Ranismybf - May - Tumblr Blog

close enough welcome back haikyuu

Enter the Void Using Holotropic Breathing

What is Holotropic Breathing?

"Holotropic breathing, more often referred to as holotropic breathwork (HB), is a practice that involves controlling and quickening breathing patterns to influence your mental, emotional, and physical states. The practice of holotropic breathwork involves using a controlled breathing process to access altered states of consciousness."

"Holotropic breathing uses rapid, controlled breathing patterns to promote a dream-like experience, or what’s usually referred to as an altered state of consciousness. Once you reach this state, it’s possible to access parts of your consciousness that are hard to reach."

The Method:

1. Follow along to a holotropic breathing video. I recommend this one:

2. Queue up any void subliminal or brown/pink/white noise (anything you want) and affirm for the void

3. Enter! And send me your success story!

I wanna check if the TRV fandom is alive or not

Reblog if you are a part of the Tokyo revengers fandom and consome TR content

Evies toolbox: the easiest shifting method I can think of for people who need instructions 🧰❣️

Hi Besties! It‘s your favorite Shifting Blogger Evie again and today I am gonna teach you how to shift the easiest way I can think of, that also doesn’t require visualization.❗️Disclaimer: under no circumstances do I claim that I am the creator of this method, or that this is something original or never done before. This is simply an instructional post aimed at people who struggle with manifestations and love to be told what to do, because they have struggle using the laws. Do not refer to this as „Evies Method“ or anything in the future, I do not want to be accused of stealing methods or anything 🫶🏻. ❗️

♥️ INTRO ♥️ I am a Virgo. If there is anything I love, it‘s following rules, laws, instructions and being told very clearly how things are supposed to be done. As somebody who has been on shift-tumblr for a while I noticed that instructional posts are very rarely given, and I know why, I mean manifestations or shifting is nothing that a certain recipe can get you 100%, because it‘s a mindset-thing not a doing-thing. But I can relate to people just wanting a clear picture instead of a vague idea of how things should be done. So I will decided to give you the instructional post you have been looking for, based on how basic manifestation works to keep it light and breezy and to get you to the mindset that achieves things.

♥️ HERE IS WHAT TO DO ♥️

realize and accept that whatever you want will never be out of reach. Stop pressing on the idea that in order to get things there is something that needs to be done. That’s incorrect. You simply need to desire it. That’s how manifestation works.

Decide that you succeed at every shifting attempt. Law of assumption ➡️ Whatever you assume to be true is true.

Since the law is a law: 🎊congratulations! 🎊 You now succeed at every shifting attempt. Be happy about it, feel the way a person that shifts every time they try would feel. Walk around your house with pride of the best shifter the universe has ever seen. Jump up and down, smile until your face hurts and embrace it. Listen to Ariana Grandes „just like magic“ like someone who can relate, because you in fact, can relate. Don‘t be afraid to accept your assumptions. The law never fails. You are now a master-shifter, here is your medal: 🥇😽💋

When doubts aka the old version of you comes through saying „you are such a fool for thinking that, after all that failure you have achieved, that will never work, it’s way too easy and you are stupid for falling for that“. Take a moment and actively decide to take away significance from these thoughts. Remind yourself through affirmations: „oops! Silly me! That was the old version of me! I know that’s not true because literally every time I try I succeed! Haha how funny I used to think that way, anyways imma go back to being fucking amazing at shifting, don‘t know who let that old me back into my head.“

what to do when you think like that, but seem to fail at your attempts: persist. You tried waking up at Hogwarts and woke up in your CR? No biggie. You have not been proven wrong today. Your assumptions are still true, and you are still the best shifter of the 21st Century. The 3D- reality is only reflecting your thoughts. If you keep persisting that, yes, you are so good at shifting you succeed every fucking time you try, then nobody can take that away from you. Fuck whatever the 3D is. You‘re the most talented shifter that walks the earth right now, I am so jealous even, so no. Treat the 3D like the fucking internet, don‘t believe just because you see it.

🌟🌞BONUS-QUEST FOR EXTRA MOTIVATED SHIFTERS🌞🌟If you do not have Aphantasia also known as the inability to create images in your head, you have qualified for an extracurricular step 👀🙀😼. Whenever you daydream about your DR, like when you imagine certain things you want to happen for the time you spend in the other reality, feel everything as if you are already in these scenes. Thoughts manifest. So when you imagine your desired scenarios, imagine them as a guarantee to experience them and enjoy the little scene as intensely as you can. Instead of thinking „omg hopefully I get to experience that soon“, think „yes, I am so glad that I get to experience this, thank fuck i Shift every time I try, it‘s the best ever!“

♥️ WHY IS THIS GOING TO WORK? ♥️ Because what ever you assume to be true is true. I know that we might have some sceptics reading this, and I am going to give an explanation on why this is going to work regardless if you believe in its legitimacy. The thing you are practicing with the persistence and affirmation-reminders is classic conditioning your mind and subconscious. Your subconscious does not know the difference between what is fake and what is real. It only knows what you tell it. It also doesn’t know the difference between a joke and the truth. That’s why you can gain confidence if you pretend to be confident. That’s why you will get a foot-fetish if you constantly joke about being a foot-fetishist and so on and so on. So yes. It will work. As long as you persist and keep your mindset right, this can not fail. The law never fails anyway, so there is no reason to be afraid. Also: your thoughts is what manifests. You think you can never fail shifting ➡️ You never fail shifting.

♥️ OUTRO ♥️ I am not going to take credit for anything of this because this is all based on the countless posts of loa/shifting bloggers and it would be wrong to pretend that I came up with anything of this. All I simply did was summarize all the information you all can find yourself on here, to make it easier for you to understand how to apply the law correctly to achieve the things you want to achieve. This „method“ can be modified to your liking depending on what affirmations you want to use. You can change „I shift every time I try“ with „I always wake up in my DR“ or „I am in my DR“ I tried using the last one for a long time and I struggled with it the hardest. Other than that, you are always welcome to use whatever affirmations you can come up with. If there is ANYTHING I can help you with you can send me an ask, I love to reply to those, and last but not least: there is no reason to doubt yourself (🥇 here is your medal remember?). Sincerely:

yours in every reality

Evie 🫶🏻

hi!! i saw that ur requests were open so i was wondering if you could do ran x reader where reader cheats on him 🙏🙏🙏 i hate that in every fic im reading ran is the dishonest one like please give miss yn a break 😫

I made this kind of like a historical vibes because I felt like it. Hope you like it :)

The lady of cheating

Ran x reader

Warnings: Historical AU, s£x, mentions of cheating, Sanzu, language

Feeling his cold hands move across your body as your purred in pleasure. Not allowing you to catch your breath as he rutted into you over and over again.

Feeling his fingers pinch as your already hardened nipples as you were bent on all fours.

The feeling of the silk fabric being pushed up further around your waist as he pushed deeper into you. Taking in the desperate moans of the man atop of you.

“Fuck you’re so beautiful” he whispered breathily into your ear.

Eyes still shut as you let his comment waver over you, as he couldn’t even see your face in this position.

Yours walls beginning to tighten with each thrust, and from the feeling of his heavy balls smacking against your drenched hole you could tell he was close too.

And all to sudden you felt it, like a tsunami of wet pushed against his cock as you milked him for his seed, allowing him to shoot deep into you.

As your cunt swallowed up his seed letting it seep into the deepest parts of your womb.

You fell flat on the futon, as you heard the man who was once atop of you now lay on the side of the futon.

Hearing as he desperately gasped for air trying to catch his breath.

Turning your head to peak at the man as your armed covered your face from him.

Taking in the pinkish hue of his hair and the diamond shape scar of his cheeks.

And you might’ve not been caught starring had he not turned his head to look at you. With a smile plastered on his face in his post pleasure bliss, as he started into the two orbs of your eyes which sparkled in the light before he began to sit up.

Slowly getting on his feet as he began to tie his jinbei. The dark navy colour of it clashing with the cherry blossom colour of his hair.

“Same time next week” the man said as he kissed the top of your head as he exited the small room sliding the shoji door close.

You finally felt enough strength enter your body to sit up straight. Looking around as you absorbed in your environment, the discarded layers of silk of your uchikake on the tatami flooring.

Taking a deep breath before you found yourself standing on your legs, feeling the pain in-between your legs from your previous activities.

It was this pain that reminded you to look for any bruises that might have been left on your body. You examined yourself starting from the inner of your thighs to the mounds of your breast and finally grabbing a hand mirror which placed on the Chabudai as a display, luckily finding no marks.

You’d hate for him to find any evidence of your activities with another. You could only imagine the horror which would paint his face if he ever found markings on your body which was not by his accord.

Finally the pain subsided enough for you to leave the room you used to please the man with the cherry blossom hair.

“Hi (Y/N)-chan” a girl greeted as she walked passed you.

“Hi Miko” you greeted back as you made your way to your room to change.

Swiftly changing into a simple lilac yukata to combat the summer heat of the late midday.

Your simple yukata allowing you to blend in with the normal people around you as you made you way to the entrance of yukaku.

“(Y/N)-chan, you’re off so swiftly?” You heard the older woman who you and many other girls of the yukaku referred to as mother.

“She’s in a hurry to see that man” Hachiko giggled to mother and a few other girls in her company.

“You mean the tall handsome one” Shoko added with a teasing smile.

“Yes that one, he has a tattoo on his neck” Chihoro said with wide eyes as she relayed the information to mother and the other girls.

“A thug ?” Mother said with worry causing the other girls to laugh.

“His not a thug” you said rolling your eyes at the words of the young women your resided with.

“His a business man and a charming one at that” you said sticking out your tongue playfully as you took your leave.

“You’re late” Ran said with a raised brow and a smirk painted on his lips.

“Sorry I was busy washing clothes” you lied as you took his hand.

The warmth of his hands overwhelming the cold sensation of yours, that was not to long ago touching another man.

“You know when I marry you, you won’t have to work this hard anymore” Ran said as he brought you over to a bench that was placed right under a cherry blossom tree.

You looked at the blossom noting the colour to be the exact colour of the other man’s hair, unlike Ran’s whose hair was the colour wisteria.

“You should let me come and meet your family, I bet they would be delighted to find you with a manner like me. A man who will provide for you” Ran added as he looked into your eyes, his hand finding your chin as he brought your lips closer to his as he waited for an answer from you.

“Ran you - ” you began to speak but before you could finish Ran finished your sentence for you.

“I can’t. I know (Y/N) you’ve been telling me for awhile now” Ran said as he removed his hand from your chin and the other from your hand leaving them once again cold.

“I don’t understand why you’re so ashamed of them”

It wasn’t that you were ashamed of them. It was that the people who you referred to as your family were actually blood related to you they were you sisters in the yukaku.

You didn’t know how it would look on you if he was seen hand in hand with the most well known Oiran of the red light distract, about to go ask her ‘family’ for her hand in marriage.

“Or is it me you’re ashamed of” Ran said his eyes burning hot with anger and sadness.

The only person you were ashamed of was yourself. Laying with different men day in and day out. Moaning for them, allowing them to touch you in places that Ran had yet to discover. In simple terms you were cheater. And you knew, feeling the wait of this everytime a man rutted into you, everytime a man released himself into you and everytime they kissed you tenderly.

And even though your clientele was more reserved due to your status as oiran it didn’t make you feel any better at the fact to at you were still seeing other men behind Ran’s back.

“I’m not ashamed of you Ran. I’m just not ready yet” you said trying your best to hold back a sob.

“When will you be ready (Y/N). I love you, can’t you see it. I want to spend every second with you, I never want you to depart my side”

You bit your lip looking down at the fallen cherry blossoms, trying you best to find an answer.

“I don’t know” you replied honestly.

You weren’t sure when you would tell Ran about what you were or who you were doing.

You felt as Ran’s arms grabbed at your waist bringing your closer to him, feeling the as his lips met your forehead similar to how the man you were pleasuring not to long ago.

“I understand, you may take your time but please do not take to long” Ran whispered to you.

Ran’s words echoed in your mind as you closed your eyes tightly holding onto him with conviction afraid for the day that he would push you away.

You and Ran clung onto each other for a moment longer before you began to open your eyes and the pink colour of the cherry blossoms once again caught your attention.

And all to sudden the sweet moment the two of you had was ruined by the thoughts of how only a few hours ago you were begging out for the man with the diamond scars, and the feeling of regret was only intensified at the realisation that you enjoyed that pink haired man. Loving the way he made you feel.

Mother was right, you thought. Oiran’s could never be loved by one when they sold their bodies to others.

“You’re cheating on him (Y/N)-chan. Every other client you never see again but that cherry blossom haired one you see every week, he has fallen for you and you for him. It is no longer transactional, your emotions are intertwined and so are Ran’s” Michiko’s words rang through your head as you felt Ran’s grip on your hand tighten pulling you out of your thoughts.

“I love you” Ran said.

But you did not reply rather placing a soft kiss of his cheek, the kiss of a cheater.

.

.

.

All rights reserved to @rinrinx2

Do not copy

Haitani Rindou

— your presences

Ran Haitani x F!Reader

master list

fluff | female!reader | ib that one ts scene (im sad now)

warning : you're an idol? none.

A/N: hello, here's an old oneshot that i had uploaded on Wattpad but forgot to upload it here, I've been a little dead and unmotivated when it comes to writing, not that i hate it, it's more of a i started to become a little to aware of my way of writing stories, I'll work on that since i have a fanfic i wanted to finish lol, anw, bye for now

The loud cheers from the sea of crowds were the only thing filling up the enormous stadium, you and your idol members continues to keep their energy shined out from the very beginning of the concert till to this very second, your body moved and keep on track to the right rhythm playing in your 'in ear monitor' moving position's and changing turns for each other own part of the song

As you continue to sings all out to your hearts content, you couldn't helped but looked around through the vip section of the seat, hoping to see a certain tall lanky figure with a purple haired and black streaks dyed men sitting somewhere in the vip crowd's 

You threw a glance to the vip section every once in a while, not wanting to be seen as if you were searching for someone specific in the crowds which could grew suspicion to the fans since there is always cameras pointing at them each second. dating was not something banned in your entertainment company, but they gave out a heads up on how those delusional fans could get a bit too rowdy and wild when it comes out to their lovely idol getting their selves a significant other, and it wasn't something that is easy to control...

For what have felt like ages you've been looking out for the obvious purple colored haired men that should've been easily spotted since the hair color stands out a lot, you didn't found him, your heart dropped a bit by the fact you weren't able to find him in the vip crowd, even with the very few minutes break to interact with your crowd of lovely fans asking how their days have been going so far and if they have been enjoying their selves with the performance your group idol have been giving out to them, you weren't able to find him, your bright smile fall off for a momentarily before a forced out one rise back up to your lips

You weren't sad nor disappointed that he weren't there, he has always been a busy man himself, having to deal with their clubs and other businesses work stuff in hand, it were expected that he wouldn't be able to appear and show support in your idol group performance all the time, but he had given out the most sweetest words and promise's on how he will 100% show up on the vip crowd and cheering you like he's your number one fan, but it seems that he got himself busy or maybe something unavoidable happened that he couldn't cancel the plans out

"Y/n, are you ok?" your friend whispered out to you as she sent you a worried expression, you quickly snapped your head towards the girl and nodded telling her that you were more than fine, which she did not believed in the slightest "you're horrible at lying you know~" "do i?" she only let out a giggle and put her arms around your shoulder and proceeds to close her mouth with the back of her hands 

"You're looking for him, don't you?" the mic that each of the idol members were given were all hand mic which you were thankful about since this conversation that had just started were only between you and the member only to know, you then closed your mouth with the back of your hand too and put the right hand which were the hand you were holding onto the mic fell to the side of your thigh "was it that obvious?" she only nodded and once again let's out another giggle

"We could go and search for him in the crowds if you wanted to?" she whispered again with her mouth covered with the back of her hands "isn't that too risky?" sending her a nervous smile she shrugged at your words "we'll just multitask between searching for him and interact with the fans and read their hilarious board too~" 

And just with that, you agreed and started walking to the other 3 members of your group, had a minute talk before you all decided to go a bit more closer to the vip crowd from the stage, looking and interacting a bit with the fans

You and the previous girl that have had been talking with you were walking at the left side of the stage waving, laughing at those creative and funny board the fans held up for you all to read, flashing them smiles and having a short talk and selfies using their phones, but even with all of the stuff you were doing your best to interact with the fans, your eyes kept on searching for him, silently

You were starting to lose hope before you saw a group of 12 light stick of your f/c glow sticks that flashing right at the corner of your eyes, you turned around and were met with the sight of 3 grown man, in suits, one with horribly bright pink hair and the other two with a short and long purple hair, waving your glow sticks at your way, each one of them had two f/c glow sticks in each hand

And there you were met with his beautiful purple gaze, you couldn't helped but let the wide smile crept upon your lips at the sight of it as a laughter bubble up in your throat, ready to burst out from your lips by the sight of them

Rindou clearly seemed like he were too tired to even be there, sanzu were just confused but has kinda gotten the spirit to wave the stick in the sky aggressively, and then there was ran, ran haitani, his gaze screamed "head over heels" and the soft smile has been plastered on him for as long as he could remembered, watching you shine brighter than you already are up on the tall stage, he couldn't helped but let his heart melt a bit at the sight of it

The next thing you knew, without any hesitation, you blowout a kiss to the crowd of fans which made the row of seat squeal in happiness, thinking it were given to them when clearly it were sent to the purpled haired man, but they didn't need to know thay only the both of you do (and rin and sanzu, but not the point), ran reach out his hands for the blown kiss, grabbed it and dramatically put his balled fist on his chest as if had took the kiss you had gave and kept it inside of his heart

Now knowing that ran were 100% in the crowds, watching over you, you couldn't helped but give out an even MORE outstanding performance even after all of the hours, even after your legs were giving out on you and you were breathing in for air, you wanted to give out 1000% of your all 

After the last song were performed, you and your group of friends send out the thankyou's for the crowds and waving them a goodbye before you and the other 4 members disappeared from the stage

At the backstage, you were each given a bottle of water by the staff as they told to every members that they all have done an outstanding performance today like any other performance, thanking for their words one of the other staff called out for your name, telling you that a certain dude named ran haitani were looking for your presence, and with that being told, you took off and ran

looking around for ran in the long hallway of the backstage, you finally found his figure, both hands in each side of the pockets, he turned his head around towards the rapid foot steps that were running towards his way, realizing that it was only you, he sent out another soft smile and he removed both arms from the pockets

"i thought you didn't came! i got so sad when i couldn't find you" and with that, you wrapped your arms around his neck tightly "really now?" he said with an obvious teasing voice lacing in his tone, with your face buried on the crook of his neck, you nodded your head while still hugging tightly onto him "i thought you had to cancel it and had to do other stuff" your words slightly muffled out but still managed to make sense to his ears "i always keep my promises, i am a man of my words after all..." hugging you back tightly, he kissed the crown of your head and let the side of his face fell on top of yours

"and what's with rindou and sanzu coming too? i thought it was just gonna be you?" you lifted your head to look at his eyes "i can't hold all 12 of your glow sticks all alone you know?" you sweat dropped a bit at his words "12 glows stick? why did you got that much?" "just so i can stand out the most" you could only laughed at his statement and shook your head a bit at it 

"i think the suit and purple hair already stand out quite a lot if you asked me"

please reblog if you enjoy it <3

𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐄  |  𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐈 𝐑𝐀𝐍.

