𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆

Nightmares

Anakin Skywalker x Reader

You wake to the sound of soft, hurried footsteps padding across the polished floor, barely audible over the hum of Coruscant’s distant nightlife. The warm body beside you shifts—Anakin, his breathing even and steady, blissfully unaware of the disturbance. You smile faintly, brushing away a stray strand of his tousled hair before turning toward the door.

Two small figures appear in the doorway, outlined by the dim light from the hall. Luke and Leia, clutching their blankets, their wide eyes filled with fear. You’re on your feet in an instant, already kneeling to their level before they can say a word.

“Another nightmare?” you ask softly, stroking Leia’s dark curls as she nods, her lower lip trembling. Luke burrows into your side, his tiny hands gripping your nightclothes tightly. You exchange a glance with Anakin, who’s now awake and sitting up, concern etched across his face.

“Come here,” he says, his voice warm and soothing as he pats the space beside him on the large bed. “There’s plenty of room.”

Leia hesitates, her little brows furrowed, but Luke is already climbing up with your help, wriggling under the blankets. You scoop Leia into your arms, kissing her temple as you carry her to the bed. She sighs, her small frame relaxing against you.

The four of you settle in—a tangle of limbs and blankets, the children nestled between you and Anakin. Luke curls against his father, his small hands gripping Anakin’s tunic as though it’s the only anchor in his stormy dreams. Leia clings to you, her fingers twining with yours as you stroke her hair, whispering reassurances.

“They’re safe,” Anakin murmurs, his voice barely audible as he watches them with that soft, vulnerable look he reserves only for his family. “We won’t let anything harm them.”

Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, the galaxy shrinks to just this—your children’s quiet breathing, Anakin’s steady presence, and the love that binds you all together.

Leia stirs, her voice a sleepy murmur. “Daddy, can you tell us a story?”

You glance at Anakin, who raises a brow, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. “I think your mother tells better stories than I do,” he says, his tone playful.

Rolling your eyes, you lean closer, your voice soft and soothing as you weave a tale. Anakin chimes in now and then, embellishing with dramatic flourishes that make the children giggle despite their exhaustion.

By the time your story ends, Luke and Leia are fast asleep, their nightmares forgotten. Anakin reaches out, his fingers brushing yours as he whispers, “You’re amazing, you know that?”

You smile, your heart full as you glance at your sleeping children. “It’s not just me,” you whisper back, your gaze meeting his. “It’s us.”

He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, his warmth chasing away any lingering shadows. For tonight, the galaxy can wait. Here, in this moment, you have everything you need.

𝓢𝓸 𝓣𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓘𝓼 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮

Regulus Black x Reader

part one

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

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

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

“You look like you could use some help.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

𝓘’𝓶 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝔂

Leon S Kennedy x Reader

The first contraction hits, and you know. It’s time.

You sit on the edge of the bed, one hand cradling your belly, breathing through the pressure. The dim glow of the bedside lamp casts a golden hue over the room, peaceful and warm. But across the hall, chaos unfolds.

Leon is frantic.

You hear him rifling through drawers, muttering under his breath as he darts from room to room. “Where’s the bag? The one we packed? Damn it—where did I put the—" A thump follows as something falls over, probably a chair.

You exhale, amused. “Leon, it’s in the closet.”

He appears in the doorway, eyes wild, hair even messier than usual. “Which closet?”

“The only closet in our room, babe.”

He spins around and yanks the door open, fumbling for the hospital bag. You can hear the zipper struggling against his urgency, the sound of baby clothes rustling as he checks for everything twice—maybe three times.

Another contraction builds, but you stay calm, hands resting on your belly. “Leon.”

“Yeah?” He looks up, halfway through stuffing an extra set of onesies into the bag.

You smile at him. “It’s okay.”

His shoulders drop slightly, but his jaw remains tight. You know he’s not just worried about the logistics—he’s scared. Scared for you, for the baby, for everything that could go wrong. You reach for him, and he’s at your side instantly, kneeling in front of you, hands gripping yours.

“I’m not ready,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.

“You can handle this, Leon.”

He lets out a shaky chuckle, but his blue eyes are searching yours, full of emotion. “This is different. This is you. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

You brush a hand through his hair, smoothing away his worry for just a moment. “We’re going to be okay.”

