Summary: Everyone has a doppelganger—someone out there living a life that mirrors your own. Y/N and Dean Winchester never met theirs, but they both loved them. Five years after losing their almost-spouses to monsters on the same day, they’ve each carved out a life in hunting fueled by grief and unfinished promises. When a case in a quiet September town pulls them into the same orbit, neither realizes they are walking toward the person who once loved a reflection of themselves. Familiarity lingers where it shouldn’t. Instinct pulls where logic resists. And some connections refuse to stay buried—even when they were never meant to exist in the first place.
Pairing: Dean x You/Reader, Dean x OCF, You/Reader x OCM
Word Count: 4306
Warnings: Mentions of abuse, Grief, Angst - LOTS, Everything's Coming to a Head, Doesn't follow the show timeline, Altering POV's.
A/N: Another one that just came to me that I've been working on for a while and finally finished. I wanted to have this one done before I even posted the first chapter. Super Angsty and full of Grief. Sorry guys. Does have a happyish ending.
Chapter 5 ----- Chapter 7 - coming soon
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Chapter 6
The dirt road stretched deeper into the woods than you expected.
Trees crowded closer the farther you drove, their branches knitting together overhead until the sky became little more than fractured slivers between black leaves. Gravel shifted softly beneath your tires as you kept your distance, eyes locked on the faint glow of the pastor’s taillights ahead.
No hesitation.
No uncertainty.
He drove this road like he knew every bend by memory.
Your fingers rested lightly against the steering wheel, steady despite the slow climb of adrenaline tightening beneath your ribs. The deeper into the forest you went, the less the world felt real. Town lights had vanished miles ago. There were no houses here. No distant highways humming somewhere beyond the trees.
Just woods.
Dense. Ancient. Watching.
The sounds of the forest wrapped around your car in layers at first. Crickets chirping in uneven rhythms. Leaves whispering against one another overhead. The occasional rustle somewhere unseen beyond the road.
Then gradually—
Silence.
Not natural silence.
The kind that arrives all at once.
The crickets stopped first.
Then the rustling.
Then everything.
Your pulse slowed instinctively instead of quickening. Predators recognized silence for what it was.
Warning.
Every instinct beneath your skin sharpened.
Ahead, the sedan slowed.
Through the trees, you finally caught sight of it: an old cabin tucked deep in the woods, half-hidden behind thick brush and towering pines. The structure looked forgotten by the world. Weathered wood. Sagging porch. Dark windows reflecting almost nothing back.
The pastor pulled beside it and parked.
His headlights cut across the trees one final time before the engine died.
Darkness swallowed everything immediately.
For one brief moment, the woods disappeared entirely.
Then your vision adjusted.
Two doors opened ahead.
Two figures stepped out.
You were still too far back to stop anything.
Your jaw tightened.
The sedan doors shut softly. Muffled. Controlled.
Then nothing.
No voices.
No movement.
You slowed the Charger carefully, easing it farther down the road before finally pulling beneath the heavy cover of overhanging branches. The engine clicked quietly as you killed it.
Still no sound from the cabin.
Your hand moved automatically to the silver knife at your hip, fingers brushing the worn handle in practiced reassurance. Then to the gun tucked against the small of your back beneath your flannel. Silver rounds.
Ready.
Always ready.
You glanced once toward the cabin through the trees before shifting your weight toward the open driver’s side window.
The door stayed shut.
No unnecessary noise.
You slipped silently through the window frame and landed lightly against damp earth, crouched low beside the Charger. Cool air brushed against your skin, carrying the scent of wet bark, old wood, and something deeper underneath.
Something animal.
Your movements stayed careful as you closed the distance through the trees. Silent footsteps against dirt and fallen leaves. No snapped twigs. No shifting gravel.
Your eyes tracked every movement automatically.
A branch swaying gently overhead.
Leaves drifting across the forest floor.
Shadows shifting between trees as the wind moved through them.
But no sign of the pastor.
No sign of the second man.
The closer you got, the more wrong the silence felt.
When you finally reached the sedan parked outside the cabin, you paused beside the rear bumper, body still and listening.
Nothing.
The metal ticked softly as the engine cooled.
No voices inside.
No footsteps.
No heartbeat close enough to track.
Your eyes swept the cabin windows again.
Dark.
Empty.
Then suddenly—
A light flicked on inside.
Warm yellow spilled briefly across the front room window.
And for the first time since entering the woods—
You froze. Heart hammering against your ribs.
You stayed motionless beside the sedan, every muscle held taut beneath your skin as your eyes locked onto the shifting silhouette inside. A figure moved across the small space slowly, casually. No frantic pacing. No signs of struggle. No violence.
Just movement.
Like someone settling in for the evening.
Your brow furrowed slightly.
That wasn’t right.
You hadn’t heard a door open. Hadn’t heard footsteps crossing the porch. And you knew with absolute certainty neither man had entered through the front.
The woods were too quiet for you to miss that.
A chill slid slowly down your spine.
Your gaze flicked once toward the trees surrounding the cabin before returning to the window. Instinct prickled hard beneath your skin now, not with the sharp warning of immediate danger, but something stranger. Unease layered with confusion.
The silhouette moved again.
Then the front door swung open.
Not violently.
Not suddenly.
Almost lazily.
Warm light spilled across the porch and into the darkness beyond, cutting long pale shapes between the trees.
You tensed automatically.
The pastor stood in the doorway, one hand resting lightly against the frame. His expression remained calm, softened by the amber light behind him. No claws. No blood. No sign of panic at being followed miles into the woods.
Just quiet awareness.
“I know you’re out there,” he said.
His voice carried easily through the stillness. Warm. Steady. The same voice that delivered sermons every Sunday from behind stained glass and scripture.
“If you want to know the truth,” he continued gently, “you’re welcome to come inside.”
A brief pause.
“I’m no threat to you.”
The words should’ve sounded ridiculous.
Every instinct you possessed screamed trap.
Your fingers twitched near the silver knife at your hip as your pulse slowed into something colder and sharper. Werewolves lied. Predators lured prey closer. Monsters wore friendly faces all the time.
You knew that.
You’d built the last five years of your life around that truth.
And yet—
Something about him wasn’t matching the picture in your head.
No tension sharpened his voice. No false bravado. No edge of concealed violence waiting beneath the surface.
Just calm.
That calm unsettled you more than anger would have.
The pastor stepped away from the doorway a moment later, disappearing back inside without another word, leaving the door standing open behind him.
An invitation.
Or bait.
You stayed where you were for several long seconds, eyes fixed on the glowing rectangle of light cutting through the darkness.
The forest remained silent around you.
No crickets.
No wind.
Nothing.
Then slowly, cautiously, you moved.
Your footsteps stayed soundless against damp earth as you emerged from behind his sedan. The porch came into clearer view with every step, weathered wood silvered faintly beneath the cabin light. The old boards creaked softly under your weight as you climbed the few steps, each sound seeming unnaturally loud against the stillness surrounding the woods.
You paused at the threshold.
The cabin interior unfolded in front of you in one slow sweep.
One room.
Small.
Worn.
A bed sat tucked against one wall beneath a narrow window, blankets neatly folded despite the age of the mattress beneath them. A small wooden table and mismatched chairs occupied the opposite side near an empty stone fireplace dusted faintly with ash. Along the far wall sat a cramped kitchen space—old counters, faded cabinets, a rusted sink.
And directly across from you—
The back door stood wide open.
Cool night air drifted through it softly, stirring the thin curtains hanging above the sink.
The pastor stood there with his back partially turned to you, gaze fixed out the dark window above the basin. His hands rested clasped loosely behind him, posture relaxed enough that it should have felt vulnerable.
Instead, it felt deliberate.
Like a man who already understood exactly how dangerous the room had become.
And still wasn’t afraid.
He didn’t need to turn to see you.
“I clocked you that first day when you came into my church.”
His voice carried through the cabin low and even, warm in a way that should have been comforting. Instead, it settled beneath your skin like something alive. Certain. Knowing. The kind of certainty that didn’t come from guesswork.
Your fingers flexed once near the silver knife at your hip.
The cabin smelled faintly of old wood, dust, and rain soaked into the walls over decades. Beneath it lingered another scent now that you were closer. Iron. Not fresh blood, but memory of it. Faint enough most people would never notice.
“What makes a monster a monster?”
The question settled heavily into the room.
The pastor finally shifted slightly near the sink, not enough to face you fully, just enough for the light overhead to catch the silver threading through his beard. Outside the open back door, the woods remained deathly still. No insects. No movement. Like the entire forest was listening.
Your pulse beat slow and hard against your ribs. The question wasn’t just for him. It was for you. Every hunter you’d faced, every choice you’d made in the past, every life weighed against another—what drew the line between monster and man? And standing there, watching him, you felt the pull of that line.
“The first man,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the trees beyond the window, “he used his power over others to hurt those who trusted him.”
Your jaw tightened immediately as your pulse spiked, muscles tensing as your mind traced the implication without moving. Every word painted a pattern, a chain of intentions and consequences, but it was his tone—the measured, almost mournful cadence—that made you pause.
The floorboards creaked softly beneath your shifting weight as you remained near the doorway, muscles coiled tight beneath your skin. Ready. Waiting for the moment this calm mask finally cracked open into teeth and violence.
It didn’t.
“The second man,” he continued, voice softening almost imperceptibly, “he did harm in a different way, twisting control into fear. Using trust and god’s word as a weapon.”
A faint breeze drifted through the open back door, stirring the thin curtains near the sink. Somewhere deeper in the woods, a branch groaned quietly before falling silent again.
You didn’t move, though your breath hitched once, soft, careful, a sound lost to the night. Your mind ran faster than your body could, cataloging details, piecing together what he said with what you already knew. Missing pieces you hadn’t fully connected yet.
Your stomach twisted.
Because predators wore human skin more often than claws.
“This man,” he said, flicking a glance toward the open back door, “he was planning something cruel. He finally revealed it all in confessions.”
The words landed harder than they should have.
Confessions.
Church.
Trust handed over freely behind closed doors.
Your throat tightened slightly before you forced it back down. The silver ring on your right hand felt suddenly colder against your skin as your fingers curled reflexively.
Still he didn’t move toward you.
Still he wasn’t afraid.
“And the woman,” his voice came again, deliberate and unwavering, “she’s been plotting in her own way. Calculating. Obsessing over a married man. Thinking she can bend someone to her will.”
The cabin suddenly felt smaller.
Tighter.
“The man’s wife is pregnant,” he continued quietly. “None of them knows.”
Your breathing slowed instinctively. A shiver ran down your spine, but you didn’t flinch. You absorbed, cataloged, let the words settle in your chest like stones in a stream.
Your eyes tracked him carefully now, searching for deception in every subtle movement. Every twitch. Every shift in posture. But there was nothing frantic about him. Nothing unstable.
Only exhaustion buried beneath restraint.
Outside, the trees swayed faintly against the night sky. The scent of damp earth drifted through the open doorway.
His gaze remained fixed on the darkness beyond the open door, on patterns only he seemed to see. His final words hung in the air, almost a plea, almost a warning:
Then finally—
He looked at you.
Fully.
Brown eyes steady beneath the warm cabin light.
“All I ask, little cat,” he said softly, “is that you don’t let that unborn child die, if you choose to kill me tonight.”
Silence crashed into the room afterward.
The words twisted inside you. Choices. Consequences. Monsters and men. And suddenly, the question he asked earlier wasn’t just his. It was yours. It had always been yours.
Your chest tightened, a low, uneasy rhythm echoing in your ears. The pastor’s words had settled over you like a weight, pressing questions you’d asked yourself into sharper focus. What makes a monster a monster?
You’d asked it before, in mirrors, in quiet moments in the dark, when the reflection staring back wasn’t fully human. And now… standing in the cabin, you hesitated. The line between justice and vengeance, predator and protector, had blurred in the span of a single confession.
The silence stretched long enough for your pulse to finally begin slowing.
Not fully.
Not safely.
But enough that the knife at your hip no longer felt like the only answer in the room.
Your shoulders eased by degrees, tension bleeding out slowly instead of all at once. The instinct to fight still lingered beneath your skin, sharp and ready, but it no longer screamed. It watched. Waited. Measured.
The pastor remained where he stood near the sink, giving you space to think. To choose.
The cabin creaked softly around you as the night air drifted through the open back door, cool against your skin. Somewhere far off in the woods, an owl called once before silence swallowed the sound again.
You swallowed carefully.
Then finally—
“I’ll protect them.”
Your voice came quieter than you expected, roughened slightly by everything tightening in your chest. The pregnant wife. Her husband. A child that hadn’t even drawn its first breath yet.
The pastor’s eyes softened almost immediately.
You forced yourself to continue before doubt could creep in. “I’ll make sure nothing happens to them.”
The words settled heavily between you, carrying the weight of a promise. Not empty reassurance. Not pity.
A vow.
The silver ring against your finger caught faintly in the cabin light as your hand flexed once at your side.
A beat of silence passed.
Then another.
Your gaze drifted briefly toward the open back door, toward the endless dark beyond it, before returning to him.
“You need to leave town.”
The pastor didn’t react outwardly, but something weary flickered behind his eyes.
“Go somewhere nobody knows you,” you continued quietly. “Start over somewhere else.”
Your throat tightened slightly around the next words.
“I’ll make sure you aren’t followed.”
The cabin fell still again after that.
Not tense this time.
Something stranger.
Something mournful.
The pastor lowered his head slightly, almost like the beginning of a prayer before looking back at you fully. Relief moved across his features first, subtle enough most people would’ve missed it. Beneath that came something deeper.
Compassion.
Not fear of you.
Not judgment.
Compassion.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
The sincerity in his voice settled awkwardly against the sharp edges inside your chest. You weren’t used to gratitude from monsters.
Or maybe—
The thought stopped before you could finish it.
He studied you quietly for a moment longer, the warm cabin light catching in his brown eyes. Then slowly, a small smile touched his lips. Gentle. Kind in a way that felt almost painful after everything he’d confessed.
“You’re not the monster you think you are, little cat.”
The words struck harder than they should have.
Your breath caught faintly.
Because he said it like he knew.
Not guessed.
Knew.
Before you could find a response, the pastor turned toward the open back door. His footsteps remained calm and unhurried across the old wooden floorboards as he stepped into the darkness beyond the cabin.
“Andrea Johnson.”
Then, the night swallowed him quickly.
One moment there.
The next—
Gone.
You stood frozen in the center of the small cabin long after the woods fell silent again.
The lamp above the sink buzzed softly overhead. The curtains near the window shifted faintly in the cold air drifting through the open doorway. Somewhere nearby, the sedan’s engine ticked quietly as it cooled.
But your mind remained trapped on the same question looping endlessly through your chest.
What makes a monster a monster?
You had come here tonight ready to kill him.
Certain.
Certain enough to bring silver.
Certain enough to follow him into the woods alone.
And now he was gone because you let him go.
Not because you couldn’t pull the trigger.
Because you chose not to.
The realization settled heavily into your bones as you stared into the darkness beyond the cabin door, trying to come to terms with the impossible weight of mercy.
The Impala crawled slowly down the dirt road, tires crunching softly over gravel and damp earth. Dean kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting low near the gun tucked beside his seat. The headlights cut narrow paths between the trees, branches twisting overhead thick enough to swallow most of the moonlight above.
Neither brother spoke much.
The deeper they drove into the woods, the heavier the air seemed to become.
Not silent.
That would’ve almost been easier.
Crickets chirped unevenly somewhere beyond the trees. An owl called once from high above before another answered farther off. Leaves shifted softly whenever the breeze moved through the forest. Life still existed out here.
But something felt wrong.
Dean couldn’t explain it.
The kind of wrong hunters learned to trust anyway.
His jaw tightened slightly as his eyes swept the narrow road ahead again. The cabin wasn’t far now. He remembered enough from the maps and half-forgotten case notes to know this road only ended one place.
Then Sam suddenly leaned forward slightly in his seat.
“Dean.”
Dean’s gaze sharpened immediately. “What?”
Sam pointed subtly toward the trees off the side of the road. “There.”
At first, Dean saw nothing but shadows.
Then the angle shifted as the Impala rolled forward another few feet.
Midnight blue paint caught faintly beneath the moonlight filtering through the branches.
The Charger sat tucked deep enough into the shadows that it nearly disappeared entirely unless you were close enough to know what to look for. No lights. Hidden deliberately.
Light spilled warmly from the open front door, stretching across the battered porch and bleeding pale gold onto the dirt below. Beside the cabin sat a dark sedan they knew belonged to the pastor.
Still warm enough that faint heat shimmered above the hood beneath the headlights.
Dean’s grip tightened instinctively against the wheel.
“Stay sharp,” he said quietly.
The forest pressed close around the clearing, branches swaying faintly overhead. Crickets still chirped somewhere nearby, but the sounds only made the place feel stranger. Like the woods themselves were holding their breath around something unseen.
The Impala rolled to a careful stop several yards from the porch.
Dean stared at the open doorway, every instinct he had pulling taut beneath his skin. Something had already happened here.
He could feel it.
But whether they were too late to stop it—
Or too late to survive it—
He didn’t know yet.
The Impala’s engine idled low for another few seconds before Dean finally killed it.
The sudden quiet settled heavily around them.
Crickets filled the spaces between the trees in uneven waves, their sound carrying sharp in the cool night air. Somewhere deeper in the woods, leaves rustled softly beneath something small moving through the underbrush. An owl called once overhead before silence swallowed the sound again.
Dean’s eyes stayed fixed on the cabin.
The open front door.
The light still burning inside.
Nothing moved across the windows.
That bothered him more than if something had.
Beside him, Sam shifted slightly in his seat, gaze sweeping the clearing again. The sedan parked outside. The dark tree line surrounding the cabin. The narrow dirt road behind them that suddenly felt very far from town.
“Feels wrong,” Sam murmured quietly.
Dean nodded once.
Because it did.
Not immediate danger.
Not yet.
But the kind of tension hunters learned to feel before a fight started. The air itself seemed tighter somehow, stretched thin enough that one wrong movement might snap it.
Dean opened his door carefully.
The old hinges gave the faintest creak before his boots touched damp earth. Cool air brushed against his face immediately, carrying the scent of wet leaves, old wood, and something faint underneath it that made instinct tighten low in his gut.
Sam stepped out on the opposite side a second later, shutting the door slower than normal to avoid the sound carrying through the clearing.
The brothers moved automatically after that. Muscle memory built over years.
Dean reached back into the front seat, fingers curling around the grip of the handgun resting there before tucking it securely into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back. Hidden beneath worn fabric. Easy reach if things went sideways.
Silver rounds loaded.
Just in case.
His other hand briefly checked the silver knife strapped at his hip. Backup weapon. Close quarters insurance.
Hunters who survived learned fast not to trust a single weapon.
Across from him, Sam mirrored the motions almost unconsciously. Gun concealed beneath layers of flannel and denim. Silver knife secure against his leg.
Prepared for claws.
Teeth.
A close fight in tight spaces.
Prepared for a werewolf.
Dean’s gaze drifted once more toward the hidden Charger farther back among the trees. A strange unease twisted through him again at the thought of the woman somehow being mixed up in all this.
Hunter?Victim?Something worse?
He still didn’t know.
And somehow that uncertainty bothered him more than the monster waiting somewhere nearby.
The porch creaked softly as the wind shifted through the clearing.
Dean’s attention snapped back immediately.
Nothing moved.
The cabin light still spilled warmly through the open doorway, standing in stark contrast against the cold darkness surrounding it.
Like an invitation.
Or a warning.
Dean exchanged one final glance with Sam.
No words needed.
Then slowly, carefully, the two of them started toward the cabin.
The cabin felt different after he left.
Too quiet.
Too still.
You stood near the small kitchen counter, both hands braced against the worn wood, fingers curled tighter than you realized against the rough edge. Your head remained slightly bowed, eyes unfocused on the sink beneath the window while your thoughts spiraled somewhere far deeper than the room around you.
What makes a monster a monster?
The question echoed endlessly now, threading through every memory you’d tried burying over the years. Every hunt. Every creature. Every human face twisted uglier than claws ever could be.
The pastor’s words clung stubbornly beneath your skin.
You’re not the monster you think you are, little cat.
Your throat tightened faintly.
The cabin smelled colder now without him there. Old dust. Damp wood. Faint traces of rain drifting through the open back door. The lamp above the sink buzzed softly overhead, casting warm yellow light across peeling counters and warped floorboards.
You didn’t hear the Impala outside. Didn’t hear the crunch of boots against dirt. Didn’t hear the soft creak of the porch steps beneath cautious weight.
Your thoughts had swallowed everything else whole.
Even when the brothers entered the cabin silently, guns already drawn toward a target that no longer existed, you remained motionless near the counter, unaware of the danger suddenly filling the room behind you.
Then—
“Where is it?”
The voice was firm. Low. Carrying authority without malice. And it cut through the fog of your thoughts like a blade.
Your breath caught violently in your chest.
No.
Your body reacted before your mind fully caught up.
You pivoted sharply on your heel, instinct taking over in one fluid motion, and suddenly the cabin shifted around you in a fraction of a second.
Two figures stood just inside the doorway.
Solid. Armed. Guns leveled. Eyes sharp.
The two men you’d seen around town.
But your focus locked onto the shorter one instantly.
And the world tilted beneath your feet.
Green eyes.
Freckles dusted across tan skin.
Broad shoulders beneath layered flannel.
Even the way he held himself—
Your stomach dropped so hard it bordered on pain.
Mark.
No—
Not Mark.
Your pulse slammed against your ribs as your mind tried desperately to separate memory from reality. Because Mark was dead. You’d watched him die.
But the voice—
God, the voice sounded almost identical.
The air inside the cabin tightened into something suffocating.
The brothers’ breaths stayed steady. Controlled. Hunters trained for violence standing in a room that suddenly felt one wrong movement away from exploding into it.
You hadn’t heard them approach. The night had swallowed their footsteps whole. But now you felt the full weight of their attention fixed squarely on you.
Assessing.
Calculating.
Dangerous.
Your chest rose slowly beneath the pressure building there, breaths measured despite the violent confusion twisting through your thoughts. Your hands remained visible at your sides. You didn’t reach for the knife at your hip. Didn’t touch the gun hidden against your back.
You simply stood there.
Staring.
Your gaze flicked once toward the taller one beside him before returning helplessly to the man in front.
The similarities hit too hard. Too sharp.
Not exact.
But enough.
Enough to crack something open inside you that had never fully healed.
Everything seemed to pause inside that tiny cabin.
The rustle of leaves outside.
The sway of curtains near the open back door.
Even the old buzzing lamp overhead.
And as your gaze locked fully with his—
You understood with sudden, terrible certainty—
Nothing from this moment forward was ever going to be simple again.
Chapter 5 ----- Chapter 7 - coming soon
Doppelganger Master List
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Main Master List
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.ᐟ.ᐟGenre: Friends with Benefits to Lovers, Smut, Angst, Fluff
.ᐟ.ᐟWord Count: ~27.4k
.ᐟ.ᐟSummary: After a drunken bet leads to the best sex of your life, you and Jungwon agree to keep things casual. But when feelings get involved and a new guy enters the picture, everything gets complicated.
.ᐟ.ᐟContent warnings: explicit sexual content (MDNI), oral sex both giving and receiving, fingering, multiple orgasms, use of a vibrator, 69 position, penetrative sex, multiple positions, dirty talk, praise kink, light possessiveness and jealousy kink, dominance and control play, overstimulation, semi-public sex, car sex, shower sex, hickeys, alcohol consumption, cigarette smoking, weed use, mutual jealousy, emotional avoidance, brief emotional breakdown, using someone as a rebound, kissing someone while emotionally involved with another, sneaking around, strong language, possessive language, mild angst, happy ending
.ᐟ.ᐟSong: I Wanna Be Yours by Arctic Monkeys
.ᐟ.ᐟAuthors note: hey loves!!, this fic has been living in my head rent free for way too long so i finally just said we’re doing this. please check the content warnings before reading because there is a LOT going on here. two idiots with walls up, terrible at feelings, great at everything else — that’s the whole story honestly. the smut is meant to show emotional progression so if you read closely you’ll notice how they change with each other as feelings develop. daniel was never a villain, just bad timing, please be nice to him 😭 if you made it to the end thank you from the bottom of my heart 💓. comments, likes, feedback and reblogs keep me writing so don’t be a silent reader i am begging, ps. yes the title is intentional. enjoy lovelies 🥰 my masterlist
The apartment reeks of weed, cheap beer, and too many people crammed into too small a space. It’s Jake’s place tonight, which means Maya’s been here since noon helping him “clean” (read: shove everything into closets).
You’re sprawled on the couch between Liv and Reina, a half-empty White Claw sweating in your hand, already feeling the pleasant buzz of your third drink settling into your bones. “I’m just saying,” you announce, louder than necessary, “men are fucking useless.”
“No, I’m serious!” You gesture wildly, nearly sloshing your drink. “Like, is it really that fucking hard to find the clit? Is basic anatomy that complicated?”
“Here we go,” Jay groans again from the floor, leaning back against Sunghoon’s legs. They’re playing some racing game on mute while everyone else talks over them. Reina cackles. “Who are we talking about?”
