This is meant to be my “chill save,” but as I said before, I can’t resist storytelling. Just my way of disconnecting a bit from the main legacy. BlueskyFeedCreator.com Donate: https://blueskyfeedcreator.com/p/bymooniemoon.bsky.social/chillgameplay#donate
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Her coworker’s words won’t leave her head, echoing louder than she’d admit. So when she spots the annoying gym bro across the room, all smug grin and protein shake, something shifts. It’s not attraction exactly, more like curiosity mixed with boredom. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦… 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦.
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After long shifts, all Amanda wants is sleep, just a few uninterrupted hours. But Lucas has other plans. He babbles, crawls, insists on her attention until she gives in, pulling him into her bed. Within minutes, he’s out cold, tiny hand resting on her arm, and somehow, that’s enough.
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The gym bros are relentless; always hovering, always explaining things she didn’t ask about. “𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨,” “𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥.” She nods, smiles, pretends to listen, but inside she’s screaming. She hates it. Deeply.
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She also starts going to the gym; just an hour a day, nothing dramatic. It has a small nursery, so leaving Lucas there doesn’t feel too heavy on her heart. It’s not really about working out; it’s about breathing, about remembering she still exists outside the role of 𝘮𝘰𝘮.
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But every time she’s with Lucas, she smiles. Real or not, it doesn’t matter. She reads to him, shows him colors, claps when he babbles nonsense like it’s genius. Teaching him little things gives her purpose, something steady to hold onto when everything else feels like falling apart.
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Moving on is harder than she imagined. Amanda cries through mornings, through coffee breaks, through diaper changes. Sometimes she’s fine until Lucas stirs at night, and then it hits again; how everything’s different, how she’s doing this alone, and how much it still hurts.
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He confesses before she can even ask. The words spill out quietly, stripped of anger or excuses. He can’t do this anymore. He doesn’t want to be with her, not like this. And as much as it hurts, Amanda just nods, because deep down, she’s known for a long time too.
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When he gets home, Amanda is waiting for him, a rare sight these days. She never waits up, not anymore, but tonight feels different. He knows it the moment he sees her face. The silence between them is heavy, familiar. She’s tired. So is he. Maybe they’ve both been tired for a while.
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The truth is, nights like this are chaos in his head. The music blurs with guilt, Candy’s laugh with temptation. It’s not their first kiss, not even close, and Amanda’s probably home trying to stay awake. He knows it’s wrong, knows exactly what it means. He just doesn’t love her anymore.
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But she’s right. He loves this; the music, the lights, the rush that fills his chest when the crowd moves with him. It’s the one place that still feels easy. One more set won’t hurt anyone, he tells himself. Just a little longer before reality catches up.
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Joaquin loves being with Lucas; the tiny hands, the sleepy smiles. But the house feels smaller every day. At the club, surrounded by lights and bass, he feels like himself again. Out there, he’s not a tired dad or a worried boyfriend. He’s just Joaquin, and the music still wants him.
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She’s more tired than words can cover; past exhaustion, past feeling. Her body moves on instinct now, feeding, rocking, soothing. Some days she wonders if she’s even still herself or just a pair of tired arms keeping everything from falling apart.
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Joaquin is nowhere to be found most days, 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, or so he says. Amanda barely catches glimpses of him between shifts and feedings. And touch? That ended months ago. Since before the baby, his hands haven’t reached for her once.
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Amanda takes care of him; every cry, every late-night feeding, every impossible hour. Not that she minds; he’s her son, her whole world. But the sleepless nights pile up, blurring the days together until coffee feels more like survival than choice.
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Lucas cries; loud, fierce, and constant. He feels everything all at once, every sound, every touch, every shift in the air. He’s an intense baby, the kind who doesn’t just enter a room but takes it over completely.
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On a stormy summer night, thunder rolling outside the hospital windows, Lucas Everhart-Le Chien comes into the world like a flash of light.
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Amanda panics when Joaquin hits the floor, her heart racing faster than the monitors. But Dr. Hallowell, calm as ever, takes charge. With a steady hand and the faintest smirk, she says she’s got it. And somehow, Amanda believes her.
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But when it’s finally time; machines beeping, nurses moving fast, Joaquin doesn’t even make it to the big moment. One glance at the scene, one deep breath too many, and down he goes.
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The hours crawl by under harsh hospital lights, but Joaquin never leaves Amanda’s side. He wipes her forehead, squeezes her hand, whispers through her breathing.
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Nine months slip by in a blur of work, silence, and polite distance. Amanda and Joaquin move around each other like roommates with history. But when her water breaks, everything shifts. At that moment, Joaquin remembers exactly why he stayed.
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They spend the afternoon playing games, lost between laughter and friendly trash talk. When the lights dim, they pack up and head to the club; they’ve got a set to play. As for Amanda, if Joaquin catches her before she leaves for another shift, it’ll be a small miracle.
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Candy kisses his cheek, quick and playful, but it’s enough to make Joaquin swallow hard. They’ve done this dance before, on and off, messy and magnetic. Some habits, it seems, are harder to quit than others.
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Joaquin catches Candy, awkwardly frozen mid-movement, like he’s forgotten what to do with his own hands. She laughs, loud and unbothered, the kind of laugh that makes him wish he hadn’t remembered he’s supposed to behave.
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