FUCK ITS EVERYWHERE

Need mike to do one of those whats in my bag videos

😭😭 literally. get him on vogue’s in the bag NOW

Get a job. Take some writing classes.

okay, let's talk about this for a moment. a lot of my moots/oomfs have been getting a similar message in their inbox. i don't know if they're coming from the same person or not, and frankly, i don't care.

you are wasting time out of your day to leave a message that you are too cowardly to put an account behind, on a website that was created for the purpose of publicizing self-expression.

i don't care that you don't like my writing. i don't like my writing. i am upset because you are putting legitimate effort into bringing down other people who have absolutely zero impact on your day-to-day life. if anyone needs to get a job, anon, it's you.

i do not know what is possessing you to act with such cowardice, but whatever it is, i hope it gets better for you. in the mean time, stay out of the inboxes of creators who are volunteering their time and their efforts to enrich the lives of others.

i wish you good luck in the future.

my angel princess

As a slut for Tashi I feel so bad that in most challenger stuff she's always the least picked. Where's the love for my pretty princess? 🥺

right!!! :( </3

seems v apparent she is Not gonna win my last poll but i do have a few reqs for her so... tashi stuff on the horizon! but yeah i get the white boys are hot and u want to see them kiss but cmon... the original fujoshi is right there and i want her just as bad

ugh just look at her... my baby :(

We'll Never Have Sex

cw: past sexual trama, though nothing is described in graphic detail. please, please take care of yourselves.

an: this is what the poll was for, so for those of you that voted art (and feel comfortable to continue reading) i hope you're happy with the result. this is sort of self indulgent therapy writing, but i hope that you enjoy, whether you recognize the feeling in yourself or not. as always, comments and critiques are welcome, encouraged, and greatly appreciated <3

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It happened at sleepaway camp. He’d gone every single year since he had discovered his love of tennis, which was purely accidental. He got roped into playing by a bunch of sweaty 20 somethings at the park and suddenly he’d found his thing. Sure, he was the youngest by far, a gangly mess of a 7 year old, desperately needing braces, and he was getting beat to a pulp, but he loved it. It was the most rewarding defeat he’d ever experienced. When the game had finished, he was dripping sweat, pale skin flushed red, lungs burning from the gasping breaths he took. These men, once strangers, now some form of friend, clapped him on the back. Praised him like he was the prodigy that the world of tennis needed. He saw their grinning, ruddy, damp cheeks and saw men. Saw who he wanted to be. Saw the male role models he’d never had. He grinned right back. He rushed home to tell his grandmother right after, who he could often find watching the news on the living room couch, about what he just knew was the rest of his life. She told his mother, who was on a business call in her home office at the time, and off he went. Private lessons, town rec teams, visits to the nearest country club and, of course, tennis camp. So much tennis camp. That is, until he stopped going.

He never told his mother why, but she seemed more upset about its absence in his life than he did. Of course, he missed the friends he made, the ones scattered across the United States like dandelion seeds blowing in the wind, he missed the coaches that praised his talent endlessly, he missed the feeling of freedom that being in a ‘home’ without parental supervision brought. But he’d never go back. Not after what happened. 

He can’t remember most of it. Or, more accurately, he refuses to remember most of it. But he knows what they looked like, and the sound that their heavy breaths made. He remembers shaking and blaming it on the cold. He remembers feeling some kind of sickly, tingling sensation that made his toes curl and he liked the way it coiled in his stomach. He would have liked it, maybe, had it been different. Had he been older, wiser, aware of his surroundings. Had he not woken up cornered. The feeling, though, was utterly ruined by coming from rough, uncaring, unwanted hands. He hated himself for being a target, he hated himself for feeling what he did. He wasn’t weak, despite looking it. He technically could’ve pushed them off, hit them, screamed until he coughed up blood, but he did none of that. He let it happen. He figured things would end quicker if he didn’t put up a fight. He doesn’t think his body would’ve been able to fight back even if he had tried to make it. He was too busy trembling, feeling rooted to the paper thin mattress of his bunk bed, failing to blink away tears. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

