Winds in the East, Mist Coming In .

shelly | 30s | she/her | aspiring author ♡ current obsessions: glen powell, top gun: maverick, twisters, marvel

[theghostinthelibrary]

💫Welcome to My Space, The Library 💫

Hi! I'm Shelly (formerly mlqueen89) and somehow (maybe on purpose), you've stumbled into my little nook of Tumblr. Sit, stay, make yourself comfortable! Here, you'll find both original works and fanfiction; long form, one-shots, drabbles, head canons and maybe just some random updates.

☕🖋️The Low-Down on Me🖋️☕

Fandoms I Follow/Write For:

Glen Powell

Tyler Owens/Twisters (2024)

Jake "Hangman" Seresin/Top Gun: Maverick

Marvel & MCU

⚠️🚨 This Blog is 18+ Only! 🚨⚠️

90% of my writing contains NSFW topics or sensitive/adult content. Each piece comes with a warning, but if you're not 18 or over, please turn back now! Minors, DNI.

📖 The Masterlist !

All the work, in one place.

✍🏻 Le Requests ! (Closed)

Currently closed as I'm trying to organize my schedule heading into spooky szn! All requests that came in before Sept 6 will be considered.

🔖 The Library !

I love reading just as much as I love writing. Any fics I've read and love will be reblogged here.

🧿 Signs With Shelly !

A side blog in which I do zodiac analysis of your favourite characters and even take requests!

☕ Tip Jar !

if you like what you read and you'd like to show some love, caffeine is my twin flame! Never expected, always appreciated. ❣️

Finally, never be shy to shoot me a message! I love hearing from you guys!

XOXO, Ghost

(mlqueen89)

[texasbama]

OFF CAMPUS (2026- )

[nicotineprayers]

if not boyfriend, then why boyfriend shaped‼️

[percyfraser]

OFF CAMPUS 1.07 — "The Faceoff"

[theghostinthelibrary]

Hello weary traveller! May I offer you a sampling of Off Campus so that you can become emotionally dependent on hockey boys / question all your life choices that didn't lead you to Garrett Graham / have every waking thought be about Dean & Allie ?

[theghostinthelibrary]

WHY IS NO ONE TALKING ABOUT HOW DEAN IS ESSENTIALLY JAKE SERESIN / HANGMAN'S LITTLE BROTHER?!

[theghostinthelibrary]

okaaaaay now you gotta tell us when you wrote the wet shirt/pool scene in aurora borealis green!!! and perhaps you can give us a sneak peek on what other predictions you have 👀

Here's that part from Aurora Borealis Green, shared in the Discord I'm a part of, on November 10th. Called it.

Haha Vanity Fair interview and shoot was released on November 18th.

I think I'm going to start releasing snippets to prove I can predict GTP. Particularly, some of the "predictions" I have. 😂

[theghostinthelibrary]

https://www.instagram.com/p/DRnrCBqj6BG/?igsh=MXAzeXV3NXljY3p2NQ==

This is so hook ‘em coded 😭

omg omg omg. nooooo. it isssss!

... am i psychic guys? Hook 'Em was posted on October 30th. Texas Monthly's article dropped November 3rd, this extra photo dropped three days ago (Nov 28th)?

🔮well, i'll take it. haha.

STAY TUNED FOR MORE PSYCHIC GLEN FIC DROPS.

maybe he starts dating a romance author next?

quick. someone ask me when I wrote the wet shirt/pool scene in aurora borealis green, cause, i can prove, with receipts, it was before the Vanity Fair photoshoot/article drop. 😂

[theghostinthelibrary]

as a fellow canadian, I’m obsessed with your glen rpf narrator!! hopefully you consider writing more of them ☺️

🍁 oh haiiii, fellow canuck! 🍁

this makes me so so happy! we're underrepresented in the fanfic world, and i think glen with a canadian just makes sense, right? haha 😍

i'm definitely going to be writing more of glen with our canadian author girlie. they have my heart. ❤️❤️

[theghostinthelibrary]

aurora borealis green , pairing: glen powell x f!reader   rating: 18+ (minors dni)   warnings/triggers:  glen setting crazy high standards for boyfriends, glen holding a baby, events that may induce ovary explosion, fluff. semi-serious triggers for mentions of glen’s family members by name, other celebrities mentioned by name, drinking, swearing, shower foreplay, unprotected p in v sex, oral (m receiving), body worship, praise. this one is a bit spicy. if rpf isn’t for you, maybe don’t read this one. word count: 12,518 (srry) summary: book boyfriends, meet your match: glen powell. 

A/N: well, “hook ‘em” blew up my notifications and has now officially become the fic with the most interactions. i love love love that so many of you enjoyed it. i have a habit of creating these narrators i end up falling in love with too, so here’s a sequel to “hook ‘em” with the same narrator, playing off the dynamic they’ve established in that last piece. 

if you love these two as much as i do, let me know, i have a few more ideas for them. this one was heavily inspired by “snow on the beach” by Taylor Swift ft. Lana Del Rey and “love song” by Lana Del Rey. ultimately, it’s about falling in love with someone as they fall in love with you.  

you can all thank ali hazelwood (@ever-so-ali) for being the fuel i need to write these—“mate” and “problematic summer romance” are absolute fucking masterpieces (as per usual).    i'm still looking for a way to tag everyone, so if i miss you, sorry! trying to work out a better way to manage these! if you love my writing, i'm also working on my second draft of a full-length contemporary romance novel for trad publishing. if you're interested in possibly getting a copy/reading it, let me know! 

on that note, i cannot be held responsible for what happens when there’s new glen content literally everywhere and he talks about being “accused of spanking too hard”. i'm ovulating, blame my ovaries and take me to horny jail; i’m guilty.  

special thanks to @tgmreader for being the kindest beta reader.

♥ masterlist ♥

If someone wanted to trap you, the Barnes & Noble at The Grove had all the right bait: new book smell, iced coffee, and far too much stationery you absolutely didn’t need but suddenly couldn’t imagine living without. 

“So, we’ll get through the Q&A, and then I’ll get you set up on the second floor by the windows for signings.” 

You scowled—mostly at yourself—when you realized exactly why your publicist had picked the second floor: it kept you safely out of reach of the iced coffee and the dangerously cute cactus/cat/corgi-themed stationery. 

Still, you smiled brightly and said, “Perfect.” 

Even as you died a little inside, riding the escalator that slowly carried you away from the stand of themed sticky notes, you made a mental note to come back for a stack of Pawst-Its and Tabby Tabs. 

The Q&A buzzed by quickly—some new questions mixed with the usual ones about your process and Glen’s supposed muse status. The moderator half-read a few cards, tossed others aside, and moved quickly through the stack. 

By the time the crowd formed a line for signed copies, it wound around the back of the cooking section and looped in on itself. 

“So, I have to ask,” your brother Dave hummed—third in line, with your giggly, squealing niece reaching for you like you were a celebrity in your own right. “Did being with my favorite naval aviator-slash-astronaut-slash-Long-Fingered-Boy help you write this amazing book?” 

Your sister-in-law was likely somewhere in the “Minecraft books” section, being led around by your nephew, arms full of whatever his latest obsession was. You couldn’t count on her to husband wrangle. 

You rolled your eyes, let out the driest laugh you could muster, and grabbed a fresh copy of Every Other Universe. You’d barely touched the Sharpie to the title page when a thud on the table caught your attention. 

“Actually—” he shifted and slid a copy across the table. The edges were worn, pages dog-eared, spine cracked. “This one.” 

He didn’t say it was his. Didn’t say he’d read it, adored it, or even hated it—just let it sit between you as the unspoken proof that he’d bought a copy. 

As the eldest daughter—and his only sister—you’d grown up mercilessly teasing your younger brother. When he shot past you in height at thirteen, he’d started dishing it right back. Now, well into your thirties, the sarcasm still flowed—equal parts needling and affection—which made moments like this hit a little deeper. 

“I should’ve known it was you making the moderator hate her life during the Q&A,” you muttered, signing the inside cover with a flourish. You tried to slip in something that said I love you, I see you, thanks for being in my corner—but it came out loopy and delicate: 

“You’re going to H-E-L-L double hockey sticks.” 

You were confident he’d understand. 

“Pretty sure I saw her eyeing the balcony ledge more than once.” 

“Someone had to ask if your sex life with your movie star boyfriend made it into the narrative.” 

 Despite your best efforts, you flushed, shoved the battered copy back at him and waved him off. “Can you get out of here? You’re holding up the line.” 

He rolled his eyes, grabbed the book, tucked it under one arm—then, without being asked, tipped your niece toward you over the table. 

 You pressed a butterfly kiss to her cheeks and nibbled her tiny hand, earning a delighted squeal. 

“You coming to Disney with us tomorrow?” 

“Wouldn’t miss it.” 

“Great. Don’t forget sunscreen for your pasty complexion.” 

 He winked, stepped aside, and the line shuffled forward again. 

A few readers, a few smiles, a few familiar questions about process, character arcs, and whether the story was inspired by real life. You slipped into a rhythm—signing, chatting—letting your hand cramp in quiet protest. 

Somewhere between a girl in a handmade book-themed dress, the Taylor Swift–style bracelets with your characters’ names, and a pair of sisters (or cousins) debating which scene made them cry hardest, you caught a flicker of movement to your left. 

Not in the line, but behind the velvet rope near the far edge of the open mezzanine, next to a display of The Love Hypothesis, Bride, Mate, and Problematic Summer Romance. 

Dave—his tall, lanky frame unmistakable in a crowd otherwise made of your book’s target audience—was bouncing slightly on his heels the way he always did when his knees got stiff. But it was who he was talking to that made the grip on your Sharpie falter. 

It took you a second—behind the smudges on your octagonal-lensed glasses and the distraction of a few more signatures—before you could look back. 

Glen. 

He wasn’t in line—black Texas Longhorns ballcap low, dark henley sleeves pushed up to his elbows.  

He was leaning back slightly, listening as Dave spoke animatedly with his whole body, using that same ridiculous gesture you’d seen a hundred times to reenact something—probably about your nephew, or maybe the dog—and Glen was laughing. Big, honest laughter, his perfect smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. You watched—almost entranced—as he clapped Dave on the shoulder like they were old friends. Maybe, possibly, someday... ...in-laws. 

Dave said something else, and Glen nodded, grinned, then answered with a short, emphatic shake of his head—both of them chuckling. 

Dave elbowed him gently, tipping his head toward your niece, who had begun squirming in his arms. Glen didn’t pause. He reached out, arms open, and took her with ease—adjusting her like he’d done it a hundred times: one arm braced under her legs, the other wrapped securely around her back. 

You felt it register—ping-ponging through your entire body. The swell in your chest, the deep-settled need to see this man with babies of his own, and the quiet sigh of contented, stupidly giddy happiness. 

Your niece went still for a moment, blinking up at him—then squealed as she reached for the chain half-tucked inside his shirt and smacked her other chubby palm against his cheek. Glen flinched exaggeratedly, played along with a soft “oof,” and kissed her temple like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

You squirmed in your chair, heart pounding in your chest as you watched Glen make faces at your niece, earning wild, bubbling laughter from her. Dave—oblivious—squatted down to tie his shoe, muttering something you could almost hear about needing to exercise more between firehouse shifts. 

“Can you make it out to Rylee? R-Y-L-E-E.” 

You turned back, smiled at the excited fan, and your Sharpie squealed across the page.  

To: Rylee—keep your heart open. 

The shift from your day (various book promo related responsibilities) to the night felt cinematic—so much so, you were pulling out your phone in the back of the hired car on the way to Glen’s place, quickly jotting down the skeletal frame of an idea before it left your mind as it came: without warning. 

You were thankful Glen’s stylist knew your measurements—and your best colors—well enough to match whatever Glen would be wearing, because you’d found a dress in the most gorgeous shade of green hanging beside his outfit at his place. 

Soft satin, the hue of sunlit emeralds, thin straps holding up your bust through hope, prayer, and a bit of Hollywood magic. The long slit stopped mid-thigh—designed to make Glen forget his name for at least a beat. 

When you stepped outside, just as the car pulled up, he was already on the step, checking his watch out of habit more than frustration. He knew you always needed “five more minutes,” even on your best days, and he never rushed you for it—just waited, easy and patient, like he’d built the extra time into the night on purpose. 

“Holy hell,” he muttered on the tail end of a long whistle. His eyes swept down, then back up, like he couldn’t decide which part of you was his favourite. 