He nods, squeezing your hands. The panic eases, if only slightly, as he helps you to your feet. The bag is ready, the car is waiting, and the night ahead is unpredictable. But one thing is certain—Leon is here, holding your hand, ready to face it all with you.

Because for all the horrors he’s fought, nothing matters more than this moment. Than you. Than the life you’re about to bring into the world together.

blah, blah, blah....shut up

Dante Sparda x Reader

You step into the dimly lit cathedral, boots clicking against the cracked stone floor. Shadows stretch long and jagged across the decrepit walls, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through shattered stained glass windows. You know he's here. You always do. The air carries that familiar charge—like lightning waiting to strike.

And then, he speaks.

"Well, if it isn’t my favorite thorn in the side. Couldn’t stay away, could you?"

The voice, smooth as silk and sharp as a blade, comes from the darkness above. Dante Sparda. That smirk of his practically audible even before you see his face.

You tilt your head slightly, fingers tightening around your weapon. "You’re the one who makes this whole 'hero of humanity' thing a lot more interesting. Couldn't resist the urge to see me again?"

A slow clap echoes through the cathedral as he steps out of the shadows. That cocky strut of his, the way his crimson coat flares behind him—it’s maddening how he makes the line between charm and arrogance blur. His silver hair glints in the pale light, and his mismatched eyes, one blue and one crimson, are locked on you.

"You’ve got a way with words," he drawls, stopping a few feet from you, Rebellion slung lazily over his shoulder. "Too bad I’ll have to cut this poetry slam short."

You roll your eyes, though your lips twitch in a smirk of their own. "Big talk from someone who’s never managed to land a killing blow."

He chuckles at that, low and rich, the sound curling around you like smoke. "You’d miss me too much if I did." He leans forward just slightly, tilting his head. "Tell me, sweetheart, what keeps bringing you back? The thrill? The chase? Or…" He flashes you a grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Is it me?"

Your stomach twists, and not in the way you’d like to admit. His arrogance is insufferable, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t light a fire under your skin. Still, you’re not about to give him the satisfaction.

"You’re delusional," you retort, stepping closer, daring him to close the gap. "But if you must know, I like keeping my enemies alive. Makes the victories more satisfying."

He hums thoughtfully, his gaze sweeping over you, unabashed and brazen. "Oh, I bet you do."

You scoff, but there’s heat rising to your cheeks, and you hate how he notices. He always does. His grin only widens, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he’s teasing you just to throw you off your game—or if he really means it. Either way, it works.

"You done yet?" you snap, raising your weapon, the blade gleaming as it catches the faint light. "Or are you just stalling because you know you’re going to lose?"

Dante’s eyes light up with that familiar spark of reckless excitement, and he lifts Rebellion, pointing it lazily at you. "Oh, I’m just getting started, babe."

And then he’s on you, a whirlwind of steel and smirks, the clash of your blades ringing out through the cathedral. He fights like he talks—bold, unpredictable, and maddeningly confident. Every strike you throw is met with a counter, every feint answered with a cocky remark that makes you want to punch that smirk off his face.

But there’s something about the way he moves, the way he watches you, that keeps you from hating him entirely. His eyes burn with more than just battle lust; they hold something else, something you can’t quite put into words. And damn it, you’re starting to think he knows it too.

He locks your blade with his, faces inches apart, his breath warm against your skin. "Admit it," he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. "You’re having fun."

You glare at him, trying to ignore the way your heart skips a beat. "Shut up."

He laughs, leaning in just a fraction closer. "You’ll miss me when I’m gone."

You don’t answer. Not with words, anyway. Instead, you shove him back with a growl, your blade flashing as you press the attack. His grin only widens, and for a fleeting moment, you think you see a flicker of something genuine behind his cocky facade.

𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞

Sergei Kravinoff x Reader

You're alone in the backyard of your house, surrounded by the scent of the flowers you've so carefully tended. The night breeze caresses your cheeks, but there's something else in the air: a presence. You sense it even before you hear it.

"You're too trusting for your own good, you know that?" Sergei Kravinoff says, his voice deep and drawling, emerging from the shadows like a predator on the prowl.

You turn to him, but you don't back away. Despite what you know of his reputation, you can't fear him. There's something in his gaze, in those hunter eyes, that reveals a vulnerability he'd never admit out loud.

