MICHAELLLLL DON’T LEAVE ME HERE MICHAELLLLLL

i am so... i just... this is my wife...

crack in the door | patrick zweig x reader

a/n: i have maternal instincts for patrick zweig in the sense that i want to bear his children. had an idea and had to get it out literally tonight

warnings: SMUT 18+, pregnancy mention, not proofread

Crack In The Door | Patrick Zweig X Reader

There’s a knock at the door that doesn't belong to Sunday.

You know the rhythm of your mailman’s hands, the two quick taps of the UPS guy, the heavy slap of your neighbor’s fist when he’s locked himself out again. But this—this knock is soft. Hesitant. Like it doesn’t want to be heard.

You set Levi’s plate down—half-eaten grilled cheese, blueberries arranged in a smiley face—and pad over barefoot. You glance through the peephole.

And your heart stutters.

Patrick.

You haven’t seen him in four years, and yet, there he is, standing in the yellow hallway light like a memory that refused to stay dead. The light buzzes above him, casting long shadows across the floor, washing him in a hue too warm for how cold it feels. Your stomach flips. Your knees lock. Seeing him again is like stepping into a dream with teeth—familiar and sharp all at once. He looks older—leaner, scruffier, more hollow around the eyes. A duffel bag slung over one shoulder. His hands twitch at his sides, curling and uncurling, like he's not sure whether to knock again or bolt down the hall and disappear.

You open the door slowly. The air between you is thick and sour with things unsaid.

He speaks your name like a confession. Soft. Sacred.

Your voice doesn’t come. Your stomach tightens. Your throat burns.

And then, behind you—

“Mama?” Levi’s voice, high and curious, drifts out from the kitchen. “Mama, where’d you go?”

Patrick’s entire face changes. He stiffens, like someone just knocked the wind out of him. His eyes—those same eyes that used to kiss every inch of your skin—dart past you.

And then he sees him.

Tiny feet padding across hardwood. A flash of soft brown curls and wide, blinking eyes. Your son. His son.

“Is that—?” Patrick breathes, but the question dies on his lips.

You step halfway in front of Levi, like instinct, like muscle memory. Like heartbreak.

“His name is Levi,” you say. “He’s four. He likes dinosaurs and peanut butter and books with flaps. He’s shy at first but never stops talking once he starts. And he thinks thunder is just the sky saying 'I love you' too loud.”

Patrick’s mouth parts. Closes. Opens again.

“I—” He’s not crying, but his voice sounds like it wants to be. “I didn’t know how to come back.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

Silence.

“Mama,” Levi whispers, wrapping his arms around your leg, looking up at Patrick with open, trusting eyes. “Who’s that?”

Your heart breaks cleanly in two.

You look at Patrick. Let him drown in it.

“That’s no one, baby,” you lie. “Just someone I used to know.”

---

Patrick always used to knock on your window, never your door.

The first time he did it, you thought it was a rock or a branch. The second time, you nearly screamed. The third time, he was already halfway in your room, grinning, breathless, tasting like cigarettes and strawberry gum.

“You should really lock your window,” he said, pulling you in by the waist.

“You should really stop breaking in,” you answered, but your smile gave you away.

Those were the good days. The days when he was still fire and promise and you believed you were the only one who saw the man behind the racket. When he played like he had something to prove and kissed you like he had something to lose.

When the world hadn’t taken his shine yet.

You lay together in your tiny bed, limbs tangled, the night soft around you. He whispered dreams into your collarbone. You traced his jaw with your fingertips like a prayer. He said he’d win for you. Said you made everything feel less heavy.

And you believed him.

Even as the losses came. Even as the press called him a burnout. Even as he lashed out, shut down, pulled away.

Until one night, you held up a stick with two pink lines, and he couldn’t even look you in the eye.

“I can’t be this,” he said. “I can’t be someone’s dad when I don’t even know who the fuck I am anymore.”

You begged him to stay. You told him love would be enough.

He left anyway.

The door slammed so hard the windows rattled. You stood there, frozen, stick in hand, the silence ringing louder than any scream.

It wasn’t just the leaving. It was what he took when he left. The belief that things could still be okay. The sound of his laugh echoing through your walls. The security of two toothbrushes in the cup by the sink.

He didn't say goodbye. He didn't say I love you. He just looked at you like you were the one hurting him, and walked out like he had somewhere better to be.

You didn't sleep that night. You laid in the bed where he used to lie, and wondered what was so unlovable about needing him.

In the weeks after, you didn’t tell anyone. You couldn’t say it out loud, not yet. Not until you had something to show for all the ache.

You kept your hand over your belly every night, like a promise. Like maybe, if you held it long enough, the ache would shift into something softer. You whispered into the darkness what you never said aloud: that you hoped the baby wouldn’t inherit the hollow. That you prayed they would never learn the weight of being left. You imagined holding them for the first time, imagined the sound they might make—laughter, a cry, a breath taken for the first time and given to you. Some nights, your palm rose and fell with the gentle flutter of movement beneath your skin, and you let yourself believe that maybe you weren’t completely alone. That maybe something was listening.

If he wouldn't stay, you would.

The pregnancy was not kind. Morning sickness that didn’t stop in the morning, aches in places you didn’t know could ache, and a hollow, gnawing loneliness that settled behind your ribs like mold. There was no one to rub your back when the cramps came. No one to hold your hand at appointments. You learned to read ultrasound screens like maps to a place you were terrified to reach alone.

You taped the first photo to the fridge and stared at it through tears. A blurry, black-and-white smudge. Proof. Anchor. Punishment.

You bought a secondhand crib off Facebook Marketplace and put it together yourself, swearing softly when the screws wouldn’t line up. Painted the walls a soft sage green, not because you liked it, but because it felt like the kind of color people chose when they still believed in peace.

At night, you whispered to your belly. Told him stories about heroes. About bravery. About love that stayed.

You never said Patrick’s name aloud, but some nights, when the air was too still and the weight of it all was too much, you dreamed of him walking through the door. You dreamed of forgiveness. Of soft apologies and strong arms and maybe’s that could still be real.

And then you’d wake up alone. And cry in the shower where no one could hear.

You didn’t get flowers when Levi was born. There was no one pacing outside the delivery room, no hands gripping yours through contractions, no voice telling you it was going to be okay.

But you did it. You screamed him into the world, heart breaking open and filling all at once.

And when they placed him on your chest, tiny and warm and blinking up at you like you were the only thing he knew—

That was the first time in months you remembered what it felt like to be loved without conditions.

Motherhood came at you like a tidal wave: no warning, no mercy. The nights were the worst. Not just because of the crying, but because of the silence in between. When the world went still and you were left alone with your thoughts, your fears, your memories. You held Levi in your arms like he was both shield and sword.

You learned the patterns of his breathing, the way his body curled into yours like he’d been there before, in another life. You learned to eat with one hand, sleep with one eye open, cry without making a sound.

