ver

writer, LADS is my addiction, 23, she/her

[vervee]

LADS series memes

Felt kinda stupid today, so made these...

warning: may contain spoilers for future uploads

When homegirl gets her evol

Girl does not care if she does not win

Zayne & Reader's relationship pt.1

It's all fun in games until reader finally cracks

Zayne & Reader's relationship pt.2

Rafayel absolutely REFUSES for the sake of Lemuria

Sylus after Reader tips him 20 bucks for his performance

It takes one serious dumbass to know another serious dumbass

Lemuria is saved

"WHY ARE ALL THESE HORNY ASSHOLES OBBSESSED WITH ME!!!!!!"

Anyway, hoped you enjoyed this...

[vervee]

If you don't mind me asking, I was wondering for your lads fic u have going is there an upload timeline? And is there a tag list?? Oh and is there a title to the fic or is each fic a diff name?? I'm sorry so many questions but I love it so much😫❤️❤️❤️❤️

I don’t really have a set schedule for when I write these—I just post whenever I feel like it. There isn’t a taglist; I’ve seen a few people ask, but I don’t plan to make one. The fic doesn’t have an official name either—I just use a title based on something the characters or reader say. Hope that clears things up.

[vervee]

THAT'S MY CINDERELLA!

Summary - Reincarnated into a dating sim as a toddler side character, you vowed to avoid the main plot at all costs. Step one: emotionally terrorize your future love interest neighbor with carrot cake and petty warfare. Morals are optional—survival is not.

Warnings in General - MDNI, Mature themes, blood, gore, violence, drugs, death, human experimentation, etc...

previously

You puffed your cheeks out, glaring up at him like your sheer willpower could shake the answer loose.

Spoiler: it couldn’t.

Tomorrow was the Spring Festival, and somehow—somehow—Zayne Li, human encyclopedia and certified fun vacuum, had managed to keep his role in the class play a secret.

Apparently, his class was doing Cinderella. And apparently, Zayne thought it was national-security-level classified information.

“C’mon, Zayne!” you whined, skipping to keep up as you both walked toward school. “I’m literally going to watch it tomorrow anyway! Might as well save yourself the embarrassment now.”

Unfortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Li were out of town on some Important Adult Assignment™, meaning they wouldn’t get to witness their beloved prodigy’s acting debut.

Which, of course, was a tragedy—so naturally, you volunteered to fill in. Because what are neighbors for if not moral support and light psychological sabotage?

“Precisely why I’m not telling you until the day of,” Zayne said, voice maddeningly calm as you both passed through the school gates. “I’d like to keep what’s left of my dignity intact.”

You gasped. “What’s left? Zayne, please, you’re eleven. You haven’t even earned dignity yet.”

He didn’t answer—just sighed the kind of sigh that said, why do I still talk to you?

And that, of course, only made you grin wider.

Because now you were even more determined to find out.

“Don’t tell me you’re the stepmother’s cat?” you teased, eyes glinting with mischief. “You do like cats, don’t you? What’s his name again—Lucifer?” You wiggled your eyebrows at him like you’d just cracked the Da Vinci Code.

“Fitting, huh?”

Zayne didn’t even blink. “Yes. For you.”

You clutched your chest, staggering like you’d been shot. “Wow. How cold, even for you, Zayne!”

Then, because personal space was a myth in your world, you threw your arms around him in dramatic despair. “You’re going to my class’s bake sale, aren’t you?”

Zayne made a strangled noise that was probably somewhere between please let me die and why is this my life.

You, of course, ignored it.

You’d spent half of last night baking—well, supervising the baking—while your mom made sure you didn’t accidentally set the kitchen on fire again. There were cookies, brownies, cupcakes—the works.

And, fine, maybe you had the boys in your class handle the decorating part because glitter glue was boring, but it all balanced out.

“It’s for a good cause!” you added cheerily, tightening your grip just enough to make Zayne consider astral projection. “And by ‘good cause,’ I mean me. Obviously.”

Zayne sighed—the long-suffering kind that came from years of emotional endurance training, courtesy of you.

“Fine,” he muttered, prying your arms off with the weary patience of a saint. “I’ll drop by your bake sale before my class’s play starts.”

You beamed instantly, all fake innocence and real triumph. “See? I knew you cared.”

“I don’t,” he said flatly, already regretting every life choice that led to this moment. “I just know you’ll hunt me down if I don’t show up.”

You gasped. “So you do understand how our friendship works!”

He shot you a look—equal parts resigned, unimpressed, and faintly terrified of your energy levels this early in the morning.

You just grinned, skipping ahead with the confidence of someone who’d won again.

Zayne Li might have been many things—smart, patient, borderline saintly—but immune to you?

Yeah, not even close.

You turned back to him, walking backward now just so he couldn’t escape your grin. “I’ll save you your favorite,” you said, tone sugar-sweet and smug. Then, with a wink, “And don’t worry—it’s not carrot cake.”

He sighed through his nose—the universal sound of a boy realizing he’d already lost before the argument even began.

“Just… don’t make a scene at the festival,” he warned.

You gasped, deeply offended. “Zayne, please. When have I ever—”

He raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking down to the brace wrapped neatly around your hand.

You froze mid-step. “…Okay, fine,” you muttered. Damn. He got you there.

“Speaking of which,” Zayne said, tone calm but pointed, “how’s your hand?”

You gasped, clasping your good hand over your heart. “Aww, is Zaynie worried about me?” you cooed, batting your lashes like a Disney princess auditioning for Menace: The Musical.

“What I’m worried about,” he said flatly, “is how you somehow evaded the consequences of punching a group of boys.”

You shrugged, completely unbothered. “Easy.”

Because really, it had been a simple matter. A group of mouthy idiots from his class thought it’d be funny to talk trash about Zayne behind his back.

You, being the ever-loyal next-door gremlin that you were, did the only logical thing: bloodshed.

One very dramatic snack break later, you’d wiped the floor with them. Literally.

Naturally, the school called your parents. Naturally, you were doomed.

Except James and Miriam—sweet, delusional angels—couldn’t fathom their darling daughter doing such a barbaric thing. You? Their gentle, innocent little girl who once cried because a ladybug got stepped on? Preposterous.

So, you did what any morally flexible nine-year-old mastermind would do. You weaponized public opinion.

A few of your classmates—your loyal “associates”—conveniently “testified” that you were clearly the victim. That the mean, jealous boys had framed you because they knew your were close to the boy who they could never be.

Case closed. Reputation intact. Justice served (by you, obviously).

Zayne stared at you, somewhere between horrified and impressed. “You’re unbelievable.”

You grinned, wiggling your braced fingers. “Undefeated is the term I’d use.”

“Where were you?!” one of the boys from your class barked the moment you arrived, hands on his hips like a budget hall monitor.

It was the Spring Festival, and yes—you were late. Tragic. In your defense, though, you’d been up till 3 a.m. playing Final Fantasy VII and drooling over Sephiroth. Priorities, obviously.

You strolled past the little interrogator without breaking stride, balancing your tray of baked goods like royalty. “Kissing your mom goodbye,” you said sweetly, sticking your tongue out for emphasis.

The boy’s jaw dropped. “You—!”

“—am a blessing to this earth,” you finished for him, flashing a peace sign as you set your tray down at the bake sale booth.

You dusted off your hands, completely unbothered by the daggers his eyes were throwing at you. “Relax, pea-brain. The goods are here, the crowd’s happy, the economy thrives. You’re welcome.”

Utilizing your unmatched social skills (read: weaponized charm and mild emotional blackmail), you made quite the sale with your baked goods.

You smiled, complimented, and occasionally guilt-tripped parents into buying at least two boxes—because who could say no to a wide-eyed “please, it’s for class funds”? Not Mrs. Lin, that’s for sure.

By the time your classmates realized what was happening, you’d already cleaned out half the inventory and somehow convinced the principal to buy three brownies “for morale purposes.”

“See?” you said smugly, counting the cash box like a Wall Street prodigy in pigtails. “All it takes is charisma, strategy, and a complete lack of shame.”

The other kids just stared at you, dumbfounded.

Somewhere across the festival grounds, Zayne sneezed—the kind of sneeze that happens when someone, somewhere, is bragging about something they absolutely shouldn’t be.

“Excuse me?”

The tiny voice snapped you out of your daydreams of profit and glory.

You turned, expecting another indecisive parent, and instead found a little girl—maybe seven—staring up at you with wide, dark-brown eyes and a hopeful clutch on a few crumpled bills.

For some reason, she looked… familiar. Which was weird. You didn’t exactly hang around the second-grade demographic.

“How much for two cupcakes?” she asked sweetly, blinking up at you like some kind of Disney side character about to teach you a moral lesson.

You smiled automatically. “Two cupcakes would be six dollars,” you said, channeling your best professional-entrepreneur voice.

Her face fell instantly. “Oh… I only have four.” She set down the bills like it was her life savings, shoulders drooping.

Normally, you’d tell her “tough luck” and send her off to the lemonade stand to rethink her budgeting skills—but something in you short-circuited. Maybe it was the big eyes. Maybe it was the guilt of still being a college student in a nine-year-old’s body. Maybe it was divine interference.

Either way, you sighed and slid two cupcakes toward her. “Don’t tell anyone I told you this,” you whispered conspiratorially, “but we’ve got a super-secret, two-for-three deal. Exclusive offer.”

Her eyes lit up like fireworks. “Really? Thank you, big sister!”

You froze for half a second at that—big sister, huh?—then smiled and put a finger to your lips. “Shhh. Remember, it’s a secret.”

She nodded solemnly, clutching her cupcakes like treasure and scampering off.

You watched her go, unable to stop the small, reluctant grin tugging at your lips.

“Hm… to think you’re actually capable of doing a good deed,” came a familiar, mildly judgmental voice from behind you.

You didn’t even have to turn around. You knew that voice. You’d know that tone anywhere.

“Zayne!” you exclaimed, abandoning the counter and sprinting toward him like a missile of pure enthusiasm.

Unfortunately for you, Zayne was no longer the scrawny, unsuspecting victim of your signature flying tackles.

You launched yourself at him anyway—because restraint had never been your thing—and promptly bounced off what felt like a wall.

“Ow—what the heck?!” you yelped, rubbing your forehead and glaring up at him. “When did you get made of brick?”

Zayne looked down at you, entirely unimpressed. “When I realized physical survival was necessary around you.”

You squinted at him, offended. “You make it sound like I’m dangerous.”

“You are dangerous,” he said dryly, brushing imaginary dust off his clothes. “You just happen to disguise it well.”

You grinned, entirely unbothered. “Aw, you noticed.”

Before he could respond, you grabbed his hand and started dragging him toward the booth with zero warning—because consent was more of a suggestion in your world.

“I saved you a cake!” you announced proudly, weaving through the crowd like a girl on a mission.

Zayne immediately dug his heels in. “If that’s the case, I’ll take my leave,” he said, already turning half away. The trauma of last year’s carrot cake incident clearly still haunted him.

You gasped, scandalized. “It’s a chocolate mousse cake, dummy!”

He gave you a deeply suspicious look. “You’re not lying?”

You scoffed, hand still latched onto his wrist like a stubborn barnacle. “Zayne, please. I only lie about important things—like whether I started that food fight in third grade.”

“You did start that food fight,” he deadpanned.

“Allegedly,” you said sweetly, tugging him the last few feet to the table. “Now shut up and eat your cake before I change my mind.” You two eventually found an empty bench near the edge of the festival grounds.

You plopped down first, cookie in hand, while Zayne sat beside you with all the enthusiasm of a man awaiting jury sentencing.

“Excited for your class’s play?” you asked casually between bites, crumbs dotting your cheek. The question was innocent enough—at least on the surface.

But Zayne… froze.

Which was ironic, really, considering his Evol would end up being ice in the future. Fitting, that even eleven-year-old him could freeze on command.

“I’m not particularly fond of the notion,” he admitted finally, tone clipped and almost—dare you say it—nervous.

You blinked. Huh. That was new.

Zayne was many things: aloof, sarcastic, annoyingly composed for someone his age. But nervous? Never.

He was the type to face pop quizzes, teacher questions, and even you with saintlike patience. Yet here he was, visibly fidgeting.

Your curiosity flared immediately.

“Ohhh,” you drawled, leaning closer with that telltale grin that always spelled trouble. “Don’t tell me—Zayne Li, is suffering from stage fright?”

He shot you a glare that could’ve frozen the sun.

You grinned wider. “This is adorable.”

“It’s not,” Zayne muttered, looking anywhere but at you. His posture was stiff, shoulders squared like he was physically bracing for embarrassment. “I just… dislike performing. It’s unnecessary.”

You gasped dramatically. “Unnecessary? Zayne, this is art! Culture! The pinnacle of human expression!” You threw your arms wide, nearly smacking him in the face with your half-eaten cookie.

He blinked, unimpressed. “It’s a sixth-grade play about a girl losing a shoe.”

You shrugged, conceding that point with a mouthful of cookie. “Yeah, but still—don’t tell me you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” he said a little too quickly.

You raised a brow. “Right. And I didn’t bribe half the PTA with cookies to make sure I got the good booth table.”

His eyes narrowed. “You did what?”

“Focus, Zayne.” You waved him off like the minor criminal you were. “So what’s the problem then? Forgot your lines? Costume malfunction? Secret identity as a failed thespian?”

He hesitated for a moment too long.

Your jaw dropped. “Oh my god. Don’t tell me you’re—”

NEVER in your life had your face been this hot from laughter.

After days of pestering, dramatic monologues, and near-bribery, you had finally cracked the mystery of why Zayne Li, poster boy for calm and composure, had gone full witness-protection-program about his role.

Now, seated in the packed auditorium, you were experiencing the kind of pure, unfiltered joy that only comes when life hands you front-row seats to someone else’s humiliation.

The lights dimmed. The curtain rose. The play began.

“Once upon a time, in a faraway kingdom, there lived a young girl named Cinderella.”

And then—then—Cinderella walked on stage.

Or rather… Zayne Li did.

In a worn down dress.

“She was a kind, gentle, and beautiful child with the most radiant smile.”

And the most murderous expression ever to grace a fairytale heroine.

“Cinderella had a heart full of love, but unfortunately, fate hadn’t been kind to Cinderella.”

Your hand flew to your mouth, trying—failing—to muffle the hysterical noise bubbling out of you.

You were shaking. Wheezing. Crying. Every time he took a dainty step, your soul ascended a little higher.

Your jaw dropped all over again, but this time in sheer, euphoric disbelief.

You’d expected Prince Charming.You’d gotten Cinderella herself.

“Her mother had passed away, leaving her alone with her selfish stepmother.”

Somewhere on stage, Zayne adjusted his wig with the quiet dignity of a man whose will to live had officially checked out.

You pressed your hands together in mock prayer. “Oh my god,” you whispered, voice trembling from laughter, “he’s never gonna live this down.”

“Oh, Fairy Godmother. I have no dress to wear to the ball.” You could absolutely hear the strained pitch in Zayne’s voice.

The fairy godmother smiled and said, “Don’t worry, my child. You shall go to the ball.”

You’d lost consciousness somewhere between the “bippity-boppity-boo” and Zayne dramatically pretending to lose his glass slipper.

It was too much—the glitter, the awkward curtsy, the resigned grace with which he played his part.

You were crying into your sleeve, gasping for air, your stomach aching from laughter.

Zayne, for his part, carried on like a professional, every line delivered with a deadpan elegance that somehow made the entire thing funnier.

And as much as you’d never admit it to his face… you had to give him credit.

Zayne was handsome—painfully so—but if he’d been born a girl?

Oh, you were doomed. He’d be prettier than you without even trying. The way the stage lights caught on his wig, the faint dusting of blush across his cheekbones, the way his lashes looked unfairly long—

You groaned into your hands, somewhere between awe and utter despair.

You prided yourself on being the undisputed master of capturing the best angles—whether it was photos, videos, or moments of pure blackmail material.

So really, you were just being responsible when you pulled out your phone and started recording Zayne’s performance.

After all, poor Mr. and Mrs. Li were away on assignment, completely missing their beloved son’s theatrical debut.

And you, being the kind and dependable soul you were, had sworn to record the entire play for them.

Totally out of the goodness of your heart.

Not because the sight of Zayne as Cinderella was something you’d cherish forever, or because the temptation to immortalize his suffering was too strong to resist.

Nope. You were simply fulfilling your duty as a friend.

You zoomed in as he picked up the glass slipper with the grace of a man silently questioning every life choice that led him here.

