"I Want You To Know Why I Went Back For You. Why I Couldn't Let You Die."

The Salt

Had to write this because I am captivated by Sally Jackson and her lover (the Sea god). Please enjoy.

A man.

More than that.

A dream.

She’d been dreaming for weeks of the sea. Of waves, crashing against the cliffs with foam and spray. The salt that would linger on her skin, on her lips. How her hair would move, how her feet would tread in the sand.

But more than that.

Green eyes, the color of seawater when it rushes over the sand. Dark curly hair, tanned skin that she somehow knew. A presence, a knowing, a voice.

Find me.

It was lunacy, insanity. The fantasies of a college grad knee deep in debt, dreaming in her tiny Manhattan apartment, of the sea and a kiss that tasted like saltwater. But it was easy, so easy to scrape her money together, to push her yelling boyfriend aside, and just go. Go far, far away from the noise and the job and the debt.

The sea would wash everything away.

For hours, she sat in that cabin on the dunes, watching the sun get low, just thinking. The boyfriend. The arguments. The broken plate, her favorite blue plate, shattered on the floor. The blue and violet bruise on her ribs. She turned over her shoulder and gazed at the dusty mirror.

Wavy brown hair, a few white hairs here and there. Gray eyes, the color of thunderstorms. A white dress she’d bought at a tiny shop, embroidered in gold thread. She didn’t wear sandals, she wanted to feel the sand beneath her, to let the waves wash over her.

The sun made the sky a thousand shades, the clouds like splotches of paint on an indigo sky. The sand was soft beneath her, and she picked up her dress as the water lapped at her feet. Quiet. Calm. Her eyes closed, and she began to smile, soft and slow.

“The sea has a way of bringing things back to us.” A voice said, deep and gentle as the water beneath her.

She opened her eyes, and she saw a man. A dream.

He stood, knee deep in the surf, smiling at her. When he saw she was looking at him, his smile widened and she saw brilliant white teeth, the lines around his eyes creasing. She thought, blushing as she did, that he looked like something from the old movies she watched when she was younger.

The line of his jaw was terribly romantic. His nose was straight from the Greek busts she’d seen in her college textbooks. His eyes, a brilliant shade of sea-green, even from where she stood. His dark hair, messy and rather gorgeous. But it wasn’t just how he looked.

“What?” She managed.

He laughed, a rich sound that made her consider collapsing into the ocean and never coming up again. “You’re smiling.” He said, “Smiling in a way that only the sea can bring out of people.”

She smiled back at him, “Oh? And you know the sea?”

He grinned in a way that seemed he had a secret, “I know it well.”

She let her dress drop into the water, holding out her hand, “I’m Sally. Sally Jackson.”

He walked up to her and even though she held his gaze, she felt her head tilting back. He was taller than she’d thought, a head taller than her, maybe more. Oh, don’t you dare, she said to herself, don’t you dare Sally Jackson. Don’t. You. Dare.

He took her hand, and rather than shake it, gently pressed his lips to it.

Well, that’s just over the top, she thought somewhat faintly.

She tucked her hair behind her ear nervously, “Won’t you introduce yourself?”

He tilted his head, “I have many names. Which one would you like?”

She bit her lip, tapping her finger to her chin, “Hmm. John?”

He shook his head.

“James?” No. “Harry?” No.

“Well, if you don’t mind, I think we’ll just stick with nothing.” She said, “I don’t see why you can’t be mysterious.”

“I’m not mysterious.” He said simply, “But you’ll have to ask me to get an answer. And maybe I’ll ask you one.”

She walked slowly with him through the waves, “What do you do?”

“I’m a fisherman by trade. Always at sea. And where are you, Sally Jackson, when the sun rises?”

“Me? Oh, I live in Manhattan. I’m a waitress, but I’ve always wanted to be a writer.”

“Ah, a writer. What do you want to write?”

She blushed, looked away. He struggled not to laugh.

“You’re going to laugh. Everyone does.”

“I’m not laughing, but then again, I’m not everyone.”

“Oh, fine.” She turned to him, “Just once, before I write anything serious and important, I’d like to write one of those little romance novels that people buy to read at the beach or on a plane.”

He had promised not to laugh, but he did smile, from ear to ear. The sight made her a little drunk and she pushed lightly on his shoulder, “Oh come on!”

He laughed out loud, a sound that echoed across the water, “In my entire life, I’ve never met someone who wanted to write the little romance novels people read on a weekend.”