"You shouldn't come close like that, Sergei. You might scare someone." Your voice is soft, almost joking, but he feels it like a blow to the chest. You're not scared. You never are with him, even though he knows you should be.

He takes a step forward, the moonlight illuminating his imposing figure. The muscles in his body seem tense, as if he is holding something back: an instinct, a desire.

“Not you,” he answers, crossing his arms, trying to appear indifferent. But his tone betrays him. He can’t understand how someone like you can speak so calmly, so sweetly, to a man like him.

You bend down to pick up a flower that has fallen to the ground, a white daisy, simple but beautiful. You hold it between your fingers as you smile.

“Do you want to stay a while? I could make you some tea.”

Kravinoff blinks, bewildered. Tea? No one offers him something so simple, so human. But you… you just want to share a quiet moment with him.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, moving even closer. His voice is a whisper now, and his gaze locks with yours as if he wants to unravel the mystery of your kindness.

You look up at him, holding the daisy in your hand. There is no doubt in your eyes, no judgment, just a warmth he doesn’t think he deserves.

“Because I believe that, behind all that strength, you deserve rest, too.”

Your words completely disarm him. Sergei Kravinoff, the great hunter, the man who has faced the fiercest beasts, feels caught up in something he’s never experienced: your tenderness.

He reaches out a hand to you, hesitating for a moment, before taking the flower you offer. His fingers are large and rough, but they hold the daisy with surprising care.

“You are too sweet for this world,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Too sweet for me.”

You laugh softly, a sound he knows he will remember for the rest of his life.

“Maybe,” you admit, “but I like that you’re here.”

For the first time in years, Sergei Kravinoff allows himself to let his guard down. He sits with you in the moonlight, holding that tiny flower like it’s the most valuable treasure in the world, and even though he doesn’t say it out loud, he knows he’s hopelessly lost… and he doesn’t care.

𝓘 𝓱𝓪𝓽𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓷𝓸𝔀

Charles Leclerc x Reader

You never understood why people romanticized the snow. It was cold, it was wet, and worst of all—you always, always got sick. Yet, here you were, wrapped in layers upon layers of clothing, standing knee-deep in powdery white as Charles laughed beside you, his breath misting in the air.

“This was a terrible idea,” you grumble, tugging your scarf up higher.

Charles only grins, his green eyes twinkling with mischief. “Come on, mon amour, it’s our anniversary. You have to admit, it’s beautiful.”

You glance around. The mountains stretch endlessly, the world around you painted in a perfect, postcard-worthy white. The cabin behind you is warm and inviting, but Charles had convinced you to take a walk—"Just for a little while," he had said. And because you could never say no to him, you agreed.

“I can appreciate it from inside,” you reply, shivering.

Charles chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.” Then, before you can react, he crouches down, scooping up a handful of snow.

Your eyes widen in warning. “Charles, don’t you dare—”

Too late. The snowball lands on your coat with a soft thud, and Charles bursts into laughter.

“Oh, that’s it!” You scoop up your own handful and launch it at him, but he dodges effortlessly, his racing reflexes working against you even here.

You huff, crossing your arms, but the cold is already sinking into your bones. Charles notices immediately, his teasing expression softening. “Okay, okay, let’s go inside.” He steps closer, wrapping his arms around you, his warmth instantly comforting. His lips press against your forehead, and you sigh, leaning into him.

“I hate the snow,” you mumble against his chest.

“I know,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to your temple. “But I love you.”

sweetheart

Dante Sparda x Reader

You’ve never met someone as insufferable as Dante Sparda. With his smug grin, devil-may-care attitude, and a penchant for turning everything into a joke, he’s the embodiment of everything you hate. A cocky show-off who acts like the world owes him a favor just because he’s good with a sword.

And you? You’re just someone who doesn’t have time for his nonsense.

The mission was simple enough. Something about a demon nest hidden in the abandoned catacombs beneath the city. Dante, for reasons you’d never understand, insisted on tagging along. You told him no. He came anyway.

“Y’know, you really shouldn’t go into places like this alone,” he says as the two of you step into the cold, damp tunnels. He walks beside you, his oversized sword slung casually over his shoulder, a revolver holstered at his side. His red coat sways with every step, and you find yourself gritting your teeth at how effortlessly he makes it all look.

“Shouldn’t you be off somewhere preening in front of a mirror?” you snap, your voice echoing in the gloom. “Or maybe finding someone else to bother?”