What he once had been so excited for, a boarding school in a warmer climate, freedom from his mother, friends to make that loved tennis the way he did, he now dreaded. His mother noticed that shift he’d gone through, though she blamed it on pubescent hormones and the adolescent need to feel far more adult than one is. The sudden transition from a young boy, social, affectionate, never one to leave the house without wrapping his mother in a hug and pecking Nana on the cheek, to who he is now. Fidgety, withdrawn, the now stronger muscles in his body tensing, body straightening reflexively, as if on the defensive, when he received so much as the slightest brush of a hand. Yet, despite it all, here he is, drop off day at the age of 12, laying across the grass of the front lawn with his hands at his mother’s ankles. Screaming, crying, kicking. Having a temper tantrum in front of all the new classmates he’s meant to impress. After all, these are his future teammates, his future competitors. He will not let himself be preyed upon. 

He can feel the stares, judgemental ones, as people wheel their luggage around him. Fathers with heavy, overloaded cardboard boxes, mothers with younger siblings at their hips, and the fellow incoming class of the tennis academy, now aware that Art kept growing up, but never got older. He doesn’t really remember what he started crying, begging, over, nor does he register what he’s pleading for now. He just knows that his throat hurts, his eyes sting, and his fancy, new back-to-school sneakers are caked in dirt from his stamping feet. But, eventually, his mother’s taxi arrives, and his bags are still laying beside him. She finally gets a hug out of him, though a brief one. 

He kicks open the door, Room 213, and is met with the sight of a boy his age. The unrestrained look of horror on the brunette’s face makes things clear. He’d seen everything. That, or word has already spread through the student body like the lingering exhaustion in Art’s. Patrick, as he’d come to find out, has already taken up his side of the room, suitcase open-faced on his bed. None of the clothes inside are folded, brand name items crumpled haphazardly into balls and stuffed inside. 

Art doesn’t unpack, doesn’t change out of his muddied clothes, doesn’t even bother taking off his shoes, he just lays down. The mattress is thin. Too thin. He can practically feel the metal framing beneath him, slotting between each vertebra. Uncomfortable in a way that only desensitizing yourself to things can fix. He’ll need about a month before he gets a good night’s rest, of that he’s sure. Sometime later, presumably a few hours, based on the sun no longer shining through the window, Patrick carelessly tosses his big to the floor, landing with a loud thump against the old, green carpeting. He lay there, clad in some boxers with a brand name that Art vaguely recognizes, struggling as Art is to find rest. 

Art looks at Patrick’s racket, the only thing placed with care, leaning against the white, painted brick wall. Something expensive. Something new, with bright, beaming orange. Art’s was still tucked away, wrapped up in its plastic encasing, the note from Nana still taped onto it. She wanted him to step into his new, tennis based life with the best racket that their amount of money had to offer. He wants a nice, home cooked meal from Nana. He wants to hear his Mom laugh at whatever mildly funny jab he could manage over dinner. He wants to learn if he could manage a goodnight kiss again. He wants to. He probably can’t.

He rolls onto his side, bars now prodding against his ribs, and faces Patrick’s back. The slow, insistent rise and fall, languid and confident even in unconsciousness, lets Art know he’s asleep. The mattress is thin. Too thin. Paper thin. And Patrick’s unfamiliar, near bare, and has done nothing to prove himself trustworthy. Nothing to show for himself besides a pigsty on the floor, a slighter taller frame, and a fancy racket. He can’t sleep now. Won’t sleep. Patrick could just be another bad memory waiting to happen, and he will not be prey again. He’s worked his body too hard to be stronger, cut out too many snacks, gone on too many runs, for himself to be a victim of something so degrading again. He’s strong. He’s got to be. And he still cries. Cries in desperation to be home again, cries in fear of the child next to him, cries for the desire to be normal. He hopes he’s quiet. No peer of his needs to hear him cry again. He can’t embarrass himself too much today. Can’t be branded a target of teasing and taunts. Patrick hadn’t fallen asleep. 