You bit your lip to keep from laughing.

“Oh, Mrs. Li,” you whispered to yourself, trying not to shake the camera, “you’re gonna be so proud.”

When it came time for the curtain call, you were on your feet.

The moment Zayne stepped forward with the rest of his cast—still in that cursed gown, tiara slightly askew—you cupped your hands around your mouth and let out a cheer so loud it nearly startled the row in front of you.

“THAT’S MY CINDERELLA!” you shouted, ignoring the mortified look he shot your way.

The applause roared through the auditorium, but yours was definitely the loudest. You were practically glowing with pride, camera still rolling as Zayne tried—tried—to keep a straight face under the spotlight.

For a brief second, you swore his lips twitched, like he was fighting a smile.

And maybe, just maybe, that made it worth all the teasing, the laughter, and the inevitable wrath you knew was coming once the show ended.

Still, you grinned ear to ear and yelled again, “Encore, Princess Zayne!”

Backstage, you finally caught up with Zayne, who was still trapped in that silvery-blue Cinderella dress. He was slightly hunched over, chest heaving, looking like he’d just run a marathon… or survived a public humiliation of epic proportions.

You held out a single rose you’d snagged outside just before sneaking backstage, the kind of gesture that was so sweet it almost made up for everything you’d done to him over the past week. Almost.

“Wonderful performance, Zayne!” you said, voice dripping with faux grandeur, holding the rose like it was a Nobel Prize for Endurance.

He glanced up at you, eyebrows knitting in a mix of disbelief and mild terror. “You… bought me a rose?”

“Yes, because clearly, the world must acknowledge your… bravery,” you said, giving a little flourish with your free hand. “I mean, surviving that stage in that dress deserves a medal—or at least this rose.”

Zayne pinched the bridge of his nose, already dreading your inevitable follow-up teasing. “You’re terrible.”

You grinned, handing him the flower with the smugness of someone who knew full well they’d just cemented a lifelong blackmail material. “Nope. Just… generous.”

And really, that was your gift to him: admiration, mockery, and a flower—all in one neat, unforgettable package.

You stared at him so intently that Zayne immediately noticed, narrowing his eyes with suspicion.

“You haven’t had your fill of entertainment yet?” he asked, voice dry but cautious.

If he hadn’t been so familiar with your questionable tendencies, he might’ve thought you’d actually died in your seat during the play.

The way you’d been gasping, clutching your stomach—it was practically a medical emergency.

Shaking your head, you pressed a hand to your stomach. “Nope,” you admitted, wincing slightly from the aftermath of all that laughing. “Just thinking… that blond doesn’t suit you.”

Before he could process it, your fingers reached up and lightly patted his wig.

He froze. Mid-breath. Blinking like he was recalculating every single life choice that had led him here—this moment.

“You look more like a Prince Charming with your black hair,” you added with the kind of deadpan delivery only a nine-year-old reincarnated college student could pull off.

For a moment, Zayne was speechless. Then he exhaled, slowly, through his nose. The faintest twitch of a smile betrayed that he knew he’d just been roasted by a tiny, unstoppable force of chaos.

You grinned, utterly satisfied. “See? Constructive criticism. You’re welcome.”

Zayne peeled off the wig, and with it, the glittery crown. He held it out to you with that infuriating calm.

“I think this suits you best,” he said.

Your eyes went wide, and a dramatic gasp escaped your lips. “Aww, Zaynie! You see me as a princess?” You snatched the tiara and carefully plopped it on your head like royalty claiming her throne.

“Hardly,” he quipped, before gently yanking it off and placing it back on your head himself, perfectly centered. “You have the grace of a hurricane.”

You huffed indignantly, crossing your arms. “Hey! I’ll grow up into an elegant woman one day!”

Zayne raised an eyebrow, unamused. “The chances of that happening are about as likely as me growing a second head.”

You tilted your chin, undeterred. “You never know, Zayne. A lot of things could happen.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I feel like the universe is conspiring against me.”

You smirked, twirling slightly with the tiara perfectly perched atop your head. “Nah, I’m just doing my civic duty: keeping you humble.”

There was the faintest twitch of a smile betraying his lips, yes… he kind of knew he couldn’t win with you.

“How do I look?” you asked, beaming up at him, the tiara sparkling proudly atop your head.

Zayne stared for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching as though he were debating whether honesty was worth the headache.

“Like a tyrant,” he finally said flatly.

Your grin only widened, delighted rather than offended. “I knew you loved me, Zayne!” you declared, clapping your hands together in triumph.

He blinked once. Twice. “…That’s not what I said.”

“Anyway,” you chirped, spinning on your heel like the self-proclaimed ruler of the spring festival, tiara perched perfectly, grin impossibly wide. “I’m going to go get my things back at the classroom. Let’s go enjoy the festival together!”

You waved at him like a queen dismissing her subject, already bounding left toward the backstage doors leaving him to change back into his clothes.

To say the bake sale was a success would be an understatement. Your class had raked in more than enough funds for that field trip you’d been scheming about for weeks.

Thanks to your undeniable charm (and mild emotional manipulation), the bake sale wrapped up early, leaving you with extra time to fully enjoy the chaos of the school’s festival.

You zipped into your classroom, grabbed your bag in record time—ten minutes flat—and were already heading back to the auditorium to meet up with Zayne when…

“Ow!”

“Hey!”

You hit the floor with a thump, hands flaring out instinctively to break your fall. Across from you, sprawled in a very similar fashion, was a boy with brown hair, glaring like you’d personally insulted his entire existence.

“Watch where you’re going!” you snapped, wincing slightly from the impact but mostly offended at his audacity.

He straightened just enough to glare back. “Watch where I’m going? You’re the one who bumped into me!”

“Yeah right, as if!” You scrambled to your feet, brushing imaginary dust off your already perfect outfit.

No way this kid went to your school. You would’ve remembered that face—and more importantly, you would’ve remembered someone dumb enough to bump into you.

He looked around your age, maybe even in your grade, but that couldn’t be right. Everyone in your class (and, honestly, the other classes too) knew better than to cross paths with you unless they had a death wish or a strong desire to publicly embarrass themselves.

Which meant this guy was either new, delusional, or had no idea who he was dealing with.

Poor soul.

“Maybe you should use your eyes more,” he said, smirking like he’d just solved the world’s greatest mystery.

Oh. This. Brat. Was. Dead.

You planted your hands on your hips, narrowing your eyes so sharply it should’ve been considered a weapon. “Excuse me?!” you shrieked, voice dripping with righteous fury. “Did you just insult me?”

He blinked, clearly underestimating the sheer, unholy force of your wrath.

Big mistake.

You leaned in so close he could probably hear the tiara buzzing. “Listen here, you little shit. By the mercy vested in me by Animal Crossing, I’m offering you the chance to walk away with your head and dignity intact.”

“Take it while it still stands, or you’ll be leaving this hallway with your head somewhere I’d rather not describe until after lunch.”

Silence. For one glorious second, you thought you’d actually frozen the kid solid. His jaw worked like a cartoon—then, unbelievably, he laughed. A short, surprised snort that quickly turned into a full-on grin.

“Well,” he said, dusting imaginary lint off his sleeve, “you’re loud.”

You blinked. Loud? That was the battle cry of someone about to be culturally dismantled. You straightened, chin high. “Loud is an aesthetic.”

He shrugged like he wasn’t being threatened with word-surgery. “You talk big for someone wearing a tiara.”

And then—he booped it.

HE. BOOPED. YOUR. TIARA.

The sheer audacity sent you into a full-system reboot. You blinked once. Twice. A slow, disbelieving scoff tore its way out of your chest.

“This tiara,” you began, clutching it with the reverence of a dethroned monarch, “is a symbol of authority, thank you very much.”

You jabbed a finger in his direction like you were about to cast a curse. “And you!”

He tilted his head, looking far too smug for someone whose sneakers still lit up when he walked.

“—are uncultured swine!” you declared, like a Shakespearean villain mid-breakdown.

“Watch who you’re calling uncultured swine!” he shot back immediately, eyes blazing, chest puffed out like he was about to start a duel at high noon.

You straightened, tilting your head, letting your tiara gleam under the overhead lights like a beacon of imminent chaos. “Oh, you dare correct me, peasant?”

“I do dare,” he retorted, crossing his arms and standing his ground.

Both of you stood there, locked in a face-off that could’ve easily been the cover of a dramatic action movie poster: tiara-wielding chaos versus brown-haired audacity.

“Caleb!”

A voice rang out from the end of the hallway.

You froze mid-threat, tiara slightly crooked, as the boy—Caleb—turned his head toward the voice. At the far end of the hall stood the little girl you’d sold two cupcakes to for three dollars.

Wait… if this was Caleb, then that meant—

That girl is the MC.

Oh. Fantastic. You knew eventually you’d run into them, but now? Now was… spectacularly bad timing.

“Hey, Pipsqueak!” Caleb’s tone shifted immediately, all friendly and smooth like butter.

You, meanwhile, were still standing there like an idiot, mouth slightly open. If they were here, that meant they were going to be moving in—or at least sticking around.

And that, in turn, meant you’d be part of the main plot. Ugh.

You weren’t done with Zayne yet. Haven’t even gotten to planning counter-strategies for him, and now you have to account for the MC and her army of potential horny love interests?

Before they could notice you, you did what any sane, survival-oriented person would do.

You ran.

Like, full-on sprinted—with your metaphorical tail between your legs and your tiara slightly askew from the sheer velocity of your retreat.

How were you going to do this? Seriously. Ever since you’d been reincarnated into this stupid, sparkly, plot-heavy dating sim, your plan had been simple: stay out of the story, avoid the main cast, and live a nice, peaceful, NPC-level life.

But of course, life—your eternal nemesis—had other plans.

Because apparently, getting flattened by a truck in your past life wasn’t enough suffering for one soul.

Oh no. The universe decided, “Let’s spice things up and drop her into Love and Deepspace as the next-door neighbor to Zayne, the ice-cold future heartthrob.”

But nooo—now the main characters had entered the stage, and fate had tossed you right into the path of one of them.

You wanted no part of the plot. No angst, no romance, no emotional damage wrapped in pretty pixel art.

Just peace.

Was that really too much to ask?

And just to remind you that the universe really, really hates you, you bumped—of course—into none other than Zayne.

“There you are,” he said, frowning immediately. “I thought you’d gone along without m—did something happen?”

You hadn’t noticed, but tears were threatening to spill. Little, unassuming drops at first—but enough to immediately set off Zayne’s internal alarm system. You’d never really cried before. Sure, you’d faked it expertly when you needed something, but this? Actual, honest-to-goodness tears.

Without a word, you wrapped your arms around him, clinging like a cat in a thunderstorm. Main plot or no main plot, schemes be damned—he was the only comfort you had in this moment.

“Zayne…” you whispered, muffled against his shoulder.

He stiffened for a fraction of a second, then gently patted your back, unsure but determined to soothe you. “I’ve got you,” he murmured.

Finally, you pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes glistening.

“Zayne?”

“Hm?”

“You… you have a book on gardening plants, right?”

He blinked, eyebrows shooting up like they were trying to escape his forehead. “…What?”

You sniffled, wiping at your cheeks. “I need it. For… reasons.”

[charrylatte]

First Night, Last Call

summary - looks like silver falls just got a new troublemaker. after her mom dies, [name] moves in with the walters, taking on the responsibility of keeping her best friend's little sister, jackie, out of trouble. with no one to cover her mistakes, [name] quickly learns that staying out of drama is harder than she thought. and with cole walter around, will she fall victim to the notorious cole effect? warnings - MDNI, underage drinking, partying, mentions of unsavory past, character death, mommy issues, etc.. the charry files - m.list

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

The first thing I noted the moment Jackie and I stepped foot on the house was that the porch was rather big, stretching wider than I expected, clearly made for summer evenings and large families.

Katherine's phone rang, and she let out an exasperated sigh when she saw the caller ID. "Jamal, why are you calling me? I'm not the doctor on call." She walked a few steps away, already half-distracted, leaving Jackie and me standing there like guests waiting for instructions.

I adjusted the handle of my tote because it kept rubbing against my sleeve too roughly, the strap digging in as I shifted it against my elbow.

A sudden rolling sound curved through the corner of the porch, wheels grating against the wood.

"Move!" someone shouted.

"[Name]!" Jackie's hand shot out and grabbed the back of my shirt, yanking me out of the way just as a boy zipped past on a skateboard, helmet strapped tight.

The wind of his speed brushed over me as he swerved cleanly to the other side, disappearing toward the far end of the porch. My feet slid back into place, and I balanced myself with a scowl.

Wow. What a welcoming committee.

"Jerk," I muttered under my breath, tugging my shirt straight again as Jackie's grip loosened.

Across the porch, on a pair of weathered couches set around a low coffee table, another boy lounged with a book open on his lap.

He noticed us instantly, closing it halfway and sitting up as if he'd been expecting company. His expression was warmer than the skater's had been, open and easy.

"Hi. Danny," he said, introducing himself without hesitation.

Jackie stepped forward first, brushing loose hair from her face as she answered, "Jackie.

"[Name]," I said, returning the introduction.

Katherine walked past us and began opening the front door, balancing her phone between her ear and shoulder as she said, "Did you take his vitals?" Her head tilted slightly as she juggled the conversation, one hand busy with the keys while the other gestured for us to follow.

George came up behind us, already hauling the bulk of our luggage, his steps heavy from the weight.

I stepped toward him and grabbed the handle of my own suitcase. "I can take mine," I said quickly, stacking my bag on top before wheeling it inside.

George had been carrying and pushing our things since we got off the train, and he'd driven us all the way here too, so letting him keep going without lifting a finger felt wrong.

Taking at least some of the load was the least I could do.

I followed George inside as he wheeled in Jackie's things. The house felt... homely, in a way that almost shocked me.

A sharp contrast to what I was used to—no polished marble floors, no expensive art hanging on the walls.

Even my dorm at Highview had felt more curated. Here, family photos lined the hallway, toys and sports balls scattered across the floor like the place was alive and unapologetically lived in.

We moved closer to what I assumed was the living room, mostly because of the sounds of a video game that bounced out into the hall the moment we stepped near.

Before we could enter, a little boy bolted out—swimsuit, dark tank top, floaties strapped to his arms, and a concerningly large stick balanced on his shoulder.

"Whoa! Whoa! Benny, stop running," George called out.

"I'm not running!" Benny shot back without slowing down, darting off into another part of the house before anyone could stop him.

Inside the living room, two boys were locked into a video game on the couch, controllers in hand.

George tried to get their attention. "Oh. Hey guys."

Only one looked up, pausing when he spotted me and Jackie standing behind. George waved a hand at the screen. "Can you guys stop that for a second?"

Both controllers lowered, though reluctantly. The one who'd noticed us first pushed himself up immediately, while the other sat still, eyes fixed blankly on us.

"This is Jackie and [Name]," George introduced. "Girls, this is Alex and Isaac."

Isaac gave a nod and a grin. "What's up." Alex didn't speak, still staring like we'd fallen out of the sky.

"Got a few other bags in the truck, if you can go get them?" George asked. That snapped Alex out of it. He blinked, stood, and finally extended a hand. "Oh. Yeah, sure thing. Hi."

Jackie stepped forward and shook it first. "Hello."

Then he turned to me, hand still outstretched. "Hey."

I took his hand, "Pleasure." giving it a firm shake.

His eyes flicked over me like he hadn't quite expected what he saw.

I slipped my hand free, stacking my bag tighter against my side, while he stood there as if he'd forgotten what he was supposed to do next.

George continued the little tour, motioning us forward. "Over here is the kitchen." It opened into a wide, rustic space that felt like the heart of the house.

A large wooden island stood in the center, sturdy and worn from years of use, while the countertops and cabinets were a soft milky white that caught the afternoon light.

George adjusted the weight of the suitcases in his hands. "I'm going to put these in your guys' room." I handed him the one I'd been dragging, careful to keep my Dior tote slung over my arm where it belonged.

Katherine swept in behind us, still on the phone, her voice brisk. "Well, it sounds like I'm going to have to sedate him," she muttered, balancing the call while setting two glasses of lemonade on the counter.

She passed them over without breaking stride, her hand gesturing for us to take them as she kept speaking into the receiver.

I wrapped my fingers around the chilled glass and followed Jackie into the kitchen. Taking a sip, the sharp tartness hit my tongue, refreshing but plain.

I couldn't help the flicker of comparison—back home, I would've preferred a limoncello spritz—but I reminded myself this was different.