“Not so bad yourself,” you hummed, stepping into him as his hands came up to frame your hips. You straightened his bow tie, then planted a lingering kiss on his lips. When you pulled back, you wiped the smudge of terracotta lipstick from his bottom lip. “Very James Bond meets Southern charm. Dangerous combination, Powell.” 

“Could you say that again?” He dramatically reached into his pocket and fished out his phone. “Just—into the speaker. I’ll send it to the Bond Casting Director.” 

You smiled, dipped your chin toward the phone, and tried on your best sultry voice, eyes flicking up to his and locking there. “I, of sound mind and body—” Glen’s eyebrow quirked, and he stifled a smirk as you continued, “—attest that Glen Powell is the sexiest James Bond you could hope to cast. He also makes the most adorable sound when I—” 

He swallowed hard. “Okay, okay. Cut. That’s not going anywhere. I’m keeping that for later. Motivational material.” 

“Was it not good?” you teased. “I can try again—maybe with a huskier tone? Amp up the bedroom eyes?” 

He didn’t acknowledge the fact it was a voice recording. Instead, he wiped a hand down his jaw, clicked his tongue, and gave a dry laugh. His hands settled on his hips, suit jacket swept aside, tongue pressed into his cheek as he shook his head slowly—like he couldn’t believe your audacity. 

“You know what? We should just stay in,” he mused, a defeated shrug pulling his shoulders up. In the next moment, he swept you up—legs over one arm, back cradled against the other—hugged tight to his chest. “Definitely starting to feel a bit of a cough coming on.” 

You laughed, fumbling with your clutch as he made to march you both right back into the house. 

 “Glen—” you managed between a wheeze of laughter and a startled squeak when his fingers dipped past the hem of your dress, as if assessing the hurdles he’d need to clear before locating the nearest flat, private surface. “You can’t—” 

“What? I’m just trying to help with your next book.” 

 He was halfway to the front door now. The driver stood outside the car with his hands folded on the roof, clearly impatient. 

“—you’re literally one of two people getting an award tonight. They’re gonna notice you’re not there.” 

 You mouthed a silent sorry along with your best geez, this guy face over Glen’s shoulder at the driver. You doubted he saw it. 

“Research. Very important for artists, I would know.” 

 “Glen—” you whispered, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the smooth edge of his fresh shave. “You deserve to see and hear the difference you make. You deserve to be there to get this. Let me cheer so loudly from whatever nosebleed they stick me in that you’ll pretend not to know me when I embarrass you.” 

For a second, he paused to look at you—bundled in his arms—while the soft glow of the dipping sun caught the angles of his lips and nose, the gentle crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the ghost of dimples at his cheeks. 

“Okay,” he sighed, as though interrupting his plans physically pained him. His forehead dipped to yours, grounding himself. “Okay. Later.” 

He carried you back to the car, nudged the door open, and set you down on the leather interior. One hand caught your knee as it slipped from the dress’s slit, his fingers brushing your skin as he guided it gently inside the car. When he stood, he leaned on the door, eyes catching yours. “But you’re mine the minute this thing wraps.” 

“I’ll hold you to that.” 

Without hesitation, he dipped back in and stole a quick kiss. When he pulled back, you leaned forward, chasing his lips. The smirk you caught before he closed the door did something treacherous to your insides, even as he rounded the car to his side, pausing only to thank the driver for his patience. 

“They filmed Pretty Woman here.” 

Glen pointed toward the lobby, past the crushed velvet ropes where a cluster of photographers snapped away. 

 He turned, slid an arm around your waist, and posed. 

The Beverly Wilshire Hotel had been transformed into an upscale gala venue. 

Inside, it felt like stepping into the golden age of Hollywood: thousands of candles catching on the gilt crown moulding, champagne towers shimmering beneath the dim glow of grand chandeliers overhead. Wait staff drifted between standing tables, balancing trays of delicate finger food. A live band played something soft and unobtrusive—music that didn’t drown conversation, only gilded it. 

Glen had been nominated last month for the GQ Rising Voice Award—something he’d played off as “not that big a deal” when you were chatting with him over the car speaker.  

He’d been in Italy; you’d been home in Victoria, juggling a writer’s festival in Vancouver. He’d tossed the nomination into conversation like a footnote—even as you cheered so enthusiastically at a stoplight that the entire family in the SUV beside you stared. 

Between then and now, not much had changed about his utterly humble approach. When a statuesque blonde from ET asked how he felt about the nomination, he shrugged, laughed, and leaned into the mic: “I’m honoured, but I think they just ran out of names.” 

You knew better—you knew Glen quietly cared about these things. He was steady and consistent, like everything else he poured his heart into: his work, his friends, his family… you. 

Now, surrounded by every Hollywood facet—publicists, directors, actors—in a sea of sequins and brand names, he somehow kept you effortlessly anchored.  

When you’d smiled at Willem Dafoe—biting back the urge to mention the “Willem Dafoe/Willem Dafriend” meme—Glen kept his hand on your lower back as he chatted casually with him.  

When he pointed out Oscar Isaac across the room—subtly—he bent close to your ear to be heard over the music and pressed a quick kiss to your temple, right over the curl of hair. He joked he might consider being jealous of the way you craned your neck to see the Moon Knight-slash-Frankenstein actor. 

When the live band quieted and the host began the opening speech, you squeezed Glen’s hand, told him to break a leg, and floated toward the bar for a better view as he disappeared backstage. You cheered wildly when Glen was called up for his award, and while he gave the kind of heartfelt, half-charming, slightly self-effacing speech that made the whole room melt, you smiled so hard your cheeks ached. The swell of pride in your chest a buoyant, impossible thing. 

You noticed the way his fingers tapped the edge of the podium, the nervous tell of a guy who'd once told you, as a kid, he’d set up a lemonade stand to raise money for a local animal shelter. At the end of their driveway, with his sisters schlepping the drinks, his contribution was promising paying customers a song, but nervously hid behind a bush to sing Jailhouse Rock and Hound Dog.

You were too far from the stage to see the deepening of his dimple when he thanked “the people who keep me human—my family, my friends… and the woman who reminds me every day that heart makes you strong.” But you knew it was there. 

The applause swelled around you, a rolling wave of appreciation, and you clapped until your palms tingled. When he stepped offstage, award catching the low light of the room, his eyes scanned the crowd. You caught his smile when he found you—that real smile, crooked and earnest, a little bashful—and you blew him a kiss before he was swept into a crush of handshakes and shoulder-pats. 

Heart still soaring, you turned back to the bar to give him space to bask—to actually breathe in the appreciation he usually played off. 

As fever-dream-adjacent as it all felt—Florence Pugh across the round bar ordering a drink, Taika Waititi at her elbow laughing at something you couldn’t hear—you felt less like an outsider now. 

You felt the nudge at your ribs just as you accepted your drink from the bartender. 

 “You still with this ham?” The voice at your side was familiar and warm. You knew who it was before you turned. 

Joe. 

Without responding, you turned and pulled him into a tight hug. 

Your first “non-introduction” to Joe—of Jonas Brothers fame—hadn’t even been in person. It had been through the bag of kettle corn Glen tossed your way when he hopped over the back of the couch during an Ozark binge. 

The in-person introduction had been far less tame: a pre-Halloween party at a small New York club closed out for a private event. You’d worn a cute Santa outfit, pockets stuffed with candy canes (notoriously hard to find in early September), while Glen had shown up in a personalized varsity jacket and jeans as “Glen Coco” of Mean Girls throwaway fame. 

Joe had been dressed as a decidedly non–PG-13 cowboy. Without warning—while Glen slipped away to grab drinks—Joe, shirtless except for a flimsy cow-print vest and already somehow sweaty, shoved a beer into your hand and slung an arm around your neck, dragging you to the karaoke machine where you sang (badly) to “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.” 

It had been your (unfortunate) choice—never one to thrive under pressure—and Joe at your shoulder rasping, “Quick, pick one—no, not that one,” certainly no help. 

Still, ever the showman (you saw that now—hindsight 20/20), he’d stolen the second verse, belting it shirtless and purposely off-key, theatrically dropping to his knees by the chorus. 

By the time Glen found you—well out of your shell—you and Joe were both breathless with laughter, half-losing your voices, fully cemented as the karaoke team you later argued over naming “Jam-a-llama,” vetoing Joe’s suggestion of “Joe and the Tone-Deaf.” The team no one wanted but secretly, maybe, needed. 

“Kait still putting up with your middle-child chaos energy?” you asked, eyeing his suit as you pulled back—something light grey with a dark button-up underneath, his hair slightly damp but somehow perfectly mussed. More of that Hollywood magic. 

Kaitlyn—Joe’s organized, easygoing, Virgo-energy girlfriend—quickly became your favourite person in most rooms. 

When you’d been the least famous person at the table—territory new and sometimes terrifying—she’d been the one offering you a brightly colored drink and making a joke at Joe’s expense. 

You’d been dating Glen for a few months when you met her—at a “casual” hangout with people who didn’t have casual names. Joe included. Danny was there too, and Monica—still with her boyfriend James at the time. 

You’d bonded over being the only people in the room who had yet to meet Tom Cruise and then over your similar taste in music. Unofficially, she’d become your beta reader and your “non-famous person in a famous person’s circle” touchstone. Last week, you’d sent her a “dog or mop” meme, followed by a millennial-appropriate number of GIFs. 

“Speaking of…” Joe pulled out his phone, and you automatically leaned in, already prepared with your best Glen impression (tongue out, eyes squished shut, Longhorns ‘Hook ’em’ on full display). He snapped the photo and fired it off before tucking the phone back into his pocket. “She’s gonna be pissed she couldn’t make it.” 

You nodded and took a pull from the tiny black straw. You understood the assignment. “I’ll tell her it was the worst celebrity function I’ve ever been to—because she wasn’t here.” 

“Coming in clutch, Glen’s girlfriend #14.” Joe raised his hand, waiting for the high-five. 

You left his hand hanging, slapped him lightly in the ribs instead, and rolled your eyes as he flinched reflexively and tried his best to look offended. When JJ Abrams walked by—nodding at Joe, smiling at you—you both froze and tried to look less like playground children and more like responsible adults. 

“Seriously though?” 

You raised an eyebrow at him—an eyebrow that said serious? are you even capable of being serious?  

If Joe caught it, he ignored it, eyes fixed on Glen across the room as he made his way back toward you both. “He’s been different since you’ve been around.” 

You opened your mouth—maybe to fire off a snarky comment about brain chemistry shifting, universe-rearranging, reality-bending sex paired with being with someone you actually liked spending time with—but he amended before you could speak. 

“In a good way. In a I’m going to taint the group chat with adorable facts about my girlfriend way.” Joe sighed, leaned back on the bar, and sipped his drink. “Do you know how hard it is to follow up with photos of my life-changing sandwich or that weird lizard I found at the greenhouse after he sends a link to your Good Morning America interview?” 

You mimed pouring one out for the BLT and tuna-melt selfies likely sitting in backlog on Joe’s camera roll, waiting for the perfect window between the photos Glen secretly snapped of the cookies you made when he thought you weren’t looking. 

“Just do me a favour: don’t go breaking his heart, or we’ll have to dissolve Joe and the Tone-Deaf.” 

When you looked at him then, the mask of humor had slipped for half a second, his eyes catching yours in a way they hadn’t before. And then it was gone—hidden behind the one-sided hug Glen threw around his shoulder. Glen was grinning now, mischievous and wry, the kind of expression he saved for Joe. 

“Kait said you’d be tied up—” 

“—not for Mr. GQ Rising Voice.” Joe straightened his suit jacket, trying to look put together. He took the shimmering award from Glen, huffed a breath on it, and wiped it with his sleeve. “Guess they give these things out to anyone now, huh?” 

“That’s what I said,” Glen huffed a laugh, eyes shimmering as he stepped into you, pulled you to his side. 

“You think they’d still give this to you if they knew about Mykonos? That time—” 

 The trill of his phone, muffled by his suit jacket, cut him off. 

“Ah, Zack Morris!” Joe slapped his pockets, searching for his phone. “That’s my cue.” 

Glen must have caught the puzzled look on your face from the corner of his eye. “He’s trying to replace ‘saved by the bell’ with—” 

Your laugh came out closer to a snort. “—And he thinks the saying and the TV show from the ’80s are—” 

“It’s gold, okay? You just have to start using it, and then one day, bam—it’ll feel like you were always using it.” Joe’s phone was already in his hand as he waved and stepped away from the bar, a FaceTime call ringing on the screen. 