“you know that one guy in your frat?” you ask, and ran raises a brow, unlocking his car to open his passenger door for you. you draw a little smiley face through the frost on the window as you wait, and he grins to himself as you do, stifling a small chuckle.

“there’s like a hundred guys in it, which one?” he raises a brow, and you hum thoughtfully, turning to face him.

“the one with pink hair.”

“sanzu?” ran questions, and you nod in agreement, the name sounding familiar as he mumbles it.

“yeah, that’s the one,” you poke his shoulder repeatedly in excitement, and something in ran’s stomach does twists at the way you seem so happy to hear the name. he doesn’t know whether he wants to find out why, or avoid knowing completely. “he asked me on a date.”

and then he has to fight the urge to turn around completely. he has to tell himself he can’t just march up to sanzu haruchiyo in the middle of class and punch him in the jaw, and he has to force himself to be cool about this.

you’re not his, and he can’t act like he’s yours.

“oh,” he says simply. it’s through grit teeth and a clenched jaw, and ran takes a step forward and turns away from you, back to you as he swings the door open. “get in.”

you do, climbing into the car and furrowing your brows at his dryness as he shuts it closed and walks around to the driver’s seat, but you shrug to yourself and figure he and sanzu must have issues. then again, everyone seems to have issues with ran, and you can’t say you’re surprised. he has a habit of doing as he pleases and saying anything that comes to mind—and though he’s a favorite in the frat amongst people outside (he is undeniably attractive), he’s not really very popular amongst too many of the members.

haitani ran picks fights much more often than he should, and you almost think he has fun getting in trouble. there’s a certain gleam in his eyes when he throws the first punch, and there’s a twitch to his lips when he gets caught, and there’s a sense of satisfaction that radiates off of him when he gets scolded. you think he’s crazy, but you also think you might just love it. though, you dont think you’ll ever admit that to him—you don’t want to embarrass yourself admitting feelings you know won’t be reciprocated.

but sanzu is cute, funny, and he’s got just a bit of the same crazy to him. he’s not ran, but you think he’ll do. and if you’re lucky, he might just take your mind off your best friend that you’re completely in love with.

Keep reading

✎ ran haitani ↷↷

⌦ drabbles/headcanons/thirsts

001. high off of you w/ rindou & sanzu [nsfw]

002. college bf!ran [sfw]

003. dating canon!ran [sfw]

004. play pretend [nsfw]

⌦ one/two-shots

001. the bet [nsfw]

002. me - him [sfw]

003. what's his is mine w/ rindou [nsfw] // first part - last part

✎ ken ryuuguji ↷↷

⌦ drabbles/headcanons/thirsts

000. page empty

⌦ one/two-shots

001. say you're sorry [nsfw]

002. the parting gift [sfw]

✎ haruchiyo sanzu ↷↷

⌦ drabbles/headcanons/thirsts

001. stalker's tango [dc]

002. high off of you w/ rindou & ran [nsfw]

003. college bf! sanzu [sfw]

⌦ one/two-shots

001. got you - sanzu haruchiyo [dc/nsfw]

002. misplaced trust [dc/nsfw]

003. wrong woman of the house [dc/nsfw]

✎ hajime kokonoi ↷↷

⌦ drabbles/headcanons/thirsts

000. page empty

⌦ one/two-shots

001. one and only - kokonoi hajime [nsfw]

✎ miscellaneous ↷↷

⌦ two-shots/chaptered fics

001. twist of faith [dc] : on - going

002. welcome to college! [sfw] : on - going [old masterlist]

⌦ social media au

001. random texts with my top 5 faves from tr and jjk - (ran, sanzu, draken, kazutora, kokonoi

⌦ multiple characters

001. tokyorev boys in bed [nsfw]

002. heartbreak in new year [sfw]

003. girl boss [sfw]

©emissaire - all rights reserved

I GUESS THAT WAS GOODBYE. | ran haitani x gn! reader

contains. angst. hurt & comfort. fluff. gn! reader. bonten! ran. roponggi! ran. married dynamics. mentions of gang work (murder, prostitution, etc.) there’s also some inaccuracy when it comes to to signing papers but uh let’s ignore that :D

song inspo. i guess that was goodbye by lyn lapid

note. i honestly could’ve expanded on this more but eh here it is :> 3.4kwc hehehe

they say young love doesn’t last.

they say to be logical first before diving headfirst into recklessness without calculating the risks, but none of those warnings didn’t stop you from shyly handing a love letter to the infamous eldest haitani brother ruling your district. back then, it’s nothing but a silly thing to do while you giggled with your friends, laughing with warm cheeks as they encouraged you to take a step closer to his bike.

who would’ve known that years later, you’ll end up here in your cramped, rundown dorm with your now boyfriend, ran, looking up at you cheekily as you disinfected the cuts on his face?

Keep reading

4-7-8; series masterlist

pairing: jungkook x reader

glimpse: you’re secure when it comes to loving jungkook, knowing that your husband loves you beyond words. what you aren’t so secure about is his first love — someone who isn’t you.

alternatively, jungkook’s married to you, but he still celebrates his anniversary with his ex out of sentimentality.

warnings: semi-heavy angst (pls take a break when necessary!!), emotional constipation, no cheating happens here btw (neither physical nor emotional), self-loathing, miscommunication, based on the moral dilemma of whether or not it’s okay to be friends with ur ex, intense yearning + specified tags in each installment!

notes: thank you so much for all the love for 478 ♡ i rlly love reading all your feedback and thoughts!! send them in here :)

cross-posted on ao3.

01: part one 

02: intermission

03: part two

04: intermission 02

05: part three; finale

phase one drabbles:

the first meeting

the wedding band habit

miso meets yoongi

the hickeys

the jealousy

tiny bowls for tiny babies

the one with the doubt

maybe physical affection isn’t so bad

the everyday risk

the groveling

the anniversary (derogatory)

phase two drabbles:

the baby blue couch sex

the babymaking

jungkook’s birthday

couvade syndrome

the argument

jk fights with miso (real)

the comeback of slideshows

the false alarm

the nesting period

hwayoung_debut

yoongi’s visit

hwayoung’s first 100 days

Rindou is not affectionate by nature.

He's quiet, introspective, awkward at the best of times. He's never been the type to pretend he's something he's not and it's never bothered him that he finds the more physical affection a little harder, a little more difficult and that his love comes in other forms. Yes he wishes it were easier to tell you he loves you, and he wonders if you're upset by the fact that he hardly does, even if he does try to make up for it with the multitudes of gifts and quality time. He knows hearing it must be something special. He knows it is to him.

Rindou is not affectionate by nature and it's never been more apparent than it is now, when his daughter, just shy of a year and a half, sniffles and he has to dab at her tiny nose and tears in the way he thinks should be best.

"You're not gonna get better if you don't drink your juice," he says and eagerly prompts her with a tilt of his head towards the pink sparkly sippy cup on the table. And he's trying really, and he wishes it were easier, that he had your natural charm, that he wasn't so rough around the edges.

"I'll.....we can play with your tea set, if you eat your lunch." And he's using the gentlest voice he knows, an octave or two higher, softer even. And she deliberates, holds the beaker in her tiny hand and takes a tentative sip.

Rindou smiles and it feels like a victory.

You watch from the doorway, him leaning down on his knees, a crease of his mouth and the soft hair fanning his cheek and your heart aches at the scene of the two people you love the most.

You know it's difficult for him, that the affection which comes easy to others doesn't for him, and you like it anyway, that the love is in the effort nonetheless. He's the best father, the best husband, despite his own ambivalence towards his efforts. He tries, and it's enough.

When she's done, and a tentative smile matches his, he lifts her gently to rub her back, a resounding burb with which he whispers a "there you go" before strolling to the kitchen to watch the dappled sunlight spill through the blinds, her on his shoulder, a mitten covering one hand and giggling when he does a tiny bounce that he knows makes her laugh.

You are not perfect, either of you, and you wonder sometimes at night, when the two of you are asleep and the baby monitor is hushed with the soft sighs of your sleeping daughter, whether you've done well enough to care for this little family that means so much to you. It's harder for him, who's never really known a family that wasn't ran, all the getting up to speed, all that he's had to learn and unlearn.

And when you press a kiss to his neck from behind, and tickle your daughters chin as you join them in the kitchen, it's with that in mind.

Maybe Rindou isn't affectionate by nature, but you find it's never mattered to you, not when he is irrevocably him, that he fills the gaps by himself.

"She's ready for a nap, I think," he says and watches her eyes flutter, the dark blond lashes that resemble his more than yours before she snuggles further against his chest, thumb in her mouth and quickly slipping into sleep.

"Mhm, I think so too." And then after a beat. "Thank you Rin."

"What? What for?"

"you're good at this y'know, just, everything."

And the tips of his ears fade to pink because it never gets old, praise for the things he thinks he's lacking at, and he loves, more than he can express, the safety of your home that never makes him feel any lesser.

"Oh." He clears his throat, a soft kiss to her forehead, and then a peck to your lips in thanks, in confession, in all the things he can't say.

Rindou has never been affectionate by nature, and he has always wondered whether he is really enough, but it's never been a surprise to you that he is. He is enough and more.

Reblogs appreciated

12:18AM | HAITANI RINDOU

Title: My Knight In Shining Armour

Summary: It's Rindou's last night with you before your marriage, perhaps it's time to for you and your bodyguard to get some truths off your chests. (This is part of @orchid3a royal au collab, the link to which is here) link to my masterlist here!

cw: afab!reader, references to Greek myth, petnames (princess, my lady), some suggestive content, angst with little comfort, mentions of an arranged marriage, reader and Rindou are simps. Likes and reblogs appreciated!

You think destiny is a fickle and funny thing and perhaps it always has been. Perhaps the heroes of the stories said the same thing, raged insults at the same moon and the same sun as they flew towards it. At the same problems that persisted no matter how far in the future they were. Perhaps those stories should serve as a comfort to you now, their lessons immortalised as legends.

Every human believes they’re above it all, believes the laws of nature apply to everyone that isn’t them. You’re no different. You think of Medusa crying to Athena in the temple, a life’s worth of rage at the Fates that had cackled as they wove the fabric of her story, golden threads held between crooked fingers. You think of Achilles holding Patroclus’s dead body, his sights set on Hector with a vitriol that was almost godly, almost divine, enough anger to rival the sun. 

Should it bother you this much? That you’ll be wed to a man you’ve never met in under a week, Queen to a people who will find fault in every action. Should it bother you that you’re denied the happy ending that the Princesses in the stories always get? You know you’ve no right to complain like this, that you’ll be waited on, servants and maids who would rather die than disobey and it makes an ugly shame pool in your stomach. 

‘The moon is beautiful tonight, is it not?’ You say, and your hand holds up your chin on the white windowsill, your gown falling over the lip of the bench and catching the eaves of moonlight that spill through the glass. 

‘Princess?’ Rindou says. He steps closer into the slice of light that illuminated the marble floor, the clink of his armour brushing the soft wool of your shawl, before following the line of your sight. ‘Yes. Yes it is.’ 

He looks beautiful like this, with the moonlight slicing through the stained glass, falling through the thin wisps of his silken hair, blue and lilac, lavender and stars and the burnished honey of his skin swallowing the light like it belongs to him. It does, it feels like it does. His armour is unblemished, it always has been. He takes great care to appear his best to you, strong and worthy and capable and willing to take your hand when you stand and he thinks, no he knows, this is just his duty. He is your Knight, your bodyguard in all things. 

‘I don’t think we’ll ever have nights like this when I leave will we?’ Your lips part and a sigh drips past your lips, despairing and achingly full of the years that sit between you. It’s true, you know that, you’ve a lifetime of learning etiquette and social grace and you’d be remiss to assume that things can stay the same. In your new life, Rindou will not be welcome like he is now, the moon to your sun, the light of your eyes, the comfort of your heart.

There will never be nights overlooking the veranda, sitting in some nook or corner with his legs brushing yours. The library has always been your favourite place to stay, the two of you overlooking the gardens conspiratorially, like lovers tittering in the corner at a ball. He talks often and much when he is alone, the silences permeated by the creak and whine of wind leaking through the gaps in the windows, draughts that make the hairs on your arms rise. And Rindou will always pull the shawl a little closer around you, always click his tongue affectionately and you find that those moments are the ones you enjoy the most, when he is closer than normal, his calloused knuckles achingly close.

It’s wrong.

It always has been. You’ve never spoken about it, and you have no plans to confess that what you feel for him is anything other than a royal sense of duty, that the longing looks and smiles reserved just for him are anything but the same grace you would extend to anyone else, anyone who wasn’t him.

‘No, I don’t expect we will.’ He shifts his legs, knees brushing yours as he sits on the bench, his broad chest hunkered by the clink and clamour of armour that he feels is too loud in the otherwise silent library. ‘You’ll be very preoccupied when you leave, you’ll have a husband to spend your time with instead.’ 

It aches somewhere he thinks his heart should be, the knowledge that another man will get to touch you, hold you, hear you, in every way he can only dream of, that the locked doors of his fantasies will be lived by someone who isn’t him. A man whose face he’ll only ever see from a distance but will share your bed and slide his hands over your skin and it burns him with a jealousy that’s red and hot and pulses with pain in his chest.  In his daydreams, you are his, he belongs to you and he finds that he settles into that life easier than expected. Loving you, and being loved by you, is not as hard as he assumes it would be and the domestic bliss comes easily to him. He lets down his walls on occasion and you welcome him, as you always have done, with open arms and he rests his head on your chest and listens for the soft and reassuring pattern of your heart. 

But it’s a dream, it will always be a dream. 

It’s almost thrilling in some sinful way, to have you to himself like this, your attention that he so often shares with others, reserved for him when you are bare of your jewels and gowns, the thin slip and slide of your sleeping gown that kisses at your skin in a way that makes the heat burst along his neck. He imagines he is not the first, and he certainly doesn’t expect to be the last to long for you in such a way, to want to feel the push and pull of you against his chest, to rest you there with your hair tickling at his throat, to want to keep you for himself. Knowing this doesn’t make it any easier for him though, to watch the suitors line up in brocade suits, lecherous grins concealed by masquerade masks and blithe smiles, their lips lingering for a second too long on your hand and your amicable smile twitching with a flicker of annoyance only he can see.

But it’s wrong.

It always has been, and no amount of self-denial can convince him that what he daydreams about in the locked corner of his mind is anything but sinful, anything but wrong. You are his Princess, and he is just your Knight and if his destiny is to trail after you forever, like night and her train of stars, just to bathe a little longer in your warmth, be the recipient of your reserved smiles, then he is content just to do that. 

‘What if I didn’t want to go, Rindou? What if I don’t want this?’ You say, and your whisper fogs up the glass from where your lips purse as you hold your chin in your hands. You know that is wrong too, that this is your duty just like all things are, that love is fickle and duty is forever and love is to duty what poison is to fruit.

Rindou softens and his hand almost touches your knee on instinct before clenching his fist with anxiety and a longing that makes him sick. ‘I’m sorry Princess. I can’t pretend to know how that feels, only that I think you should do what you feel is best for you.’

‘I’ll have to leave you behind, do you know that?’

‘I do.’

‘You’re not bothered by that? By the fact that we’ll never see each other again?’

He swallows and breaks your stare, lets the violet hue of his eyes fall onto the rosebush that’s cloaked in darkness, petals viridescent in the light. A muscle feathers in his jaw and a frown creases the perfect smoothness of his forehead and you have the sudden urge to soothe it with your thumbs, curl your fingers along his cheek and swipe his lips to watch them part for you. He resists the urge to look back at you, at your eyes that catch the light, the stained glass that makes your skin glow with warmth.

It’ll eat him at first, the absence of you that’ll gnaw at his stomach will force him to push himself further. He knows how it’ll be, pushing himself further in training, in work, in anything and his Brother will hope that he can push a few girls his way in the hopes of helping him forget and Rindou will wait eagerly for the letters which will never come. And the girl that will never come with it. 

‘I am Princess.’ He curls his fingers around his sword hilt, licks his drying lips and all the while, his eyes rake over the rosebush in bloom, budding petals drifting to the ground, where they kiss the specks of sand and leaves that litter the veranda. ‘But it’s your duty, just like looking after you is mine.’

And maybe, if it could have been some other way, in some other world where he is not him and you are not you and there are no such obstacles. Maybe in that world he is just a boy in love with a girl and you are his only, the truest example of lovers under the sun. He would find you if it existed, if there was such a thing as a world where you could meet as anyone but who you are. Perhaps he could kiss you freely there, with a hand around your back like the suitors do, better than they do in fact, because he knows he loves you enough, loves you more, to the point of pain in fact.

You turn to him, brush your knees against his and Rindou’s heart smashes against his ribs. ‘Do you ever wish it wasn’t? That we could just…run away?’ you say, indulging the daydream in a way that you know is impossible, that it’s dangerous to even suggest, improbable and bordering on treasonous, wrong in every sense of the word. 

‘Princess?’ he says and his chest aches, burns and tightens with that familiar longing for you all over again and the pain is both delicious and agonising as your knees press against his, the moonlight falling on the exposed sweep of your collarbones peeking from beneath your gown.

It’s your last night with him, you know this, you have known for weeks. Does the knowledge make it any easier? Does knowing that he’ll eventually find another girl make it easier or harder for you? Does knowing that another man will touch you in the way you have both knowingly and unknowingly reserved for him make it any less painful?

‘We could,’ you say eventually, although your heart isn’t in it, and maybe you say it because it’s soothes the pain to indulge in it, the fantasy of the two of you in a house somewhere, where everything is safe and your heart lies in his palm, secure and loved and cradled. 

‘You know we couldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘We’d be found, you’re a Princess and I’m just-’

‘Don’t. Don’t ever say that.’ You grab his wrist and your thumb finds the sharp incline of his palm and you press a painted finger into the space there, stroke it achingly slow, feeling the calloused skin underneath. You wonder at all it has seen, all the blood that’s splashed over onto his fine and polished armour, the horrors that he has witnessed, both at your behest and not and it burns that you can’t take it from him and cradle his head to your chest and give all the love you both feel and think he deserves. 