I was different now, or at least trying to be. Sober streak intact, I swallowed the lemonade and leaned against the island.

"This sure is something, huh?" I said quietly to Jackie, who had been silently studying the space like she was trying to take it all in at once.

A tight-lipped smile tugged at her face. "Yeah. It is." She started toward me, but stopped short at the sound of a soft crunch beneath her shoe. We both looked down.

Under her foot was a small yellow toy car, clearly left behind by one of the younger kids. She stepped back quickly, brushing the sole of her shoe against the floor to free it.

I glanced around again, the memory of Benny with his floaties flashing through my mind, followed by Danny on the couch, Isaac, Alex, the skateboarder.

Just how many kids did George and Katherine have?

It was never actually disclosed, but by my count, we were already at five—and I had a feeling the tally wasn't final yet.

Jackie bent down, picked up the toy car, and set it neatly beside another one already resting on the post of the staircase.

She straightened, but her eyes drifted upward, locking on something above us. "[Name]?" she said, her voice low, almost distracted.

"Yeah?" I followed her gaze.

"Look." She pointed at the framed photos lining the wall along the steps.

My eyes landed on one in particular—a shot of three young women in graduation caps and gowns, arms around each other, grins spread wide. Katherine.

Aunt Angelica. And my mother.

I stopped in place, staring at it, the familiarity of her face jarring in such a casual family snapshot. The three of them looked carefree, caught in the moment, nothing polished or posed about it.

I let out a short breath, "Now that's an expression I never thought the Jeannette [Surname] was capable of making." mildly amused.

The only photo my mom and I ever had together was the yearly portrait that hung over the mantle back at the penthouse.

Perfect clothes, perfect lighting, perfect setting—yet never once did she smile. Not for the camera, not for me.

Year after year, the same cold expression, polished enough to frame but never warm enough to keep.

Me, on the other hand, I gave up on pretending by the time I was fourteen. The last portrait we sat for, my face was blank, jaw set. I refused to match her indifference with anything resembling joy.

After that, those portraits became less of a tradition and more of an obligation, another reminder of how far a staged photo could be from a real family picture.

"No, no, no. It's just the worst possible timing."

Katherine's voice carried from the hall, sharp with frustration. "I told you that [Name] and Jackie were coming today." She was still on the phone when she appeared, mouthing a quick sorry to us as she listened.

"Okay. No, of course. No, just tell her I'll be right there... okay, thank you." She hung up with a heavy sigh and gave us an apologetic look.

"Girls, I'm so sorry. I have to go." The way she said it made it clear she couldn't believe she was being called in right now of all times.

I lifted my glass and took another sip of lemonade, swallowing the tart taste.

Life in the medical field, I suppose.

From the way she juggled calls, it didn't take much to guess everyone in town probably had a pet, which meant being the local vet was less of a job and more of a never-ending summons.

Before either of us could respond, the front door opened, and a young man in his mid-twenties stepped inside, brushing the cool air off his shoulders.

"Oh, thank God. Will's here," Katherine said, letting out a sigh of relief as she moved to his side.

She draped an arm across his shoulders, already more at ease. "Girls, this is Will. Will, this is [Name] and Jackie. Girls, Will is our oldest—and he's the best."

Will extended his hand with an easy, warm smile. "Jackie, [Name]. Welcome."

"Hi," Jackie and I said at the same time, shaking Will's hand before stepping back.

"I have to go to the clinic," Katherine said quickly, already shifting gears.

"So can you take over and get them all settled in?" She glanced at Will as if passing him a baton, then began ticking names off on her fingers.

"They've already met, um... Danny, Isaac, Alex, and, um—"

Her eyes landed on me, a silent question in them. "Benny," I supplied, though I still hadn't caught the name of the kid on the skateboard.

The little shit had yet to introduce himself properly.

"Benny," Katherine repeated with a snap of her fingers, the memory clicking back.

Will gave his mom a steady nod, calm and unbothered. "Yes." I blinked, taking a second to absorb it all.

Did they really have this many kids packed into one house?

Katherine bent to grab a leather bag waiting by the door, muttering as she swung the strap over her shoulder. "I cannot believe I'm getting called in right now." She shuffled toward the exit, clearly already thinking about the drive ahead.

At that moment George came down the stairs, "What? You have to leave?" pausing halfway into the hall.

"Yes. But Will's gonna take over," Katherine assured, straightening her bag on her shoulder.

"Great," George said, nodding and stepping back to give her space.

Katherine turned back to us, a tight, apologetic smile on her face. "Girls, I'm so sorry. I promise I will be back as soon as I possibly can." She gave us what felt like the umpteenth apology of the day, her gaze flicking between us and the door as if making sure everything would survive her absence.

I finished my drink, setting the glass down on the counter. "Don't worry," I said. If they trusted their oldest this much, I was confident we'd manage just fine.

Jackie tilted her head, glancing toward the hallway. "Hope the dog's okay," she added.

"Thank you," Katherine said, stepping through the front door and disappearing into the sunlight outside.

George waved after her. "I'm always around here somewhere. If you two need anything, call me, okay? I gotta get out to the orchard." He turned toward the back door off the kitchen, adjusting the straps of the bags he carried.

"Uncle George, wait for me!" a voice called from the kitchen entrance. A skateboard clattered across the floor as a small figure rolled in, hopping on effortlessly while George held the door open.

"So, the Tony Hawk wannabe is Lee," Will said, a smirk tugging at his lips as he watched George and the boy head outside.

I crossed my arms and muttered, "We've met," letting a small grumble.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

Will led us upstairs, the faint strumming of a guitar floating down the hallway as we walked. All the doors were closed except for one at the far end, a soft light spilling from the room.

"Nathan?" Will called, knocking lightly on the open doorframe.

On the floor, a boy sat with a guitar resting on his lap, fingers paused on the strings as if he had been mid-song.

Will gestured toward us. "This is Jackie and [Name]."

Nathan pushed himself up from the floor, setting the guitar carefully to the side. "Hi. It's nice to finally meet you." He offered a polite smile, a mix of curiosity and friendliness, as he stepped slightly forward to shake our hands.

Jackie stepped forward first, shaking Nathan's hand. "Thanks. You too," she said easily, a small smile tugging at her lips.

I followed, giving a subtle handshake. "A pleasure," I said.

"Come on," Will said, motioning down the hallway.

He started walking again, hands in his pockets, guiding us back down as if he knew exactly where everyone was and what we needed to see first.

Will led us out to the backyard, where the afternoon sun glinted off a large pool. Punk rock music blared from a speaker on the patio while three kids ran around, laughing and shouting over the noise.

Will held up a hand before we got too close. "I'm hard of hearing, so if I'm not looking at you or there's a lot of background noise, I won't understand. Just FYI."

One of the kids had a camera, recording Benny and a little girl as they mock-sword-fought with oversized foam swords, the sounds of clashing plastic mixing with the music.

Will moved toward the speaker and switched it off, letting the backyard settle into a quieter buzz. He turned to the kids.

"Hey everyone, this is [Name] and Jackie."

The kids froze mid-play, though the one holding the camera didn't stop—he trained it on Jackie and me, tilting the lens slightly as if sizing us up.

"Hey," the little girl said, giving a small, tentative wave.

Will pointed toward her. "That's Parker over there," he said, nodding in her direction. Then he gestured toward the little boy who had been running around the hall earlier.

"And that's Benny." The boy gave a quick grin, bouncing on his toes as if still half in motion, though he wasn't running at the moment.

Off in the distance, a horse neighed, the sound cutting through the quiet backyard for just a moment. From the pool, a tall, blonde, handsome young man emerged, water dripping from his shoulders as he climbed out.

The sight made me pause, the scene eerily reminiscent of that ridiculous part in the movie Lucy had made me watch—I think it was called Madagascar—with the hippos.

I shook my head slightly, trying not to laugh at the unintentional comparison.

Jackie turned toward me, lips pursed, her expression mirroring my own amusement, like she was thinking the exact same thing.

A small grin tugged at her mouth, and I remembered all too well why this felt familiar: Lucy had strung both of us along, insisting we watch the movie one night.

He stepped out of the pool, water dripping down his broad shoulders, and sauntered over to a sun chair that had a towel draped over it.

The sunlight caught the wet strands of his hair, making them shine like gold, but what drew my attention more was the way he moved—confident and fully aware of the effect he might have on anyone watching.

It didn't take long for him to notice Jackie and me. I caught the faint curve of his lips as he seemed to realize we weren't swooning like most might.

Instead, we were trying not to laugh. His gaze locked on mine, sharp and calculating for a second, before it softened into a teasing smirk.

Jackie leaned slightly toward me, eyebrows raised in mock warning. "Uh oh... I think he thinks he's interested in you," the corners of her mouth twitching.

I shot her a sideways glance, one brow lifted. "Amazing observation skills, Sherlock," I replied sarcastically.

Even as I said it, I couldn't help but notice him still watching me, eyes sharp and calculating, as if I had become prey.

Typical of guys to act this way. City or country, it didn't matter—same everywhere.

Will cleared his throat, raising a brow at his younger brother's performance. "Wanna introduce yourselves?"

Cole, lounging near the pool, didn't even bother. He just shrugged. "She'll figure it out."

Will shook his head with a small, knowing sigh. "That's Cole," he said, as if no further explanation was needed.

From across the pool deck, another figure bolted forward—a boy older than Parker and Benny, camera in hand, spinning it around us in wide arcs.

"Um... hi?" Jackie's brow furrowed, clearly uncomfortable at the thought of being filmed.

"Jordan, aspiring film director," he said, grinning like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I stepped in front of Jackie, gently guiding her back so she wasn't directly in the camera's path. "Hey, part of being a film director is making sure people are okay with being filmed," I said with a small, patient smile. "Come back when you have a contract."

Jordan jogged off, clearly excited to continue filming Parker and Benny, leaving Jackie and me momentarily free of the camera—until a giant, fluffy Bernese mountain dog bounded out of the pool.

The massive canine shook itself violently, sending torrents of water spraying in every direction.

"Albert, no!" Will shouted, but it was too late

Jackie and I froze, caught mid-step as the water hit us, soaking our clothes and leaving us drenched and smelling unmistakably like wet dog.

My fingers flexed as I stared at the wet stains spreading across my clothing, while Jackie grimaced, trying to dodge the worst of the splash. From the corner of my eye, I caught Cole leaning casually back in his sun chair, that infuriating smirk still plastered on his face, clearly entertained by our misfortune.

Will let out a disgruntled noise. "I'm so sorry. Here." He grabbed a towel with red-and-white stripes, holding it out toward us. Since there was only one, I handed it over to Jackie. "Here, Jackie."

She hesitated, eyes flicking to mine, unsure if she should take it. "Are you sure?" she asked, a little unnerved. She'd known me since childhood, so I understood why my calmness seemed unusual.

Because usually, I'd rack up a storm.

I offered a tight smile. "Yeah. I mean, it's not like my skirt was a thousand and a half." I let the words drop casually, letting the towel pass to her without any sign of panic.

As if trying to salvage what little dignity his family had left after the chaos, Will quickly shifted the subject. "Why don't I show you two to your room?" He gestured for us to follow, guiding us back into the house while shooting Cole a pointed look over his shoulder.

"Hey, start bringing Jackie and [Name]'s stuff upstairs, okay?" he called, his tone casual at first.

When Cole didn't move, Will's voice grew sterner. "Cole."

"I heard you," Cole said, busying tanning, though his smirk remained, clearly unconcerned with Will's exasperation.

"I'm so sorry. Try not to take it personally," Will said, returning with another towel and handing it to me. I wrapped it around myself, the fabric soaking up what little warmth it could, grateful for the small reprieve.

"Um, Will, how many of these kids are George and Katherine's?" Jackie asked as we followed him back up the stairs, glancing at the chaos left behind in the backyard.

"Oh. You didn't know?" Will said, a hint of surprise in his voice. "All of them." My eyebrows shot up. To pop out eight kids—kudos to Katherine and all her hard work.

He counted off for clarity. "There's eight of us kids. Plus Lee and Isaac are cousins on Dad's side."

That brought the total to ten, twelve if you counted Katherine and George as part of the full household.

The number made me pause, already trying to process the logistics of living in a house that felt more like a small village.

"Wait, you all live here?" The words slipped out before I could stop them, my eyes sweeping over the room as I tried to process it.

Will chuckled, shaking his head. "No. I live in town with my fiancée, Hayley, but everyone else? Yeah." He guided us down the short landing and opened the door to a room on the right.

The space was a creative dream, with shelves overflowing with art supplies and boxes scattered across the floor.

Murals were painted directly onto the walls, twisting and turning around the room in bursts of color.

Two beds sat side by side, separated by a small bedside table, like something out of a hotel room layout. Our suitcases were already set on the beds, giving the room a slightly more organized look.

I couldn't help but be drawn to the canvas on the easel near the corner; it was unfinished, brushstrokes frozen mid-idea. Will noticed my gaze. "It was my mom's art studio," he explained.

I let my eyes wander over the walls again, taking in the murals and scattered supplies. "She's a woman with many talents, I see," I commented, a small smile tugging at my lips as I imagined the energy it must have taken to create all of this.

Thunk!

I flinched at the sharp sound of something heavy hitting the floor, my head snapping toward the door.

Cole stood there, fully clothed this time, arms crossed over his chest. "Will, are you gonna help? There's a ton of stuff to bring up," he called, his tone casual but pointed.

I narrowed my eyes at him, certain he'd dropped it on purpose just to get a reaction. A brief glare shot his way, letting him know I wasn't impressed.

Will, unfazed, raised his hands in a calming gesture. "Cole, take it easy. We'll get it sorted." Cole smirked but didn't reply.

"I can help," Jackie offered, stepping forward.

But Will shook his head quickly. "No. You two make yourselves at home, okay?" He passed Cole, who lingered lazily at the doorway, still watching us with that infuriating smirk.

"Yeah. Don't worry about it, New York," Cole said smugly, giving me another appraising look before following after his older brother.

Jackie and I turned toward each other, instinctively pointing at one another.

"He means you," we said in unison.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

Jackie and I had been unpacking our belongings after changing into fresh clothes, courtesy of Albert and his unfortunate habit of drenching unsuspecting bystanders.

My skirt was still hanging off the back of a chair, damp and smelling faintly of wet dog, while Jackie had bundled her shirt into a plastic bag she'd found in her suitcase.

The two of us worked in relative silence at first, sorting our clothes into the small dresser drawers and clearing space around the beds.

It wasn't glamorous—folding jeans, stacking shoes, making mental notes of what needed to be dry-cleaned—but it was humbling.

The act of unpacking felt like a reluctant acknowledgement that this wasn't just a brief stop; we were actually settling in here, even if only temporarily.

Jackie hummed under her breath as she arranged her clothes in the her drawers, while I meticulously organized my things.

"So..." Jackie said eventually, pressing her clothes inside, "first impressions?"

I raised a brow, "Of the house, or of Katherine's army of children?" stacking a pile of tops in the dresser.

"Both."

"The house is... overwhelming," I admitted, closing the drawer with a snap. "Too much noise for my taste. I mean, eleven people under one roof? It's basically a boarding school."

Jackie nodded, "And the kids?" smoothing out a shirt before folding it.

I gave her a sidelong glance. "Some are cute. Some are tolerable." Then I smirked, sliding my Dior tote safely onto the shelf above. "And some clearly think they're God's gift."

"Cole," Jackie guessed immediately.

I rolled my eyes. "Please. If he thinks I'm going to swoon because he climbed out of a pool and smirked, he's delusional." I shook out a dress and hung it neatly in the closet.

"Barely five words in and you can already tell he's full of himself." I shrugged, tossing a quick glance her way. "I've modeled with way hotter guys."

Jackie smirked, folding another shirt into her drawer. "You did laugh," she reminded me, her eyes flicking up with amusement.

"At him, not because of him," I shot back, sliding the hanger onto the rack with a sharp click. "There's a difference."

Just as Jackie was about to say something, a knock came at the door.

"[Name]? Jackie? It's me." Katherine's voice floated through.

"Come in," Jackie called, and the door creaked open to reveal Katherine with an apologetic smile already in place.

"Will told me what happened back at the pool." She slipped inside, closing the door gently behind her. "I am so sorry about Albert. He just gets really excited sometimes."

Excited was one way to put it.

Jackie and I exchanged a glance but kept our mouths shut, neither of us cruel enough to say what we were both thinking: that the dog had basically turned us into collateral damage.