“Well, maybe you don’t read them, but people do.” She said determinedly, “People need romance. It’s like the sea, it’s this thing that connects everything and everyone, and it’s powerful and beautiful and it’ll sweep you off your feet if you’re not looking.”

“Have you fallen yet?” He asked, “Has the sea already swept you away?”

She knew he was looking at her, but she couldn’t meet his gaze. She shook her head, “No, no, I-“ She looked at the setting sun, “I think that I’m not made for the romance I write.”

“Why’s that?” He asked softly.

She turned to him, trying to make the conversation lighter. “Come on!” She said, “I’m reckless. I mean, I just grabbed some cash and left. Who does that?”

He shrugged, but his eyes twinkled.

She looked down, “I got my brand new dress wet, you know that?” She sighed and then winked.

His eyes were the last thing she saw as she fell back into the surf.

The water was gentle, caressing her skin. She stood, dripping wet and laughing. The look on his face made her stop.

He was looking at her. Staring at her. Like she was something else. Something more. It’s as if his eyes were hers and hers only, for this moment and the next.

She felt embarrassed. Standing in a dress clinging to her skin, in front of a man she just met. She knew what her boyfriend would think, and she wondered how many plates it would take for him to calm down.

“Sally.”

Her eyes flicked up to him. He looked…different. More powerful. His brows were knit together, his eyes dark and unreadable. “What?” She walked up to him, “What did I?”

He reached out, his large hands featherlight, and touched the side of her ribs. He did it incredibly gently, but she knew what he saw. Indigo and violet and sickly yellow, the massive bruise on her side.

“Oh.” She said lightly, “Oh, I must have fallen.”

His eyes practically burned her, “Sally, I know what makes marks like these.”

As carefully as he could, he curled his hand around her ribs. His fingers were longer and wider, but the marks were identical. “Don’t tell me I’m overstepping.” He said quietly, “Not when you’re owed better than this.”

She pushed him hard, but he barely moved.

“Sally.” She kept walking, pushing her hair from her face, gasping for breath. What was she doing, on a beach in Montauk? Letting a man touch her, look at her like-like that? Her boyfriend would be waiting at home, with a beer bottle and a fist. A broken plate, her favorite plate.

“Sally-“ His hand closed around her wrist and she turned to him, face streaked with tears.

“Don’t you dare tell me what I am owed.” She said, her body shaking, “It’s none of your business what me and my-“

“Your what?” He said sharply, “Your lover? Tell me, Sally Jackson, do they write that in your romance books? Black and blue bruises, screaming fights, broken plates?”

She hesitated, “Broken plates? How did you-“

“Because I do.” He said simply, “Because when you’ve lived a life like I have, you know many women with bruises. The sea washes away many things, Sally, but it won’t help you forget.”

Her eyes narrowed, “Who are you?”

His eyes were sad, noble.

“Poseidon.” He replied, “God of the sea. The sea that washes away many things.” He took her hand and pressed it to her side. Her eyes widened. She looked down.

Her bruise had vanished.

“My dreams.” She said softly, “You. You called to me.”

He smiled gently, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, “You came. The sea has always been your home, as it’s been mine.”

“I don’t understand.” She whispered, looking up at him, “Why? Why did you want me? When I’m-when I’m-“

His hands cradled her face, “Sally Jackson, you are worthy of the Manhattan skyline. Of every romance in the world. No man can diminish that, no matter what he tells you.”

She touched his face and he leaned into her hand. “In every dream, you were kind. In every memory of the sea, the sea has always been gentle to me.” She ran her thumb gently over his lips and he kissed her palm, “I knew you before I met you. And before I knew you, I wished I did.”

There were tears in his eyes. What power she must have, she thought to herself, to make the god of the sea weep saltwater tears. But she learned there were many kinds of salt.

The rough calluses of his hand in hers, skin hardened by years of salt. The way the sea water seemed to dance around them as he carried her through the higher tides. The salt of the air that made his hair ruffle in the winds, his eyes forever on her.

For days, she read out her stories and he laid on the sand and listened. He would hum in a quiet baritone, and for once, the waves hushed just so she could hear him sing. They swam until she got tired and he would wrap her in his arms and hold her until the stars came up.

He told her secrets, things no mortal ever knew. Scars on his body, and the memories from a thousand years ago. She could stare at him for hours, just to listen to his laugh or to see how his eyes gleamed when he looked at her.

One night, he gave her a pearl and she gave him a kiss. A kiss on salty lips, so tender that he swore to wear it on his mouth forever. But she knew and he knew, it couldn’t last.