He was a few paces away when he lifted the phone in the air, screen facing you. You blew an exaggerated kiss to the shrinking image of Kait—likely in her scrubs—on Joe’s screen as she waved with both hands. You made a mental note to text her about how boring this whole thing was without her, to tell her about Joe’s terrible plot to reinvent a widely known saying. And to plan how you both might stop him. 

The rest of the evening followed a pace set by PAs and coordinators hiding in the wings, headsets buzzing. Glen slipped easily from conversation to conversation, jumping topics with seamless, expert agility. Watching him was mesmerizing—like witnessing someone lit from within. 

When he finally slipped away and led you out onto a small, glass-doored balcony, the fresh air hit you with welcome relief. 

“Okay. I think I’ve put in my time.” He undid his bow tie and popped the top button of his dress shirt—then another. “You wanna get out of here?” 

He looked lighter now—like he’d actually let himself take in the applause this time. You hoped he felt even a fraction of the pride that had been burning in your chest all night. 

You leaned against the stone railing, arms spread wide, your back to the glowing city beyond. The breeze lifted the loose strands of hair around your face.  

“I’m all yours.” 

“Here.” Glen pushed the crystalline award into your hands as you pulled off your second heel in the front foyer of his Los Feliz house. 

“For me?” You feigned the humble acceptance pose. “I’d like to thank my mom, my publicist, my publisher…” You paused, index finger drumming on your bottom lip, eyes tilted upward as if searching for divine intervention. “Am I forgetting anyone?” 

Glen snorted as Brisket trotted around the corner and lazily made his rounds, sniffing the edge of the front table where your clutch hung precariously. In search of your secret treat stash, no doubt. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered, taking your free hand and pulling you into him for a kiss. You knew he really wanted to say smartass, even as his tongue teased your lips apart. 

“Can you toss it in the—” He waved vaguely down the hall, as if the name might magically come to him, “—miscellaneous room.” 

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” 

Growing up, your family had a junk drawer—in the kitchen, beside the sink, third from the top. Now, you realized rich people had junk rooms. 

“Just admit that when you bought this place, some mysterious old guy told you you’d have to feed the room in order to amass good fortune and have mind-blowing sex for the rest of your life.” 

You were already padding barefoot down the hall toward the small room off the entrance. “Did you finally get the shelving up in here?” you called over your shoulder, fingers on the paddle handle. “I can help get things organized—by vibe, by year, or—” 

The words died in your throat as you flicked on the light. 

When you’d been here the first few times, you weren’t even aware this room existed. After some prying about the closed door and some mild ribbing regarding literary tropes about gorgeous men with big houses and locked rooms, Glen had conceded.  

It’s kind of a place where things go to die, he’d shrugged, as you stepped into the room—boxes everywhere, small mountains of still-packaged merch from various movies and promo runs. In the corner, on top of a closed box, sat the “H_NGM_N” helmet. Another box was labelled “Smash Kitchen Samples”. You’d snagged a bottle of ketchup (not available in Canada and I wanna support my boyfriend’s side hustle you reasoned) and trotted past Glen, pausing only to lift on your toes to press a dainty kiss on the corner of his mouth. 

Henceforth, by Official Girlfriend royal decree, you’d dubbed the room the “JR”.  

Now, this award, GQ Rising Voice, was on its way to join the doomed piles of screen-printed “Not My First Tornadeo” Twisters shirts and Top Gun keychains, lonely beside the latest box of Chad Powers branded beer koozies. A midnight snack for the JR. 

Which was exactly what you’d expected when you opened this door—more boxes, more merch, more chaos. 

But what waited beyond wasn’t the sacrificial JR at all. 

The first thing that drew your attention was the lack of boxes, the soft lighting, the neutral-coloured walls. The second, built in shelves painted a deep, midnight blue, each ledge inlaid with a glow of its own. Along the back wall, floor to ceiling windows looked out on a slice of the yard, a tree wrapped in twinkle lights, the edge of the bluish pool lighting and beyond it, a cityscape alight. 

What was strange was that you did recognize this room as if you’d seen it in person a million different times. It lived as an aesthetic on your Pinterest board under the folder “dream writing space/office”, a collection of pictures of throw rugs and pillows. The one you populated when you were technically supposed to be going through line edits. 

You shut off the light. Closed the door sharply. Took a steadying breath and opened it again, turned on the light. 

This time you noticed the framed posters from signing events for your first book, the one that you ripped your soul out for and, interspersed it with paper mâché-d hope. The book that cracked you open and somehow put you back together. The one that changed your life and, without even knowing it, put you on the path leading to him. 

Because it wasn’t just a story that brought you here. It was your story. And somehow, somewhere along the way, Glen became the best chapter of it. 

A love story so real, it made fiction feel like a prelude. 

In the corner, beside the desk, a small coffee station with mismatched mugs. Your eyes flitted over the spines of the books arranged the way you liked, by size, on the shelves with built-in lighting.  

“You like it?” Glen’s voice, deep, comforting, was at your back. 

“I—” you flipped through the index of words in your mind, the ones that meant liked but actually held the meaning of burned with a thousand suns. 

“Speechless,” he chuckled, hand on the small of your back, nudging you into the room as though you’d forgotten how to take a step on your own. “I’ll take that as a good sign.” 

“Glen, what happened to all the—” 

Your hand swept around the room, gesturing to the missing boxes and hard-earned awards that were nowhere to be seen. No packaged side hustle remnants. No evidence that this room ever contained a single thing that belonged to him. 

“You were using the back of the couch as a laptop stand,” he steepled his fingers on the corner of the desk, tugged open the drawer. You needn’t have looked inside to know he’d filled it with your favourite pen, a simple generic Bic brand—capped, not clicky—with 0.5mm nib, black ink only. “Figured you could use a place for when you’re here. With me.” 

“What about your awards room? What about the merch and the—” you started, looking around you’d never guess this was a room where piles of merch had stacked up in the corners, blocking the window partially. Acting as unofficial doorstops. 

His responding grin was all pride. “Trust me, if you could see your face right now,” he paused to pull out the chair at the desk set in front of the window with the perfect view. “Worth it from where I’m standing. I’d trade every single award and piece of merch I ever got.” 

You stepped into the room fully now, the shush of your dress the only sound as you moved to run your fingers over the spines on the shelves.  

“Unless it’s an Oscar, then—” He was serious for a beat, waving his hand at the room’s new content as if to say toss it all. 

You shoved at his shoulder playfully when you reached him at the end of the line of shelving. 

“Glen Powell,” you whispered, stepping into him. Your arms looped around his shoulders, fingers pushing into the short hair at the nape of his neck. Automatically, his hands found your waist. “Are you trying to ruin other men for me?” 

He shrugged, a slight lift of his broad shoulders, but his eyes never left yours. “Maybe. Is it working?” 

You nodded. “I think it definitely is.” 

“Perfect. Guess you’ll have to make sure I’m the last one.” 

Your lips brushed his, once, soft. Not a kiss, not yet. Just a pass-by promise of one. 

And maybe it was the room. Maybe it was the way the stars outside the window winked against the water. Maybe it was just the look on Glen’s face—like he’d put thought into this whole space with your happiness in mind. 

But your voice caught in your throat, and instead of kissing him again, you whispered, “Show me the rest.” 

His brows ticked up, just a fraction. “The rest?” 

You tipped your head at the window, toward the backyard, the tree wrapped in twinkle lights, in the direction of the pool you couldn’t see from here, casting a blue hued light over it all. 

“You’ve got a pool, Powell. Don’t tell me you didn’t have a whole plan.” 

His grin returned slow, pleased. “I might’ve left a few lights on.” 

The backyard had long been one of your favourite features of this place. 

The long yard, fenced in by wrought iron, dropped off at the back to a steep hill, away from the road below. The tree, the same one you could see from your new, cozy nest of an office, wrapped in twinkle lights, shaded a small sunken patio area separate from the one attached to the back of the house. A pair of egg chairs flanked a curved bench circling the fire pit at its center.  

You could almost feel the warmth of the California sun on your cheeks as you lost yourself, curled in an egg chair, in the latest Ali Hazelwood book you devoured without pause—surfacing only for a sip of mojito, the mint still crisp on your tongue. The perfect picture complete with Glen stretched out nearby, a lounge chair claimed, Longhorns cap pulled low over his eyes, hand resting on your bare thigh, as if the quiet togetherness was all he needed. 

In the distance, encapsulated in a snow globe, the cityscape of L.A. glowed—brilliant, untouchable. A beacon to those chasing stardust dreams. 

The inground saltwater pool shimmered at the center of it all, inlaid lights casting a blue sheen beneath the still surface. 

You stepped out onto the smooth stone, bare feet padding across the patterned stonework. When you reached the edge of the pool, you lifted the hem of your dress enough to dip a toe into the water, testing. Heated. 

Glen stepped out of the house behind you and Brisket followed, the clickety-clack of his nails a parade to the nearest lounge chair which he quickly settled into after a spin or two.  

You turned in time to see Glen pull off his tie; pop open more buttons on his crisp dress shirt. His cufflinks had already disappeared, the fasten of his slacks undone, his feet bare. 

“What would you say if I told you that I don’t have a bathing suit?” You smirked as he approached. 

“I’d say it’s my lucky night.” He stood close now, so close you had to tilt your chin up to see his face, the familiar lines etched into his features.  

He reached up, to the pin that held your hair in some extravagant twist meant to look effortless but had actually taken a hair artist forty-five minutes of fussing and quiet complaints about the thickness of your hair in French. It fell against your shoulders in soft waves as he tugged the fasten out, tossed it aside, devil-may-care, with a soft plink. 

“You really can’t turn it off, can you?” You huffed a quiet laugh even as you felt the tips of his fingers pushing aside the dainty straps at your shoulders. Left, then right. 

He found the zipper at your back next, pulled it down slowly, pressed a kiss to your shoulder that made you shiver. “Not around you.” He shook his head, just once. Like a man long ago surrendered to your gravity—content to live in your orbit, if only for the view. 

The words hung between you, soft, but like Glen, always certain, and something in your chest cracked open at the quiet truth. He looked at you like he always did in moments like this—like you were the answer to a question he never asked out loud. 

His hand traced the line of your body from your shoulder, past the curve inside your elbow, to the soft, sensitive skin at the inside of your forearm, leaving goosebumps in the wake of his touch. His grip closed around your wrist, lifted it to his mouth to press a soft kiss there. 

“You fucking undo me,” he murmured, breathing deeply the smell of your perfume at your pulse point—a signature, layered mix of lavender, orange blossom and vanilla undertones you knew he liked. He pressed another kiss into your skin, long, savouring, before gently replacing your arm at your side. 

You didn’t say it, but the truth was, he undid you too. Unmoored the belief that you could never be loved like this, that this absolute reverence was reserved for unobtainable ideals and perfect book boyfriends.  

Not until Glen walked into your life and never stopped looking at you like you hand painted every star in the sky. He was the reference for every look of awe you tried to capture in your books.  

“You want the moon? Just say the word and I’ll throw a lasso around it and pull it down.” He’d Jimmy Stewart-ed at you once, early in your relationship, like he was so oblivious that you already had a piece of every beautiful thing in this universe when he was with you. 

The kiss came as your dress fell away, cascading down the curves of your hips and settling in a pool of emerald around your ankles, leaving you exposed save for a thin pair of bikini style panties. One hand framed your neck, his lips a crush against yours as his other found your bare waist and pulled your body flush against his. 

Even as your mind hazed, your body a puzzle piece against his, your hands worked to remove the fabric between you. The strained zipper inched down, and he stepped out of his pants without breaking the kiss. You worked the last of the buttons on his shirt as he twisted the angle of his mouth against yours to stroke your tongue with his. 

The moment your palms found the warmth of his bare chest, familiar and solid beneath your touch, a sound escaped you against his mouth. 

You felt him turn you, so his back was to the water. As he broke the kiss, his lips twisted into a smirk. “You trust me?” 

“What are you—” 

His arms formed a cage around your midsection, and you felt yourself pulled off-balance as he tipped back. You didn’t even have time to protest as Glen hit the water first and your vision was awash, bubbles and froth. 

When you broke the surface, pushing your dark mop of hair back, Glen was a few feet away, a deeply amused grin on his lips. He wiped the rivulets of water away with a swipe of a hand down his face. 

“Well, guess I can report back about the waterproof-ability of this mascara,” you mocked an affected sigh, dabbing under your eyes gingerly. You were quietly impressed when they came back free of black smudges.  