“That guy from Delta Sig I went home with last weekend.” You take a long drink. “Forty-five minutes of the most mediocre dick of my life and he had the audacity to ask if I came.”
“Did you fake it?” Liv asks, already knowing the answer.
“Fuck no. I told him the truth and he got all butthurt about it.” You roll your eyes. “Like sorry bro, maybe develop some skills.”
“Brutal,” Sunoo says, grinning as he passes the joint to Niki.
“Honest,” you correct. “I don’t have time to protect egos. If you can’t make me cum, I’m not gonna lie about it.”
Across the room, Jungwon is watching you with this amused smirk, one eyebrow raised. He’s been quiet most of the night, nursing the same beer, legs spread wide in that infuriatingly confident way guys sit when they know they look good. And he does look good—black t-shirt, gray sweatpants, hair falling into his eyes just right. “What?” you challenge, catching his stare.
“Nothing.” But his smirk deepens. “Just sounds like you’ve been picking the wrong guys.”
“Oh please.” You lean forward. “Like you’d be any different.”
Something shifts in his expression. His eyes darken, and he tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Want me to prove it?”
The room doesn’t exactly go quiet, but you feel like it does. Your stomach does this weird flip. “Prove what?” You keep your voice steady even though your heart is suddenly racing.
“That you’ve been fucking the wrong guys.” He says it so casually, like he’s commenting on the weather. But there’s nothing casual about the way he’s looking at you.
Reina makes a choking sound beside you. Someone—maybe Heeseung—mutters “oh shit” under their breath. You should laugh it off. Make a joke. Change the subject. But you’re drunk enough to be bold and curious enough to wonder if he’s all talk. “You’re that confident?” You raise an eyebrow.
“Yeah.” No hesitation. “I am.”
The challenge hangs in the air between you. You’re aware of everyone watching, waiting to see what you’ll do. Maya’s eyes are wide. Jay looks like he’s trying to figure out if he should intervene. “Okay.” You stand up, and Jungwon’s smirk falters for just a second—like he didn’t expect you to actually take him up on it. “Prove it.”
You start walking toward the hallway that leads to Jake’s bedroom, and after a beat, you hear Jungwon follow.
“Are they really—” someone starts.
“Yup,” Reina says, and she sounds absolutely delighted.
Jake’s bedroom is dark and quiet, muffled music and laughter filtering through the door. You flip on the lamp, suddenly aware that you’re alone with Jungwon and you just agreed to let him— “You don’t have to,” he says, and when you turn, he’s standing close but not crowding you. “If you were just calling my bluff.”
“Were you bluffing?”
“No.”
The word sends heat straight through you. You step closer, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. “Then stop talking and do it.”
For a second he just looks at you, and then his hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “You sure?”
“Jungwon.” You grab his shirt. “I swear to god, if you’re going to do it, then—” He kisses you. Not rough, not tentative—just sure. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and honestly? The confidence is already working for you. His lips are soft and he tastes like beer and something minty, and when his tongue slides against yours, you make a sound you’ll probably be embarrassed about later.
But he groans in response, walking you backward until your legs hit the bed. You fall onto it and he follows, hovering over you, one hand planted by your head while the other slides under your shirt. “This okay?” he murmurs against your mouth.
“Yes, fuck—yes.”
His hand skims up your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bralette, and you arch into the touch. He’s taking his time, kissing along your jaw, down your neck, finding that spot behind your ear that makes you gasp. “Sensitive here?” he asks, sounding pleased.
“Shut up.”
He laughs, low and warm against your skin. “You’re mouthy.”
“You have no idea.”
“Guess I’ll find out.” He sits back and pulls his shirt off in one smooth motion, and—okay. Okay. You knew he was lean but you didn’t know he looked like that without clothes. He catches you staring and smirks. “See something you like?”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.” But his hands are gentle as he reaches for the hem of your shirt, waiting for you to nod before pulling it off. Your bralette follows, and then his mouth is on your breast and coherent thought gets significantly harder.
He’s good at this. The guy knows what he’s doing with his tongue, circling your nipple before sucking it into his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm. His hand works your other breast, thumb and forefinger rolling and pinching until you’re panting. “Jungwon—”
“Hmm?” He switches sides, giving your other breast the same attention, and you thread your fingers through his hair and tug.
“Stop teasing.”
“I’m not teasing.” He looks up at you through his lashes, and the sight of him between your breasts does something to you. “I’m being thorough.” His hand trails down your stomach, fingers playing with the button of your jeans. “Can I?”
“Yes, god, yes.”
He unbuttons them slowly—too slowly—and slides them down your legs along with your underwear. You’re completely naked and he’s still half-dressed, and something about that makes you feel exposed in a way that’s not entirely uncomfortable. Jungwon sits back on his heels, just looking at you, and you fight the urge to cover yourself. “Stop staring.”
“Can’t help it.” His hands slide up your thighs, pushing them apart. “You’re so fucking pretty.” The praise makes your face heat. You’re not used to guys taking their time like this, looking at you like you’re something worth savoring.
“Let me know if anything doesn’t feel good,” he says, and then his mouth is on your inner thigh, kissing and biting a path upward until his breath is ghosting over where you need him most.
The first touch of his tongue is light—experimental. He licks a broad stripe up your center and you gasp, hips jerking. His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady as he does it again, more pressure this time. “Fuck,” you breathe.
He hums against you, and the vibration makes your toes curl. Then he finds your clit with the tip of his tongue, circling it slowly, and—oh. Oh.
You’ve had guys go down on you before. Most of them acted like it was a chore, something to rush through to get to the “main event.” But Jungwon is eating you out like he has all the time in the world, like he’s enjoying it as much as you are.
He alternates between broad strokes and focused attention on your clit, reading your body’s reactions—when you moan, when your hips buck, when your thighs start to tremble. And when he slides one finger inside you, crooking it just right while his tongue works your clit, you actually see stars. “Holy shit,” you gasp, one hand fisted in his hair, the other gripping the sheets.
He adds a second finger, stretching you, and the combination of his mouth and his fingers pumping into you is almost too much. You’re making sounds you’ve never made before, completely uninhibited, and he’s groaning against you like getting you off is getting him off. “Jungwon, I’m—fuck, I’m close—”
He doesn’t change what he’s doing. Doesn’t speed up or switch techniques like so many guys do right when you’re on the edge. He just keeps that same perfect rhythm, fingers curling inside you, tongue circling your clit, and you come harder than you ever have with another person. Your whole body goes taut, thighs clamping around his head as waves of pleasure crash over you. He works you through it, only lightening his touch when you start to squirm from sensitivity.
When you can finally breathe again, you look down to find him watching you with the most self-satisfied expression you’ve ever seen. “You were saying?” he asks, and you want to be annoyed but you’re too blissed out to care.
“Okay,” you admit. “Point proven.”
He crawls up your body, kissing you deep, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. His erection presses against your thigh through his sweatpants, and you reach down to palm him through the fabric. He groans into your mouth. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” You push at his shoulders until he rolls onto his back, and then you’re straddling him, grinding down against his clothed cock. “Unless you’re done proving yourself?”
His hands grip your hips, helping you rock against him. “Fuck no.” You lean down to kiss him while your hand slips into his sweatpants, wrapping around him. He’s hard and thick, and when you stroke him, his hips jerk up into your hand.
“Condom?” you murmur against his lips.
“Wallet. Back pocket.” You climb off long enough for him to shove his sweatpants and boxers down, and—yeah, okay, the confidence makes sense. You grab his wallet from his discarded pants, finding the condom and tearing it open while he strokes himself lazily, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes.
“Let me,” he says, taking it from you and rolling it on. Then his hands are on your waist, lifting you, positioning you over him. “Go slow. Take what you need.”
You sink down onto him inch by inch, and the stretch is perfect. He fills you completely, and when you’re fully seated, you both groan. “Fuck, you feel good,” he breathes, hands flexing on your hips.
You start to move, rolling your hips, finding a rhythm. His hands guide you but he lets you control the pace, watching where you’re joined with an expression that’s almost reverent. “Touch yourself,” he says, voice rough. “Want to feel you come on my cock.”
The words send a fresh wave of arousal through you. You brace one hand on his chest and bring the other between your legs, fingers finding your clit. You’re still sensitive from before, and it doesn’t take much—just a few circles while he thrusts up into you, hitting that perfect spot inside. “That’s it,” he encourages, sitting up to mouth at your neck, one hand gripping your ass to help you move. “You’re so fucking hot like this. Taking what you need.”
You’re close again, impossibly, and when he bites down on your shoulder at the same moment his cock hits deep, you shatter. Your orgasm rips through you and you feel him follow seconds later, groaning your name against your skin as he pulses inside you. You collapse against his chest, both of you breathing hard. His hand comes up to stroke your back, gentle and grounding.
“So,” he says after a minute, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. “Still think I’m no different?”
You lift your head to glare at him, but there’s no heat in it. “Okay, fine. You were right.”
“Say it louder, I don’t think they heard you outside.”
You smack his chest and he laughs, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to your palm. The gesture is surprisingly tender for what just happened. “Holy shit,” you say, the reality of the situation finally catching up. “We just fucked in Jake’s bed.”
“Yeah, we should probably…” He gestures vaguely. You climb off him carefully, and he deals with the condom while you hunt for your clothes in the dim light. There’s something surreal about getting dressed in comfortable silence after what just happened. Like you’ve done this before, even though you haven’t.
When you’re both decent, you catch sight of yourself in Jake’s mirror. Your hair is a mess, lips swollen, and there’s a hickey blooming on your collarbone. “Shit.” You touch it gingerly.
Jungwon comes up behind you, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “Sorry. Got carried away.”
“It’s fine.” You try to fluff your hair into something less “I just got thoroughly fucked.” “Everyone’s gonna know, though.”
“They already know.” He grins. “We weren’t exactly quiet.”
Your face heats. He’s right—you definitely weren’t quiet. “Oh god.”
“Hey.” He turns you around, hands on your shoulders. “You good? This isn’t… weird?”
You consider it. By all accounts, it should be weird. You just fucked one of your friends on a drunken bet. But looking at him now, his hair messy from your hands, expression open and a little concerned, it doesn’t feel weird. “I’m good,” you say honestly. “You?”
“I’m great.” His smile is genuine. “That was—”
“Really good,” you finish.
“Yeah.” You stand there for a beat too long, and then you clear your throat. “We should probably get back before they send a search party.”
“Right. Yeah.” He opens the door and you walk out first, down the hallway back to the living room where the entire group is absolutely not pretending they weren’t waiting for you. The silence when you walk in is deafening.
“So,” Reina says, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Scale of one to ten?”
“Reina!” Maya looks mortified.
You just laugh and drop back onto the couch. “Solid eleven.” The room erupts. Jay throws a pillow at you. Sunghoon looks like he wishes he could disappear. Heeseung and Jake are cackling. Liv just gives you a knowing look and passes you a fresh drink. Jungwon sits down across from you, and when your eyes meet, he smirks. You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling back.
Yeah, you think, taking a long drink. This is either the best or worst decision you’ve ever made.
It’s after three AM when the party finally winds down. People are crashed on various surfaces—Niki and Sunoo sharing the big armchair, Heeseung sprawled on the floor, Jay and Sunghoon having claimed the other couch. Maya and Jake disappeared into his room about an hour ago. You’re pretty sober now, sitting on the balcony with Liv and Reina, sharing a cigarette and watching the campus lights below.
“So,” Liv says, passing you the cigarette. “You gonna talk about it?”
“What’s there to talk about?”
“You fucked Jungwon.” Reina isn’t one for subtlety. You nod.
“And?”
You take a drag, letting the smoke fill your lungs before exhaling slowly. “And it was really good.”
“We gathered that from the sounds,” Reina says, grinning when you flip her off. “But like… are you gonna do it again?”
“I don’t know. Probably not?” Even as you say it, you’re not sure you believe it. “It was just a drunk thing.”
“A drunk thing where you came so hard we heard you through the door,” Liv points out. Your face heats. “Oh my god.”
“I’m just saying.” She shrugs. “That kind of chemistry doesn’t come around often. And you’re both single. Why not?”
“Because he’s part of the group,” you say, voicing the concern that’s been nagging at you since you got dressed. “If things got messy…”
“Things don’t have to get messy,” Reina says. “People have casual sex all the time.”
“Not with their friends.”
“Sure they do.” Liv stubs out the cigarette. “Look, I’m not saying marry the guy. But if you both enjoyed it and you’re both adults… I don’t see the problem.”
You don’t have a good argument for that, mainly because you’re still thinking about his hands on your body, his mouth between your legs, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world. “I’ll think about it,” you say finally.
Your phone buzzes at 4:17 AM. You’re in your own bed now, having gotten an Uber home with Liv and Reina. You should be asleep but you keep replaying the night in your head.
jungwon: you up? i can’t sleep
You stare at the message for a long moment before typing back. you: same
jungwon: kept thinking about earlier
Your heart rate picks up. you: yeah?
jungwon: that okay?
you: yeah. me too
There’s a long pause where you watch the three dots appear and disappear several times.
jungwon: look, if tonight was just a one time thing, that’s cool. but if you ever wanted to do it again with no strings. you said it yourself. good sex is hard to find
You bite your lip, thumb hovering over the keyboard. This is probably a bad idea. You should say thanks but no thanks, keep things simple.
you: no strings?
jungwon: none. just two friends helping each other out
you: friends who fuck
jungwon: exactly
you: you’re sure this won’t make things weird with the group?
jungwon: only if we let it
You think about what Liv said. About chemistry and being adults and not overthinking things. you: okay
jungwon: yeah?
you: yeah. but we need rules
jungwon: rules work
you: we can talk about it tomorrow. when we’re sober
jungwon: sounds good. for the record though
you: ?
jungwon: you taste amazing
Your face goes hot and you let out an embarrassing sound even though you’re alone in your room. you: go to SLEEP jungwon
jungwon: sweet dreams 😏
You toss your phone aside and press your face into your pillow, smiling like an idiot. This is definitely a bad idea. But god, you kind of can’t wait to make it worse.
You meet Jungwon at a coffee shop off campus, neutral territory where you’re less likely to run into anyone from the group. It’s Tuesday afternoon, and you both have a gap between classes. He’s already there when you arrive, sitting in a corner booth with two iced americanos, and when he sees you, he slides one across the table. “Wasn’t sure how you take it,” he says.
“Black’s fine.” You sit down across from him, suddenly feeling weirdly nervous. Which is stupid—you’ve literally had his dick inside you. A coffee meetup shouldn’t be the awkward part. But he seems to sense it because he grins. “This is weird, right?”
“So weird,” you admit, and you both laugh, and just like that the tension breaks.
“Okay.” He leans back, fingers drumming on his cup. “Rules.”
“Rules,” you agree. “First one: no one can know.”
“Agreed. Jay and Sunghoon would lose their minds.”
“Jay would literally try to fight you.” You take a sip of coffee. “And Maya would never let me hear the end of it.”
“So we’re careful. No disappearing together at group things unless we have a good excuse.”
“And we stagger leaving,” you add. “Like, if you leave a party, I wait at least twenty minutes before I go.”
“Smart.” He nods. “What about texting?”
“Keep it normal in the group chat. If we’re gonna hook up, we text privately.”
“Works for me.” He studies you for a moment. “What about other people?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Other people?”
“Like, are we exclusive? Or can we still hook up with other people?”
It’s a fair question, even if something in your chest tightens at the thought of him with someone else. Which is stupid. This is purely physical. “We can do whatever we want,” you say carefully. “But if either of us starts hooking up with someone else regularly, we should probably end this. Easier that way.”
“Makes sense.” He seems to hesitate. “And if one of us catches feelings?”
“Then we stop immediately.” You meet his eyes. “That’s the most important rule. This only works if we’re both on the same page.”
“Agreed.” He holds out his hand across the table. “So we have a deal?”
You shake his hand, trying to ignore how warm his palm is against yours. “Deal.”
“Cool.” He doesn’t let go right away. “So… your place or mine?”
Heat pools in your stomach. “Eager?”
“You’re the one who wore that skirt.”
You glance down at your denim mini skirt, then back up at him with a smirk. “I have class in two hours.”
“That’s plenty of time.”
His apartment is closer, a small one-bedroom he shares with Heeseung who’s conveniently at class until five. The second the door closes behind you, his mouth is on yours, backing you against the wall. “Been thinking about this since Saturday,” he murmurs against your lips, hands sliding under your skirt to grip your ass.
“It’s only been three days.”
“Three days too long.” He picks you up and you wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you to his room. It’s surprisingly clean—bed made, clothes put away, posters of various bands on the walls.
He lays you on the bed and steps back, pulling his shirt over his head. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch, admiring the view. “Like what you see?” he asks, echoing your words from the other night.
“You already know I do.”
He grins and climbs over you, settling between your legs. “Want to try something?”
“Like what?”
“You’ll see.” His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt up around your waist. “Trust me?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, and you mean it.
He hooks his fingers in your underwear and drags them down slowly, and you’re already wet just from the anticipation. He spreads your legs wider, thumb brushing over your clit almost teasingly before he slides two fingers inside you. “Fuck,” you gasp, hips rolling against his hand.
“Still sensitive from last time?” He pumps his fingers slowly, curling them just right.
“A little.”
He leans down to kiss you, swallowing your moan as he works you open. When he adds a third finger, the stretch makes your toes curl. He finger-fucks you until you’re panting, right on the edge, and then he stops. You make a sound of protest and he laughs. “Patience.” He reaches into his nightstand and pulls out a small vibrator.
Your eyes widen. “You just have that?”
“Ex left it here.” He turns it on, and the low buzz fills the room. “Never thought I’d use it, but…”
He presses it against your clit and you nearly jackknife off the bed. The sensation is intense, overwhelming, especially when he slides his fingers back inside you at the same time. “Oh fuck—Jungwon—”
“That good?” He sounds smug, but you can’t even be annoyed because he’s right. It’s so good you can barely breathe.
He works you with the vibrator and his fingers, watching your face intently, adjusting based on your reactions. When you’re close, thighs shaking, he leans down and sucks one of your nipples into his mouth through your shirt.
You come with a cry, back arching, and he doesn’t stop until you’re pushing his hand away from oversensitivity. “Holy shit,” you pant.
He turns off the vibrator and sets it aside, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “Good?”
“You know it was.”
“Want to keep going?” Instead of answering, you sit up and push him onto his back, straddling him. You can feel how hard he is through his jeans, and you grind down against him, making him groan.
“Your turn,” you say, working his belt open. You take your time getting him naked, kissing down his chest and stomach, enjoying the way his muscles jump under your lips. When you finally get his jeans and boxers off, his cock springs free, already leaking. You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, and he hisses through his teeth.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” you cut him off, and then you take him in your mouth.
“Fuck,” he groans, hand flying to your hair. Not pushing, just holding on as you work him with your tongue. You take him as deep as you can, hollowing your cheeks, and the sounds he makes are incredibly satisfying.
You pull off with a wet pop. “You gonna tell me what you like?”
“That,” he says breathlessly. “I like that.”
“Be specific.” You lick up the underside of his cock. “I want to make you feel good.”
“Fuck—okay, um, tighter grip, and—yeah, just like that.” His hips buck when you comply. “And twist your hand a little when you—oh god—“
You find a rhythm that has him falling apart, alternating between your mouth and your hand, and when you cup his balls gently, he swears. “I’m close,” he warns, tugging your hair. “If you don’t want to—”
You double down, taking him deeper, and he comes with a groan, spilling down your throat. You swallow and work him through it until he’s shaking. When you pull off and wipe your mouth, he’s staring at you like you’re some kind of miracle. “You’re really good at that,” he says, voice wrecked.
“Right back at you.” You climb up to lie beside him. “This is gonna be fun.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, pulling you closer. “It really is.”
The first group hangout after your arrangement starts is at someone’s house party on Thursday. One of the senior volleyball guys is throwing it, and the place is packed by the time you arrive with Liv and Reina.
You spot the guys in the backyard—Jay and Sunghoon playing beer pong against Jake and Heeseung, Sunoo and Niki smoking by the fence. And Jungwon leaning against the porch railing, red cup in hand, talking to some girl you vaguely recognize from Psychology. Something ugly twists in your chest before you can stop it.
“Don’t,” Liv says quietly.
“Don’t what?”
“You know what.” She steers you toward the drinks table. “Remember the rules.” Right. The rules. You can both do whatever you want. It doesn’t matter that the girl is touching his arm, laughing at something he said. It doesn’t matter at all. You pour yourself a strong drink and down half of it.
“There you are!” Maya appears, already tipsy, Jake trailing behind her. “We’ve been here for like an hour, where were you?”
“Reina took forever getting ready,” Liv says, throwing her under the bus.
“Excuse me, this face is a work of art.” Reina gestures at her makeup. “It takes time.”
You tune them out, eyes drifting back to Jungwon. The girl is still there, but now he’s looking at you. When your eyes meet, he says something to her and starts walking over. “Hey,” he says when he reaches your group, giving everyone a casual nod before his eyes land on you. “You just get here?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool.” His cup is empty. “I’m gonna grab another drink. Want to come?”
It’s a normal question. The kind of thing he might have asked before. But Maya and Reina exchange a look, and you want to die. “Sure.”
You follow him to the drinks table, hyperaware of the space between you. “That girl,” you say as he pours vodka into his cup. “From Psychology?”
“Mina. Yeah.” He adds red bull, not looking at you. “She was asking about the midterm.”
“Right.”
“You jealous?” He’s smirking now, voice low enough that only you can hear.
“No.”
“Liar.” He leans in slightly. “You look really good, by the way.”
You’re wearing low-waisted jeans and a cropped black tank top, simple but effective. “Thanks.”
“Having fun yet?”
“I just got here.”
“Want to have more fun later?” The suggestion in his voice is clear.
“Maybe.” You take a sip of your drink. “If you play your cards right.”
“Challenge accepted.”
Two hours later, you’re drunk and high and dancing in the crowded living room with Reina and some people from your Communications class. The music is too loud, bodies pressed too close, and you’re sweaty and happy and not thinking about anything.
Until hands settle on your waist from behind. You know it’s Jungwon before you even turn around—you’re getting familiar with his touch. He’s behind you, moving with you, and it takes everything in you not to lean back against him. “Thought you were playing beer pong,” you say over your shoulder.
“Got boring.” His breath is warm against your ear. “This is better.”
You shouldn’t be doing this. People will notice. But the room is dark and crowded, and everyone’s drunk, and his body feels so good against yours. You let yourself grind back against him, just a little, and his grip on your waist tightens.
“You’re trouble,” he murmurs.
“You started it.”
One of his hands slides lower, fingers playing with the belt loop of your jeans, not quite dipping under but close enough to make you ache. “Your place or mine?” he asks.
“Mine. Liv’s staying at her girlfriend’s.”
“Meet you there in twenty?”
“Make it fifteen.”
He shows up in twelve minutes. The second you open your apartment door, he’s on you, walking you backward until you hit the wall. His mouth is hot and demanding, tasting like weed and whatever he was drinking, and you can’t get enough. “Fuck, I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” he groans, hands everywhere at once.
“You were talking to that girl for like twenty minutes.”
He pulls back to look at you, grinning. “You were jealous.”
“Shut up.”
“You were.” He kisses down your neck. “That’s cute.”
“I wasn’t—” You lose your train of thought when he bites down on your pulse point.
“Whatever you say.” His hands slide under your shirt, pushing it up. “Can I take this off?”
“Yes.”
Your shirt and bra hit the floor, and then his mouth is on your breast and you stop caring about anything else. He takes his time, sucking marks into your skin that you’ll have to cover tomorrow, and when he drops to his knees in front of you, your brain short-circuits. “These too?” He’s already unbuttoning your jeans.
“Please.” He gets you naked efficiently, and then he’s lifting one of your legs over his shoulder, face level with your pussy.
“Hold on to something,” he advises, and then his tongue is on you. You grip his hair with one hand, the other braced against the wall, as he devours you. He’s not gentle about it—licking and sucking and fucking you with his tongue until your leg is shaking and you’re barely staying upright.
“Jungwon—fuck—I’m gonna fall—”
He stands up, and before you can process it, he’s lifting you. You wrap your legs around his waist and he carries you to your bedroom, laying you out on the bed.
“Better?” he asks.
“Much.”
He strips quickly and you admire the view—he’s fully hard, cock jutting up against his stomach. When he settles between your legs again, you expect him to reach for a condom, but instead he slides down your body. “Want to try something else,” he says, kissing your inner thigh.
“Yeah?”
“Can I go down on you while you suck me?”
Heat floods through you. “Like 69?”
“Yeah.” He looks almost nervous. “If you want.”
“Okay.” He repositions so he’s on his back, and you straddle his face, leaning forward to take his cock in your hand. The angle is different like this, and when his tongue finds your clit, you gasp.
“Fuck—sorry—” You’re distracted, and you force yourself to focus, wrapping your lips around him.
It’s intense, trying to concentrate on getting him off while he’s making you feel so good. Every time you take him deeper, he groans against your pussy, and the vibration makes you moan around him.