"So, how are you two settling in?" Katherine's eyes swept over the room, taking in the shelves we'd partially cleared, the clothes we'd managed to unpack.

Since it was just the two of us, Jackie and I had gotten a pattern down, working like we used to when we'd rearrange our dorm.

It was rough around the edges, but manageable. "We're doing okay," I assured her, softening my tone.

Katherine nodded, though I caught the way her lips pressed together, like she was embarrassed about the clutter. "Can I get you girls anything? I'm sorry there's not more room up here yet."

"It's fine," Jackie said quickly. Then, almost sheepishly, "I'm sorry we're taking your space."

Katherine waved the words away like they were absurd. "Oh, please." She stepped toward an easel tucked into the corner, carefully sliding it aside as if it were more relic than tool.

"I don't have time to paint anymore with all the kids running around." She paused, eyes softening on the canvas. Then she turned to us. "I want you to have it."

"How'd it go with the surgery?" Jackie asked.

Katherine, who had decided to help me rearrange a bookshelf, blinked in surprise before answering. "Oh, um... it went well." Her tone softened, almost touched that someone had thought to ask. "Turns out Bo had a really bad ear infection. He's gonna be fine, but it was bothering him—and his owner even more." She gave a light laugh, shaking her head.

"Did you study veterinary medicine at Columbia?" I asked, curiosity pulling at me. "It's just... we saw the picture of you and our moms."

Katherine's hands stilled on the spine of a book. "No. Uh, I got my first degree at Columbia." A small smile tugged at her lips.

She brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "And then I went to vet school at Colorado State." She leaned against the bed stand, her eyes moving slowly across the half-unpacked room as if the clutter had stirred something familiar.

"Both your moms were my lifelines back then. We were all just trying to survive classes and figuring out who we were supposed to be..." She tapped her fingers lightly against the wood, lost in thought for a moment before continuing.

Katherine sighed, not regretful but reflective, then reached over to stack a few stray notebooks on the shelf.

"I just can't help but look at you two and see Angelica and Jean."

I kept myself busy with the small, pointless task of folding the same shirt twice, unwilling to meet her eyes. Because hello—mommy issues.

Here I was, living under the roof of a woman who had known my mother in ways I never would, who spoke of her in a light I couldn't recognize, as though she were a version of Jeannette I had never been allowed to meet.

Don't get me wrong, I was grateful to Katherine and George for opening their home to Jackie and me, but gratitude had its limits when it rubbed against old wounds.

It was hard enough living with my mother's absence without hearing someone else remember her like she was a completely different person, someone softer, kinder, maybe even human.

That wasn't the mother I had lived with—at least the one who'd come home for only a few days.

I couldn't forgive, not then, not even now when she was gone. I couldn't forget either, no matter how hard I tried.

Some daughter I am.

"[Name]?"

I snapped out of my thoughts, blinking a few times. "Yeah?" My gaze shifted.

Katherine was no longer standing beside me but sitting on Jackie's bed, leaning slightly toward her with attentiveness.

Her brows knitted slightly, concern etched into her expression. "Dinner should be ready soon. Are you hungry?" I must have completely zoned out; the conversation had clearly moved on without me noticing.

I shook my head, straightening slightly. "No, I'm okay." I declined the offer, though I appreciated the thought.

"Okay. Well, just come down if you change your mind." Katherine stood, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear as she straightened.

She gave me a small, understanding smile, one that seemed to acknowledge everything I hadn't said aloud.

Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked to the door, pausing for a moment as if to make sure Jackie and I were both settled.

Then, with a soft click, the door closed behind her.

"[Name]?" Jackie called softly, her voice carrying just enough concern to make me glance up.

She knew about my relationship with my mom, and so did Lucy, which made her worry feel less intrusive and more instinctive.

"I'm fine, J," I said quickly, forcing a smile as I folded another shirt. I didn't want to drag the mood down, and I didn't need her pity.

Jackie didn't look convinced. She perched on the edge of her bed, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. "I'm just worried, is all..."

The Howard car crash, my mother's plane crash on the way to London. "We didn't really see each other much after we both found out what happened to them."

We were both in mourning, and I hadn't wanted to talk to anyone during that period. The only times our paths crossed were at the funerals.

"Yeah... sorry I didn't reach out to you at that time," I said, my voice soft, almost hesitant. I shifted slightly, avoiding her eyes.

Lucy must be turning in her grave. I had made a promise to take care of Jackie, and letting months slip by without reaching out felt like I had failed.

"It's okay. I know you had your problems to deal with," Jackie said softly, her hands resting lightly on her knees as she watched me.

I shook my head. "No, it's not." I turned fully to face her, letting my eyes meet hers. "Right before Lucy left for Bennington, she had me promise to look after you."

I took a seat next to Jackie on her bed, careful not to crowd her but close enough to make my presence felt.

The mattress dipped slightly under my weight. "I was pretty shitty at it at first," I admitted, letting my gaze drop to my hands folded in my lap.

"But I'm going to honor my promise to her... until you get into Princeton."

Jackie shifted slightly, her shoulders relaxing, though she didn't say anything yet. I could tell she understood, felt the sincerity behind my words.

She curled up and laid her head on my lap, and I couldn't help but remember how she used to do this whenever she couldn't sleep back when we were kids.

Her hair tickled my thigh, and I brushed it back absentmindedly, letting the familiarity settle over us. "You really mean it, huh?" she murmured, her voice muffled against my leg.

"Of course," I said, one hand smoothing over her hair. "I promised Lucy, and I meant it then, I mean it now."

Jackie let out a small sigh, a mix of relief and comfort. "Good. Because I kinda needed that."

I smiled faintly. "I've got you. Always."

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

I could barely sleep, which wasn't surprising given it was my first night in Colorado, the unfamiliar air hit differently around me than New York ever had.

Jackie, on the other hand, was out like a light. I felt a small pang of relief seeing her finally resting; I wouldn't want her to develop insomnia on top of everything else.

Shifting up from my bed, I slipped into my slippers and grabbed my phone. It was almost midnight, and staring at a dark ceiling wasn't doing the trick tonight.

Quietly, I eased the door open, glancing over my shoulder to make sure I hadn't disturbed Jackie before slipping into the hall.

My steps were light against the floor as I made my way downstairs, the house mostly silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant creak of settling wood.

The TV in the living room was on, showing some show I didn't recognize, and I froze for a moment at a line that caught my attention:

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

Hamlet.

I hadn't expected to hear Shakespeare here, not at midnight. Peeking inside, I saw Danny sprawled on the couch, a few DVDs scattered across the coffee table.

He looked completely absorbed, flipping through a disc case, oblivious to my presence.

I didn't want to disturb him, or make a sound that would pull him out of his late-night escape. Quietly, I turned on my heel and made my way toward the porch, careful not to let the floorboards creak beneath my feet.

The cool night air hit me as I stepped outside, crisp against my skin. The sky stretched wide above me, studded with stars that seemed impossibly bright in Silver Falls.

I sank into a couch on the porch, staring dead-on at my phone. Why had I even brought it with me? I didn't have anyone to call.

The irony wasn't lost on me—knowing so many people, yet feeling completely alone in this exact moment.

The only person who would've picked up at any hour was... Lucy.

Now I couldn't call her anymore.

My finger hovered above her contact, hesitation twisting in my chest. A thin line spread across my lips as I pressed the call button, almost on autopilot.

I'd been doing this for a while, out of habit, out of need, out of the small ritual that had kept me tethered to her when we used to talk every single day.

As usual, it went straight to voicemail.

"Hey, Luce," I murmured, cringing at the casual tone, too light, too high-pitched for what I felt inside. "I'm just calling to say that Jackie and I are getting settled here in Colorado."

I knew Lucy would never hear it, yet the act of speaking it aloud felt like a thread connecting me to the past, to a voice I could no longer reach.

"It's been sort of a process, but I think we'll handle it just fine." Just saying the words out loud, imagining Lucy listening, made it feel like she was still with me in some small way.

"I really think you'd like it here in Silver Falls," I continued, letting my gaze wander over the rolling grassy fields beyond the porch. "Looks kind of like Bennington." I chuckled softly.

"I just want to say that I'm going to do my best for Jackie and for you." I couldn't break, a promise I had made to someone I could no longer reach.

Saying them aloud into the silent phone, into the empty night, was almost like staking a piece of myself into the world Lucy had left behind.

I let my gaze drift over the darkened fields, the wind tugging lightly at my hair, imagining her hearing me, imagining her nodding, even though I knew she never would.

"Anyway, call me back when you can, okay?" I whispered the words into the phone. "Love you."

My thumb hovered over the end call button for a few extra seconds, but eventually, I let it go and ended the call.

I set the phone down on the arm of the porch couch, letting my hands rest over it.

Then it happened.

Someone's hand landed on my shoulder. I whipped around, instincts firing, ready to deck whoever dared invade my space square in the face, only to be met with a head of blond hair catching the moonlight.

"Whoa, hey, it's just me," came the voice, easy, teasing, familiar enough to make my dread melt just a little.

I froze for a moment, blinking up at him, trying to process the sight of Cole standing there like some infuriatingly confident apparition in the dead of night.

My heart skipped in a way that was equal parts irritation and disbelief. Seriously?

Of all the people to show up while I was wallowing in my late-night existential meltdown, it had to be him.

I shoved a hand through my hair, trying to act casual, even though my stomach was doing little flips. "You scared the hell out of me," I said.

It didn't help that Cole looked thoroughly amused at the fact that I was about ready to knock the living shit out of him right there on the porch.

I could already hear the headline in my head: "New girl lands first-night right hook on Walters' son." Definitely not the first impression I wanted to leave with Katherine and George.

"Quick reflexes," he said, tilting his head with that smug grin plastered across his face.

I stared at him, incredulous. Was this guy even okay in the head? My hand itched with the urge to shove him back just enough to remind him that I wasn't a pushover.

Instead, I clenched my fists in my lap, trying to contain the irritation that burned hotter than it should have.

"What are you even doing up?" I asked, tilting my head slightly, trying to mask how unnerved I was by his presence.

"Shouldn't I be asking the same question?" he shot back, sauntering over to the couch across from me.

He wore a white tank top streaked with a few dark stains and grey sweatpants, looking casual in a way that made me want to roll my eyes.

A faint scent of oil followed him—not the cooking kind, but car oil—that made my nose wrinkle slightly. "Were you hot-wiring a car or something?" I crossed my legs.

Cole chuckled, leaning back on the couch, that smug look firmly in place. "I've got a truck at the back I've been working on for a year now," he said lazily, nodding toward the wooden shed at the edge of the yard.

I arched an eyebrow, "Mhm. And how's that going for you?" folding my arms across my chest.

He shrugged, stretching an arm over the back of the couch. "Slowly, but surely. Some things take time, you know?" His eyes glinted with that self-assured confidence.

"Right, and the reason you decided to scare me?" I asked, crossing my arms and leaning back slightly.

"I heard someone talking," he replied casually.

Ah—he must have overheard me when he got back from the shed.

My first instinct was to snap, to tell him it wasn't any of his business. But something told me I shouldn't let my frustration with the world—or with him—spill over so easily.

"Who were you talking to anyway?" he pressed, eyes narrowing slightly with curiosity.

"My best friend."

He must have picked up on the sorrow in my voice because he didn't press any further. Instead, he lifted himself off the couch. "Wait here," he said, disappearing toward the back door.

I watched him go, my eyes following the motion until he was gone from view, leaving the quiet night to settle around me again.

Moments later, he reappeared, something in his hands. "Here." I blinked at the burger he held out.

Now that I thought about it, I did remember the smell of burgers drifting through the house when Jackie and I had been cleaning up our room earlier, after we told Katherine we weren't hungry.

"Mom said you two hadn't eaten anything since you came, so she saved you two some," Cole explained.

I took the burger from him, holding it carefully in my hands. "Thanks," I said softly, not just for the food but for the thought behind it.

The simple gesture hit harder than I expected—he'd noticed, somehow, that I'd been feeling down, and he'd done something about it without a word.

It was... surprising, and even though I tried to brush it off, a small warmth spread through me at the realization.

I glanced at him, half-expecting a smirk or a teasing comment, but he just leaned back against the couch again, casual as ever, like it was the most normal thing in the world to notice someone's mood and do something about it.

A yawn escaped his lips. "Well, I'm gonna turn in for the night. Still got school tomorrow." He stretched out his arms above his head, emphasizing just how done he was for the day.

He glanced at me once, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Don't stay up too late, New York."

I nodded, wrapping my hands a little tighter around the burger.

"Yeah... thanks."

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

[charrylatte]

The Price of Privilege

summary - looks like silver falls just got a new troublemaker. after her mom dies, [name] moves in with the walters, taking on the responsibility of keeping her best friend's little sister, jackie, out of trouble. with no one to cover her mistakes, [name] quickly learns that staying out of drama is harder than she thought. and with cole walter around, will she fall victim to the notorious cole effect? warnings - MDNI, underage drinking, partying, mentions of unsavory past, character death, mommy issues, etc.. the charry files - m.list

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

Life of wealth and privilege.

Now that's the life many dream of, or at the very least, hope to one day achieve.

To summer in the Hamptons, Tuscany, Lake Como—wherever the rich decide to burn through their endless supply of money.

Breakfast at Tiffany's.

A champagne cork cracking open with a sharp pop.

Shopping on Madison Avenue.

Guest lists for the most exclusive soirées.

Front-row seats at Fashion Week.

Hermès.

Loro Piana.

Chloé.

Chanel.

The Row.

That was my life, neatly wrapped in glossy ribbons and crisp receipts.

I lean back against the velvet sofa, swirling what's left of my drink. A few ice cubes clink at the bottom of the glass.

You're probably thinking to yourself: "What a pretentious bitch."

I set the glass down on the marble table, my fingers tracing the condensation ring it leaves behind.

Would it make you feel any better to know I lost the whole lot in a single night?

Now, I'm not about to cast myself as some martyr.

My mom fell headlong for a charming man in Nice—a city in France. Anyway, he left her to raise me alone; never once did he sign the forms or show up for parent-teacher nights.

A tidy stream of 'charitable donations' later, Highview Boarding School kept their mouths shut. The headmaster accepted the cheques with a smile and a discreet wink, and I was spared expulsion more than once for the stunts I pulled.

Underage drinking, clubbing until dawn—every reckless caper that didn't involve drugs.

Don't mistake that for stupidity. I wasn't one for self-sabotage with substances. God, no—I was far too pretty for that. That sentence is almost laughable, but it's true. I had a reputation to maintain; vanity can be surprisingly saintlike when it's useful.

Look, I had privileges and I used them—sometimes recklessly, sometimes with artful restraint. My misdemeanors were theatre, not tragedy: a stunt here, a scandalous entrance there. The sort that made society note you and then forget you by the next season.

So no sob story. Just facts.

Favors bought into my education, nights spent where the chandeliers were as bright as the rumors, and a refusal—stubborn, almost principled—to let anything ruin the look of me.

That, more than anything, was the code I lived by.

Mom was always away on business, too busy to waste time dealing with my antics. Whenever I pushed things too far, she sent her assistant round with a cheque and the problem disappeared. I walked away scot-free every time.

It left me wondering whether she actually loved me, or whether I was simply another obligation on her balance sheet. After all, I was the daughter of the man who'd left her to raise me alone.

My grandfather nearly disinherited her because of it. I think I met him once as a child, then never again. If she hadn't been his only child, I'm certain he would have cut her off without hesitation.

So I grew up with absence as my constant companion. On the rare occasions we were together—holiday dinners, usually—it was never warm or intimate. Just a cavernous dining room, a table far too long, and the two of us sitting at opposite ends, speaking little, eating less.

Maybe that's why I hated Lucy.

Perfect Lucy Howard.

Everyone adored her. She was kind, generous, beautiful in that effortless way that didn't need embellishment. Teachers praised her as if she were the crown jewel of Highview.

I always thought she was a sycophant, a prim little darling so proper it made me physically sick to even watch her glide through the halls.

She was everything I wasn't.

The daughter loved openly by her parents. A little sister who idolised her. Among our peers, Lucy's name was spoken with respect, even reverence.

Even my own mother.

She noticed Lucy. Spoke of her, once or twice, with a warmth she rarely afforded me. It stung in ways I couldn't admit at the time.

Lucy seemed to embody everything I was expected to be, yet refused to become.

Which makes it something of a wonder that she became my best friend.