He felt bad for listening, really, because it seemed wrong to just sit there and make background noise of someone crying. But, it was weird. Art was weird, having yet another bout of tears on his first day. Patrick assumed it was homesickness, a feeling he couldn’t quite understand. He was thrilled to be away from home. He wanted to help, somehow, wanted to get Art to dust himself off and stop crying, for the sake of his own sleep schedule and Art’s dignity come morning. He shifts to his side, now facing Art. Art with his eyes wrenched shut and his hands so tightly clenched they’d turned stark white. Art sobbing into his pillow, turning the pillowcase see through. Think of something. Cheer the kid up. Man up so he can man up.

“You cry like a girl, man, it’s keeping me up.”

He opens his eyes upon hearing it, getting the first taste of Patrick’s voice in his life. They sit there, laying on opposite sides of the tiny room, staring at each other without blinking, and Art laughs. He bursts out laughing like the insult was the funniest thing he’d ever had the pleasure of hearing, and it almost freaks Patrick out until he starts laughing, too. He doesn’t want to make a retort, doesn’t want to do anything but feel the absolute relief of the shift in his brain’s inner monologue. Safe. Patrick was safe. Patrick was as hellishly uncomfortable and desperate for the out sleep provides as he was. 

“Yeah, whatever. Goodnight, dude.”

Patrick cracks a smile, one that only appears on the right side of his face. Smug, like he’d just proved some kind of dominance, won a challenge, earned a prize. Art wasn’t sure what it was, nor did he care. Patrick wasn’t looking at him like he had before, and that was enough to make him feel just the slightest bit better for tonight. 

“Goodnight, crybaby.”

Art decides he likes Patrick’s voice. He’d like to hear it more.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Come on, Donaldson, big serve!”

He’s been playing for hours at this point, the once full indoor courts now having dwindled to just the two of them. Fire and Ice, Patrick and Art. He’s stronger now, subsisting off of lean meat and salad. If anyone catches him grabbing onto walls as he walks, leveraging himself to stay on his feet, stomach growling after a long day of working himself to exhaustion, that’s no one’s business but his own. He feels bad about it sometimes, like when Patrick snuck him a brownie from the cafeteria to celebrate his 16th birthday last month. He tossed it when Patrick went to brush his teeth, carefully hiding it between layers of crumpled napkins and old Gatorade bottles. No one needed to know. 

The ball flies straight into the net. It’s the fifth time in a row. And, no, it’s not because his arms are practically dead weight at this point. He doesn’t get to take breaks. Don’t be weak again. He rolls his shoulders back, resets, serves. Center of the net. Resets, center of the net. Again and again and again. Patrick stands on the other side of it, just watching. Unsure of what to do. Weak, weak, weak, weak, weak. He raises his racket as if to serve, and Patrick repositions himself. He smashes it straight into the ground. One hit for his stupid, shitty game, one hit for never living up to being those guys he met all those years ago, one hit for still looking scrawny despite doing so much not to be, and as many hits as are left in his system for the people who forced him to be this way. 

“Art, dude, it’s ok-”

“Go away, Patrick.”

And he does. Hesitantly, yes, but he listens all the same. The racket lays broken in his hands. The racket Nana had spent her money on. The racket he only used on days where he missed home particularly badly. The one that’d lasted him all these years, now a broken husk, like a tree split by hurricane winds. He throws it somewhere to his side, hears it clutter, skid, thud against something hard. His vision is blotched with the buildup of tears in his waterline. Childish. He feels small. He feels hands on his skin that aren’t there. He scurries over to where the racket’s corpse had landed, makes a futile effort at putting it back together. It never clicks into place, no matter how many shaky, quiet little ‘please, please, come on’s he says. He spends the rest of the night playing against the wall with a floppy, broken racket and aching arms until the timer-run power turns off. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

No one really believed him when he said he’d never done anything. He carried himself so confidently, had the universe granted blessing of good genetics, a natural talent in tennis. Everyone thought he was joking when he said he’d actually never even had a first kiss. And that wasn’t true, necessarily, but he chose to think of things that way. First kisses are romantic, they set off some kind of firework in your mind, they’re full of awkward giggles and bumping noses. And his wasn’t that. It was a stolen kiss. So, no, he’d never been kissed, and if you asked anyone, he’d certainly never gone further. That never bothered you. 