Glen was already peeling off his once pristinely pressed shirt. Something that cost a stupid amount of money, you were sure. Not that one could tell by the way Glen balled it up, tossed it to the side of the pool where it hit with a wet slap, half slipping back into the water. 

“Warren is going to murder you this time,” you laughed, already picturing the poor stylist’s face—one step closer to an aneurism named after Glen Powell. “Can I have a front row seat for that?” 

“I think I set the bar with the beer-soaked suit last month on Kimmel,” his tone was an echo of the shrug that pulled up his shoulders. “It’ll only be a mild flogging. He really should have said something like couture, not saltwater safe.” 

Well, you thought, no one had ever accused Glen’s perpetually unprepared stylist of trying to take the South out of the boy. The emotional fallout sure to come from returning a shirt dried in stiff, salty wrinkles felt borderline catastrophic. Knowing him, he’d probably buy it quietly to atone for the disaster, just like he’d done after Kimmel. 

He waded through the water back to you, running a hand through his hair, dishevelled in a way that was all at once humanizing and devastating in that movie star way he never really tried for. When he was close enough, his fingers threaded through yours and he pulled you across the short distance, like he’d been engineered, bone and breath, to find you. 

“Hi.” He whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“Hi.”  

All night, you’d promised yourself you weren’t going to do it. Weren’t going to think about the flight he had tomorrow night. Now, with him in front of you and no distractions, the thought of him leaving seemed to fill your mind. 

Gently, you pushed the wet strand of hair from his forehead, eyes flitting to the tiny features of his perfect, symmetrical face, the uber masculine curve of his jaw, expertly avoided eye contact. 

“Where are you, right now?” 

You knew what it meant. What he was saying between the lines. Come back, cosmonaut, be here, with me. 

“It’s nothing—” 

Glen kissed the next words out of your mouth, nipped your bottom lip as if to say try again. 

You sighed, the after buzz of his mouth on your nervous system a fizzy feeling in the pit of your stomach and lower still. His thumb, beneath the surface, hooked under the band of your panties at your hip, circled there. 

“I hate how our schedules are—” 

“—complicated?” 

“I was going to say, ‘the devil’s handiwork’, but I think yours sounds way less ‘invisible malevolent force’ and more widely acceptable than mine.” 

He smiled, the smile that creased the corners of his eyes, pulled at the corner of his lips, made his gaze twinkle. 

“I’m in London for a few days, then you’ll be in Scotland for the literary festival...” he reached up to smooth the worry line from your brow, and you willed your facial muscles to relax under his touch.  

You were never good at not telegraphing your feelings and Glen, unfairly it seemed, had always been fluent in the language of you. Even before there was a you and him, culminating in an us, to consider seriously. 

You nodded, exhaled slowly, dropped your gaze to the way the water shimmered around his bicep. You didn’t want to meet his eyes just yet, didn’t want to ruin this moment by giving name and power to the ache behind your ribs. 

He pinched your chin between his thumb and forefinger, pushed it up until your eyes were on his. “We can work it out. I’ll talk to Mandy about delaying the flight to Berlin. I’ll meet you in Edinburgh—” 

“For one day, though? You already don’t sleep as is—” 

At once, he laughed and it splintered the sadness you felt at the thought of being away from him. “I’d do it for a minute and thirty-five seconds.” His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, his eyes trained there as his Adam’s apple bobbed around a swallow. 

You couldn’t help the smirk that formed. “Ambitious?” 

“Oh, I’m sure I could work with it.” 

He walked you back, his height an advantage in the deeper end of the pool. Your back was kissing the cold tile, the rush of a jet at your thigh the only thing keeping you grounded in this moment. 

“Should I be insulted that you think I’m an easy fuck?” 

“No,” his voice was husky, low, “I’m just a quick study. I know all the places that make you make that sound that gives me a whole out of body fucking experience.” 

“What sou—” 

His mouth was on your neck, his body angling hard between your legs, the edge of his erection pressing exactly where you needed him. You moaned, all at once breathy and breathless. 

“Fuck,” he groaned against your skin, a breath of hot air followed at the curve of your neck. 

“You’d want to?” 

He hummed in response, too quickly. As if he were too lost to agree to anything properly with his cock, so close to being inside you. You could have asked him to sign over his favourite truck, legally allow you to adopt Brisket and paint his office the brightest shade of Pepto-Bismol pink and he’d let you. 

You’d almost lost the thought between a trail of kisses and the pressure of his tightened grip at your hip, the way your nipples beaded against his chest before you caught it again, almost out the window. Peter Pan’s shadow. You tacked it down. Hard. “You’d want to take a red eye to Berlin just to spend a day with me?” 

He huffed out a breath that sounded a bit like a laugh. The same breath/laugh you recognized as the one that came out when you argued that he couldn’t possibly think that Die Hard was a Christmas movie before you launched into the sacrosanctity of what it meant for a movie to take place on Christmas and be a Christmas movie. One of those things, not like the other. 

“Do you even know me?” He sounded incredulous, teasing as he pulled back enough for you to see his face, see him shut his eyes tight. “Quick, novelist: What colour are my eyes?” 

 You hummed as the tips of your wet fingers traced the crinkles around his eyes—from the corner where his lashes brush his cheek, out once, light—leaving beads of water behind. Outside the bubble of you and him, his arms looped around your waist, yours wrapped around his neck, breasts pressed to his chest, sharing breaths; the lapping water was the only constant. “Aurora borealis green.” 

 “Well—shit,” his eyes were open again, and you could feel the grin pulling at your lips. “That’s beautiful.” 

“Just your standard Platinum Author Package,” you shrugged, planting a soft kiss to his lips, “includes snarky comments, wit and beautiful, poetic descriptions meant to knock socks, clean off. Lucky you, you get the romance genre add-on for free.” 

“Lucky me.” He echoed, low, reverent. 

His nose bumped yours gently as he smiled, the water between you barely rippling with the shift.  

You were dangerously close to falling in love with him all over again, which felt desperately unfair given you were already ruined. For other men, for romance, for book boyfriends who, though fictional, could never hope to reach the heights of the space Glen occupied in all parts of your life. 

You used to, in sadness, simultaneously make fun of and envy couples who held this shape. Now, you couldn’t imagine living a moment outside of this happiness, this bubble, this man. 

“Speaking of poetic descriptions... your lips are officially three shades of Cruel Summer blue,” he murmured, interrupting your thoughts. “C’mon.” 

He had already taken a few strides toward the stone steps before you could respond, still attached to him, koala clinging to a eucalyptus tree. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Getting out of the pool.” 

“Glen,” you hissed, your grip tightening around his neck, your legs wrapped around his mid-section. “I don’t have a towel.” 

“Then you’d better hold on tight, spider monkey.” 

You snorted and almost lost your grip as he rose up the first two steps, water cascading off your joined angles. “You didn’t.” 

“What?” His tone is too high-pitched to feign innocence, the charming Texan boy lilt softening his words. 

He was fully out of the pool now and the kiss of the breeze on your bare skin raised your flesh in goose-pimples. You shivered as you buried your face in the curve of his neck reflexively, the round of the gold chain pressing into the tip of your cold nose.  

His hand came up to rest on your back, sliding lower, under your ass, holding you tight to him as he moved toward the sliding doors at the back of his place. 

You felt the pinch of your nipples tightening against him, you knew he must have felt it too. His boxers, soaked and thin, left little buffer between him and you. No way to hide how his body reacted to yours. 

“Q-quote Twilight in c-casual c-conversation,” your voice muffled against his skin; the taste of the saltwater on your lips as his chuckle moved through you. 

“Cinematic masterpiece.” He teased as your jaw trembled against him. “Credit where credit is due.” 

“I-I’m never t-telling you about my c-comfort movies ever again-n.” You tried to sound annoyed, but it wasn’t possible, not with him and definitely not with shivers running through you. 

“Trust me, it called for it.” 

Your heart soared, suddenly too big for your own chest. A bird in a box.  

The Mummy.  

Rick O’Connell, your first cinematic crush, your sexual awakening at ten. He knew it. Had teased you before that he looked good in a white button-down and khakis— “just in case you ever want to play librarian and adventurer.” 

You’d made him sit through it more than a dozen times, at first keeping the movement of your mouth hidden behind a blanket as you repeated the lines quietly. 

Now, this man—this perfect man—recited them as a unique love language; little easter eggs in conversation designed to make you smile. 

The glass doors slid opened with a soft sigh, and the rush of warm air from inside pulled a small gasp from you. You tightened your grip as he stepped inside. 

“Shower?” His voice was a rumble in his chest, low, but he was already moving like he knew your answer instinctively. 

“God, yes,” you whispered, arms cinching tighter around his neck. “Please.” 

The hallway lights were dimmed, throwing soft gold across the floor. Steady droplets of water traced Glen’s path through the house. You could hear your breaths in rhythm with his, forehead pressed against the curve of his neck where the scent of his skin, a mix of salt and chlorine, was strong, all encompassing. 

He carried you like he’d done it a thousand times—effortless, protective, a little urgent. You tucked yourself closer, feeling the quiet thrum of his pulse beneath your cheek, the warmth of his breath at your neck, the soft hum he let slip when your fingers brushed the nape of his neck. 

He nudged the bathroom light on low; the soft glow settling around you both like another pair of hands—gentle, coaxing, safe. 

“You’re freezing,” he murmured, nudging the side of your face with his nose. Carefully, he lowered you to the marble bench inside the shower and his palms rubbed up and down your arms, trying to chase away the chill. 

“You think?” your laugh caught on the edge of a shiver as your toes curled against the smooth shower tile. 

Your sopping hair plastered to you, leaking steady rivulets of water along your body. Your arms came up to hug yourself as Glen turned on the water, testing the temperature before he turned back. He held out his hand, and you took it, fingers lacing with his. Steam curled around you both as he drew you closer beneath the spray, water warming the sting of chill still clinging to your skin. 

He tipped his head back under the stream, let the water wash over his head, shook his hair out a bit before raking a hand through it. The simple movement drew your gaze to the long line of his flexed tricep.  

You swallowed hard, the heat of the water rolling over your shoulders, down your spine, in the small space between your body and Glen’s, until it met the heat pooling, liquid and low in your belly. Your forehead fell to his pec and your breath cracked, softened against his skin as his fingers skated the planes of your shoulder blades, the divot of your spine. 

“There you go...” he whispered, leaning back to look at you, to smooth the wet tendrils of hair back from your face when you looked up at him. He pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, then another at your temple, lingering. “Warm up for me.” 

You could feel it building in you, the slow, rising heat that made you feel on fire from the inside. The way his thin boxers, soaked, revealing, hid nothing, couldn’t hold back the weight of him, hard and heavy against your belly. The way his eyes, alive and warm, looked at you like you were all at once fragile and perfect. 

Your hands were pressed flat against the tight muscle of his abdomen, your eyes locked on his as your fingers trailed down to the water-logged waistband of his boxers, each movement delicate, but deliberate. His brow arched as his muscles flexed beneath your touch. 

“Baby—” he murmured, a soft warning, the sound barely a breath. 

You were already sinking to your knees anyway, fingers dragging the material down with you, eyes never leaving his as water pattered over your back and his cock sprang free. You let your eyes fall to him, taking in every heated inch of him before you pressed a soft, slow kiss to the meat of his thigh. 

“Baby—” he tried again, the word thinning into something ragged as your mouth found him, guided the length of him in over your tongue. His hand found the crown of your head, fingers tangling in your wet hair, his other falling to the fogged glass to brace hard. 

He groaned low in his chest as your hands framed his thighs, your mouth drawing the slightest bit of suction along his length. The sound that fell from his lips—the needy sound of pleasure—had you clenching around nothing, need curling tight and low in your belly; your body making a direct demand: him, inside of you. 

“Sweetheart—Jesus—if you keep that up—” 

You hummed in answer around him, deliberate, and his grip pulsed tighter in your hair. His hips stuttered—once, helplessly—and the involuntary jerk of them had his tip brush the back of your throat. He swore under his breath, something half-formed and something, you were sure, not entirely English, chest rising and falling like he was fighting the instinct to give in. You knew what would happen if you kept this up. 

“Fuck. Darlin’,” he groaned again, dragging himself from your mouth with a shaky exhale. His hips gave a small, shallow thrust as if his body didn’t quite want to stop. His fingertips drifted to your hollowed cheek, tracing where his cock had been a moment ago. “Look at me.” 

You lifted your gaze, lashes beaded with water. Your tongue swept a slow line along the underside of him as you stilled, and you watched as it nearly undid him. 