‘It’s true though,’ he says and his hand comes to rest on top of yours, brushing your knuckles free of scars, tiny clefts and indentations he wishes he could explore given the time, to marvel at the ridges and veins that swim underneath. ‘It would never work, you know that Princess. You needn’t suffer over something that was never going to happen.’ 

He says it for the both of you, knowing it won’t help either way to assuage the thunderous ache that builds in his stomach when he thinks of someone else having you undeserved. 

‘Do you think… it worked somewhere else?’ 

He raises an eyebrow and tilts his head, the soft wisps of fine hair slipping over the silver of his armour, curling at the hollow of his throat.

‘What do you mean?’

‘If we met again, somewhere else, you’d find me right? You’ll always find me.’ You hope it’s true, that maybe he reaches across time and fate to find you there, whether he believes in it or not, one outstretched hand towards your name on the wind, towards the golden thread that pulls him unknowingly to you. 

He smiles, bashfully even and dips his head to the ridge of your knuckles, presses his lips to the soft plane of your hand, his hair falling against your wrist, your exposed arm swallowing the moonlight and it sends the heat to your cheeks, your neck, the part of your chest that’s slipped between the folds of your gown, dizzying and wondrous and it aches that you can’t live in this feeling right here, in this library and let the the world rot and die around the two of you.

‘I will always find you Princess. You only have to call and I’ll come and catch you.’

‘Every time?’ Your voice wavers, the tears pricking at your throat, at the bang of your heart in your chest.

‘Every time.’

‘Oh.’ And it’s your turn to flush a deep crimson now, and hide it in the shadow of darkness that falls over the window seat from the bookcase that hides you strategically from view. He knows you need to hear it, even if he doesn’t care for fate or destiny or the things heroes tell themselves to sleep easier at night, even if he’s willing to make an exception to the rule that’s saved him so many times, for you. 

He touches your cheek, one single finger brushing at the stray eyelash on your cheekbone and the bump in his throat slips and slides under the silver of his armour, disappearing beneath the links of chainmail that hide the ink of his chest from view. You’re ashamed to admit you’ve thought so long and hard about running your tongue along every ridge and muscle of his, the flex of his stomach under your waiting mouth, the groan that spills past his parted lips when you suck harshly on the inviting swell of his chest, fine hairs like pencil shadings disappearing beneath the cord of his slacks to where you want to taste him most. 

You bite down hard on your lip, your eyes flitting between the viridescent flash of violet in his and his pink lips, parted and wet and you know they’d be supple and soft, would slot perfectly on yours and he’d moan against your mouth and you’d forget for the moment that you could be found in your clandestine and sinful state of him moving against you.

‘I-’

‘It’s alright, I understand,’ you say, with more fervour than you feel, more confident than you could ever be around him, because you know he needs to hear it, that you understand and you want to, and it would be so easy to bridge the gap and have him ruin you in the way you know he wants to, hungry and insatiable and loud, your eager whines of his name muffled beneath his leather glove clamped over your mouth. 

‘I want to, I really do.’ He could, if he was anything less than what he is, if it didn’t matter to him that another man would see the marks he’d painted on your skin and hurt you for it, for his own greed that would come at the price of your tears. It’s a risk that even he, the most reckless, unpredictable, aggressive of the Knights can’t take, would never take at your expense. For all his faults, he is redeemed by you, the sun that spills into and out of his life.

‘I know, me too.’ 

‘I’m sorry, for hurting you like this’ he says, the whisper of his breath fanning against your nose. He breaks your gaze, and presses his forehead to your knuckles, his lips, as if he can carve it into you, as it it makes it any less painful to feel him kneeling for you, ever loyal, knowing your heart is in every kink of his armour, wound tightly between his fingers. 

‘I’m sorry too.’ You sniffle, and the tears are lost in the soft cashmere of your shawl, in the white and ivory lace of your sleeping gown. You take his face in your hands and it aches that when he looks up at you, his eyes are wide and the moon spills the opalescent veneer of its light onto his lashes, the violet hue lightened to lilac. 

There is a terse silence, broken only by the flutter of the wind leaking between the stacks of books and wooden shelves, the crackle of fire that casts a faint orange glow over the honeyed bronze of his skin. 

‘Rindou,’ you say. 

‘Princess,’ he says, weighted with all the years of your friendship, even after it had blossomed into something more.

‘Rindou, My Rindou.’

‘Your Rindou, and you’re My Princess.’ 

It has a foreign flutter beating against your chest.

‘That’s right.’ You skim your thumb along his cheek, the high and sharp slope of his perfect cheekbones, the nose that’s a little crooked from all the fighting, the cut in his lip that he never takes care of after sparring. ‘You will write often won’t you?’

‘Of course, you will write back?’

‘I will, always. You will be tired of me soon, filling your days with useless chatter.’

‘I could never tire of you, My Lady,’ he says and it’s true, because for all your belief, that you are just simply too much for others, that the burden of you is greater than the reward, you are just right for him. If only he had more time to prove it. 

‘I’ll be bored without you, you know. I’ll be so lonely.’ You wonder briefly, at the man who you will wake up to every morning, the weight of him, the fact that you will no longer reach across the space of your bed to find Rindou dozing in the chair, his gloved hand holding his chin as he fights the sleep to watch over you.

‘You’ll find friends, you won’t be alone,’ he says, placatingly, even though he knows the space the two of you have made, a closeted corner of each other’s hearts, can never be filled and will always remain locked and isolated.

He doesn’t expect it’ll continue for long, the correspondence you’ve promised. He knows how it is. That one day turns to two, and a week turns to a month and you’ll be having children and maybe his letters to you, written with all the heart he knows he can give, with the words he often finds so hard to say, will collect dust beneath the paperweight. If they ever get to you at all.

You bend to press your lips to his forehead, and Rindou thinks, the little heart he does have, the one you own, safely tucked beneath the sleeve of your shawl, breaks here when he feels your lips on his skin, soft and imperceptible, the scent of your perfume caught in his nose, the cotton of your sleeves dancing on his cheeks.

He wonders what his Brother would say if he saw him now, the harsh lump in his throat threatening tears, the thunderous roar of his heart.

‘Thank you Rindou,’ you say, your lips to his hair, knowing you won’t touch like this again, hoping that this gives him all the love you know he needs and will always pretend not to, because he’s like that, because he’s tough and capable and yours, beyond time, beyond this.

‘You too Princess. It’s been fun,’ he whispers and it feels like an end, like he is being crushed. Did it always hurt so much? When the heroes lived and died for love? Did Achilles burn with the same pain when Patroclus was taken? 

A door closes somewhere, the click of it banging against the wall and snapping the both of you into the present. A voice, and a shadow looming against the furthest wall and it means that’s the end. Come morning, you’ll be gone and Rindou will be here and maybe he’ll watch you leave, see you off like he should. Or maybe not.

He hopes that somewhere, in some lifetime it hurts less, that the two of you are happy and safe and there are no tears to shed, no painful endings to cry over for the both of you.

Somewhere, maybe.

a/n: hiii this is so late omg I am so sorry, I was meant to post this like two months ago, but big thanks to Aria for holding this collab it was very fun to write, I hope you enjoy it (pls don't burn me at the stake lol) I've never written a royal au before so this was fun! Thank you to everyone for supporting me!

taglist: @reiners-milkbiddies @mxnjiros @islascafe @swqllen @prettyiolanthe @sugusshi @wotakuhime @snakegentleman @severellamahottub @haitaniapologist @lonnie19 @nafarsiti @bejeweled-night-33 @ranscutedoll @the-travelling-witch @orchid3a @rottingreveries @qiiuusoup-xo @hoetani @sinfulseashell @welcome-to-the-internet-it-sucks @obitohno @tetsutits @burnishedcrown @sweet-seishu @saintokkotsu @nikokopuffs @sin-and-punishment

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3:56PM | HAITANI RINDOU 

Rindou swears he left them right there by you, right on the sofa, tucked snug next to one of the multitudes of pillows you keep strewn about, peeking out from the side. You had watched him do it, that was the funny thing, watched him take his glasses off and tuck them against the crevice in the sofa before padding to the kitchen in his pyjamas, a hoodie thrown haphazardly on top. 

You had smirked, deliberated for a fraction of a second as you listened to him open the fridge, the faint sound of water sloshing around in a glass, your own outline in the reflection of his glasses. It would be cruel but funny at the same time and it’s not as if you’d keep up the pretence for very long. Just a joke, no?  One look from Ran lounging opposite you, the beginnings of a devious smile curling at his lips, his eyes alight with mischief, was all it took to make your mind up. You grab the glasses and sneak them into your pocket, turning your eyes back to the book on your lap when you hear the deep timbre of your Boyfriend’s voice get closer.

‘Yeah and then I was- wait where are my glasses?’ He furrows his brow, blinks owlishly, pouting slightly and jutting out his bottom lip when he digs a hand into the gap between the armrest and the sofa. ‘I swear I left them right here.’

‘You sure Rin?’ The act comes awfully naturally to you and you add a little extra drama by matching his furrowed brow, closing your book and standing up, patting the sofa down as he sets his drink on the table. It’s almost comic, the way you bend to sweep a hand over the fabric, burrowing it into the creases.

‘Yes I’m sure,’ he says and scratches his head, tufts of purple and lilac wound tight in his fingers. ‘I don’t understand.’ 

‘Maybe you left them in the kitchen my love.’ 

He shakes his head and bites down on his bottom lip, a habit he picked up off you. It’s cute really, and you know how blessed you are to see this side of him. Happier, funnier, looser even, as if the impenetrable wall that he took such pains to keep up had cracked enough to let you in. 

His eyes widen suddenly and he whips around to where Ran has his legs thrown across the secondary sofa, something dark whirling around in the glass perched in his hands.

‘Up.’ Rindou points an accusatory finger at his Brother and stalks over, his figure still that much shorter and you suppress a giggle as Ran all but fails to hide the knowing smirk thrown in your direction. Rindou is still pouting by this point and you have the sudden visceral urge to kiss his lips, smooth the faint worry lines creasing his forehead. He is adorable, that’s the only word for it, as he puts his hands on his hips and looks up at his much taller Brother.

‘What, you don’t trust your own Brother? That’s cold Rin,’ Ran says, sliding the glass onto the coffee table. He holds his arms out as he stands and raises an eyebrow at you over Rindou’s ruffled head, feigning innocence when Rindou glares at him from beneath pinched brows.

‘I trust you with my life,’ Rindou mutters, his hands grazing his Brother’s pockets for anything that might be even vaguely the correct shape. ‘Just not with my glasses.’

He tuts under his breath when he finds nothing but Ran’s wallet, keys, gum and a silver cigarette tin inlaid with his initials, a present from you from years far into the past. You note absent-mindedly, that at no point has he suspected you and the thought has a thrum of warmth simmering in your chest.

‘Where could they have gone?’ And the look he gives you is withering as he squints, his gaze directed towards the sofa in case he’d happened to miss it. His eyesight truly is terrible and you’d feel bad if it wasn’t for the fact that he just looks so cute as he scratches his head, bites his lips and turns on his heels to look at the coffee table littered with cups and books and ashtrays, discarded takeaway the three of you have just finished. 

The tenderness of the moment however, is not lost on you as Rindou runs a hand over his own pockets, patting his chest, his pyjama bottoms, ruffling his soft hair in case he’d left them perched on his head. 

Briefly, a flash of some memory flits to the front of your mind and you soften, tendrils of love leaking into your heart. You remember the days when Rindou was cold and unfeeling, when your acts of kindness had seemingly gone unnoticed, and the concept of having a joke with him was practically unheard of. The days when he was distant as a star you could barely graze with tentative fingers. You hide the smile behind a hand remembering it, comparing it to the easy lifestyle you now have, one in which the love between the three of you blooms as naturally as day and night. It helps that Ran isn’t put out by the concept of third-wheeling, and in fact has bounds of love for you, as he does for his Brother, that he is always there to watch over the two of you, a hand on your backs propelling you forward in that easy way of his.

With a final glance at the coffee table over his shoulder, Rindou pads to the kitchen again, tripping over his feet and cursing, muted whispers of “where the fuck have they gone?” left in his wake. It’s only when you hear the clatter of a cup and the flick of a kettle do you and Ran dare to exchange glances again, both of you fighting the laugh bubbling in your throats.

‘Well played Y/N.’ Ran says in that lilting tone of his and makes to pick up his glass again, stretching languidly on the sofa, his back arched as he sighs, throwing an arm over his tired eyes. 

‘Thank you Ran.’ A smile pulls at the corner of your mouth and your hand shuffles inside your own pocket, pulling out Rindou’s glasses and carefully, silently, placing them in the nook between the armrest and the seat, fluffing up the cushions and picking up your book again in time for Rindou to slink back into the room, his forehead now permanently creased with a tiny crescent moon of stress lines. 

You make a show of accidentally nudging the pillow and Rindou’s eyes (which are straining enough as it is) flick to the gap where his poor glasses are wedged. ‘How the fuck-?

‘I guess you just didn’t look well enough,’ Ran says, watching, his low baritone voice laced with mirth and the sluggishness of sleep. His throat bobs as he removes his arm momentarily to wink at you conspiratorially. 

‘I thought I did…’ Rindou frowns but says nothing more of it when he perches the glasses on the bridge of his nose, the world now sharp and focused. He smiles at you, a warm and genuine smile, marvelling at the sharpness of your features in the gleaming light, your outline now punctuated by soft yellow and the coppery burnt orange of the setting sun just beyond the window.

The fading sunlight, the slash of iridescent pink on the horizon, bled through with purple and red makes his irises seem catlike from here and the colour bleeds through the soft and fine strands of his hair that frame his face, wisps escaping his tied up mullet to kiss the metal frames.

‘You’re beautiful,’ you say almost on instinct and the action catches him so off guard that the only sound he makes is both wordless and strangled, tight and stuck in his throat as he mutters something about you embarrassing him in front of Ran. If Ran heard at all, he makes no indication of it, and instead softly snores, curled in on himself, one hand tucked under the pillow.

That was the first time and since then, misplacing , or rather moving Rindou’s glasses has become a sneaky but favourite pastime of yours and Ran’s. Often at Bonten’s HQ, with you slipping them into your handbag as you passed, or tucking them under the seat, your legs crossed under the chair to keep up the pretence and poor Rindou squinting at practically anyone who dared make eye contact with him.

You’re pretty sure he terrifies the secretary at least twice a day every time they pop a head around to deliver a message, always greeted by the gruff and gravelly voice of your Boyfriend that perfectly matches the glare he shoots their way.

He’ll pat down his pockets, ruffle his feathery hair, look left and right, sucking in his bottom lip till its pulled behind his teeth and every time, you repress the urge to peck his lips, to taste the strawberry lip balm you know he meticulously applies before leaving. 

You truly wouldn’t do it if he wasn’t so cute.

‘Rindou, is there something wrong?’ Mikey asks, the sheaf of paperwork momentarily lowered as he peers up from beneath dark lashes and Sanzu snickers under his breath, attempting to hide his glee behind a hand swirling around a glass of something heady and honeyed.

Rindou jolts in his seat, too focused on trying to see and to make out something other than the vague shape of his boss with his white undercut and black turtleneck, that he doesn’t realize he’s being spoken to till Ran nudges him subtly with his elbow.

‘Hm, sorry, what did you say Boss?’ Rindou shakes his head and Takeomi smirks wordlessly into his glass, his lips curling around an unlit cigarette. Even Kakucho is smothering a giggle when he sees Rindou squint and lean forward in his seat. 

‘Where are your glasses, Rindou?’ Mikey cocks a head to the side, and while it’s rare that he allows himself a flicker of anything other than indifference, this is one of those times in which the beginnings of a smile twitch at his lips.

Yes, Mikey is also in on the joke.

‘I….’ Rindou fumbles, and absent-mindedly his hand strays to his pocket again, only to touch the bare silk of the inside. ‘I lost them.’ How utterly humiliating, he thinks, the heat of embarrassment creeping up his cheeks, licking at his ears.

‘Why have you not gotten contact lenses? This is a regular occurrence is it not?’ Mikey is genuine this time and if it weren’t for the running joke he is very obviously in on, he would have ordered it ages ago. ‘Is it the money? You know that-’

‘No!’ Rindou stands immediately, his hands braced on either of his chair, and so quick to dispel the misconception that Ran has to bite down on his lip and pretend to scratch his neck to crush the smile that threatens to break his innocent facade.

Oh now this is embarrassing. How does he tell them how lame he feels for the fact that he enjoys you sliding his glasses onto the bridge of his nose every morning? That he craves those intimate seconds in which he can have an excuse to stare back at you, to flick your forehead, tuck your hair behind your ear as you trail your hands down his chest, his stomach thrumming with tenderness and warmth. That if he wears contact lenses, there will no longer be an opportunity for you to fix the tie he leaves deliberately askew and then adjust the glasses on the bridge of his nose, kissing his lips fervently before waving him goodbye, that he snatches those precious moments as a dying man would snatch a mirage in the desert.

But what’s even more humiliating, is the way he’ll drop his jacket on the sofa, muttering a soft and subdued I’m home, listening for the quick footfall that tells him you’re coming down the stairs. He’ll wait for you to run a hand through his hair, pull him by the collars and take off his glasses as his hands slide down to your hips, gently squeezing the flesh as he pulls you into him. And he’ll blow his hair from his eyes, now adjusting to your gleaming outline flaring against the sun’s evening light and his heart will thud against his ribs and he’ll thank every star and a God he’s not sure he believes in for every decision which led him here.

And of course, he’s Haitani Rindou. Ever observant, every sense honed, a living weapon in himself and that means he’d be dumb not to notice you sliding your hand across the table, his glasses gripped tightly between your fingers. Into your bag, into your pocket, conveniently misplaced almost every few days, but turning up all the same, and always with a comical but adorable gasp, your mouth falling open and your eyes dancing with a flicker of light.

‘Y/N do you know where my glasses are?’ He’ll ask, as if he didn’t see you tuck them behind the TV set five minutes before that. And he’ll watch you deny it with an adamant shake of your head, your nose buried in the book resting in your lap and Rindou will quash the smirk and gleeful smile at seeing you deny it all, knowing that you’d just feign innocence for teasing him.

He lets you have it every time, your five minutes of laughter that you and Ran often share for his sake because he knows in his heart, it’s all out of love. Every meticulous thing, every kiss to his nose that has his cheeks turning pink after you adjust the gold rimmed glasses, every giggle and smile and ounce of warmth that slips through your fingers like stardust when your hand touches his hot skin or tucks the errant strands of hair behind his ears. You are the sun, and he is the moon, redeemed by the constancy of your love.

And if being subject to a bit of embarrassment was the price to pay for you, to see your smile as radiant as the sun, to see you throw your head back and laugh, then he was happy to pay it. It was a no brainer for someone as deeply entrenched as he was. 