He met you at a party, as he met most people outside of tennis, grinning into the lens of your friend’s polaroid, arms draped across another girl he recognized as Tashi. Tashi he knew, but everyone knew Tashi. Knew of  Tashi, anyway. He’d always been too intimidated to speak to her, and she had a bit of reputation for being callous. But with you, she was smiling, and not in the way she did when she earned a win. Not a righteous smile, but a relaxed one. Fond. And if Tashi could love you, then anyone could. So he talked to you, stumblingly awkward for the first time in years. Each sentence was full of repeated syllables and embarrassed laughs, frequently murmured apologies.

“It’s fine, Art. I think it’s sweet that you’re nervous. Means you care.”

He ended the night walking you back to your dorm, all the way across campus from his. He’d make the walk a million times over if it meant extending the conversation. You had a lightness to you he’d never seen. Words flowed from your lips like wine and they sounded like chirping birds and violins. You moved effortlessly, spoke freely, existed artfully. Hand crafting your mannerisms to perfection. Your confidence wasn’t in unnecessary bravado, belief in oneself, assurance of capacity, but in not caring that you weren’t all that special. And that, in itself, paradoxically made you the most special person he’d ever met. Patrick was going to get sick of hearing your name brought up. Tashi would grow tired of hearing Art’s. Your door had a hand-drawn sign with yours and Tashi’s names in shaky bubble letters. Definitely your handiwork. 

“I’ll see you around, Art.”

And before he can dodge it, or tell you some kind of excuse, you’ve pressed a kiss to his cheek. Innocent, sweet, almost childlike. He feels ill. He’s stiff, the lax smile on his face having withered away into something like shock. Staring at you, through you, off into the distance at nothing at all. You back up.

“Woah, hey… hey, hey, hey, you alright? Did I read this way wrong?”

He zones back in, you can practically see the invisible strings pulling his lips into a smile. Forced. Yours drops. You reach out to comfort the way you best know how, hands moving to rest on his cheeks, but they hover just above them. He’s in the lead here. You won’t move until he does. You aren’t going to do anything until he gives you the ok. And you’d been so soft in every other way, how was he supposed to be disinterested if the sweetness of your soul ran through your skin. Did you run hot, the way he did, a small fire beneath flesh? Or cold, so that he could sink himself into you and feel relief, a mutual exchange? Balancing one another out. Fire and ice. He grabbed your wrists and lowers your hands. He closes his eyes, breathes in deep. Soft. Your trail your thumbs back and forth over him. Not poking, prodding, taking, just learning him. Memorizing his feel beneath your fingers. He doesn’t hesitate when you try and kiss him this time. He lets himself touch back. There’s still lingering nausea fiddling about in his gut, a sense of fear, prepping to have to fight for himself. You pull away, smile, and slink into your room. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Months pass, and he relearns what his body feels like against another person’s. He relearns good morning hugs, and goodnight kisses, brushing shoulders as you walk past him. And it stings like a hand to hot flame, a lesson to learn, something to pull away from. Actions have consequences. But it’s peaceful, all the same. It’s you. It’s indulging in the soft, candlelit glow of who you are. He’d cradle your essence in his palms if he could. If a soul had a manifest form, yours would feel no lack of adoration. Devoted to his worship of you, you, you. He wanted to live in the spaces between your words and drink in your laughs like water. Water is nice, consistent, neutral, but you were ever changing. Never stagnant, never boring. You had a palpable taste, one that clings to his tongue when you’re no longer supplying him with it. He’d take you any day.