His pupils were blown wide, gaze flickering as if he stood on the edge of something steep and consuming. He swallowed hard, his thumb brushing your cheekbone with a tenderness that clashed beautifully with the raw want in his voice.  

“If you don’t stop,” he managed, breath shaking, “I’m gonna come like this, sweetheart. I want you—God, I want you—too damn much to finish before I’m inside you.” 

There was no embarrassment in it, only urgency, the raw honesty earned from a relationship built on trust and openness above all else. His confession hit the air like heat lighting—bright, electric, undeniable. 

Almost reluctantly, you rose, his fingers trailing from their tangle in your hair to your jaw. When you were standing again, his hand framed your cheek, thumb sweeping across your bottom lip as if he were apologizing for pulling you away. 

You barely had time to inhale before his mouth crashed into yours, hungry and grateful all at once. 

He lifted you effortlessly, pressing you back against the warm tile as water poured over you both. Your legs slid around his hips, ankles locking behind him, and the hard line of him pressed directly against the thin material of your soaked panties. 

“That’s better,” he whispered against your mouth. “Need you up here with me.” 

His lips found the corner of your mouth, the line of your jaw, the soft place under your ear that always made your knees go weak. Even now, held tight against him, you felt the tremble ripple through your thighs. 

“Glen—” 

He heard the note in your voice—want threaded thin with impatience—and it pulled a sound from his chest that vibrated through you. His mouth trailed lower, teeth grazing the tendon at your neck before he lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. 

“Let me take care of you.” 

 It came out rough, reverent, a promise he never failed to keep. 

His hand slid down your side, fingers tracing the soaked, clinging edge of your panties. The thin fabric was plastered to your skin, transparent under the water, leaving absolutely nothing to his imagination. His thumb pressed gently over the damp lace at your hip, and the touch alone sent a tremor rolling through you. 

“Yeah,” he whispered, like he couldn’t help it, like looking at you like this knocked the air out of his lungs. “We need these off.” 

He didn’t tear them—he never did that with things you were still wearing. Instead, his fingers dipped beneath the elastic with the same care he used when sliding jewelry off your wrists at night, when loosening the straps of your dress after a gala. He pulled them down slowly, water rushing over his knuckles, his gaze tracking the fabric’s descent over your hips, down your thighs. 

You stepped out of them shakily, bracing yourself on his shoulders. 

His hands didn’t leave you—not for a second. 

One slid immediately back up your thigh, slow and sure, water gliding beneath his palm. The other steadied your hip, thumb stroking once in a way that felt like both reassurance and possession. When his fingers reached the soft heat between your legs, he paused—not teasing, not tentative, just taking you in. 

“Jesus…” he breathed, like the sight of you ruined him a little. His thumb drew a careful line through your slick, the gentlest pressure making your knees buckle. He caught the shift in your breath, the stutter in your exhale, and his touch changed—firmer, confident, the way he touched you when he wasn’t guessing, when he knew exactly what your body asked for. 

His fingers circled you slowly, deliberately, heat rolling through you in a wave that had your head falling back against the tile. He kissed the curve of your throat as he worked you open with easy, fluid strokes—touches that said everything he’d felt since you pressed yourself against him by the pool. Want. Devotion. A kind of worship that lived behind his teeth. 

“Glen—” it came out weaker, needier, your hips tipping toward his hand on instinct. 

“I know, baby,” he murmured, voice roughened by restraint and want. “I got you.” 

He slipped two fingers through your slick, dipped into you, felt the way your body clenched around his two fingers, and groaned low in his chest. He swallowed against the sound, pressed another kiss to your jaw like grounding himself. Then he slid his fingers out and through you once more, slow, savoring, before pulling away. 

The loss made you gasp. 

“Glen,” you breathed, head tipping back against the tile, “please—” 

He dragged his mouth down your throat, chest rising fast as he held himself just barely off you, fighting the last of his restraint. His lips found your pulse, lingering there like he needed the reassurance of it. 

Then he lifted his head, eyes dark and hungry. 

“Say it,” he murmured, not a command—never that—but the softest, sweetest invitation. “Just tell me what you need.” 

You caught his cheek in your hand, guiding his mouth to yours, voice barely a whisper against his lips. 

“Take me to bed,” you told him, smiling through the breathlessness, through the heat blooming low and wicked inside you, “or lose me forever.” 

A low, stunned laugh tumbled out of him—equal parts arousal and adoration and disbelief. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

There wasn’t even a beat of hesitation. 

He shifted, hands gripping under your thighs, and pulled you off the tile and into his arms—your wet skin sliding against his as he held you tight against his chest. Water streamed off both of you, leaving a trail behind as he stepped out of the shower, every muscle in his body coiled with the effort of not laying you down right on the bathroom floor. 

“Hold on,” he murmured against your temple. 

You adjusted your grip on him, arms around his neck, legs locked around his waist, your heart pounding. 

“You have no idea,” he whispered, voice wrecked, “what you do to me.” 

He carried you into the dim bedroom, the only light the soft spill from the bathroom trailing after you. His grip never faltered, even with the tremor running through him; that barely contained, edge-of-control tension he only ever had around you. 

“Glen,” you exhaled when your back hit the bed, his body following you down in one smooth move, hand braced so he hovered over you. 

He dipped to kiss you like he needed the touch of your lips to breathe—slow at first, then deeper, teeth catching your bottom lip, then tongue stroking into your mouth with a heat that made your spine arch off the sheets with a moan. Your fingers tangled in his wet hair, pulling, guiding, and he groaned—low, broken—between kisses. 

When his hips settled between your thighs, the thick, hard line of him pressed exactly where you needed him, the moan that escaped you was involuntary, sharp. His forehead dropped to yours, breath ragged. 

“Baby,” he whispered, voice cracked open with want, “you’re gonna kill me.” 

Your hands slid down his back, tracing the dip above his hips. He shuddered under your touch, hips rocking forward on instinct, grinding slowly against your soaked core. 

The sound you made shattered him. 

He kissed down your neck, dragging his mouth lower, mapping every place water beaded against your skin. His tongue traced the line of your collarbone, hand cupping your breast—thumb brushing your hardened nipple with a reverence that was almost unbearable. 

“Look at you,” he murmured, kissing the swell, “so damn beautiful.” 

His mouth closed over your nipple and your back arched, fingers curling in the sheets. 

“Glen—please—” 

That was all it took. 

He lifted his head, eyes dark and alive, and slid his palm down your stomach, between your thighs. His fingers slipped between your folds. When he found the slick heat waiting for him there, the curse he muttered into your throat sounded like a prayer. 

“So ready for me,” he breathed. “Christ, sweetheart.” 

Your hips canted, begged against his fingers, seeking more, seeking him. 

He didn’t tease. Not tonight. 

He lined himself up, the head of him brushing you, spreading you open just enough to make your breath hitch. His lips brushed your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. 

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispered, even now, even with his need shaking through him. 

You cupped his face, dragged him into a kiss that answered everything. 

“Don’t.” 

He pushed into you with one slow, deep thrust that stole every thought from your mind. Your nails dug into his back; his forehead dropped to your shoulder with a groan so raw it punched straight through you. 

“Baby—” he breathed, “oh my God—” 

He moved slowly at first, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him. The slide of his body against yours, the warmth, the closeness—everything sharpened, condensed to the sound of your breaths tangling in the air. 

Then you locked your ankles behind him and lifted your hips, and something in him snapped beautifully. 

His pace deepened, finding that angle he knew drove you to the edge, his hand sliding beneath your thigh to hold you open for him, to hold you close. Every thrust was deliberate, reverent, his lips pressing everywhere he could reach—your shoulder, your mouth, your pulse, the corner of your jaw. His hands moved to find yours at his back, pulling them gently away and twining his fingers with yours, pressing your hands into the mattress above your head beneath his. 

“I love you,” he whispered like it was the only truth he had left, like it lived in his bones, the only words he could form between driving into the tightness of you. “I love you—God, baby—” 

Your orgasm hit first, sharp and consuming, pulling a cry from you that he swallowed in a kiss. The spasming grip of your body around him dragged him with you, his pace faltering, breaking, as his own release tore through him with a groan against your neck and he spilled into you. 

He didn’t collapse, instead he wrapped himself around you, arms tight, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking with the aftermath. 

“C’mere,” he murmured, shifting only enough to settle beside you without breaking the closeness. He pulled you onto his chest, one hand stroking your spine, brushing damp curls off your cheek. “I got you.” 

Your fingers traced the line of his jaw, his cheek, the chain resting warm against his sternum. 

“I love you,” you whispered against his mouth, soft and sure. Your heart still hammered in your chest, the wet heat— his and yours—warm and slick between your clenched thighs, eyelids suddenly heavy with sleep. 

His eyes closed, that quiet, blissed-out smile pulling at the corner of his lips. 

“Yeah,” he breathed, kissing your forehead, “I know.” 

Sorry, Warren. — G 

Warren’s assistant lifted the note off the black garment bag, squinting at Glen’s hopelessly messy handwriting. You had answered the door, mug of fresh coffee in one hand and the two bags hanging from the other. One contained your dress, abandoned poolside overnight to the mercy of the elements, and the other, Glen’s wrinkled suit and his once-pristine white dress shirt, now ruined by the stiffly dried pool water. 

“Sorry, Tess,” you murmured as she sighed deeply, already retreating down the walkway. She offered a small wave over her head without turning back, you chose to take that as water under the bridge before you quietly closed the door. 

You’d woken to a slight shift in the mattress, a kiss, feather-light to the top of your head, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth. 

“Going to take Brisket out,” Glen whispered when you’d rolled closer to him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt to pull him down to you. He hovered, hand sliding along your ribs under the thin bedsheet, torn between sinking back into you and being a responsible dog dad. 

He kissed you once—slow, deep—like he’d already made up his mind to stay. 

Then Brisket gave a pointed little whine against the bedroom door. 

“Coffee’s on.” 

In the corner, your suitcase sat in its erupted, semi-organized mess, so you’d instead opted to grab one of Glen’s t-shirts and pair it with your favourite bright green leggings. 

You padded barefoot into the kitchen first, poured yourself a mug of the coffee he’d set to brew before leaving with Brisket. The warmth seeped into your palms, grounding, comforting, waking you just enough. 

Only then did you wander toward the room—the one that was now yours. 

The door was slightly ajar, Glen’s doing—you could tell by the way it hadn’t latched properly, as if he’d peeked in on his way out with Brisket. 

You nudged the door open with your hip, toes curling into the soft rug that perfectly matched the colour on the walls as you stepped inside. In the light of day, the new space revealed more small details you hadn’t noticed the night before. A small cart near the desk held books that had yet to be shelved, organized, you noticed, in that distinct Powell-family organization system Glen swore up and down made sense “if you just trust the process.” 

A soft blanket was folded into a round reading chair in the corner; one you remembered asking Glen’s opinion on when you stumbled across it during a doom scroll session but then clearly had forgotten about. You mused aloud how you’d kind of always dreamed about a reading nook. 

You set your coffee down, fingertips trailing along the beveled edge of the desk in front of the window, eye catching a small speaker tucked strategically into the ceiling near a pot light. 

You’d just settled into the desk chair, swivelled a few times to test, when you heard the soft knock at the door. 

“Mornin’.” 

Glen Sr. filled the doorway, relaxed in jeans and a faded, dark grey Longhorns t-shirt. His smile deepened the lines around his eyes, warm and wholly familiar. You smiled back, smoothing a hand self-consciously over Glen’s too big t-shirt.  

“I didn’t know you were coming by.” You stood, stepped toward him, hugged him with your free arm as the other gripped your mug. 

“You know Cyndy,” he chuckled. “She heard ya were in town and said it’d be a crime to let you leave without a proper breakfast.” 

“That tracks,” you nodded. 

He stepped inside then, slowly, as though he too knew what this space meant—or was beginning to understand. 

His gaze swept the room with the fondness of someone who knew the work behind it. “Well,” he murmured, scratching his cheek, “he really did it.” 

You blinked. “Did what?” 

He froze—only for half a second—like a man who had accidentally nudged a domino and was now watching the rest fall in slow motion. 

“He didn’t tell you.” It wasn’t a question, you noticed. 

Your brows pulled together. “Tell me what?” 

He shifted, cleared his throat the way Glen did when he gave away more than he meant to. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Boy works himself to the bone and still acts like it’s no big thing.” He nodded around the room, a small huff of admiration escaping him. “This. All of this. He did it himself.” 