So yes, he knows, he’s always known. 

He’s Haitani Rindou after all. Your Haitani Rindou at that.

a/n: This is a birthday present for my lovely love @tokyo-daaaamn-ji-gang (happy birthday sweetheart<3) I had so much fun writing this, but then again I always do writing for Rindou, I hope everyone else also likes it, thank you so much for all the wonderful feedback so far on everything I write. As always, likes and reblogs are so appreciated<3

taglist: @mxnjiros @stroberrylite @islascafe @prettyiolanthe @brownsugarmoonie @wotakuhime @snakegentleman @ranyechka @severellamahottub @haitaniapologist @lonnie19 @nafarsiti @invisible-cardigan-33 @seagoddesslove @manjirosgrl @crown5 @the-travelling-witch @bladesandguns @reiners-milkbiddies @girl-by-the-lake @1900-aria @rottingreveries @qiumiisoup @bontenacious (let me know if you would like to be added!!)

helpful LOA posts

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: ̗̀➛ credits to 🐰🎀 anon for sending them to me, thank you so much 🤍

scroll-through mode

★ why logic doesn't matter(yourdiorwhore)

★ why you shouldn't give up(theandreiaeffect)

★ future tense affirmations work(pl6netgirl)

★ life is really just a game(888ferris)

★ you are already that which you want to be(4stralbabyy)

★ how to reprogram your subconcious(halokisses)

★ your assumptions manifest(cleostoohot + halokisses)

★ assumptions harden into fact(princesslaws)

★ manifesting in hard circumstance(aphroditeapprenticee)

ㅤ۝ . ❛ C✬smic Dust.

· ͟͟͞͞➳ SYNOPSIS : There are emotions primordial to all humans and gods, but only two of them are above Olympus: hate and love. And the (in)direct responsible for both is Eros, son of Aphrodite.

When Apollo — Haruchiyo returns from a violent clash with Python and meets Eros — Rindō again, the son of Aphrodite sees before him the perfect chance to finish unfinished business from the hateful past between the two, which leads him to use the love of Y/N, a young nymph, to achieve his goal.

✬. C✬NTENT: smut, violence, blood, mention of gore, manipulation, plus the very warnings present in each chapter.

✬. GENRE: mythology!au, magic!au, love triangle, slowburn, fastburn, fem!reader, slight enemies to lovers, fluff, heavy angst.

✬. CHARACTERS: haruchiyo sanzu, haitani rindō, haitani ran, shiba yuzuha, hajime kokonoi, imaushi wakasa, kawaragi senju.

— total word count: 51,5K.

ㅤ۝ . ❛ taglist!

Keep reading

❦.

HOW I STARTED OFF MY MANIFESTATION JOURNEY!

+ how I better my self concept & gained trust in my manifestation abilities

i was v desperate back then and just wanted my desire without doing anything. i would watch the same manifestation videos again and again, read the same success stories again and again. I realised that wasn’t helping anything so I just went off and did my own thing.

because I was so desperate, i didn’t work on my self concept (bad idea for me lol) and just started affirming anyway. I realised that everytime I finished affirming I would get sharp pains in my chest, this was due to the fear of not getting my desires by a certain date.

fast forward weeks later..I realised I actually had to start working on my self concept, gain some trust in my loa abilities and start telling myself that I am worthy, always successful and that I deserve great things.

MY AFFIRMATIONS:

roe, i always get what i want.

everything always works in my favour

roe, i am always successful

the world is my oyster

roe, i am so beautiful and I love everything about myself

roe, i always manifest whatever i want a sec after affirming for it

roe, i have strong faith in my manifestation abilities

i always get sub results instantly

roe, i am worthy and i deserve to live my dream life

creds 2 @cleostoohot for some of these affirmations & the regardless of everything

AFTER 2 WEEKS OF AFFIRMING:

after two weeks of affirming these affirmations, I would start to see drastic changes in my life, things were actually starting to work in my favour, I did always get whatever I want, i felt so mf beautiful I did not gaf about any of the pretty bitches i saw on pinterest or tiktok, I kept reminding myself that I am prettier than them anyways, somethings I didn’t even affirm for but desired even manifested.

I wanted to put my master manifester abilities to the test & in this time I was obsessed with 21 savage lol. so for like one day I just affirmed that when I go out I would see the number 21 everywhere I go and that is exactly what mf happened!! The next thing I affirmed for was to see a pink car and I was walking to school and saw exactly that! I then affirmed that my mum would buy me some kfc, she went out that evening and when she came back yup, you fucking guessed it she brought back my fave meal from kfc. I was very fucking excited because I finally had my own proof that the law was real! I stopped reading peoples success stories for motivation and deleted tumblr, Twitter and any other loa social media platforms for a couple of months and then when I came back, the void state was popular so I decided to do that and it succeeded because why? Because I am always successful that’s why.

I am so sorry if this looks very confusing, I am still trying to work on my writing skills lol. Hope this motivated you and good luck on your journey! 💋

𑣲 IN WINTER, I COLLAPSE. ft haruchiyo sanzu.

⠀ — when an emotional tolerance reaches a whopping zero.

⚠︎ whats a vent fic lol idk wym. sad sack reader && sad themes and u get the idea. kantou!sanzu && gn reader (princess used once)

“let's go for a walk.”

sanzu watched, somewhat startled, as you sprung up from his bed. remaining lying on his back, he stared, missing the warmth that had been abruptly stolen from his chest. the look on his face would almost lead you to believe you had an extra head on your shoulders.

he peered to the clock on his bedside table.

“…it’s three in the morning.”

“so?”

“so let’s go at a normal fucking hour, i'm tired.”

he rolled over onto his side, fluffing a pillow to try and find a comfortable position. you only responded with a huff. when he didn’t feel your weight return to the mattress beside him, he turned (while suppressing a very dramatic groan) back around to see you shimmying on a pair of sweatpants.

“suit yourself, i'll be back in a little.” 

sanzu could have let his eyes roll back into the deepest part of his skull. before you could exit his bedroom, he brushed some hair out of his face, the hues of rose muddled by the lack of light, and propped himself up on his elbows.

“oi.”

you took a quick glance behind you.

“let me get dressed, i’ll drive us.”

“i wanna walk.”

“you’re gonna be too tired to walk back, i’m not listenin’ to yer cryin’ and moanin’.”

sanzu watched you cross your arms and turn back around. 

“i’m just gonna walk.” and leave.

you didn't hear the hasty footsteps behind you until you were halfway down the stairs to his apartment, and the cool february air was already biting your skin.

“will you fuckin’ slow down?”

any other day you’d without fail speed up to piss him off, but you halt.

“i never said i wouldn’t go.”

throughout your impromptu walk down the street, you bathed in silence. the overcast sky and grey clouds hiding the moon away were more than enough to make said silence feel heavier than it was.

your eyes, normally unfocused and flickering around to whatever catches their attention, were chained to your shoes. your hands, usually glued to his own, were locked away in the pockets of your his jacket. sanzu didn't like how…dejected you looked. 

“hey.” 

haruchiyo spoke up, his quiet voice resonating faintly through the deserted streets. you stopped on one foot, finally looking up and beside you. he grabbed you by your fingers and began pulling you along, towards a park you otherwise would have passed,

“come sit.”

 towards a barren swing set.

“you gonna tell me what’s goin’ on with you?” 

you were on the swing next to sanzu when he turned to look at you. he nearly missed your feeble shoulder shrug.

“dunno what you’re talking about.” you were speaking through pouted lips, once more refusing to make eye contact with him. you twisted and fiddled with a small ring on your baby finger, your cheek wedged between your teeth.

“tellin’ me you wanted to walk around in the freezing cold for fun?”

“your room was too warm.”

yeah, and that’s why you were clinging to him before leaving, right? sanzu shakes his head.

“at three in the morning?”

“no time like the present.

he clenched his jaw.

“you’re in slippers.”

“bad shoe ergonomics can cause terrible long term problems, haruchiyo.”

“cut the bullshit. talk to me.”

you didn’t.

once more, only the sporadic sound of a car passing the park could be heard for miles around. did you even want to speak? was venting the feelings swirling around in your brain worth the effort? was it worth the possibility of feeling worse after acknowledging them? did you have the strength, or even the innermost self-knowledge, to express your thoughts?

…it was worth a shot, right? to at least try and climb out of the black hole that was your brain? just this once?

“…i think something in my head is fundamentally broken.”

sanzu raised his head at your abrupt remark. he was waiting for you to go on, but you stopped.

“what makes you say that?”

you look up from the ground for only the second time since your departure. smoke is being produced out your nose from your breathing, and the rusted street light to your right is illuminating it.

sanzu wrinkles his brow.

“everyone else can do it. everyone else can just— can just be. i can’t do that. it’s not fair.”

your eyes fell to the mulch underneath your feet again. haruchiyo slowly nodded along.

“it’s so fucking exhausting, you know? to see everyone around you just live? while the whole time you’re watching, all you can think is: ‘why can’t i do that? is there something wrong with me?’”

your weight caused the rusty swing chains to creak.

it’s a me thing. it’ll always be a me thing. and it’s not like i can just rewire my brain to work right. something in it is just busted and it’ll always be like that.”

“hey.”

haruchiyo interrupted. he finally stood up from his swing– (unable to ignore just how cold his ass was from the melted snow on his pants–) and walked in front of you, placing both his hands on your shoulders. he bent to rub the back of your head as it dropped tiredly against his stomach, as if holding it up any longer was far too demanding.

“there’s nothin’ wrong with you. don’t say shit like that.”

your hands reached weakly for his waist, fingers pink and numb from the cold, trembling either from the weather or the effort your body was putting in to keep you from crying. how feebly you clung to him almost caused him to frown.

“i don’t wanna do it anymore. i’m tired.”

sanzu helped you to stand up so he could properly embrace you. he tucked your head protectively under his chin, his body heat bringing the warmth return to your frostbitten cheeks while he rubbed circles on your shoulder blades.

“i know, princess.” he hoped that the wet spot forming on his shirt was just more melted snow.

sanzu really did know. it wasn’t so much of an attempt at comfort as it was him truly saying he knew how you felt. after all, the strong aren’t always born noble. 

“the world is un-fuckin’-bearable sometimes,” he began, “the one thing you can’t let it do is eat you alive.

you’re not weak. you’ll be alright.”

you sniffled. “i think it’s fucking stupid.”

at that, he snorted, shaking his head and pulling you away from him. your cheeks were dried off by cold hands, and your red nose was kissed by even colder lips.

“thanks.” 

haruchiyo ruffled your hair.

“don’t try’n keep me out of your head next time. you know i’ll break my way in there if i hafta.” his arm perfectly encircled your shoulders as he drew you back to his side. your lips curved into a thin smile

“i'll try. no promises, though.”

he pinched your arm, earning a chuckle from you.

“cmon, let's go back to my place.”

the dull winter scenery was becoming a bit depressing. the realisation that you had to walk all the way back was the only thing more upsetting.

the walk back was much nicer, having felt like all the weights on your shoulders were left on the rickety kids swing.

on your journey, what no one could have expected was your groaning and complaining.

“holy shit it’s fucking freezing, why didn’t we take your bike?”

sanzu pushed you into a nearby snow bank.

⠀ 𑣲 MASTERLIST / GOT A REQUEST ?

Floral allure with thorns to spare.

Purchase the print : https://www.inprnt.com/gallery/aurelianamu/floral-allure-with-thorns-to-spare/

If you like my art, help by reblogging ♡ because it’s the only way to get my art noticed :)

Not meant to each other || Rindou Haitani

type: angst, soulmate AU

wc: 1.2k

tw: broken english

note: I really hated it when soulmate AU end up being sad, and I broke my heart writing this but the idea was amazing. There you go @hanmak1sser ! I hope you like it

It was your fourth anniversary with Rindou. Four years that you thought you spent with the love of your life. Everything was perfect. For the special occasion, Rindou took you to a big party like an old European’s dance taking place in a castle outside of Tokyo because he knew your love for it. He took care of everything, buying you a beautiful dress looking like one of those you love so much in your series and you almost cry when he gives it to you. The way he calls you princess all the night makes you fall in love with him once again. He was the prince you’ve waited all your life for, looking into your eyes with all the love you never receive before him. 

Everything was so perfect, just like he was. His hand securely resting on your waist, you two were dancing around the big place with all those people with the same passion as you. You were so happy that he likes it too, that he chose this place for this anniversary even if it is something that you love. He always put you first, your happiness is his and, based on the smile on your face he knew he did oh so well. Seeing you amazed by his surprise was the most precious thing ever. He would cherish this night all his life. How could he ever forget it ? The fondness in your eyes when you look at him makes his heart beat faster, just like you told him ‘I love you’ for the first time.

“I love you Rindou,” you said at the same time, laying your head on his shoulder as you started to dance a bit slower. “Thank you so much for tonight, it’s perfect.” He holds you closer, moving to the side to not bother other people here too. Both his arms were around your waist as he stopped moving, kissing your temple.

“You’re perfect,” he cheesy says to make you cringe but to his surprise, you just hold him closer too and close your eyes. You were too emotional to ruin the mood. “You’re perfect Rindou, I can’t dream of anybody else,” you whispered, making him freeze. Your sincere words touch his heart directly and all he could do is relate it. He never dared to dream of someone like you and if you ever happen to leave him, he doesn’t think he could fall in love again. He knows it was impossible. Rindou gave you his whole heart and soul, he loves you with everything he is. And he hopes you did too, because it actually feels like it. You two were meant to be, you really wanted to believe it, even if the red strings didn't show itself yet. It was obvious to anyone.

“I love you too,” he finally said and a smile appears on your red lips. Opening your eyes and getting away from his shoulder to kiss him, you catch the sight of a red thing around your pinkie and understand immediately what it was. A bright smile grows on your lips, your eyes shining as you follow it, ready to tell Rindou but soon your smile falls to be replaced with a horror sight. The red string wasn’t connected to Rindou but to his brother’s hand. Ran, who was standing on the other side of the room, lost his grip on his wine glass when he saw it too. You were looking at each other over Rindou’s shoulder. The poor man was lost, not understanding why you were so suddenly scared.

“Y/n what’s wrong ?” he panicked when your grip on his arm tightened. The broken glass caught his attention and he turned around to see his brother looking at you, then he realized that you were staring at each other. Suddenly, he was scared to understand.

Your hands started to shake. Why ? Why Ran ? You knew the Haitani for long enough to know who you belong to and for the first time of your life you hated fate. You didn’t want Ran, you were in love already. Why does fate broke the only good thing that ever happened to you ? Without realizing it, you started crying. Ran walked to you two as Rindou gets you out of the main place so nobody would see you cry. It was impossible to stop, your sobs became harder as you left the room and you were soon squatting down with the two men in front of you. Rindou, still not processing the situation, take you in his arm, trying to calm you down. Your gripped on him like your life depend on it. You couldn't let him go right now, it would feel like accepting your fate and you didn’t want it at all. Seeing you crying was the worst sight ever for Ran and he was shocked how fast this things worked. He never felt anything for you, you two were so happy that it was just impossible. But the second he saw the horror in your eyes, he wanted to run to you and take you in his arms. People say that feeling comes with the appearance of the string, and they were probably right.

You could feel it too and you hated it with all your body. All you ever wanted was Rindou’s arms around you when you cry, so why suddenly it doesn’t like it always does ? Why do you want Ran to hold you and tell you it would be okay ? You don’t love him ! It’s impossible, not that easily…

“Would you two tell me what the fuck is happening ?!” screamed Rindou out of the blue, tensed to not understanding. You were crying, he couldn't do anything about it or calm you down and he could clearly see his brother holding himself back to take you in his arms. It was his duty, why would Ran do that ?! A heavy silence fell between you three. You calm your cries a bit, but still not enough to talk. The situation was heartbreaking and you couldn't handle it.

“We’re connected,” Ran finally, looking at the ground with shame. He never wanted this either. All he ever wanted was for his baby brother to be happy and he was the one stealing his happiness. How ironic. On the other hand, Rindou’s mind went blank.

What ?

It wasn’t possible. Rindou and you were meant to be, right ? Everything was falling beneath his feet ; all the things he knew were lies. An immense lie and he wasn’t able to accept it. He slowly let go of you and it was like your breath was cut, but it was just so wrong suddenly. The dead worried look of his brother was killing him and Rindou knew he wasn’t able to help you anymore. Walking back, he lets his older brother take you in his arms even if the sight broke him deep inside. Catching his jacket, a sigh of release leaves your lips and it was like your breath was back, like everything was right. And you hated it. You stopped crying and before you could tell anything to Rindou, you saw on his face that he was hopeless, resolved to accept it.

“All I want is your happiness, even if you find it with my brother,” he said, trying to smile but instead tears roll down his cheeks too. Of course he couldn’t accept it, he want you all for himself. He knows you by heart and wanted to marry you, grow old with you. But you can’t go against fate.

I hate it here. I love Rindou with all my heart but since @crown5 already done one with Rindou ending up being reader soulmate instead of Ran I decided to do the other way. By the way it's amazing, I wanted to cry go check their work!!

ⲷ you idiot

pairing: bonten!ran haitani x gn!reader

genre/warnings: angst, no comfort

an: this is probably one of my favorite things ever

“i already told you that this isn’t going to work. what i do is dangerous. i refuse to put you in any danger” ran yells, voice scratchy from the argument.

“well you should’ve thought of that before you took interest in me!” you quickly countered.

“i didn’t think we would’ve gotten this far! if i had known i would have never-“

“finish it.” voice ice cold and glare burning through his own stare, the intensity making him cave.

his eyes move to the ground, shutting his lip tight.

“finish the sentence, haitani.”

he sighs, dragging a hand down his face, eyebrows screwed together in agony and exhaustion, “i didn’t mean for us to get this far, okay? i always told myself that our next meeting was our last. but i can’t help the feelings i have for you!”

“and yet here you are telling me we have to keep our distance! you’re giving me mixed signals right now!” your arms fly in the air, frustration bubbling over.

“then let me say this once. us, whatever we have, is done. over. gone.” his voice dead calm, picking his stare off the ground and looking you in the eyes.

an accusatory finger poking his chest. “you’re so fucking cruel for this. stringing me along knowing you were just going to cut me off. you don’t get to use people just because you want to feel something!”

“i’m shutting it down now aren’t i!? doing the right thing!” the man backs away from you, sighing and voice starting to waver, he didn’t want to do this but he had to.

“too little, too late ran! the damage is done, i hope you’re fucking happy.” nothing could hurt him more than this.

“i’m doing this to protect you! to keep you safe! you shouldn’t have to be associated with the work i do!”

“don’t you think we’ve past that point! so what now, i just go on knowing what i know?!”

as much as it crushed him to say, he answered, “yes! you pretend this never happened and you go find someone who can actually make you happy!”

