Good Father

𝓢𝓱𝓮'𝓼 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓷

Dean Winchester x Reader

You stand in the shadows of the bunker’s library, watching him. Dean Winchester. Warrior, hunter, protector of humanity, and—though he’d never admit it—someone you care about far more than you should. You shouldn’t feel this way, not about a mortal. Not about him. But here you are, an angel of the Lord, too beautiful for human eyes, too divine for mortal comprehension, and utterly captivated by a man who is as broken as he is resilient.

Dean doesn’t see you yet. His attention is on the open journal in front of him, brows furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line as he studies the lore. His fingers absently drum on the tabletop, and you know from the rhythm that he’s frustrated. He always does this when he’s stuck, as if the answer will reveal itself if he just focuses hard enough.

“You gonna stand there all night?” he asks suddenly, his voice gruff but tinged with amusement. He doesn’t look up, but you know he’s smirking. He always knows when you’re near, like he’s attuned to your presence in a way even you can’t explain.

“I thought you were too busy to notice,” you reply, stepping out of the shadows. Your voice is soft, melodic, almost too much for mortal ears, but Dean doesn’t flinch. He never does. You’re beginning to think he’s immune to your celestial nature—or maybe he’s just too stubborn to be affected.

He looks up then, his green eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, you wonder if he can see you as you truly are. You’re careful to mask your full form, to dull the radiance of your being so you don’t overwhelm him, but Dean has always had a way of looking past the surface.

“You’re hard to miss,” he says, his tone light but his gaze piercing. “What’s up, angel? Got some divine wisdom to drop on me, or are you here to remind me how screwed we are?”

“I thought you might need help,” you say, moving closer. You sit across from him, your presence casting a faint glow over the table. The journal’s pages seem dull in comparison, their ink pale shadows against your light.

Dean leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Help, huh? What kind of help are we talking? Smite a demon? Heal a wound? Or maybe just sit here and look pretty while I do all the work?”

His teasing makes your heart ache in a way you don’t quite understand. He uses humor as a shield, a way to deflect from the weight he carries, but you can see the cracks beneath the surface. You want to reach across the table, to touch his hand and let him feel the peace you could offer, but you know he’d pull away. Dean Winchester doesn’t believe he deserves peace.

“You underestimate me,” you say instead, a small smile playing on your lips. “I’m not just here to look pretty.”

“Oh, trust me, I know,” he says, his eyes flicking to yours. “You’re not exactly the kind of angel they talk about in Sunday school, are you?”

“No,” you admit, leaning forward slightly. “I’m not.”

There’s a beat of silence, heavy but not uncomfortable. Dean’s gaze softens, and for a moment, you think he might say something. Something real. But then he shakes his head, breaking the spell.

“Well, if you’re here to help, you can start by explaining why none of this lore makes any damn sense,” he says, gesturing to the journal. “Sam’s out chasing leads, and I’m stuck here trying to figure out how to kill something that’s apparently unkillable.”

You glance at the journal, the symbols and text instantly clear to you. You could solve this in seconds, but you hesitate. You know Dean needs more than answers. He needs to feel like he’s in control, like he’s not just a pawn in some divine game.

So instead of giving him the solution, you say, “Maybe you’re looking at it the wrong way. What if the key isn’t in the lore, but in what it’s protecting?”

Dean raises an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. “Protecting, huh? Alright, angel, I’ll bite. What are we looking for?”

You smile, a real smile this time, and lean back in your chair. “Let’s figure it out together.”

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋

Dante Sparda x Reader

The Devil May Cry office is exactly as you expected it to be—chaotic and reeking of stale pizza. You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, as Dante flips lazily through a magazine, his boots propped up on the desk. He doesn't even glance your way, though you know he senses you. He always does.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite troublemaker," you drawl, your voice dripping with mock sweetness.

He looks up, finally, one eyebrow quirking at your entrance. "Didn't realize demons had favorites," he replies, his tone dry. "Thought you guys were more into, y'know, chaos and destruction."

You stride into the room, letting your heels click dramatically against the floor. "Oh, come on, Dante. You’re different." You lean on his desk, close enough to invade his personal space but far enough to keep him guessing. "You’ve got that rugged charm. That devil-may-care attitude. It’s almost like you’re trying to impress me."