I'd known Lucy since birth. Our mothers had been inseparable back in their days at Columbia. Somehow, that old connection trickled down to us, binding us even as we grew into different people.

It took years for me to actually let Lucy be my friend.

I mean, I was jealous of her. She had everything I felt I was missing—unwavering love and support from her family, always there when she needed them. The Howards were, to me, the very picture of perfection.

Yes, Benton and Angelica Howard were busy people, but they never let that interfere with their daughters. They showed up, listened, cared. Always.

So why couldn't my mother do the same for me?

It wasn't just resentment—it was gnawing envy that I carried with me. Lucy had a family that made her feel untouchable, while I learned early on that absence was the closest thing to love I could expect.

And yet, somehow, I let her in.

There were indeed times I managed to convince Lucy to join me for a few drinks, like the night we celebrated her heading off to college in Bennington.

Clink!

"Cheers!"

We laughed together, perched on the bar stools, "God, can you believe it?" Lucy said, her eyes bright. "I'm finally going to see more of the great outdoors!" she joked, tilting her glass.

I took a careful sip and smirked. "Hardly. I don't know how you'll survive without Bergdorf's being within reach."

Her college was in the countryside, I discovered, and I couldn't help but be mildly surprised. It was far more rural than I'd imagined.

Lucy grinned at me, unbothered. "It'll be an adventure," she said simply. And somehow, even as I teased, I envied her optimism.

"Sure," I said, arching an eyebrow, "if you count wearing flannels and pretending cow pastures are 'inspiring' as living the high life."

Lucy laughed, unbothered. "Better to meet people you'll actually like than pretending to like everyone at society dinners."

I smirked, swirling my drink. Despite myself, I liked that she could match my sarcasm. Rarely did anyone keep up without flinching—or losing charm.

I placed my glass down and rested the side of my head on my palm. "Oh, but pretending to get something out of someone... that's just so much fun, Luce."

She raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint in her eyes. "You mean, like a social experiment?"

"Exactly," I said, grinning.

Lucy shook her head. "Don't you ever corrupt Jackie with your ways."

I feigned an offended gasp. "My corrupt ways?" I repeated, raising a hand theatrically. "Honestly, I'm quite flattered you'd think I could corrupt Jackie. The girl's cleaner than a single wet wipe."

Lucy laughed, the sound light and genuine. "Don't tempt me to test that theory," she warned, though her grin betrayed her amusement.

I leaned back, letting a small smirk play on my lips. "Oh, trust me, I wouldn't dare... not too much, anyway."

Lucy stared at me for a long moment, and I felt a flicker of worry. "What?"

"Take care of her, please?"

Me? Take care of Jackie? Don't get me wrong—I liked Lucy's younger sister. We were actually fairly close. But trusting me to look after her? That was... ambitious.

"Sure," I said with a grin. "I'll introduce her to her first proper rager, maybe even get a tattoo—"

Lucy smacked my forearm playfully.

"I mean it, [Name]. Take care of her for me."

I scanned the bar quickly, almost expecting to see another person with the same name. "You're really putting a lot of faith in me here, Luce. And I'm not exactly the model you'd want Jackie to take after for the next two years, am I?"

She gave me that exasperated half-smile of hers, the one that made you feel simultaneously infuriated and charmed. "Exactly why she'll be fine. She'll survive... hopefully even thrive."

I shook my head, "Thriving, you say? I have my doubts." laughter tugging at the corners of my mouth.

What was Lucy thinking, entrusting her precious little sister to me?

"You've said it yourself, [Name]," she said softly, leaning closer. "Jackie's afraid to get her feet wet. She'll be in her sophomore year and still trying to figure out who she is."

I raised an eyebrow, resisting the urge to smirk.

"I honestly don't know who'd be better to trust her with than you," Lucy added, her tone firm, almost pleading.

I don't know why I agreed to do it.

It should have been Lucy asking Jackie to take care of me. Both Howard sisters were impossibly put together, polished in a way that made the world bend to their will.

And me? I was a mess. Disorderly, reckless, and far too fond of trouble.

Yet somehow, Lucy had chosen me. Entrusted me. And as much as I wanted to scoff, a small, stubborn part of me felt that trust—and the strange pride that came with it.

"She's in good hands."

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

"Shit!"

I shot upright as my third alarm blared. Seven in the evening. Twenty-seven missed calls from Jackie. Fifty-three messages. All asking the same thing: where the hell I was.

Spring Break, which should have meant an easy week without faculty breathing down my neck.

Instead, I was scrambling, cursing endlessly, muttering, "I really shouldn't have gone for mimosas..." while trying to pull something vaguely presentable together for the charity event Jackie had organized.

Jackie Bean: [Name], where are you?!

Oh, she was so going to kill me.

So far, I'd been keeping my promise to Lucy... to an extent.

I checked on Jackie regularly during school, made sure she was doing alright, and for a brief moment, I could pretend I was the responsible one.

Taking care of her—even halfway—had me brushing up on my own act. It was almost... civilizing.

Almost.

Jackie was counting on me to help promote the event.

I pulled on a dress that was vaguely appropriate for the occasion, added a touch of makeup, and spritzed Marc Jacobs perfume—enough to signal effort without looking like I tried too hard. Then I skedaddled out of my dorm in a rush.

Running barefoot down the hall, I pressed the elevator button repeatedly, simultaneously trying Jackie on my phone. Straight to voicemail. She was probably busy, orchestrating something with the precision only she possessed.

"Hey, Jackie," I muttered as I left a message, breathless. "Sorry for missing your calls... and your messages. I'll be there in a jiff."

The elevator dinged open, but I barely noticed, already plotting my entrance. Tonight, I had to make up for lost time—or risk getting a scolding from the only person who could genuinely keep me in line.

Not only that, but Lucy was coming down for Spring Break.

We spoke occasionally over the phone—brief check-ins where she'd ask how I was holding up, whether Jackie was doing alright, if everything was under control.

I couldn't help but wonder how she'd react when she saw me now—rushing around, slightly frazzled, trying to manage Jackie's event and my own crisis.

Somehow, I suspected she'd raise an eyebrow, give me that look, and quietly expect me to pull it all together anyway.

I quickly slipped into my heels, waved down a cab, and headed straight for the venue.

Thirty minutes later, I paid the fare, jumped out, and practically landed on the mini red carpet. The crowd's chatter swirled around me as I hurried inside.

"Excuse me!"

"Pardon me!"

"Coming through!"

"Love your dress!"

I weaved between guests, offering half-smiles and nods, trying to look composed while my heart raced. The place was loud—lights, music, and a mix of Highview students, alumni, and other schools all vying for attention.

I had to find Jackie before she lost her mind.

Spotting her in a striking red dress, I called out, "Jackie!"

She turned, a bright smile lighting her face, but she was mid-conversation with her friend Sammy. I waved, hoping to catch her attention without interrupting too rudely.

Jackie's eyes finally found me, and she gave a small, impatient wave. I hurried over, dodging a group of well-dressed guests and balancing my clutch.

"Finally," she said, half-laughing, half-exasperated. "Where on earth have you been?"

"I got caught up," I replied, smoothing the front of my dress as I reached her side. "You know... life."

She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. I could tell she was relieved I was here. For better or worse, I was exactly where I needed to be.

Sammy's eyes lit up as I approached. "Hey, [Name]! Love your dress."

I gave a quick smile, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "Thanks, Sammy. Trying to be on my best behavior tonight," I said, with just a hint of mischief.

Jackie laughed softly, nudging me. "You? Best behavior? Don't make me laugh."

I shrugged, smirking. "Hey, compared to how I usually am, this version of me is practically an angel."

Jackie rolled her eyes but grinned, and Sammy chuckled at my claim.

I glanced around the venue, taking in the setup—the decorations, crowd, the way the lights caught on the tables. "Not too bad work, both of you," I said, nodding in approval. "Honestly, I'm impressed."

Jackie beamed, obviously pleased with the praise, while Sammy looked slightly smug at my acknowledgement.

"Couldn't have done it without you promoting the event, [Name]," Jackie said, her smile genuine.

I waved a hand dismissively. "It's nothing. You know me—if there's a party, a cause, or a bit of both, I'm usually involved."

Since I had a reputation as a bit of a wild child, hopping from one party to the next, I knew more people than I cared to admit. My eyes swept across the room. "Ah, I see the boys from St. Aldrich are here too," I remarked, nodding toward a cluster of familiar faces across the venue.

Jackie followed my gaze, her eyes widening slightly. "Oh, perfect... just what I needed," she muttered under her breath, half amused, half exasperated.

I grinned. "Relax. I'll keep them in check..." I patted Jackie on the back before weaving through the crowd toward the table of familiar faces.

They looked up as I approached, recognition and smirks spreading across their faces. "Well, if it isn't [Name]," one of them called, raising his glass. "Came to make sure the party stays interesting, have you?"

I rolled my eyes playfully, leaning against the edge of the table. "Someone's got to keep things lively. Otherwise, what's the point?"

I leaned against the table, smirking as the boys from St. Aldrich teased me about my reputation. "You're looking far too tame tonight, [Name]," one of them said. "Don't tell me you've gone soft."

I raised an eyebrow. "Tame? Hardly. Just conserving my energy for when the real fun starts."

A few girls nearby chimed in, curiosity sparkling in their eyes. "So... any plans for Spring Break?" one asked, fluttering her lashes.

I tilted my head, pretending to ponder. "Oh, you know... the usual. A little chaos here, a little mischief there. Maybe a trip somewhere warm if I can be bothered."

Jackie snorted quietly behind me, shaking her head, while the girls exchanged amused glances.

"You always make it sound so effortless," another girl said, laughing.

"Effortless?" I repeated, feigning offense. "Darling, it's an art form. And trust me, I've mastered it."

My phone began to ring in my clutch. "Hold on one second, please," I called, excusing myself from the crowd to answer whoever it was.

Imagine my surprise when it turned out to be Barbara, my mom's assistant. She usually didn't call unless I'd done something wrong—and to my knowledge, I hadn't done anything... yet.

I pressed the phone to my ear. "What did I do now?"

"[Name]..." Barbara's voice was unusually solemn, making my brows knit together. "There's no easy way to say this..."

A sinking feeling started in my stomach, growing heavier by the second. I glanced across the room and noticed a man approaching Jackie—a man I vaguely remembered as Aunt Angelica's brother—leading her away from the party.

"What's wrong?" I asked, my voice tighter than I intended.

"[Name]..."

"Your mother's plane crashed."

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

The last time I'd been sober for any length of time was when I was thirteen.

Back then, my mother had been on her way to London from Singapore for business—until her plane crashed.

Since the funeral, the reality of my life had been made painfully clear by the family lawyers.

Now that she was gone, everything was changing.

My trustee would be switched, meaning my trust fund and inheritance would now be managed by the person my mother had named in her will: my grandfather.

The thought alone tightened my chest. The man who had barely acknowledged my existence, who had almost disinherited my mother, would now have control over everything I'd ever had, everything she had left me.

He didn't even show up for the funeral.

Here I thought I'd have to leave New York, simply because he lived in another country. But then there was another part of her will that changed everything.

"Should an untimely death occur, my daughter, [Name] [Surname], will be in the entrusted care of my dear friend Katherine Walter and her husband," the lawyer read aloud.

The room felt impossibly silent. The only ones present were me and my mother's assistant, Barbara, whose expression was unreadable.

I swallowed hard, trying to process the words. Care of Katherine Walter... a stranger, someone entirely outside my world. And yet, this was what my mother had chosen.

The name wasn't entirely unfamiliar, yet I'd never seen the woman's face. Katherine was supposedly a close friend of my mother—and of Aunt Angelica's as well.

I tried to picture her, someone my mother trusted enough to leave me in her care, but nothing came to mind. A stranger, really, someone who held a part of my future in her hands without me even knowing her.

Barbara cleared her throat quietly, breaking the silence. "She and her husband are very capable, [Name]," she said softly. "Your mother trusted them implicitly."

Barbara had been taking care of me throughout the entire mourning period, handling the practicalities my grief made me incapable of facing.

The Headmistress had permitted Jackie and me to return to our family homes for the remainder of the year, a small mercy amidst the upheaval.

I nodded, though it hardly eased the pit in my stomach. Capable or not, this was a new world I hadn't asked for, one where decisions about my life and my future were being made without me.

"And the company?" I asked, my voice barely whisper.

Since I was still under eighteen, yet my mother's heir, I wasn't allowed to manage it on my own.

The decision-making, the control, everything would now be overseen until I came of age—or until Katherine and her husband deemed me capable enough to take the reins.

It was one thing to lose my mother. It was another entirely to have the life she'd built for me suddenly placed in the hands of strangers.

The lawyer cleared his throat. "Control over [Surname] Enterprises will revert to your grandfather until you reach the age of majority," he stated, letting the words hang in the air.

I clenched my fists, trying to keep my composure, but the pit in my stomach only deepened. "Alright. Thank you."

God, what a mess.

I had to get my act together. No more partying, no more drinking, nothing reckless or drastic.

My mother wasn't here to smooth over mistakes with a cheque anymore, and with my grandfather controlling my finances, I was in an entirely new kind of tight spot.

The thought that Jackie was in the same boat offered no comfort. She'd lost both her parents—and Lucy, too. The two of us were to be shipped off to Colorado, to this Katherine Walter woman I barely knew.

"Take care of her, please?"

Lucy's request echoed in my head like a mantra, impossible to ignore. Somehow, I was meant to be responsible now, not just for myself, but for Jackie too.

This time, for real.

The next week rolled by in a blur. Barbara oversaw the packing, the maids carefully wrapping every piece of furniture in large white sheets before shipping everything off to Colorado.

"[Name]... I know it's a lot. But if you need anything, you have my number," Barbara said, trying to sound comforting.

I pressed my tongue to the inside of my cheek, smirking. "Thanks, Babs, but I think a thousand dollars would be more than enough to bribe whoever's running this middle-of-nowhere circus."

Barbara raised an eyebrow, clearly bracing herself for more.

As you can tell, I hadn't exactly processed losing my mom—or Lucy—very gracefully. "Oh, don't worry about me spending it all," I added, tossing my hair back. "Mom saw fit to stick me out here, so I guess I'll just suffer in rustic paradise and pray I don't starve."

Barbara blinked, unamused but wisely silent. She knew better than anyone that words like comfort and consolation didn't really stick with me.

It didn't take long for me to get to JFK. Jackie was already there, standing beside her uncle Richard, clutching the handle of her suitcase like it was the only thing keeping her sane.

She looked up when she spotted me, her face brightening just a little, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, I felt something close to relief.

"Hey, you made it," I said, setting my bag down beside hers.

Jackie gave a small nod, her expression a mix of nerves and exhaustion. Richard cleared his throat, glancing between us as though checking if we were ready to go.

"Are you ladies ready?" Richard asked, adjusting his watch as though time itself was already running late.

Jackie shifted her grip on the suitcase handle and gave him a small nod. "As ready as I'll ever be," she said quietly, then glanced at me. "I just... I hope Katherine's nice."

I forced a half-smile for her sake, nudging her shoulder lightly.

Once we passed through security and made it into the private lounge, my eyes went straight to the bar. God, I was tempted. A gin and tonic would've taken the edge off, maybe even two.

No... you promised yourself you'd get it together.

I tore my gaze away, forcing myself into one of the leather chairs instead. Jackie was with me, and the last thing she needed was to babysit me stumbling onto the plane. If anything, I was meant to be the one looking out for her now.

Jackie sat down beside me, folding her hands neatly in her lap. For a moment, we just listened to the muffled clink of glasses from the bar across the room.

"You were staring at it pretty hard," she said softly, tilting her head toward the bottles lined behind the counter.

I gave her a sideways look. "What, can't a girl admire the décor?"

Jackie raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching. "You don't admire décor. You plot."

I smirked despite myself. "Fair point. But relax, I'm not about to make a scene in the lounge. Not with you here."

Her shoulders eased, and she leaned back in her chair, satisfied with the answer. I caught the faintest trace of a smile before she turned her gaze back toward the departure board.

"Now boarding," came the announcement over the speakers.

Jackie straightened immediately, gripping her carry-on like she'd been waiting for this exact moment. I pushed myself up from the chair, stretching out my shoulders before grabbing my own bag.

"Well, that's our cue," I said, nodding toward the gate.

Jackie gave me a small smile, though I could see the nerves behind it. "Colorado, here we come."

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

Four hours in the air, six if you counted the two Jackie and I wasted at the airport, and we finally landed in Denver. By the time we'd wrestled through the crowd and found the carousel, another hour had gone.