Your heart stilled, caught somewhere between your ribs. 

“He built the shelves?” you asked softly, looking around, eyes touching the painted edges, the inlaid lighting. 

“The shelves, the chair, patched the drywall, repainted the whole damn thing.” His smile turned proud. “Came in here late at night, too. After filming. After promo. Lord knows he was up to his ears in that side project too.” He paused, shaking his head as though reliving it, disbelieving. “But he said he wanted to give you this spot.” 

The words hit you in that odd way, in the stomach, blunt. 

“I didn’t know,” your words were barely above a whisper. 

“He didn’t want you to,” he replied simply. “Said you had enough on your plate. Said it mattered.” His gaze softened, warm and fatherly. “That you mattered.” 

You felt it then—the familiar, overwhelming swell in your chest—the one that always came when you realized Glen had done something quietly monumental behind your back, pretending it was small. 

You swallowed, blinking back the sudden heat in your eyes. “He shouldn’t… he shouldn’t have done all this by himself.” 

“Well,” he chuckled, “try telling him that. He’s stubborn as a mule. Always has been. And he’s in love. Those two things together?” His grin turned teasing. “You’d have better luck arguing with a brick wall.” 

You laughed, shaky but sincere. 

“He wanted it ready before you got here,” he continued. The seal around the secret seemingly broken and therefore leaking steadily. “Drove Cyndy half-crazy, video calls and paint opinion asks, making sure every detail matched the pictures from that uh—pin board thing.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like it was a secret not meant for the world. “Told her, ‘If she’s gonna write the next next great love story, she oughta have a room worth writing it in.’” 

That did it. The tile that tipped the tower. Your breath left you in a slow, stunned exhale. 

Glen. Your Glen. Doing this. Quietly. Completely. With that earnest devotion he wore like a second skin. 

“He really loves you, sweetheart,” Glen Sr. added, soft and certain, casual like he was talking about the weather. “Always talking about how proud he is of you. How he wants to make things easier for you, even when you won’t let him.” 

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For telling me.” 

He reached out to squeeze your shoulder. “Just don’t tell him I told you.” His grin turned conspiratorial. “He gets that from his mama—makes a big gesture and then gets shy about it.” 

You were balanced on a step stool in the pantry just off the kitchen, pushing up on your tiptoes, reaching for the bag of coffee beans from that stall at The Farmer’s Market you’d once announced to Glen was “the best coffee you’d ever tasted” when you heard his dry laugh. 

“Why?” you huffed, mock serious. “The highest shelf?” 

When you looked down—one foot wedged onto the countertop, the other still precariously touching the stool with the very tips of your toes—Glen was leaned up against the doorjamb, arms folded loosely. 

“If you could see you from my perspective right now,” he smirked, “I don’t think you’d be asking that question.” 

You rolled your eyes, poked the bag off the edge of the top shelf with a pair of BBQ tongs you’d found in the kitchen, and caught the bean bag mid-fall. 

“Sorry about the—” Glen tipped his head toward the rest of the kitchen, where you heard Leslie asking about orange juice and Cyndy baby-talking Brisket. “My folks were in town, wanted to see you before you headed back…” 

“About that—” you tossed the bag of beans down to him and he caught it easily. “I think your dad might have seen me naked, so…” 

Glen froze for a half second as you began to climb down from your perch. “Shit—” 

“Kidding…” you smiled. “I got your seven panic texts.” 

You didn’t add that you’d received them late—after his dad had already been chatting with you in the doorway of the office. 

Quietly, he reached out, hands on your waist to steady you as you stepped back onto solid ground. 

“Hey—” you breathed, sliding your palms up his chest, smoothing the damp cotton of his t-shirt where it clung to him from the sweat thanks to early morning California heat. His hands stayed at your waist, warm, grounding. 

You rose onto your toes, brushed your nose against his. “The room…” Your voice softened, your chest pulling tight around the words. “It’s beautiful.” 

You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t need to. 

The way his fingers flexed gently at your hips—like he’d been waiting for that, like it mattered—told you he understood exactly what you meant. 

A/N: pretty sure this is the smuttiest thing i've ever written, so i hope you enjoyed! a few more coming this week, stay tuned!  

also, give the tag #the ghost in the library new content a follow to see new stuff asap! please feel free message me about anything and everything, i love interacting with you guys. also, a fun game you also can play is ‘spot that pop culture reference’.  

tags bb: @echoingbirdsofprey @crossskylinesandcontrails @jbennsquared @mrsevans90 @cowgirlstateofmind89

@impossibleblizzardstudentposts @teacupsandtopgun @malindacath @stoneyggirl2 @pensfan5871

@marrianena @lunatygerqueen @queenslandlover-93 @cardi-bre91 @lovelylndskies  

@readingislife @qutequeersstuff @shawnsblue @mimi-8793 @velvetarchives

@avengersfan25 @obsessed-fan-alert @khouse712 @yuckosworld @marvelouslyme96 

@theladybiers @daisiesrosesandpeonies @carlirindo @harmonic-tempest @abigailreilly2002-blog

@mill--lli @marzbarz106 @onlyxforxus  @writergirl28 @anglophileforlife

@kmc1989 @fantasyfootballchampion @greatprincepenguin-blog @comicgollum20 @bashbabe22

@julieandthe-stan-toms @velvetarchives @violetswritingg @ohhdarlingxo @echoingbirdsofprey

@embersflame @anniearmitage @dizzybee03  @greatestexpectationss @readingtopassthetime

@adad1999 @hannieb26 @lous-uprising @captain-redwolf @afterevergreen

@anniebeemine @midwestcapy @starsaroundmystars @siruslyloony4u @parisadams

@lilmonstrpixie @lune-endormie @universallymoonwitch @xhazzz @goodoldfashionedunderdog

@all-my-love-for-harry @roberto-firminos @peakysanakin @maverick-wingman @football1921

[theghostinthelibrary]

aurora borealis green ,

sneaky peeky! another glen x f!reader, same narrator from Hook 'Em, coming at you, today or tomorrow! I promise you:

🌊 Glen in a wet dress shirt; 🍼 Glen holding a baby; 🚿 Shower scene; 🏆🖊️🌶️🔥 and some more scenes represented by these emojis.

EDIT: It's heeere!

[theghostinthelibrary]

Hi lovely,

Just hear to tell you I loved Figure you out and would definitely not mind hearing more from those two 🥰.

Love me a seemingly fuckboy Jake who's secretly soft, devoted and knows himself, plus I think they offer such a great base to go off of.

(Like her past with the cult and how they first met or his backstory with the other women from his perspective and a deeper dive into his caring soft side and what becomes of them after that evening or literally whatever you think of)

But even if you don't write more/anything else for them I just wanted to let you know that it was a really good piece of writing that brought out so many emotions.

-🩵

Thank you so much for sending this! I'm so so happy to be able to respond to this and say: It's heeeeere! The second installment of soft!Jake and this narrator. Focused more on her backstory and how they first meet.

False God

[theghostinthelibrary]

false god .

pairing: jake seresin x f!reader (cult narrator)   rating: 18+ (minors dni)  warnings/triggers:  this one is heavy. Major content warnings for CSA trauma, descriptions of being inside a cult/controlled community, cult dynamics, religious trauma, purity culture, purity testing (religious/medical coercion), grooming, non-consensual touching/sexual coercion, forced marriage themes, parental neglect, parental manipulation, brief mention of first sexual encounter, off-screen loss of virginity, dissociation, panic, swearing. If these topics are difficult for you, please take the appropriate caution/care before reading. If you don’t want to read this piece or find the content difficult, a clean summary for continuity purposes for future works with this narrator (a TL; DR) has been posted as an accompaniment here. Everything else is under the cut.  word count: 5,763 summary: if you find yourself lost, the Kingdom will help you find your way.

A/N: ask and you shall receive! this is the second installment of “figure you out”. for something i made up in a single day, off the dome, it has received the most amazing feedback from you, the reader(s). so, as promised, here’s the second part, more focused on the backstory, what “rescued from a cult” means in the context of the narrator and how jake and the narrator first meet. fear not, if this was not the installment you were hoping to see (maybe a bit of next day after “figure you out”) I do plan on doing more parts for these two.    For clarity on the timeline below, “ten years earlier” means ten years before the events of FYO. There’s a bit of jumping around, so skip down to the comments for a note on that if it’s not clear.

♥ masterlist ♥

Ten years earlier - Pennsylvania 

    𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍. 𝙼𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎. 

You’d broken a nail pulling up the loose floorboard at the back of your closet. The blood smudged across the backlit keys of the flip phone you’d fished from the hiding place as you pressed each button, typing out your message with some effort. 

Once you’d hit send, you flipped it closed, shoved it under your pillow, breathed in the hot air building under the cover of your bed sheets. 

The reply from the unsaved number came quickly, a faint buzz beneath your ear. 

    𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍? 𝙲𝚊𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔? 

Earlier That Afternoon 

“She’s very good with cooking and cleaning.” Your mother recited as if she were following a script. Pre-requisites; qualifications. A resume. “She’ll be eighteen in April, finished school in June. All above board.” 

You stared at the catch in your corduroy skirt, a little loop of threading sticking out from the otherwise perfect griege of your clothing. The pieces your mother had already laid on your bed when you came home from school that day. 

You’d do well to remember the opportunities afforded to you, your mother had huffed as she dragged a brush through your hair at the kitchen table, pulled it into a sharp French braid that tugged tightly at your scalp. Elder Olinkski is a good man, he’ll provide for you, for us. 

What she didn’t say was that Elder Olinski was old enough to be your grandfather. 

From his seat on the couch in the living room, Elder Olinski took a sip of tea and the sound of his cup meeting the saucer made you startle. “Very good. Neither the Community nor your familial pod can afford another scandal, not after—” 

“Yes, of course.” Your mother’s tone inferred her facial expression: pinched, tight-lipped. 

When you’d walked into the house, you’d caught the eye of the girl sitting on the end of the couch, left side, a bookend to the man you recognized as the Bank Manager on Main Street. Girl, because you remembered distinctly that she graduated from your school just last year, bright-eyed and hopeful. Now, her hand hovered over a considerable swell of belly. Maybe six or seven months in the making. 

“Has she any experience with childcare?” 

“She has considerable experience caring for her five younger siblings.” Your mother chirped, reaching down to tap the meaty top of your thigh the way you’d seen Thomas Silas slapping the leg of a horse or farm mule on his father’s property. Good stock. 

Elder Olinski nodded, pleased you assumed from the way he licked his dry lips as he locked eyes on you. He grunted as he rocked to a standing position; his hand extended in your direction, and you paused for a moment. When you’d hesitated for too long, your mother’s elbow dug into your ribs. 

You stood, reached to take his hand as he sharply wrapped his grip around your wrist. 

Quickly, he pulled you to stand closely. Before you understood what was happening, his bony fingers were digging into the fleshy parts of your hips, pinching, prodding, and assessing. 

Elder Olinski had been the Manager at the bank your father worked at for as long as you could remember. You had memories of him at your birthday celebrations and sneaking you lollipops (only the red ones because he’d remembered they were the ones you liked) when you visited your father at the branch on PD days. You were sure you’d seen a photo of him dressed as Santa Claus, white beard slipping loosely around his once dark natural one underneath as you perched on his knee, frilly white dress and stockings crisp. 

You couldn’t square the image of that man with this one, the one that cupped your breasts in both hands, felt the heft of them. So, you looked over his shoulder at the cuckoo clock, focused on the way the bird presented itself on the hour, sang a song and retreated, not the way the old man’s breath quickened as he touched you. 

“Very well—May His light shine upon you.” Elder Olinski nodded, “we may proceed as is usual.” 

Your mother nodded, responded in kind (“And also you.”) 

You didn’t speak again until you were in the passenger seat of the car, and you’d passed three stop lights. “Proceed as usual?” 

“The Purity Assessment.” 

Your mother responded as if it were as normal as talking about weather, stating a fact about the world. Outside the car window heavy flakes of snow fell, accumulated on the red mailboxes at the end of each driveway. 

One Week Earlier 

The water stain on the drop ceiling tile above your head looked like a blue jay. 

You stared at it from your position, lying flat on your back on Henry Cavanaugh’s twin bed in his basement bedroom, for the entire five minutes you’d been there. You hugged your open blouse closed, skirt pushed up around your hips as Henry eased his weight off, and you winced as he slid out of you. 

Its wings were spread in flight. 