The tide was going out and she stood in the sand. Holding her hand was a young boy, with sea green eyes and black hair. She wore the dress she wore the day they met. On her neck was a pearl.

He stood in the water, looking at her. She had hardly aged, but he felt as if he had lived a lifetime, captivated in her eyes. When he would return to the sea, it would be like it never happened. Except for a pearl, forever concealed in a band around his finger.

He could have made her a queen. He begged her, pleaded on his knees, but she just shook her head. She asked him to stay, and he knew he couldn’t. It was how things should be, would be, forever.

But still, when they both turned away, there was a little more saltwater in the sea.

Star Trek (2009), dir. J.J. Abrams

X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) / X-Men: Apocalypse (2016)

insomnia-zero wonu <3

All Over You

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Touch has always been your love language, until one overheard conversation makes you question everything. When you start to pull away Max realises just how deeply he’s come to need it.

2.7k words / Masterlist

Max always says you’re like a blanket come to life.

You cling. You cuddle. You drape yourself across him the second the opportunity arises. If Max’s lap is free you claim it without hesitation. If he’s stretched out on the couch, you’re pressed against his side before he even blinks. Your hand finds his thigh during dinner, your fingers sneak into his back pocket when you’re walking together, and every morning, like clockwork, your nose tucks into the curve of his neck.

It’s not something you think about, it’s instinct. It’s how you express the things you sometimes struggle to say. How you offer comfort. How you say I love you.

And for the longest time Max never says a word about it.

He lets you curl up beside him during movie nights. He leans into your touch when you rub lazy circles into the back of his neck while he’s gaming, or when you lace your fingers with his under the table at dinner.

So you think, this is us. You think, this works.

Until one night, when you overhear something you weren’t supposed to.

It’s nothing serious. At least, not really.

You’re padding back from the kitchen with a cup of tea, bare feet muffled by carpet when you hear Max talking on the phone on the balcony. His voice is low, casual. He’s talking to Daniel you think. Laughing at something.

And then you catch it.

“Yeah, you noticed huh? No she’s super touchy, always has been. Like, always on me.”

A beat.

“No, I don’t mind it. It’s just... I’m not really used to it, you know?”

You freeze, feet still against the carpet. The tea sloshes slightly, forgotten in your hands.

He laughs again, easy and relaxed. “She’s like a human magnet. If I’m sitting, she’s sitting on me. I swear sometimes I think she’d climb into my skin if she could.”

Daniel says something you can’t hear. Max chuckles. “No, she’s not annoying. She’s just... really affectionate.”

You don’t stay to hear the rest.

Your fingers tighten around your mug as you quietly retreat, heart a little heavier than before. You curl back into bed without saying a word, staring at the ceiling while your tea goes cold on the nightstand.

You’re not angry. He didn’t say anything cruel. Not really.

But for the first time questions being to lodge in your chest like a thorn... do I touch him too much? Does he just tolerate it because he loves me?

And just like that, something in you begins to shift.

You're still beside him. Still laughing at his jokes, still making him breakfast. You kiss him good morning and smile across the table. From the outside nothing changes, but the little things in all the tiny invisible places, the things that used to come so naturally they stop.

You don’t climb into his lap while he’s watching race replays, don’t tuck your face into the slope of his shoulder like you used to. You don’t slide your hand beneath the hem of his hoodie when you hug him from behind in the kitchen, fingers sneaking against warm skin. You don’t curl into his side when the movie starts, don’t tuck yourself under his arm like you belong there.

Instead you sit beside him on the couch with your legs tucked neatly under you, wrapped up tightly in a blanket like armour. A careful distance. A subtle retreat.

You keep your hands in your lap at dinner. You nod and listen and smile, but your fingers don’t find his thigh. You don’t reach for his hand beneath the table.

You still want to. God, do you want to.

Your whole body aches to reach for him, to run your fingers over his jaw, to smooth back his hair, to trace lazy shapes across his stomach. You miss the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart under your cheek.

You miss being held without thinking twice, but now that you’ve heard him say it out loud, that he’s not used to it, that he’s not like you, you can’t unhear it. It loops in your mind when the silence stretches between you.

Slowly you start to convince yourself you’ve been suffocating him. That maybe the way you love is too much for him. That maybe softness, when it clings like yours does, feels like smothering.

So you pull back, quietly, carefully, and hope he doesn’t notice how much it hurts. Or worse that he does, and lets you do it anyway.

Max doesn’t say anything at first, but after a few days he starts to notice.