I glanced at Jackie, who was scrolling on her phone as if the world weren't falling apart around us. "What are you reading about?"

"About the town we'll be staying in," she replied without looking up.

Silver Falls.

I'd looked it up back in New York. A small town, more farmland than people, the sort of place where everyone probably knew everyone else's business before it even happened.

It hit me then—this was exile. Actual exile.

Queens get banished to gloomy towers, princesses get locked away in castles, and me? I was being shipped off to a town that probably thought Whole Foods was exotic.

If my mother wanted revenge for all the stunts I'd pulled, she couldn't have written a better punishment in her will.

Stacking our bags on our individual trolleys, I muttered, "Okay... pretty sure Katherine and her husband should be meeting us out the gate." I checked the message on my phone—Katherine had texted earlier, and Barbara had made sure both Jackie and I had her number before we left.

Jackie hesitated beside me. "[Name], before we go, can I call my uncle first? I promised him I'd call the moment we landed."

I gave her a small nod. "Of course. Go ahead."

She stepped aside, pulling out her phone. Part of me wondered why Aunt Angelica's brother had never been considered for custody of Jackie. I mean, he was her family. Uncle Benton didn't have anyone left either.

Apparently, though, it had been explicitly stated in the Howard family will that Jackie was to live with the Walters—just like me.

The more I thought about it, the stranger it seemed. Two girls, uprooted and sent halfway across the country to the care of strangers, all because some long-dead clause deemed it the "best choice."

I glanced at Jackie, still absorbed in her call, and sighed. At least she was calm. I, on the other hand, felt like I was teetering on the edge of a very steep cliff.

The most I got from Barbara was a text: "Behave and take care of yourself."

I shoved my phone back into my bag and exhaled, trying to calm the jitters in my chest. At the end of the gate, a woman walked alongside a man in a beige jacket, both scanning the crowd.

When her eyes landed on me, they widened for just a second. That had to be Katherine and her husband, George. "Jackie," I said, glancing back at her. "They're here."

Jackie gave a small nod, slipping her phone into her pocket, and we wheeled our trolleys toward them.

A warm, welcoming smile spread across Katherine's face. "Hi," she greeted, her eyes glistening slightly as she looked at Jackie and me. Understandable, I supposed, considering the resemblance we bore to our mothers.

Jackie stepped forward first. "Hi," she said politely, her voice calm and measured.

I followed, giving a small nod. "Hello," I said, keeping my tone neutral, sizing her up silently.

George, standing slightly behind Katherine, offered a courteous nod. Katherine sniffed lightly before pulling us into a tight hug.

I could almost feel what she was carrying—the grief of two long-time friends gone, both leaving daughters behind. The responsibility of picking up the pieces, of somehow guiding us through lives already complicated, must have been enormous.

"I'm so happy you two are here," she said, her voice thick with emotion.

Jackie returned the hug politely, composed as always, while I allowed myself a brief squeeze, careful not to linger too long. "Thanks Katherine," said Jackie.

Katherine pulled away from us, giving us one last look before glancing to her right. "So, um..." She hesitated, scanning for her husband, who was just a few feet away.

"Over here," chimed George.

Katherine let out a small chuckle. "Thank you." She placed a hand on George's broad shoulder. "You two remember George?"

I gave him a polite nod. "Hi, George."

"Hi, you two," he replied, and together, Katherine and George started pushing our trolleys for us.

Katherine's questions came in a rapid stream. "How... how was everything? Was the flight okay? Are you hungry or need something to drink? Coffee, maybe?"

I definitely could've used a drink, but not caffeine. "No, I'm good," keeping my tone neutral. The flight stewards had already served Jackie and me sandwiches, and at least that had kept my stomach from complaining.

Jackie adjusted her bag quietly, looking between Katherine and George. "Same here."

They led us to a quaint-looking marquis wagon. George opened the trunk and began loading our bags with ease.

"Ah, do you need help?" I asked, stepping forward, but he shook his head firmly.

"No, I'm all good here. Just go ahead and get in," he said, flashing a small, polite smile.

I glanced at Jackie, who gave me a subtle nod, and we slid into the backseat, the doors closing softly behind us. The vehicle smelled faintly of leather and pine air freshener. By the looks of it, they had it cleaned for today.

Katherine settled into the passenger seat, glancing back at us with a reassuring smile, while George climbed into the driver's side, already familiar with the route, it seemed.

While Jackie scrolled through her phone with quiet focus, I leaned back, headphones in, letting the music drown out the engine.

Outside the window, buildings and streets passed in a blur, each one smaller, simpler than anything I was used to in New York.

The only time I'd been to Colorado was for a skiing trip in Aspen—snowy slopes, crowded lodges, luxury rentals.

This was different. Smaller towns, wide-open spaces, farmland stretching into the horizon.

It was... quaint, almost painfully so, and I couldn't decide if I was intrigued or entirely unprepared for it.

Jackie didn't comment, of course, just kept her eyes glued to her phone, as if ignoring the landscape could make it less foreign.

As we left the city behind, the drive up to Silver Falls reminded me of the trips from New York to the Hamptons. Long stretches of road, small towns giving way to open fields, the scenery felt both endless and oddly calming.

I couldn't help but remember one of my less glamorous adventures with Lucy. We'd decided, in our bright teenage wisdom, to take a Jitney.

Worst mistake of our lives.

Someone had obviously had a disagreement with their breakfast, and the bathroom smelled like it had been through a war zone. Lucy had practically cried laughing while I tried not to gag.

In a few hours, we reached the gates of a ranch, driving down a winding gravel road until a large yellow house came into view. Two barns flanked the property—at least, that's what I assumed they were.

George eased the car to a stop at the front.

"Honey, do you need any help with the bags?" Katherine asked, stepping out gracefully. Jackie and I followed after her, trolleys in tow.

"No, thanks."

The house looked nice from the outside, but I reminded myself that just like boys, a handsome exterior didn't always mean the interior was any less questionable.

One could ruin a perfectly good house with poor taste in decorating, after all.

Jackie, who had been quiet since leaving the airport, finally lifted her gaze to the house.

"You okay?" Katherine asked her gently.

Jackie offered a tight, controlled smile. "Fine."

Katherine returned a sympathetic look and gestured toward the front door. "Let's get you two inside. We'll introduce you to everybody."

I wrapped an arm around Jackie's shoulders as she leaned her head on me. "Looks like this is our home for the next few years," I murmured, whether we liked it or not.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

[vervee]

Never go into politics

Summary - Reincarnated into a dating sim as a toddler side character, you vowed to avoid the main plot at all costs. Step one: emotionally terrorize your future love interest neighbor with carrot cake and petty warfare. Morals are optional—survival is not.

Warnings in General - MDNI, Mature themes, blood, gore, violence, drugs, death, human experimentation, etc...

previously

“Zaynnneee!”

“Zayyyyynnnnneeeeee!!!”

“ZAAAAYYYNNNNNEEEEEE!!!!!”

Zayne’s pencil gave a dangerous crack under the pressure of his death grip. His left eye twitched, his whole aura radiating one more sound and I commit a felony.

The boy was just trying to do his math homework. Like any responsible, overachieving eleven-year-old should. Quadratic equations, angles, numbers—the usual.

Unfortunately, his math wasn’t his biggest problem right now. His biggest problem was you.

Currently sprawled across his bed like you owned it (you didn’t), shrieking his name at decibels only dogs should hear.

Zayne’s next-door neighbor.

His eternal tormentor.

You.

From the moment you could talk—hell, probably from the moment you could crawl—you made it your life’s mission to ruin his.

Gaslighting? Check.

Psychological warfare involving carrots? Check.

Petty arguments over literally everything? Triple check.

You were nine now, but somehow, tragically, not even slightly less insufferable than when you were three. Evolution had failed you.

And the worst part? Zayne never snitched. Never told his parents, never complained, never begged for divine intervention.

No, the boy endured. He endured your obnoxious commentary, your banshee screeching, your endless campaigns of chaos.

Which, frankly, was the dumbest move of all—because you only got bolder.

At school, the rumors about you were even worse. Word on the playground was that you ran your class like a pint-sized mob boss.

Kids two grades above whispered about you in the cafeteria. Teachers had that haunted look in their eyes when your name was called for attendance.

And Zayne? Poor, studious, future-surgeon Zayne? He was stuck with you not just at school… but next door.

The universe really hated him.

“Zayne!!! Hello? Are you there or have you gone deaf?”

Zayne exhaled slowly, the kind of sigh that carried the weight of a thousand tiny regrets. Ignoring you was pointless. Not when you were in his room. Again.

“What is it?” he asked, finally spinning his chair around.

There you were: starfish’d across his bed like you owned the place, pillow tucked under your stomach, legs swinging back and forth like some spoiled cat who’d never worked a day in their life.

“Do my book report for meeeee…” you whined dramatically.

Reincarnated brain or not, you hated primary school. It wasn’t hard—you could speedrun the multiplication tables in your sleep—but it was boring. Tedious. Soul-crushing.

If you wanted to suffer through homework again, you wouldn’t have died to a Costco truck in the first place.

Zayne frowned. Not the ‘I’m mad’ kind of frown, but the ‘of course you’re asking me this again’ one.

“You won’t learn if you don’t do it yourself. Besides”—he gave you a pointed look—“aren’t you a proclaimed genius?”

Ugh. He had you there. Curse him and his logic.

“But it’s too much work,” you whined louder, flopping onto your back like a fainting Victorian heroine. Then you lifted a finger, pointing dramatically toward the floor. “Besides, my pencil rolled off the bed, and it’s too far away.”

Did Zayne forget to mention you were spoiled? Because you were spoiled. Rotten. Miriam and James raised you like a tiny monarch and now their neighbor’s son had to deal with the fallout.

Zayne pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew he shouldn’t—absolutely shouldn’t—enable you. But also… he knew you weren’t above screaming his name another twenty times if he didn’t.

And math homework was impossible at 200 decibels.

It wasn’t like Zayne hated you or anything. If anything, what puzzled him most was why you seemed to hate him.

He’d only ever been civil with you. Polite. Patient, even. Okay—maybe a little begrudging, but he’d never been cruel. Not once.

Even when you’d mounted him like a pony at age five and paraded him around the backyard while Mrs. Li and your mom snapped pictures for the family album. He hadn’t fought back. He hadn’t tattled. He’d just… endured.

That was Zayne in a nutshell: long-suffering, endlessly accommodating, and for some reason, your favorite victim.

And yet, despite the torment, you never truly left him alone. You clung to him like gum on the bottom of a shoe—annoying, inescapable, and oddly… permanent.

Some days, you were tolerable. Almost nice, even. Other days? You went full gremlin mode, gleefully morphing into Satan’s youngest intern just to watch him squirm.

Zayne adjusted his glasses, the faintest furrow between his brows as he inhaled deeply, exhaled, and reminded himself that patience was a virtue.

Finally, with the tone of a martyr walking toward execution, he asked, “What book are you writing a report on?”

You perked up instantly, grinning like you’d just won the lottery. Hook, line, sinker.

You perked up instantly, all doe-eyed and innocent, like you hadn’t just been harassing him for the last twenty minutes. “Charlotte’s Web,” you said sweetly, drawing out the title like it was some ancient curse.

Zayne blinked. “That’s… not even a hard book.”

You gasped, scandalized. “Excuse me? Did you see how many pages it has? I am nine years old, Zayne. My brain is fragile.” You placed a hand dramatically over your forehead, like you might faint from the sheer trauma of literacy.

Zayne stared at you flatly. “You literally bragged last week about reading The Odyssey.”

“Context,” you snapped back, pointing at him with all the authority of a prosecutor delivering a closing statement. “That was for fun. This is homework. Totally different vibes.”

Zayne pinched the bridge of his nose again, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for strength.

You flopped back onto his pillow with a groan, legs kicking lazily in the air. “C’mon, Zayne. You’d do it so much better than me anyway. You’re, like, Mr. Perfect Student. Teachers love you. Kids want to be you. Meanwhile, I…” You waved vaguely at yourself.

“…am a misunderstood genius being crushed under the oppression of the education system.” placing a hand over your heart as if you were Juliet after losing Romeo.

Zayne gave you a long, unamused look. “You’re a menace to society.”

You grinned. “Compliment accepted.”

For a moment, silence. Zayne turned back to his desk, trying valiantly to focus on math equations. You, of course, couldn’t leave well enough alone.

“So…” you chirped. “Do it for me?”

“No.”

“Pretty please?”

“No.”

“With carrot cake on top?”

Zayne’s pencil snapped clean in half.

Zayne calmly set the broken pencil on his desk, slid open the drawer, and retrieved another. He did not look at you. He would not give you the satisfaction.

You, of course, smelled blood in the water.

“Zaaayyyynnnneeee,” you sang, rolling over onto your stomach so you could prop your chin on your hands and beam at him. “You’d be doing a public service, you know. Helping a poor, defenseless nine-year-old survive the horrors of academia.”

“You’re not defenseless,” Zayne muttered, scribbling numbers with surgical precision. “You’re a tyrant.”

“A tyrant with dimples,” you corrected smugly, flashing said dimples in his direction.

His pencil paused for exactly one second before he continued writing. Victory point: you.

Still, you pressed on. “If you do my book report, I’ll…” You tapped your chin thoughtfully, like you were negotiating a major business deal. “…I’ll stop calling you Zaynie.”

That finally made him turn in his chair, giving you the full brunt of his flat, dark-eyed glare. “You never stop calling me Zaynie.”

You gasped dramatically, clutching your chest. “You wound me. I was offering you freedom.”

“Freedom with conditions,” he deadpanned.

“Exactly! That’s how contracts work, Zayne.”

He turned back around, determinedly writing again. “Never go into politics.”

You narrowed your eyes. Time to up the ante. “Okay, okay. If you do my report, I’ll… share my dessert with you at lunch tomorrow.”

Zayne froze. You saw it—the flicker in his eyes. Because if there was one thing he couldn’t resist, it was sweets.

But then, to your horror, he shook his head. “Not worth it.”

You flopped dramatically onto your back again, staring at the ceiling like the tragic heroine you were. “Fine. You leave me no choice.”

“Don’t—”

“ZAAAAYNNNIIIIIEEEEE!!!” you shrieked at full volume, shaking the walls.

Downstairs, Mrs. Li called up, “Everything okay up there?”

You cupped your hands around your mouth and hollered back, “YES, MRS. LI! ZAYNIE’S JUST HELPING ME WITH HOMEWORK!”

Zayne’s entire soul left his body.

Slowly, mechanically, he set his pencil down, swiveled his chair toward you, and spoke in the voice of a boy who had finally given up on mercy.

“Fine,” he said, low and dangerous. “I’ll do your book report.”

You grinned, wicked and triumphant, legs kicking happily in the air. “Knew you’d see it my way, Zaynie.”

Zayne closed his eyes, muttering what you assumed were medical terms under his breath—probably diagnosing himself with early-onset stress caused by reincarnated gremlins.

Victory was yours. Again.

Note to self:Beating up boys is valid when they say something stupid.

Now, to clarify—you didn’t beat up Zayne. Sure, you tormented the boy, but you weren’t about to throw hands with him. You had standards.

Let’s recap.

It was the end of the school day, but most of the student body was still in school thanks to extracurriculars. Most of your classmates were clustered around, desks shoved together into one massive Franken-desk of chaos.

And where were you?

Perched on top of your desk like the self-proclaimed queen of the classroom, of course.

Since the very first week of school, you’d established a system: boys did the grunt work, girls sat still and looked pretty.

Was it fair? Not exactly.

Was it efficient? Absolutely.

Besides, the girls were the brains of the operation—they did all the planning and paperwork for your projects. The boys were basically just free labor. Balance restored.

Currently, the topic of discussion: the upcoming spring festival.

Every class in every grade had to contribute something.

Your class? A bake sale.

Because who on earth says no to sugar being peddled by cute kids? Nobody. And if they did, well, they clearly hated joy—and you were more than happy to take their money anyway.

Across the room, your designated boy-minions were busy with decorations, cutting, taping, and hanging like their allowance depended on it.

Meanwhile, you and the girls brainstormed logistics.

Word on the grapevine was that Zayne’s class was doing something wildly different—a play.

Which explained why you’d been spotting him in the auditorium a lot lately. Not that you were keeping track, obviously. You just… happened to notice. Totally by accident.

Anyway.