Henry had always been kind to you. Respectful, even. He asked what you thought about things in class, waved when he didn’t have to, and invited you back to his house for lunch as if it were nothing. To you, it felt like rebellion, like choosing something for yourself for the first time.  

When it kept happening, you didn’t know how to show him how grateful you were. You only knew how you’d been taught to give; how women were valuable to men.  

He sat up on the edge of the bed; his mop of longish hair tapered around the nape of his neck. His cheeks were flushed, rosy, as the snap of the condom he wore slipped off. He tossed it into the trash can at the foot of his bed. “My mom’s not home today. Bathroom upstairs is free.” 

“Oh, I don’t—” you started, sitting up carefully, sliding your legs off the side of the bed and onto the cold parquet flooring, some of the wooden pattern lifted, warped. You shifted your skirt down, threaded the buttons of your blouse through eyelets.  

“You’re bleeding.” He mumbled, swiping a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes as he stood and tucked himself back into his jeans, did up the belt. “It’s normal for virgins.” 

When you’d climbed the stairs, carefully opening the basement door to the quiet main floor and headed to the small powder room near the front door, you kept your back to the mirror. You swallowed the hitched breath and the half-sob that left you as you touched yourself, and your fingers came back red. 

The Next Day    You hadn’t been able to talk the night before—not with your father roaming the hallway, making his nightly rounds. His presence had eaten up the thin sliver of time you’d carved out to dig the phone from its hiding spot and send the first message. You managed one more—barely—just as you heard his familiar steps pause outside your room, the soft click of your sisters’ door closing moments later. 

𝙲𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔, 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠.

You’d snuck off during your regular gym class, throwing an excuse about “time of the month” on your notoriously weak stomached Phys-ed teacher, Mr. Sutton. He made no eye contact as you scurried away. 

“Fucking Christ.” 

There was a sound in the background that sounded like clanging, banging anger. 

If you had hoped your half-brother would settle your nerves, you were sorely mistaken. You scuffed a shoe in the dirt behind the bleachers, sniffled against the late winter breeze; one mitted hand cupping the ear that wasn’t pressed against the cell phone. 

“I’m sorry, I—” 

Your brother was already talking over you. “No, I’m so fucking sorry. I never should have left you alone. I—” 

“It’s not your fault.” 

You didn’t know why you were soothing him. Didn’t know why you wanted to make him feel better. From somewhere, the wafting smell of weed carried over to you, probably from the bleachers across the snow-covered football field where you were sure you’d heard giggles.  

The responding laugh was humourless. “Of course it’s my fucking fault.” 

A week before the appointment—which your mother marked on your kitchen calendar with a thick redlined circle— you’d snuck the flip phone out of the house in your underwear.  

All through first and second period you pictured it sitting on the top shelf of your locker, wrapped in your glove and the nervous energy built. By the time you’d managed to get away for a longer period of time—somewhere Beth Turner and Ruth Putnam wouldn’t see and report back to the Community’s Elders—the day was almost over. 

Jeremiah (now officially Jeremy) had answered the phone on the second ring, and you’d been holding everything in for so long that you let it all come out on the back of an avalanche. Elder Olinski, Henry, the Purity Assessment. 

To your relief, he didn’t lecture you on the dangers of interacting with non-members of the Community, let alone allowing a non-member to “deflower” or “devalue” you. That narrative had been beaten over your head enough times in lessons and parables you’d had to sit through since you’d turned five at the Community building within the compound. 

“Listen—you and I both know what happens when that assessment doesn’t come back in your favour.”  

You didn’t say you knew. Didn’t say you’d had nightmares every night since Elder Olinski. Instead, you’d hummed, crouched low on your haunches under the bleachers. Bit the inside of your lip until you tasted pennies. 

“What do I do?” The voice that left you was so small you weren’t sure you’d said the words out loud. If not for the sigh that reached you on the other side of the line, you’d have let it go. 

“You have to choose now.”

Three years earlier 

“You can’t come with me, Magpie.” Jeremiah’s boot slipped in the snow on the sloped roof outside his bedroom window; his knuckles were already red from the cold as he gripped the ledge. 

“I could help you,” you argued. Your hushed tone nearly breathless as you hefted the large, overstuffed backpack up to your older half-brother’s outstretched hand. 

Jeremiah laughed and paused for a moment, and you did the same, quiet to listen for footsteps outside the bedroom door across the room. “Help me? You can’t even help yourself.” 

“I’m really good at cooking,” you pressed. Below, headlights off, but running lights on, you could see the front end of the car parked against the curb just behind the large bramble bush around the corner. “I make the chicken alfredo the way you like.” 

Jeremiah struggled to thread his arms through the backpack, and you reached to hold onto a handful of his sweater, too thin for the cold outside, as he took both hands off the windowsill. When he was situated, the backpack hitched one sleeve of his sweater higher than the other, so it was too short on one arm. He reached back in through the window to cup your face in his hands. His eyes, the same hazel brown as his mother’s, bore into yours.  

“One day, Magpie, you’re going to have to choose. For yourself. Not now, not because you want to follow someone.” 

I choose now, you wanted to tell him, how am I going to be here, without you? 

Even as the bridge of your nose prickled, your vision blurred by the welling tears, you willed yourself not to cry. You opened your mouth to speak, closed it again, and then the moment was gone. Jeremiah reached into his back pocket, pulled out something flat, rectangular, and grabbed your wrist, pressing it into the palm of your open hand. 

“When that time comes, you text the number in the phone.” His breath came out in a puff that hung in the air for a moment. 

“How will I know?” You didn’t offer clarifiers. Didn’t ask if you meant the phone number or when you’d know when to choose. Today? Tomorrow? Never? 

“Hide that. In the back of the closet, there’s a board—it’s loose. The charging cord is in there too.” 

Across the street, someone’s back porch light flicked on, and a door cracked open wide enough for a small dog to slip through into the undisturbed snow in the fenced yard before closing again. 

“What should I say to Elizabeth and father?” Your heartbeat picked up, nearly choked out the air you needed to speak, to ask the questions you didn’t have time to ask. 

Outside, the dog in the yard began to bark. Short, yipping declarations into the quiet of the night. 

“Nothing. Say nothing to my mother and less than nothing to father.” Jeremiah was already moving away from the window, his feet crunching on the snow on the roof, inching his way toward the pergola covered in the skeletal branches of the ivy that grew wild in the summer months. 

You watched the street long after Jeremiah disappeared and the car pulled away. Before you closed the window, you threw the bucket of water at your feet out over the slope of the roof, dissolving his footprints. 

One Week Later    “You should eat something.” 

In the three years since you’d last seen him, figure dark on the white of the newly fallen snow, eyes not looking back even as you watched him slip into the waiting car, Jeremiah, Jeremy, had changed. 

His once short, cropped auburn hair is longer, shaggy, tucked up under a hat with a ‘B’ placed in the middle of a spoke of black and yellow. 

Bruins, he’d told you in the car as you drove in silence; your eyes flicking up to his hat periodically when they weren’t directed at the blur of scenery outside the passenger window. They’re an NHL—uh, hockey team. Boston. That’s where I live now. That’s where we’re going to go. I have a place there and— 

You meant to say you weren’t hungry, but you couldn’t manage words around the dryness in your throat. Instead, your stared at the diner logo, a crowing rooster in front of a rising sun, the sleeves of the too big sweater swallowing your hands. 

“She’ll have the breakfast plate, extra on everything.” Jer smiled at the waitress, a young woman who didn’t smile back and collected the menus before pouring more coffee into his mug. 

In the background, a tinny playback of a song about blackbirds with broken wings learning to fly fell over you. 

That Morning 

You were missing the test in first period Physics class. 

For some reason, it was the only thing you could think about when you’d stepped into the clinic ahead of your mother and the receptionist with the bright red lipstick and yellowed teeth handed you a teal, open backed hospital gown. 

The date circled in red on the calendar in the kitchen came quickly but moved forward like every other morning. 

Your two younger sisters ate breakfast at a large dining room table, toast with a scrape of butter, tall thin glasses of milk. Opposite them, your three brothers cut into sausage and speared fluffy scrambled eggs between mouthfuls of bagels from the bakery the next town over. At the head of the table, your father sat in his suit and tie, newspaper opened, a partition between him and the rest of the table. Quietly, your mother sat at his right and cut his food into neat, bite-sized pieces.  

A chair at his left was empty, no place setting. It had once been Elizabeth’s chair, but she had—since Jeremiah’s escape—been purposed to provide silent service. She ate alone for meals, unseen; sat in isolation for Community gatherings; bore the burden of her offspring’s shame in solitude and unending penance.  

The cracked pleather of the waiting room chair wheezed out a puff of air as you sat, the thin gown balled tightly in your fist to keep the open backing closed. At your side your mother filled out a form, pen scratching over the fields. 

Presumption of State? Without hesitation, you watched her ink a neat check mark in the box next to Intact. 

You swallowed, squeezed your eyes shut a little longer on your next blink. Tried not to think about Newton’s Law and how every action had an equal yet opposite reaction. Tried to push your sister’s gap-toothed smile out of your head, the one she allowed on the nights she snuck into your bed for a story you didn’t read from a book. One about dragons and princesses; another, a tale of forbidden lovers forever embossed in the stars and punished by distance but reunited every so often by a bridge constructed of wing and tail, birds in legion, spanning the milky way. 

Your socked foot slid easily against the cold tile, your eyes shifting around the room as your heart hammered wildly. Across from you, a girl, your age, maybe a year younger, held her gaze on the floor. At the hem of an identical hospital gown her knees were tinged a shade of blue, the soft hair on her legs light and only noticeable when the tremble of her limbs caught the harsh overhead glare of the fluorescents. 

A jostle of your knee pulled you back into your own body. The click of your mother’s kitten heels as she crossed in front of you. 

When you followed, the doctor and a Community Elder you recognized as Thomas Silas Sr. stood shoulder to shoulder, the door to a small exam room open behind them. 

“May His light shine upon you.” the doctor smiled, patted an examination table covered in a piece of white butcher paper with a crinkle. Elder Silas hovered at his shoulder; the symbol of the Community grasped in his hands as a ward. “We’ll have you hop up here.” 

Your mother pressed you forward, hand on your back. 

The paper crinkled under your shifting weight. 

“I hear congratulations are in order,” the doctor didn’t look up at you, his eyes glued to the form on the clipboard. He scribbled something quickly and motioned for you to shift to the edge of the table. “We’ll get this signed off and then you’ll be in His light. Elder Olinski is a perfect match.” 

In her chair by the door, your mother murmured the corresponding response. 

This is important, you have to listen, Jer didn’t waste time with pleasantries. The window between the ending of Sunday Community School a few days before and the time when your mother would pick you up was minimal. Don’t let them start anything. 

“Washroom?” you cleared your throat, drew your mother’s attention. 

Your mother’s sigh, deeply annoyed, said everything her words did not. “Not now.” 

Don’t embarrass me. Stay quiet. Do your duty, her eyes imparted as they locked on you. 

“It’s urgent.” You crossed your legs at the ankle, hand holding down the edge of the gown just above the doctor’s grip at its hem. 

Off the main hallway, the small washroom smelled like bleach, layered with an automatic air freshener spraying timed spurts of artificial lavender. 

The stranger in the reflection of the mirror above the sink looked exhausted, dark bags under her eyes. Her dark rimmed eyes flicked to the door handle behind you, the one without the lock and you were back in your body. 

When you get into the washroom, you need to wedge something under the handle, Jeremiah instructed carefully, clearly. Something heavy. Forty-five-degree angle, right under the knob. 

Your socks slipped under the opposite corners of the awkward, heavy garbage can helped it slide noiselessly across the tile until it was against the back of the door. You tilted it until it wedged, careful with the swinging lid as you tugged the socks out and stuffed them under the strap of your bra under the gown. 

On the other side of the door, you heard your mother sigh, tap her shoe impatiently. She murmured a standard Community greeting as someone else passed her. “The Elder is a busy man,” your mother rasped at the door, jiggling the handle. 

The sound made you jump as you climbed toward the rectangular cut out of sunlight, your barefoot slipping on the tank lid at the back of the toilet. The bite of cold air hit your face as you cranked the window open and the thin layer of ice cracked away from the seam. 

“Now is not the time for disobedience, girl” 

If you were staying, you’d have prepared for the belt—the one your father hung on the coat rack at the front door— when you got home. Instead, you focused on Jer’s instructions, played them back on loop to drown out the increasingly frantic jiggling of the door handle.  