Kissing was no longer something he needed as much easing into, at least not most days, which is why he wakes you up with one. You’re still warm from the blankets and fresh sunlight streaming in through glass, like honey. You laugh like wedding bells and wrap yourself in him, and it doesn’t frighten him any longer, to be desired. In fact, he quite likes the feeling most days. And you’re effortlessly beautiful, even with sleep tossed hair and heavy, thick voice, and he aches for you. He’s ached for you for months, reluctantly pulling away from your tongue to watch it form words, feel gentle hands in curling hair. So, for once, he lets things continue. He sees your chest, stomach, thighs, neck, and you can see his. Beautiful, beautiful you splayed out beneath him like a waiting goddess, him eager to please. And he can’t. 

He waits, waits, waits somewhere, watches your expression change, and it just won’t happen. Look down, look up, see something akin to disappointment, and break. Maybe it’s not what he’s made for. Or, if it was, that purpose was taken years back. 

“I’m gonna go take a shower.”

He walks stiffly, meekly, bare and afraid. You lift yourself on your elbows to watch him go. You hear water running. The walls are too thin to hide the sounds he wishes weren’t coming from him. It’s draining, yes, body tingling with the displeasure of unresolved tension, lingering anticipation. But that’s not what matters.

You find him rubbing his skin raw beneath too hot water, pink and uncomfortably thick layers of steam thickening the air till it settles heavy in your lungs. You step in behind him, and he feels you first, sees you second. He hangs his head in defeat.

“It’s not you, I promise. Seriously, it’s not you.”

“I know, baby, I know.”

Maybe you can’t give him what he needs. He can’t give himself that either. But you can give him what he wants. And isn’t that more? To give someone what they need is to keep them living, to give them what they want is to soothe the pain, make things easier, allow them to thrive. Hold him while he struggles to hold himself. He hopes the water streaming down his face hides which droplets on his cheeks are coming from him. He buries his face in your neck, choking on nothing but his own deep seated self loathing.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

“Don’t be. I love you, ok? I love you.”

It’s enough. It’s got to be. Maybe he’ll never fully move past things. Maybe he’s still a kid. Maybe, despite both of your wishes, you’ll never have sex. But here he’s safe, and loved beyond the physical. You turn the temperature down, he sighs, knees buckling, staying upright purely because he’s got you to lean on. He feels cleaner with you, like he’d never been tainted, or like maybe it never ruined him at all. He hasn’t told you, still. He doesn’t have to. You know. You may never make love, but you have it in abundance, and he lets that carry him to sleep that night, wrapped up in your being.

tears of joy streaming down my supple cheeks and gorgeous thighs

now playing: ava's challengers anniversary playlist

TRACKLIST 01. lollipop – atp x reader 02. lavender haze (acoustic) – art x reader 03. wassup - artrick x reader 04. let’s be friends – tashi x reader 05. a kiss – patrick x reader 06. harder to breathe – art x reader 07. ever since new york – patrick x reader 08. love me harder – art x reader 09. princess of china – patrick x reader 10. where were you in the morning? – art x reader 11. like real people do – tashi x reader 12. bodyguard - patrick x reader 13. morning light - art x reader 14. my boo - atp x reader

BONUS TRACKS 01. grow up – art x patrick 02. we cry together – patrick x tashi 03. hum hallelujah – art x tashi

2 fics per day • links will go live as fics post • celebration hosted by tacobacoyeet • songs are linked to numbers • celebration will take place from april 19, 2025 - april 27, 2025 • i will not be answering requests during this week

i wrote this for so long i have no mildly witty intro. i love patrick and he's romantic to ME. comments and critiques welcome as always