You’re dripping on his face, riding his tongue, and his hands grip your ass, pulling you down harder. The obscene wet sounds fill the room, and you’re so turned on you can barely see straight.
When he slides two fingers inside you while sucking your clit, you come with his cock still in your mouth, and he follows seconds later, groaning your name. You collapse beside him, both of you breathing hard. “Holy shit,” you say eventually.
“Good?”
“So good.” You turn your head to look at him. “You’re full of ideas.”
“I like making you come.” He says it so casually, like it’s a fact. “Want to see how many times I can do it.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“If you want it to be.”
You glance at the clock—it’s barely midnight. “How many orgasms are we talking?”
“How many can you handle?”
“More than you’d think.”
His smile is wicked. “Let’s find out.”
Forty minutes and two more orgasms later (one from his fingers, one from actually fucking), you’re a boneless mess in your sheets and Jungwon looks unreasonably smug. “I think I won,” he says.
“You didn’t—I made you come too—”
“Twice. You came four times.”
“It’s not a competition.”
“Everything’s a competition.” But he’s smiling, tracing lazy patterns on your hip. “You okay? Not too much?”
“I’m great.” And you are—exhausted and satisfied and floating. “You’re really good at this.”
“So are you.” He kisses your shoulder. “We work well together.”
“Yeah,” you agree. “We do.” Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You reach for it and find a string of messages in the group chat. maya: where did everyone gooooo
reina: i saw y/n leave and jungwon left like right after 👀
jay: oh god not this again
sunghoon: can we NOT
heeseung: let them live lmao
reina: i’m just SAYING
liv: leave them alone
You show Jungwon the messages and he laughs. “We’re not subtle,” he says.
“Not even a little bit.”
“Does it bother you?”
You think about it. The teasing is annoying, but it’s not like you’re ashamed. “No. Does it bother you?”
“Nah.” He stretches, all long limbs and satisfied energy. “Let them speculate. As long as we don’t confirm anything, we’re good.”
“Agreed.” You type out a response. you: i left because i was tired. stop being weird
reina: SURE
you: i hate you
reina: love you too babe 😘
You toss your phone aside and curl into Jungwon’s side. He wraps an arm around you automatically, and it feels dangerously comfortable. “Should you go?” you ask. “It’s late.”
“Do you want me to?”
You should say yes. Letting him stay feels too intimate, too couple-y. But you’re tired and warm and he’s already half-asleep. “You can stay if you want.”
“Okay.” He’s already drifting off.
You lie awake a little longer, listening to his breathing even out, trying not to think about how right this feels. It’s just sex, you remind yourself. Really good sex with someone you trust. That’s all. You almost believe it.
Friday afternoon you have Intro to Film Studies, and you’re running late because you definitely overslept after Jungwon didn’t leave until 6 AM. You slide into your usual seat next to this guy Marcus from your dorm building just as the professor starts. “Rough night?” Marcus whispers, grinning.
“Something like that.” You’re trying to focus on the lecture about French New Wave cinema when your phone buzzes.
jungwon: you left your underwear in my car
You freeze. you: WHAT
jungwon: black lace ones. very nice btw
you: how did they end up in your car???
jungwon: you really don’t remember?
And then you do remember. Wednesday night, he picked you up after your late class, you made out in his car in the parking garage, things escalated, and apparently you forgot to put all your clothes back on.
you: oh my god
jungwon: don’t worry, heeseung didn’t see them
jungwon: i hid them before he got in
you: this is a nightmare
jungwon: or it’s funny
you: WHERE ARE THEY NOW
jungwon: my pocket
you: JUNGWON
jungwon: what? they’re safe
you: you’re insane
jungwon: you like it
You bite your lip to keep from smiling, hyperaware that you’re in the middle of class. you: i’m in class
jungwon: so am i. keeps things interesting
you: i hate you
jungwon: you definitely don’t. not after the sounds you were making wednesday night
Your face goes hot. you: STOP
jungwon: come over after class?
you: can’t. studying with maya
jungwon: tomorrow?
you: there’s that party at the phi delt house
jungwon: sunday then
you: sunday works
jungwon: it’s a date
you: it’s not a date
jungwon: right. forgot. just two friends fucking
you: exactly
jungwon: can’t wait 😉
You shove your phone in your bag and try to concentrate on the lecture, but it’s useless. You’re too busy thinking about Sunday, about his hands and his mouth and the way he says your name when he comes. This is getting dangerous. But you can’t seem to stop.
The party Saturday night is massive—Phi Delt always goes hard. You show up with your girls, already tipsy from pregaming, and immediately lose track of everyone in the crowd. You’re in the kitchen mixing a drink when someone bumps into you, sloshing vodka on your hand. “Shit, sorry—oh hey!”
You turn to find Mina, the girl from Jungwon’s Psych class. Up close she’s even prettier—long dark hair, perfect skin, bright smile. “No worries,” you say, wiping your hand on your jeans.
“You’re friends with Jungwon, right?” she asks. “I’ve seen you guys together.”
Something in your chest tightens. “Yeah, we’re friends.”
“He’s so sweet.” She’s making herself a drink, completely oblivious to your internal crisis. “We’ve been studying together for Psych. He’s really smart.”
“Yeah, he is.”
“Are you guys like… together? I don’t want to step on any toes.”
The question catches you off guard. “Oh—no, we’re just friends.”
“Cool!” She seems genuinely relieved. “I was thinking about asking him out. Do you think he’d be into that?”
You should say yes. Or say you don’t know. You should definitely not feel like you want to throw your drink in her face, because you have no claim on Jungwon. That’s the whole point. “You should ask him,” you say, forcing a smile.
“I think I will!” She bounces off, and you’re left standing there feeling weird and hollow.
You down your drink and make another one, stronger this time. “Easy there,” a voice says, and you turn to find Jay watching you with concern. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You’re drinking like you’re not fine.”
“I’m just trying to have fun, Jay. Is that allowed?”
He holds up his hands. “Okay, okay. Just checking.”
You feel bad immediately. “Sorry. I’m just… it’s been a week.”
“Want to talk about it?” You shake your head no. “Does this have anything to do with Jungwon?”
Your head snaps up. “Why would it?”
“Come on.” Jay gives you a look. “I’m not stupid. Neither is Sunghoon. We know something’s going on.”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Right. And you guys just happened to leave that party within five minutes of each other for completely unrelated reasons.”You don’t say anything. “Look,” Jay says, his voice gentler. “I don’t care what you guys do. You’re both adults. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“I’m not going to get hurt. It’s just casual.”
“Is it?”
Before you can answer, Jungwon appears in the doorway, Mina trailing behind him. When he sees you, something flickers across his face. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
Mina touches his arm. “I’m gonna go find my friends, but text me about that study session?”
“Sure,” he says, and she leaves.
You feel Jay watching both of you. “I’m gonna go find Sunghoon,” he says pointedly. “You two… talk. Or whatever.”
When he’s gone, Jungwon moves closer. “You okay?”
“Fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You seem tense.”
“I’m not tense.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t look convinced. “You want to get out of here?”
“I just got here.”
“So?”
“So people will notice.”
“Let them notice.” His hand brushes yours, brief but deliberate. “Come on. Please?”
You shouldn’t. You should stay at the party, hang out with your friends, stop making everything about him. “Fine,” you say. “But you leave first.”
You end up at his place again. Heeseung is gone for the weekend, so you have the apartment to yourselves. The second the door closes, he’s kissing you, and it feels different somehow. More desperate. Like he’s trying to prove something. “What was that about?” you ask when you break for air.
“What was what about?”
“With Mina.”
“Nothing. She wants to study together.”
“She wants to do more than study.”
He pulls back slightly, looking at you. “Are you jealous?”
“No.”
“You are.” He sounds pleased.
“I’m not—we have rules, Jungwon. You can do whatever you want.”
“So can you.” His jaw tightens. “Didn’t stop me from wanting to punch Marcus when I saw him sitting next to you in the library yesterday.”
“You saw that?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re just study partners.”
“I know.” He kisses you again, softer this time. “This is stupid, right? We shouldn’t be jealous.”
“Right.”
“Because it’s just casual.”
“Exactly.” You’re both quiet for a moment.
“For the record,” he says finally, “I’m not interested in Mina. Or anyone else.”
“You’re not?”
“No.” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “This—what we have—it works. I don’t want to fuck it up by bringing other people into it.”
Relief washes over you. “Yeah. Same.”
“So… exclusive, then? Just while this is happening?”
“Just while this is happening,” you agree.
“Good.” He kisses you again, and this time when you end up in his bed, it feels different. Slower. More intentional.
He takes his time undressing you, kissing every inch of skin he exposes. When he finally settles between your legs, he looks up at you. “Tell me what you want,” he says.
“You.”
“Be specific.”
“I want—” You’re breathless already and he hasn’t even touched you yet. “I want your mouth.”
“Where?”
“You know where.”
“Say it.” His breath ghosts over your inner thigh.
“My pussy,” you say, face heating. “I want your mouth on my pussy.”
“Good girl.” The praise makes you clench around nothing, and then his tongue is on you and you forget how to think. He’s devastatingly thorough, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on your clit, sliding his fingers inside you when you start to squirm. You’re panting, desperate, right on the edge when he stops.
“Jungwon—”
“Want you to come on my cock,” he says, reaching for a condom. He rolls it on and slides into you in one smooth thrust, and you both groan. The angle is perfect, hitting deep, and when he starts to move, you wrap your legs around his waist to pull him closer. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he breathes against your neck. “So wet for me.”
“Don’t stop—”
“Not stopping.” His hand slides between your bodies to rub your clit. “Want to feel you come.”
It doesn’t take long. The combination of his cock and his fingers pushes you over the edge, and you come with a cry, clenching around him. He follows right after, burying his face in your neck as he pulses inside you. You stay like that for a while, catching your breath, his weight comfortable on top of you.
“You’re staying tonight, right?” he asks eventually.
“Yeah,” you say, and you don’t even pretend to think about it. “I’m staying.”
He rolls off you to deal with the condom, and when he comes back, he pulls you against his chest. You let yourself relax into him, listening to his heartbeat slow. This is definitely more than just casual. But neither of you says it out loud.
Three months in, and you’ve gotten good at this. Really good. You and Jungwon have the routine down to an art form. You don’t leave parties together anymore—one of you leaves, the other waits at least half an hour. You vary whose place you go to. You keep your hands to yourselves during group hangouts, no lingering touches or loaded looks. In the group chat, you bicker and joke like you always have.
To everyone else, the initial excitement has worn off. Whatever was happening between you two seems to have fizzled out. Even Reina has stopped making comments. Which is perfect, because it means no one notices that you’re fucking almost every other day.
It’s a Wednesday afternoon in mid-October, and you’re sprawled across various surfaces in Jay and Sunghoon’s apartment. Maya and Jake are tangled together on the loveseat, Liv is rolling a joint at the coffee table, Reina is painting her nails on the floor. The guys are scattered around—Jay and Sunghoon playing FIFA, Heeseung scrolling his phone, Sunoo showing Niki something on his laptop. And Jungwon is sitting across from you in the armchair, looking completely relaxed, like he wasn’t buried inside you this morning before your 9 AM class.
“I’m so fucking hungry,” Reina announces. “Can we order food?”
“It’s three in the afternoon,” Sunghoon says, not looking away from the TV.
“Your point?”
Everyone starts debating what to order, and you catch Jungwon’s eye across the room. He raises an eyebrow slightly, and you know exactly what he’s thinking about. This morning, you pinned against his shower wall, water streaming over both of you, his hand over your mouth to keep you quiet even though Heeseung wasn’t home. You bite your lip and look away before you start smiling like an idiot.
“Earth to Y/N,” Niki says, waving a hand in front of your face. “You alive in there?”
“What? Yeah, sorry.”
“I was asking about that guy you were telling me about.” He grins. “The one from a few weeks ago?”
Your brain stalls. “What guy?”
“You know, when we went to get coffee last week. You were telling me about hooking up with someone and how he was like, insanely good?”
Oh shit. You do vaguely remember that conversation—you and Niki had gotten coffee between classes, and he’d been asking about your dating life, and you’d maybe been too honest about how good the sex had been lately. You’d kept it vague, hadn’t mentioned names, but still. The room has gotten quiet, everyone paying attention now. “Oh,” you say, very aware of Jungwon’s eyes on you. “That was… nothing. Just some guy.”
“Some guy who’s apparently the best fuck you’ve ever had,” Niki says, looking way too entertained. “Those were your exact words.”
“Niki—”
“What? I’m just saying, that’s high praise coming from you.”
Reina sits up straighter. “Wait, hold on. You’ve been holding out on us? Who is this mystery man?”
“It’s not a big deal—”
“Best fuck of your life sounds like a big deal,” Liv points out, though she’s trying not to smile. She’s the only one who knows the truth, and she’s clearly enjoying watching you squirm.
“Are you still seeing him?” Maya asks.
“It’s casual.”
“Is it that guy from your Econ class?” Reina guesses. “The tall one with the man bun?”
“No.”
“The bartender from that club we went to?”
“No.”
“Give us something,” Sunoo pleads dramatically. “We need details.”
You absolutely cannot look at Jungwon. “There are no details. It’s just… casual hookups. Nothing serious.”
“But the sex is good?” Reina presses.
“Yeah,” you admit, because denying it now would be weird. “The sex is really good.”
“How good are we talking?” Heeseung asks. “Like, good good, or like, mind-blowing life-changing good?”
Your face is burning. “Can we please talk about literally anything else?”
“Oh my god, it’s mind-blowing life-changing good,” Reina says gleefully. “Look at her face!”
“I hate all of you.”
“What makes it so good?” Maya asks, genuinely curious. “Like, what’s he doing that’s so different?”
“Maya!”
“What? I’m trying to learn here!”
You risk a glance at Jungwon. He’s very still, expression carefully neutral, but there’s something in his eyes. You can’t tell if he’s annoyed or amused or something else entirely. “He just—” You struggle for words that won’t give anything away. “He pays attention, I guess? Like, he actually cares about getting me off. And he’s… confident. Knows what he’s doing.”
“Size?” Reina asks bluntly.
“Oh my god, Reina!”
“What? It’s a relevant question!”
“I’m not answering that.”
“So it’s good,” she concludes. “Noted.”
“Can we please order food now?” you beg.
Jay takes pity on you. “Yeah, let’s vote. Pizza or Thai?”
The conversation mercifully moves on, and you finally let yourself breathe. But when you glance at Jungwon again, he’s looking at his phone, jaw tight. Shit.
The group ends up ordering pizza, and by the time it arrives, you’ve almost forgotten about the awkward conversation. Almost. You’re halfway through your second slice when your phone buzzes: jungwon: can you come help me with something in the car?
You frown at the message. You all walked here, no one drove. you: what?
jungwon: just come outside for a sec
You make an excuse about needing air and head downstairs. Jungwon is waiting by the building entrance, hands in his pockets. “What’s wrong?” you ask.
“Really?” He looks at you. “Best fuck of your life?”
Oh. “You’re mad about that?”
“I’m not mad.”
“You sound mad.”
“I’m not—” He runs a hand through his hair. “I just don’t love the idea of you telling Niki about us.”
“I didn’t tell him about us. I kept it vague. He doesn’t know it’s you.”
“But you were talking about me. About our sex life.”
“Is that not allowed?” You cross your arms. “We’re not together, Jungwon. I can talk to my friends.”
“I know that.” His jaw ticks. “I just—forget it.”
“No, what? Say what you’re thinking.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “Did you mean it? What you said up there?”
“About what?”
“About it being the best you’ve had.”
Your stomach flips. “I… yeah. I meant it.”
His expression softens slightly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You step closer. “Why, did you doubt it?”
“No, I just…” He trails off, looking almost embarrassed. “I liked hearing it, I guess. Even if I wasn’t supposed to be the one hearing it.”
“You’re so weird.”
“You like it,” he says, echoing your texts from months ago.
“Maybe.” You glance back at the building. “We should go back up before someone notices.”
“Wait.” He catches your wrist. “Come over tonight?”
“Jungwon, we just saw each other this morning.”
“So?”
“So we’re supposed to be keeping this low-key.”
“I am keeping it low-key. No one suspects anything anymore.” He tugs you closer. “Please? I want to try something.”
“You always want to try something.”
“And you always like it.” He’s smirking now. “Come on. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
You shouldn’t. You’re supposed to be at the library studying for your midterm tomorrow. But the way he’s looking at you makes your resolve crumble. “Fine. But I can’t stay over. I really do need to study.”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
You show up at his apartment at eleven, after spending three hours actually studying with Maya. Heeseung is home this time, playing video games in the living room. “Hey,” he says when you walk in. “Jungwon’s in his room.”
“Cool, thanks.” You’ve been here enough times now that it’s not weird anymore. Heeseung barely looks up when you head down the hall and knock on Jungwon’s door.
“Come in.” He’s at his desk, laptop open, but he closes it when he sees you. “Hey.”
“Hey.” You drop your bag by the door. “What did you want to try?”
“Impatient.”
“I have a midterm at 8 AM. Get to the point.”
He stands and crosses to you, and there’s something different about his energy tonight. More intense. “I want you to tell me exactly what you want.”
“I always tell you what you want.”
“No,” he says. “You tell me when I ask. I want you to take control. Tell me exactly what to do.”
Heat pools in your stomach. “You want me to… boss you around?”
“Yeah.” His hands settle on your hips. “Think you can do that?”
“I—” You’re flustered now. You’re used to him being in charge, confident and directing everything. The idea of flipping that dynamic is…
“You don’t have to,” he says quickly. “If you’re not into it—”
“I’m into it,” you cut him off. “Just… give me a second.” He waits, patient, and you take a breath. You can do this. You’ve been sleeping together for three months. You know what he likes, what makes him fall apart.
“Okay,” you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Take off your shirt.” He complies immediately, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside.
“Jeans too.” He unbuttons them, pushes them down with his boxers, and kicks them away. He’s already half-hard, and the sight makes your mouth water.
“Lie down on the bed.” He does, and you take a moment to just look at him. He’s gorgeous like this—all lean muscle and smooth skin, cock thickening against his stomach, watching you with dark eyes.
“Touch yourself,” you say. His hand wraps around his cock, stroking slowly, and you watch, mesmerized.
“What are you thinking about?” you ask.
“You.” His voice is rough. “Always you.”
“What about me?”
“The way you taste. The sounds you make when you come. How good you feel wrapped around my cock.”
You’re definitely wet now. You start stripping, taking your time, and his eyes track every movement. “You’re so fucking hot,” he breathes.
When you’re naked, you climb onto the bed and straddle his thighs, just out of reach. “Stop touching yourself.” He does, hand falling to his side, and you lean down to kiss him. It’s slow and deep, and when you pull back, his pupils are blown. “I want your mouth,” you say.
“Where?”
“You know where.”
“Say it.” His breath ghosts over your inner thigh.
“My pussy,” you say, face heating. “I want your mouth on my pussy.”
“Good girl.” The praise makes you clench around nothing, and then his tongue is on you and you forget how to think.
You’re straddling his face, thighs bracketing his head. The position makes you feel powerful and vulnerable at the same time. “Eat me out,” you order. “Don’t stop until I come.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. His tongue finds your clit immediately, and you gasp, gripping his hair for balance. He’s good at this—you’ve known that since the very first time—but something about being in control makes it even better. “Just like that,” you pant, rolling your hips against his face. “Fuck, your tongue feels so good.”
He groans against you, hands gripping your ass, pulling you down harder. You ride his face shamelessly, chasing your pleasure, and when he slides two fingers inside you, crooking them just right while his tongue works your clit, you actually see stars. “Holy shit,” you gasp, one hand fisted in his hair, the other gripping the sheets.
He adds a second finger, stretching you, and the combination of his mouth and his fingers pumping into you is almost too much. You’re making sounds you’ve never made before, completely uninhibited, and he’s groaning against you like getting you off is getting him off. “Jungwon, I’m—fuck, I’m close—”
He doesn’t change what he’s doing. Doesn’t speed up or switch techniques like so many guys do right when you’re on the edge. He just keeps that same perfect rhythm, fingers curling inside you, tongue circling your clit, and you come harder than you ever have with another person. Your whole body goes taut, thighs clamping around his head as waves of pleasure crash over you. He works you through it, only lightening his touch when you start to squirm from sensitivity.
You’re still trembling when you climb off him, and his face is wet, lips swollen. He looks incredibly pleased with himself. “Good?” he asks.
“So good.” You kiss him, tasting yourself. “But I’m not done with you yet.”
“No?”
“No.” You wrap your hand around his cock, and he hisses. “I want to ride you. But you don’t get to touch me.”
“What?”
“Hands behind your head.” He complies, lacing his fingers behind his head, biceps flexing. You grab a condom from his nightstand and roll it on, and then you’re sinking down onto him, both of you groaning at the sensation.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel amazing.”
“No touching,” you remind him when his hands twitch.
“This is torture.”
“This is fun.” You start to move, rolling your hips, finding the angle that makes you both moan. “Watch me.”
He does, eyes glued to where you’re joined, then traveling up to your bouncing breasts, your face. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
“Tell me what you want,” you say.
“Want to touch you. Want to flip you over and fuck you into the mattress.”
“Not yet.” You lean back, bracing your hands on his thighs, changing the angle. “Oh fuck—right there—”
“Yeah?” His voice is strained. “That feel good?”
“So good—” You’re close again, which should be impossible but apparently Jungwon has ruined you for anyone else. “I’m gonna come again—”
“Let me see.” His hands are fisted in his hair, knuckles white from the effort of not touching you. “Want to see you fall apart on my cock.” The words push you over the edge. You come with a cry, clenching around him, and he groans.
“Can I touch you now?” he begs. “Please—”
“Yes—”
His hands are on you immediately, gripping your hips, and he thrusts up into you hard. You’re oversensitive and it’s almost too much, but then he’s sitting up, wrapping his arms around you, and kissing you desperately. “You’re incredible,” he pants against your mouth. “Fucking incredible—”
He comes with his face buried in your neck, and you hold him through it, both of you slick with sweat. When you both catch your breath, he flops back onto the bed, bringing you with him. “That was—” he starts.
“Yeah.”
“We should do that again.”
“Definitely.” You glance at the clock and groan. “Shit, I really need to go study.”
“Stay,” he says. “Just for a little bit.”
“Jungwon—”
“Please? We can study together. I have a midterm tomorrow too.”
You should say no. Should go back to your apartment and study alone like you planned. But his arms are around you and you’re comfortable and warm, and maybe staying for an hour won’t hurt. “Fine,” you say. “One hour.” You stay for three.
A week later, you’re at another party—this one at someone’s house off campus. It’s someone’s birthday, you’re not sure whose, but the music is good and the drinks are strong and you’re having fun. You’re in the kitchen with Liv and some people from your Communications class when you see Jungwon walk in with Heeseung and Jake. He spots you immediately, and you quickly look away. You’ve been good about not staring at each other at parties. Good about acting normal.
But then some girl approaches him—blonde, pretty, wearing a crop top that shows off her abs—and you watch as she touches his arm, leans in close to say something in his ear. Your stomach twists.
“You okay?” Liv asks quietly.
“Fine.”
“You’re glaring.”
“I’m not glaring.”
“You’re definitely glaring.” She follows your gaze. “It’s just some random girl. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I know that.”
But when the girl laughs at something Jungwon says, her hand still on his arm, you feel something ugly rise in your chest. This is stupid. You have no claim on him. You’re not together. He can talk to whoever he wants. You turn away and pour yourself another drink.
“Want to go dance?” Liv suggests.
“Yeah. Let’s go.” You spend the next hour on the makeshift dance floor, deliberately not looking for Jungwon, deliberately not caring where he is or who he’s talking to.
It’s fine. Everything’s fine.
You’re getting another drink when you feel someone behind you. “Having fun?” Jungwon’s voice in your ear makes you shiver.
“Yeah. You?”
“It’s alright.” He’s close enough that you can feel his body heat. “Want to get out of here?”
“Busy tonight.”
“Busy with what?”
“Just… busy.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“Why would I be mad?”
“You tell me.”
You turn to face him. “That girl you were talking to. She was pretty.”
Understanding dawns in his eyes. “Are you jealous?”
“No.”
“Liar.” He steps closer. “For the record, she asked for directions. That’s it.”
“I don’t care.”
“You clearly do.” His hand brushes yours. “Come over. Let me prove I only want you.”
You should say no. Should make him work for it. But the look in his eyes makes your resolve crumble. “Fine,” you say. “But you’re leaving first this time.”
By the time you get to his apartment, you’re both frantic. You barely make it inside before you’re tearing at each other’s clothes, kissing desperately. “You drive me crazy,” he mutters against your lips, walking you backward toward his room. “Watching you dance with those guys—”
“I wasn’t dancing with anyone specifically—”
“Didn’t matter. Wanted to punch all of them anyway.” He gets you naked and on his bed, and then he’s between your legs, and this time there’s an edge to it. Like he’s claiming you, proving something. He eats you out until you’re crying, overstimulated and desperate, and then he flips you over.
