Mouth hungry. Breath wrecked.
Because this isn’t peace. This is survival.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only just enough to breathe.
His forehead presses against yours. His voice shakes.
“I’m not ready to forgive,” he says. “But I can’t go another day without trying.”
Your eyes stay closed. Your lips tremble.
“That’s all I want.”
He exhales — broken. Guttural. Human in a way he never lets himself be.
“I missed you so much it ruined me.”
And you say it — softly, clearly, the last shard of your heart finally offered:
“I came back to help you rebuild.”
***
A month later.
The dining room is too big for three people.
The chandelier still glitters like a threat. The long table could seat fifteen warlords. The silverware looks like it costs more than most apartments.
But tonight, with one small boy seated on a velvet cushion, feet not even reaching the chair rung, and a half-eaten pile of mashed potatoes in front of him — it somehow feels… livable.
You watch him with a kind of cautious awe.
He’s trying so hard to be proper. Sitting straight. Using both hands to hold the fork. Stealing glances at the towering ceilings and flickering wall sconces like they might come alive. Every now and then he glances at you — checking if he’s doing this right.
And then there’s the raven.
Mephisto — jet-black, silent, elegant — perched on the edge of a nearby armchair, watching your son like a curious god. Your boy is enchanted. He keeps whispering questions at him, occasionally offering a green bean as tribute.
Mephisto doesn’t flinch. Just cocks his head like he’s listening.
You’re barely touching your food. Too busy memorizing.
The way your son laughs softly at the bird. The way the candlelight flickers against the long mahogany floors. The quiet.
God, the quiet.
You don’t realize you’ve zoned out until footsteps echo down the hall.
Sylus appears in the doorway — sleeves rolled, collar undone, a worn copy of Somewhere in the Sky in one hand.
“He’s out,” he says, voice low, warm. “Fought it like a gladiator. I barely survived.”
You smile.
He crosses the room, setting the book on the sideboard. Loosens his shoulders like someone still unused to relaxing.
“Apparently,” he adds, deadpan, “the only thing he truly cares about in this mansion is the antique rifle mounted over the fireplace.”
Your blood runs cold.
“You didn’t.”
“I did,” he replies, reaching for the wine. “I told him if he managed to fall asleep on his own tonight, he could hold it — under supervision.”
You stare.
“Are you insane?”
He pours. Slowly. Deliberately. A touch of amusement in his eyes.
“He fell asleep in two minutes.”
He passes you a glass. You take it like it might explode. He clinks his own against yours and sits beside you.
There’s a pause. The kind that tastes like something new, but gentle.
And then, without looking at you:
“I like being a father.”
You glance over.
He’s staring into his glass. But the corner of his mouth twitches, like he almost doesn’t believe he said it out loud.
“It’s because it’s still new,” you say softly. “Still shiny.”
He shakes his head.
“No. It’s because he’s mine.”
A beat.
“And because when he runs into a room, he doesn’t hesitate. Like he belongs there.”
Your throat catches. You take a sip of wine just to avoid answering.
He leans back, drapes one arm across the back of the chair, and looks at you like he’s about to say something dangerous.
And he does.
“So.”
You blink.
“How do you feel about making a daughter?”
You choke on the wine.
He doesn’t laugh. Just smiles — that smile. The slow, calculated one that used to mean someone was about to lose a war.
“You’re not serious.”
“I’m entirely serious, kitten” he says. “We could use someone to balance out the chaos. She’d keep him in line.”
“She’d own you in three weeks.”
“I’d let her,” he says, completely unbothered.
You shake your head, laughing into your glass.
“You realize we’re barely functional as it is?”
“And yet, here we are,” he murmurs, “functioning.”
The silence that follows is soft. Safe. Domestic in a way neither of you knows what to do with.
You lean your head on his shoulder.
And for the first time in years — no one is running. No one is bleeding. No one is apologizing.
Just this: Candlelight. A boy upstairs dreaming of ravens and rifles. And the possibility — for once — of something beautiful not ending in fire.
| steve harrington x f!reader, childhood best friends » enemies » lovers
CHAPTER TWO - After You
On a luxury cruise, you find yourself tangled up in a scheme to marry Steve Harrington. Only problem is: you hate him.
or: It's way too easy to fall right back into old games with Steve Harrington. Especially when you're stranded together. 3.6k words
𓇼 ˚｡⋆ read chapter one | go to landing page
𓆝 a/n: I did my fucking research for this chapter, let me tell you.