He smirks, leaning back further in his chair. "Rugged charm, huh? And here I thought you were just here to cause me more problems."

He doesn’t flinch, which is one of the reasons you like coming here. Most humans would’ve run screaming by now—or tried to kill you. Dante, though, treats you like an annoying stray cat that keeps showing up at his door.

"So," you continue, circling the desk and trailing your nails lightly along its edge, "what’s on the agenda today? Slaying? Exorcisms? More of that broody self-reflection you do when you think no one’s looking?"

His chair creaks as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Y'know, for someone who’s technically my enemy, you spend a lot of time hanging around here. What's the angle, sweetheart?"

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. "Can’t a girl just enjoy good company? Besides,"—you perch on the edge of his desk, close enough that your knees brush his—"you’re the most fun I’ve had in centuries. The way you swing that sword around... it’s almost poetic."

His eyes narrow, but the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth betrays him. "You’re a real piece of work, you know that?"

"And yet, here I am," you reply smoothly, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off your shoulder. "Admit it, Dante. You’d miss me if I stopped coming around."

"Miss you?" He snorts, standing up and towering over you in that annoyingly effortless way he does. "The day I miss you is the day hell freezes over."

You stand too, refusing to be outdone, and trail a finger along the front of his jacket. "Careful, Sparda. If you keep lying to yourself, you might start believing it."

For a moment, the tension crackles between you like electricity, his blue eyes boring into yours. Then, he steps back, grabbing his sword from where it rests against the wall. "Tell you what," he says, slinging it over his shoulder. "Why don’t you tag along on my next job? You keep talking big about how much fun I am—let’s see if you can keep up."

Your grin widens. "Oh, Dante. I thought you’d never ask."

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t hide the smirk playing at his lips. "Just don’t get in my way."

"And miss a chance to watch you work? Never."

As he strides toward the door, you fall in step beside him, already plotting your next move. You’ll flirt, you’ll tease, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll get under his skin just enough to make him wonder if you’re more than just a nuisance.

Because deep down, you know he enjoys the game as much as you do.

Wrong Date

Charles Leclerc x Reader

You sigh, adjusting the hem of your dress as you step into the dimly lit, extravagant restaurant. The chandeliers overhead sparkle like tiny galaxies, a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside you. This was a mistake. You didn’t even want to be here, but your friends had practically shoved you into a taxi, insisting that “love comes when you least expect it.”

So here you are, waiting for some guy named Marc—or was it Alan? Honestly, you barely remembered.

The host leads you to a table near the window, where a man is already seated, scrolling through his phone. His light brown hair is slightly tousled, and when he looks up, his green eyes catch the candlelight. He’s handsome—annoyingly so.

“You’re early,” you say, trying to hide your nerves.

He blinks at you, clearly caught off guard. Then, after a beat, he smiles. “I guess I am.”

His accent is smooth, French… no, something else? You don’t dwell on it. You just want to get this evening over with.

“So,” you begin, forcing a polite smile, “what do you do?”

He tilts his head, amused. “You really don’t know?”

You frown. “Should I?”

For a second, he just stares at you, then laughs—a warm, genuine sound that surprises you. “I suppose not. I’m Charles. And you?”

You tell him your name, and he repeats it, letting it roll off his tongue. You don’t want to admit that it sounds nice when he says it.

The conversation is awkward at first. He seems charming, but you feel like you have nothing in common. He talks about traveling, fast cars, and competition. You’re more into books, museums, and quiet evenings.

“I don’t get the appeal of racing,” you confess, sipping your wine. “Driving in circles for hours? Sounds exhausting.”

He nearly chokes on his drink, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’ve never watched Formula 1?”

You shake your head. “Not interested.”

For some reason, that makes him grin. “You might be the first person I’ve met who says that.”

“Glad to be unique,” you say dryly.

But then something shifts. Maybe it’s the way he listens when you talk about your favorite authors, or the way his eyes light up when he describes the thrill of racing. You start teasing him about his job, and he teases you right back, challenging your every assumption. Before you know it, you’re both laughing, the initial awkwardness melting away.