The first time he smiled, it was crooked—just like Patrick’s. It hit you so hard you had to sit down. You laughed and sobbed into his blanket and told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just muscle memory. A coincidence. Nothing more.

But everything reminded you of him. The curve of Levi’s jaw. The way he furrowed his brow in sleep. The quiet intensity in his gaze when he was focused on something—like building blocks or pulling the cat’s tail. He was made of you, yes. But he was stitched together with pieces of a man who had vanished.

You tried to be enough. Every bath time became a ritual. Every bedtime story a litany. Every scraped knee a prayer.

You never let Levi see you cry. You waited until he was asleep, until his breaths came soft and steady, until the lights were out and the apartment felt like a stranger’s house. Then you let the grief in. Let it climb into bed beside you like an old friend.

There were days you hated Patrick. Hated him for leaving. For making you strong when all you wanted was to lean. For making you lie when Levi asked why he didn’t have a daddy like the other kids at the park.

You always said the same thing: "Some people take a little longer to find their way."

And then you held him tighter. Because you knew—when Levi looked at you like you hung the stars, when he clapped after you made pancakes, when he said, “Mama, I love you more than dinosaurs”—you knew you’d do it all again.

Even the heartbreak. Even the waiting.

Even the door that never knocked—until today.

---

He comes back on a Tuesday. You’re still in your work-from-home clothes—soft pants, yesterday’s sweatshirt, hair twisted into something barely holding. Levi is at school, and the silence in the apartment feels like a held breath.

When you open the door, Patrick’s hands are stuffed into the pockets of his coat. His eyes flick up, then down, like he’s not sure where to look. He’s shaved. Mostly. Still looks like he hasn’t slept.

“I didn’t want to do this in front of him,” he says.

You nod once. Then step aside.

He walks in slowly, like the space might bite. You close the door behind him and lean against it, arms folded. He turns in the center of your living room, gaze moving across the walls like they might tell him what he missed. There’s a drawing Levi made of a green scribbled dinosaur taped beside the thermostat. A tiny sock abandoned near the coffee table. A photograph on the bookshelf—your smile tight, Levi’s toothy and bright.

Patrick presses his lips together. Doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches between you like a string pulled too tight, fragile and humming with things that might snap if touched. He stares at the walls, the crumbs on the floor, the drawing of a green dinosaur taped beside the thermostat like it’s a museum relic of a life he wasn’t invited to. Every breath he takes feels like it costs him something.

You don’t either.

He turns to you, finally. "I don’t know where to start."

"Start with why you’re here."

His jaw flexes. He looks down, then up again. "Because I never stopped thinking about you. Because I thought leaving would protect you. Because I hated the version of me I was becoming, and I didn’t want him to ever know that man."

"You don’t get to talk about him like you know him."

The words come fast. Sharp. You weren’t planning to say them, but they’re out before you can stop them. Patrick flinches like they cut deep.

You swallow. Try again. Quieter.

"You left. And we stayed. That’s the only truth that matters."

Patrick nods. Doesn’t argue.

"I want to be in his life," he says. "If you'll let me. I—I know I have no right to ask. But I’m asking. Anyway."

You look at him for a long time. Long enough for your throat to ache. For your eyes to blur.

You think about Levi’s face when he colors in the sun yellow every time. The way he runs down the hall with his shoes on the wrong feet. The way he says, mama, mama, look, like you’re the only one in the world who ever truly sees him.

You nod, once. Slowly.

Patrick’s breath catches.

"You’ll start as a stranger," you say. "You’ll earn your way back in. Brick by brick. Word by word. I won’t let you hurt him."

"I won’t," he promises. And you almost believe him.

You point to the couch. "Sit. I’ll make coffee."

And he does. And you do. And for the first time in four years, the apartment doesn’t feel quite so haunted.

---

The change is slow. Measured. Like the seasons shifting before the trees notice.

Patrick starts showing up more often. Not just when he says he will, but earlier. With snacks. With books for Levi. With hands that fold laundry without asking. Sometimes you find your dishes already washed. Sometimes he takes the trash out without a word.

You don’t trust it. Not at first. Not really.

But Levi laughs more. Sleeps easier. Starts drawing pictures of three people instead of two.

Patrick never pushes. Never raises his voice. Never tries to reclaim what he left. He plays the long game—quiet, consistent, present. And that consistency starts to chip away at your defenses in places you didn’t know were still cracked.

You catch yourself watching him. The way he kneels to tie Levi’s shoes. The way he listens—really listens—when your son talks about dinosaurs or clouds or how loud the sky can get when it’s excited. You hear the soft laugh in Patrick’s chest when Levi calls thunder a love letter. You feel it in your bones.

You try not to let it in.

One afternoon, while Levi is still at school, Patrick asks if you want to take a walk. Just around the block. Clear your head.

You almost say no. Almost slam the door of your heart before it even creaks open. But you grab your coat anyway.

You walk in silence. Leaves crunching underfoot. He stays a step behind, like he doesn’t want to crowd your space. The wind cuts sharp through the collar of your jacket.

Out of nowhere, he says, “I should’ve stayed.”

You stop walking.

He keeps going for a few steps before he notices, then turns around.

“I know that’s not enough. I know it changes nothing. But I did love you. I still—” He stops himself. Looks away.

You don’t realize you’re crying until you taste salt.

You press the sleeve of your jacket to your eyes, angry at the weakness, angry at the memory of who you were before. Angry that some part of you wants to believe him.

“I can’t do this again,” you whisper. “I can’t survive loving you twice.”

He takes a step closer. Doesn’t touch you.

“You don’t have to. You don’t have to do anything. I’ll love you from a distance if I have to. I’ll show up. I’ll keep showing up. I just—needed you to know.”

You shake your head, stumbling backward. The tears come harder now. Not the gentle kind. The ragged, breathless, body-buckling kind.

You don’t even remember falling to your knees, but suddenly you’re on the ground, sobbing into your hands. All of it—years of holding it together, of being strong, of never letting anyone see the mess—it all spills out.

And then he’s there.

He doesn’t touch you. Not right away. He kneels beside you, his hands palm-up on his thighs, waiting. Quiet. Steady. And somehow, that’s worse. That he’s learned how to wait. That he’s here.

You want to scream at him. You want to collapse into him. You want to run.

But mostly, you want to be held.

And after a long moment, you let him.

You wake up the next morning expecting silence.

It’s muscle memory now—waking before the sun, padding into the kitchen with half-lidded eyes and heavy limbs, bracing for another day of doing it all on your own.

But the apartment doesn’t greet you with emptiness.

There’s the soft clatter of dishes in the sink. The low hum of someone speaking—gentle, amused.

You freeze in the hallway, bare feet pressed to cold tile, heartbeat thudding in your throat.

And then you hear it.

Patrick’s voice. "Okay, buddy, but the cereal goes in first. Not the milk. Trust me on this one."

Levi’s giggle echoes like sunlight in a room too small to harbor his birghtness.