The salty air whips your hair across your face.
Again.
You rake it back for the hundredth time, but it’s no use. The second your fingers leave, the wind tosses it right back over your eyes.
With an annoyed huff, you glance over at Steve.
He’s seated in the captain’s chair at the back of the sailboat, looking out over the impossibly blue water. His hair is shoved under a backwards hat, little sprigs escaping through the opening. He’s all cool and collected, one wrist draped lazily over the rudder, a pair of black sunglasses settled on his face.
When the small charter arrived at port to take you out on the excursion, Steve paid the fucking captain off so he could sail the thing instead.
Steve’s no stranger to boats, and you both grew up on the water every summer. It’s a beautiful, clear day, and if the boat were to run into any issues, you’re both strong swimmers.
However, right now, it’s pissing you off.
You were betting on having another person between you and Steve for the day. And now, it’s just you and him on the open ocean.
Alone.
Upbeat, tropical music plays over a portable speaker the captain left behind, and Steve’s foot taps along to the beat. You don’t realize how hard you’re glaring at him until his sunglasses turn towards you and he cocks his head.
“You know,” he says, voice carrying over the waves, “pretty sure you’re the only person alive who could be annoyed with this view.”
You roll your eyes. “What? Girls at Indiana University never get tired of your face?”
He smirks. “I was talking about the ocean.”
You turn back around before he can see the blush climbing your cheeks. When the wind flicks your hair over your eyes again and this time, you don’t even bother to move it.
“And as far as the girls…” he says from behind you, “Well, it’s not like you’d care anyway.”
Actually, you kind of do.
You can’t deny your curiosity at the thought of Steve’s dating life. He rarely posts to social media, and you haven’t spoken to him— other than a happy birthday text each year that you always scour, like maybe it includes some hidden message you missed the first three times you read it.
“Poor Stevie. What? Not getting laid lately?”
His mouth pops open and he turns to you, incredulous. Steve is a little shy when it comes to talking about sex.
He is not shy, however, when it comes to doing it.
“For your information, I’m doing just fine.”
You hum noncommittally. “Glad to hear it.”
“Seriously. I am.”
You toss your hands in the air. “Good!”
You can’t see his eyes narrow at you behind his sunglasses, but you feel it. A small perk of knowing the guy since childhood.
“Anyone special?” you ask. The words catch in your throat funny but he doesn’t seem to notice.
You watch as the private lagoon the captain pointed out on the map draws closer, heart lodged in your throat.
“Nah."
You don’t look back at him, but your stomach flips anyway. The snap of the sails and the crash of the waves against the stern fill the silence between you.
After a minute, he stands and walks to the other side of the boat. You watch from the corner of your eye as he grabs the sail line and wraps it around the winch, cranking it tighter. You try not to let your gaze linger on his biceps as they flex with the motion, or the way his strong fingers wrap around the handle.
But you fail miserably.
He looks between the sail and the horizon as the ship pulls forward underneath you, picking up speed in the wind.
“What about you, huh?” He calls over the creak of the ropes. “You found anybody down in gator land?”
“Not really. Not after—” The words spill out before you can stop them. “I mean—” You stop yourself short, cheeks flaming. “No.”
You grimace internally. You should’ve just lied. Because now he’s going to make it a thing. The wind ripples through his white T-shirt as he turns towards you, still holding tension in the rope.
“After…what?”
After you. But you don’t say any of that.
What’s the point? He said it didn’t mean anything.
He drops his hat on the deck and rakes a hand through his hair, turning back to the winch. “I don’t believe that. C’mon, princess. When was the last time you—I mean, you had to have—you’ve probably…”
“Had sex?” You finish for him. “Been fucked? Got a good dick—”
“Jesus,” Steve interrupts, clearly embarrassed. “Never mind!”
You laugh. “You started it!”
At least his discomfort saves you from having to actually answer the question.
Truth is, you’ve only had sex once since being with him. Freshman year—you were so angry at him. So hurt. You just wanted to stop thinking about him.
So you went to a sticky, way-too-loud party with your roommate. There was a Brad at the bar. He chatted you up, said all the right things, took you upstairs.