“you make me happy! why are you acting like you can’t protect me? we can avoid risks and-“

ran quickly interrupts your attempt to compromise, he was being selfish he knows, “no! you aren’t understanding! i don’t want to have to work around things! if i knew i was going to meet you i wouldn’t have gone into this line of work. we could have had a normal, safe and easy life! i don’t want to taint you. yn please. we can’t. we just can’t.”

and there it is. the crack in his voice diminishes any anger that was in the air. like a wave crashing on the shore, the reality of it all setting in.

“but is this what you want?” he could see the tears in your eyes starting to surface and he wanted nothing more than to hold your face and comfort you. but it was not his place anymore.

“of course not. if i could quit and restart i would. but i cant leave my brother behind. i won’t.”

you nod your head, you can’t argue with that. you knew how much his brother meant to him, and you weren’t going to be the person to tear the little family apart.

slowly, you walk up to him. you gently lay a hand on his cheek and look at him. you really look at him, because as far as you knew this was the last time you were ever going to be this close to him.

you relish in the softness of his skin, the clearness of his face. you always envied how little he tried to be beautiful.

you stroked his hair, messy and disheveled from running his hands through it. but still, it was pretty, you hated the length of it if you were honest but it suited him.

tracing the slope of his nose, the round apple of his cheeks, his sharp jawline. his face was perfect, he was perfect.

in the short time together, he treated you with nothing but love and kindness. always going above and beyond for you, making any other guy incomparable. how unfair he is to raise the standards and then send you off.

“i’m so sorry. please believe me when i say i never intended to hurt you. i never planned to just string you along, but things quickly got serious and i knew that i couldn’t have a life with you. not when i can’t promise you my return every day. i would never want to put such stress on you.”

you squeeze your arms around him, putting your head on his chest, taking in the calming smell that is ran haitani. “but i would do anything for you. i can handle the risks.”

“i can’t. i couldn’t live with myself knowing you were waiting for me. i can’t promise my own safety. i kill people for a living. i gamble, deal with drugs, everyday is a risk for me. i do this because i want to, and i won’t subject you to such danger.”

“and what about rindou?”

“he’s a big boy, he can manage his own life. but i have to make sure he doesn’t get into too much trouble, you know?”

“you act like you’re the one not getting into the most trouble.” you lightly laugh, knowing this was all the joy you were gonna get.

“yeah well, i’m an idiot.”

“that you are.”

you lift your head from his chest, wrapping your hands around his neck, “but i’m gonna miss this idiot so much.”

“i’m going to miss you too, more than you’ll ever know.” slowly, he leans in and drinks in the last of you. draining every bit of love you have for him, so he can let you go without him.

you part ways, not allowing yourself to look back.

he watches you leave with both your heart and his own. blood seeping from your hands as you take all of him with you.

© content of luvsouya. pls do not repost or copy any of my work.

— Ran eyes the stairs that lead to his childhood home with hesitation. He glances at the rusted metal on the railing in remembrance — staring at the chipped paint on the walls next door. His initials are still carved into the wood below — his brother’s mirroring his own underneath. 

Ran hasn’t seen his mother in a long time. He hasn’t been back home for even longer. 

He's not sure he would even call this place home. 

He'd messed up terribly at the age of thirteen, and had spent a good amount of time in a correctional facility to make up for it. By the time he was out, he'd decided to leave the apartment he’d grown up in behind. He didn't give his mother much room to object — she didn’t have it in her to do so either. She'd grown weary of her words falling on deaf ears. She loved her boys, she really did. But there was only so much her heart could take — there was only so much destruction she'd allow them to partake in under her roof. She’d simply nodded when he told her he was leaving, not bothering to meet his gaze. But he remembers the fight she’d put up when Rindou had said he was coming too. He remembers the ache in his heart at being cast to the side. And he wonders if he would’ve stayed if she had begged him to. He wonders what it would be like for her to fight for him too. 

At fifteen, he’d dropped out of school. At twenty, he was an active member in a street gang. He never went to visit her — he never told her how he was doing either. Rindou left out as many details as he could when he did. For their sake and for her own, she never asked anyway. 

The two boys cleaned up their act as they got older. They'd started their own business — had grown extremely well known and successful in the industry too.

Still, he never called. Still, he rarely went to visit.

Yet here he was, standing at her doorstep, debating over whether or not he should knock ─ over whether or not it was wise to come speak to her. He had something to tell her; something really important. But a part of him didn’t want to see her look at him in disappointment — a part of him wanted to avoid her look of regret. It was that part of him that had decided to avoid her altogether. He despised that look — he hated how inferior and small it made him feel. Like he was fifteen all over again. Like he wasn’t edging thirty-five. Like he hasn’t long since been responsible for not only himself, but others too.

He had a difficult relationship with his mother. A push and pull he'd never been able to figure out. They were too much alike. He never felt like he was enough. 

She wasn't a cruel woman. She wasn't evil by any means. She'd been good to him — good to the both of them. She always has been. She always would be. 

But he's just like her — a part of her ribs, a part of her soul. He's just like her and it terrified her to her core. She’s just like him and it made him want to hate her even more. 

But a mother was a mother, and he was still her boy. A mother was a mother, and he had no choice. 

So he sighs, and he brings his knuckles up to the door. 

He hears her shuffle around before it opens and she blinks at him in surprise. She doesn’t smile but she reaches for him immediately and he bends to let her hug him. Her embrace lasts only for a moment. He doesn’t think he could stand it if it lasted any longer. Fragile arms hold his face, scolding him for looking so gaunt — criticizing him for smelling like smoke. 

He thinks he's home now, here with her words. He wonders if this was still home.

Whatever that meant at this point. Whatever that was supposed to mean. 

She ushers him inside and he's nervous all over again. He can't remember the last time he'd been this scared to face her. 

Maybe it was when Rindou had broken his arm and he had to be the one to tell her — when he was only seven and it was his fault. He should’ve looked after his brother better. He should’ve stopped him from his own stupidity. 

Or maybe it was when she'd stared at him behind the visiting glass at the juvenile prison — when she’d stared at the bruise on his face and the avoidance in his gaze and didn’t bother saying a single word to him. 

He furrows his brows at the flurry of thoughts. He doesn’t want to remember any of that at all.

She doesn't sit, so he follows her into the kitchen. He eyes the sliced meat and the cloves and the spices scattered across the counter. He takes a seat at the small dining table in his childhood home and she goes back to cooking. 

"What is it?" she asks him, breaking the silence. 

Her back is to him as she stirs the pot and he stares at her — at how small she is compared to him —at how small everything here was now that he was older and taller. 

"What makes you think it's anything?" he replies. 

She rolls her eyes, licking her teeth.

"Don't start with me, boy. You never visit without your brother."

He looks down at his knuckles. He eyes the emptiness in his hands.

"What's going on?" she says again. Her voice is still sharp but there’s a softness to it. Like she's prepared for the worst. Like she can handle it if he told her.

He sighs, leaning back in the wood chair. It creaks under his weight and he scratches at the worn out material of the table. It was old. Everything here was so old. She'd refused to let them move her out even after they'd had the means to. "Leave it alone,” she had said. “I'm fine with the way things are."

Ran had shrugged, dropping the subject after the first time they’d brought it up, but Rindou had kept insisting. 

He never got his way in the end.

"I've been seeing someone," he tells her. She pauses her stirring, but doesn't turn around.

He keeps going, rubbing the back of his neck as he tenses.

"For about a year. A little longer than that, I think."

She doesn’t say a word as she holds her breath, pretending to reach for the salt instead — as if she hasn’t used enough of it already — as if she needed anymore.

"She’s pregnant, Ma."

Her eyes are sharp and wide as she turns to look at him. He sees himself in her silent rage. He sees himself in the lavender of her fury. And he knows it's rage for your sake. He knows what she's thinking.

That poor girl. That poor, poor girl.

It's courtesy for you. It's concern and worry for a girl she hasn't even met yet.

Not for him. He doesn't think it's ever been for him. 

"Is she your woman?"

He dwells on the question for a moment, pondering between the literal and the figurative. He decides to go with the former. 

"She was.”

“Was?” 

“I messed up," he reveals.

"What did you do?" Her anger is silent ─ it's quiet and building.

"I said some shit I shouldn't have when I found out."

There it was. There it is.

That look of disappointment he'd wanted to avoid — that silence he hated drowning in. 

Your fault, the still air seemed to ring out. It’s all your fault.

"Is she keeping it?"

He glances at her when he replies.

"Yeah."

"Do you plan to be in their lives? Because if you don't, you leave that girl alone. You do your part financially, and you leave her alone. Do you understand me?"

The skin around her knuckles turns a ghastly white as her grip tightens against the ladle in her palm. 

She’s quick to speak — quick to assume. Quick to judge — quick to decide for him. She’s right, he knows that. She’s always been right. But he hates the lack of autonomy — he hates that he gets no say when it comes to her. He digs his nails into the skin of his palm and he wonders just how hard he'd have to press to dissipate his anger — just how much would it take to stop the pressure in his lungs.

But he thinks of you, and he decides against it. He thinks of you, and he decides to explain instead.

He tells her that you’d broken up with him after all that he’d said. He tells her that he'd apologized not even a week later. He would've apologized earlier but you had refused to see him. He’d wanted to say sorry immediately, but you wouldn't let him. 

He tells her what he’d told you — that he wanted to be with you, that he wanted to take care of you and the baby. And he tells her what you'd told him — that you'd quietly nodded, accepting his words, but that you wouldn't take him back. Not yet at least. Not so soon after that.

 "I need to have this child first," you had said at the time. "I need to know you won't leave when I do."

She leaves the ladle in the pot and moves to sit at the table in front of him, listening intently. It's the most she’s ever heard him say. It's the most he's ever directly said to her about his life. 

It's ironic and heartbreaking ─ the sad reality of a mother and son who know nothing of each other — the truth behind those who have made no attempts to forgive and to heal and to move on with one another.

She sits back.

"Smart girl. Good on her."

He runs a hand across his face, groaning. "Come on, Ma."

She sighs, her chin in her palm as she stares at her eldest son.

"I'm worried about your choice in women though."

He laughs at that. For the first time in a long time, he laughs with his mother. For the first time in a longer time, she smiles back.

He remembers when she’d walked in on him having sex just after he’d turned eighteen — at how angry she’d been that the woman had been in her late, late twenties. And though she’d been visiting the apartment out of concern for her kids and their terrible eating habits — she had still ended up throwing her shoes at the both of them. He thought she was crazy at the time. He had been convinced she was out to make his life a living hell. But he understands now — why she'd been so angry. He gets why she'd been so scared and hurt — why her fear that he’d get taken advantage of had blinded her with rage.

She remembers when Rindou had shown her a picture of the girl Ran had been dating when he was twenty-one. She remembers looking at the screen, shaking her head in disappointment. She could tell from her eyes alone that the girl had ill intentions — that she was no good at all. She’d told Rindou that much on his way out. He’d shrugged, thinking nothing of it. 

She’d found out later that the two boys had been robbed — that they'd nearly been jumped — and that the girl had been involved. 

Ran doesn’t speak to his mother in the hospital. She’d doted on Rindou the entire time instead. 

—

The two of them sigh synchronously.

"You’ll like her more than you like me," he says into the still air. 

She tilts her head at him, and she wonders what he thinks her perception of him is. It doesn’t seem good. It doesn’t seem good at all. And she can’t help but wonder if she is to blame.

“No, you’ll love her,” he reiterates.

There’s a fond smile on his face as he looks back at his mother, and she wonders idly about the girl that was able to bring a gentle expression to her son’s face at the mere mention of her presence.

"I'd like to meet her — the mother of your child. I want to meet her."

He looks at her, and he nods. He was hoping she’d say that. She looks back at him, and she tries to smile. She was hoping he’d agree. 

The two of them were a mirror image of each other in ways they would never understand, in ways they could never explain. They tore each other apart and the pieces never fit together properly again. There was room for Rindou. There was always room for his mistakes.

But Ran had to cut himself up piece by piece to find a place. He’d had to tip toe through the mess and cut his skin against her shattered fury before he’d given up altogether. She didn’t know he’d been looking so desperately. He didn’t know he didn’t have to look that far.

"Yeah.” He says. “Yeah, I'll bring her over."

She tells him that it seems like the two of you are on good terms despite it all, and he chuckles, nodding in agreement. He feels himself grow weary when he tells her that he's proposed to you multiple times since then, and that you'd rejected him every time. 

She laughs a little too loudly for his liking and he shoots her a glare.

"Bring her over soon. I need to meet this girl."

She goes to make him a plate, ignoring his protests as she places it in front of him on the table. He sighs in exaggeration at her insistence and she shakes her head as she stands before him, watching as foregoes his etiquette. She musses his hair before her gaze falls to a silver strand in the darkness of his hair, and her stomach sinks with guilt. She hadn't realized how much older he'd gotten. She hadn’t noticed all that she’s missed out on. She clears her throat, ridding herself of the thought as she peers at her son once more. 

"How old is she, by the way?"

His mouth is full, when he replies "twenty-four" and she smacks the back of his neck immediately — ignorant of the food he chokes on.

"You fucking idiot."

"Give it up, woman.”

She shakes her head, mumbling obscenities to herself as she washes the dishes. 

He doesn’t leave until he finishes his plate. 

—

He calls you on his way home, your voice soothing him as his phone connects to the speakers in his car.

"Hello, gorgeous,” he says, the moment you pick up.

"What’s wrong?"

He rubs at his temple at your response.

"I can flirt with the mother of my unborn child without there being an ulterior motive, you know."

"I know." you say. There’s a pause — a brief one from your end. "But there is something, isn't there?"

He stares at the screen. There is.

He wonders how you know. He wonders about all that you know. He avoids your question instead.

"What are you doing this weekend?"

You hum in thought.

“I have an appointment on Saturday.”

“For what?” He furrows his brow. He’d been consistently attending the ones you’d told him about. This was the first he’d heard of this one. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, it’s okay,” you say. “I just need to get blood drawn, it shouldn’t take long.” 

“Alright. What are you doing after?”

"Nothing, I think,” you respond as you fold a t-shirt — his t-shirt. “Why?"

"My mom wants to meet you."

There's another pause from your end. There was more weight attached to this one — more emotion and fear, worry and concern.

"You told her?"

"I did."

"What did she say?"

You're nervous — a little scared, even. He can tell by the subtle change in the lilt of your voice. You didn’t want her to think of you as an ‘easy girl’. You knew that it was traditionally frowned upon to have a child before marriage. Your grandmother had given the two of you an earful herself. “Put a ring on her finger,” she’d scolded him. “She won’t let me,” he’d complained right back. It went well in the end. It went better than you would’ve thought. 

But you’d never met his mother before. He rarely spoke to you about her at all. And you're worried she’ll look down on you — that she'll hate you before you’re able to be anyone but the mother of her son’s child. You’re scared that your identity will be reduced to just that. 

The low tone of his voice brings you back, and you grip the phone to your ear as he responds.

"That she wants to meet you."

You furrow your brows.

"That's it?"

"Yeah.”

“Really?”

“What do you want me to say? That she cursed me out for knocking you up? She's on your side, you know. Called you a smart girl for not taking a ‘good for nothing’ man like me back. The hag gave birth to me but she's siding with you. I can’t believe this shit." He shakes his head in fake disbelief. He’d expected just as much from her anyway. But you didn’t need to know that. 

You laugh, and he loves it. You laugh, and he loves you. The sound makes its way around his car and he finds comfort in the beauty of your joy.

"I miss you," he says after a minute. It's been a few days since he'd last seen you — a few days too long.

You hum again in response. 

He drives in the quiet for a little, listening as you move around, and he wonders what you're doing in the apartment on your own.

"I miss you too," you finally confess.

Your voice is soft — quiet. He might’ve missed it had his phone not been connected to the speakers in his car. The gentle smile reserved just for you makes its way back onto his face and he glances at your name on the screen. 

"How are you? How's the baby?"

He nears the daunting building of his penthouse, but he finds himself thinking more and more about you and your one-bedroom apartment and all the space you let him take up when he was with you. He wonders if you'd let him come over. He wonders if you’d let him stay. 

Home. He thinks briefly of the word again and he finds that there’s a person attached to it now — and he knows that it’s never been a place. Not for him at least. Not since you.

You eye your belly, stroking the swell of your stomach.

"She's good. A little fussy today though."

“She's keeping you up?”

You sigh, and he knows then that the baby had been relentless in her efforts to do so. 

“She thinks it’s fun to kick my bladder.”

He snorts. Funny kid. 

"And you? How are you?"

Your heart flutters just a little at his incessant need to check up on you.

"I'm okay."

He tells you he wants you to keep talking to him. Talk about anything, talk about whatever — just until he gets home. He doesn't tell you why. He doesn’t need to either. You knew that his relationship with his mother was strained. You knew they had a hard time being around each other. And you knew that his nerves were probably shot.

So you sit on the couch and you tell him about your day — what you watched, what you ate, how many times your baby kicked, and a few of the names you'd been considering. You talk and it's everything to him — you talk, and you breathe life back into him. You're a little distracted in your speech, pausing at odd times, forgetting your train of thought here and there, and he figures you must be doing something else while talking to him. He doesn't tell you that he's been sitting in the garage of his penthouse for seven minutes now. He doesn't tell you that he's already home. It's selfish of him, but he needs you to ground him for just a little longer — for just a bit more.

"I have to pee, Ran."

He tilts his head against the headrest, grinning as you interrupt his train of thought.

"By all means, baby. Go ahead."

"Pervert.” 

He laughs and the concern in your chest eases up just a little. He's okay. He'd be okay. He tells you he'll see you soon, and you nod in agreement.

“I love you," he says before you can hang up.

And you want to say it back like you used to. You want to say it back like you've always done before.

But you don't. Not yet.

Not yet.

"I know," is your quiet response. 

And he's thankful for that at least. He's thankful that you know.

—

He lights a cigarette as he leans against his car in wait for you. You hated when he smoked in your apartment, but you’d despised it even more when you’d gotten pregnant. He’d resorted to smoking outside when he came to visit — a plastic chair set aside just for him now resided on your balcony. You’d read his text, but you hadn’t responded — so he smokes and he waits, and he eyes your door as he exhales. He takes another drag before he crushes the stick of nicotine underneath his shoe, and he runs a hand through his hair as he makes his way up to the second floor.

He knocks and he waits for a moment. He decides to wait another two. 

You open the door right before he’s about to knock again and his eyes soften instantly at the sight of you.

He was so lucky. He was so ridiculously lucky. You were always so lovely — always so beautiful.