You move forward slowly, quietly, until you’re standing just beyond the edge of the kitchen. Patrick is crouched beside Levi at the counter, helping him pour cereal into a chipped blue bowl. He’s still in yesterday’s hoodie, hair a mess, barefoot like he belongs there.

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s too focused on Levi, steadying the carton as milk splashes too close to the rim. There’s something soft in his posture. Something heartbreakingly domestic.

Levi notices you first. "Mama!"

Patrick straightens immediately. His eyes meet yours. There’s a flicker of panic there, quickly masked.

"Morning," he says, voice quiet.

You nod, swallowing down whatever this feeling is—this lump of disbelief and longing and something dangerously close to hope.

"I didn’t want to wake you," he adds. "Levi asked for cereal and… I thought I could help."

You look at your son, cheeks full of sugar and joy.

You look at Patrick, standing in your kitchen like it’s sacred ground.

And for the first time, you don’t feel like running.

---

The days start to stack.

Patrick picks Levi up from school on Fridays. He folds the laundry you forget in the dryer. He learns how you take your coffee without asking and starts leaving it on the counter—right side of the mug facing out, handle turned the way you like it. He hums sometimes when he cleans up, soft and aimless. It makes your chest ache.

You fall into rhythms again. Not like before. Slower. Cautious. But real.

One evening, he stays later than usual. Levi’s fallen asleep on the couch mid-cartoon, a stuffed dinosaur clutched in one arm. You’re washing dishes. Patrick dries.

Your hands brush once.

Twice.

By the third time, neither of you pulls away.

You look up. His eyes are already on you.

Something lingers there—warm and pained and dangerous.

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but he speaks first.

“I miss you.”

The plate slips from your hand into the sink. It doesn’t break, but the splash feels final.

“I can’t,” you say quickly, too quickly.

“I know,” he says. “But I do.”

You dry your hands and turn away, pressing your palms flat to the counter to steady yourself, trying to remember how to breathe like you used to—before he walked back in.

“You don’t get to say that to me like it means nothing,” you whisper. “Like you didn’t leave. Like I didn’t have to scrape my life back together alone.”

“I know I don’t deserve it.”

“Then stop acting like you do.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is low. “You think I haven’t punished myself every day since?”

You spin around, suddenly angry. “And what, I’m supposed to forgive you because you feel bad? Because you missed a few birthdays and now you want back in?”

“No,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re not supposed to do anything. But I’m here. I’m not running this time.”

“You broke me, Patrick.” Your voice cracks. “And now you want to build something new on the ruins like it’s nothing.”

He’s in front of you now. Too close. The space between you charged, buzzing.

“I don’t think it’s nothing,” he says. “I think it’s everything.”

Your breath catches. The air shifts.

His hand lifts—hesitates—then cups your jaw.

And you let him.

Because the truth is, you’ve wanted this. Wanted him. Even if it terrifies you.

His lips brush yours, tentative, like a question. When you don’t pull away, it deepens. He kisses you like he remembers. Like he regrets. Like he’s starving.

You back into the counter. His hands find your waist. Yours find his hair. You pull him closer.

It’s messy. It’s breathless. It’s years of anger and ache colliding in one impossible kiss.

When you finally break apart, his forehead presses to yours.

“I still love you,” he breathes.

And you close your eyes.

Because maybe, just maybe, you still do too.

---

He kisses you again, harder this time.

But it’s different now. Slower. Like mourning. Like worship. He takes your hand, and you follow, barefoot through the dark.

The two of you stumble back toward the bedroom, the one you once shared, where his cologne used to cling to the pillows and laughter used to live in the walls. Now it smells like lavender detergent and your son’s shampoo. Now it holds the weight of everything that’s happened since.

He kicks the door shut behind you with a soft thud, and the silence that follows is thick with ghosts.

You lie down first. He joins you like he’s afraid the bed might refuse him.

Your mouths find each other again, and it’s like no time has passed, and also like every second is a wound reopening. His kiss is deep, aching, soaked in apology. You pull at his hoodie, and he helps you out of your clothes with hands that remember everything—every freckle, every scar, every place you used to let him in.

He touches you like you might slip through his fingers again. Fingers grazing your ribs like a benediction, lips following like he's asking forgiveness with every breath. The inside of your knee, the curve of your belly, the dip of your collarbone—he maps them all like he’s afraid you’ve changed, and desperate to prove you haven’t.

When he finally sinks into you, it feels like grief.

He gasps like he’s never breathed without you.

You wrap your limbs around him like armor. Like prayer. You hold on because if you let go, you might disappear.

He moves like he remembers. Slow. Deep. Devotional. Not trying to make you come—trying to make you stay.

Your eyes lock. His forehead rests against yours. And it’s not lust anymore. It’s penance.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice threadbare. “For everything I lost. For everything I made you carry alone.”

Your fingers press to his jaw, tremble against his cheek. “You don’t get to be sorry now,” you breathe. “But don’t stop. Please… don’t stop pretending this could still be real. Don’t stop making me feel like I’m not the only one who kept the light on.”

You fall together like a storm collapsing. No crescendo, no clean ending. Just trembling limbs and bitten lips and all the years that weren’t spoken finally breaking open between you.

After, he doesn’t move. You’re tangled up, forehead to collarbone, his thumb brushing soft circles into your spine like he’s trying to say everything he can’t.

You don’t speak. Words feel too small.

You fall asleep in the bed where he first kissed your shoulder, in the bed where you cried alone, in the bed where you dreamed he’d come back.

And this time, when you wake up, he’s still there.

His eyes already on you.

Like he never stopped looking.

---

The morning light is soft, gray around the edges. You blink slowly, still tucked against him, your body sore in ways that feel almost sacred. There’s a pause before reality settles, before memory floods back in. His chest rises beneath your palm. He’s warm. Solid. Still here.

You sit up gently, careful not to disturb the quiet. But Patrick stirs anyway, eyes still on you like he was never asleep.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, voice low, gravelly.

You nod. Swallow. You don’t trust your voice yet.

There’s a beat. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask what last night meant. Just watches you, eyes soft, full of something he doesn’t dare taking the risk of naming. Something close to hope.

You slip out of bed and grab your robe, tying it loosely as you move through the morning light. You half-expect him to vanish while your back is turned, but when you glance over your shoulder, he’s still sitting there, eyes trailing after you like they never stopped.

You make coffee with shaking hands. The kitchen smells like warmth and cinnamon, the candle you forgot to blow out last night still flickering quietly on the counter. You pour two mugs, unsure if the gesture means too much or too little.

When you return to the bedroom, Patrick is sitting on the edge of the bed, shirt tugged over his head, hair wild from sleep. He looks up like he wants to say something, but doesn’t.

Instead, you hand him the mug.

He takes it like it’s sacred, fingers brushing yours with a hesitation that feels reverent, his gaze catching on yours with something close to disbelief. Like he’s afraid the mug might vanish if he holds it too tightly.

And then, footsteps.

Tiny ones.