The waiter arrives with dessert, and that’s when your phone buzzes. A message from your friend: “Where are you? Marc says he’s been waiting for 30 minutes!”

Your breath catches. You look at Charles, then at the text.

He raises an eyebrow. “What?”

You hesitate before showing him the message. He reads it, and instead of looking offended, he bursts into laughter.

“Wrong date?” he guesses.

“Wrong date,” you confirm, covering your face in embarrassment.

For a second, there’s silence. Then he leans forward, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Well,” he says, “if it makes you feel better… I’m really glad you sat at the wrong table.”

And somehow, you realize—you are too.

James

James Potter x Reader

You sit across the hall, your textbooks open but long forgotten. Your gaze drifts again, as it always does, to him. His dark, untidy hair catches the torchlight, and those round glasses of his reflect the golden glow of the Great Hall. James Potter. A name you’ve turned over and over in your head like a secret, a charm you’re too scared to cast out loud.

You’ve spent months like this, stealing glances when you’re sure he’s too busy laughing with Sirius, or gesturing wildly as he retells a Quidditch move to Peter. Sometimes he’s so absorbed in a conversation with Lily Evans you’re almost grateful, because it makes him easier to look at without fear of being caught. But today, something shifts.

It’s a Tuesday, and you’ve got Transfiguration next, but your head is too full of him to think about lessons. You risk another glance, just one more before you leave the hall, and your stomach drops.

James is looking right at you.

Your breath hitches. You freeze mid-motion, your hand gripping your goblet too tightly, and in that awful, wonderful moment, he smirks. It’s the kind of smirk that tilts at the corner of his mouth, mischievous and knowing. His hazel eyes glint with something you can’t name, and before you know it, he’s leaning toward you.

"Who are you?" he asks, his voice casual but somehow making your heart race like you’ve just fallen off your broomstick. "My name’s James."

It’s ridiculous—of course you know his name. Everyone knows his name. He’s James Potter, Quidditch star, Gryffindor hero, Marauder ringleader. But somehow, hearing him say it to you makes your cheeks burn. You stammer out your name, and he grins wider.

And that’s when it begins.

At first, it feels like magic, like something out of the books you’ve pored over in the library late at night. He talks to you in the hallways, waves when he sees you during meals. Once, he even steals your quill in class and pretends he doesn’t know what you’re talking about until you’re chasing him around the desks. For a brief, dazzling moment, it feels like all those hours you spent dreaming of him weren’t wasted.

But then you start to notice the jokes. The way he rolls his eyes when Sirius whispers something in his ear. How he doesn’t take anything seriously, least of all you. It’s all harmless fun to him, you realize, even as your heart twists itself into knots. He isn’t looking for the same kind of magic you are.

And yet, you can’t stop thinking about him. About his laugh, his messy hair, the way he says your name like it’s part of some elaborate prank he hasn’t explained yet. He’s a fool, you tell yourself. A foolish, arrogant, brilliant boy who doesn’t even know what he’s done to you.

You spend hours wondering how you let yourself fall for him, dreaming of what could have been. And yet, even as the weeks pass, you still feel the heat of those flames. James Potter. A name you’ll carry with you, even after he’s long forgotten yours.

Handsome

Leon Kennedy x Reader

You watch as Leon steps out of the bathroom, towel in hand, wiping off the last traces of shaving cream from his face. He leans against the door frame casually, as if he hasn't noticed the way your eyes linger on him. But you know he has. There’s a quiet confidence about him, and right now, it’s impossible to look away.

His tousled hair still damp from the shower, a few droplets clinging to his strong jawline, and that faint stubble he always forgets to shave off completely—it all makes your heart skip a beat. Even the way he’s standing there, one arm across his body with the towel still in his hand, seems effortless, like a moment captured in time.

He looks at you, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "What?" he asks, his voice low, teasing. You can feel your cheeks flush, but you can’t help it. You know you’re staring, but you can't bring yourself to look away.

“Nothing,” you reply, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrays you. It’s softer than usual, a little breathless. "You just… you look really good."

Leon chuckles, setting the towel aside as he steps toward you, his eyes never leaving yours. He reaches out, his fingers brushing your cheek with a tenderness that makes your breath catch. “Is that so?” he murmurs, his voice a hushed whisper now.