But your eyes are wet and there’s a pout on your lips — a slight tremble to them that you’re trying to hide. He finds that he can’t even greet you properly. His first thought is to comfort you instead.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

He moves one hand to the small of your back, the other shifting to cradle your bump instead. You’re beautiful in the dress you’d decided to wear and you’re pretty as you look up at him with tears in your eyes. 

“What’s wrong, love?” he says again.

“My shoes won’t fit.”

He blinks at you as he processes your words, and he resists the urge to smile.

“My feet hurt and my shoes won’t fit. Don’t laugh at me, asshole.”

You almost cry, and he moves his thumbs to your lash line before you do.

“Not laughing at you, baby,” he says, hiding his grin. “Come on, princess.” 

He takes your hand and guides you to the dining table. You sit, wiping at your eyes while he digs through the small pile of shoes in your closet. He finds a loose pair of sandals that he knew had to fit, and he waves them once over his head. 

“Ta-da.”

He kneels in front of you, reaching for your feet as he switches your shoes out for you. He slips the sandals on, long fingers gently tugging at the straps, and he rubs at your feet before he smiles up at you. He looks tired, you think. He looks a little scared. 

You go to reach for his face but he stands before you’re able to stroke his cheek. 

“Where’s your purse, baby? We gotta go.” 

You nod, grabbing your bag, and he takes your palm in his silently as he locks your door behind the two of you. He pockets your key and you understand. You know that he wants you to stay over at his place tonight. 

And maybe exes shouldn’t treat each other like you and him. Maybe they shouldn’t brush eyelashes off of each other’s cheeks. Maybe they shouldn’t have copies of each other’s keys. Maybe he shouldn’t kiss your jaw. Maybe you shouldn’t grip his wrist.

But the lines have been crossed in more ways than one, and the bridging continued to occur.

You don't let go of his hand the rest of the way there. He doesn’t think he wants you to either.

—

You’re scared.

You’re really, really nervous. Your hand naturally drifts to your belly, and you shy away to stand behind him when he knocks on the door. 

He turns to kiss your forehead, brushing your cheek gently in the process.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “It’s okay.”

You listen as the door unlocks — you watch as it creaks on its own hinges and opens. Ran bends to kiss his mother’s cheek and you watch as a thin hand pats his back before a woman speaks. 

“Yeah, yeah. Where’s the girl?” 

He rolls his eyes and moves slightly out of the way. You peer at her from behind him and her eyes widen. You smile and it’s filled with nerves — filled with kindness and a gentle nature. 

She stares at you in awe. She stares at you in wonder. 

“Oh.”

What good could her son have possibly done in this lifetime, and how quickly was he repaid for it with you? She can’t help but reach for you. She hesitates for a moment, worried it’ll make you uncomfortable, but you step into her embrace and she hugs you. She hugs you and she says nothing else, and you want to cry at how tightly she holds you. You want to break down at how much she looked like him. 

She’s a thin, spindly woman — shorter than her son, but a little taller than the average woman. Her hair is long and black — her face framed with strands of gray. Her eyes crinkle when she smiles and your heart aches. The lavender in her gaze looked just like his. The subtle hurt in her eyes mirrored his own too.

He looks away — gazing into his childhood home instead. 

He can’t look at her. He can’t look at you. 

She ushers the two of you inside, and you follow her into the kitchen. She talks, and you listen. And though her gaze had drifted to your belly a few times over, she doesn't say anything about the baby. She doesn’t say anything at all. He watches as the two of you fall into a natural rhythm, and he lingers near the entry as you help her set the table, fingers twisting the ring in his pocket. He expects that rejection is inevitable tonight as well. 

Dinner is quiet. They don’t talk to each other much. The air isn’t tense, but it’s brutal in its presence. It’s a silence they’re used to — a silence they’re unable to live without. She asks about you, and you tell her all that you can. She asks and you answer and it isn’t so bad. It isn’t so bad at all.

You’re unable to read the expression on Ran's face as he picks at his food, and your brows furrow in slight concern as you stand to help her clear the table. 

It’s then that he rolls his sleeves up. 

It’s then that she gives a disapproving look and sigh as her gaze drifts to the tattoo wrapped around his arm. 

She shakes her head and he drops the plates into the sink. You flinch at the sound. 

“Are you gonna react like that every time?”

Her eyes flit to you for a second, before her gaze sharpens at her son. 

“When your kid comes home at thirteen with a tattoo covering the entire left side of their body, you’d be bitter about it for a long time too.”

“It’s been twenty years, Ma.”

“Like I give a shit,” she mutters as she moves to turn the sink water on. 

He’s angry now. You watch in worry as they bring out the worst in each other. You watch as they weave a web of sorrow — you watch as they strike and suffocate one another.

“My kid can mess up all she wants. She’ll still be my fucking kid.”

He doesn’t realize that she knows that already. He doesn’t get that she knows that very well. He’s still her son. He’s still her boy. And she hurts because he’d sought refuge in other vices instead of her. She hurts because she had no one to blame but herself. She quiets when her gaze drifts to you once more and she turns to the pot on the stove, busying herself with its contents.

Your eyes are wide as you stare at your lover. 

His chest rises and falls in resentment as he glares at her, before he reaches for his cigarettes, making his way back outside.

You don’t know what to do with yourself. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say. You don’t know who to comfort. You don’t think it’s your place to even do so.

It’s then that she turns to you, the lilac in her eyes shining underneath the dim kitchen lights. 

“You’re having a girl?”

It’s the first time she’s acknowledged the baby. You remember what he’d said in the car, as he’d gazed at the traffic with a forlorn expression. “She’s always wanted a girl.” He’d smiled in exhaustion before he’d turned to pinch your nose. “Now she gets two.”

You blink back at her and you nod. 

“Yes,” is all you can say. 

Her eyes soften, and she turns to occupy herself with the mess on the counter. 

Your gaze drift to the door as it shuts loudly behind him and you yearn for the man you love. You leave the kitchen quietly as you turn to look for him.

You find him seated at the bottom of the stairs, fiddling with the box in his hands.

The cigarette lights up his face momentarily as he brings the nicotine up to his face and he breathes out into the still air, shaking his head as he rests his arms on his knees.

He hears the front door open behind him and he knows it’s you. It could only be you.

Your smile is soft — nervous, even — as you close the screen door behind you gently. He puts the cigarette out before he scoots over a little, making room for you as you make your way down, and he laughs as you awkwardly situate yourself beside him. You pinch his bicep in fake irritation and he grins as he kisses your forehead in greeting. You sigh as you settle down beside him. 

“Are you okay?” he asks you. 

“Are you?” you retaliate. 

Your voice is soft. He thinks you must be getting sleepy. 

“Yeah, I'm good. Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

He doesn’t say anything else — looking out into the now quiet neighborhood instead. 

Soon, it would be loud again. Soon, the doors would open and people would make their way downtown — to pachinko parlors, and nightclubs, to convenience stores, and karaoke.

But right now, the air is still. Right now, Roppongi was surprisingly quiet. 

You reach for his hand in the flickering dark. You trace the lines on his palm. You trace the scars and the outline of his rings. You trace his name and you trace yours. You trace a heart in between. Neither of you says a word. But as you lean your head against his shoulder, you look out into the world and you wonder what he sees. The apartment complex he’d grown up in was worn down and dull. Yet it’s surrounded by bright lights. Everything was full of color. 

What was a child expected to do on their own in this hub of chaos? Where was a child expected to go? 

“She can’t stand the sight of me,” he says — breaking the stillness on his own.

“She thinks I corrupted Rindou,” he chuckles darkly at that. Your heart aches at his words.

“You didn’t.”

He pretends like he doesn’t hear you. 

“She thinks I’m gonna ruin your life too.” He glances at your belly. “Yours and hers.”

“You won’t,” you follow up — not bothering to entertain the thought.

He stares off, rubbing his hands together as he pulls his palm out and away from yours. 

“How do you know?”

“I won’t let you,” you whisper. 

You angle your knees towards him and you stare at the man before you with longing in your eyes. How hurt he was — sitting here beside you — how scarred and flawed, how abandoned and lost. 

You hold his face and you tilt your head in worry, and his heart races at the sight. It hurts. It hurts so bad. And he’s sorry. He’s sorry for all that he’s ever done. He’s sorry for what he might do. He’s sorry for any tears he’s made you shed. He doesn’t want to fail you too. 

You kiss his jaw and you pull him into you. His eyes widen at the words you utter against him. 

“It’s not your fault,” you say. 

He grips your dress. 

“It’s not your fault,” you repeat. 

He holds you tighter. 

He wants to believe you. He hopes that one day, he will. 

He drops his head to your shoulder. You hold him even tighter — you pull him in even closer. Your fingers run through the short strands of his hair and he kisses the exposed skin of your shoulder in silent appreciation. 

His mother watches the two of you from beyond the window. There’s a strange warmth that settles into her ache. 

You were good. You were so good. Maybe even too good. 

Too good for this family. Too pure for their hurt. 

He tells you he just needs a minute more, gesturing towards the cigarettes, and you nod as you stand. He kisses your hand before you make your way back up the stairs and you smooth the dark strands out of his face, gently stroking his cheek as he places a stick in between his lips. “Take your time,” you tell him. 

His mother waits for you in the living room. There’s a worn out tray on the chabudai before her, and you smile as you take a seat. She exhales as she pours the tea, and you thank her as she sets it down. 

“He’s never liked Sencha,” she tells you fondly as she stares at the cup in her hands. 

Yes, you want to say. I know that very well. 

But you want her to have this part of him — this little known fact that she’d managed to get a hold of. You want her to be a mother. You want her to be his mother. 

She traces the lip of the cup and you can’t help but ask her if everything was alright. Her quiet held meaning. Her silence meant questions. 

“Why are you with him?” she asks. It’s a blunt question — slightly aggressive in its nature — and you see her children in her. 

“I —”

She cuts you off before you’re able to explain. 

“He told me that you broke up with him, and rightfully so too.”

You wince a little at the wording. 

“But you’re here. You’re here and you’re good to him. Why are you good to him? Why him?” 

She tried, she really did try. But she doesn’t understand. She doesn’t get it. She can’t seem to wrap her mind around it at all. You’re a good girl. You seemed like a wonderful woman. So why her son? Why not anyone else? Why not spare yourself the heartache and the trouble?

She doesn’t understand why you’re here instead.

Ran stands in the darkness of the hallway as he listens in. The cigarette pack is crushed beneath his grip and he regrets not making more noise when coming in. 

This was not good. 

This was not good at all. 

He tilts his head up towards the ceiling and curses his mother’s inability to feign ignorance. 

He could leave.

He could walk out and wait till the conversation was over and the two of you had moved on before he came back inside. But there’s a vile part of him that wants to hear your truth. There’s a sick part of him that wants you to make him hurt. Why were you with him? Why were you here at all?

You hum as your gaze drifts to the photos she had lined up near the tv. There’s a picture of the two boys outside. Their grins are wide and their hair a brilliant blonde. You smile softly because you know he despises his natural hair color. You know he hates it because of his father. And you know that Rindou had been too young to remember anything of the man. But Ran knew enough to detest him. He knew enough to never go back to blonde. You look at another photo, and you think he must be in his twenties. Rindou’s smile is the only one to be seen. Ran mirrors his mother — in stance and appearance. You think they must’ve argued before the photo was taken. And you wonder if he’d kept his hair long and dark to spite her — as if to say “Look at me. I’m everything you hate. Look at me. I look just like you.” He wanted her to look at him and wince. He wanted her to see herself in him. He was everything she failed at. He was everything she couldn’t control.

He’s beautiful, despite his pettiness, and you look back at her. 

Why are you with him? You smile at the loaded question. 

“Because I love him,” you tell her as much, and your chest blooms. It aches because you do — you love him. You love him. And sometimes you don’t know what to do with it all. Sometimes, you don’t know where you’re supposed to keep it — all this love; all these feelings. But you don’t think that’s what this is about.

You don’t think that this is what she’s asking about at all. 

You tell her she’d done well. You tell her that both of her boys were good men — that they were respected and revered and admired in their work. But then you tell her that if she kept holding on to the past — if she kept holding on to his past — then she’d only destroy them even further. Her eyes widen and you’re worried you might’ve crossed a line, but you keep going. You keep going because it’s not fair to him. You keep going because it isn’t fair to her.

“He’s riddled with guilt,” you say quietly. “It’s not his fault,” you say again. “It’s not.”

“Then whose is it?” She challenges. “Who is responsible?”

“I don’t know,” you respond. “But he’s not thirteen anymore. He’s not fifteen. He’s not twenty.”

She can’t help the slight sheen that covers her eyes — at all the time that she’d missed; at all that she’d desperately clung to. She’d been selfish in her approach. And she knows that it’s not her fault that she was alone. She knows it’s not her fault that she was always tired and away for work. But somewhere along the line, she’d forgotten that he’d had to bear the burden of raising himself and his brother — and that he’d done the best that any child could do. She looks away from you and she thinks he must’ve been scared. She looks away and she thinks he must be tired too. 

She holds her breath and you think she’s just like him in that regard — that they were both the type to shoulder their hurt and smile, as if everything was okay — as if the sharpness in their eyes didn’t dull and they weren’t affected by everything around them.

You can only imagine how isolated she must feel. You can only wonder how lonely it must be. 

Her gaze drifts back to your belly and you know she’s holding herself back. You know she wants to touch the baby — that she wants to seek comfort in a grandchild she’d only come to know about. It’s a lot to process. It’s a lot to take in. You silently ask her for permission as you reach for her thin fingers — placing her palm onto your stomach. To know that your oldest child had their own on the way and to realize that you had no place in any of it at all — it’s a damning feeling. And maybe she’d been a shit mother. Maybe she hadn’t done all that she should have. But she can’t help but wonder if it was too late. Would he let her be his mother? Would he let her be a grandmother? Was this all she’d come to know of the child?

She’s lost in her own thoughts when your brows furrow, and you wince when your baby kicks against her palm.

The woman before you starts to cry.

It’s quiet, the steadiness in which her tears stream down her face. They follow a common path – down the hollow of her eyes, down to the curved line of her mouth — down, down, down they go. 

“Forgive me,” she goes to say. You brush her apology off with a tired smile.

“She’s excited to meet her grandmother.” 

She blinks at you again – at your choice of words and the necessity of their timing – and she shakes her head at the irony. 

She laughs for the first time all night, and she decides that she doesn’t want you to see her cry anymore. 

The two of you sit together in the living room — your eyes fixed onto the tv and the late night game show.

Your lover makes his way back into the living room, looking away as he sits beside you. He pretends he didn’t hear a single word. He pretends he didn’t hear anything at all.

He pours himself a cup of Sencha, wincing at the flavor. 

His mother chuckles at the sight. 

Her hand doesn’t leave your belly. 

—

He takes you back to his place that night. You don’t object as you nod off in the car. You’re tired. You wonder if it’s always been like this for him — if he’s always felt at war in the very place he was supposed to belong. He reaches for your palm, fiddling with the emptiness of your ring finger as the red light washes over your figure. Your gaze is haunting and he falls in love with you all over — again and again, his heart falls victim to you. Again and again, he’s certain of his love for you.

The two of you don’t talk about tonight.

Not yet at least. Not right now. 

You lean into his side on the way up to his penthouse. He wraps an arm around your waist and strokes your jaw.

Still, you don’t say much. Still, you don’t say anything about it at all.

You’d resorted to sleeping in the guest bedroom after the two of you had initially split. On days that you’d had early appointments — on nights that you’d felt sick and alone — he’d preferred that you stay with him. You didn’t mind at all. His presence was comforting — safe and reassuring. 

He’d played along with the front you’d put up at first. He’d let you shut the door and pretend to sleep on your own for a day or two. It didn’t take long for him to find his way back to your side. It didn’t take long for you to fall asleep in his arms while he drooled into the pillow overhead and you clutched his shirt tight.

But this time, when he unlocks the door and you make your way over to the guest bedroom, all he does is kiss your forehead in passing. All he does is stroke your cheek in goodbye. He doesn’t tease you at the entry way. He doesn’t fake a scene or hold you tight.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” is all he says.

You watch as he heads to his bedroom instead — you feel lonelier than you’d felt the first night you’d slept alone. 

And he knew you deserved better. He knew he didn’t think this through. He knew that this was too much — that this was all too much for the both of you. And he knew that any excess stress right now wouldn’t be good for you at all. 

But his head hurt, and his chest ached, and his shoulders were strained under the weight of all his burdens. 

You stare at him in concern, eyes filled with worry and hurt — and you want him back. 

You want your lover back. 

You sit in the guest bedroom after you’d washed and changed and you eye the clock in a daze. You think an hour passes. Maybe more.

Your daughter kicks impatiently and you exhale at the pressure, rubbing at the spot as though to comfort her. 

“Yes, I know,” you tell her. “I know, baby.” I know.

You don’t bother knocking on his door as you make your way into the master bedroom. It’s dark, save for the twinkling lights of the city below. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his back facing the door as he hunches over — his hands covering his face. Slowly, you climb onto your side of the bed. Your palms smooth over the untouched blankets and you eye your pillow on his side of the bed. 

It’s been a while since you've slept here. It’s been a while since you’ve (more or less) split.

You sit on your knees directly behind him and you grip the sheets beside you as you let your forehead fall onto his back.

“Ran?” you whisper.

His muscles tense, but he doesn’t respond to you otherwise.

“Baby,” you say.

“Come back,” you nearly beg.

You trail a finger down his spine — finger smoothing over every ridge; heart aching with every touch. 

He turns to you then, slightly, as he peers over his shoulder.

Your eyes are wide and hopeful, and he shakes his head at the sight. 

“No good for you. I’m no good.”

“Yes, you are.”

There’s a slight tremble to his shoulders and you press your cheek to his back as you lean against him.

You wrap one arm around his waist, stroking the skin of his side. It’s too much. His heart can only take so much. 

“It’s okay,” you mutter, lips moving against his back. It’s not your fault. It’s not. You did good. You did well. You’re a good man, you tell him. And I love you, you say against him.

He stills. 

You say it again.

“I love you.”

He looks down at his palm — at the small ring settled down in the center. It sparkles in the dark and he closes his fist against it at the sight.

“Marry me then,” he says — as though it’s a challenge — as though he’s given up on any chance of you saying yes.

“Okay,” you whisper.

His brows furrow in confusion. He’s not sure he heard you right. He doesn’t know if you understand.

He turns to you immediately. Adoration lines his eyes as he stares at you and his gaze darkens as his nerves are shot with fear.

“What?”

Don’t play with me, his gaze seemed to say. Don’t mess with me right now. Not you. Please not you.

Your hand strokes the soft stubble on his cheek and you smile. It’s tired and loving, genuine and you. 

“Ask me again,” you say as he stares. He’s quick to oblige — quick to fulfill your request.

He’s scared you’re going to fade away. He’s scared you might still leave. 