The soft shuffle of socks against hardwood. A bedroom door creaking open. Levi’s voice drifting down the hallway: “Mama?”

Your breath hitches.

Patrick stands quickly, not panicked but present, like he knows this is delicate. You move toward the hallway just as Levi turns the corner, hair a mess of curls, pajama shirt twisted from sleep. He rubs one eye and stares at you, then at Patrick behind you.

He blinks once. Steps forward.

And then, small and serious:

“Are you gonna be my daddy again?”

You exhale like someone just punched the air out of your lungs.

Patrick lowers to a knee, eyes level with Levi’s. “Hey, buddy,” he says, voice soft, unsure.

Levi looks at him like he’s made of starlight and storybooks. Like he’s a wish come true.

Patrick’s throat works. “I… I’d really like to be. If you want me to.”

Levi nods, serious, like it’s a very important decision. Then he climbs onto the bed and curls himself into your side, tiny fingers finding Patrick’s hand.

You don’t say anything.

You can’t.

But when Patrick squeezes Levi’s hand, and Levi doesn’t let go, something in you cracks open.

And for the first time, the pieces don’t scatter.

They start to fall into place.

---

Later, after breakfast is made and half-eaten, after Levi has gone back to coloring at the kitchen table—his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration—Patrick lingers by the sink, coffee mug long since empty.

You wash dishes beside him, quiet.

“I used to lie,” he says suddenly, voice barely above a whisper. “To everyone. About why I left. About what I was doing. About you.”

You pause, fingers wet and soapy in the sink.

He keeps going, eyes fixed on a spot just above the faucet. “I told people I wasn’t ready. That I needed time. That I didn’t want to hold you back. But the truth is… I was scared. Not of being a father. Not really. I was scared of what you’d see when everything in me started to rot.”

Your chest tightens.

“I thought if I stayed, I’d make you miserable. That you’d look at me one day and see someone you pitied. Someone who used to be something. And I couldn’t—I couldn’t take that.”

The silence blooms, wide and brittle, as Levi hums softly in the background, his small voice painting innocence across the sharp edges of the truth hanging in the air.

“I would sit outside playgrounds,” Patrick says, his voice thinner now. “I’d watch kids run around and wonder if any of them were mine. I used to see this one boy who had curls just like Levi’s. And I’d imagine what it would feel like if he looked up and called me Dad.”

You stare at the bubbles in the sink. They pop, one by one.

“I thought I was punishing myself by staying away,” he says. “But it was cowardice. It was me choosing the version of pain that didn’t involve looking you in the eye.”

You set the dish down. Turn off the water. And you say nothing, because there’s nothing to say. Because guilt is not a gift, and grief is not a currency. But hearing it—letting him say it—somehow makes it heavier.

And still.

You don’t ask him to leave.

But you do walk outside.

The morning has shifted. Clouded over. You sit on the steps, arms wrapped around yourself, the chill crawling into your sleeves. You hear the door creak behind you and then close softly. He doesn’t follow. He knows better.

There’s a lump in your throat the size of a fist.

You think about all the versions of yourself he never met. The woman in the hospital bed, sweat-soaked and screaming, holding Levi against her chest with shaking arms and blood beneath her nails. The woman who sat awake at three a.m. night after night, bouncing a colicky baby in the quiet because there was no one else to pass him to. The woman who pawned her violin, sold the gold bracelet her grandmother gave her, whispered I’m sorry to her own reflection just to keep the lights on. The woman who smiled at Levi even when her eyes were raw from crying. The woman who learned how to fold pain into lullabies and grief into grocery lists. You became a mosaic in his absence—sharp-edged and shining. You held yourself together with coffee spoons and lullabies, with baby monitors and the ache of resilience. You wore your grief like a second skin, stretched tight and stitched through with hope you never admitted aloud.. And now he wants to stay. The one in the hospital bed. The one who learned how to swaddle with trembling fingers. The one who sold her violin to pay for rent. The one who laughed, even when it hurt, because Levi was watching.

You think about what it cost to become someone whole without him.

He didn’t get to see the becoming.

And now he wants to stay.

You close your eyes. Rest your forehead on your knees. Breathe.

Footsteps approach. Small ones.

Levi climbs into your lap without a word. He curls into you like he did when he was smaller, like he’s always known how to find your center.

“Do you still love him?” he asks.

You press your lips to his hair. “I don’t know what to do with it,” you whisper.

Levi’s voice is soft. “Maybe we can love him different now. Like a new story.”

And something inside you breaks.

Not the way it used to.

Not shattering.

Cracking open.

You look toward the door, and through the window, you see Patrick still standing there—his forehead resting against the frame, like he’s praying to the quiet.

You don’t run to him. You don’t forgive him.

But you do stand.

And this time, when you open the door, you leave it open behind you.

Just enough to tell him… ‘try again.’

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow

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asheepinfrance

1 month ago

you evil, evil, horrible, terrible woman

from the dining table x challengers

made my first ever edit and made a tiktok page... feel free to follow me @ tacobacoyeet!

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asheepinfrance

2 months ago

OHHHH MY ANGEL BABY :(

Happy Challengers Anniversary #1 !!!

I present to you: Tashi Duncan’s Diary

Click for better quality

Author’s note

This is an interpretation exclusively based on the character.

I didn’t add much about Art or Patrick because it’s also a point of view where Tashi was only 18. A girl trying to figure out who she was —just like they were— and trying to build a life she could be proud of.

Before anyone tried to define her.

Some things she already knew: She wanted more. She wanted to be the best. She wanted to be herself.

This journal is my interpretation of that Version of Tashi.

It’s not perfect—it’s personal.

It’s a glimpse of her, through my eyes.

Thanks for reading. <3

213 notes View Post

asheepinfrance

1 month ago

life is the most beautiful it's ever been

you can't look at tashi whenever the two of you are intimate; she's just too pretty (nsfw)

like right now, as she lay on her stomach, hands gripping the fat of your thighs as her mouth went to work on your eager pussy. you can feel her everywhere at once and it drives you insane. the grip she has on your thighs has you hissing in pleasurable pain every time you try to get away from the overwhelming feeling and it tightens, pulling you impossibly closer to her mouth. the feeling of her hair in your hands as you grasp onto anything to keep you tethered to solid ground, silky strands slipping through the gaps between your fingers and framing her devastatingly beautiful face. and of course the feeling of her mouth on you, tongue licking up any trace of arousal before she's gently sucking your swollen clit into her mouth.

you know, without a doubt, that she looks beautiful right now, between your thighs, as she steadily guides you to another mind-numbing orgasm. you also know she's looking at you, waiting for your eyes to meet hers so that she can finally push you over the edge you've been teetering on forever now. yet you can't do it, you can't open your eyes and look down because you know the sight alone will leave you breathless, and this'll all be over way sooner than you'd like.