And you felt…nothing.
It wasn’t horrible. It was fine. But it was nothing like it was with Steve.
And honestly, between your school, research, volunteer work, and unfolding career, you haven’t had the urge to try again since.
So yeah, you cannot answer that question. Because he’d mock you for the rest of your life if he knew the one night you shared together was the best sex you’d ever had.
Maybe that’s why you’re noticing the veins in his forearms as he works the ropes. The flex of his thighs as he steps down from the rigging.
Just three years of self-inflicted celibacy going straight to your head like an espresso martini on an empty stomach.
As you approach shallower waters, Steve eases the sheet, letting the line slip through his palm. The boat slows beneath you, and the wind dies down, giving your hair a welcome reprieve.
“Steer us in, will you?” he says, eyes on the sail, but by the time he’s finished his sentence you’re at the stern, your hand already on the tiller.
The lagoon is gorgeous. Large rocks tower over you, surrounding a giant pool of crystal clear water. Forget that stuffy, cold, way-too-large room on the ship…now this…this is a real Haven.
Coral begins to peek through the surface—colorful patches blooming under the turquoise waves. You peer over the edge, watching with wide eyes as fish scatter among them.
“Wow,” you say quietly. “That’s a healthy reef.”
When you glance up, Steve is already looking at you. The corner of his mouth lifts, but you turn away before he can say something about how much of an ocean nerd you are.
The boat eventually slows to a crawl, rocking gently in the waves. Steve tosses the anchor overboard, and the two of you move about the boat in unspoken sync. You reach to unlatch a white chest onboard. The salty, fishy smell eases something in your chest as you pull out the snorkels, fins, and goggles all piled inside.
It's familiar. Easy. Maybe today won't be so bad.
Behind you, Steve shifts and the boat creaks. Curious, you look back just in time to see him strip his shirt off, leaving him in a pair of red swim trunks. The sun gleams off his shoulders, kissing the smattering of hair down his chest and stomach.
You turn around quickly before he catches you watching, and tug your cover-up off, revealing your pink bikini.
You don’t turn to see if he’s looking.
You know he is.
You’ve just finished zipping up your wetsuit when something splashes in the water behind you. It could be a barracuda! Or maybe a ray...
You flop across the deck in your flippers and peer into the water. The surface is clear, but the gentle disturbance suggests something large underneath—
Suddenly, a hand shoots up and clamps around your wrist.
You barely have time to curse before Steve yanks you into the water with him.
The water is warm and shockingly clear. It bubbles up around you, kissing your skin as you adjust your mask and dive. For a moment, you almost forget how to breathe through the snorkel, like you haven’t done this a thousand times in your studies in Florida.
The reef is alive.
Sunlight filters in long beams, rippling across the shifting sand below. Blue tangs dart between some of the thickest elk horn coral you’ve ever seen. Sure enough, a shy barracuda lurks in the depths, half-hidden behind a pair of gorgeous sea fans that sway with the current. Your pulse leaps as a school of silversides flashes past, too quick for you to count them all.
When you lift your head, Steve’s treading water nearby. His sunglasses are gone, replaced with googles now pushed up on his forehead as he slicks his hair back, eyes locking with yours.
“See that parrotfish?” You say, pointing beneath him.
Steve squints, dunks under, then pops back up a second later. “That’s the …green one, right?”
“Yes!” You grin, a little sheepish. You’re aware of how nerdy you sound right now, but you're so excited you don't really care. “This coral has practically no algae because of him. Some of the cleanest I’ve seen!”
“What is it with you and fish that all have jobs?”
You splash him playfully. “Shut up.”
He’s right, though.
Every species has a role in ocean life. Including humans. It’s why you went into this field in the first place—to prove that everything, everyone, has a purpose in keeping the planet healthy and thriving.
It’s been too long since you’ve done any field work. All those research papers kept you stuck inside most of your last school year. But here, surrounded by the color and sunshine, it’s easy to remember why you love it so damn much.
You swim farther into the lagoon, marveling at the various types of critically endangered coral you’re finding alive and well.
You’re busy inspecting a cluster of oysters tucked under a rock when Steve swims up beside you. The water lifts your hair as you turn toward him, and he presses something into your hand.
He points toward the surface, then kicks upward before you can even look.