A few inches of space on the couch. Your hand not finding his like it usually does. The way you don't crawl into his lap during breakfast, don't lean into his side during movies, don't rest your hand on his leg during long car rides.

At first he tells himself maybe you’re tired from work. Maybe it’s just one of those quiet moods that passes like the weather. He gives you space, the way people are always saying partners should.

But the distance doesn’t fade.

It expands.

One morning he slips behind you in the kitchen to steal a piece of toast. Normally you’d laugh, you’d wrap your arms around his waist and bury your nose in his hoodie, but this time you step aside without touching him.

He frowns, just a quick flicker, then hides it, but his stomach twists violently anyway.

It’s not like Max to spiral. He’s not wired for emotional uncertainty he prefers problems he can fix with strategy, planning, control.

But this?

This isn’t a problem he knows how to solve.

The way you sit on the far end of the couch, legs tucked under you, scrolling on your phone like it’s more comforting than him. You barely brush his arm when you slip into bed at night. When he tries to kiss your neck absentmindedly like he always does you duck away, not unkindly, but enough to make him panic

He tries not to panic, but that’s what this feels like panic.

It gnaws at him over the next couple days. The silence between your fingers and his. The distance that didn’t use to be there. The way you won’t look at him for too long, like he might read too much in your eyes.

Max isn’t good with emotional guessing games. He’s never been the type to bottle things up or pretend everything’s fine when it isn’t. He doesn’t do insecure. He confronts things. Fixes things. Puts it all on the table and makes it make sense.

And Max doesn’t know how to read silence the way he reads telemetry. He doesn’t know how to fix something when he doesn’t know where the break is.

He replays your interactions hunting for the mistake. Did he forget something important? Miss a signal? Are you sick or bored?

Is she pulling away because she’s planning to leave?

The thought stops him in his tracks. His chest aches with it, sharp and sudden. He sits with it, stunned, rubs at his sternum like he can soothe the ache.

You’re still sweet. Still say good luck before he gets into the car. Still text him updates about your day, what podcast you listened to, what ridiculous thing your coworker said. Still fold his shirts when he leaves them in a pile at the foot of the bed. Still laugh at the stupid jokes he makes when he’s overtired. You're still there.

But it’s different. Your body has gone quiet, your touch has gone still. Less warm. Less you.

And Max, who never thought he’d crave something so soft, so intangible starts to feel the absence like a phantom limb, it feels like someone turned off the sun and expects him not to notice. And it terrifies him because he doesn’t know what he did to lose it, or how to ask for it back.

You can feel the ache in your chest growing stronger every day.

You don’t want to stop touching him. You miss touching him. You miss his warmth, the way he instinctively leans into your touch even when he’s focused on something. You miss curling into his lap without thinking, his fingers combing through your hair like it’s second nature.

But now? Every time your hand so much as twitches toward him, doubt rushes in like cold water.

Am I smothering him again? Is this too much? Is this what he meant?

You thought you were just adjusting. Giving him the space you assume he needs. You told yourself it was mature, respectful, kind, but it’s starting to feel less like an adjustment and more like a punishment.

Every second you don’t touch him? It hurts. In tiny, deceptive ways like a thousand paper cuts.

By the end of the next week, you’re sitting on the hotel bed in Jeddah, scrolling through your phone in silence, without reading a word, wrapped in one of his hoodies that still smells like his aftershave. Max pauses when he sees how far you’re sitting from the edge of the mattress. From him.

That’s when he finally speaks.

“Did I do something?”

You blink. “What?”

“You’ve been...” He trails off, eyes searching yours. “Distant.”

You hesitate. “No, I’m just tired.”

He studies your face for a long moment hoping you’ll offer somthing more, but when nothing comes he doesn’t push. Just nods slowly, then climbs into bed beside you.

You don’t cuddle him that night.

You face the other way, pretending to scroll while your chest feels like it’s being wrung out.

Max doesn’t say anything, but you feel the shift, the slight dip of the mattress, the warmth of his body inching closer in the dark, not quite touching. He stops just shy of you, like he wants to reach out but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to, like he’s hoping you’ll turn around and meet him there.

It takes until Sunday night, after the race for everything to crack open.

You’re both back at the hotel. Max steps out of the shower, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, sweatpants slung low on his hips. You’re perched on the window seat, knees pulled to your chest, phone resting forgotten in your lap as you stare out over Jeddah’s lights.

You think maybe you’ll just go to sleep early. Then Max sits beside you.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sits close enough to feel the heat off your arm. He’s never been good at this part, the vulnerable bit. The what if it’s in my head bit. The what if I’m asking for something she doesn’t want to give me anymore bit.