you still feel her pull away from you though, hand leaving your thigh to intertwine with your free hand that had the bedsheets beneath you in a death grip. she coos at you softly, sweetly urging you to open your eyes and you can't find it in you to disobey her so you do just that, finally willing yourself to look down at the girl perched between your spread thighs.

and when your eyes meet hers, you swear you can see them light up, a small smile stretching across her glossed lips at your compliance. the sight of her alone has you clenching around nothing, the knot in your stomach pulling more and more taut as you watched the way the bottom half of her face glistened with traces of you. the way the loose tresses of hair stuck to her cheeks, baby hairs matted to her forehead from sweat and the way her dark eyes stared at you half-lidded as if the holy grail was right between your legs. "keep your eyes on me, okay?" she says, and you nod without hesitation, yet when you see her head lowering once again, you have to stop yourself from throwing your head back onto the pillow beneath you.

she's licking a slow path up the expanse of your cunt, eyes unmoving from yours and so intense it makes you shudder with a punched outmoan. when her mouth finally meets your clit once again, eyes crinkled in amusement at your blissed out face, you feel the floodgates finally burst, white spots in your vision as your hand tightens its grip on her hair, just to feel her moan against your pussy. your hips buck wildly into her face, drawing out your orgasm for as long as you can and she takes everything you give her, not stopping until she feels your grip in her hair loosen and hears the way your head finally plops down on the pillow. you're beyond fucked out, breathless and drifting on cloud nine, and don't have to look at her to know she's sporting a smug smile.

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asheepinfrance

1 month ago

Big Shoes to Fill

or, lily follows in her parents' footsteps.

an: i've only ever written small portions of stories from lily's perspective, and i think this was a fun little challenge at expanding that. i feel she needs more love. thank you @tashism for choosing this story, i hope i did you justice. extra thank yous to @newrochellechallenger2019, @artstennisracket, @ghostgirl-22, @grimsonandclover, and @diyasgarden for their willingness to help me out. it is not unappreciated.

tag list: @glassmermaids

Lily’s new shoes are pink, and the white rubber toes shine when the sun hits. She had wanted the pretty ones with the rhinestones, the ones that light up when she stomped her feet, but Mommy said no. She insisted the tennis ones were so much prettier, baby. That they were ‘professional’, the kind the big girls wear. As she looks down at them now, laces tied in a haphazard tangle by small fingers on the left, and a precise, delicate bow on the right by her mother’s hand, she thinks she should’ve fought a little harder for the light-up shoes. Her skin is tacky with sunscreen and perspiration, cheeks flushed, hands just a bit too clammy to hold the racket the way she’s meant to.

“Fix that grip, Lils!”

And then a flying yellow blur floats over the net and to her side, she stretches her little arms to reach, and hears that little tink of connection. It bounces, rolls, rolls, rolls… then stops like it’s proud of itself, right against the bottom of the net, the white line amongst the yellow fuzz beaming smug and stuffed to the brim with schadenfreude. Lily hears a sigh, the steady tap, tap, tap of a foot against the clay court, and then the half-hearted smack of hands against thighs. Mommy does this sometimes, when she’s upset at Lily. Or upset because of Lily’s playing, as Mommy insists is different. But, as far as she can tell, it’s still her fault. Mommy wouldn’t be sad if she could just figure out the tennis thing. And she just can’t. Not with all the coaching, or the miniature rackets, or the nights spent falling asleep on the couch because Mommy and Daddy are up too late watching matches to tuck her into bed.

Mommy went inside, probably for a break, maybe a little AC, maybe to stare at old photos of herself and breathe just a little bit harder. Sometimes, she swaps Lily out with Daddy. In terms of tennis, he’s rare to disappoint the way Lily was. He racked up win after win after win, smothered in trophies and sunscreen and something blue and bruised beneath his skin, and that’s what he was known for. So, he became therapeutic, in a way. A distraction, a lover, a means of vicarious victory, and the target of misplaced frustrations. Lily sits on the grass for a bit and blows some dandelion fuzz into the breeze. She thinks about what it’d be like to be a flower.

Mommy went to bed right after dinner (Mommy and Lily had a burger and fries, Daddy just ordered a salad), complaining of a headache that just wouldn’t quit. Her lips are quirked politely, something like a smile that never quite made it all the way resting on her cheeks. Lily knows that’s a fake one. She’s learned the difference. Lily knows it’s fake because her chest isn’t burning with that warm, golden feeling. Mommy really smiles when Lily makes a good serve, or when her drawings are deemed good enough to hang on the fridge with a little U.S. Open magnet. And Lily watches her face lift and her eyes crinkle and thinks, for a second, she really is as special as her parents say she is. She doesn’t feel that now. Daddy brushes Lily’s back with his fingers when he passes behind her to put the used forks in the sinks, Mommy doesn’t like the plastic ones, and she doesn’t move.

“What’s going on in that big brain of yours, Lilybug?”

She shrugs, huffs a little bit, doesn’t giggle when he blows a raspberry into her temple. She wants to, but she’s got to make it clear this is serious. Adults never laugh when things are important, she thinks. That’s why Daddy looks so angry during matches. He pulls back and frowns a bit, hands on his hips. She turns his way, and the visual makes her lip puff out and tremble a little. She can’t help it, really, but she just keeps upsetting people. She’s tired of making everyone so sad.

“Do you think Mommy is mad at me?”

He does something funny then, curves in by his tummy. It looks like the fallen Jenga tower from last week’s game night. Daddy always chooses Jenga, says he’s too good to beat. Lily always beats him, and it’s the only time he looks happy to lose. She thinks that’s silly. He pulls up a chair at her side, and she doesn’t like the way the metal sounds against the wood floor. It’s easier to be sad when it’s quiet.

“No, baby, ‘course not. Why’d she be mad at you?”

She shrugs, places a small chin in a smaller hand, stares at the granite countertop like it’s personally offended her. Like it’s staring back.

“‘Cause I’m supposed to be like you guys, and I’m not. It makes Mommy angry that I’m so super bad at tennis.”

He wants to smile, but he can’t, not when this little girl at his side is feeling things bigger than her body, than her vocabulary can provide her with a word for. Sweet girl, too, that she cares. That she just wants her mama to be happy, proud, something that isn’t going to wrack her with guilt for being herself. Still, he takes in that miniature pout, the one her mother so often wears in moments of her own frustration, and places his fingers in her hair, puffing up what had been pressed flat by a ponytail moments ago.

“She’s not angry. She’s just… well, it’s hard. You know what happened to Mommy. You know how bad she misses it. She just wants to see you grow so, so strong, like she was. That’s all.”

Lily nods. She knows. She knows as much as she’s been told, at least. Not with words or stories, but through little tell-tale signs. Through her mother’s insistence on long skirts, or taking extra with her lotion at the bend of her knee, right where the little white line is. She got hurt. Something band-aids and boo-boo kisses couldn’t make go away. She’ll get an ice pack for Mommy next time she sees her.

“But, what if I can’t grow big and strong like she did? What if I can only do it the Lily way?”