“On your knees,” he orders, and you comply, ass in the air. He slides into you from behind and you both groan. The angle is deep, almost too much, and when he starts to move, you can barely breathe.
“You feel so good,” he pants, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “So fucking perfect.”
“Harder—”
He complies, fucking into you relentlessly, and you fist the sheets, moaning into the pillow. “No one else gets to have you like this,” he growls, and the possessiveness in his voice shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does. “Just me. Right?”
“Yes—fuck—yes—just you—”
One of his hands slides around to rub your clit and you come with a scream, clenching around him. He follows right after, collapsing on top of you.
When you can both move again, he pulls out carefully and you both clean up in silence. There’s something heavy in the air, something unsaid. “Stay,” he says when you start to get dressed.
“I can’t keep staying over, Jungwon. People will notice—”
“I don’t care anymore.” He catches your wrist. “Stay.”
You look at him—really look at him. His hair is a mess, lips swollen from kissing, and he’s looking at you like you’re something precious. This is getting too real. Too intense. You’re supposed to be keeping things casual, but nothing about the way you feel when you’re with him is casual anymore. “Okay,” you say quietly. “I’ll stay.”
He pulls you back into bed, and you curl into his side, listening to his heartbeat slow. “Y/N?” he says after a while.
“Yeah?”
“This thing with us…” He trails off.
Your heart pounds. “What about it?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
But you’re both thinking the same thing. This stopped being casual a long time ago. Neither of you is ready to admit it yet.
November hits campus like a cold slap. The trees are bare, everyone’s walking around in puffer jackets and beanies, and the semester is hitting that point where everyone’s exhausted and stressed and living on coffee and spite.
You’re in Advanced Marketing on a Thursday morning, half-asleep and trying to absorb information about consumer behavior models, when Professor Chen makes an announcement. “Before we start, I want to introduce a new student joining us. This is Daniel Choi—he’s transferring from NYU. Daniel, why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself?”
You glance up and—oh. Daniel is tall, with broad shoulders, dark hair styled back, and an easy smile. He’s wearing a navy sweater that probably costs more than your textbooks, and when he speaks, his voice is warm and confident. “Hey everyone. I’m a junior, majoring in Marketing and Communications. Just moved here from New York, so still figuring out the campus. Looking forward to getting to know you all.”
“Wonderful,” Professor Chen says. “Why don’t you take that seat next to Y/N? Y/N, raise your hand?”
You do, reluctantly, and Daniel makes his way over, sliding into the seat beside you. “Hey,” he says, smile widening. “Thanks for letting me sit here.”
“It’s not really my seat to give, but sure.”
He laughs. “Fair point. I’m Daniel.”
“Y/N.”
“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” Then Professor Chen launches into the lecture, and you try to focus, but you’re aware of Daniel beside you—the way he takes notes on his laptop, occasionally glancing over at your notebook like he’s comparing, the expensive cologne that’s subtle but noticeable.
When class ends, he turns to you. “Hey, I know this is random, but do you think you could help me out? I’m completely lost on where anything is on this campus.”
“There are maps—”
“I know, but they’re confusing as hell.” He gives you a slightly sheepish look. “And Professor Chen mentioned you’re a great student. I could use someone to show me around, maybe fill me in on what I’ve missed in class so far?”
You should say no. You’re busy. You have your own classes and your friends and your… whatever Jungwon is. But Daniel seems nice, and it’s just showing someone around campus. “Sure,” you find yourself saying. “I have a break after this. I can give you a quick tour.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” His smile is genuinely grateful. “Can I at least buy you coffee?”
You spend the next hour showing Daniel around campus—the library, the student center, the various academic buildings, the good food spots versus the ones to avoid. He’s easy to talk to, asking questions about classes and professors, and he’s funny in a dry, clever way that makes you laugh.
“So NYU to here,” you say as you walk past the quad. “That’s a big change.”
“Yeah.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “My dad got relocated for work, and the family moved. Figured I’d come with them rather than stay in New York alone. Plus, cheaper tuition as an in-state student.”
“That’s fair. How are you liking it so far?”
“Campus is nice. People seem cool.” He glances at you. “Present company especially.” It’s flirty but not obnoxiously so, and you feel your face warm slightly.
“Wait until you experience your first real winter here,” you say, deflecting. “Then we’ll see if you still think it’s nice.”
“I’m from New York. I can handle cold.”
“This is different. This is Midwest cold. The kind that hurts your face.”
He laughs. “I’ll take your word for it.”
You show him a few more buildings, and by the time you’re done, your break is almost over. “This was really helpful,” Daniel says. “Seriously, thank you.”
“No problem.”
“Can I get your number? In case I have questions about class or campus stuff?” It’s innocent enough. Just a new student wanting help navigating. You give him your number. “Thanks.” He saves it in his phone. “I’ll see you next class?”
“Yeah, see you.” You watch him walk away, and you’re surprised to find yourself smiling a little.
You don’t think much about Daniel over the next few days. You’re busy with midterms and work and your friends. And Jungwon. Especially Jungwon.
You’ve been spending even more time together lately—studying at his place, grabbing food between classes, and obviously still hooking up regularly. It’s gotten to the point where you have a toothbrush at his apartment and he has spare clothes at yours. It should worry you how domestic it’s becoming. It doesn’t.
You’re at his place on Saturday night, both of you on his bed with your laptops, supposedly working on separate assignments but really just procrastinating together. “I’m so sick of this essay,” you groan, flopping backward.
“How much do you have left?”
“Like, three pages.”
“That’s not bad.”
“It’s three pages I don’t want to write.” You roll over to look at him. “Entertain me.”
“I’m busy.”
“No you’re not. You’ve been on the same paragraph for twenty minutes.”
He closes his laptop with a sigh. “Fine. What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. Something that isn’t homework.”
He shifts closer, hand sliding up your thigh. “I can think of something.”
“We literally had sex an hour ago.”
“So?”
You laugh and push his hand away. “You’re insatiable.”
“Only with you.” He’s smiling but there’s something in his eyes that makes your chest tight.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You reach for it and see a text from an unknown number.
unknown: hey! it’s daniel from marketing class. hope this isn’t weird but i had a question about the assignment due next week?
You smile and save his contact. you: not weird at all! what’s your question?
“Who’s that?” Jungwon asks, and there’s an edge to his voice.
“New guy in my marketing class. He transferred from NYU.”
“And he’s texting you?”
“He had a question about the assignment.” You glance at Jungwon. “Why?”
“No reason.” But his jaw is tight, and you recognize that look. He’s jealous.
Your phone buzzes again. daniel: professor chen mentioned something about a group project? do you know if groups are assigned or if we pick our own?
you: we pick our own! usually groups of 3-4. i can add you to mine if you want? we still need one more person
daniel: that would be amazing. thank you! also totally unrelated but are you free tomorrow? wanted to check out that coffee place you mentioned and could use the company
You hesitate. It’s just coffee. Daniel is nice, and he’s new and doesn’t know anyone. It would be rude to say no. you: sure! i’m free around 2?
daniel: perfect. i’ll meet you there
You set your phone down and find Jungwon staring at you. “What?”
“You’re getting coffee with him?”
“He’s new. He doesn’t know anyone. I’m being nice.”
“Right. Nice.” He doesn’t sound convinced.
“Jungwon, it’s just coffee.”
“Does he know that?”
“Know what?”
“That it’s ‘just coffee.’ Or does he think it’s a date?”
You sit up. “It’s not a date. We’re literally just getting coffee. Why do you care?”
“I don’t.”
“You clearly do.”
“I just—” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Never mind. Do whatever you want.”
“I am doing whatever I want. That’s kind of the point of this arrangement, remember?”
The words come out harsher than you intended, and something flashes across his face—hurt, maybe, or anger, you can’t tell. “Right,” he says quietly. “The arrangement.”
The air between you feels heavy, wrong. You want to take it back, to explain that you don’t actually want to get coffee with Daniel, that you’d rather spend tomorrow with Jungwon like you spend most days. But you don’t say any of that. “I should go,” you say instead, closing your laptop. “It’s late.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I have an early class tomorrow anyway.” You gather your stuff quickly, and Jungwon doesn’t try to stop you. When you leave, he doesn’t ask you to stay like he usually does. You tell yourself it’s fine. Everything’s fine.
Coffee with Daniel is actually really nice. He’s waiting outside the café when you arrive, and he lights up when he sees you. “Hey! Thanks for coming.”
“Of course.”
Inside, the place is cozy and warm, smelling like espresso and cinnamon. You order your usual and Daniel gets some complicated drink with like five different modifiers. “High maintenance,” you tease as you find a table by the window.
“I know what I like,” he says, grinning. “Can’t fault me for that.”
You spend the next hour just talking. He tells you about growing up in New York, his family, his friends back home. He asks about your life, your major, your friends. He’s a good listener, asking follow-up questions, seeming genuinely interested. It’s easy. Comfortable. And he’s cute—you can’t deny that. The way he smiles, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs. The way he leans forward when you’re talking, giving you his full attention.
“So,” he says eventually, stirring his drink. “Do you have a boyfriend? Or girlfriend, or… partner? I don’t want to assume.”
Your stomach drops. “I—no. Not exactly.”
“Not exactly?” He raises an eyebrow, curious, not pushy.
“It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
You shouldn’t tell him. It’s none of his business. But something about the way he’s looking at you, open and interested, makes you want to talk about it. “There’s this guy,” you say slowly. “We’ve been… hooking up. For a few months now. It’s supposed to be casual but lately it feels like…”
“Like it’s not casual anymore?” Daniel finishes.
“Yeah.”
“Does he know you feel that way?”
“I don’t know. We don’t really talk about it.” You take a sip of your coffee. “It’s stupid. We had rules. No feelings, no complications. And I’m the one who’s complicating it.”
“Feelings aren’t stupid,” Daniel says gently. “And if he’s worth anything, he feels the same way.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“Then he’s an idiot.” He smiles. “For what it’s worth, any guy who has you and doesn’t want more is definitely an idiot.”
It’s sweet. Maybe a little too sweet, a little too flirty, but you find yourself smiling back. “Thanks, Daniel.”
“Anytime.” He checks his phone. “Shit, I have to go. Meeting my parents for dinner. But this was really fun. We should do it again?”
“Yeah, that’d be nice.”
“Cool.” He stands, shrugging on his jacket. “See you in class Tuesday?”
“See you then.” You watch him leave, and you’re not sure how to feel. Daniel is nice. He’s attractive and smart and funny, and he’s clearly interested in you. But he’s not Jungwon. Your phone buzzes.
jungwon: you busy tonight?
You stare at the message for a long moment before typing back. you: studying with maya. why?
It’s a lie. You don’t have plans. But you need space to think, to figure out what you’re doing.
jungwon: nothing. just wanted to see you. have fun studying
The guilt sits heavy in your chest.
You avoid Jungwon for the next few days. It’s not hard—you claim you’re busy with midterms and assignments, which is partially true. But really, you just need time to sort through your feelings.
Because the truth is, you’re falling for him. Have been falling for him for months now. And the idea of telling him and having him not feel the same way, of losing what you have, terrifies you. So you throw yourself into other things. Classes. Assignments. Your friends. And Daniel.
He texts you throughout the week—memes, questions about class, random observations about campus life. It’s friendly and light and uncomplicated. You tell yourself that’s why you respond, why you agree to study together in the library, why you sit next to him in Marketing and laugh at his whispered jokes during lectures. But you know that’s not entirely true. You know you’re using Daniel as a distraction. And it’s not fair to him.
On Thursday, you’re leaving your Marketing class with Daniel when you run into the group. Literally—you turn a corner and almost collide with Maya and Jake.
“Oh! Hey!” Maya says, then notices Daniel. “Who’s this?”
“This is Daniel. He’s new. Daniel, this is Maya and Jake.”
“Nice to meet you,” Daniel says, friendly and charming.
“You too,” Maya says, but she’s giving you a look. “We’re all getting lunch. You want to come?”
“Oh, um—”
“You should definitely come,” Jake says. “Whole group’s gonna be there.” Your stomach sinks. Whole group means Jungwon.
“I don’t want to intrude,” Daniel starts.
“You’re not intruding,” Maya insists. “The more the merrier. Right, Y/N?”
“Right,” you say weakly.
Lunch is at the student center food court, and by the time you arrive with Daniel, everyone else is already there—Maya and Jake, Liv and Reina, Jay and Sunghoon, Heeseung and Sunoo and Niki. And Jungwon. He’s sitting at the end of the table, and when he sees you walk in with Daniel, something shutters in his expression.
“Everyone, this is Daniel,” you announce. “He just transferred here.”
Everyone introduces themselves, welcoming and friendly, and Daniel fits in easily. He’s charming and funny, and within minutes, he’s got Reina laughing at some story about his first week on campus. You sit across from Jungwon, and the tension is suffocating.
“So Daniel,” Sunghoon says. “Where’d you transfer from?”
“NYU.”
“Damn, that’s a downgrade,” Heeseung jokes, and everyone laughs.
“I don’t know,” Daniel says, and his hand brushes yours on the table. “I’m liking it here so far.” The touch is casual, probably meaningless. But Jungwon’s eyes lock onto it, and his jaw clenches.
“How do you and Y/N know each other?” Niki asks.
“We have Marketing together,” you say quickly. “I’ve been helping him get caught up.”
“Y/N’s been a lifesaver,” Daniel adds. “Don’t know what I’d do without her.” It’s innocent. Friendly. But the way he’s looking at you is… not. And Jungwon sees it.
“That’s nice,” Jungwon says, voice flat. “Y/N’s good at helping people.” There’s an undercurrent there that makes you flinch.
The conversation moves on, everyone eating and talking, but you’re hyperaware of Jungwon across from you. He’s barely touched his food, just pushing it around his plate, and every time Daniel says something that makes you smile, Jungwon’s expression gets darker.
“So Y/N,” Reina says. “You still seeing that mystery guy? The one who’s so good in bed?”
You want to die. “Reina—”
“What? I’m just asking!”
“What mystery guy?” Daniel asks, curious.
“There’s no mystery guy,” you say firmly. “Reina’s making stuff up.”
“I’m literally not. You told Niki about him.”
“That was months ago.”
“So you’re not seeing anyone?” Daniel asks, and there’s hope in his voice.
Before you can answer, Jungwon stands abruptly. “I gotta go. Got class.”
“But we just sat down,” Heeseung protests.
“I forgot I have to talk to my professor about something.” He grabs his bag and leaves without looking at you. The table goes quiet for a beat.
“What’s up with him?” Jake asks.
“No idea,” Sunoo says, but he’s looking at you thoughtfully.
“Maybe he’s not feeling well,” Maya suggests.
You know that’s not it. You know exactly what’s wrong. “I should—” You start to stand. “I should check on him.”
“Why?” Reina asks.
“Because we’re friends. And he seemed upset.”
“I’ll come with you,” Daniel offers.
“No,” you say, too quickly. “I mean—you should stay. Finish eating. I’ll be right back.”
You don’t wait for a response before hurrying after Jungwon. You catch him outside the building, heading toward the parking lot. “Jungwon, wait!” He stops but doesn’t turn around. “What was that?” you ask when you reach him.
“What was what?”
“You know what. Walking out like that.”
He finally turns to face you, and the look in his eyes makes your chest hurt. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Y/N.”
“I want you to tell me what’s wrong.”
“You really don’t know?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You show up with that guy, he’s all over you, looking at you like—” He breaks off, running a hand through his hair. “And you’re just letting it happen.”
“He’s not all over me. We’re friends.”
“Does he know that? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like he thinks you’re something more.”
“Even if he did, why do you care? We’re not together, remember? That’s the whole point.”
“Right,” he says bitterly. “The arrangement. How could I forget?”
“Jungwon—”
“Are you into him?”
The question catches you off guard. “What?”
“Daniel. Are you into him?”
“I—no. Not like that.”
“But you could be.” It’s not a question. “If things were different. If we weren’t…” He gestures between you, unable to finish the sentence.
“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Maybe. He’s nice. And he’s—”
“Uncomplicated,” Jungwon finishes. “He’s not sneaking around. He could actually take you on dates, be seen with you, give you what you want.”
“What I want?”
“More.” He steps closer. “You want more than this, Y/N. I can see it. And I can’t—”
He stops, and your heart is pounding. “You can’t what?”
“I can’t give you that.” His voice is rough. “This—us—it’s supposed to be casual. No strings. That’s what we agreed.”
“And what if I don’t want casual anymore?” The words tumble out before you can stop them. “What if I want more?”
He stares at you, and for a moment you think he’s going to say it—that he wants more too, that this has been killing him the same way it’s been killing you. But then he looks away. “I can’t,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”
It feels like the ground has been pulled out from under you. “Right,” you manage. “Okay.”
“It’s fine.” You’re backing away, fighting tears. “You’re right. This was always supposed to be casual. My mistake for thinking it could be anything else.”
“That’s not—”
“I should get back. Everyone’s waiting.” You turn and walk away before he can say anything else, before you completely fall apart in front of him.
When you get back to the table, Daniel takes one look at your face and frowns. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you lie. “Just… tired. Long week.”
“Want me to walk you home?”
You should say no. Should put some distance between you and Daniel before this gets messy. But you’re hurt and angry and you don’t want to be alone. “Yeah,” you say. “That’d be nice.”
As you leave with Daniel, you don’t see Jungwon watching from across the quad, hands shoved in his pockets, looking like his world just fell apart.
You don’t talk to Jungwon for the rest of the week. He texts a few times— casual messages asking how you are, if you want to study, if you’re okay. You respond with short, noncommittal answers.
The group notices. How could they not? You and Jungwon have been attached at the hip for months, and suddenly you can barely be in the same room. “What happened between you two?” Liv asks when you’re alone in your apartment.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. You’ve been miserable all week.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re avoiding him. And he’s been moping around like someone kicked his puppy.” You don’t answer, just stare at your laptop screen without actually seeing it. “Did something happen with Daniel?” she presses gently.
“No. Daniel’s just a friend.”
“Does Jungwon know that?”
“It doesn’t matter what Jungwon thinks.”
Liv is quiet for a moment. “You should talk to him. Actually talk. Because this? This is worse than whatever you’re avoiding.”
You know she’s right. But you’re scared. Scared that if you talk to Jungwon, you’ll have to end things for real. That you’ll have to accept that he doesn’t want what you want, that these past few months have meant something completely different to him than they have to you.
So you do what you’ve been doing—you avoid him. And you spend more time with Daniel.
It’s Friday night, and there’s a party at some senior’s house. You show up with Liv and Reina, already a few drinks in from pregaming, and the place is packed. You lose your friends almost immediately in the crowd. You’re making your way to the kitchen when you spot Daniel. “Hey!” He brightens when he sees you. “I was hoping you’d be here.”
“Yeah, wouldn’t miss it.” You’re definitely drunker than you thought. “Having fun?”
“More fun now.” He hands you a drink. “Here. It’s strong, fair warning.” You take it and down half of it in one go. “Rough week?” he asks.
“Something like that.”
The music is loud, bass thumping through your chest, and Daniel leans in closer to be heard. “Want to go somewhere quieter? Maybe talk?”
You should say no. You know where this is going, and it’s not fair to Daniel or to yourself or to— “Sure,” you say.
He leads you upstairs, finding an empty bedroom, and closes the door behind you. It muffles the music, making it easier to hear. “Better?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
He sits on the bed and you sit next to him, suddenly very aware that you’re alone together in a bedroom. “Can I ask you something?” Daniel says.
“Sure.”
“That guy you mentioned. The complicated one. Is it… are you still involved with him?”
You take another sip of your drink. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s complicated.”
“Does he know how you feel?”
“I told him. He made it pretty clear he doesn’t feel the same way.”
“Then he’s an idiot.” Daniel shifts closer. “Because you’re incredible, Y/N. Smart and funny and beautiful. Any guy would be lucky to be with you.”
“Daniel—”
“I like you,” he says. “I know we just met, and maybe the timing is shit, but I really like you. And if this other guy can’t see what he has, then…”
He trails off, and then he’s leaning in, and you realize he’s going to kiss you. You should stop him. You should explain that you’re not over Jungwon, that you’re not in a place to start something new.
But you’re drunk and hurt and you want to feel wanted by someone who isn’t afraid to show it. So you let him kiss you. It’s nice. He’s a good kisser— soft lips, careful hands, nothing like—
The door opens. “Y/N, Liv’s looking for—” Jungwon stops dead in the doorway.
You jerk back from Daniel, but it’s too late. Jungwon saw. And the look on his face— betrayal and hurt and anger all mixed together—makes your stomach drop. “Jungwon—”
“Sorry,” he says, voice tight. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
He’s gone before you can say anything else, door slamming behind him. “Shit,” you breathe.
“Who was that?” Daniel asks.
“I—” You stand up, suddenly feeling very sober. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”
“Y/N, wait—” But you’re already out the door, pushing through the crowded hallway, trying to find Jungwon. You catch him on the front porch, about to leave.
“Jungwon, wait!” He stops, shoulders tense, but doesn’t turn around. “It’s not— that wasn’t—”
“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he says, finally facing you. “You can kiss whoever you want.”
“It didn’t mean anything—”
“Didn’t it?” His eyes are hard. “Looked like it meant something.”
“I was just—I was upset and drunk and he was there—”
“And I wasn’t,” Jungwon finishes. “Because you’ve been avoiding me all week.”
“You told me you couldn’t give me more! What did you expect me to do?”
“I don’t know!” He’s yelling now, and a few people on the porch are staring. “I don’t know, Y/N. But I didn’t expect you to move on in a fucking week.”
“I’m not moving on! And even if I was, why do you care? You made it clear you don’t want—”
“I never said I didn’t want—” He breaks off, jaw clenched. “Fuck.”
“What? You never said you didn’t want what?”
“You!” The word explodes out of him. “I never said I didn’t want you. I said I couldn’t give you more, and that’s different.”
You stare at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that I’m terrified, okay?” His voice cracks. “I’m terrified because this stopped being casual for me months ago, and I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be what you need.”
Your heart is pounding so hard you think it might burst out of your chest. “Jungwon—”
“I see the way Daniel looks at you. Like you’re everything. And I want to be that guy— the one who can take you on dates and hold your hand in public and tell everyone you’re mine. But I’m scared I’ll fuck it up. That I’ll lose you completely.”
“So instead you’re losing me anyway,” you say quietly. He flinches like you hit him. “I’m falling for you,” you continue, and the words feel like jumping off a cliff. “I’ve been falling for you for months. And it’s been killing me because I thought you didn’t feel the same way.”
“I do,” he says desperately. “I do feel the same way. I just—”
“You just what?”
“I don’t want to ruin what we have.”
“Jungwon, we’ve already ruined it. Pretending we can keep things casual when we both feel more—that’s what’s ruining it.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and you can see him struggling with something. “If we do this,” he says finally, “if we make this real— what if it doesn’t work? What if we end up hating each other?”
“What if we don’t?” you counter. “What if it’s amazing?”
“What about the group? If things go bad—”
“We’ll figure it out. But Jungwon, I’d rather try and fail than spend the rest of my life wondering what if.”
He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize your face, and then— “Fuck it,” he mutters, and then he’s kissing you.
It’s different from every other kiss you’ve shared. More desperate, more meaningful. Like he’s pouring everything he couldn’t say into it.
When you break apart, you’re both breathless. “So,” you manage. “Does this mean—”
“It means I want to be with you. For real. No more hiding, no more pretending.” He cups your face in his hands. “I want everyone to know you’re mine.”
“Even the group?”
“Especially the group.” He smiles, and it’s tentative but real. “They probably already know anyway.”
You laugh, and it feels like relief. “Probably.”
“What about Daniel?”
“I’ll talk to him. Explain. But Jungwon, there’s nothing there. It’s always been you.”
“Yeah?” His smile widens.
“Yeah.” He kisses you again, softer this time, and you hear whooping from inside the house. You break apart to find half your friend group watching from the window—Reina and Liv and Maya and the guys all grinning like idiots.
“FINALLY!” Reina screams, and everyone laughs. Jungwon pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you, and for the first time in weeks, everything feels right.
“So,” he murmurs against your hair. “Want to get out of here? I think we have some things to talk about.”
“And by talk you mean—”
“Actually talk,” he says, pulling back to look at you. “We should probably figure out how to actually do this relationship thing.”
“We should,” you agree. “But maybe we can do the talking back at your place? I’m still kind of drunk and these heels are killing me.” He laughs and takes your hand— openly, for everyone to see— and leads you toward his car.
As you leave, you glance back at the house and catch Daniel watching from the doorway. He looks sad but understanding, and he raises his cup in a small salute. You mouth “sorry,” and he nods. You’ll explain everything to him later. Right now, you just want to be with Jungwon.
You wake up to sunlight streaming through Jungwon’s window and his arm draped across your waist. For a moment, you just lie there, listening to his steady breathing, trying to process that this is real now. You’re actually dating Jungwon. Your phone buzzes— multiple times. You reach for it and find the group chat exploding.
reina: SO ARE WE GONNA TALK ABOUT LAST NIGHT OR
maya: I KNEW IT
liv: you all owe me $20 btw
jay: jungwon if you hurt her i’m fighting you
you: good morning to you too
reina: GOOD MORNING??? THAT’S ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY???
you: yes we’re official
reina: EXTREMELY
you: and we’ve been hooking up since that party in august
heeseung: AUGUST?????
reina: I FUCKING KNEW IT
Jungwon stirs beside you, eyes fluttering open. When he sees you, he smiles— soft and sleepy and genuine. “Morning,” he says, voice rough.