The part where he has to name the thing that’s been gnawing at him for weeks. The part where he has to admit he's scared he’s already lost something and just hasn’t caught up to it yet.

He’s spent enough time memorising the way you speak when you're lying. You don’t flinch or fumble. You just get quieter. Softer. Like you’re afraid the truth will hurt more than the silence.

But he needs the truth now, because he’s been tying himself in knots trying to figure it out. Replaying conversations in his head, wondering if he forgot someone’s birthday or crossed a line or said something he shouldn’t have.

And now all he wants is to be close. To be touched. Held. Seen.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice low, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

“Yeah…” you say, trailing off.

And then, when you don’t say anything else, something in your eyes flickers and he just knows.

Max’s heart kicks hard in his chest, the kind of lurch he only gets right before lights out. He swallows, throat dry, like he’s one bad move away from losing something he doesn’t know how to live without.

“I miss you,” he says, voice quiet. “Even when you’re right here.”

You close your eyes. Then you look at him, really look, and something in you gives. Like you’ve been carrying a weight for days and it’s finally too much to hold, too much to hide.

“I heard you,” you say.

His brow furrows. “Heard me?”

“On the phone,” you clarify. “With Daniel. A couple of weeks ago”

Max’s pauses for a second, trying to remember, and then his stomach drops.

“You heard that?”

You nod slowly, eyes still on the window. “You said I’m always on you. That I’m really touchy. That you’re not used to it.”

His expression shifts, jaw tight, eyes suddenly filled with something that looks a lot like guilt.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I wasn’t trying to. But after that...” You pull your sleeves over your hands, voice quieter now. “I started wondering if I’d been overwhelming you. If I was too much—”

“Wait, baby—”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, force you into something you don’t want.” you rush on. “So I’ve been trying to give you space. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

Max’s heart actually hurts.

He didn’t even realise how it might’ve sounded. He remembers the conversation now, half-distracted, casual, him laughing while Daniel joked about your human magnet tendencies. It hadn’t meant anything to him, just a passing comment… but it had meant everything to you.

“Hey,” he says, reaching for your hand. “Look at me.”

You look up. Max’s brows are drawn together. He looks devastated.

“I swear I never meant that in a bad way,” he says. “I wasn’t complaining. I was just… explaining it. I’ve never been with someone as affectionate as you, it caught me off guard at first sure. But I love it. I love the way you love me.”

A beat. His voice softens.

“When you stopped reaching for me, I didn’t know what to do. I’ve been going crazy wondering why it felt like you were slipping away.”

You bite your lip, blinking quickly. “I thought I was just annoying you, that you were putting up with it because you love me, not because you wanted it.”

His forehead drops to yours, hands sliding to your waist, holding tight. “No. God, no. Baby, it’s the best part of my day. You crawling into my lap, always reaching for me. It makes me feel wanted... like I matter, like I make you feel safe.”

He leans back just slightly, fingers sliding to your jaw, cradling it gently.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “If I made you feel like you were too much. If I made you doubt what we have. That was never what I meant. I hate that I hurt you. I hate that you thought you had to pull away from me just to make me comfortable.”

Your lips part slightly, like you're shocked by the weight of his words.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he admits. “Watching you pull away, thinking maybe I’d done something. I was scared I lost you and didn’t even know when it happened.”

“I wasn’t,” you whisper. “I swear I wasn’t pulling away from you… at least not like that, I just thought I was doing the right thing.”

“I know that now,” he says. “But please don’t stop. Don’t ever stop”

Your arms are around him before he finishes the sentence.

He exhales into your neck, like he’s been holding his breath for days. Pulls you into his lap like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again. His hands spread across your back, and for the first time in a while something in him settles.

You crawl further into his lap like it’s where you belong. Arms around his neck. Fingers threading into his hair. He exhales like someone finally handed him back something precious.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin.

“I’m right here.”

He pulls back, eyes soft. “Don’t stop being you, okay? Promise me.”

You nod. “Promise.”

Later, curled up in bed, you trace lazy lines across his chest with your fingertips.

“You really don’t mind?” you ask sleepily.

“Mind?” he echoes, mouth brushing your forehead. “I crave you.”

You smile into his skin, small and shy.

He kisses your hair again. “You ruined me.”

“Good,” you murmur, already drifting.

You’re here. Wrapped around him, where you belong.

And Max? Max feels like he can finally breathe again.

JUN (WEIBO LIVE) - 230517

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