You nod, still too entranced by him to say much else. His touch is gentle, yet there's a warmth in it that sends a rush of emotions through you. His hand slides down to your neck, cupping it softly as he pulls you a little closer. His gaze lowers to your lips, the moment thick with unspoken promise.

"You’re making it hard to concentrate," he whispers, his lips hovering just above yours.

You laugh softly, shaking your head. "You always make it hard," you say, your hands finding their way to the sides of his shirt, tugging him closer.

Leon’s smirk deepens, and he finally closes the distance, his lips brushing yours in a slow, deliberate kiss. It’s soft at first, just a gentle exploration, but you can feel the heat building between you both. His other hand slides around your waist, pulling you fully into him, as if there's no space between you that shouldn’t be filled with the warmth of his touch.

As the kiss deepens, time seems to slow, the world outside the room fading away until it’s just the two of you. You’re not sure how long you stay there, wrapped in each other’s arms, but it feels like nothing else matters in the world.

When you finally pull away, breathless, Leon’s forehead rests against yours, his thumb caressing your skin. "You’re everything to me," he whispers.

𝓢𝓸 𝓣𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓘𝓼 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮

Regulus Black x Reader

part one

The next few weeks blur together in a haze of unexpected encounters and stolen glances. You try to avoid him, you really do. You bury yourself in your studies, keep your distance in the hallways, and tell yourself that your feelings are just a passing phase. After all, what could ever come of a connection with someone like Regulus Black?

But despite your best efforts, he seems to be everywhere. In the library, glancing at you over the top of his book, as if the act is so casual yet deliberate. In the corridors, catching your eye when you least expect it. At dinner, sitting two tables away, his gaze always finding yours in the sea of students, as if there's an unspoken thread between you that neither of you can sever.

It’s after one particularly grueling day when you find yourself alone in the common room, nursing a headache. Your fingers fumble with your textbook as you struggle to focus. You barely notice when the door creaks open, until his voice breaks through the silence.

“You look like you could use some help.”

You don’t need to look up to know who it is. The cool, confident tone, the faint edge of something deeper beneath it, belongs to no one else but him.

You keep your eyes fixed on your notes, hoping the annoyance will return—anything to push away the strange fluttering in your chest. “I’m fine.”

“I’m not here to help with your homework,” he says, his voice softer now. “I’m here to get you to stop looking like you want to pull your hair out.”

You finally glance up, meeting his eyes. His face is less guarded, his expression unreadable, but there’s something there—something almost vulnerable. He steps closer, his footsteps quiet on the stone floor, until he’s sitting beside you, his presence an undeniable weight.

“Why?” you ask before you can stop yourself. The word hangs between you, heavy with meaning. Why does he care? Why is he still here, when every instinct tells you he should be long gone?

Regulus leans back against the arm of the couch, studying you for a long moment. His gaze softens, the usual cool mask slipping just slightly.

“I don’t know,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “But maybe that’s what’s so bloody frustrating.”

The words cut through the tension, leaving you breathless. He doesn’t look like he’s joking—he’s serious. And you wonder, just for a moment, if he’s as caught up in this strange, unspoken pull between you as you are.

You want to say something—anything—to break the tension, but your mind goes blank. All the words you’ve prepared fall away, leaving nothing but the beat of your heart echoing between you.

“I should go,” he says suddenly, standing up before you have a chance to respond. His back is to you, but you can feel the distance between you growing.

Before he disappears out the door, you manage to find your voice. “Regulus, wait.”

He freezes, his back stiffening, but he doesn’t turn around. You don’t know why you’re doing this, but the words spill out anyway.

“Are you always this complicated, or is this just… us?”

For a long moment, you think he won’t answer, but then his shoulders drop slightly, and when he speaks again, there’s a softness to his voice that surprises you.

“I think we’re both a little complicated, don’t you?”

And with that, he walks out, leaving you with more questions than answers.

You’re not sure how much longer you can keep pretending that this isn’t more than just a passing curiosity, but you know one thing for certain: things between you and Regulus Black are no longer simple. And despite everything inside you telling you to back off, part of you can’t help but want to see where this tangled mess of emotions leads.