“Marry me,” he pleads. “Marry me. Please.”

You think he’s dizzy from all that he’s feeling. You think he’s high off of everything that’s happened. But you know his heart and you know yours, and you know there’s only so much he can take. You know there’s only so much hurt he can handle.

And he loves you. He loves you. He adores you. 

“Yes,” you whisper, and you try not to cry as he slips the ring onto your finger. 

“Yeah?” he mutters, eyes hazy as he stares into your own.

“Yes,” you say again. “Yes.”

He kisses you then, with need and want.

He kisses you like you’re the love of his life.

He kisses you like you’re the mother of his child.

He kisses you like he wants to marry you — like he fully intends on doing so too. 

It’s been eight months too long, but you lay beside him on your side of the bed, and he smiles down at you in love and need. 

He kisses you once more as you whine for sleep, and he smiles against your lips at the complaint. Just one more, he says. Just one more, I promise. You push at his face and he laughs at your insistence. You feel your daughter move soon after, and you reach for his wrist, placing your palm on top of his as you guide him to her. As you always would. As you always will.

The two of you would enter parenthood soon — a marriage would follow soon after. You’re both a little scared. You’re both a little terrified. And you know he can’t help but think of all the ways it could go wrong. You know he’s afraid he’ll be the one to screw it all up — quick to take the blame; quick to deny himself the benefit of the doubt.

But you fit your hand in his and you hold on tight.

You trust him, and he trusts you. 

You love him, and he loves you. 

— Ran eyes the stairs that lead to his childhood home with hesitation. He glances at the rusted metal on the railing in remembrance — staring at the chipped paint on the walls next door. His initials are still carved into the wood below — his brother’s mirroring his own underneath. 

Ran hasn’t seen his mother in a long time. He hasn’t been back home for even longer. 

He's not sure he would even call this place home. 

He'd messed up terribly at the age of thirteen, and had spent a good amount of time in a correctional facility to make up for it. By the time he was out, he'd decided to leave the apartment he’d grown up in behind. He didn't give his mother much room to object — she didn’t have it in her to do so either. She'd grown weary of her words falling on deaf ears. She loved her boys, she really did. But there was only so much her heart could take — there was only so much destruction she'd allow them to partake in under her roof. She’d simply nodded when he told her he was leaving, not bothering to meet his gaze. But he remembers the fight she’d put up when Rindou had said he was coming too. He remembers the ache in his heart at being cast to the side. And he wonders if he would’ve stayed if she had begged him to. He wonders what it would be like for her to fight for him too. 

At fifteen, he’d dropped out of school. At twenty, he was an active member in a street gang. He never went to visit her — he never told her how he was doing either. Rindou left out as many details as he could when he did. For their sake and for her own, she never asked anyway. 

The two boys cleaned up their act as they got older. They'd started their own business — had grown extremely well known and successful in the industry too.

Still, he never called. Still, he rarely went to visit.

Yet here he was, standing at her doorstep, debating over whether or not he should knock ─ over whether or not it was wise to come speak to her. He had something to tell her; something really important. But a part of him didn’t want to see her look at him in disappointment — a part of him wanted to avoid her look of regret. It was that part of him that had decided to avoid her altogether. He despised that look — he hated how inferior and small it made him feel. Like he was fifteen all over again. Like he wasn’t edging thirty-five. Like he hasn’t long since been responsible for not only himself, but others too.

He had a difficult relationship with his mother. A push and pull he'd never been able to figure out. They were too much alike. He never felt like he was enough. 

She wasn't a cruel woman. She wasn't evil by any means. She'd been good to him — good to the both of them. She always has been. She always would be. 

But he's just like her — a part of her ribs, a part of her soul. He's just like her and it terrified her to her core. She’s just like him and it made him want to hate her even more. 

But a mother was a mother, and he was still her boy. A mother was a mother, and he had no choice. 

So he sighs, and he brings his knuckles up to the door. 

He hears her shuffle around before it opens and she blinks at him in surprise. She doesn’t smile but she reaches for him immediately and he bends to let her hug him. Her embrace lasts only for a moment. He doesn’t think he could stand it if it lasted any longer. Fragile arms hold his face, scolding him for looking so gaunt — criticizing him for smelling like smoke. 

He thinks he's home now, here with her words. He wonders if this was still home.

Whatever that meant at this point. Whatever that was supposed to mean. 

She ushers him inside and he's nervous all over again. He can't remember the last time he'd been this scared to face her. 

Maybe it was when Rindou had broken his arm and he had to be the one to tell her — when he was only seven and it was his fault. He should’ve looked after his brother better. He should’ve stopped him from his own stupidity. 

Or maybe it was when she'd stared at him behind the visiting glass at the juvenile prison — when she’d stared at the bruise on his face and the avoidance in his gaze and didn’t bother saying a single word to him. 

He furrows his brows at the flurry of thoughts. He doesn’t want to remember any of that at all.

She doesn't sit, so he follows her into the kitchen. He eyes the sliced meat and the cloves and the spices scattered across the counter. He takes a seat at the small dining table in his childhood home and she goes back to cooking. 

"What is it?" she asks him, breaking the silence. 

Her back is to him as she stirs the pot and he stares at her — at how small she is compared to him —at how small everything here was now that he was older and taller. 

"What makes you think it's anything?" he replies. 

She rolls her eyes, licking her teeth.

"Don't start with me, boy. You never visit without your brother."

He looks down at his knuckles. He eyes the emptiness in his hands.

"What's going on?" she says again. Her voice is still sharp but there’s a softness to it. Like she's prepared for the worst. Like she can handle it if he told her.

He sighs, leaning back in the wood chair. It creaks under his weight and he scratches at the worn out material of the table. It was old. Everything here was so old. She'd refused to let them move her out even after they'd had the means to. "Leave it alone,” she had said. “I'm fine with the way things are."

Ran had shrugged, dropping the subject after the first time they’d brought it up, but Rindou had kept insisting. 

He never got his way in the end.

"I've been seeing someone," he tells her. She pauses her stirring, but doesn't turn around.

He keeps going, rubbing the back of his neck as he tenses.

"For about a year. A little longer than that, I think."

She doesn’t say a word as she holds her breath, pretending to reach for the salt instead — as if she hasn’t used enough of it already — as if she needed anymore.

"She’s pregnant, Ma."

Her eyes are sharp and wide as she turns to look at him. He sees himself in her silent rage. He sees himself in the lavender of her fury. And he knows it's rage for your sake. He knows what she's thinking.

That poor girl. That poor, poor girl.

It's courtesy for you. It's concern and worry for a girl she hasn't even met yet.

Not for him. He doesn't think it's ever been for him. 

"Is she your woman?"

He dwells on the question for a moment, pondering between the literal and the figurative. He decides to go with the former. 

"She was.”

“Was?” 

“I messed up," he reveals.

"What did you do?" Her anger is silent ─ it's quiet and building.

"I said some shit I shouldn't have when I found out."

There it was. There it is.

That look of disappointment he'd wanted to avoid — that silence he hated drowning in. 

Your fault, the still air seemed to ring out. It’s all your fault.

"Is she keeping it?"

He glances at her when he replies.

"Yeah."

"Do you plan to be in their lives? Because if you don't, you leave that girl alone. You do your part financially, and you leave her alone. Do you understand me?"

The skin around her knuckles turns a ghastly white as her grip tightens against the ladle in her palm. 

She’s quick to speak — quick to assume. Quick to judge — quick to decide for him. She’s right, he knows that. She’s always been right. But he hates the lack of autonomy — he hates that he gets no say when it comes to her. He digs his nails into the skin of his palm and he wonders just how hard he'd have to press to dissipate his anger — just how much would it take to stop the pressure in his lungs.

But he thinks of you, and he decides against it. He thinks of you, and he decides to explain instead.

He tells her that you’d broken up with him after all that he’d said. He tells her that he'd apologized not even a week later. He would've apologized earlier but you had refused to see him. He’d wanted to say sorry immediately, but you wouldn't let him. 

He tells her what he’d told you — that he wanted to be with you, that he wanted to take care of you and the baby. And he tells her what you'd told him — that you'd quietly nodded, accepting his words, but that you wouldn't take him back. Not yet at least. Not so soon after that.

 "I need to have this child first," you had said at the time. "I need to know you won't leave when I do."

She leaves the ladle in the pot and moves to sit at the table in front of him, listening intently. It's the most she’s ever heard him say. It's the most he's ever directly said to her about his life. 

It's ironic and heartbreaking ─ the sad reality of a mother and son who know nothing of each other — the truth behind those who have made no attempts to forgive and to heal and to move on with one another.

She sits back.

"Smart girl. Good on her."

He runs a hand across his face, groaning. "Come on, Ma."

She sighs, her chin in her palm as she stares at her eldest son.

"I'm worried about your choice in women though."

He laughs at that. For the first time in a long time, he laughs with his mother. For the first time in a longer time, she smiles back.

He remembers when she’d walked in on him having sex just after he’d turned eighteen — at how angry she’d been that the woman had been in her late, late twenties. And though she’d been visiting the apartment out of concern for her kids and their terrible eating habits — she had still ended up throwing her shoes at the both of them. He thought she was crazy at the time. He had been convinced she was out to make his life a living hell. But he understands now — why she'd been so angry. He gets why she'd been so scared and hurt — why her fear that he’d get taken advantage of had blinded her with rage.

She remembers when Rindou had shown her a picture of the girl Ran had been dating when he was twenty-one. She remembers looking at the screen, shaking her head in disappointment. She could tell from her eyes alone that the girl had ill intentions — that she was no good at all. She’d told Rindou that much on his way out. He’d shrugged, thinking nothing of it. 

She’d found out later that the two boys had been robbed — that they'd nearly been jumped — and that the girl had been involved. 

Ran doesn’t speak to his mother in the hospital. She’d doted on Rindou the entire time instead. 

—

The two of them sigh synchronously.

"You’ll like her more than you like me," he says into the still air. 

She tilts her head at him, and she wonders what he thinks her perception of him is. It doesn’t seem good. It doesn’t seem good at all. And she can’t help but wonder if she is to blame.

“No, you’ll love her,” he reiterates.

There’s a fond smile on his face as he looks back at his mother, and she wonders idly about the girl that was able to bring a gentle expression to her son’s face at the mere mention of her presence.

"I'd like to meet her — the mother of your child. I want to meet her."

He looks at her, and he nods. He was hoping she’d say that. She looks back at him, and she tries to smile. She was hoping he’d agree. 

The two of them were a mirror image of each other in ways they would never understand, in ways they could never explain. They tore each other apart and the pieces never fit together properly again. There was room for Rindou. There was always room for his mistakes.

But Ran had to cut himself up piece by piece to find a place. He’d had to tip toe through the mess and cut his skin against her shattered fury before he’d given up altogether. She didn’t know he’d been looking so desperately. He didn’t know he didn’t have to look that far.

"Yeah.” He says. “Yeah, I'll bring her over."

She tells him that it seems like the two of you are on good terms despite it all, and he chuckles, nodding in agreement. He feels himself grow weary when he tells her that he's proposed to you multiple times since then, and that you'd rejected him every time. 

She laughs a little too loudly for his liking and he shoots her a glare.

"Bring her over soon. I need to meet this girl."

She goes to make him a plate, ignoring his protests as she places it in front of him on the table. He sighs in exaggeration at her insistence and she shakes her head as she stands before him, watching as foregoes his etiquette. She musses his hair before her gaze falls to a silver strand in the darkness of his hair, and her stomach sinks with guilt. She hadn't realized how much older he'd gotten. She hadn’t noticed all that she’s missed out on. She clears her throat, ridding herself of the thought as she peers at her son once more. 

"How old is she, by the way?"

His mouth is full, when he replies "twenty-four" and she smacks the back of his neck immediately — ignorant of the food he chokes on.

"You fucking idiot."

"Give it up, woman.”

She shakes her head, mumbling obscenities to herself as she washes the dishes. 

He doesn’t leave until he finishes his plate. 

—

He calls you on his way home, your voice soothing him as his phone connects to the speakers in his car.

"Hello, gorgeous,” he says, the moment you pick up.

"What’s wrong?"

He rubs at his temple at your response.

"I can flirt with the mother of my unborn child without there being an ulterior motive, you know."

"I know." you say. There’s a pause — a brief one from your end. "But there is something, isn't there?"

He stares at the screen. There is.

He wonders how you know. He wonders about all that you know. He avoids your question instead.

"What are you doing this weekend?"

You hum in thought.

“I have an appointment on Saturday.”

“For what?” He furrows his brow. He’d been consistently attending the ones you’d told him about. This was the first he’d heard of this one. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, it’s okay,” you say. “I just need to get blood drawn, it shouldn’t take long.” 

“Alright. What are you doing after?”

"Nothing, I think,” you respond as you fold a t-shirt — his t-shirt. “Why?"

"My mom wants to meet you."

There's another pause from your end. There was more weight attached to this one — more emotion and fear, worry and concern.

"You told her?"

"I did."

"What did she say?"

You're nervous — a little scared, even. He can tell by the subtle change in the lilt of your voice. You didn’t want her to think of you as an ‘easy girl’. You knew that it was traditionally frowned upon to have a child before marriage. Your grandmother had given the two of you an earful herself. “Put a ring on her finger,” she’d scolded him. “She won’t let me,” he’d complained right back. It went well in the end. It went better than you would’ve thought. 

But you’d never met his mother before. He rarely spoke to you about her at all. And you're worried she’ll look down on you — that she'll hate you before you’re able to be anyone but the mother of her son’s child. You’re scared that your identity will be reduced to just that. 

The low tone of his voice brings you back, and you grip the phone to your ear as he responds.

"That she wants to meet you."

You furrow your brows.

"That's it?"

"Yeah.”

“Really?”

“What do you want me to say? That she cursed me out for knocking you up? She's on your side, you know. Called you a smart girl for not taking a ‘good for nothing’ man like me back. The hag gave birth to me but she's siding with you. I can’t believe this shit." He shakes his head in fake disbelief. He’d expected just as much from her anyway. But you didn’t need to know that. 

You laugh, and he loves it. You laugh, and he loves you. The sound makes its way around his car and he finds comfort in the beauty of your joy.

"I miss you," he says after a minute. It's been a few days since he'd last seen you — a few days too long.

You hum again in response. 

He drives in the quiet for a little, listening as you move around, and he wonders what you're doing in the apartment on your own.

"I miss you too," you finally confess.

Your voice is soft — quiet. He might’ve missed it had his phone not been connected to the speakers in his car. The gentle smile reserved just for you makes its way back onto his face and he glances at your name on the screen. 

"How are you? How's the baby?"

He nears the daunting building of his penthouse, but he finds himself thinking more and more about you and your one-bedroom apartment and all the space you let him take up when he was with you. He wonders if you'd let him come over. He wonders if you’d let him stay. 

Home. He thinks briefly of the word again and he finds that there’s a person attached to it now — and he knows that it’s never been a place. Not for him at least. Not since you.

You eye your belly, stroking the swell of your stomach.

"She's good. A little fussy today though."

“She's keeping you up?”

You sigh, and he knows then that the baby had been relentless in her efforts to do so. 

“She thinks it’s fun to kick my bladder.”

He snorts. Funny kid. 

"And you? How are you?"

Your heart flutters just a little at his incessant need to check up on you.

"I'm okay."

He tells you he wants you to keep talking to him. Talk about anything, talk about whatever — just until he gets home. He doesn't tell you why. He doesn’t need to either. You knew that his relationship with his mother was strained. You knew they had a hard time being around each other. And you knew that his nerves were probably shot.

So you sit on the couch and you tell him about your day — what you watched, what you ate, how many times your baby kicked, and a few of the names you'd been considering. You talk and it's everything to him — you talk, and you breathe life back into him. You're a little distracted in your speech, pausing at odd times, forgetting your train of thought here and there, and he figures you must be doing something else while talking to him. He doesn't tell you that he's been sitting in the garage of his penthouse for seven minutes now. He doesn't tell you that he's already home. It's selfish of him, but he needs you to ground him for just a little longer — for just a bit more.

"I have to pee, Ran."

He tilts his head against the headrest, grinning as you interrupt his train of thought.

"By all means, baby. Go ahead."

"Pervert.” 

He laughs and the concern in your chest eases up just a little. He's okay. He'd be okay. He tells you he'll see you soon, and you nod in agreement.

“I love you," he says before you can hang up.

And you want to say it back like you used to. You want to say it back like you've always done before.

But you don't. Not yet.

Not yet.

"I know," is your quiet response. 

And he's thankful for that at least. He's thankful that you know.

—

He lights a cigarette as he leans against his car in wait for you. You hated when he smoked in your apartment, but you’d despised it even more when you’d gotten pregnant. He’d resorted to smoking outside when he came to visit — a plastic chair set aside just for him now resided on your balcony. You’d read his text, but you hadn’t responded — so he smokes and he waits, and he eyes your door as he exhales. He takes another drag before he crushes the stick of nicotine underneath his shoe, and he runs a hand through his hair as he makes his way up to the second floor.

He knocks and he waits for a moment. He decides to wait another two. 

You open the door right before he’s about to knock again and his eyes soften instantly at the sight of you.

He was so lucky. He was so ridiculously lucky. You were always so lovely — always so beautiful.

But your eyes are wet and there’s a pout on your lips — a slight tremble to them that you’re trying to hide. He finds that he can’t even greet you properly. His first thought is to comfort you instead.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

He moves one hand to the small of your back, the other shifting to cradle your bump instead. You’re beautiful in the dress you’d decided to wear and you’re pretty as you look up at him with tears in your eyes. 

“What’s wrong, love?” he says again.

“My shoes won’t fit.”

He blinks at you as he processes your words, and he resists the urge to smile.

“My feet hurt and my shoes won’t fit. Don’t laugh at me, asshole.”

You almost cry, and he moves his thumbs to your lash line before you do.

“Not laughing at you, baby,” he says, hiding his grin. “Come on, princess.” 

He takes your hand and guides you to the dining table. You sit, wiping at your eyes while he digs through the small pile of shoes in your closet. He finds a loose pair of sandals that he knew had to fit, and he waves them once over his head. 

“Ta-da.”

He kneels in front of you, reaching for your feet as he switches your shoes out for you. He slips the sandals on, long fingers gently tugging at the straps, and he rubs at your feet before he smiles up at you. He looks tired, you think. He looks a little scared. 

You go to reach for his face but he stands before you’re able to stroke his cheek. 

“Where’s your purse, baby? We gotta go.” 

You nod, grabbing your bag, and he takes your palm in his silently as he locks your door behind the two of you. He pockets your key and you understand. You know that he wants you to stay over at his place tonight. 