Back to you: lounging on your throne (read: desk). Looking pretty. Not lifting a finger. Because why would you, when you’d already rigged the system?

Because you could, you hopped off your desk and stretched, ignoring the mild protests from the peanut gallery.

“I’m going to get an apple juice, be right back,” you announced, giving a lazy wave over your shoulder without even glancing at them.

Perks of being you: people listened when you spoke, even when you weren’t actually asking for permission.

The vending machines at primary school were a disappointment, though. No soda, no chips, no candy—just juice boxes, milk cartons, and the occasional sad granola bar. Like, congrats on “promoting health,” but where was the flavor?

Still, apple juice would do. Sweet, portable, and—best of all—no teachers could yell at you for it.

You strolled down the hall, hands swinging at your sides, a little smug bounce in your step. Other kids were running around for their own afterschool prep, chattering about booths and costumes and decorations.

Everyone was buzzing about the spring festival—end of Test Week, collective sighs of relief, sugar highs on the horizon.

Naturally, you passed your exams. Duh. It would’ve been embarrassing if you didn’t, reincarnated brain and all. And Zayne? Of course he had to one-up the entire grade with the highest score.

You didn’t hear it from him, of course—he was too modest-bordering-on-boring for that. No, you’d overheard Mrs. Li talking about it on the phone to your mom.

But apparently… not everyone shared the joy.

As you passed the stairwell, a sharp tsk cut through the hallway noise. Your ears perked up immediately. And, being the nosy little gremlin you were, you naturally slowed your steps.

A group of boys were huddled in the corner by the stairs. Misfits. Wannabe delinquents. The kind of kids who thought rolling their sleeves up twice made them dangerous. Spoiler: it didn’t.

“I seriously can’t stand Li’s guts,” one of them snarled, voice low but bitter.

Oh? Now this was juicy.

You leaned closer, peeking just enough to see them without being caught.

“What’d he do this time, huh?” another kid snickered, arms crossed like a wannabe gang boss from a drama rerun.

The first boy scoffed, sharp and ugly. “Tch. What didn’t he do, more like. Did you hear him earlier? ‘Everyone’s working hard for our class event, can’t you do the same too?’” He mimicked Zayne’s even tone with mocking exaggeration.

The others laughed. Not the belly kind—more the mean, shallow kind of laughter that echoed in insecure kids who couldn’t stand someone actually being better than them.

“He tries to act all humble and modest, but I bet deep down, he’s got an ego that shoots straight up his butt,” the ringleader sneered.

Your lips pressed into a thin line. Eyes narrowing. Oh, you knew insecure losers when you saw them—and these kids practically reeked of it.

“All the adults praise him like he’s some prophet or something,” another chimed in, his voice dripping with jealousy. “My mom told me the other day to take a page out of his book and focus on my studies.”

“Pssh, that’s because you failed most of your tests,” someone else shot back, and the group snickered.

“I’m telling you, it’s all an act,” the first insisted, his voice climbing higher with each word.

And then—oh, the audacity.

“If he opens his mouth again, I’ll just tape it shut and throw him in the janitor’s closet.”

Your eye twitched.

Excuse you? Tape? Closet? On your long-suffering victim neighbor?

Oh, hell no.

The rational part of your brain whispered, Stay out of it. You’re supposed to avoid the main plotline, remember?

But the louder, gremlin part of your brain—the part that lived for chaos and psychological warfare—was already cracking its knuckles.

Because if anyone was going to torment Zayne Li, it was you.

Not these knockoff delinquents with their pompous attitudes.

You only had one thing in your hand at the moment.

Your phone.

And after a split-second of weighing consequences vs. satisfaction, you thought, Fuck it. The main plotline doesn’t even start for another two years.

So you yeeted it.

Right at the ringleader’s smug face.

Dad’ll buy you a new one anyway.

The satisfying thwack of plastic against forehead echoed down the stairwell like a battle cry. The boy stumbled back, clutching his face, sputtering curses while his friends gawked in shock.

“Who the hell—?!” he started, spinning toward the source.

You leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, smirk firmly in place like you hadn’t just committed aggravated assault with an iPhone.

“Oops,” you said sweetly, voice dripping with faux innocence. “Butterfingers.”

The group froze, confusion flickering across their faces as they realized who you were. The terror of classroom politics. The one who’d once convinced an entire table of third graders that carrots were government tracking devices.

One of the boys jabbed a finger at you, his face lighting up with recognition.

“I know you! You’re that girl who walks home with Li after school.”

…

…Oh no.

The last fuse in your brain? Gone.

Your lips curled into something dangerously close to a grin as you cracked your knuckles.

“Keep…” you stepped forward, each word hitting harder than the last, “ZAYNE’S NAME…”

SMACK!

Your fist connected with his cheek, the sound reverberating through the hallway. Will Smithing his ass.

“…out your f****** mouth!”

The group erupted into chaos. One kid yelped and ducked under a desk, another scrambled backwards as you lunged like a feral cat released from its cage.

“Wha—are you crazy?!” one shrieked, narrowly dodging a kick that would’ve made Bruce Lee proud.

“Crazy?” you shot back, swinging your hand like a medieval flail. “I’ll show you CRAZY if you talk about him again!”

The ringleader stumbled, clutching his already-bruising forehead (courtesy of your phone). “S-she’s insane!”

You grinned, eyes alight with unholy glee. “And you’re just now figuring that out?”

Within seconds, the “fearsome gang” of misfit boys scattered like pigeons, their tough-guy act shattered. A couple tripped over each other trying to flee, and one even cried, “I’m telling the teacher!”

You dusted your hands off, retrieved your phone from the ground, and muttered to yourself, “Idiots.” Because again—if anyone was going to torment Zayne Li, it was going to be you.

You had just yeeted your phone at the ringleader when you went full demolition mode on the rest of the idiots.

Fists flying, kicks strategically placed, hair wildly bouncing with each swing. The hall had officially become a battlefield.

Then—the doors swung open.

“What’s going on here?”

You froze mid-punch.

Zayne.

Of course it was Zayne. Because the universe loved irony.

Standing there. Calm. Annoyingly calm, like he wasn’t witnessing the literal massacre of his classmates by a nine-year-old tornado of chaos.

Your fist was throbbing, but naturally, you weren’t going to stop. Just as you pulled back for another swing, a firm hand clamped down on your wrist.

Turning your back, you met his eyes. That exasperated-but-not-really-judging glare that somehow always made you pause… for about a second.

Behind him, a few of his classmates spilled out of the auditorium doors. “S-should we get a teacher?” one stammered, glancing between Zayne and you like the hall had become the setting for a horror movie.

You huffed, jerking your wrist free with all the dramatic flair of a villain in a soap opera. “Pfft. Please. I totally have this under control,” you said, though your fists throbbed like tiny betraying traitors.

Zayne stepped closer, voice low and dangerous, like the calm before a storm. “Really? Because from here, it looks like you’re about to get in trouble.”

Zayne’s grip on your wrist tightened just enough to stop you from flailing another punch.

“C’mon,” he muttered, voice calm but firm, “before a teacher actually does see this.”

You squirmed, of course. “I’m defending your honor! These idiots were talking about you!”

“I can defend myself,” he said, dragging you down the hall, expertly keeping you between him and the scattered, terror-stricken boys. “And you look like a complete maniac.”

“Excuse me?!” You tried to wriggle free, fists still half-raised. “I am heroic! A protector! A—”

“A mess,” he finished for you. And somehow, the way he said it made your nose twitch with indignation.

The boys cowered in the background, some holding their arms, others rubbing their faces. You shot them a glare that could curdle milk. “And you all should thank me!”

Zayne didn’t respond. He just steered you around the corner, out of sight from anyone else in the hall. “Look, if anyone saw this, they’d assume I can’t control my own neighborhood,” he muttered. “Which is… not great for my reputation.”

“Your reputation?!” You spun around mid-step, voice rising. “I’m talking about justice! And honor! And—”

“You’re also talking about punching first, asking questions later,” he cut in, deadpan. “Step away from the collateral damage, please.”

You huffed, crossing your arms, still half-scowling, half-pouting. “Fine. But I was right.”

“Yeah,” he said, shoulders sagging just slightly under the weight of his own amusement. “Sure you were, hero of the hallways.”

And just like that, you were dragged out of the spotlight.

Zayne dragged you into his classroom and plopped you down at a desk like you were a toddler being sentenced to detention. He dug into his school bag and, of course, produced a small white box—the holy grail of preparedness: a first aid kit.

Leave it to Doctor Zayne, to casually have a first aid kit with him.

“Show me your hands,” he said, calm and firm.

You turned your face away dramatically, lips protruding in a pout that could have broken hearts (or at least annoyed them). “Nuh-uh! I’m not playing doctor with you,” you whined.

The memory of your last “medical intervention” flashed before your eyes: Zayne had basically drowned your hands in alcohol, which stung like a bitch.

“I’m not playing with you,” he repeated, voice flat but steel underneath. “Show me your hands.”

You glared, tapping your feet against the floor for extra emphasis. “No. You can’t make me. I’m perfectly fine!” Lies, your knuckles hurt like hell.

Zayne rolled his eyes, crouching slightly so he was level with you. “No you’re not. Hands. Now.”

You groaned, exhaling like the world had betrayed you. But reluctantly, ever so slowly, you held them out—like a tiny gremlin submitting under duress.

“Finally,” he muttered, opening the kit. “See? This won’t kill you.”

You shot him a glare sharp enough to pierce bandages. “I highly doubt that.”

Zayne carefully dabbed a cotton swab in alcohol and began cleaning the scraped skin on your knuckles.

“Owwie! Zayne, that hurttttt!” you wailed, throwing him a pitiful, dejected look that you knew would normally melt hearts.

He didn’t even glance up. “Should’ve thought about that before starting a brawl in the middle of the hallway,” he said flatly, the tiniest edge of sass in his tone.

Damn. Okay, fine. You’d admit it—he just took a page out of your book.

“Your parents are going to be mad,” he noted, already imagining the scolding that would follow.

One of those tattling little plebeian pests probably phoned home the second your phone smacked that ringleader.

Zayne arched an eyebrow.

“Don’t really care,” you huffed, crossing your arms like the tiny dictator you were. “I sent out a message.”

“And what message would that be?” he asked, eyes narrowing, curiosity hiding under that calm, too-smart-for-his-own-good facade.

You leaned back, smirk curling like you’d just won a war. “That Zayne is only allowed to be tormented by me.”

Zayne’s mouth twitched, the faintest exhale of amusement escaping him.

“Right,” he said slowly, almost warningly. “And if anyone else tries?”

You grinned like a tiny, chaotic queen. “They’ll regret it. Trust me.”

Because honestly? If protecting Zayne meant you got to be a little extra… well, it was totally worth it.

[vervee]

And I'm smarter than you

Summary - Reincarnated into a dating sim as a toddler side character, you vowed to avoid the main plot at all costs. Step one: emotionally terrorize your future love interest neighbor with carrot cake and petty warfare. Morals are optional—survival is not.

Warnings in General - MDNI, Mature themes, blood, gore, violence, drugs, death, human experimentation, etc...

previously

Okay, so maybe you were exaggerating a little when you first got reborn.

But in your defense—anyone would’ve lost it after finding out reincarnation is actually real.

Especially considering how you died. Like, seriously? Out of all the ways to go out, it had to be a goddamn Costco truck?

Not a peaceful nap, not old age—Costco.

And let’s not even get started on where you landed. Of all places, it just had to be Love and Deepspace. Really? You couldn’t have been sent to Harry Potter or something? Fulfill your lifelong dream of finally getting your Hogwarts letter?

BUT NOOOO.

The universe said: Get in, loser, you’re going to a dating sim—and you’re not even the main character!

But hey. Silver linings.

Your new parents? Loaded. Actually rich rich.

Something you never got to experience in your first life, no matter how much you loved your real parents.

Your new mom—Miriam—is a fashion designer, which basically means you’ve been her personal baby doll since day one.

And to be fair, she’s got taste. The fits? Immaculate. She could make a paper bag look runway-ready.

Your new dad, James, is a financial wizard or day trader or stock bro or something—whatever it is, it prints money.

The man would hand you the moon if you batted your eyelashes at him long enough.

Three years in, and honestly? Life’s been easy. Sickeningly so. You’ve even started to—ugh—warm up to your new parents.

They’re… good people.

The kind that do brunch charity events and recycle properly and actually spend time with their kid.

They earned their money the honest way and, more importantly, didn’t give you any weird vibes.

So yeah. If there was one downside to your cushy, reincarnated existence?

It was the damn neighbors.

Because of course your mom had to become besties with one of the love interests' moms.

Of course she had to start arranging playdates.

Like you hadn’t already decided you wanted nothing to do with the main character’s messy-ass love life.

You’d rather chew on Legos than get wrapped up in some swoony, heart-wrenching plotline you already know ends in tears—or worse, true love.

To be fair, Mrs. Li is sweet. Mr. Li too, when he's around. You don’t even fully hate Zayne—he’s not the worst toddler in the world.

But still. The stakes are high. You’ve read the fan theories. You know how fragile the plotline is in this game.

Flick a lightswitch the wrong way, and boom—you’ve accidentally altered someone’s route and set the MC up for heartbreak.

You were a supporting character, and you were determined to stay that way.

Unfortunately… destiny doesn’t take “no thanks” for an answer.

It was one of those days again.

Your mom was in the kitchen, humming to herself while cleaning up a few dishes.

Meanwhile, you were busy struggling with your black mary janes—because you were a big girl, thank you very much.

Being reborn with a full, fleshed-out adult brain crammed into a toddler’s body was honestly the worst curse ever.

Learning how to walk again under layers of stubborn baby fat had tested your patience more than college finals ever did.

But hey, you were up and mobile before most kids could even say “alphabet.”

Naturally, James and Miriam were over the moon about raising a “genius.” They bragged about you like it was a competitive sport.

But that wasn’t important right now.

As you wrestled your second shoe into submission, Miriam’s voice called out from down the hall.

“Honey, why don’t you start heading over by yourself? I might be a while,” she said, waving you off with one soapy hand. “And remember to share the dessert you asked for with Zayne!”

Letting a three-year-old wander the neighborhood alone? Normally a red flag.

But this wasn’t just any neighborhood—you lived in a gated community.

The kind where the only real danger was Karen down the street not getting her oat milk delivered on time.

“I will!” you chirped, grabbing the dessert box sitting neatly by the door.

Now, you're probably wondering—what kind of dessert did I get?

Oh, my sweet summer child.

If the universe was going to keep screwing with you, then it was only polite to return the favor.

After all, you had one mission: avoid getting tangled up in the Love and Deepspace storyline.

No friendships, no flirtations, no chance for the Love Interests to remember you once their hormone-fueled arcs began.

And how do you accomplish that?

Simple.

You become insufferable.

Make yourself as forgettable—or better yet, as irritating—as possible.

The first step? Be a little menace.

Good thing for you…

You were valedictorian in being a little shit.

You approached the Li family’s front door and knocked, because, well—your arms were too short to reach the doorbell. Baby limbs were the worst.

Mrs. Li answered a moment later, smiling warmly when she saw you. “Oh, you’re here early,” she said, crouching to pat your head like you were a puppy.

You responded with one of your gold medal-winning smiles, the kind that melted adult hearts like butter on a hot pan.

“Hi, Mrs. Li!” you chirped in your most high-pitched, syrupy voice, lifting the dessert box proudly. “I brought a snack for me and Zayne today!”

Zayne, the unfortunate victim of your reincarnation coping mechanism, was roughly two years older than you.

That would make you eleven by the time the Chronorift Catastrophe happened and twenty-five when the main storyline of Love and Deepspace kicked off.

You weren’t planning on dying just because some cosmic tunnel opened up and spilled out nightmare fuel with abs.

You hoped you'd awaken an evol eventually, something cool and plot-armory—but with your luck?

Probably something like “minor healing” or “turning socks into doves.”

Useless.

Mrs. Li stifled a laugh. “I’m so glad you and Zayne get along so well!” she beamed, stepping aside to let you in. “He’s in the living room. Go ahead and share your dessert—I’ll bring you two some juice.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Li~” you said sweetly, gliding into the house like the benevolent chaos deity you were.

From what you remembered, Zayne had a serious sweet tooth.

Publicly, the two of you were seen as angelic childhood besties. Privately? You were an emotional terrorist, and Zayne was your favorite victim.

Even with his quiet, deadpan personality, the boy had a heart softer than a melted marshmallow. One teary-eyed pout from you was enough to send him into mild panic mode. And you used that power responsibly. By which you mean: never.