When you get out, stick against the buildings. Don’t take anything, don’t look back. I’ll be waiting off Swiftlet Way. Blue car, behind the evergreen. 

The crunch of snow beneath your sockless feet as you fell on the other side was sharp. A jolt of reality as your teeth chattered. Inside, you swore you heard the  

When you reached the deep blue car sitting behind an overgrown pine tree, you could no longer feel the cold in your feet. The warmth of the car reminded you of the pain, the burning prickles as your limbs regained sense. 

Wordlessly, Jer held out his hand. You didn’t remember giving it over, but you remembered the sound of the hinges on the flip phone snapping, a cold breeze filling the car as he threw the pieces out the window without slowing down. 

Ten years later – Miramar, California 

“If you find yourself lost, the Kingdom will help you find your way.” 

Your fingers stilled over the packaging of the mascara tube on the display before you pulled your earbuds out sharply as a pleasant, melodic voice read out an attestation, something about her kids being more present within their family now that she’d found the Kingdom. 

You made a mental note to axe that podcast from your usual lineup as you headed toward the cash.  

On autopilot, you paid, waved a ‘no’ when the cashier asked if you wanted a bag, pushed through the door and stepped out into the already hot bake of the California sun. 

You waited to drive to base parking before you thumbed out a quick text to your therapist, copy and pasting it to the text thread you had with Jer: 

Heard an ad on my favourite podcast, can’t listen to it anymore. 

It was a shame too; you’d really started to like the hosts’ cadence, their witty banter. For the best, you supposed. 

You ripped into the packaging for the mascara and flipped down the visor, applying it lightly. Enough to look like you’d tried, not enough to look unnatural. 

Radio static had always been a calming sound for you. Through the Federal Aviation Academy in Oklahoma City and its rigorous course of testing, to the nights when you couldn’t sleep.  

It lulled you into a space where everything was and wasn’t at the same time: you were physically present, you weren’t sitting with your thoughts inside the quiet of your own mind; you were moving forward in life, you weren’t mentally burdened by trauma aged a decade. 

Here, in the Tower, just off the tarmac on base at Miramar, it was no different. 

You stood just inside the tower room, one hand resting lightly on the lip of the desk, trying to remember if you were supposed to sign in on the clipboard or just make yourself useful. 

Before you could ask, Brenna had already swooped in, pen clicking to a wordless tune as she leaned around you to scribble her name with a flick of her wrist and a small loopy heart at the end. 

“Don’t worry,” when she smiled at you from her seat near the bank of screens, it didn’t reach her eyes. “First week is always like drinking from a firehose. Just try not to screw up someone’s call sign or send a bird into live drills or restricted airspace and you’ll be golden.” 

“Ignore her.” Iza, who had been warm since you started, scoffed, pulling off her headset as she shot a look over her shoulder. “Everyone screws something up their first week. I once accidentally patched a call through to the Admiral Simpson’s wife instead of Maintenance.” 

You scribbled your name onto the sheet under Brenna’s. You didn’t add a heart at the end. 

“Oh my god,” Yvette laughed, the hula girl bobble stuck to the top of her monitor swayed her plastic hips as you passed to assume your seat. “I remember that. Didn’t she think ‘diagnostic leak’ was a euphemism for ‘heads up: your hot ass husband is deeply in love with a younger Tower girl?’” 

“Still not totally sure it wasn’t some kind of safe word to be honest, just don’t think that man has time for affairs.” Iza smirked, pulling her headset back on and Brenna barked out a surprised kind of laugh. 

You smiled politely, gave small laughs where appropriate. It made people comfortable, you noticed. And they were trying. You wanted to tell them you appreciated it, that it was more than you were used to. Instead, you settled into your station between Yvette and Iza. 

Yvette had been going on about her new corgi puppy, scrolling through a few staged photos with a mall Santa when Iza snapped her fingers over her head, half-standing from her swivel chair. “Look alive, Bren—Hangman’s on approach.” 

On cue, as Iza flipped a few toggles and settled her headset around her neck, a burst of static filled the channel and the Tower. Iza lifted a finger, the universal hold on gesture. 

“Tower Three, this is Hangman—requesting clearance to land.” 

The voice over comms was smooth and even through the distortion of background cockpit noise, the hint of a swagger threaded into the cadence. 

“Copy that, Hangman. We see you. Tower Three confirming clearance for runway two-seven. Let’s try to do better than a 7.3 across the board this time, hmm?” 

Brenna swiveled in her chair, snorted, offered an air high five in Iza’s direction. Beside you, Yvette muttered something that sounded like show-off. 

“Copy Tower Three. Loud and clear. Let’s see what I can do for you ladies today.” You swore you heard a chuckle before comms cut. 

Iza pulled off her headset, stepped away from the bank of computers and Yvette followed with quick clicks of her heels, meeting Brenna against the glass facing runway two-seven. “C'mon new girl. Wanna see the most arrogant landing you’ve ever witnessed in your life?” Iza tipped her head, invited you to join them. 

You slid in next to Brenna who crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. Yet, when she groaned, she couldn’t hide her grin. “He’s like if a GQ spread had an ego.” 

“Ego or no, I still want to climb him like a tree,” Yvette waved her hand before shielding her eyes as she searched for the approach of the F18 you could all hear. “And I’m not even into blondes.” 

“Speak of the devil.” Iza nodded toward the far side of the Tower, “Southeast on approach. He’d better pull that nose up sooner this time if he wants to get anything over seven from me.” 

You leaned forward, ducking your head past Brenna for a better view. The bird was a smooth dot on the horizon, growing quickly in size before descending with calculated ease until the nose dipped just enough on final approach. Even from here, you could tell it was finesse, someone showing off. 

“He does it on purpose,” Iza murmured as she passed behind you, back to her station. It took you a moment to realize you were the only one still standing at the glass as the jet settled on a bounce, landing gear squealing against the hot tarmac. “That little flair at the end.” 

“I actually heard he times it to a playlist,” Brenna was standing, searching for a Sharpie which Yvette tossed her. She was leaning forward, scribbling something with a squeak of the inked tip on a paper attached to a clipboard. “I like to think it’s all AC/DC and Springsteen and like... one Taylor Swift track he says is ironically not ironic.” 

“I bet it’s the ten-minute version of All Too Well.” Tasha hustled into the room, up the metal steps two at a time. “Am I too late to get my numbers in for that Masterclass of a landing?” 

“As long as it’s an 8 or under,” Iza passed Tasha a pen and paper as she collapsed into her chair at her station, “don’t want to fluff him too much, gotta keep him coming back.” 

The girls laughed again, and you noticed Brenna reach into the drawer at her desk, pop open a compact to reapply a layer of fresh rouge lipstick. 

“Ok, what do we got, girlies?”  

Wordlessly, Iza, Tasha, Brenna and Yvette held up their papers—three 8s and one 9. 

“I know you don’t think he’s going to bend you over for a 9, Bren,” Iza scoffed, waved her capped marker at the blonde, “turn that shit upside down.” 

Brenna groaned, huffed something that sounded like clam-jammer before turning the number upside down and scratching a line under the loop of the now ‘6’. 

“Tower,” a voice called—easy, warm—and then he was there, filling the doorway. 

He peeled off his flight gloves slowly, one finger at a time, golden hair (more dirty-blonde than gold up close) short hair tousled, unkempt in a way that suggested he'd done it on purpose. His flight suit hung unzipped from his hips, the white T-shirt beneath it dampened at the collar. He looked like someone who lived half in sunlight, half in adrenaline. 

When your eyes flicked back toward Brenna, a button on her uniform had somehow come undone, the neckline dipping lower toward the curve of cleavage. She wasn’t alone—Yvette shifted her posture too, and even Tasha straightened as if his orbit tugged her forward. 

“Hangman” Iza pretended to busy herself, clicking and punching in commands on the monitor in front of her. 

“I get points on that landing or what?” Jake asked, grin sliding in easy as the lap of a tide. 

“I dunno,” Iza shrugged. “Did he get points, ladies?” 

A flutter of papers lifted into the air—Yvette, Tasha, Brenna, and Iza holding up their scores like Olympic judges. 

He clicked his tongue, slapped his gloves once against his palm—a sharp, rhythmic punctuation. “That looks like a 7.5 to me. Still an improvement from 7.3.” 

He stepped closer, leaning over Brenna’s desk to flick the corner of her scorecard with playful precision. 

“A six, Brenna? Really?” His mouth twitched, half-frown, half-tease. “What’s a guy gotta do to get a nine up there?” 

Brenna bit the corner of her lip, but Jake had already moved on—pacing past stations like he owned the footprint of the floor. His finger grazed Yvette’s hula-girl dash ornament, sending it into a lazy sway. 

“Any tips for the suggestion box?” he asked, leaning one elbow on Iza’s desk, poking at her spinning cup of pens like a bored cat. He shot for disinterest, but his eyes—bright, sharp—were cataloging the room. 

Iza leaned back in her chair, arms folded as she regarded him like a coach considering a star player. 

“You landed like you were trying to kiss the runway.” 

Jake hummed, winding one hand in the air—go on. 

“So,” she concluded, “points for enthusiasm.” 

He pushed off Iza’s desk with a soft exhale, eyes sweeping the room one more time—quick, cataloguing, dismissive in the way confident men often were. 

Until his gaze reached you. 

And then it wasn’t dismissive at all. 

Something in him stalled, a half-second hitch you would’ve missed if you weren’t the sort of person who had spent years reading danger in micro-reactions. His posture eased—shoulders lowering a fraction, chin lifting as if to give you space to breathe. 

“I don’t think we’ve met,” he said, voice losing its showman edge, softening around the edges in a way that wasn’t for the others. “You new in the Tower?” 

It wasn’t flirtatious. It wasn’t performing. 

It was—noticing. 

Seeing you like a person instead of an audience, instead of just a body filling a seat. 

You nodded, pulse fluttering low. “Started this week.” 

He stepped closer, but not too close—just enough to close the space politely, letting you choose whether to bridge the rest. His hand came up, palm open in introduction, calloused but steady. 

“Jake Seresin,” he offered. “Most folks call me Hangman.” 

Your hesitation was small, but he didn’t rush you. He simply waited, hand suspended between you in a kind of patient offering. When you finally placed your hand in his, his grip closed gently—firm enough to be respectful, not enough to trap. 

“Good to meet you,” he said. And strangely, he meant it. 

A few feet away, Brenna sighed—loud, performative—and clicked her pen like a warning shot. He ignored her entirely. 

“Well,” he added, releasing your hand with a warmth that lingered longer than the touch itself, “try not to judge us all by Brenna’s bad attitude.” 

“Careful, Hangman,” Brenna shot back, sharp and sweet. “You’ll hurt my feelings.” 

“Didn’t know you had any,” he quipped automatically, but his eyes never left you, not fully. A brief narrowing—curiosity, recognition, something like quiet surprise. 

Then he winked at the room—not at you—and turned toward the door. Saluted, mock serious. 

“Ladies. Let me know if you think of a way for me to earn that higher score. Scrubbing some dishes. A drink at the Hard Deck.” 

His footsteps disappeared down the stairwell, and the static in your headset buzzed in your ears, a reminder to stay grounded. 

The snowy white noise helped you center. On things that were and weren’t. On facts and numbers and coordinates as they buzzed through comms chatter. 

Jake Seresin was a pilot, cocky, self-assured. Jake Seresin wasn’t for you.  

He was soaring and free and bright. You were broken and bent, a cheap imitation of a whole person. 

And yet—there was something in the way he’d looked at you without making you feel small. Something that wasn’t what you expected. Something different. 

A/N: already have something else in the works for these two! Follow #the ghost in the library new content tag for updates on things I'm posting! Special thanks to those who specifically requested more and interacted. You make my heart siiiiing.

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[goddesspharo]

I always get accused of spanking too hard! That was so weird. Why did I say that? [x]

[theghostinthelibrary]

SIR.

PLZ.

STOP. It's ILLEGAL to say that and not expect us to be FERAL.

[goddesspharo]

Who's on your Mount Rushmore of fictional movie athletes? [x]

[theghostinthelibrary]

The golden retriever of men, promoting a fellow golden retriever.

[missathlete31]

[theghostinthelibrary]

My mans in a Canadian tuxedo. 🥵😩🫠

[theghostinthelibrary]

hook ‘em was so good!!! I love longhorns fic and I have to say yours just climbed to my number one spot!!

Aww! Thank you so much, nony! This is the highest form of praise I could have never hoped to get! This honestly has made my week. 🧡❤️🧡