He chuckles, that infuriating sound that somehow manages to sound both genuine and mocking. “Ouch. Right in the ego. You know, if you keep being this mean to me, I might start thinking you don’t like me.”

“Good,” you reply, not missing a beat. “Maybe you’ll take the hint and leave me alone.”

“Not a chance, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. You hate that nickname. You hate how he says it, like it’s some kind of inside joke you’re not in on. You shoot him a glare, and he winks in response.

It doesn’t take long before the first wave of demons descends. You’re faster than him—quicker to draw your weapon and strike. Your blade cuts through the air with precision, dispatching the lesser demons with practiced ease.

Dante, of course, makes a show of it. He leaps into the fray like it’s a performance, spinning his sword in wide, exaggerated arcs. His guns bark loudly as he fires off a few rounds, each shot landing perfectly.

“Having fun yet?” he calls out, grinning at you over his shoulder.

You don’t answer, focusing instead on taking down the last of the creatures. When the fight is over, you stand amidst the carnage, breathing heavily. Dante, of course, looks like he just walked out of a salon. Not a hair out of place.

“You’re welcome,” he says, sheathing his sword with a flourish.

“For what?” you ask, wiping blood from your blade. “Showing off? Or getting in my way?”

“For making this whole thing more entertaining.” He leans casually against the wall, crossing his arms. “Admit it—you’d be bored without me.”

You don’t bother responding.

The deeper you go into the catacombs, the more the tension between you builds. It’s not just the danger of the place or the oppressive atmosphere—it’s him. Always there, always pushing your buttons.

“So,” he says after a while, breaking the silence, “why do you hate me so much?”

You roll your eyes. “Do you really want me to list all the reasons? We’ll be here all night.”

“Try me.”

You sigh, exasperated. “You’re arrogant, annoying, and you never take anything seriously.”

“Anything else?”

“You flirt with everything that moves.”

He smirks. “What can I say? I’ve got good taste.”

You stop walking, turning to face him. “This isn’t a game, Dante. People’s lives are at stake. If you’re not going to take this seriously, then just leave.”

For a moment, something shifts in his expression. The grin falters, and you catch a glimpse of something deeper—a flicker of understanding, maybe even regret.

Then it’s gone, replaced by that infuriating smirk. “Relax, sweetheart. I’ve got your back.”

“I don’t need you to have my back,” you snap. “I don’t need you, period.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” he says, brushing past you. “But don’t be too surprised when I’m the one saving your ass later.”

You glare at his back as he walks ahead, his red coat disappearing into the shadows. You hate him. You really do.

But somehow, against all logic, you know he’s right.

pretty girl

Harris Dickinson x Reader

The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of the sea as you stand on the balcony, the city lights flickering like stars in the distance. You shiver slightly, but before you can retreat inside, strong arms wrap around you from behind. Harris Dickinson pulls you close, his breath warm against your neck as he murmurs, “Cold, love?”

You nod, leaning into his embrace, the steady rise and fall of his chest grounding you. He turns you in his arms, his blue eyes searching yours, filled with something tender, something unspoken. His fingers brush a stray lock of hair from your face before he tilts your chin up.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, almost like he’s in awe. And then he kisses you—softly at first, like he’s savoring the moment, like he’s memorizing the taste of your lips. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing against your cheekbones, as if you’re something delicate, something precious.

When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, his voice a gentle murmur. “My pretty girl.” The words send a shiver down your spine, not from the cold but from the way he says them—possessive yet reverent, as if you are his favorite thing in the world.

You smile, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw before curling into the fabric of his sweater.

The night stretches before you, filled with possibilities, with whispered promises and stolen kisses. And in this moment, wrapped in his arms, nothing else matters but the way he holds you—like you are the only thing he ever wants to hold.

𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆

Nicholas Chavez x Reader

You hadn’t expected to see him again.

It was one of those evenings where the city hummed with the noise of too many conversations and the clinking of glasses. The gallery was crowded, the air thick with pretension and the faint smell of paint, but you’d come because your friend needed support for her exhibit. You hadn’t expected him to walk through the door, but there he was. Nicholas Chavez, in all his maddening glory, wearing that lopsided smirk that you hated so much.

Or maybe you hated how it still made your heart race.

“Hey, stranger,” he said, his voice low and casual as he approached you. Too casual, considering how you’d left things.