“Morning.” You show him your phone. “We’re famous.”
He scrolls through, laughing. “They’re ridiculous.”
jungwon: i’m not going to hurt her
jay: good
reina: now that that’s settled TELL US EVERYTHING
The “mandatory celebration” ends up being at Jay and Sunghoon’s that evening. By the time you and Jungwon arrive— together, holding hands— everyone else is already there. “THERE THEY ARE!” Reina shouts. “The happy couple!”
Maya rushes over to hug you. “I’m so happy for you!”
Jake hands you both drinks. “So, real talk. How long have you actually had feelings for each other?”
“I’ve liked her since before we started hooking up,” Jungwon says. “Remember that party in July? When you wore that black dress?”
Your face is burning. “You never said anything.”
He shrugs. “I didn’t think you were interested. And then the bet happened and… well, you know the rest.”
“What about you?” Liv asks.
“Probably that first morning after,” you admit. “When we were texting about the arrangement and he was being all careful. That’s when I started thinking he might be different.”
Several drinks later, everyone’s sprawled around the living room. You’re tucked into Jungwon’s side on the couch, and it feels so natural. “Real talk,” Jay says, tone serious. “I’m happy for you guys. But—” He looks at Jungwon. “—you hurt her, and we have a problem.”
“I know. And I’m not going to hurt her. I’m—” He looks at you. “—I’m in love with her.”
The room goes silent. Your heart stops. “What?” you whisper.
“I’m in love with you. I have been for a while. I was just too scared to say it.”
“I love you too, you idiot.” You’re shaking your head. “I’ve been in love with you for months.” His smile is brilliant. He kisses you, and this time it’s softer, more tender.
“Okay, we’re leaving,” Reina announces. “Before this gets too cute.”
After everyone leaves, you and Jungwon stay on the couch. “I meant what I said,” he murmurs. “About loving you.”
“I meant it too.” You shift to straddle his lap. “I love you, Jungwon.”
He cuts you off with a kiss. “Want to go home?”
You end up at his place. The second you’re inside, he’s on you, kissing you with urgency. “Bedroom,” you gasp.
“Too far.” He lifts you, carries you to the couch. You land in a tangle of limbs, laughing, then his mouth is on your neck. “I love you,” he murmurs.
“Show me,” you challenge.
He does. He takes his time undressing you, kissing every inch of skin. When you’re both finally naked, he hovers over you. “This is different now. Better,” he says. “I get to keep you.”
“You always had me.”
“I know. But now I don’t have to pretend I don’t want forever.”
“Forever?”
“Too soon?”
“No.” You pull him down. “Not too soon.”
He makes love to you slowly, thoroughly. More intimate. More real. Every touch feels like a confession. He enters you with a groan, and you wrap your legs around him. The rhythm is unhurried, sensual. He angles his hips just right, and his hand slides between your bodies to rub your clit. “God, you feel so perfect,” he breathes. “So tight and wet for me.”
“Jungwon— fuck— don’t stop—” He doesn’t. He keeps that perfect pace until you’re trembling. When you come, clenching around him, he follows right after with a moan of your name.
When you’re both spent on his couch, you feel something settle in your chest. “We should move to the bed,” he says eventually.
“Heeseung’s going to be home soon.” You gather clothes and make it to his room. “Stay,” he says.
“Obviously.” You curl into his side. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
The next morning, you wake to Jungwon’s alarm. Your head is pounding. “Turn it off,” you groan.
“We have brunch in an hour.”
Forty-five minutes later— after a shower where Jungwon pressed you against the tile and made you come on his fingers— you’re dressed and heading to the diner. You walk in holding hands. The sight of your friend group crammed into booths makes you smile.
“There they are!” Maya calls. You slide in next to Liv, Jungwon beside you, arm over your shoulders.
“So,” Sunoo says. “Now that you guys are official, does this mean we have to watch you be gross?”
“We’re not going to be gross,” you protest.
Jungwon immediately kisses your cheek. “Can’t promise that.”
“How long did you actually know?” you ask.
“I knew from the start,” Liv says. “You’re my roommate. You think I didn’t notice when you’d come home at 3 AM with hickeys?”
The conversation shifts to other topics, and it’s easy. Normal. Like nothing’s changed except now you don’t have to hide.
Later that day, you’re back at Jungwon’s, on the couch watching a movie. “Can I ask you something?” he says.
“Always.”
“Why did you kiss Daniel?”
“Honestly? I was drunk and hurt and he was there. It was stupid.”
“Did you… were you interested in him?”
“No.” You shift to look at him. “He’s nice, but I was so hung up on you.”
“Good.” He kisses you. “Because I was losing my mind.”
“Every time I was with him, I kept thinking about you.”
“You have me now.” His arms tighten. “For as long as you want me.”
“Forever, remember?”
“Forever,” he agrees.
“Want to order food and spend the rest of the day in bed?”
“Is that code for something?”
“Food, bed, probably some making out, definitely a nap.”
“Sounds perfect.”
Later that night, after Chinese food and another round of sex— with you riding him while he gripped your hips and watched you with dark eyes— you’re lying in his bed. “Thank you,” he says quietly.
“For what?”
“For being brave enough to tell me how you felt. I would have lost you if you hadn’t.”
“You wouldn’t have lost me. I was too far gone.”
“Speaking of which,” he says. “You could just keep some more stuff here. Make it official.”
“Jungwon, we’ve been officially dating for less than 24 hours.”
“So? We’ve been unofficially together for months.”
He has a point. “Fine. I’ll bring some stuff over tomorrow.” And he’s grinning from ear to ear
Three weeks later, you’re at another party— pre-Thanksgiving. This time, everything’s different. You and Jungwon arrive together, hands intertwined. When he pulls you onto the dance floor, you don’t worry about who’s watching. “Having fun?” he asks.
“So much fun.” You loop your arms around his neck. “This is better than hiding.”
“Way better.” He kisses you.
Later, in the kitchen, Daniel approaches. You haven’t really talked since that night. “Hey,” he says. “Can we talk?”
“Sure.” Jungwon gives your hand a squeeze and steps away.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” Daniel starts. “For that night. I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
“No, I’m sorry. I should have been clearer. It wasn’t fair to you.”
“It’s okay. I get it now.” He glances at Jungwon. “That’s him, right?”
“Yeah. Not so complicated anymore.”
“Good. You seem happy.”
“I am. Really happy.” You hesitate. “Are we okay?”
“We’re okay. Friends?”
“Friends,” you agree.
He leaves, and Jungwon returns to your side. “That looked like it went well.”
“It did.” You lean into him. “Everything’s good.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Everything’s really good.”
You stay like that, watching your friends scattered around— your family. And Jungwon, solid and warm behind you. “I love you,” you say.
“I love you too.” He kisses your neck. “Want to get out of here?”
“And do what?”
“Go back to my place. Watch a movie. Make out. Order food. Fall asleep together. All the boring couple stuff.”
“That sounds perfect.” You say goodbye to your friends and head out.
“Your place or mine?” Jungwon asks.
“Yours. I already have a toothbrush there.”
He grins. “Look at us, being all domestic.”
“It’s disgusting.”
“You love it.”
“I really do.”
As he drives through the quiet streets, his hand finds yours, and you think about how different things were just months ago. When you were both pretending, both scared, both holding back. And now you’re here. Together. For real. “What are you thinking about?” Jungwon asks.
“Just… how happy I am. How glad I am that we figured this out.”
“Me too.” He brings your joined hands up to kiss your knuckles. “Best decision I ever made.”
“Proving you could make me come?”
He laughs. “No. Although that was a good decision too. I meant taking a chance on this. On us.”
“We both took a chance.”
“And it paid off.”
“Yeah,” you agree softly. “It really did.”
Back at his apartment, you fall into your routine— changing into his drawer of your clothes, brushing teeth side by side, collapsing onto his bed. “Movie?” he asks.
“Sure. Nothing too intense though.” He puts on a comedy, and you curl into his side. This is your favorite part. Not the sex— though that’s amazing— but this. The quiet moments. The casual intimacy.
“Hey Y/N?” Jungwon says softly.
“Hmm?”
“I’m really glad you’re mine.”
You lift your head. “I’m glad I’m yours too. And that you’re mine.”
“Always,” he promises, and kisses you.
Lying there in his arms, warm and safe and loved, you believe him. This is just the beginning. And you can’t wait to see where it goes.
Summary: Garrett is supposed to hate you by association. You’re dating his rival. You’re wearing the wrong colors. But he doesn’t look at you like you’re the enemy, he looks at you like he’s seeing something everyone else has learned to ignore. And when you run out of places to hide, his number is the only one you can think to call
Warnings: 18+ content, domestic violence, sexual assault, and trauma recovery
Read part one here
You wake up to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains.
For a moment, you can’t remember where you are. The bed is too comfortable, the room too clean, the sheets smell wrong — not wrong, just different. Not like Cameron’s cologne and expensive detergent. Like something cleaner. Safer.
Then it all comes rushing back.
The napkin. The attack. Running through Boston in the freezing dark. Garrett’s voice on the phone, steady and sure. The apartment lobby. His car. This house.
You sit up slowly, every muscle in your body screaming in protest. Your throat feels like you swallowed glass. Your face throbs. When you catch sight of yourself in the mirror across the room, you barely recognize the person staring back.
The bruises are worse than you thought. Dark purple handprints wrap around your throat like a necklace. Your left cheek is swollen, a deep red-purple that’s going to turn black soon. There’s a split in your bottom lip you don’t remember getting.
You look like you went twelve rounds with a professional fighter.
You look like a victim.
The thought makes you want to throw up.
There’s a knock on the door — soft, hesitant.
“Y/N?” Garrett’s voice. “You awake?”
“Yeah.” Your voice comes out raspy, damaged.
“Can I come in?”
You pull the blanket up higher, suddenly aware you’re still in yesterday’s clothes. “Sure.”
The door opens and Garrett steps inside, carrying a tray. He’s showered and changed — different sweatpants, a clean t-shirt, hair still damp. He looks almost normal except for the dark circles under his eyes and the tension in his jaw.
“I brought breakfast,” he says. “Nothing fancy. Just toast and eggs and coffee. Tucker made it. He’s weirdly good at cooking for a guy who lives on protein shakes and beer.”
He sets the tray on the desk, and you see he wasn’t kidding. Scrambled eggs, buttered toast, a mug of coffee with cream. There’s even a glass of orange juice.
“You didn’t have to do this,” you say.
“I know.” Garrett leans against the desk, arms crossed. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck.”
“Yeah. You look-” He stops himself. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”
“I know what I look like.”
There’s a long pause. Garrett’s looking at you with an expression you can’t quite read. Concern, maybe. Or pity. You’re not sure which is worse.
“I think you should go to the police,” he says finally.
Your stomach drops. “Garrett-”
“I know you’re scared. I know you think he’ll get away with it. But Y/N, look at yourself.” He gestures toward the mirror. “You have evidence. Documented injuries. That’s assault. That’s attempted murder.”
“His parents are lawyers-”
“I don’t give a shit if his parents are on the Supreme Court.” Garrett’s voice is hard. “What he did to you is a crime. You have rights. You have options.”
“And if he gets away with it? If they make me look crazy? If no one believes me?”
“Then at least you tried. At least there’s a record. At least the next time he does this — because there will be a next time, to you or someone else — there’s a paper trail.”
You want to argue. Want to explain all the reasons why this won’t work, why it’s pointless, why you should just disappear and hope Cameron forgets about you.
But Garrett’s looking at you with those dark eyes, and you can see the plea in them. The desperate need to do something, to fix this, to make it right.
“Will you come with me?” You ask quietly.
“Every step of the way.”
***
The police station smells like bad coffee and bureaucracy. You sit in a hard plastic chair in the waiting area, Garrett beside you, while an officer processes your intake paperwork.
“Someone will be with you shortly,” the desk sergeant says, barely looking up from his computer.
Shortly turns into twenty minutes. Then thirty. You’re about to suggest leaving when a female officer appears.
“Y/N Y/L/N?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Officer Murphy. Come on back.”
She leads you and Garrett to a small interview room. It’s exactly like the ones on TV — gray walls, metal table, chairs that look designed to be uncomfortable. There’s a camera mounted in the corner.
“For documentation purposes,” Officer Murphy explains, following your gaze. “Everything we discuss will be recorded. Is that okay?”
You nod.
“I’m going to need verbal consent.”
“Yes. That’s okay.”
Officer Murphy sits across from you, pulls out a notepad. Garrett takes the chair beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body.
“So,” Officer Murphy begins. “You’re here to file a report about an assault?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me what happened? Start from the beginning.”
You take a breath. Try to organize the chaos of last night into something coherent.
“My boyfriend — Cameron Beck — he attacked me last night. At my dorm room.”
“What time was this?”
“Around eight PM, I think. Maybe a little after.”
Officer Murphy is writing everything down. “And what precipitated the attack?”
“He found a phone number in my bag. He thought I was cheating on him.”
“Were you?”
The question catches you off guard. “No. It was just—someone gave me their number and I kept it. That’s all.”
“Okay. So he found this number and then what?”
“He got angry. Started yelling. Threw my stuff everywhere. Then he-” Your voice catches. “He put his hands around my throat. Choked me until I couldn’t breathe.”
Officer Murphy’s expression doesn’t change. “Did you lose consciousness?”
“Almost. I thought I was going to die.”
“What happened next?”
“He let go for a second. Hit me. Across the face. Twice.” You point to your cheek. “Then he started choking me again.”
“How did you get away?”
“I kneed him. In the groin. He let go and I ran.”
“Where did you run to?”
“Just … ran. Down the street. I called for help.” You glance at Garrett. “He came and got me.”
Officer Murphy looks at Garrett for the first time. “And you are?”
“Garrett Graham. I’m-” He hesitates. “A friend. She called me and I picked her up.”
“You’re a student at BU as well?”
“No. Briar University.”
Something shifts in Officer Murphy’s expression. Recognition, maybe. “You play hockey.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And the boyfriend — Cameron Beck — he plays for BU?”
“Yes.”
Officer Murphy writes something in her notepad. You can’t see what.
“Okay, Y/N. I’m going to need to document your injuries. Is it alright if I take some photographs?”
Your stomach churns. “Do you have to?”
“It’s important for the case. Physical evidence of assault.”
You look at Garrett. He nods slightly, encouraging.
“Okay,” you whisper.
Officer Murphy pulls out a digital camera. “I’ll need you to remove your sweatshirt so we can see your throat and face clearly.”
With shaking hands, you pull off your sweatshirt. You’re wearing a tank top underneath, which means the bruises on your arms are visible too. The ones from before last night. The finger-shaped marks that have faded to yellow-green.
Officer Murphy’s jaw tightens. “How long has he been hurting you?”
“I don’t know. A while.”
“Months? Years?”
“About a year. It started small. Then got worse.”
“And you never reported it before?”
The judgment in the question makes you flinch. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was scared. Because I thought I could fix it. Because he said no one would believe me.” Your voice rises. “Because I didn’t think it mattered.”
She starts taking photos. Flash after flash, documenting every bruise, every mark. Your throat from multiple angles. Your face. Your wrists. Your arms. You feel like a crime scene.
Which, you suppose, you are.
Garrett has gone completely still beside you. You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.
“Alright,” Officer Murphy says finally, lowering the camera. “You can put your sweatshirt back on. I just need to get the rest of your statement.”
She asks you to walk through the entire relationship. When it started. When the abuse began. How often it happened. You try to remember specific incidents but they all blur together after a while. The time he threw your laptop across the room. The time he locked you in his apartment for two days. The time he pushed you down the stairs and then convinced everyone, including you, that you’d just tripped.
Officer Murphy writes it all down without comment.
Then she asks: “Did he ever sexually assault you?”
The room goes very quiet.
You can’t look at Garrett. Can’t bear to see his reaction.
“Yes,” you whisper.
“Can you describe what happened?”
“He would-” Your throat closes up. “He would force me. When I didn’t want to. When I said no.”
“How many times did this happen?”
“I don’t know. A lot. Too many to count.”
“Most recently?”
You close your eyes. “Yesterday morning. I woke up and he was already—he didn’t ask. He just-”
You can’t finish the sentence.
Beside you, Garrett makes a sound. Almost like a growl. When you glance over, his hands are clenched into fists so tight his knuckles have gone white. There’s something wet on his palms.
Blood.
His nails have cut into his skin.
“Garrett,” you whisper.
He doesn’t seem to hear you. His eyes are fixed on the table, jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscle jumping.
Officer Murphy notices too. “Mr. Graham, do you need to step outside?”
“I’m fine.” His voice is rough.
“You’re bleeding.”
Garrett looks down at his hands like he’s surprised to see them. Slowly, mechanically, he unclenches his fists. Crescent-shaped cuts mark his palms.
“I’m fine,” he says again.
Officer Murphy doesn’t look convinced, but she continues. “Y/N, I know this is difficult, but I need you to be as specific as possible about the sexual assaults. Dates, times, locations if you remember them.”
You do your best. You tell her about the times in his apartment. The time in his car. The time in a bathroom at a party when you were too drunk to consent. You tell her until the words stop meaning anything, until you’re just reciting facts like they happened to someone else.
Through it all, Garrett sits beside you, silent and bleeding.
When you’re finally done, Officer Murphy closes her notepad.
“Okay. This is what’s going to happen next. We’re going to issue a warrant for Cameron Beck’s arrest. Based on your statement and the photographic evidence, we have probable cause for assault, battery, strangulation, and sexual assault. Those are serious charges.”
“Will he go to jail?” You ask.
“That depends on a lot of factors. The DA will review the case and decide whether to prosecute. If they do, there will be a trial. You’ll have to testify.”
Your heart sinks. “I have to see him again?”
“In court, yes. But we’re also going to help you file for a restraining order. That means he can’t contact you, can’t come within a certain distance of you. If he violates it, he goes to jail immediately.”
“His parents are going to fight this,” you say. “They have money. Lawyers.”
“Let them fight. We have evidence. We have your testimony. And frankly, based on what you’ve described, this isn’t going to be a hard case to make.”
You want to believe her. Want to believe that for once, the system will work the way it’s supposed to.
But you’ve been disappointed so many times before.
“What do I do now?” You ask.
“Go home. Rest. We’ll contact you when we have more information. In the meantime, avoid any contact with Mr. Beck. If he tries to reach out, document everything and let us know immediately.”
“Okay.”
Officer Murphy stands, offers her hand. “You did the right thing, coming here. I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you’re incredibly brave.”
You shake her hand, but you don’t feel brave. You feel exhausted and broken and terrified of what comes next.
Garrett stands too, still favoring his bleeding palms. Officer Murphy notices.
“Mr. Graham, you should get those looked at.”
“They’re fine.”
“They’re not fine. There’s a first aid kit at the front desk.”
Garrett just nods, but you can tell he has no intention of doing anything about it.
You follow Officer Murphy out of the interview room, back through the station. At the front desk, she hands you a folder.
“Resources,” she explains. “Domestic violence hotlines, counseling services, legal aid. And my card. Call me anytime if you have questions or concerns.”
“Thank you.”
You walk out of the station into the gray February morning. The cold hits you like a slap. You don’t have a coat. You left everything at your dorm when you ran.
Everything except your phone and your life.
Garrett guides you toward his car with a hand that doesn’t quite touch your back. Protective but not possessive. It’s such a contrast to Cameron that you almost cry.
Once you’re both in the car, Garrett turns to face you. “Where do you want me to take you?”
You hesitate. “My dorm, I guess. My roommate should be back by now-”
“No.”
“What?”
“I’m not taking you back there. Not where he knows where to find you. Not where you’ll be alone.”
“Garrett, I can’t just hide forever-”
“I’m not saying forever. I’m saying until we know he’s been arrested. Until we know the restraining order is in place.” He starts the car. “You’re coming back to the house.”
“I can’t impose like that-”
“You’re not imposing. You’re surviving. There’s a difference.”
You want to argue. Want to insist you can take care of yourself. But the truth is, you’re terrified. Terrified Cameron will show up at your dorm. Terrified he’ll convince you to take him back again. Terrified of what he’ll do when he finds out you went to the police.
“Okay,” you say quietly.
Garrett drives back to his house in silence. His hands are tight on the steering wheel, and you can see the blood from his palms smearing the leather.
“You’re still bleeding,” you say.
“I know.”
“You should clean that.”
“I will.”
But he doesn’t sound like he cares. He sounds like he’s somewhere else entirely. Somewhere dark and violent.
When you pull up to the house, there are two other cars in the driveway. Garrett parks and turns to you.
“My roommates are home. They know you’re here — I told them last night. They’re cool, I promise. But if you want to go straight to the room and not deal with people, that’s fine too.”
“It’s their house. I should at least say hi.”
“You don’t owe them anything.”
“Still.”
You follow Garrett inside. The house looks different in daylight — messier but homier. There are hockey bags by the door, shoes scattered everywhere, a pile of mail on the hall table. It smells like coffee and something cooking.
“G, that you?” A voice calls from the kitchen.
“Yeah. And Y/N.”
Three guys emerge from the kitchen. You recognize one of them from Briar Hockey’s most recent post on Instagram — Logan, Garrett’s best friend. The other two you don’t know.
They all stop when they see you. You watch their expressions change as they take in your injuries — shock, anger, pity.
“Jesus,” one of them breathes. He’s auburn-haired, built like a tank. “He did that to you?”
You nod, unable to speak.
“I’m Tucker,” he says. “And when I see that motherfucker, I’m going to break every bone in his body.”
“Get in line,” Garrett mutters.
The third guy — tall, blond hair, kind eyes — steps forward. “I’m Dean. And you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. Seriously.”
“I don’t want to be a burden-”
“You’re not.” Logan’s voice is firm. “Any friend of Garrett’s is a friend of ours. And anyone that piece of shit hurt automatically gets our protection.”
You’re overwhelmed suddenly. These boys — these strangers — are offering you sanctuary without hesitation. Without judgment. Without demanding anything in return.
“Thank you,” you manage.
“You hungry?” Tucker asks. “I made chicken noodle soup earlier this week.”
“I could eat,” you say.
“Good. Sit. I’ll heat it up.”
Garrett leads you to the dining table — a beat-up wooden thing that’s seen better days. You sit, and Garrett takes the chair beside you.
Logan grabs a first aid kit from under the sink. “Let me see your hands.”
“I’m fine,” Garrett says.
“You’re bleeding on my chair. Let me see your hands.”
Reluctantly, Garrett holds out his palms. The crescent-shaped cuts are deeper than you thought, still seeping blood.
“What the hell did you do?” Dean asks.
“Nothing.”
Logan starts cleaning the cuts with antiseptic. Garrett doesn’t even flinch.
“We went to the police this morning,” Garrett says. “She filed a report. They’re issuing a warrant for Beck’s arrest.”
The room goes quiet.
“Good,” Tucker says finally from the kitchen. “Fucking good.”
“Did they believe you?” Dean asks you.
“I think so. There’s evidence. Photos. My statement.”
“And if he tries to come near you?”
“Restraining order. But it takes time.”
“Until then, you stay here,” Logan says. It’s not a question. “We’ll make sure you get to your classes, get whatever you need from your dorm, whatever. But you don’t go anywhere alone.”
“I can’t ask you guys to do that-”
“You’re not asking. We’re offering.” Tucker brings over two bowls of soup, sets one in front of you. “Eat. You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”
He’s not wrong. You can’t remember the last real meal you had. You pick up the spoon, take a bite.
It’s delicious. Rich and warm and exactly what you need.
“This is really good,” you say.
“Told you.” Tucker grins. “Hockey and cooking. My only two skills.”
Despite everything, you almost smile.
Garrett’s still watching you with that intense expression. Like he’s memorizing every detail. Like he’s afraid if he looks away, you’ll disappear.
“You’re safe here,” he says quietly. “I know it doesn’t feel like it. I know you’re scared. But we’re not going to let anything happen to you.”
You look around the table at these four boys — these strangers who are treating you like family. Who are offering you protection without asking for anything in return. Who believe you, unconditionally.
“Why?” You ask. “Why are you all doing this?”
The boys exchange glances.
“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Logan says simply.
“Because that asshole deserves to rot,” Tucker adds.
“Because you deserve better,” Dean says.
Garrett doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over and squeezes your hand gently. Carefully. Like you’re something precious.
You squeeze back.
And for the first time since last night, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you’re going to be okay.
***
Three weeks feels like both an eternity and no time at all.
Garrett’s been counting down the days like a prisoner marking time on a cell wall. March 14th. The date he highlighted in his calendar. The date he’s been waiting for.
The date he’s going to make Cameron Beck pay.
He’s in the locker room now, lacing up his skates with mechanical precision. Around him, his teammates are going through their pre-game routines. Logan’s taping his stick. Tucker’s blasting music through his headphones. Dean’s doing some complicated stretching routine that looks like yoga.