He could stare at the curve of your shoulder all day and the thought is entirely foreign. Foreign but most certainly not unwelcome. In fact, when it made its way into his brain he welcomed it with open arms and walked it into the corner where he kept all the other you-based things he had stored. You on the day he’d met you at that stupid party you most definitely didn’t want to be at, you the first time he kissed you (the first time you’d been kissed, period), you just an hour ago when you asked him to spend the night. Now here he is, watching you watch some shitty movie he’d stopped paying attention to about 15 minutes ago. He’s watching the muscles beneath your skin bend at the will of your bones, watching your shoulders shake each time you laugh, hearing you steady your breath to prevent any sound from coming out, softening entirely when you fail. He remembers you saying you hate your laugh, and he thinks that’s just about the dumbest thing you’ve ever said. It’s not entirely shocking to him that he could feel this way for someone like you, because really, how could he not? Even he had some domesticity tucked under all that bravado, he just needed the right person to coax it out. And god, were you the right person.

Patrick forgets, sometimes, that you’ve never done something like this before. Shared yourself down to those ugly, nasty bits of your soul (though that only really applies to his half of your partnership, in his opinion). Inexperienced was what you were, and remain to be. He only forgets because it’s all come so naturally to you. You love like it’s the simplest thing in the world to be vulnerable. You love him like it takes no effort to, and it warms him up a little. He hadn’t been easy to love since he was 12 and found someone equally eager to be a man as him. His mother had always insisted he’d have to mellow out for someone to accept him, his father telling him to keep himself in check, women don’t like a man without that trademark stoicism. You’d proved them wrong. So he’s fine with just tracing the shape of your arm with his fingertips, eventually finding yours. He likes to think maybe, just maybe, if he held your hands long enough, your fingerprints would become one and the same. 

“Hey… I’m sorry, you know. For being slow about things.”

He looks up from your hands, which were so soft in comparison to his it made him feel ill, to the smallest bit of your eye peeking over your shoulder. 

“Why are you sorry?” 

He knows you, mind included, well enough to know the slew of stupid answers you can supply. ‘It’s embarrassing to have so little experience under your belt at my age’, ‘you’re you and you have sex all the time, so waiting for me is stupid’, so on and so forth. He knows these things because you’ve said them all time and time again, over the course of the 3 months he’s been doing this with you. 3 months went by quite fast. 3 months has never been so blissful. He’d also never experienced a longer wait in his life, not that he’d admit it. But he’d wait till his hair ran gray and his bones could hardly hold his own weight anymore. He could be happy just to see the orange hue to your skin in the dim lamplight of your room. 

“Don’t be, ‘kay? Don’t wantcha to be.”

You open your mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a sigh. He hopes it’s not a sad one. You turn over to place your cheek to his chest, stretch, bend, and soon fall asleep. He knows the sound of your breathing well enough to know the pace it takes in unconsciousness. He reaches out a careful, steady arm to turn the lamp off, his skin tingling with lack of contact until he places it back in its rightful place around your waist, exposed with your lack of a shirt. He’s more than happy to follow your lead in this, and he feels his eyes flicker closed in rhythm to your soft puffs of air against his skin. 

“Hey… Patrick, you awake?”

It’s darker out now, a dark that bleeds into the room enough that he doesn’t see you even if his eyes are open. He rubs at them until you come into a view, and he settles a bit. 

“M’yeah, what’s up? You alright?”

The digital clock you never actually use flashes the time: 3:23 A.M. Late enough that he’s more concerned to see you awake than happy to have this time to talk to you, though he’s happy with any time at all. 

“Patrick, I was thinking… well, you know, I had this dream and…”

You’re heated like a small sun under the palms of his hands, enough that he can feel a thin layer of perspiration at the points of connection between the two of you. And he’s listening as well as he can, what with his tired brain and general boyish inattentiveness, but he thinks he’s got enough of a grasp on things to understand where this is going. He’s grinning in the dark like the Cheshire cat, and he wouldn’t be shocked if all that was visible was the shine of his teeth against the moonlight. 

You’re still talking, though he’s not quite making the words out anymore, blood running past his ears in waves. He still registers that soft tone that you only adopt with him, though, and he’s trying to use it to pull himself out of the sunken, warm ocean of a wait coming to its end. He’s pulled to the surface with a gasp when your lips meet his, not unlike the times previous, but it’s not a feeling he thinks he’ll ever get used to. He’s gripping into your hair just as tightly as he can without hurting you, attempting to mumble something reassuring against your lips for the millisecond you pull away, but it’s swallowed up just as soon as it’s spoken. At least he’s sure that you’re sure. 