When you break the surface, you pull the snorkel from your mouth and take a breath. Water drips from Steve’s hair and he drags a large hand over his face to wipe it away.
“Tag,” he says. Sunlight catches in his lashes as his eyes drop to your hand.
Slowly, you uncurl your fingers. Settled in your palm is a small conch. It’s smooth, spiral shell glints in the sun as you turn it over.
It’s the color of your eyes.
Without warning, a laugh bubbles out of you—deep and throaty and…real.
“Missed that,” Steve murmurs.
You swipe a hand over your face, whisking the water away, all too aware of the way you’re grinning at him. “What?”
He looks at you for a long moment, arms moving easily through the waves as he treads water. Then, he smiles.
“Your laugh.”
STEVE
She’s just as beautiful as ever.
Maybe even more so. If that’s even possible.
She’s been so angry with me. Her eyebrows were knit together all through breakfast, and she’s been scowling at me ever since last night. We haven’t talked about our fight in the Haven. She didn't ask where I slept, but maybe she didn’t even notice me never coming to bed.
I slept on the deck under the stars. After three Marlboros.
But right now, she’s smiling, holding that shell like I just gave her a diamond, and the whole world seems brighter.
My parents would just love that, wouldn’t they?
“God, that game. Feels like forever, since…” she murmurs, something far away in her voice. She’s still looking at the conch, and my head spins a little when her tongue sweeps her bottom lip, collecting the salt there. “We were kids the last time we played this.”
My chest tightens. “It wasn’t that long ago.”
She shoots me a look. “Try seventh grade.”
Back then, all those summers ago, we invented a game called Seashell Tag. Not sure who started it. But the premise is simple: you have to find a shell the color of the other’s eyes. If you don’t pay up by the end of the day, you owe them a Coke.
“Seventh grade our not, same rules still apply, Princess. You’re it.”
She shakes her head, but a smile tugs at her lips. She seems…lighter. More like her old self. I’d bring her a million seashells if it kept her like this.
I missed her.
All of a sudden, her words echo through my head, like a stabbing pain behind my eyes. You always just do what they tell you to, Steve. You were just following orders.
My stomach sinks, my eyes dropping to the waves.
That's what’s kept me from calling her late at night, when random girls’ lips on my neck just started to feel like cold skin and too much strawberry lip balm I have to scrub off later.
How could she think that? How could she say that to me? Like I didn't have a choice in the matter. Like I wasn't right there with her, kissing her back, holding her, whispering all those things...
It doesn't matter anymore.
Because Princess had plans. Big ones. She was—is—building something important. Unlike me—barely scraping through high school with mediocre grades, not enough for a baseball scholarship, watching my parents scramble to secure me a spot in a decent college. Decent by their standards, anyway.
If I’d told her how badly I was in love with her back then, she wouldn’t have gone to college in Florida. And it had the best marine biology degree in the country.
She would’ve hitched her car to mine, and spent those years at Indiana instead.
She’s always wanted this.
I couldn’t be the one to take it from her.
Even if that meant pushing her away.
Every time she surfaces, I go with her and listen to her ramble about the specifics of fish functions. I’m helpless to tear my gaze away from her lips as she talks, or from watching the way the saltwater clings to her hair, separating it into silky strips. How her eyes get all wide and excited when something colorful swims under her flippers.
By the end of the hour, we climb back into the boat, dripping and exhausted. But she seems lighter somehow, breathing in the coastal air, beaming in the hot sun. She’s sitting closer to me, too. Water drips from her hair onto my arms as she peels off her wetsuit, leaving that bikini on full display.
It’s like she’s doing it on purpose.
She’s not though.
Right?
I turn away, distracting myself with hauling up the anchor.
The rope fibers dig into my hands, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in my chest of seeing her here like this—knowing what it feels to have her beneath me—and pretending like I don’t remember. Like the memory of her lips on mine doesn’t find its way into my dreams every night.
Because nothing, and no one has ever compared to her.
The wind is good, and we make it back to the dock just before noon. Princess steps off the boat gracefully, lifting a hand to shield her eyes as she checks the sun.
She never carries a watch. Never has. Much to her parent’s dismay. They’ve bought her at least ten of them.
“Uh, Steve?” she calls. “Where’s the ship?”