And maybe exes shouldn’t treat each other like you and him. Maybe they shouldn’t brush eyelashes off of each other’s cheeks. Maybe they shouldn’t have copies of each other’s keys. Maybe he shouldn’t kiss your jaw. Maybe you shouldn’t grip his wrist.

But the lines have been crossed in more ways than one, and the bridging continued to occur.

You don't let go of his hand the rest of the way there. He doesn’t think he wants you to either.

—

You’re scared.

You’re really, really nervous. Your hand naturally drifts to your belly, and you shy away to stand behind him when he knocks on the door. 

He turns to kiss your forehead, brushing your cheek gently in the process.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “It’s okay.”

You listen as the door unlocks — you watch as it creaks on its own hinges and opens. Ran bends to kiss his mother’s cheek and you watch as a thin hand pats his back before a woman speaks. 

“Yeah, yeah. Where’s the girl?” 

He rolls his eyes and moves slightly out of the way. You peer at her from behind him and her eyes widen. You smile and it’s filled with nerves — filled with kindness and a gentle nature. 

She stares at you in awe. She stares at you in wonder. 

“Oh.”

What good could her son have possibly done in this lifetime, and how quickly was he repaid for it with you? She can’t help but reach for you. She hesitates for a moment, worried it’ll make you uncomfortable, but you step into her embrace and she hugs you. She hugs you and she says nothing else, and you want to cry at how tightly she holds you. You want to break down at how much she looked like him. 

She’s a thin, spindly woman — shorter than her son, but a little taller than the average woman. Her hair is long and black — her face framed with strands of gray. Her eyes crinkle when she smiles and your heart aches. The lavender in her gaze looked just like his. The subtle hurt in her eyes mirrored his own too.

He looks away — gazing into his childhood home instead. 

He can’t look at her. He can’t look at you. 

She ushers the two of you inside, and you follow her into the kitchen. She talks, and you listen. And though her gaze had drifted to your belly a few times over, she doesn't say anything about the baby. She doesn’t say anything at all. He watches as the two of you fall into a natural rhythm, and he lingers near the entry as you help her set the table, fingers twisting the ring in his pocket. He expects that rejection is inevitable tonight as well. 

Dinner is quiet. They don’t talk to each other much. The air isn’t tense, but it’s brutal in its presence. It’s a silence they’re used to — a silence they’re unable to live without. She asks about you, and you tell her all that you can. She asks and you answer and it isn’t so bad. It isn’t so bad at all.

You’re unable to read the expression on Ran's face as he picks at his food, and your brows furrow in slight concern as you stand to help her clear the table. 

It’s then that he rolls his sleeves up. 

It’s then that she gives a disapproving look and sigh as her gaze drifts to the tattoo wrapped around his arm. 

She shakes her head and he drops the plates into the sink. You flinch at the sound. 

“Are you gonna react like that every time?”

Her eyes flit to you for a second, before her gaze sharpens at her son. 

“When your kid comes home at thirteen with a tattoo covering the entire left side of their body, you’d be bitter about it for a long time too.”

“It’s been twenty years, Ma.”

“Like I give a shit,” she mutters as she moves to turn the sink water on. 

He’s angry now. You watch in worry as they bring out the worst in each other. You watch as they weave a web of sorrow — you watch as they strike and suffocate one another.

“My kid can mess up all she wants. She’ll still be my fucking kid.”

He doesn’t realize that she knows that already. He doesn’t get that she knows that very well. He’s still her son. He’s still her boy. And she hurts because he’d sought refuge in other vices instead of her. She hurts because she had no one to blame but herself. She quiets when her gaze drifts to you once more and she turns to the pot on the stove, busying herself with its contents.

Your eyes are wide as you stare at your lover. 

His chest rises and falls in resentment as he glares at her, before he reaches for his cigarettes, making his way back outside.

You don’t know what to do with yourself. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say. You don’t know who to comfort. You don’t think it’s your place to even do so.

It’s then that she turns to you, the lilac in her eyes shining underneath the dim kitchen lights. 

“You’re having a girl?”

It’s the first time she’s acknowledged the baby. You remember what he’d said in the car, as he’d gazed at the traffic with a forlorn expression. “She’s always wanted a girl.” He’d smiled in exhaustion before he’d turned to pinch your nose. “Now she gets two.”

You blink back at her and you nod. 

“Yes,” is all you can say. 

Her eyes soften, and she turns to occupy herself with the mess on the counter. 

Your gaze drift to the door as it shuts loudly behind him and you yearn for the man you love. You leave the kitchen quietly as you turn to look for him.

You find him seated at the bottom of the stairs, fiddling with the box in his hands.

The cigarette lights up his face momentarily as he brings the nicotine up to his face and he breathes out into the still air, shaking his head as he rests his arms on his knees.

He hears the front door open behind him and he knows it’s you. It could only be you.

Your smile is soft — nervous, even — as you close the screen door behind you gently. He puts the cigarette out before he scoots over a little, making room for you as you make your way down, and he laughs as you awkwardly situate yourself beside him. You pinch his bicep in fake irritation and he grins as he kisses your forehead in greeting. You sigh as you settle down beside him. 

“Are you okay?” he asks you. 

“Are you?” you retaliate. 

Your voice is soft. He thinks you must be getting sleepy. 

“Yeah, I'm good. Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

He doesn’t say anything else — looking out into the now quiet neighborhood instead. 

Soon, it would be loud again. Soon, the doors would open and people would make their way downtown — to pachinko parlors, and nightclubs, to convenience stores, and karaoke.

But right now, the air is still. Right now, Roppongi was surprisingly quiet. 

You reach for his hand in the flickering dark. You trace the lines on his palm. You trace the scars and the outline of his rings. You trace his name and you trace yours. You trace a heart in between. Neither of you says a word. But as you lean your head against his shoulder, you look out into the world and you wonder what he sees. The apartment complex he’d grown up in was worn down and dull. Yet it’s surrounded by bright lights. Everything was full of color. 

What was a child expected to do on their own in this hub of chaos? Where was a child expected to go? 

“She can’t stand the sight of me,” he says — breaking the stillness on his own.

“She thinks I corrupted Rindou,” he chuckles darkly at that. Your heart aches at his words.

“You didn’t.”

He pretends like he doesn’t hear you. 

“She thinks I’m gonna ruin your life too.” He glances at your belly. “Yours and hers.”

“You won’t,” you follow up — not bothering to entertain the thought.

He stares off, rubbing his hands together as he pulls his palm out and away from yours. 

“How do you know?”

“I won’t let you,” you whisper. 

You angle your knees towards him and you stare at the man before you with longing in your eyes. How hurt he was — sitting here beside you — how scarred and flawed, how abandoned and lost. 

You hold his face and you tilt your head in worry, and his heart races at the sight. It hurts. It hurts so bad. And he’s sorry. He’s sorry for all that he’s ever done. He’s sorry for what he might do. He’s sorry for any tears he’s made you shed. He doesn’t want to fail you too. 

You kiss his jaw and you pull him into you. His eyes widen at the words you utter against him. 

“It’s not your fault,” you say. 

He grips your dress. 

“It’s not your fault,” you repeat. 

He holds you tighter. 

He wants to believe you. He hopes that one day, he will. 

He drops his head to your shoulder. You hold him even tighter — you pull him in even closer. Your fingers run through the short strands of his hair and he kisses the exposed skin of your shoulder in silent appreciation. 

His mother watches the two of you from beyond the window. There’s a strange warmth that settles into her ache. 

You were good. You were so good. Maybe even too good. 

Too good for this family. Too pure for their hurt. 

He tells you he just needs a minute more, gesturing towards the cigarettes, and you nod as you stand. He kisses your hand before you make your way back up the stairs and you smooth the dark strands out of his face, gently stroking his cheek as he places a stick in between his lips. “Take your time,” you tell him. 

His mother waits for you in the living room. There’s a worn out tray on the chabudai before her, and you smile as you take a seat. She exhales as she pours the tea, and you thank her as she sets it down. 

“He’s never liked Sencha,” she tells you fondly as she stares at the cup in her hands. 

Yes, you want to say. I know that very well. 

But you want her to have this part of him — this little known fact that she’d managed to get a hold of. You want her to be a mother. You want her to be his mother. 

She traces the lip of the cup and you can’t help but ask her if everything was alright. Her quiet held meaning. Her silence meant questions. 

“Why are you with him?” she asks. It’s a blunt question — slightly aggressive in its nature — and you see her children in her. 

“I —”

She cuts you off before you’re able to explain. 

“He told me that you broke up with him, and rightfully so too.”

You wince a little at the wording. 

“But you’re here. You’re here and you’re good to him. Why are you good to him? Why him?” 

She tried, she really did try. But she doesn’t understand. She doesn’t get it. She can’t seem to wrap her mind around it at all. You’re a good girl. You seemed like a wonderful woman. So why her son? Why not anyone else? Why not spare yourself the heartache and the trouble?

She doesn’t understand why you’re here instead.

Ran stands in the darkness of the hallway as he listens in. The cigarette pack is crushed beneath his grip and he regrets not making more noise when coming in. 

This was not good. 

This was not good at all. 

He tilts his head up towards the ceiling and curses his mother’s inability to feign ignorance. 

He could leave.

He could walk out and wait till the conversation was over and the two of you had moved on before he came back inside. But there’s a vile part of him that wants to hear your truth. There’s a sick part of him that wants you to make him hurt. Why were you with him? Why were you here at all?

You hum as your gaze drifts to the photos she had lined up near the tv. There’s a picture of the two boys outside. Their grins are wide and their hair a brilliant blonde. You smile softly because you know he despises his natural hair color. You know he hates it because of his father. And you know that Rindou had been too young to remember anything of the man. But Ran knew enough to detest him. He knew enough to never go back to blonde. You look at another photo, and you think he must be in his twenties. Rindou’s smile is the only one to be seen. Ran mirrors his mother — in stance and appearance. You think they must’ve argued before the photo was taken. And you wonder if he’d kept his hair long and dark to spite her — as if to say “Look at me. I’m everything you hate. Look at me. I look just like you.” He wanted her to look at him and wince. He wanted her to see herself in him. He was everything she failed at. He was everything she couldn’t control.

He’s beautiful, despite his pettiness, and you look back at her. 

Why are you with him? You smile at the loaded question. 

“Because I love him,” you tell her as much, and your chest blooms. It aches because you do — you love him. You love him. And sometimes you don’t know what to do with it all. Sometimes, you don’t know where you’re supposed to keep it — all this love; all these feelings. But you don’t think that’s what this is about.

You don’t think that this is what she’s asking about at all. 

You tell her she’d done well. You tell her that both of her boys were good men — that they were respected and revered and admired in their work. But then you tell her that if she kept holding on to the past — if she kept holding on to his past — then she’d only destroy them even further. Her eyes widen and you’re worried you might’ve crossed a line, but you keep going. You keep going because it’s not fair to him. You keep going because it isn’t fair to her.

“He’s riddled with guilt,” you say quietly. “It’s not his fault,” you say again. “It’s not.”

“Then whose is it?” She challenges. “Who is responsible?”

“I don’t know,” you respond. “But he’s not thirteen anymore. He’s not fifteen. He’s not twenty.”

She can’t help the slight sheen that covers her eyes — at all the time that she’d missed; at all that she’d desperately clung to. She’d been selfish in her approach. And she knows that it’s not her fault that she was alone. She knows it’s not her fault that she was always tired and away for work. But somewhere along the line, she’d forgotten that he’d had to bear the burden of raising himself and his brother — and that he’d done the best that any child could do. She looks away from you and she thinks he must’ve been scared. She looks away and she thinks he must be tired too. 

She holds her breath and you think she’s just like him in that regard — that they were both the type to shoulder their hurt and smile, as if everything was okay — as if the sharpness in their eyes didn’t dull and they weren’t affected by everything around them.

You can only imagine how isolated she must feel. You can only wonder how lonely it must be. 

Her gaze drifts back to your belly and you know she’s holding herself back. You know she wants to touch the baby — that she wants to seek comfort in a grandchild she’d only come to know about. It’s a lot to process. It’s a lot to take in. You silently ask her for permission as you reach for her thin fingers — placing her palm onto your stomach. To know that your oldest child had their own on the way and to realize that you had no place in any of it at all — it’s a damning feeling. And maybe she’d been a shit mother. Maybe she hadn’t done all that she should have. But she can’t help but wonder if it was too late. Would he let her be his mother? Would he let her be a grandmother? Was this all she’d come to know of the child?

She’s lost in her own thoughts when your brows furrow, and you wince when your baby kicks against her palm.

The woman before you starts to cry.

It’s quiet, the steadiness in which her tears stream down her face. They follow a common path – down the hollow of her eyes, down to the curved line of her mouth — down, down, down they go. 

“Forgive me,” she goes to say. You brush her apology off with a tired smile.

“She’s excited to meet her grandmother.” 

She blinks at you again – at your choice of words and the necessity of their timing – and she shakes her head at the irony. 

She laughs for the first time all night, and she decides that she doesn’t want you to see her cry anymore. 

The two of you sit together in the living room — your eyes fixed onto the tv and the late night game show.

Your lover makes his way back into the living room, looking away as he sits beside you. He pretends he didn’t hear a single word. He pretends he didn’t hear anything at all.

He pours himself a cup of Sencha, wincing at the flavor. 

His mother chuckles at the sight. 

Her hand doesn’t leave your belly. 

—

He takes you back to his place that night. You don’t object as you nod off in the car. You’re tired. You wonder if it’s always been like this for him — if he’s always felt at war in the very place he was supposed to belong. He reaches for your palm, fiddling with the emptiness of your ring finger as the red light washes over your figure. Your gaze is haunting and he falls in love with you all over — again and again, his heart falls victim to you. Again and again, he’s certain of his love for you.

The two of you don’t talk about tonight.

Not yet at least. Not right now. 

You lean into his side on the way up to his penthouse. He wraps an arm around your waist and strokes your jaw.

Still, you don’t say much. Still, you don’t say anything about it at all.

You’d resorted to sleeping in the guest bedroom after the two of you had initially split. On days that you’d had early appointments — on nights that you’d felt sick and alone — he’d preferred that you stay with him. You didn’t mind at all. His presence was comforting — safe and reassuring. 

He’d played along with the front you’d put up at first. He’d let you shut the door and pretend to sleep on your own for a day or two. It didn’t take long for him to find his way back to your side. It didn’t take long for you to fall asleep in his arms while he drooled into the pillow overhead and you clutched his shirt tight.

But this time, when he unlocks the door and you make your way over to the guest bedroom, all he does is kiss your forehead in passing. All he does is stroke your cheek in goodbye. He doesn’t tease you at the entry way. He doesn’t fake a scene or hold you tight.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” is all he says.

You watch as he heads to his bedroom instead — you feel lonelier than you’d felt the first night you’d slept alone. 

And he knew you deserved better. He knew he didn’t think this through. He knew that this was too much — that this was all too much for the both of you. And he knew that any excess stress right now wouldn’t be good for you at all. 

But his head hurt, and his chest ached, and his shoulders were strained under the weight of all his burdens. 

You stare at him in concern, eyes filled with worry and hurt — and you want him back. 

You want your lover back. 

You sit in the guest bedroom after you’d washed and changed and you eye the clock in a daze. You think an hour passes. Maybe more.

Your daughter kicks impatiently and you exhale at the pressure, rubbing at the spot as though to comfort her. 

“Yes, I know,” you tell her. “I know, baby.” I know.

You don’t bother knocking on his door as you make your way into the master bedroom. It’s dark, save for the twinkling lights of the city below. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his back facing the door as he hunches over — his hands covering his face. Slowly, you climb onto your side of the bed. Your palms smooth over the untouched blankets and you eye your pillow on his side of the bed. 

It’s been a while since you've slept here. It’s been a while since you’ve (more or less) split.

You sit on your knees directly behind him and you grip the sheets beside you as you let your forehead fall onto his back.

“Ran?” you whisper.

His muscles tense, but he doesn’t respond to you otherwise.

“Baby,” you say.

“Come back,” you nearly beg.

You trail a finger down his spine — finger smoothing over every ridge; heart aching with every touch. 

He turns to you then, slightly, as he peers over his shoulder.

Your eyes are wide and hopeful, and he shakes his head at the sight. 

“No good for you. I’m no good.”

“Yes, you are.”

There’s a slight tremble to his shoulders and you press your cheek to his back as you lean against him.

You wrap one arm around his waist, stroking the skin of his side. It’s too much. His heart can only take so much. 

“It’s okay,” you mutter, lips moving against his back. It’s not your fault. It’s not. You did good. You did well. You’re a good man, you tell him. And I love you, you say against him.

He stills. 

You say it again.

“I love you.”

He looks down at his palm — at the small ring settled down in the center. It sparkles in the dark and he closes his fist against it at the sight.

“Marry me then,” he says — as though it’s a challenge — as though he’s given up on any chance of you saying yes.

“Okay,” you whisper.

His brows furrow in confusion. He’s not sure he heard you right. He doesn’t know if you understand.

He turns to you immediately. Adoration lines his eyes as he stares at you and his gaze darkens as his nerves are shot with fear.

“What?”

Don’t play with me, his gaze seemed to say. Don’t mess with me right now. Not you. Please not you.

Your hand strokes the soft stubble on his cheek and you smile. It’s tired and loving, genuine and you. 

“Ask me again,” you say as he stares. He’s quick to oblige — quick to fulfill your request.

He’s scared you’re going to fade away. He’s scared you might still leave. 

“Marry me,” he pleads. “Marry me. Please.”

You think he’s dizzy from all that he’s feeling. You think he’s high off of everything that’s happened. But you know his heart and you know yours, and you know there’s only so much he can take. You know there’s only so much hurt he can handle.

And he loves you. He loves you. He adores you. 

“Yes,” you whisper, and you try not to cry as he slips the ring onto your finger. 

“Yeah?” he mutters, eyes hazy as he stares into your own.

“Yes,” you say again. “Yes.”

He kisses you then, with need and want.

He kisses you like you’re the love of his life.

He kisses you like you’re the mother of his child.

He kisses you like he wants to marry you — like he fully intends on doing so too. 

It’s been eight months too long, but you lay beside him on your side of the bed, and he smiles down at you in love and need. 

He kisses you once more as you whine for sleep, and he smiles against your lips at the complaint. Just one more, he says. Just one more, I promise. You push at his face and he laughs at your insistence. You feel your daughter move soon after, and you reach for his wrist, placing your palm on top of his as you guide him to her. As you always would. As you always will.

The two of you would enter parenthood soon — a marriage would follow soon after. You’re both a little scared. You’re both a little terrified. And you know he can’t help but think of all the ways it could go wrong. You know he’s afraid he’ll be the one to screw it all up — quick to take the blame; quick to deny himself the benefit of the doubt.

But you fit your hand in his and you hold on tight.

You trust him, and he trusts you. 

You love him, and he loves you. 

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