𝓜𝓻. & 𝓜𝓻𝓼. 𝓢𝓶𝓲𝓽𝓱

Tangerine x Reader

You stand at the edge of the grand ballroom, surrounded by whispers and the soft clink of champagne flutes. The soft glow of chandeliers casts a warm light over the room, but all you can focus on is him. Dressed in a sharp tuxedo, his eyes glinting with mischief as he casually leans against the wall beside you. You’ve been pretending for hours — a perfectly crafted, flawless marriage in the eyes of everyone around you. But deep down, the tension has been building.

You smile up at him, the polite, charming grin that’s become second nature over the years. But you notice the way his gaze lingers on you, just a second too long. You feel the heat of his attention in the pit of your stomach.

As the music swells, he leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “I’m starting to wonder if they’re buying it,” he murmurs. “Are you?”

You chuckle, a soft sound that barely escapes your lips. “Of course they are. We’re the perfect couple,” you reply, the words dripping with sweetness, but your heart races. You can’t decide if it's the lie or the truth that excites you.

Then, without warning, his hand finds your back, pulling you just a little closer. The brush of his fingers against your skin sends a shiver down your spine. Before you can react, he tilts your chin up, his lips brushing against yours in a swift, confident kiss.

It’s not what you expect — not the sweet, gentle kiss of a happy couple. It’s urgent. It’s calculated. But it’s also electric. Every nerve in your body seems to hum in response as the crowd blurs around you. The world disappears, leaving only the two of you locked in this game of power, secrets, and undeniable chemistry.

He pulls away just enough to look you in the eyes, a hint of a smirk on his lips. “They’re definitely buying it,” he says softly, his voice a low rasp.

You swallow, still caught in the moment. “You know how to make a scene,” you reply, your voice thick with the tension he’s created. You’re not sure whether to be angry or thrilled — maybe it’s both.

He steps back, adjusting his suit as if nothing happened, and you follow his lead, pretending as if nothing at all has changed. But inside, something has shifted. The night is far from over, and you have a feeling the lines between reality and play are about to blur even more.

𝓭𝓪𝓭𝓭𝔂'𝓼 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵

Leon S Kennedy x Reader

The soft glow of the bedside lamp casts a golden hue over your bedroom, illuminating Leon’s tired but ever-gentle face. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as you tuck your twin daughters into bed. Their little chests rise and fall in peaceful rhythm, the warmth of their innocence filling the room.

“You’re staring,” you whisper, a knowing smile tugging at your lips as you step toward him.

Leon chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can you blame me?” His voice is low, full of quiet admiration. “Seeing you with them… it reminds me how lucky I am.”

You shake your head with a laugh, but the way his blue eyes soften makes your heart clench. Even after all these years—after the missions, the nightmares, the scars—he still looks at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

The two of you slip into the hallway, careful not to wake the girls. As soon as you close the door, Leon wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close. His scent fills your senses.

“Tough mission today?” you murmur against his chest, your fingers tracing small circles on his back.

He exhales heavily, his grip tightening around you. “Not as tough as coming home and seeing our girls growing up so fast.” There’s a wistfulness in his voice. “I swear, they were just babies yesterday.”

You pull back slightly, cupping his face in your hands. “They’re still our babies. And they always will be.”

His lips quirk into a half-smile before he presses a kiss to your forehead. “I know.” Then, his voice turns playful. “But what about you? Still my girl?”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest spreads. “Always.”

He grins before dipping his head, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss. It’s not rushed, not desperate—it’s the kind of kiss that speaks of years of love, of promises kept, of battles fought side by side.

When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours. “I missed you today,” he murmurs, his thumb grazing your cheek.

You smile, pressing a kiss to his palm.

His expression grows serious, and you know what he’s thinking—that he fights so you and the girls never have to. That every time he walks out the door, he carries the fear of not coming back.

But tonight, he’s here. And that’s all that matters.

You take his hand and lead him toward your bedroom, ready to steal whatever moments of peace the night will allow. Because loving Leon Kennedy means loving a man who fights battles you’ll never see—but who will always, always come home to you.

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐈 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔?