He pauses his hand’s movement in her hair, breathes through his nose like the air was pressed out of him. He wants to say that Tashi could take it, that she’s an adult woman who’s worked through these things, because she’s supposed to have done so. She’s meant to be able to feel pride in other people’s successes, rather than hate that they’re doing what she can’t. But, Art knows the resentment. He feels it some days, when he loses a match she’d have one. When Anna Mueller wins. So, he smiles, presses his lips to the curve of her nose, watches it scrunch.

“Then you do the Lily thing, and we watch you shine.”

She hums when she smiles, the way Daddy does sometimes when things are only a little funny, but mostly make her feel like her head is a balloon, and it’s flying away from the rest of her body.

“But she’d like me more if I did it the Mommy way, right? If I was good at tennis?”

He squeezes her shoulder with his palm, and finds that it doesn’t fit right in the cup of it. He thinks she’s grown too fast, and yet she’s still so small. And she’s too smart to lie to. He’s too dumb to know.

“I’m not sure, Lilybug.”

The answer is yes.

A few months later, Christmas lists were being made, toy catalogues searched, circled, conspicuously left by coffee machines and Daddy’s yucky green ‘First thing in the morning’ drinks. But they don’t make her all jumpy and giggly, the way a good gift should. So, when Grandma calls, her face shaking in and out of view on the screen of Mommy’s phone, and Grandma asks ‘What does our Lilybug want for Christmas?’, she replies,

“I want more tennis lessons.”

And she watches Mommy smile like she’s never smiled before, even though she tries to bend her head down into the paperwork she’s doing at the coffee table to hide it. It’s still see-able, and Lily can feel herself fill with that gold feeling again, from her toes to the top of her head. She just wants to make Mommy smile.

She’s been staring at this assignment for hours, and for all her might, she just can’t make sense of these numbers. Stupid logarithms. Stupid math. She shuts her laptop, watches her face turn a glowing white to a healthy gold in her vanity’s mirror. She’ll do it tonight, probably. Or in the morning, before early practice. She hopes her eyes are functional enough to write real, understandable symbols at two in the morning. She hopes she gets enough sleep to even wake up in time. She knows she can help it, but she still feels her stomach sink at the sight of a big, red ‘F’ on a page. She’s glad she does well enough in tests to make up for it, or her spot on the National Honor Society would be someone else’s, and, most importantly, Mom and Dad would flip their shit.

She flips her phone over where it laid next to her laptop, the screen flashing a text from Amy.

“Sorry babe can’t do tonight i’ve got dance and sth with andrew at like 7 :((( tm tho?”

Dance. It’s always dance. She remembers watching those clips of Amy on her Instagram story like they were miniature blockbusters, watching the way the fabric of her skirt moved when she bent her leg a certain way. How her arms flowed like waves, even if they were made up of jagged bone. Fucking dance. It’s not even a real sport, and Amy breathes it more than air.

“That’s alright :)) tomorrow then”

She pushes herself out of the spinning chair, pockets her phone and snags her earbuds from off the foot of her bed. Ignores the way her knees pop a bit. She’s been sitting for a while. Besides, she could use the practice.

“Where you going, Lils?”

Her mother calls from the kitchen, not looking up from some ad mock-up. Looks like another Aston Martin thing, if she can read it properly from where she is.

“Practice.”

She calls over her shoulder, stuffing one earbud in. She sees her mother nod, hide a smile behind the palm of her hand. Rare Tashi Donaldson, nee Duncan, approval. Her shoulders roll back, and her spine straightens just a little bit before she makes it through the sliding glass door.

She came back inside at 11 pm. Four missed calls from Amy and a ‘Hey plans got canceled you still free???’ lighting up her lockscreen, blocking out the tennis ball in the photo of a little her, fairy wings, missing front teeth, and a racket half the size of her current one. Maybe she should change it to her with friends.

She walks past the empty dinner table, bowl of something still steaming and waiting for her at her usual spot in the corner, dropping with a haphazard flop onto the couch, clicking the TV on.

“So, pick me, choose me-”

“Fifteen found dead in Oakland, Cali-”

“And little Ms. Duncan, daughter of famed tennis couple Art Donaldson and the former Tashi Duncan has had a great season so far. So far, undefeated, and with just a few weeks before the Junior Opens, she really has a shot at the win. Thoughts?”

She sits up a little, watches pictures of her flash, half-way through a grunt, braid whipping behind her. There had to have been a better photo of her.

“Well, Rog, I’d just like to see a little more out of her. I mean, what with her mother being what she was, it’s just a shame to see it look so much more aver-”

The TV is off with a click. She shuts her eyes, rubs at her temples, lightly raps her knuckles against her head like it’d knock out the sound. She thinks they’re wrong. She hates that they’re right. She wishes it was more natural. Everyone knew her mother was dead in a living body till she stepped on that court, and it all clicked into raw, animalistic passion. With Lily? Procedure. She didn’t feel adrenaline, or a spark, or anything but duty. Steps. Tired. She falls asleep in the fetal position, alarm unset. She only has enough time to step out the door before early morning practice when she’s up.

Her opponent’s get a birth mark on her right shoulder the shape of a ballet slipper. It’s just a little darker than the rest of her skin, only visible when she served. Her mother is sat on the stands behind this girl, hands braced on the rails like she’s ready to pull herself over and onto the warm clay ground beneath her if things go south. But, for now, the score’s even, like it has been the whole match, and that wedding ring is glinting in the light. She’s not even the court and she’s controlling it, back straight and face stony like an emperor watching two gladiators in the colosseum. She just hopes she’s not the one ending with her head detached.

She can’t see Dad, thinks he’s probably gone to get a hot dog, now that he can eat them again, or maybe he’s just too non-threatening to matter to her right now. But, vaguely, she thinks she remembers hearing a ‘That’s my girl’ in that stupid, slightly nasally voice she pretends to hate as much as she can. You’re not supposed to like your parents at her age. Her mother is staring, she can tell. Those sunglasses don’t hide a thing. She can read her mother better than that, and they both know it. She’s thinking. Something. Something sharp, biting, maybe hurtful. Maybe hurt. She doesn’t see her opponent set up to serve, she doesn’t see the birth mark slip into view, just a bright yellow blur headed her way. She lunges as best she can, practically on the tips of her toes to make it, and she hears a tink. And then a crunch.

She kisses the concrete like it grabbed her by the hair and pulled her in, and her teeth scrape her tongue and leave gapped indents there, heavy and bleeding. She doesn’t hear her mother, or the gasps of the spectators, or the medics asking the other girl to clear the ground. She can hear her own breath, her pulse, and laughter. Wild, hysterical laughter she only notices is coming from her when she looks down and sees her stomach contracting with it. And then she sees it, that abnormal, jagged looking leg of hers. Bone not made to wave. And she cries as hard as she’d laughed.

“Hey, Dad?”

It’s later than he’s normally up. Generally, he’s out at 9 p.m., still careful to be healthy where he can be. Where it’s normal.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed? You’ve got prac… what’s up, Lily?”