“Zaaayne, I’m here~” you called out sing-songily, entering the living room.

There he was, sitting neatly on the sofa with a book in his lap. Classic.

Zayne glanced up, blinking. “Oh. Hello,” he said flatly.

You felt your eye twitch. ‘This brat should be honored I even acknowledge him,’ but your grin didn’t slip an inch.

You sauntered over to the coffee table and placed the dessert box down with flair. “I brought cake from the bakery,” you announced with fake cheerfulness, lifting the lid with a dramatic flourish. “Just for us.”

Zayne’s eyes lit up. Hook, line, sinker.

“What kind?” he asked, closing his book and setting it aside.

You took a breath, suppressing a wicked giggle.

If there was one thing Zayne hated...

“Carrot cake~!” you sang.

And just like that, Zayne went still. Like someone had hit the pause button on his soul. You literally saw his light die for a second.

Perfect.

The future top surgeon, breaker of hearts, was currently being undone by a vegetable.

Zayne's lips pressed into a thin line. “I see,” he muttered, returning to his book. “In that case, you can have my slice.”

You gasped, scandalized. “Huh?! But Zayne—I brought this for you!” you cried, mustering your most tragic pout.

“You shouldn’t have,” he said, not looking up. “I don’t like carrots.”

Oof. Brutal.

But you were just getting started. “But Zaaayne,” you whined, dragging out his name with enough drama to rival a soap opera death scene.

Let the emotional manipulation games begin.

Zayne didn’t look up from his book, but you could see the tiniest twitch in his brow. A crack in the calm. He hated being whined at.

“You know I don’t like carrots,” he said flatly.

“Maybe your taste buds are wrong,” you huffed, scooting closer on the couch.

“They’re not.”

“Yes, they are! You’re just saying that because you’ve never had good carrot cake before,” you countered, waving a fork around like it was a mic during a presidential debate.

“I don’t want it.”

“You need it,” you said, your tone turning stern. “You’re skin and bones. This has vitamins in it.”

He finally looked up, deadpan as ever. “You’re three.”

“And I’m smarter than you.”

“You’re not.”

“I literally knew how to read before I could wipe myself.”

Zayne blinked. “That’s... really weird.”

Before you could whip out another top-tier comeback, the sound of footsteps made both of you go still.

Mrs. Li appeared in the doorway holding two juice boxes. “Is everything okay in here?”

You whipped your head toward her, smiling like a tiny, cake-wielding angel.

Zayne, meanwhile, started to open his mouth—probably to tell the truth, the traitor—but you acted fast.

Too fast.

You stabbed your fork into the slice of carrot cake and shoved it straight into his mouth.

Zayne froze, eyes wide, cheeks stuffed with moist, frosted betrayal.

You turned to Mrs. Li and beamed sweetly. “I’m just feeding Zayne! He told me he loves carrot cake!”

Mrs. Li’s smile widened, completely sold. “Aww, that’s so sweet! I love that you’re sharing!”

Zayne let out a muffled sound of horror.

And that?

That was the moment your villain arc officially began.

Because as Mrs. Li walked off, humming happily to herself, you leaned in close and whispered smugly, “Now Zayne, you wouldn’t want to hurt my feelings by not eating the cake now would you?”

Zayne glared at you, his eyes screaming betrayal, but he swallowed.

Victory. Was. Yours.

You took another bite of cake, kicked your feet happily, and sipped your juice like it was the blood of your enemies.

Let the war begin.

Now, terrorizing a literal child was a new kind of low—even for you.

But let’s be honest: that moral discussion flew right out the window the moment your survival became the top priority.

You didn’t ask to get reincarnated. You didn’t ask to be dropped into the prologue of a dating sim known for heartbreak, emotional trauma, and slow burn lovers tropes so intense they could level entire civilizations.

You were doing what any rational former-college-student-now-toddler would do in your position: securing your safety with tactical pettiness and psychological warfare.

If Zayne—sweet, soft-hearted future doctor Zayne—grew up with even a single blurry memory of you being adorable and likable?

You were toast. Charred. Doomed to be pulled into the messy tangle of main plotline drama.

You refused to be the childhood best friend who “he always cared for in a different way.”

You refused to be the secret side character route.

You refused to be collateral damage.

So yes, if shoving carrot cake into his mouth and gaslighting his mom into believing he asked for it was what it took?

Then fork up, Zayne. It's go time.

Zayne, who had finally recovered from his frosting-flavored trauma, was now wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, glaring at you like you’d just drop-kicked his puppy.

“I’m telling my mom,” he muttered darkly.

You took a dainty sip of your juice box and smiled over the straw. “Oh yeah? And what are you gonna tell her? That a three-year-old forced you to eat cake?”

Zayne hesitated.

Exactly.

“Face it, future surgeon,” you said, gesturing grandly with your half-eaten slice. “You just got outplayed by a toddler.”

“I’m five.”

“And still lost. Embarrassing.”

Zayne narrowed his eyes. You could see the internal gears shifting. He was planning. Plotting. You had officially activated his inner pettiness.

Good.

That meant he wouldn’t get attached.

That meant you were doing your job right.

Because the moment he did start seeing you as a friend? You’d be one step closer to being dragged into the chaos of fate.

This was war.

And you were just getting started.

MY FELLOW ZAYNE GIRLIES, DO NOT COME FOR ME! I MYSELF AM ONE OF YOU. Trust, Zayne isn't the only one who's going to get it!

[vervee]

I am so screwed

Summary - You’re about to take your driver’s test when your Uber crashes into a truck. You wake up as a baby in a dating sim you used to play. Cue the mental breakdown. You’re stuck in a new life with no control, and worst of all, you’re starting over—puberty’s back, and you’re pretty sure you’re screwed.

Warnings in General - MDNI, Mature themes, blood, gore, violence, drugs, death, human experimentation, etc...

Maybe it was a sign?

You were just a college student, about to take your driver’s test. You did everything you could—roped your friends into helping you memorize road signs, survived all those breakdowns with your older brother yelling at you in his not-so-calm voice every time you messed up.

Couldn’t God just let you catch a break this time?

On test day, you took an Uber. No one in your family could drive you, but they all wished you good luck. You were so pumped, hyping yourself up like you were about to win a gold medal.

You’d nailed the written exam—now it was time to prove to the government that you could actually drive.

But then, for some reason…

Your Uber driver was way worse than you.

He swerved into passing traffic at an intersection and crashed right into a freaking Costco truck.

You didn’t even know what was going on at first. You were too busy texting a friend until you felt the impact. You remember the coil in your seat and how the seatbelt dug into your body as you clung to the grab handle, praying you'd stay alive.

‘Fuck this,’ was your last thought as you closed your eyes, just seconds after hearing the wail of the ambulance sirens.

In those seconds, you hoped your dad was okay. After his stroke a few years ago, he struggled with so much. You just hoped mom wasn’t pushing herself too hard at work—being the only one working since dad had to retire after the accident left his left arm useless.

You remembered your oldest brother texting you about a package being delivered to the front door, telling you to bring it inside before someone swiped it off the porch. Your older sister probably went home after her graveyard shift at the hospital, waiting for your brother-in-law to come back from a flight. And your older brother? He was probably about to call to ask what’s for dinner.

You were the youngest in your family, a solid ten years apart from your older brother, who was the third oldest. Growing up, you didn’t have anyone to play with—your siblings were all angsty teens who didn’t want to play ponies with you anymore.

Now, though? They all wanted to do everything with you. Their baby sister, who was almost done with her angsty phase too.

You always figured they were jealous because you were the favorite. And honestly, who could blame them? You were a total godsend. Dad would’ve laughed if you said that out loud—if you were anything like him, you'd know that statement was far from the truth.

Still, you hoped they wouldn’t have trouble anymore.

At least now, you'd get to see your grandfather and the niece you never got to meet.

Then, your heart beat its last.

"Isn't she pretty?" A man's voice made you stir.

"So cute!" A woman gushed, her voice full of excitement.

You had no idea if they were talking about you, but your eyelids felt heavy, and all you wanted to do was sleep. These voices were way too close for comfort, and you just hoped they weren’t some crazy lunatics cooing over you at your deathbed.

Your vision blurred, and instead of seeing your dead grandparents, you saw a young couple, their faces lit up with big smiles. “Oh, she’s waking up!” The woman said, clearly delighted.

Who the hell were these people?!

You wanted to move, to get up, but your body had no strength. “She’s squirming… Maybe her diaper is full?” Diaper?

Wait, what?

NAUR!!!

This couldn’t be real! In any other situation, you might’ve been stoked to get another shot at life, but these were NOT your parents! You wanted your real mama and papa, not these strangers!

“WAHHHH!” Your cries came out so high-pitched, they could’ve made your music teacher, the one you never missed a chance to tease about his bald spot, flinch.

The woman holding you flinched too, clearly a new parent. “Hon, quick! I need to change her diaper!” she called to her husband, who immediately rushed to grab the duffle bag from one of the chairs.

‘No! Get away!’

Your tiny body was in full meltdown mode. You were so mad—not only were these people your new parents, but you were gonna have to go through the whole school system again! All of it. All that effort, all those grades, just to start over like a baby.

Puberty.

That thought only made you cry harder. It had taken you YEARS to achieve the perfect poreless face. Why did nothing ever go your way?! What kind of karma was this BS? You were a genuinely good person—you’d even stopped yourself from committing arson multiple times! That alone should’ve earned you a life back with your real family!

Apparently, your meltdown over having to go through puberty again was enough to distract you from your diaper being changed. The next thing you knew, a baby bottle was being shoved (gently) into your mouth, warm formula milk filling it.

‘Now this is just degrading...’

Though comforting, you finally understood why babies stop crying when they’re fed. But... you grew up lactose intolerant. Hopefully, you didn’t inherit any of those genes from your previous life.

Your “mother” giggled, her smile lighting up the room. She was so pretty—no, gorgeous. She looked like she’d stepped right out of a magazine.

“We waited so long to meet you…” she whispered, and you realized she had already decided on your name.

They kept your name.

The name your dad gave you at birth.

Maybe, just maybe, you could tolerate this new life after all.

Turns out your “mom” and “dad” were loaded.

Apparently, “dad” was some kind of financial day trader, and “mom” was a fashion designer.

You were pretty sure they had money in the same way most people had Netflix subscriptions—like it was just a given. You were starting to see how this new life might not be so bad… though you still wished it didn’t come with the whole baby thing.

The neighborhood was nice, and the house they pulled up to was even nicer. This was… so different from how you grew up. Your parents weren’t wealthy at all, didn’t come from much money. You and your older sister had to be the breadwinners of the family—go to school, get good grades, and make sure you got paid.

Comfort always felt… unfulfilling to you. It was like you’d never earned it, never had to fight for it. It didn’t have the same satisfaction as the struggle. Maybe that’s why it felt so empty now, even with all the luxury around you.

It was just how you grew up.

You shifted in the little stroller your "mom" had put you in, your tiny body still adjusting to everything. Your "dad" was the one guiding it to the front door. “Welcome home, pumpkin,” he cooed at you.

The pet name made you sick. This man was nothing like your real papa.

You pouted, and he tilted his head, clearly trying to figure you out. “You’ve been pouting since you woke up. Do you want a nap?”

God, you hated that sweet, patronizing tone of his voice. It made your skin crawl. 

The nursery was nice—fit for a princess, really. Pastel pink and ivory white were the main colors, everything had fur, and even the little bunny in the crib was now your new roommate.

‘I miss Mr. Puffles II.’

You watched the mobile above you spin slowly, playing a familiar melody. Mr. Puffles had been the first and only Christmas present you ever got from your parents—a pink teddy bear you’d had since you were six.

You knew you were being a Negative Nancy, but this was just how you coped. There were too many things still spinning around in your head. You hated not knowing things.

Ultimately, you decided to sleep on it—partly because you had way too much to process, but mostly because watching the mobile spin was making you really sleepy.

Sleep came easier than you expected, but that didn’t stop the weird sense of disconnection you felt the moment you woke up.

The next morning, or whatever time it was (you had no real concept of time anymore), you were greeted by your “mom” hovering over your crib with a bright, almost blinding smile. “Good morning, sweetheart~” her voice was as soft as the ridiculous amount of plushies surrounding you.

You merely blinked at her.

How were you supposed to respond to that? Cry? Giggle? You refused to do either.

Instead, your stomach betrayed you, letting out a grumble so loud that even you were embarrassed. Your “mom” giggled. “Sounds like someone’s hungry.” No. No, you weren’t.

You were just—okay, maybe you were. But you didn’t want to be.

You still weren’t over the fact that you were back to square one in life, stuck in a body that couldn’t even hold up its own head properly.

You barely had time to protest before you were scooped up into her arms and carried downstairs. The house was even bigger than you realized, all modern and pristine, like something out of a home magazine.

Your “dad” was already at the dining table, dressed in some fancy-looking suit, sipping his morning coffee like he was living in a commercial. “Morning, princess,” he greeted, flashing you a smile.

You wanted to glare at him. Instead, you just stared.

This was your life now, huh?

She passed you along to him, and he held you securely in one arm while holding the bottle with the other. You begrudgingly accepted it—because, well, survival—but that didn’t mean you were happy about it.

“Mom should be here soon,” “dad” said to “mom.”

You assumed he meant her mom—your supposed “grandmother.”

“Mom” visibly relaxed, letting out a relieved sigh. “That’s a relief.” And honestly, it was—considering she had just given birth to you a few days ago. She should be recuperating.

You were at least glad to see they had some family support instead of just handing you off to a nanny. Not that it changed much for you, but hey, better than being raised by a stranger, right?

The doorbell rang.

“Mom” started to get up, but “Dad” was quicker. “I’ve got it, just rest,” he told her, his tone firm but gentle. Before you could even process what was happening, he brought you with him to the door.

“Dad" opened the door to reveal a young woman who looked about the same age as "Mom." She was holding a gift basket in one hand, and with the other, she kept a grip on a little boy who couldn't have been older than two.

The kid had black hair and hazel-green eyes, and despite his baby face, he had the most dead inside look you’d ever seen.

‘What are you looking at, brat?’ you mentally challenged him, locking eyes.

For some reason… he looked weirdly familiar.

“Ah, James. How is Miriam?” the woman asked with a gracious smile.

So those were their names.

“Oh, and here’s a little goody basket for you guys. Congrats.”

James returned her smile, adjusting his hold on you. “She’s resting,” he said, then accepted the basket with his free hand. “Thank you, it’s much appreciated.”

The woman’s eyes brightened when they landed on you.

Heh. Of course they did. No one could resist you—you were the ultimate weakness of women. A baby.

“Is this her?” she asked, already smitten.

James nodded vigorously, beaming with all the pride of a new dad. “Yep, this is our little miracle.” He held you up slightly, practically showing you off like a prized trophy.

Yeah, yeah. You got it, you were cute.

The woman lifted her son, leaning him closer so he could get a good look at you. “Say hi, Zayne,” she encouraged.

Wait—

Zayne?

The little boy stared at you with those same dull, lifeless eyes. His mom smiled warmly. “I hope they become good friends when they’re older,” she said. “They’ll be seeing each other often since we’re neighbors. Miriam and I would love for them to get along.”

Black hair. Green-hazel eyes. Monotone even as a child—

YOU REINCARNATED INTO LOVE AND DEEP SPACE?!

Of all universes, why a dating sim you used to play?!

This had to be some sort of joke, right? This kind of thing only happened in fanfics! You were not built for fighting Wanderers! You could barely survive the mile run in high school, let alone deal with all the chaos in that world!

And worst of all? You did not want to get wrapped up in MC’s messy love life, her harem.

“WAAHHH!” You wailed, absolutely losing it.

James, Zayne, and his mother all flinched at the sudden outburst.

James immediately started bouncing you gently, trying to calm you down. “It’s okay, princess, Daddy’s here,” he cooed, but you were not having it.

You were freaking out, and rightfully so! This was not the life you signed up for!

James shot Zayne’s mother a helpless look, silently pleading for assistance. She, in turn, gave him an understanding nod. “Seems like we disrupted her,” she said. “We’ll leave for now. Tell Miriam to take it easy, okay?”

With that, she turned away, guiding little Zayne back toward their home.

But you? You were still internally screaming.

James closed the door behind him, still bouncing you gently as he walked back into the house. “It’s okay,” he murmured, trying to soothe you.

No! It was not okay!

You were far from okay!

‘I am so screwed!’