Everyone knows what tonight is. What it means.
You filed charges. Cameron was arrested. And then, less than twenty-four hours later, he was released on bail. Fifty thousand dollars — pocket change to his parents. He walked out of that police station like nothing happened, posted some bullshit on Instagram about “false accusations,” and went right back to his life.
Including hockey.
Boston University’s administration reviewed the case. Looked at the evidence, the photos, your statement. And then decided that since Cameron hasn’t been convicted yet, he should be allowed to continue playing while awaiting trial.
Innocent until proven guilty, they said.
Never mind the handprint bruises on your throat. Never mind the records documenting your injuries. Never mind that you can barely sleep without having nightmares.
None of that matters to BU’s athletic department as much as their winning record.
Garrett’s jaw clenches so hard his teeth ache.
Coach Jensen appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand. “Alright, boys. Listen up.”
The room quiets.
“We all know what tonight is,” Coach says, his eyes scanning the team. “We all know who we’re playing. And I’m going to say this once: I don’t care about your personal feelings. I don’t care about drama. I care about hockey. You play clean, you play smart, you win the game. Got it?”
There’s a murmur of agreement.
Coach’s eyes land on Garrett. “Graham. My office. Now.”
Garrett stands, follows Coach down the hallway to his office. Coach closes the door behind them.
“Sit.”
Garrett sits.
Coach leans against his desk, arms crossed. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Do you?”
“You’re thinking about that girl. About Beck. About what he did.”
Garrett doesn’t confirm or deny.
“I get it,” Coach continues. “I do. What happened to her is horrific. But Garrett, you’re the captain of this team. You’re a junior. You’re probably going to the NHL in a year. You can’t throw that away because you want revenge.”
“I’m not throwing anything away.”
“If you go after him tonight, you will be. You’ll get suspended. Maybe for the rest of the season. Maybe permanently. Is that really worth it?”
Garrett meets Coach’s eyes. “Yes.”
Coach sighs. “I can’t stop you. But I’m asking you to think about your team. About your future.”
“I have thought about it.” Garrett stands. “And I’ve made my decision.”
He walks back to the locker room. His teammates look up as he enters, reading his expression.
“Well?” Logan asks.
“Same as always. Play clean, win the game.”
“And are you going to play clean?” Tucker asks with a knowing smile.
Garrett doesn’t answer. Just pulls on his jersey — number 44, GRAHAM across the back in bold letters.
When it’s time to head to the tunnel, Garrett catches Coach Jensen’s eye one more time.
“Coach?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
Coach’s brow furrows. “For what?”
“For the fact that the team will probably have to play without me for a few games.”
Coach opens his mouth to respond, but Garrett’s already moving down the tunnel. He can hear Coach calling after him, but the words don’t register. There’s only one thing on Garrett’s mind now.
The ice.
***
You’re sitting on Garrett’s bed, laptop balanced on your knees, streaming the game. You probably shouldn’t watch. Your therapist — the one the victim services advocate connected you with — said you should avoid triggers. And watching Cameron skate around like nothing happened, like he didn’t try to kill you, is definitely a trigger.
But you can’t help it.
You need to see this.
The arena is packed — a sold-out crowd for what the announcers are calling “one of the most anticipated matchups of the season.” Briar versus BU. First place versus second place in the conference standings.
They have no idea what else this game means.
The camera pans across the Briar bench. There’s Garrett, sitting between Logan and Tucker, face hard and focused. He looks dangerous. You’ve never seen him look like that before — like violence contained in a hockey uniform.
Then the camera cuts to the BU bench and your stomach drops.
Cameron.
He’s there. Number 14, sitting at the end of the bench, laughing at something one of his teammates said. Like this is just another game. Like he didn’t assault you. Like he didn’t rape you. Like he didn’t leave you so broken you still can’t look at yourself in the mirror without flinching.
The commentators are talking about him. About his stats, his performance this season, his NHL prospects. They mention, briefly, that he’s facing “personal legal issues” but don’t elaborate. Wouldn’t want to damage his reputation with something as trivial as the truth.
You feel sick.
The door opens and Beau, Dean’s best friend, pokes his head in. He promised the boys to keep an eye on you while they are at the game. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t look okay.” He comes in, sits on the edge of the bed. “You know you don’t have to watch this, right?”
“I know.”
“But you’re going to anyway.”
“I need to see it.”
Beau nods like he understands. “Want company?”
“Sure.”
He settles in beside you, close enough to be supportive but not so close it feels invasive. It’s something you’ve noticed about all the boys — they’re incredibly careful about your boundaries. They never touch you without asking. Never get too close. Never push.
It’s the opposite of Cameron in every way.
The puck drops.
***
Garrett’s never been a dirty player. He plays hard, plays physical, but he doesn’t cheap shot. Doesn’t go for injuries. Doesn’t use his stick as a weapon.
Tonight’s going to be different.
He’s skating his shift, focused on the puck, when he sees Beck coming up the ice. Their eyes meet across the neutral zone and Beck smirks. Actually fucking smirks at him.
Garrett’s vision goes red for a second, but he forces it down. Not yet. He needs to wait for the right moment. Can’t just jump him in the middle of open ice or the refs will toss him before he gets a chance to do real damage.
The first period is surprisingly restrained. Both teams feeling each other out, testing boundaries. Garrett gets a few good hits in — all legal, all clean — but nothing that satisfies the rage burning in his chest.
Logan scores midway through the first. Dean gets an assist. Briar’s up 1-0.
The period’s winding down — about three minutes left — when Garrett finds himself lined up against Beck for a faceoff in the defensive zone.
They’re at the dot, sticks ready, waiting for the ref to drop the puck.
Beck leans in close.
“Hey, Graham,” he says, voice low enough the ref can’t hear. “How’s my girl doing?”
Garrett’s stick tightens in his grip, but he doesn’t respond.
“She still staying at your place?” Beck continues, that smirk playing on his lips. “That’s cute. Playing house. But we both know she’ll come back to me eventually. She always does.”
The ref’s getting into position.
“She’s a good fuck though, right?” Beck’s voice drops to a whisper. “Tight. Eager. Especially when she cries.”
Something inside Garrett snaps.
The puck hasn’t even dropped yet when Garrett rips off his gloves and launches himself at Beck.
His first punch catches Beck square in the jaw. Beck’s head snaps back and he goes down hard, hitting the ice, but Garrett doesn’t stop. He’s on top of him, raining down punches with methodical precision. Face, ribs, face again.
Beck tries to cover up, tries to fight back, but Garrett’s bigger, stronger, and absolutely fucking furious.
“You piece of shit-” Punch. “You fucking coward-” Punch. “You think you can talk about her like that-” Punch.
Beck’s nose breaks with a satisfying crunch. Blood sprays across the ice.
The refs are shouting, trying to pull Garrett off, but he shrugs them away. Gets in two more solid hits before two refs manage to grab his arms and haul him backwards.
Garrett’s still trying to get at Beck, still ready to throw more punches, but the refs have him locked down.
Beck’s on the ice, face a bloody mess. His teammates are rushing over. The crowd is going absolutely insane — some people cheering, some people booing, everyone on their feet.
One ref is talking into his mic. “Number 44, Briar. Five-minute major for fighting. Game misconduct. You’re done.”
Garrett doesn’t argue. Doesn’t protest. Just skates toward the tunnel, ripping off his helmet.
The Briar bench erupts.
Every single player starts tapping their sticks against the boards. The sound echoes through the arena like thunder. It’s the hockey equivalent of a standing ovation.
Support. Solidarity.
They know why Garrett did it. And they’re backing him one hundred percent.
Coach Jensen is standing behind the bench, shaking his head, but even he’s fighting a smile.
As Garrett disappears into the tunnel, he catches one last glimpse of the ice. Beck’s sitting up now, holding his face, blood pouring through his fingers. His coach is yelling at the refs, demanding Garrett be suspended, banned, arrested.
Garrett doesn’t care.
It was worth it.
***
You watch the whole thing happen in real-time.
One second, they’re lined up for the faceoff. The next, Garrett’s on Cameron like a feral animal.
Beau jumps up beside you. “Holy shit!”
You can’t speak. Can’t breathe. You just watch as Garrett hits Cameron again and again and again. Watch as the refs try to pull him off. Watch as Cameron’s face turns into a bloody pulp.
The commentators are losing their minds.
“Absolutely vicious attack by Graham — completely unprovoked — this is going to be a lengthy suspension-”
But it wasn’t unprovoked. You know that. Something happened at that faceoff. Cameron said something. Did something. Pushed Garrett past his breaking point.
And Garrett responded.
For you.
The camera follows Garrett as he skates toward the tunnel. His face is set, determined, completely unrepentant. Blood — not his own — is splattered across his jersey.
Then the camera cuts to the Briar bench and you see it. Every player tapping their sticks. The sound might not come through clearly on the broadcast, but you know what it means.
They’re supporting him.
All of them.
“Did you see that?” Beau’s grinning. “The whole fucking bench. They all know.”
“Know what?”
“Why Garrett did it. They’re telling him they’ve got his back.”
Your throat feels tight. Your eyes are stinging.
Garrett just got himself ejected. Probably suspended for multiple games. Maybe even kicked off the team. And he did it for you. Because Cameron said something about you. Because he couldn’t let it slide.
The game continues. BU gets a five-minute power play because of the major penalty, but Briar’s penalty kill holds strong. Dean blocks three shots. Tucker strips the puck from a BU forward and clears it down the ice.
When the period finally ends, it’s still 1-0 Briar.
You close the laptop.
“You okay?” Beau asks.
“I don’t know.”
“That was pretty intense.”
“He did that for me.”
“Yeah. He did.”
“He’s going to get in so much trouble.”
“Probably.” Beau shrugs. “But Garrett doesn’t care. You should’ve seen him these past three weeks. He’s been counting down to this game like it was Christmas.”
“I need to-” You stand up. “I need to call him.”
“He’s probably in the locker room or getting reviewed by the league officials right now.”
“I don’t care. I need to talk to him.”
You grab your phone, pull up Garrett’s number. It rings four times before going to voicemail.
“Hey, it’s Garrett. No phones allowed on the ice. Leave a message.”
Beep.
“Hey, it’s me. I just—I saw what happened. What you did. And I-” Your voice cracks. “Thank you. I know that probably sounds crazy. I know you’re probably in trouble and I should feel bad about that but I just—thank you. For standing up for me. For not letting him get away with it. For everything.”
You pause, trying to find the right words.
“I’ll be here when you get back. We can talk then. Just be safe, okay?”
You hang up.
Beau’s watching you with a soft expression. “You care about him.”
It’s not a question.
“He saved my life,” you say.
“That’s not what I asked.”
You sit back down on the bed. “I don’t know what I feel. Everything’s so complicated and messed up and I’m barely holding myself together most days. But yeah. I care about him. How could I not?”
“He cares about you too. A lot. Like, a scary amount.”
“What do you mean?”
Beau hesitates. “He doesn’t really talk about his feelings. None of us do — we’re athletes, we’re emotionally constipated. But the way he is with you? I’ve never seen him like that with anyone. He’s protective to the point of obsession.”
“I don’t want to be his redemption project,” you say quietly.
“You’re not. Trust me. If you were, he’d be treating you like a victim. Like someone who needs to be saved. But he doesn’t do that. He treats you like a person. Like someone who deserves respect and autonomy and choice.” Beau stands, stretches. “Anyway. I’m going to make some popcorn. You want some?”
“Sure.”
He leaves and you’re alone with your thoughts.
You pull the laptop back open, reload the stream. The second period is underway. Briar’s still up 1-0. BU’s pressing hard, trying to tie it up, but Briar’s goalie is playing out of his mind.
The commentators are still talking about Garrett’s ejection.
“We’re hearing that Graham will face supplemental discipline from the league. Likely a multi-game suspension. Possibly more serious consequences given the severity of the attack.”
Good, you think viciously. Let them suspend him. Let them punish him. It was worth it.
You think about Cameron’s face. The blood. The way he looked genuinely scared for the first time since you’ve known him.
You should feel bad about that. Should feel guilty that you’re glad Garrett hurt him.
But you don’t.
You feel vindicated.
***
Garrett’s in Coach’s office when the game ends. Briar won 3-1. Logan got another goal in the second, and Tucker scored an empty-netter in the third.
But Garrett wasn’t there to see it.
“The league’s reviewing the footage,” Coach says, arms crossed. “They’re talking about a five-game suspension minimum. Maybe more.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it? Just okay?”
Garrett shrugs. “What do you want me to say? I knew what I was doing. I knew there would be consequences.”
“Did you know Beck is in the hospital?”
That gets Garrett’s attention. “What?”
“Broken nose, fractured orbital bone, possible concussion. They took him out on a stretcher.”
Garrett should feel bad about that. Should feel some kind of remorse.
He doesn’t.
“Good,” he says.
Coach’s expression hardens. “Garrett-”
“He did horrible things to her, Coach. Too many times to count. He strangled her until she thought she was going to die. He made her so scared she couldn’t even function. And BU let him keep playing because they care more about winning than doing the right thing.”
“So you decided to take justice into your own hands?”
“Yeah. I did.”
“That’s not your job.”
“Maybe not. But someone had to do it.”
Coach is quiet for a long moment. “What did he say to you?”
“What?”
“At the faceoff. Right before you hit him. What did he say?”
Garrett’s jaw tightens. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does if it pushed you that far.”
“He talked about her. About-” Garrett can’t repeat the words. Can’t make himself say them out loud. “It was disgusting. Disrespectful. And I wasn’t going to let him get away with it.”
Coach sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “You know I have to suspend you from training as well. Team policy.”
“I know.”
“You’re probably done for the season.”
“I know.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
Garrett meets Coach’s eyes. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
Coach studies him for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, he smiles. “You’re a good kid, Graham. Stupid as hell sometimes, but good.”
“Does that mean you’re not kicking me off the team?”
“I should. But no. You’ll serve your suspension and then we’ll see where we are.” Coach stands. “Now get out of here. I’m sure you’ve got someone waiting for you.”
Garrett doesn’t need to be told twice.
He showers quickly, changes into his street clothes. His hands are sore — he definitely bruised his knuckles on Beck’s face — but it’s a good kind of pain. Satisfying.
His phone has seven missed calls and twice as many texts. Most from teammates, congratulating him. A few from reporters, asking for comment. One from his dad, which he deletes without reading.
And one voicemail from you.
He listens to it in his car, sitting in the parking lot.
Your voice is shaky but sincere. Thanking him. Telling him you’ll be there when he gets back.
Something in his chest loosens.
He starts the car and drives home.
When he walks through the door, the house is quiet. Beau’s on the couch, watching TV.
“She’s in your room,” Beau says without looking up.
Garrett takes the stairs two at a time.
His door is closed. He knocks softly.
“Come in.”
You’re sitting on his bed, laptop closed beside you. You look up when he enters and something in your expression makes Garrett’s breath catch.
“Hi,” you say.
“Hi.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Are you?”
“I watched the whole thing.”
“And?”
You stand, walk over to him. You’re close enough now that he can see the fading bruises on your throat, the shadows under your eyes.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
“You already said that. In your message.”
“I know. But I wanted to say it to your face.” You reach out, hesitate, then gently take his hand. Look at his bruised knuckles. “Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
The smallest smile touches his lips. “Maybe a little.”
You hold his hand carefully, like it’s something precious. “You’re probably suspended.”
“Yeah.”
“For multiple games.”
“Probably.”
“Because of me.”
“Because of him,” Garrett corrects. “Because he’s a piece of shit who deserved to have his face rearranged.”
You look up at him, and there’s something in your eyes Garrett can’t quite read. Gratitude, maybe. Or something deeper.
“No one’s ever stood up for me like that before,” you say.
“They should have.”
“But they didn’t. You did.”
Garrett wants to close the distance between you. Wants to pull you into his arms and promise that he’ll always protect you, always fight for you, always be there.
But he doesn’t.
Because you’re not his to protect. Not really. You’re just someone he couldn’t walk away from. Someone he couldn’t save until you decided to save yourself.
“Get some sleep,” he says instead. “We can talk more in the morning.”
You nod, but you don’t let go of his hand.
“Garrett?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad it was you. That night. When I called. I’m glad it was you who answered.”
Something in Garrett’s chest cracks open.
“Me too,” he says.
You finally release his hand and he steps back into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
He leans against the wall, closes his eyes, and lets himself feel everything he’s been holding back for three weeks.
The rage. The fear. The overwhelming need to protect you.
And something else. Something he’s not ready to name yet.
But it’s there.
Growing stronger every day.
***
The suspension comes down two days after the game: four games for “excessive violence and intent to injure.”
Garrett doesn’t even blink.
Four games. That’s it. He was expecting worse — six, maybe eight. The fact that the league went relatively light on him suggests that maybe, just maybe, someone up there knows what Beck did. Knows why Garrett did what he did.
“Four games,” Logan says, reading the official statement on his phone. “That’s nothing.”
“Could’ve been worse,” Garrett replies, sprawled on the couch with an ice pack on his still-swollen knuckles.
“Could’ve been better. Could’ve been zero games and a medal.”
Tucker walks in from the kitchen, protein shake in hand. “Did you see the prospect rankings?”
“What about them?”
“You moved up.” Tucker grins. “Apparently scouts love a forward who can put up points and throw down when needed. The Bruins are talking about you even more now.”
Garrett sits up. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Check Twitter. Hockey analysts are going crazy. Half of them are calling you a thug, but the other half are saying you’re exactly what the league needs. A player with skill and grit.”
Dean appears in the doorway. “There’s already a highlight reel of the fight on YouTube. It’s got like two million views.”
“Jesus.”
“You’re famous, man. In the best and worst way possible.”
Garrett doesn’t care about fame. Doesn’t care about the projections or the highlight reels or what analysts think. He cares about one thing: that Beck is in the hospital with a face that looks like ground meat, and everyone knows why.
You appear at the top of the stairs, wearing one of Garrett’s old Briar Hockey hoodies that swallows you whole. You’ve been staying in his room for three weeks now, and the house has adjusted around you. The boys treat you like a little sister — protective, teasing, careful. It’s the safest you’ve felt in over a year.
“What’s all the noise about?” You ask.
“Garrett’s trending on Twitter,” Tucker announces.
“For the fight?”
“For being a badass, apparently.”
You come down the stairs, curl up on the couch next to Garrett. It’s become natural now, this casual proximity. He doesn’t flinch when you’re near. You don’t panic when he moves. It’s taken weeks to build this comfort, but it’s there.
“How are the knuckles?” You ask.
“Better. Still ugly.”
“Battle scars.”
“Something like that.”
Your phone buzzes. You pull it out, check the screen, and Garrett watches your expression change. The color drains from your face.
“What?” He asks immediately.
“The DA. The trial date got moved up.”
“To when?”
“Three weeks from now.” Your voice is shaky. “April seventh.”
Garrett does the math. That’s right after his suspension ends. Almost like fate scheduled it that way.
“You okay?” He asks.
“I don’t know. I thought I’d have more time to prepare.”
“You’ve been preparing for weeks. You’re ready.”
“Am I?” You look at him, and there’s real fear in your eyes. “What if I mess up? What if I freeze on the stand? What if his lawyers tear me apart?”
“Then I’ll be there to put you back together.”
It’s a promise. Simple and absolute.
You lean into him slightly, and Garrett puts his arm around your shoulders. The gesture is still new enough to feel significant. Still careful enough that either of you could pull away.
But neither of you do.
***
The three weeks pass in a blur of preparation.
The DA — a sharp woman named Katherine Doherty who looks like she could argue a case in her sleep — meets with you six times. Goes over your testimony, prepares you for cross-examination, teaches you how to stay calm under pressure.
“They’re going to try to discredit you,” she says during one session, Garrett sitting quietly in the corner. “They’re going to imply you’re lying, that you wanted it, that you’re just trying to ruin his life because you’re bitter about the breakup. And you cannot let them see you break.”
“How do I not break?” You ask. “How do I sit there and listen to them call me a liar and not fall apart?”
“You remember why you’re doing this. You remember that you’re not just fighting for yourself — you’re fighting for every woman he might hurt in the future. Every girl who might think she deserves to be treated like he treated you.”
Garrett watches you absorb this. Watches you straighten your spine, lift your chin.
“Okay,” you say. “I can do that.”
“I know you can.”
The night before the trial, you can’t sleep. Garrett finds you in the kitchen at 2 AM, making tea with shaking hands.
“Hey,” he says softly.
You jump, nearly dropping the mug. “God, you scared me.”
“Sorry. Couldn’t sleep either.”
“Tomorrow’s the day.”
“Yep.”
You pour hot water over the tea bag, watch it steep. “What if he gets away with it?”
“He won’t.”
“But what if he does? His parents hired the best lawyers in Boston. They’ve got money and connections and-”
“And you have the truth.” Garrett moves closer, takes the mug from your hands before you spill it. “You have evidence. You have photos. You have medical records. You have me.”
“You can’t testify. You weren’t there.”
“No, but I can sit in that courtroom and make sure you know you’re not alone.”
You look up at him, and in the dim kitchen light, Garrett can see the fear and determination warring in your expression.
“I’m terrified,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“But I’m also angry. I’m so angry at him for what he did. For what he took from me. And I want him to pay.”
“He will.”
“Promise?”
Garrett shouldn’t make promises he can’t keep. Shouldn’t guarantee an outcome that’s out of his control. But looking at you — brave and broken and desperately needing something to hold onto — he can’t help himself.
“I promise.”
***
The courthouse is exactly as imposing as you imagined. All marble and high ceilings and the kind of quiet that feels heavy.
You’re dressed in a simple navy dress that Katherine helped you pick out. Professional but not severe. Respectful but not apologetic. Your hair is pulled back. Your makeup is minimal.
Garrett’s beside you in a suit that looks uncomfortable on him. He’s a jeans and hoodie guy, but today he looks like he walked out of a magazine. Dark suit, crisp white shirt, tie that Logan had to help him knot.
“You look good,” you tell him as you wait outside the courtroom.
“I look like I’m going to a funeral.”
“And still very handsome.”
He manages a small smile. “You ready?”
“No. But let’s do this anyway.”
Katherine appears, all business in her sharp pantsuit. “Alright, let’s go over this one more time. You tell the truth. You stay calm. You don’t let his lawyer bait you into anger. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Remember, the evidence is on our side. The medical records, the photos, the police report. This isn’t a he-said-she-said. This is a he-said-she-said-and-she-has-proof.”
You nod, trying to absorb her confidence.
The courtroom doors open and you walk inside.
It’s smaller than you expected. Maybe forty seats in the gallery, half of them filled. You recognize some faces — your parents, who flew in from wherever they’ve been. Julie, who’s been your rock through all of this. Some of Garrett’s teammates.
And Cameron’s parents. Sitting in the front row, looking like they’re at a country club meeting instead of their son’s rape trial.
You don’t look at Cameron. Can’t. Not yet.
The bailiff calls the court to order and the judge — an older woman with gray hair and sharp eyes — takes her seat.
“The People versus Cameron Jameson Beck,” the bailiff announces. “Charges of rape in the first degree, assault in the second degree, and attempted murder.”
The words hang in the air like a death sentence.
The trial begins.
***
Garrett sits in the gallery, three rows back, and watches everything unfold.
The prosecution goes first. Katherine is methodical, building her case piece by piece. She presents the medical records — the photos of your bruises, the hospital documentation of your injuries. She presents the police report, Officer Murphy’s testimony about the state you were in when you came to the station.
She presents your Instagram, showing the jury the transformation from bright, happy student to hollow-eyed ghost.
Cameron’s lawyer — a smarmy guy named Robert Coburn who probably charges a thousand dollars an hour — objects to nearly everything. “Relevance, your honor.” “Speculation.” “Prejudicial.”
Most of his objections get overruled.
Then it’s time for your testimony.
You take the stand, right hand raised, and swear to tell the truth. Your voice is steady, but Garrett can see your hands shaking.
Katherine approaches with a gentle expression. “Can you state your name for the record?”
“Y/N Y/L/N.”
“And how old are you, Y/N?”
“Twenty.”
“And you’re a student at Boston University?”
“Yes. Junior. Journalism major.”
“Can you tell the jury how you met the defendant?”
You take a breath. “We met at a party. March of last year. He was charming. Funny. He asked me out and I said yes.”
“And when did the relationship turn abusive?”
“Gradually. It started with small things. Criticizing what I wore, who I talked to. Then it escalated. He’d grab my wrist too hard. Shove me. Call me names.”
“And did you tell anyone?”
“No. I thought I could fix it. Thought if I just tried harder, he’d go back to being the person I fell for.”
“When did the physical abuse become severe?”
“Last summer. He pushed me down a flight of stairs. Told everyone I tripped. I had bruises for weeks.”
Katherine presents photos. The jury studies them, and Garrett watches their faces shift from neutral to horrified.
“And the sexual assault. Can you describe what happened?”
This is the hard part. Garrett can see you steeling yourself.
“He would force me. When I said no, he’d do it anyway. He said I owed him. That it was my job as his girlfriend.”
“How many times did this occur?”