You glanced up from your drink, letting your gaze rest on him for only a second before looking away. “Nicholas,” you said flatly. No smile, no warmth.

The last time you’d seen him had been months ago. That so-called “adventure,” as he had so flippantly called it later. For you, it had been chaos—intense, thrilling, and ultimately devastating. You’d fallen for his charm, his wit, the way he seemed to turn every moment into a movie scene. He had swept you up into a whirlwind of late nights and stolen glances, leaving you breathless and raw.

And then he’d left.

No explanation, no warning—just gone. A cryptic text weeks later had offered little closure: It was fun while it lasted, huh?

You’d hated him ever since.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, keeping your tone sharp.

“Supporting the arts,” he said, feigning innocence. He picked up a wine glass from a passing tray and leaned against the wall, as if the room existed solely for his benefit. “And maybe hoping to run into someone.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He chuckled softly, the sound like a dagger to your chest. “Come on, don’t be like that. You can’t tell me you didn’t miss me. Even a little?”

You wanted to tell him exactly how much you hadn’t missed him. How his absence had been like a relief, a weight lifted. But the words stuck in your throat because, if you were honest, there had been moments—late at night, when the city was quiet and your thoughts ran wild—when you’d wondered if he’d think of you. If he’d regret leaving.

And now, here he was, with that infuriating smile and those dark eyes that saw through you too easily.

“I didn’t,” you lied.

He tilted his head, studying you. “Liar.”

You stepped closer, your voice low and cutting. “Do you know how much I hate you, Nicholas?”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. Instead, he leaned in, so close you could smell the faint trace of his cologne. “If that’s true,” he murmured, “then why are you still standing here?”

Your breath caught, your heart betraying you with its rapid beat. You wanted to slap him, to walk away and never look back. But part of you stayed rooted, drawn to him in ways you couldn’t explain or justify.

“I don’t owe you anything,” you said finally, stepping back. “Not my time, not my attention, not even my anger.”

He looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he nodded, the smirk fading. “Fair enough.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, your chest tight and your mind reeling.

You hated him.

You hated that part of you still didn’t want him to leave.

i like pizza

dick grayson x Reader

The rooftop is quiet, save for the soft hum of Gotham City below. You're sitting cross-legged next to Dick, sharing a pizza box between you. The moonlight reflects off the sleek black of his suit, but he looks more relaxed than ever. The domino mask hides his eyes, but you can feel them on you anyway.

“I like pizza,” he says, breaking the silence with a grin, as if this is some profound revelation.

You smirk, biting into a slice. “You like pizza. Groundbreaking.”

His smile widens. “You like pizza.”

“I do,” you reply, matching his playful tone. “Are you building up to something, Grayson?”

He leans back on his hands, the warm breeze tousling his dark hair. “Maybe. But you’ll have to wait for the big finish.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart betrays you, skipping a beat. Dick Grayson has a way of pulling you into his orbit, where everything feels lighter, brighter—even on a night like this.

“I am bad at poems,” he suddenly declares, tilting his head dramatically, his face angled toward the stars. His tone is so earnest, it takes you a second to realize he’s trying to be funny.

You laugh, a soft, genuine sound that makes his smile soften into something more sincere. “Yeah, I can see that,” you tease.

“Harsh,” he replies, pressing a hand to his chest as if wounded. Then, leaning forward slightly, he looks at you with a kind of quiet intensity. His voice drops lower, losing its humor but keeping its warmth. “Kiss me.”

The words hang in the air, simple but charged. You freeze, your slice of pizza forgotten. The world feels like it’s tilting, your pulse racing to keep up.

“You’re just going to throw that out there?” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He shrugs, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “Sometimes you just have to say what you feel. No masks, no games.”

For a moment, you wonder if he’s talking about more than just this—if he’s showing you a glimpse of the man behind the mask. Either way, you don’t wait for him to repeat himself. You lean in, meeting him halfway.

The kiss is warm and unhurried, like a secret shared between just the two of you. When you finally pull back, his forehead rests lightly against yours, and there’s a spark of mischief back in his voice.

“So,” he says softly, “does this mean we’re sharing the last slice?”

You laugh, your chest light, and nudge him playfully. “Not a chance, Grayson.”

He grins, the rooftop feels like the safest, happiest place in the world.