I hand off the ropes to a waiting deckhand before stepping up beside her. I glance toward the harbor, expecting to see our cruise ship waiting offshore.
It isn’t.
There’s nothing but open ocean and a handful of smaller boats rocking in the sun.
I squint against the brightness, sliding my sunglasses back down. “Where the hell—”
“It’s cruisin’ around the island, today,” the deckhand calls, barely looking up as he ties off the lines. “There’s no island pickup 'till four.”
Princess and I turn slowly towards each other.
“Oh my god,” she exhales sharply. “I can’t believe them. They lied to us about pickup time? Seriously? Do our parents know no bounds?"
Great. Now I definitely won’t get to watch the Cubs game today.
Behind us, the island stretches out as far as the eye can see. Lush palm trees sway, casting dancing shadows across a path that leads deeper into the small coastal town. Even from here, I can see shops lining the path; their pastel paint faded by the sun.
I check my watch and sigh.
“When is the game?” Princess asks.
I look over at her, thrown. “What?”
“The Cubs. What time does it start?”
She remembered?
A red outline from her googles marks her face. I think about teasing her about it, but…it’s even cuter if she doesn’t know it’s there.
“First pitch is in twenty minutes. But we’re not going to make it back in time—”
The words die in my mouth when she grabs my hand. Her touch is firm, and warm, and—holy shit—I’ve missed it.
“Come on,” she says, pulling me toward the path.
“Where are we going?”
She looks back over her shoulder, hips swaying, eyes bright with mischief. “You’ll see.”
Fuck.
It takes a little womanly charm—and a couple of crisp twenties—but Steve’s team is now front and center on the screen of a local dive bar.
You found the spot halfway down a side street, tucked between a shop selling overpriced shells, and another with spray-painted T-shirts. Inside, ceiling fans spin lazily overhead, circulating the smells of lime, fried food, and salt.
There’s about a dozen people scattered around warped wooden tables, hands wrapped around plastic cups half-full of tequila. But none of them pay you any mind as you push Steve’s six-foot-two frame down onto a cramped barstool in front of the TV and take the one beside him.
Steve leans forward, elbows on the bar, completely locked in while the crack of the bat cuts through the hum of the locals’ chatter.
“Whatever you got on tap,” you tell the bartender, eyes still fixed on Steve, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Two of ‘em.”
He’s always been like this about the sport. It’s strange seeing him like this again. But the strangest part is how easily you fall back into rhythm together, like nothing ever truly broke between you.
Take that up with your heart.
Two sweaty beers land on the bartop. You reach for yours, eager to dull the thoughts racing through your head—and the realization settling deep in your stomach of just how much you missed Steve Harrington.
Halfway through the second inning, you notice a small group has gathered at the bar behind you. A particularity spectacular catch has Steve jumping from his seat with a whoop, clapping the old man beside him on the back like they’ve known each other for years.
“Fuckin’ Kelly!” Steve shouts, raising his beer to the screen. “Guy’s got a glove made of steel.”
By the bottom of the fourth, a small crowd has gathered. A bad call has the whole room booing. Someone behind you yells obscenities at the ref, and you’re pretty sure you see actual money trade hands in the corner after that play. Cubs are down by three runs, and Steve’s busy defending his team, batting off arguments and taking heat from the bartender for being a Cub’s fan in this 'day and age.'
“Hey, they might be losers. But they’re lovable ones!” He fires back.
You smile to yourself, shamelessly enjoying the humiliation ritual.
You’re kicked back in your stool, feet crossed over the edge of the bar—much to the bartender’s dismay—but he still plops down a tray of nachos anyway.
When you and Steve reach for the nachos at the same time, your hands bump. Your gazes click together like magnets. Before you can think of something witty to say, Steve’s knowing grin steals the breath from your lungs.
The noise of the bar seems to fade into the background. Your heart kicks against your ribs as something flickers in his expression, but it’s gone in an instant, replaced by that same smug confidence in his brown eyes. The look that’s never failed to get you into trouble your whole life.
“By all means, Princess.” He tilts his head, smirking. “After you.”
a/n: okay, I love them. thanks for being patient for this chapter. these two are so much fun to write!! thanks for reading!!! please come tell me your thoughts in my asks or leave a comment, i’m dying to hear your thoughts okay love u.
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