“I don’t know. Dozens. Maybe more.”
“And the incident on February nineteenth of this year. Can you describe that?”
You detail it all. The napkin. His rage. The choking. The fear that you were going to die.
By the time you finish, half the jury is crying.
Then it’s Coburn’s turn.
He stands, adjusts his expensive tie, and approaches you like a shark circling prey.
“Ms. Y/L/N, you claim my client raped you. Is that correct?”
“It’s not a claim. It’s a fact.”
“A fact. I see. And yet you never reported these alleged assaults until after you left him. Why is that?”
“I was scared.”
“Scared. Of what?”
“Of him. Of what he’d do if I told anyone.”
“But you told Mr. Graham, didn’t you?” Carlisle gestures toward Garrett. “A hockey player from a rival school. Isn’t it true that you were having an affair with Mr. Graham and fabricated these accusations to justify leaving my client?”
Garrett’s hands clench into fists.
“No,” you say firmly. “I never even met Garrett until the day before it happened. He saw Cameron hurting me after a game and tried to step in. And I didn’t fabricate anything, Cameron tried to kill me.”
“Allegedly tried to kill you.”
“There’s nothing alleged about it. He choked me until I blacked out.”
“Or perhaps you two had rough sex and you’re retroactively withdrawing consent because you regret it?”
Katherine jumps up. “Objection! Badgering the witness.”
“Sustained,” the judge says. “Mr. Coburn, watch yourself.”
But Coburn isn’t done. “You say my client raped you dozens of times. And yet you stayed with him. You continued to see him, to sleep in his bed, to appear with him publicly. Does that sound like the behavior of a rape victim?”
“Yes.” Your voice doesn’t waver. “It sounds exactly like the behavior of someone trapped in an abusive relationship. Someone who’s been manipulated and gaslit into thinking they deserve it.”
“Or someone who’s lying.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You expect this jury to believe that my client — a decorated student athlete with no prior criminal record — is a rapist and attempted murderer based solely on your word?”
“Based on my word and the medical evidence and the photos and the testimony of everyone who saw what he did to me.”
Coburn smiles. It’s not a nice smile. “No further questions.”
You step down from the stand and Garrett wants to go to you, wants to pull you into his arms and tell you how incredibly brave you are. But he stays seated, hands gripping the bench in front of him so hard his knuckles turn white.
The defense presents their case. It’s weak — character witnesses who talk about what a great guy Cameron is, how he volunteers and gets good grades and wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Cameron himself takes the stand. Denies everything. Claims you were the aggressive one, the unstable one. Says you threatened to ruin him if he ever left you.
It’s all bullshit and everyone in the courtroom knows it.
When both sides rest, the judge gives instructions to the jury. They file out to deliberate.
And then you wait.
***
Two hours feel like two years.
You’re in a conference room with Katherine, drinking terrible coffee and trying not to throw up.
Garrett’s there too, because they couldn’t make him leave. He sits beside you, not saying much, just being present.
“What if they don’t believe me?” You ask for the hundredth time.
“They will,” Katherine says.
“But what if they don’t?”
“Then we appeal. But they’re going to believe you, Y/N. The evidence is overwhelming.”
Your phone buzzes. It’s your mom, asking for updates. You ignore it. Can’t deal with her nervous energy on top of your own.
Garrett’s phone buzzes too. He checks it, smiles slightly.
“What?” You ask.
“Logan. He says if Beck walks, they’re going to handle it themselves.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“I think it’s sweet.”
Despite everything, you almost laugh.
There’s a knock on the door. The bailiff pokes his head in. “Jury’s back.”
Your stomach drops. “Already?”
“Quick verdicts are usually good for the prosecution,” Katherine says, standing. “Let’s go.”
You walk back into the courtroom on legs that feel like jelly. The gallery has filled up — more people heard about the verdict and came to watch.
Garrett takes his seat in the gallery. You sit at the prosecution table with Katherine.
The jury files in. You try to read their faces, but they’re all carefully neutral.
The judge addresses the foreperson. “Has the jury reached a verdict?”
“We have, your honor.”
“On the charge of rape in the first degree, how do you find?”
“We find the defendant guilty.”
The courtroom erupts. Cameron’s mother gasps. His father starts shouting. The judge bangs her gavel.
“On the charge of assault in the second degree, how do you find?”
“Guilty.”
“On the charge of attempted murder, how do you find?”
“Guilty.”
You can’t breathe. Can’t process. Guilty. Guilty on all counts.
The judge is talking about sentencing, but you can’t hear her over the roaring in your ears. You turn around, looking for Garrett, and find him already standing, pushing his way toward the railing that separates the gallery from the floor.
“Twenty-five years,” the judge announces. “With possibility of parole after twenty.”
Twenty-five years. Cameron won’t be out until he’s almost fifty.
Katherine is hugging you. Julie is cheering. You’re crying.
And then you’re moving, pushing past people, until you reach Garrett.
He meets you at the railing and you throw yourself at him. He catches you, arms wrapping around you, pulling you close.
“We did it,” you sob into his shoulder. “He’s going to prison.”
“You did it,” Garrett corrects, voice rough. “You were so fucking brave up there.”
“I was terrified.”
“But you did it anyway. That’s what brave means.”
You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are wet, you realize. Garrett Graham is crying.
“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers, tucking your head under his chin. “So goddamn proud.”
Behind you, bailiffs are handcuffing Cameron. Leading him away. He’s shouting something — probably threats, probably curses — but you don’t care. Can’t hear him over your own heartbeat.
You’re safe. Finally, truly safe.
You look up at Garrett and something shifts. Something clicks into place.
He’s looking at you with an expression you’ve seen before but never fully understood. Fierce and protective and something else. Something deeper.
“Garrett,” you whisper.
“Yeah?”
You don’t have words for what you’re feeling. Don’t know how to explain that this boy — this stranger who became your savior who became your friend — has somehow become everything.
So you don’t say anything.
You just reach up, cup his face in your hands, and kiss him.
For a second, he freezes. Surprised. Then his hands come up to cradle your face, gentle and careful, and he kisses you back.
It’s nothing like kissing Cameron. There’s no demand in it. No ownership. Just soft and sweet and full of promise.
When you finally pull apart, you’re both crying.
“Was that okay?” You ask, suddenly worried you misread everything.
“That was-” Garrett’s voice breaks. “Yeah. That was okay.”
Around you, the courtroom is clearing out. People are talking, crying, celebrating. But you and Garrett are in your own bubble.
His thumbs brush your cheekbones, wiping away tears. His touch is so gentle it makes your chest ache. You think about all the times Cameron grabbed your face — harsh, controlling, meant to intimidate. And then you think about this. About Garrett holding you like you’re something precious. Something worth protecting.
“Thank you,” you whisper. “For everything. For answering the phone that night. For believing me. For fighting for me.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do. Because you didn’t have to do any of it. You could’ve walked away. But you didn’t.”
“I couldn’t.” Garrett’s forehead touches yours. “Not from you.”
Katherine appears beside you, tactfully clearing her throat. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s some paperwork we need to go over. And the press is outside — they’re going to want a statement.”
You take a shaky breath. “Can Garrett come?”
“Of course.”
You don’t let go of Garrett’s hand as you follow Katherine to another conference room. Don’t let go as she explains the next steps — the appeals process that Cameron will probably pursue, the restraining order that’s now permanent, the victim services available to you.
Don’t let go as you walk outside and face the cameras.
You read a prepared statement that Katherine helped you write. About believing survivors. About holding abusers accountable. About how justice, while imperfect, still matters.
The whole time, Garrett stands beside you. Not in front of you, not behind you. Beside you.
When it’s finally over, when you’re back in Garrett’s car heading home, you let yourself feel it. All of it. The relief and the grief and the rage and the hope.
“I can’t believe it’s over,” you say.
“It’s not over,” Garrett replies. “He’ll appeal. There will be more legal stuff. More healing you have to do.”
“But the worst part is over.”
“Yeah. The worst part is over.”
You look at him — really look at him. This boy who became a man in your eyes. Who taught you that not all strength is violent. That protection doesn’t mean possession.
“What happens now?” You ask.
“What do you want to happen?”
“I don’t know. I just know I want you in it. Whatever it is.”
Garrett reaches over, takes your hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
And for the first time in over a year, you believe that someone’s promise to you actually means something.
You believe in tomorrow.
You believe in healing.
You believe in love — the real kind. The kind that doesn’t hurt.
As Garrett drives you home, your hand in his, you think about that girl in the old Instagram photos. The bright, ambitious journalism student who wanted to change the world.
She’s not gone.
She’s been sleeping. Waiting. Healing.
And now, finally, she’s ready to wake up.
***
One year later.
You’re standing on the sidelines of Agganis Arena, camera crew behind you, microphone in hand, and you’ve never felt more alive.
The scoreboard reads 4-2, Briar. Opening game of the season, and your alma mater just got demolished by your boyfriend’s team. You should probably feel some kind of loyalty conflict, but honestly? You’re just happy to be here.
Happy to be doing what you love.
Happy to be yourself again.
“Alright, Y/N, we’re live in thirty seconds,” your producer says through your earpiece.
You smooth down your blazer — BU red and white, professional but not stuffy — and check your notes one more time. Post-game interview with Briar’s captain and star center, who just scored a hat trick.
Who also happens to be the love of your life, but you’re trying to keep it professional.
“And we’re live in five, four, three …” The producer counts down with his fingers, then points at you.
You smile at the camera. “I’m here with Garrett Graham, captain of the Briar University hockey team, who just led his team to a dominant 4-2 victory over Boston University in tonight’s season opener. Garrett, congratulations on the win.”
Garrett’s in his full gear minus his helmet, hair damp with sweat, face flushed from exertion. He looks good. Unfairly good. But you keep your expression neutral, professional.
“Thanks, Y/N,” he says, and there’s the tiniest hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Feels great to start the season with a W.”
“You had three goals tonight. Walk me through that second one — the wraparound. That was pretty spectacular.”
“Yeah, I mean, their goalie was cheating to the far post, so I saw an opening and just tried to jam it in. Got lucky.”
“Lucky?” You raise an eyebrow. “That was pure skill and you know it.”
Now he’s definitely smiling. “Well, I’ve had some good coaching. Great teammates. It’s a team effort.”
“Speaking of team effort, this is your senior year. How does it feel knowing this is your last season playing college hockey?”
Something shifts in Garrett’s expression. Gets more serious. “It’s bittersweet, you know? I love this team. Love this school. But I’m also excited for what’s next.”
You consult your notes, but you’ve memorized these questions. Did the research like you do for every interview. The fact that you also know Garrett’s favorite breakfast order and the way he likes his coffee doesn’t matter right now. Right now, you’re a journalist doing your job.
“Your team has high expectations this year,” you continue. “Returning most of your starters, strong recruiting class. Do you think Briar can make a run at the national championship?”
“I think we’ve got the talent and the drive. We’ve been working our asses off—sorry, can I say that on air?”
You fight back a smile. “We’re cable. You’re fine.”
“Well, we’ve been working really hard in the off-season. Everyone’s bought in. Everyone wants it. So yeah, I think we’ve got a real shot.”
“And what about you personally? Any individual goals for the season?”
Garrett looks directly at the camera. “Honestly? I just want to make the most of it. Enjoy every game. Play for my teammates. And hopefully leave Briar better than I found it.”
It’s a perfect answer. Humble but confident. Team-oriented but ambitious.
You should wrap up the interview. Move on to the next player. But there’s something in Garrett’s eyes — a warmth, a familiarity — that makes you relax slightly.
“So,” you say, going slightly off-script. “Three goals on opening night. That’s got to feel pretty good, especially against BU.”
“Oh, especially against BU,” Garrett agrees, and now he’s definitely teasing. “No offense to your school.”
“Some taken. We did make it competitive for two periods.”
“You did. That third period though …” He makes a yikes face.
“Okay, rude.”
“I’m just stating facts. As a journalist, I thought you’d appreciate factual accuracy.”
You bite back a laugh. “I appreciate winning more.”
“Well, you’re dating a Briar guy now, so technically you did win tonight.”
Your producer is probably having a heart attack in the truck, but you can’t help it. You grin. “I suppose that’s true.”
“Plus I scored three goals. You should be very impressed.”
“Oh, should I?”
“Definitely. I expect appropriate celebration later.”
You feel your cheeks heat up. “Garrett, we’re on camera.”
“I know.” He’s absolutely shameless, that smile widening. “Just keeping things interesting for the viewers.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
And okay, you do. You love this — the easy banter, the way he can make you laugh even in the middle of a professional interview, the way he looks at you like you’re the only person in the arena.
“Alright, I think that’s probably enough for tonight,” you say, trying to regain some semblance of professionalism. “Garrett Graham, congratulations again on the win. Best of luck for the rest of the season.”
“Thanks for having me.”
He starts to walk away, then turns back. Before you can react, he’s leaning in and kissing you — quick and sweet but definitely not professional — right there on camera.
When he pulls back, you’re frozen, face burning, completely flustered.
“See you at home,” he says with a wink, then jogs off toward the locker room.
You turn back to the camera, trying to compose yourself. Your producer is definitely going to kill you, but you can hear him laughing through your earpiece.
“And that’s … that’s the post-game report from Agganis Arena,” you manage. “Back to you in the studio.”
The camera light goes off and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
Your producer appears, shaking his head but grinning. “Well, that’s going viral.”
“I’m so sorry-”
“Are you kidding? That was gold. Adorable, authentic, exactly the kind of content people eat up.” He claps you on the shoulder. “Great job tonight, Y/N. Really great work.”
You pack up your gear, still blushing, and check your phone. There’s already a text from Julie: OMG I SAW THAT. YOU AND GARRETT ARE DISGUSTINGLY CUTE.
Then one from Logan: G’s getting chirped so hard in the locker room right now. Worth it though.
Then one from your mom: Sweetie, you looked wonderful! Very professional! Well, mostly professional 😊
You’re laughing as you head out to the parking lot. Your car is parked next to Garrett’s truck — you drove separately since you had to be here early for setup, but you’ll both end up at the same place.
Home.
It still feels surreal sometimes. That you’re here. That you’re happy. That you wake up every morning next to someone who treats you like you’re precious.
You drive home on autopilot, your mind replaying the interview. The way Garrett looked at you. The easy chemistry between you. The kiss that’s probably being GIF’d and memed as you drive.
When you pull into the driveway, his truck is already there. Lights are on in the living room.
You let yourself in — still a small thrill every time, having a key, being welcome, being home — and find Garrett on the couch, showered and changed into sweatpants and a Briar t-shirt.
“Hey, superstar,” you say, dropping your bag by the door.
He looks up, grins. “Hey, yourself. How’d the rest of the interviews go?”
“Fine. Though none of them involved impromptu kisses.”
“I couldn’t help it. You looked too good.”
You flop down beside him, and he immediately pulls you into his side. It’s automatic now, this casual affection. So different from the careful distance you maintained those first few months.
“You’re going to get me in trouble,” you say, but there’s no heat in it.
“With who? Your producer loved it.”
“With my professional reputation.”
“Your professional reputation is that you’re a talented journalist who asks great questions and happens to be dating the extremely handsome captain of Briar’s hockey team.”
“Extremely handsome? Really?”
“I’m just reporting the facts.”
You laugh, tilting your head up to look at him. “You played really well tonight.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. That second goal was beautiful. And the assist to Logan — perfect pass.”
“Are you analyzing my game?”
“I’m a sports journalist. It’s literally my job.”
Garrett’s expression softens. “You know what I love about you?”
“My devastating good looks?”
“Well, yes. But also that you never stopped chasing your dreams. Even after everything. You could’ve given up on journalism, on sports media, on everything. But you didn’t.”
You think about that. About the girl you were a year ago — broken, terrified, barely functional. About the slow, painful process of putting yourself back together. The therapy sessions. The nightmares that still happen sometimes. The moments of panic when someone moves too fast or raises their voice.
But also about the victories. Getting back on camera. Doing your first post-game interview. Continuing with your journalism degree. Landing the job with BU’s sports network.
Coming home to Garrett and feeling safe.
“I had help,” you say quietly.
“You did the work.”
“We did the work.”
Because it hasn’t been just you. Garrett’s been there for every step. Patient when you couldn’t be touched. Understanding when you had nightmares. Gentle when you needed gentleness and strong when you needed strength.
He’s been to therapy himself — dealing with his own trauma, his own guilt about his mother. Learning how to be supportive without being controlling. How to protect without possessing.
You’ve healed together.
“Come here,” Garrett says, pulling you fully into his lap. You go willingly, straddling him, your hands on his shoulders.
“Hi,” you whisper.
“Hi.”
He kisses you properly this time. Not the quick peck from the arena, but slow and deep and full of promise. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs rubbing gentle circles through your shirt.
When you break apart, you’re both breathing harder.
“I’m really proud of you,” he says. “For tonight. For everything. You were amazing out there.”
“It was just an interview.”
“It wasn’t just anything. You stood on that sideline in the arena where he used to play and you did your job like the professional you are. That takes guts.”
You hadn’t thought about it that way. Hadn’t consciously registered that you were in BU’s arena doing what you love without fear.
“He’s in prison,” you say. It’s a fact you remind yourself of sometimes. When the anxiety creeps in. When you wonder if he’ll somehow find you. “He can’t hurt me anymore.”
“He can’t hurt you anymore,” Garrett agrees. “And even if he could, he’d have to go through me first.”
“My fierce protector.”
“Always.”
You kiss him again, and this time it’s different. Deeper. More urgent. His hands slide under your shirt, warm against your skin, and you arch into the touch.
“Bedroom?” He murmurs against your lips.
“Bedroom,” you agree.
He stands, lifting you easily, and you wrap your legs around his waist. He carries you upstairs — something that should be cheesy but somehow isn’t, not with him — and lays you gently on the bed.
The first time you slept together, four months ago, you cried. Not from pain or fear, but from the overwhelming realization that intimacy could be tender. That sex could be about connection instead of control.
Garrett held you through it, whispered that you were safe, that you could stop anytime, that he loved you.
You don’t cry anymore. Now it’s just … good. Better than good. Amazing.
He takes his time with you now, kissing down your neck, your collarbone. His hands are reverent as he removes your clothes, piece by piece, checking in with every new touch.
“This okay?”
“Yes.”
“And this?”
“Yes.”
It’s something he always does. Always asks. Even a year into your relationship, even though you’ve done this dozens of times, he never assumes. Never takes.
Only gives.
He kisses the spot on your throat where Cameron’s handprints used to be. The bruises are long gone, but the memory lingers. Garrett knows this. Treats these places with extra care. Extra tenderness.
“Beautiful,” he whispers against your skin. “So fucking beautiful.”
You pull him up to kiss him properly, to tell him without words how much he means to you. How much this means.
Hours later, you’re both exhausted and sated, tangled together in the sheets. Your head is on his chest, his arm around you, fingers drawing idle patterns on your shoulder.
“What are you thinking about?” He asks.
“How different everything is.”
“Good different or bad different?”
“The best different.” You tilt your head to look at him. “A year ago, I couldn’t imagine being happy again. Couldn’t imagine feeling safe or loved or … whole.”
“And now?”
“Now I can’t imagine anything else.”
Garrett’s quiet for a moment. “I love you. You know that, right?”
“I know. I love you too.”
“I’m going to marry you someday.”
It’s not a proposal — just a statement of fact. But it makes your heart skip anyway.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. When you’re ready. When we’re ready. But someday, I’m going to put a ring on your finger and spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt how loved you are.”
You should probably be scared by that level of commitment. Should feel trapped or pressured or uncertain.
But you don’t.
You feel safe.
“Someday sounds good,” you whisper.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He kisses the top of your head, and you settle back against his chest. Listen to his heartbeat. Let yourself drift.
You think about the girl in those old Instagram photos. The one who was bright and ambitious and full of dreams. The one who thought she could change the world.
She’s still here. She’s been here all along, just waiting to be found again.
And she’s got so much left to do.
Stories to tell. Games to cover. A career to build. A life to live.
But for now, in this moment, wrapped in the arms of someone who sees all of her — the broken parts and the healing parts and the parts that were never damaged at all — she’s exactly where she needs to be.
“Garrett?” You murmur, half-asleep.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for answering the phone that night.”
His arms tighten around you. “Thank you for calling.”
Outside, the world keeps spinning. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new victories, new moments to navigate. But tonight, you’re safe and loved and whole.
little drabble for my man on the podiummm!!! i’m so proud of himmm so here’s a lil gift 😛
your cheeks hurt from smiling. and the cold but that was the least of your worries.
204 podiums. he wrote history today, as he always seems to do the second that engine switches on.
the podium celebrations were perfection. you and your mother in law were ushered to the very front, watching as his car parked in front of you and his team from his side of the garage. he got weighed, tied his braids in a bun, took a sip of water and his eyes immediately connected with yours, causing the butterflies in your stomach to start fluttering all over the place. you knew that look in his eyes, giving you goosebumps.
he came over, excitedly hugging his mom and team before stopping in front of you, his large hand holding the side of your neck as he kissed your glossy lips for a moment before kissing your cheek and leaving lipgloss on it. lewis then hugged you which gave you the opportunity to kiss his cheek, leaving a much brighter lip stain in the middle of his cheek. he smiled at you cheekily and moved on, being rushed to the interviews.
during dinner with your mother in law and a few friends that were in canada, you scrolled on the socials for a bit after having half of your meal and with lewis’s hand heavy on your thigh. you chuckled at each fan’s tweet, their reactions to the very visible lipgloss mark and him basically flaunting it on camera for the world to see.
“if it wasn’t for the shower i took at the hotel, it’d absolutely still be on my cheek, love.” he smiled at you after showing him the tweets, the crinkles around his eye much deeper for you.
of course you blushed at his words, it was very easy for you to be wooed by your husband. “you’re corny as hell for that one.” you scoffed, failing to hide your smile as your cheeks burned. he squeezed your thigh in response to your words, and you just knew you were in for it when you got to the hotel.
—
“why you running, baby? ain’t this what you wanted?” he spoke lowly, gripping your leg that was currently over his shoulder and you were seeing stars as you clung to the bed sheets.
you see, you decided to plan something nice for lewis for whether he did good in the race or not. the lingerie set was absolutely stunning on your skin, the black and light pink accents really made your skin stand out. your tits sat perfectly and your ass poked out that it swallowed your underwear completely. you looked fine as fuck and you knew lewis was gonna get a podium in canada.
he made sure of it tonight.
“you feel so good, baby. saved this…” he teasingly picked up the bra that he basically tore off you, discarded next to your head where your braids made a halo. “all this for me. that’s it, y/n. give it to me.” he grunted, his thrusts remaining steady despite him knowing that his orgasm could rip through any moment.
“all for you, baby. ohh…fuck…” you panted, your fingers barely playing with your nipples as you were overcome with pleasure. you wanted to give him everything you got and he definitely understood you. “shit, baby. you love the way i make you feel? hm? tell me, sweetie.” he muttered but you heard him loud and clear despite the noise of skin slapping together.
“i love it so much, lew. i love you so much. please, please…i need to-”
“i know what you need. c’mere, baby. let go for f’me.” he murmured against your calf, kissing at it while digging his hands into your hips this time. “give it to me. that’s it, mama….c’mon.” lewis praised, letting you down slowly and immediately feeling you tremble in his arms while his thrust became slightly sloppy.
you pulled him down gently by his diamond chain and your finger was hooked onto it. sloppily kissing your husband and sucking on his tongue while orgasming was one of your favourite things to do and lewis knows that. as he released his thick load into you, he slowed his movements down but he never slid out. “fuck, i love you.” he said, lips brushing against your neck as he tried to catch his breath.
“i love you too. my living legend.” you smiled, cradling his cheek as he lifted his head to look you in the eye. that nickname you just gave him made him shiver and his dick slowly hardened inside you again.
without warning, he flipped you over and adjusted your body so that you could be comfortable while straddling his hips and him filling you up, your combined juices a visible sign of love where you connected.
he grabbed a handful of your ass, causing you to grind on him to let out a moan and he knew how sensitive you were.
with a stupid grin on his face, he spoke with one arm behind his head. “show me what you got, baby.”
——
this happened on a whim lmfaoooo!! one of his sexiest drives ever so this just had to be written down 😁😁 hope you guys enjoyed 😛
little drabble for my man on the podiummm!!! i’m so proud of himmm so here’s a lil gift 😛
your cheeks hurt from smiling. and the cold but that was the least of your worries.
204 podiums. he wrote history today, as he always seems to do the second that engine switches on.
the podium celebrations were perfection. you and your mother in law were ushered to the very front, watching as his car parked in front of you and his team from his side of the garage. he got weighed, tied his braids in a bun, took a sip of water and his eyes immediately connected with yours, causing the butterflies in your stomach to start fluttering all over the place. you knew that look in his eyes, giving you goosebumps.
he came over, excitedly hugging his mom and team before stopping in front of you, his large hand holding the side of your neck as he kissed your glossy lips for a moment before kissing your cheek and leaving lipgloss on it. lewis then hugged you which gave you the opportunity to kiss his cheek, leaving a much brighter lip stain in the middle of his cheek. he smiled at you cheekily and moved on, being rushed to the interviews.
during dinner with your mother in law and a few friends that were in canada, you scrolled on the socials for a bit after having half of your meal and with lewis’s hand heavy on your thigh. you chuckled at each fan’s tweet, their reactions to the very visible lipgloss mark and him basically flaunting it on camera for the world to see.