She bites her lip, shifts back and forth on her feet the best she can. Her right leg is just a bit more bent than the left, wrapped in soft, beige bandages. She didn’t like the brace. She doesn’t want to look at him, so she looks at the wall. There’s a photo of Mom, fist raised, mouth agape in a scream, dress white and pristine. The Junior Opens. She sniffs.

“Can I just… I don’t know. Can we pretend like I’m little again?”

He shifts, pats his lap, smiles like it’s the only thing keeping something aching and raw at bay. Something that’s needed to be touched for years.

“‘Course, Lilybug.”

And she falls into place like it hadn’t been ages. Like she’s allowed to like her Dad, head on his thigh, eyes trained on the coffee table. There’s a letter from some college there with her name on it, somewhere cold and rainy. Somewhere they could use a name to their tennis team.

“How’s Mom?”

He tilts his head to look down at her, the side of her head, the shell of her ear, the soft lashes of her eyes that are slightly damp.

“Oh, Lily… how are you?”

She swallows, places a hand on his thigh and squeezes there, not tight, but firm. Like it was a natural place to settle. Something unharmed and soft and a healthy, functional leg. Her throat tightens. The world looks blurry. She thinks the letter says Yale. The water makes it hard to tell. Her voice is just a bit too quiet when she responds.

“‘M fine.”

It’s silent for a moment, one heavy breath, then his lighter one. A volley. She rolls onto her back to look him in the eyes, and finds a spot of brown in the left one. How had she never noticed that before? It looks like the color of Mom’s eyes. Even he’s got her little territorial marks on him.

“Can I say something stupid?”

He nods, hums his affirmation, waiting like it’s all he wants to do. To look at her and wait and let it just be quiet. She appreciated the stillness. It’s easier to be sad when it’s quiet. It’s easier to love then, too, melancholic and bittersweet and sticky like saltwater taffy.

“I always wanted to dance.”

He buries her face into his stomach when her lip trembles. She wouldn’t want him to see. He doesn’t want her to see his watching teartracks. In the room over, Tashi sits with her head in her hands and her eyes downcast. She hopes Lily would consider a coaching position.

— Sun Bleached Flies .ᐟ

CHARACTERS: PASTOR’S DAUGHTER!TASHI x FEM!READER WORD COUNT: 2.4k CW: religious guilt, LOTS of internalized homophobia, general angst

a/n: okay this isn’t 100% accurate to christianity and such… i tried though… i tried so hard… please don’t hate me… i hope you enjoy! <3 (and i'm apologizing now) link to main post!

— Tashi shouldn’t be feeling this.

She knows she shouldn’t. She’s the Pastor’s daughter. This is wrong. Blasphemous. Sacrilegious.

The way she feels when she looks at you sitting beside her in the front pew, when she sees you standing with your family at Sunday service, and she feels the need to grasp onto the cross hanging around her neck, like a lifeline in stormy waters, to remind herself that what she feels for you isn’t right.

You’ve always been a little different than the rest of your family and the church, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. Not outwardly different, no, you dress and maintain yourself the same, but there’s just something about your behaviour that stands out in an inexplicable way.

Tashi watches you from her spot next to her father, you laughing with your family, looking around the church when the conversation is about something dull and uninteresting. When your eyes lock on hers, and your face lights up with a small wave, she realizes she’s been caught staring, and her brain short circuits. She can feel the blood rushing to her cheeks, the way her whole body goes warm, and her hand grabs her necklace with such a force it almost tugs it clean off her neck.

Only after you chuckle at her reaction does she give a small wave back, her smile forced and tight-lipped as she looks away and stares at one of the various icons of Jesus surrounding the church, begging him to plead with his father for forgiveness.

When she looks back to where you were standing, you’re already gone.

She lays awake that night, head angled back into her pillow so she can stare at the cross hanging high on the wall above her headboard, her mind racing with the thoughts about you that she wishes she could block out.

The way you look when you’re sitting on the pew, or kneeling during service when she sneaks glances beside her while her head is bowed and resting on her hands, or walking up to the front for communion. The way your skin looks so soft, and your eyes sparkle, and your body moves. The way you’d look–

No.

Bad Tashi.

God loves her, but not enough to save her. Not if she keeps thinking like this.

So she shuts her eyes, rolling onto her side and curling into herself, almost in fetal position, as though she can find some way to be reborn, reborn without these thoughts fueled by Satan, reborn as a normal girl. Reborn as a normal girl who does as she’s supposed to, as a normal girl who likes boys.

When she does fall asleep, it’s restless, plagued by the thoughts of her abnormality, of her wants, her desires.

But the sun rises and sets, days passing. Each night just as restless and guilt-filled as the next.

She thinks that if she doesn’t acknowledge it, if she doesn’t speak it, if she just keeps pushing it down, it won’t be true. It can’t be.

So Tashi tries to keep her thoughts in check, staying with her father as though he is God Himself, able to grant her forgiveness for Him. She reminds herself of her faith, praying first thing in the morning and just before bed, hand always wrapped around that cross pendant as she toys with it on the chain, begging its holiness to seep into her.

But the cycle begins again when she gets to church next Sunday, sitting in her pew in the front row as usual while Father Duncan is elsewhere in the church, preparing for service.

As she hears people begin to trickle in, Tashi looks behind her, and there you are.

She looks up to the crucifix behind the altar, and has half a mind to kneel and start praying.

But you take your seat beside her, as usual, as Tashi works on composing herself.

“Hi, Tashi.” You smile as Tashi looks up at you, and her heart squeezes.

“Hi.” she croaks.

“Would you wanna hang out sometime this week? I have a few tickets to see that new movie that just came out.”

Tashi can’t think straight. You want to hang out with her? Is she dreaming? No, not a dream, a nightmare. Maybe if she hits her head against the pew she’ll remember that this is all fake and not real and wake up from this nightmare, and all will be okay. She won’t have to hide from her father or the Father.

“Tashi?” You snap her out of her thoughts, and she’s never been so embarrassed. She can hear her blood rushing in her ears, her hands clammy and body hot.

“Uh, yeah—I, um. I might not be able to go to the movie, but we can, um, we can definitely hang out.”

You nod as service starts, and whisper to her.

“We can talk after service.”

She nods in return, swallowing hard as you both stand for the procession.

The service starts, and it feels like torture. Every time you kneel for prayer, she glances over at you, her mind wandering, imagining, going places it shouldn’t. When communion starts, Tashi almost doesn’t go up. She feels too guilty, like her father will be able see through her, into her secrets and the deepest, darkest parts of her mind.

Service finally finishes and Tashi looks over at you again.

“Are you free tomorrow?” she manages to get out.

“Yeah.” You beam.

“How about a walk and a picnic?”

“Sounds perfect. Ten? The old trails behind the church?”

“Eleven?”

“Eleven it is. See you there, Tashi.”