He’s well aware he’s been growing harder since the second you woke him up, he’s fairly certain you know it, too, but he refuses to let you acknowledge it yet. He slowly shifts his lips to your cheek, jawline, neck. He can feel your pulse thrumming in the vein in your neck, feels your skin jump against his nose with the strength of it. He can die happy just knowing that he made your heart race, but he’d live happier to continue doing just that. He’s soft, provoking, easing you into things. A gentle lead rather than a harsh tug. It’s what his girl deserves. He wants to bury himself in you until he’s beneath your lavender scented skin. He wants to watch each new crease, furrow and wrinkle in your skin appear in real time. He watches your head dip back, your hair shielding him from the outside world, caging him in possessively, tenderly housing him in. He sees your front teeth press into the plump flesh of your bottom lip, sees it dimple under that pressure. Hears the sigh that forces itself through that gap and he thinks that’s the sound he’ll hear when he goes to heaven.

He hears the relief in just the way you sigh when he opens your bra, and he doesn’t understand how you possibly could have kept the sight of you bare away from him. It’s almost cruel that he’s been in the presence of what could only be a goddess and you hadn’t proved as much. But he’s got the confirmation now, if your sweet, loving demeanor hadn’t been evidence enough, and he’s got all the time in the world to worship you. He trails kisses over the divots of your collarbones, between the newly exposed skin of your chest. He peeks through his lashes at you, sees the mess of your sleep-tossed hair against your shoulders, the glossy, half-lidded flutter in your eyes, the way your stomach jumps beneath his affection until he’s pressed between your thighs and he can feel how warm you are and he wills himself not to be selfish. You don’t pull away, but he refuses to move until he knows your mind is made up. He feels knuckles brush against his cheek, snake through his hair, and that’s all he needs before he’s pulling fabric over the width of your hips, the plush of your thighs and off your legs. He can see some unfamiliar scars and freckles scattered about, and he tracks them the way an astronomer would a constellation. 

“Fuck, I love you so much.”

He’s almost painfully gentle and it’d be frustrating if it wasn’t so sweet. Each brush of his tongue makes the muscles in your thighs constrict, and he’s whispering his apologies about the added intrusion of his fingers against your skin. He can feel you twitch around his face, watches your mouth fall open, your cheeks flush, your chest heave. It’s a bit of encouragement that he’s doing well, which he’s only ever been concerned about with you, and when the pitch of your gasps heightens, their frequency picks up he pulls away just as unhappy to ruin your incoming peak as you are not to experience it. His fingers are slick, lips wet, and the scent of you left on him is enough to have his eyes rolling back.

He lays you down, cradling your head despite there only being pillows beneath you, and with a kiss to your forehead and a nod from you he’s kicking himself out of his painfully tight boxers and slowly pressing into you. He chokes back a gasp, stills himself on his forearm, watches your brows pinch together in discomfort. He kisses you soft, slow, until you’re sharing gasps between your open mouths, and he doesn’t stop moving until he hears that same high-pitched cadence and watches you fall apart. He’s never seen something so beautiful as you writhing around.

“Wait- Wait, you didn’t-”

“Babe, it’s fine. All that matters is that you did so well.”

You look at him, visibly exhausted, and he looks back. You fall asleep just as easily as you did before, a quiet mumble of an ‘I love you’ into his skin that he returns. He doesn’t need to tell you that he finished in his boxers about an hour ago, even if he knows you’d laugh about it. Right now, he’s content in just having you close, watching your body move. He could stare at the curve of your shoulder all day.

PUT ME IN COACH

GIMME

ava. ava. ava. ava. ava. ava. ava. ava. ava.

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

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

new zendaya louis vuitton campaign i’m UP