Charles Leclerc x Reader

The soft glow of streetlights bathed your quiet neighborhood in golden hues, the warmth of the evening air still lingering on your skin from the perfect date you had shared with him just hours ago. Charles had been nothing short of a dream—charming, kind, and effortlessly funny. Every moment spent with him felt like something out of a movie, yet you never expected the night to end like this.

As you stood by your bedroom window, lost in thought, your phone buzzed—a message from Charles.

"Look outside."

Heart racing, you pulled back the curtain, and there he was. Standing under the streetlamp, his signature tousled hair illuminated by the soft glow, Charles held a sign in his hands. Bold letters scrawled across it read:

"WHEN CAN I SEE YOU?"

A breathless laugh escaped your lips as warmth bloomed in your chest. His eyes met yours, hopeful, playful, and a little nervous. You could hardly believe it. He had just dropped you off, yet here he was again, standing outside your house like the hero of a romantic film.

You grabbed a notebook from your desk, scribbled down your response, and held it up against the window:

"RIGHT NOW?"

Charles' grin widened, dimples appearing as he nodded enthusiastically. He motioned for you to come down, and without a second thought, you slipped on your shoes, heart hammering with excitement.

The moment you stepped outside, he was there, hands in his pockets, looking at you like you were the most beautiful thing in the world. "I know I just saw you," he admitted, voice soft, "but I already missed you."

You laughed, shaking your head at his ridiculous yet undeniably sweet confession. "And now?" you teased.

He stepped closer, reaching for your hand, fingers grazing like electricity sparking between you. "Now, I never want to leave."

And just like that, the night that was supposed to end hours ago became a memory you’d cherish forever.

Cold cold man

Tangerine x Reader

You’ve always known Tangerine was different. The first time you met him, his eyes bore into you with an intensity that felt like it could shatter glass. He had a way of making silence heavy, a tangible thing that pressed against your chest. Yet, even then, you felt something beneath his cold demeanor—a flicker of warmth that refused to burn brightly but never quite went out.

Tangerine isn’t like other people, not the kind who showers you with flowery words or makes grand gestures. Instead, his love is quiet, hidden in the spaces between his sharp edges. It’s there in the way he listens, the way he notices things most wouldn’t—like how you always fidget with your ring when you’re nervous or how you hum to yourself when you think no one’s watching. He never says anything about it, never makes a point of it, but he remembers.

You wish, sometimes, that he could be easier, softer. You wish he’d hold your hand in public or tell you how beautiful you look without needing to be prompted. But that’s not Tangerine. His compliments, when they come, are rare and understated.

“Nice dress,” he’ll mutter, barely looking at you. But you know it’s his way of saying you’re breathtaking.

His coldness isn’t cruelty—it’s just who he is. And you’ve learned to read between the lines. You’ve learned to see the way his hand brushes yours, just slightly, when you walk side by side. How he’ll stand a little closer to you when the room feels too big, too loud. How, in the middle of the night, when he thinks you’re asleep, his fingers will trace patterns on your arm, feather-light and reverent.

One evening, you’re sitting on the couch together, the TV playing some show neither of you is really watching. He’s quiet, as always, his expression unreadable. But then, out of nowhere, he speaks.

“I’m not good at this,” he says, voice low and rough.

“At what?” you ask, turning to him.

“This,” he gestures vaguely between you two. “Us. Love. I’m not good at showing it.”

Your heart aches at the vulnerability in his tone. “You don’t have to be perfect at it, Tan. I don’t need big gestures or constant reminders. I just need you.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment, you swear you see something crack in him. “I know I’m a cold man,” he says softly. “But you make me want to be better. Even if I’m slow, even if I don’t always say the right things. I want to try. For you.”

It’s the most he’s ever said about his feelings, and it takes your breath away. You reach out, placing your hand over his. His fingers are stiff at first, hesitant, but then they relax, curling around yours.

“I don’t need you to be anything but yourself,” you whisper. “That’s enough for me.”

And for the first time, Tangerine smiles—not a big smile, but a small, genuine curve of his lips that feels like sunlight breaking through the clouds. It’s fleeting, but it’s there, and it’s for you.

You realize that Tangerine’s love may not be easy or loud, but it’s real. It’s in every quiet gesture, every small act of care, every unspoken word. And for you, that’s more than enough.