“See you.” She smiles back, waving as her father calls her over.

You wave back, and she feels both like she’s flying, weightless and giddy, and like she’s being dragged down to the depths of hell. Like if even indulging in this ‘friendly’ outing will make her the biggest sinner her father has ever met.

She watches you leave again, just like every week before, but this time with a small smile on her face. When she leaves with her own family, she immediately starts planning the picnic, baking and cooking and packing. Tashi doesn’t know why, but she feels the need to make everything perfect. Just for you. Tomorrow is going to be a big day.

She even thinks about telling you her sins.

That night, she sleeps a little easier. Still restless, but she’s hopeful there’s a chance you’ll be able to knock some sense into her.

Until she starts having nightmares of you again. You, kissing her, with those soft, soft lips, the ones she’s stared at countless times. You, with your hands on her, that delicate touch you save for only the most fragile things used on her, like she’s something beautiful that could shatter. Her, on her knees in front of you, worshiping you like you’re taking His place. Like you’re actually her God. Like you’re actually her Jesus. Or the roles reversed, with you on your knees in front of her, staring up at her like she’s your God.

And sleep becomes restless once more.

When she wakes up, curled in on herself once more, Tashi’s cheeks are crusty with dried up tears. She doesn’t know when she started crying during the nightmares, but she quickly becomes conscious of the fact she broke one of the Ten Commandments in her nightmares, and they quickly start back up again as she slides off her bed and kneels against the side of it in prayer.

Today she’ll tell you. She’ll tell you, and you’ll tell her how wrong it is. Shame her into normality. Shame her into conforming.

Tashi gets ready for the day, mentally too. She’ll need to be strong to have the conversation.

She meets you by the old trails behind the church, picnic basket in hand.

“Hi, Tashi!” Your voice is excited, like you’ve been waiting all night for this, and she can’t help but smile in return.

“Hi.”

“Morning was good?”

She can’t exactly tell you about her nightmares, about the fact she went against the rules so clearly set in place for a good Christian, so she lies. “Yeah. great.”

The walk to the clearing is peaceful. You and Tashi speak about your lives, your plans, what you’re here for, your faith. She almost brings up what she wants to tell you on the way there, but decides against it. It’ll be better if you’re both sitting down.

When you reach the clearing, you help Tashi set up the picnic, salivating at the food she prepared.

“These look incredible, Tashi…”

“Yeah?” Her heart swells, she’s always loved compliments from you.

“Yeah.”

You two sit, eating and laughing, falling into easy conversation. If there’s silence, it’s comfortable, as you look around the clearing at the surrounding flora and fauna, Tashi just staring at your face, trying to figure out when to ruin what you two have got going on.

She decides to do it when you’re both about to pack up, standing up, picnic basket in her hands.

“Hey, uh—”

“Yeah, Tashi?”

Tashi’s throat is dry. Her voice is small. Shaky. Unsure. Her eyes gloss over, not quite tearing up yet, but she knows she’s nearing that point.

You notice immediately. Of course you do. You’re different. You’ve always been so good at reading people.

“Tashi, oh my god—are you okay?”

“I, um. Oh, yeah—yeah, of course. I, just—I have to confess something to you.”

“What is it, Tashi? You can tell me anything.”

Anything but this. At least in Tashi’s head.

“I—um—oh, god. How, how am I supposed to say this? God, I’m going to Hell—” Tashi’s near hyperventilating by this point, the tears finally welling up.

“Hey—hey, hey, hey, Tashi, look at me.” you speak softly, grabbing her shoulders gently, as her head shoots up to meet yours. “Breathe with me. In… out… in… out…”

She follows your instructions, breathing with you. Slightly calming down as she stares into your eyes, looking at the way they soften around the edges as you look at her, the way your lips curve into that small smile as her breathing returns to somewhat normal.

“What’s up?”

“I—I’m such a bad person. I have these thoughts. These awful, awfully depraved, sinful thoughts. I have these nightmares where God isn’t my God anymore. But someone else. I—I’m going to go to Hell.” Tashi repeats the last part quietly, like she’s trying to prepare herself for it.

She pauses. Takes a deep breath, composing herself as the tears roll down her cheeks.

“I have, I have these thoughts about, about—”

You’re silent, giving her the chance to speak. To get it off her chest.

To make it real, to acknowledge it, to stop pushing it down, by speaking it into the world.

She doesn’t know how she manages to get the next words out, but she spits them in your face like she thinks they’re venom. She wants them to be.

“I have them about you.” She tacks your name on at the end, trying to make it fatal, for both of you.

She waits for you to yell at her. For your face to twist into disgust and tell her she’s plagued by Satan, agree that she’s going to Hell. To push her away, and run back to the church to wash your hands with the holiest water, just to get any trace of her off you.

But none of that happens.

Your face softens, eyes welling with your own tears, as you pull her into the softest, yet tightest hug ever, like she’s a delicate flower you’re afraid will wilt if you’re too rough with her.

Tashi doesn’t know what to do. She’s conflicted. She thought you would hate her, why are you being so kind to her? This isn’t right.

She drops the basket, letting the leftovers, the laughter, the happiness, the joy between you two spill onto the ground, and pushes you away, her face twisted into something nasty.

“Why don’t you hate me? This is wrong!”

Your face twists into one of sadness, no, not sadness. Pity? And she hates it. She hates the way it sends a pang through her heart. She hates that you pity her.

“Tashi, it’s not wrong. Just because you like a girl doesn’t make you a bad person.”

“No, it does! This is wrong, it’s a sin! And you’re just as bad as me for accepting me.” she spits out.

“You know what, Tashi, maybe I am. Maybe I’m even worse because I’m just like you and I accept you. Because I like girls too.”

She freezes at that, the tears flowing down her cheeks.

“You—you do?”

“Yeah, Tashi. I do.”

It suddenly makes sense, and she stares at the ground to process it all.

Why you’re different from the others.

Why she’s been drawn to you from the beginning.

You’re both the same.

But you’re not. Because Tashi isn’t like you. Not really.

She grabs the cross around her neck, and looks back up at you.

“I’m not actually this way. I’m normal. You’re just corrupting me. You’re here from Satan to corrupt me, to bring me to Hell with you. And it won’t work. It won’t. I won’t let it.”

She can see your face crack, can see you try to hold back tears.

It shatters her heart.

So she delivers one final blow.

“This was a mistake. I’m not going to Hell with you.”

Tears start flowing as you watch her walk away, walk along that trail you took together. You kick the picnic basket, sending it flying somewhere, and sink to the ground, sobbing into your hands.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

Tashi gets back to the church, sobbing, and locks herself in the confessional to grieve you, and confess to God. Tashi knows it’s nothing unless she talks to her father, but she hopes this is enough anyway. She can never tell Father Duncan what she feels. Never.

If it’s meant to be, then it will be.

And Tashi Duncan doesn’t think it is, so it won’t. She’d rather let the guilt eat her from the inside out. For the rest of her life.

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