“if it wasn’t for the shower i took at the hotel, it’d absolutely still be on my cheek, love.” he smiled at you after showing him the tweets, the crinkles around his eye much deeper for you.
of course you blushed at his words, it was very easy for you to be wooed by your husband. “you’re corny as hell for that one.” you scoffed, failing to hide your smile as your cheeks burned. he squeezed your thigh in response to your words, and you just knew you were in for it when you got to the hotel.
—
“why you running, baby? ain’t this what you wanted?” he spoke lowly, gripping your leg that was currently over his shoulder and you were seeing stars as you clung to the bed sheets.
you see, you decided to plan something nice for lewis for whether he did good in the race or not. the lingerie set was absolutely stunning on your skin, the black and light pink accents really made your skin stand out. your tits sat perfectly and your ass poked out that it swallowed your underwear completely. you looked fine as fuck and you knew lewis was gonna get a podium in canada.
he made sure of it tonight.
“you feel so good, baby. saved this…” he teasingly picked up the bra that he basically tore off you, discarded next to your head where your braids made a halo. “all this for me. that’s it, y/n. give it to me.” he grunted, his thrusts remaining steady despite him knowing that his orgasm could rip through any moment.
“all for you, baby. ohh…fuck…” you panted, your fingers barely playing with your nipples as you were overcome with pleasure. you wanted to give him everything you got and he definitely understood you. “shit, baby. you love the way i make you feel? hm? tell me, sweetie.” he muttered but you heard him loud and clear despite the noise of skin slapping together.
“i love it so much, lew. i love you so much. please, please…i need to-”
“i know what you need. c’mere, baby. let go for f’me.” he murmured against your calf, kissing at it while digging his hands into your hips this time. “give it to me. that’s it, mama….c’mon.” lewis praised, letting you down slowly and immediately feeling you tremble in his arms while his thrust became slightly sloppy.
you pulled him down gently by his diamond chain and your finger was hooked onto it. sloppily kissing your husband and sucking on his tongue while orgasming was one of your favourite things to do and lewis knows that. as he released his thick load into you, he slowed his movements down but he never slid out. “fuck, i love you.” he said, lips brushing against your neck as he tried to catch his breath.
“i love you too. my living legend.” you smiled, cradling his cheek as he lifted his head to look you in the eye. that nickname you just gave him made him shiver and his dick slowly hardened inside you again.
without warning, he flipped you over and adjusted your body so that you could be comfortable while straddling his hips and him filling you up, your combined juices a visible sign of love where you connected.
he grabbed a handful of your ass, causing you to grind on him to let out a moan and he knew how sensitive you were.
with a stupid grin on his face, he spoke with one arm behind his head. “show me what you got, baby.”
——
this happened on a whim lmfaoooo!! one of his sexiest drives ever so this just had to be written down 😁😁 hope you guys enjoyed 😛
Synopsis: Lando loved you, but most of the time, love is never enough with a man like him. He had never been the type to settle down, and you had come to realise that sooner than he expected. And when you left, he let you slip away without a peep.
So why is he only fighting for your love when it's too late?
Starring: Lando Norris
Form: SMAU
☀️Sunny says: that she should be studying again but goddamn these brain worms! There's a surprise at the end.
————————————————————————
☆ February '26
Love Is The Way • YN YLN
Liked by carmenmmundt, pietra.pilao, lando and others
yn_thegonegirl regardless, love is all around us because "Love Is The Way" OUT NOW! This is a special little piece I made for my favourite nearlyweds lilymhe and alex_albon💙 A very special thanks is due to the couples who let me in just enough to witness true love in its many forms. Happy Valentines🫶🏾
user789 OMG, the hopeless romantics win again😭😭😭
user123 not giving up on love even after getting the #landonorizz experience🙂↕️🤏🏼
user152 no idea how she does it, he was just playing in her face at all times🧍🏾♂️
user179 she shoulda put a hit out on him😐
flavy.barla I wish I was in love with love as much as you are😭
yn_thegonegirl I'm in love with YOU more😏
estebanocon excusez-moi?
flavy.barla mon amour, get out of the way pls
iamrebbecad another one for the rainy day playlist🧎🏻♀️🫶🏼
yn_thegonegirl I'll make another song for your playlist if carlossainz55 could just propose to you one of these days😒
carlossainz55 I told you I'm working on it☹️🌶
user345 and here I was thinking we were gonna get a heartbreak album😭😭
user378 one thing about YN is that even if she's not in love with someone, she's in love with the concept of love🙂↕️
user397 YN my idealist, my optimist, my romantic, my mistreated darling😔
user678 HAPPY FREAKIN VALENTINES I AM SOBBING SO MUCH WHY DID LANDO DROP THE BALL SO BAD🏃🏿➡️🏃🏿➡️🏃🏿➡️
user680 fr, it's not that hard to keep a good woman!
user688 ur telling me u can't commit to THIS woman?? this incredible woman who only ever radiates light and who very obviously cares so deeply for everyone around her???
user694 ugh I hope she finds someone better eventually, she deserves it😭😭
alexandramalenaleclerc another song that charles and I will dance to in the kitchen❤️
charles_leclerc ❤️
arthur_leclerc you two should get married again so she can make another song, red+white went triple platinum in my headphones😔
yn_thegonegirl why don't you get married, arthur?
arthur_leclerc I'm still thinking of ways to ask you out first, mademoiselle
alexandramalenaleclerc 🫢
lorenzotl leclerc_pascale
user490 arthur...I like where this is going...
user455 #red+white is still my fav song of hers ughhh😭😭
user234 I wonder where she met all of these people🤔🤔
user279 my older brother is in the 2nd slide and he said him and his boyfriend were just heading to 7/11 and they met her in the middle of the street, just RANDOMLY (im so jealous) and she asked to take a pic for a "future project"
user296 randomly meeting YN YLN is smthng I'd tell my kids and their kids and their kids and their—
user567 she's so classy bc wdym she has NOTHING bad to say about lando AT ALL??
user571 someone give me a mic, I have loads to say actually🙂
flonorris yeah, that grammy is gonna be well deserved🙂↕️
yn_thegonegirl crossing fingers, sis🤞🕯
user702 luv that they still talk MY FAMILYY😭
user456 where do I sign up so YN can make a song for me, I'm getting married next autumn #imsojealous😔😔
yn_thegonegirl omg congratulations?!! I'd love to make a song for you on one condition.
user456 WOAH😧😧ANYTHING AT ALL
yn_thegonegirl can I be invited to the wedding pls pls pls pls🙏🏾
user456 let me think about it OF COURSE🗣
yn_thegonegirl check your dms!!!!
oscarpiastri best song ever👍
yn_thegonegirl thanks🫶🏾
dannyricciardo these two and their default emojis😭😭
lando my favourite song since the last song you released🧡
lilymhe get outta here.
Tap to see more comments.
☆ March '26
☆ April '26
[Replies:]
alexandramalenaleclerc THE WAY I SCREAMED OMG ITS HAPPENING EVERYBODY STAY CALM🏃🏻♀️➡️🏃🏻♀️➡️🏃🏻♀️➡️🏃🏻♀️➡️
yn_thegonegirl 😅surprise!
alexandramalenaleclerc I'm so proud of you😭
hattiepiastri we will be there🙂↕️🙂↕️
yn_thegonegirl 🥐family always welcome!
lewishamilton about damn time
yn_thegonegirl 🫡
olivia__marsh no love for the aussies??😔
yn_thegonegirl I'll get you a ride baby, I swear!
arvid.lindblad BOSH!
yn_thegonegirl is that a good reaction?
arvid.lindblad it's MEGA
yn_thegonegirl I can never understand you kids...
charles_leclerc oh this is why alexa started running around and screaming her head off😧
yn_thegonegirl I'm sorry😭
charles_leclerc it's alr she stopped screaming
charles_leclerc then she started crying into a throw pillow and telling me how proud she is of you and how far you've come and how you never give up on love and life
yn_thegonegirl maybe you should buy a few pregnancy tests
charles_leclerc 😀
flavy.barla where do I buy the tickets??😆😆
yn_thegonegirl don't worry about that, I'll sneak you and esteban in
alex_albon I thought the tour was meant to start in July🤔
yn_thegonegirl it was😄
alex_albon ...did you move your world tour back just so you wouldn't miss the wedding?
yn_thegonegirl well yeah😄
alex_albon 🧍🏻♂️I'm not crying.
flonorris oh hell yeah!
yn_thegonegirl 🙂↕️🙂↕️🙂↕️
arthur_leclerc put me in your suitcase pls🙏🏼
yn_thegonegirl no, you have to drive!
arthur_leclerc they don't need me the way I need you, mon tresor😔😔
yn_thegonegirl we've been together almost every day since you asked me to be your girlfriend three weeks ago
arthur_leclerc you're tired of me??😭😭
yn_thegonegirl never that, amour💀but you'll grow tired of me
arthur_leclerc Impossible.
yn_thegonegirl it's happened before
arthur_leclerc it's not going to happen now, or ever while we're together, which is going to be forever because I am going to marry you.
yn_thegonegirl you don't mean that, we haven't been together that long
arthur_leclerc I don't need years to know that I already love you. I need those years to grow the love we already have between us🧍🏻♂️
yn_thegonegirl you're gonna make me cry
arthur_leclerc I'm also going to make you the happiest woman alive for as long as I live
yn_thegonegirl you're such a sappy romantic
arthur_leclerc so are you, so we're perfect together mon tresor
lilymhe Alex and I will be naming our firstborn child after you🙂
yn_thegonegirl I love you too, lily😂😂
lando I always knew you could do it
yn_thegonegirl you never even bothered to pay attention to anything I did when we were together
lando I always paid attention, beautiful
yn_thegonegirl you probably don't even know the name of the first bar I played at
lando how could anyone remember that?
yn_thegonegirl you would remember it if you hadn't rejected my invitation so you could go partying with danny and the guys that night
lando alr, I can tell I've touched a nerve so I'll take a step back
yn_thegonegirl why don't you just leave me alone entirely?
lando bc I know you still love me.
yn_thegonegirl what gives you that ludicrous idea?
lando bc I still love you.
yn_thegonegirl just because you realised too late that I was the best thing that ever happened to you, doesn't mean that I've been waiting around all along just for you to extend a hand so we can "make up"
lando arthur is getting in the way of what we had, darling, what we had was perfect
yn_thegonegirl no it wasn't, what I have with arthur is perfect.
lando darling you're being delusional
yn_thegonegirl no, you are.
yn_thegonegirl I've closed the door on your love and opened another one for new love.
lando you'll regret this one day
More comments.
☆ May '26
Love Me • YN YLN
Liked by ynupdates, lec_islife, ynmylove and others
deuxmoi It is with heavy hearts that we bring you this unfortunate announcement. Let us all respect YN's family and their privacy in this trying time for them.
user789 NO FREAKIN WAY
user211 are u serious rn? pls say this is a joke
user877 what did you just say to me???
user655 a beautiful soul lost too soon😔
user433 just yesterday she was posting about arthur proposing to her wdym wdym WDYM
user766 right before her first ever world tour???
user988 right before lily and alex's wedding😔😔she was the most excited of everyone for that
user199 this feels so surreal, someone please pinch me I want to wake up now
user322 lando podium on the same weekend his ex gets engaged and passes away oh everyone is cursed now
ೃI'D RATHER BE WITH YOUᝰ
tyriq withers x oc! ( ivy jermaine )
ivy's face claim is teyana taylor ( i need her so bad omg)
Ivy Jermaine has spent years surviving fame’s glittering cruelty, learning how to be desired, watched, and misunderstood without letting the world see her bleed. At thirty-five, she knows better than to be reckless with beautiful men — especially younger ones.
Then she meets Tyriq Withers, a twenty-seven-year-old actor with dangerous charm, quiet patience, and impossible confidence. He is too young for her rules, too direct for her defenses, and far too certain that what he wants is her.
What starts as a charged pre-Met party encounter becomes intimate, risky, and impossible to ignore — forcing Ivy to wonder if the man she thinks is too young for her might be grown enough to ruin every excuse she has left.
Ivy Jermaine had been in the game long enough to know that fame was not a mountain one simply climbed, but an island one washed ashore on, half-drowned and glittering, praying the gods were in a merciful mood when the tide pulled back. She knew the cruel geography of it well, knew the sharp cliffs and golden valleys, the dizzying heights where applause came down warm as sunlight on bare skin, and the low, cavernous depths where the water went black around her ankles and every mistake became something with teeth. She had learned, over the years, that adoration was a fickle sea, beautiful from a distance and brutal once it decided to drag you under. One moment, the world crowned you Aphrodite rising from the foam, all beauty and divine softness, and the next, it turned you into Medusa, monstrous for daring to be seen from the wrong angle.
She could still remember the nights when the internet had torn her apart for things so small they should have dissolved beneath daylight: a wrong like, an ignored credit, a comment taken out of context, some mundane, minute misstep inflated until it loomed over her like Poseidon’s wrath over a trembling shore. She remembered lying curled in bed with her phone clenched in her hand, the blue light washing over her face like moonlight over wreckage, her stomach turning as strangers picked pieces of her apart with the casual violence of gulls descending on something already dead. They called it accountability when they were bored, criticism when they were cruel, discourse when they wanted to pretend there was no blood in the water. Everyone went through it at least once on the road to fame, or at least that was what people told themselves so they could survive it. A rite of passage. A storm before the crown. A necessary sacrifice on the altar. Ivy had never found much comfort in that.
Now, as she sat alone at the bar of the pre-Met party, she felt every mile of the life she had chosen settling into her bones. Her neck ached from the flight, from the red-eye she had taken after filming wrapped, from the kind of exhaustion that seemed to live not just in the body, but beneath it, down in the marrow where no amount of concealer or caffeine could reach. She was running on nothing but an espresso martini, an obscene amount of Red Bull, and the stubborn, practiced grace of a woman who had learned to arrive beautifully even when she felt like ruin.
The room around her glittered like Olympus after dark, all marble skin, flashbulbs, silk, diamonds, and laughter sharp enough to cut glass. Everyone looked sculpted and untouchable, gods and demigods draped in couture, pretending not to watch one another while watching everything. Ivy sat among them in a fitted dress that clung to her body like wet sand after a tide, doing little to hide the curve of her hips, the soft abundance of her thighs, the grown-woman fullness of her figure that cameras loved almost as much as they punished. She looked beautiful, because beauty had become part of the job. But beneath the gold light and the gloss on her lips, Ivy felt more like land after a storm than a goddess before worship — salt-worn, weathered, still standing, but tired of proving she had not been swallowed whole.
“You look over it tonight.”
The voice came from beside her, low and amused, a little too certain of itself for a stranger, and Ivy turned her head slowly, not because she was startled, but because men like that were best observed the way sailors watched a change in the wind; carefully, without panic, without giving the sea the satisfaction of knowing you had felt it shift.
He stood at the bar like he had been carved there by some vain god with too much time and a dangerous fondness for symmetry, all height and hard lines, a rough six-five with broad shoulders wrapped in black fabric that did very little to disguise the body beneath it. His skin was warm and light-brown beneath the gold spill of the chandelier, his blue eyes unnervingly bright, almost mythic in the low light, the kind of blue that belonged less to a man and more to deep water glimpsed from the edge of a cliff. Diamond studs sat in both ears, catching the light like small offerings stolen from Olympus, and his gaze rested on Ivy with the unmistakable patience of someone who had crossed the room with intention.
He was beautiful. That was the first thing Ivy noted, because she was honest enough with herself to admit when the gods had done good work. Not pretty, not merely handsome, not one of those polished, over-managed men Hollywood liked to arrange beneath soft lighting and call irresistible, but beautiful in a way that felt older than manners, rougher than charm, like sin had found flesh and decided to walk upright. He looked like trouble dressed well, like a storm rolling in over calm water, like the kind of man mothers warned their daughters about only to remember, too late, that daughters had always been drawn to thunder.
Ivy’s gaze moved over him with measured intrigue, taking in the confidence in his posture, the lazy set of his mouth, the quiet arrogance of a man who knew exactly what women saw when they looked at him and had long ago stopped pretending to be humble about it. He was an Adonis in his own right, yes, but not the soft, garden-bred kind meant to be mourned by Aphrodite beneath blooming anemones; no, this one looked like he had been raised by war drums and saltwater, like Ares had pressed a hand to the back of his neck and taught him how to walk into a room without asking permission from anyone inside it.
And he was after something. Ivy could feel that much in the air between them, the same way dry earth could feel rain before the sky broke open. She did not mind. If anything, she found herself entertained. Her lips curved faintly as she tipped her chin up to meet his eyes, refusing to be swallowed by his height, refusing to let him mistake her stillness for submission. At thirty-five, Ivy Jermaine had seen enough beautiful men to know that beauty, by itself, was rarely worth the trouble it brought to your door. Pretty faces were easy. Strong bodies were everywhere. Confidence, God help them all, had become common currency among men who mistook attention for substance.
But this one had presence. That was the problem. He stood beside her like discord come to sow itself in her field, like a black-sailed ship appearing on a horizon that had been peaceful five minutes ago, and Ivy, exhausted as she was, neck aching, bloodstream still humming with caffeine and liquor and stubborn survival, could not deny the small flicker of interest that stirred somewhere low and inconvenient in her. She turned back toward her drink, letting one manicured finger trace the rim of her glass before she answered him.
“Do I?” she asked, her voice smooth enough to be mistaken for indifference, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her.
The man’s eyes dipped briefly to that smile, then returned to hers.
“A little,” he said. “Like you’re deciding whether the room is worth staying in.”
Ivy gave a soft breath of laughter, not quite warm, not quite dismissive.
“And you came over to convince me it is?”
His mouth curved then, slow and dangerous, as if he had been waiting for her to open the door just enough for him to set one foot inside.
“Nah,” he said, leaning his forearm against the bar, close enough that Ivy could smell the clean, expensive spice of him beneath the smoke and perfume in the room. “I came over because everybody else keeps looking at you like they scared to bother you.”
Ivy arched a brow.
“And you’re not scared?”
He looked at her then, really looked at her, with a steadiness that made the noise of the party seem to pull back like tidewater from the shore.
“No, ma’am.”
The answer should have irritated her. The ma’am certainly should have. Instead, Ivy felt something in her chest give one slow, reluctant turn, like the first crack of land after a long drought. The answer should have irritated her. The ma’am certainly should have. Instead, Ivy felt something low in her belly give a slow, traitorous turn, like the first tremor of earth before the fault line split open, like the tide changing direction beneath a moon that had no business pulling on water so deliberately.
She looked at him over the rim of her glass, taking her time with it, because men who looked like him were used to being consumed quickly, greedily, without ceremony, and Ivy had never believed in letting any man know too early that he had managed to unsettle the weather inside her. She sipped slowly, let the liquor burn soft and bitter across her tongue, then set the glass down with the quiet precision of a woman who had built whole temples out of restraint.
“You always walk up to women you don’t know and call them ma’am?”
His smile deepened, not sheepish, not apologetic, only amused in that lazy, Southern-adjacent way that made arrogance look like a birthright instead of a flaw.
“Only when they look like they might cuss me out if I call them baby too soon.”
Ivy’s brows lifted, and despite herself, despite the exhaustion sitting heavy on her shoulders, despite the dull ache at the base of her skull and the unkind hour pressed behind her eyes, she laughed. It was not loud. Ivy Jermaine did not give strangers that much of herself for free. But it was real enough to change her face, real enough to soften the careful line of her mouth, real enough for Tyriq’s gaze to catch on it and hold there like a man who had just watched the sun break through storm clouds over open water.
“That’s bold,” she said.
“That’s honest.”
“Those are not the same thing.”
“They are when I say them.”
Ivy stared at him then, really stared, because there it was, that thing she had felt before he even opened his mouth, that unbothered, insolent confidence sitting easy on his shoulders. Not loud. Not desperate. Not the brittle kind of cockiness men wore when they needed everyone in the room to know they had once been overlooked. Tyriq Withers did not seem to be performing masculinity so much as inhabiting it, relaxed inside it, settled into himself the way land settled after centuries of being carved by water and wind. He was too young to look that sure of himself. That was the first warning. The second was that she liked it.
Ivy turned in her seat just enough to face him, crossing one leg over the other beneath the bar, watching his eyes flick down for half a breath before returning to her face. He did not pretend he had not looked. That annoyed her too, or it should have, because there was nothing boyish about the way he appreciated her, nothing nervous or fumbling or overeager. He looked at her the way a man looked at something he wanted to learn by touch eventually, yes, but not before he learned what made it sacred.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
His mouth curved.
“You don’t know?”
“I asked.”
Something like approval moved through his expression, quick and subtle, like lightning far off over the sea.
“Tyriq.”
She tilted her head slightly.
“Withers?”
He looked almost pleased by the way she said it, his name wrapped in her voice like silk pulled slowly through a fist.
“That sound familiar?”
“I know who you are.”
“Figured.”
“That was not a compliment.”
“I ain’t take it as one.”
Ivy hummed, amused despite herself, and picked up her drink again, letting him stand there with his height, his diamonds, his blue eyes, and all that deliberate stillness. The party moved around them in glittering waves, bodies drifting past in couture and perfume, laughter rising and falling like gulls over a restless shore, but somehow the bar had narrowed into the small charged stretch of space between Ivy’s knee and Tyriq’s thigh, between her glass and his hand, between the guarded woman she had trained herself to be and the younger man looking at her like he already knew there was heat beneath all that marble.
“How old are you, Tyriq Withers?”
There it was. She let the question fall between them without dressing it up, without softening it, without pretending it was casual. It was not casual. Not with the way she looked at him when she asked, not with the faint challenge tucked beneath her tone like a blade beneath satin. She wanted to see him flinch. Wanted to watch his confidence stutter. Wanted to remind him, before he got too comfortable in her air, that she was not some girl dazzled by the fact that a beautiful actor had wandered over and decided to make her his entertainment for the evening.
Tyriq did not flinch. He leaned against the bar instead, one forearm resting on the polished surface, his body angled toward hers like he had all the time in the world and no intention of surrendering a single inch of ground. His gaze moved over her face slowly, not disrespectful, not invasive, but attentive in a way that felt almost worse, because Ivy was suddenly, irritatingly aware of her own breathing.
“Twenty-seven.”
Ivy’s lips parted around a soft breath that was not quite a laugh.
“Twenty-seven.”
“You repeating it ’cause you heard me, or ’cause you judging me?”
“I’m processing.”
“You need help?”
Her eyes narrowed.
He smiled.
God, that smile was going to be a problem. It was not pretty in a harmless way. It was too knowing for that, too edged, too full of trouble. It curved across his face like a dark sail catching wind, like Hades deciding to be charming before stealing spring straight out of the meadow. Ivy looked at him and understood, with an almost academic clarity, that he was used to women forgiving him things before he had even done them. She refused to be one of them.
“You’re young,” she said.
Tyriq nodded once, calm as the sea before it ruined a coastline.
“And you fine.”
Ivy blinked. The sheer audacity of it should have offended her into silence. Instead, the laugh that escaped her came warmer this time, unwilling and low, slipping out of her before she could stop it. She shook her head, glancing down at her glass like it might offer her some legal counsel, some divine protection, something to explain why this man had taken a perfectly reasonable boundary and stepped over it with the ease of someone crossing wet sand barefoot.
“You did not just answer my concern with a compliment.”
“It was a statement.”
“It was deflection.”
“Nah,” he said, and his voice dipped, the amusement still there, but threaded now with something heavier, something that settled against her skin like humidity before rain. “Deflection would be me acting like I don’t know what you’re saying.”
Ivy’s gaze lifted back to his.
Tyriq held it.
“I know what you’re saying,” he continued. “You’re thirty-five. I’m twenty-seven. That’s eight years. You think that’s supposed to scare me off, or make me nervous, or make me start explaining why I’m grown enough to stand here.”
The words landed too cleanly. Too directly. Ivy hated direct men when they were wrong and distrusted them when they were right.
“And are you?” she asked, softer now, though there was still steel beneath it. “Grown enough?”
Tyriq’s eyes darkened, not in color, because that blue stayed bright and impossible beneath the gold light, but in intent. Something in him seemed to step closer before his body did, some invisible part of him crossing the space between them first, laying claim not to her, but to the moment. The air grew thick around Ivy’s throat.
“I’m not asking you to raise me, Ivy.”
Her name in his mouth was a problem. Not because he said it beautifully, though he did. Not because he dragged the syllables out like he was tasting them, though he did that too. It was the way he said it like he had earned the right to use it plainly, without ornament, without fear, without the little reverence other men sometimes put on it when they wanted her to mistake performance for respect.
“I’m not asking you to teach me how to be a man,” he said. “I’m not asking you to lower nothing, soften nothing, pretend nothing. You asked how old I am, and I told you. But if eight years is the only thing standing between me and taking you seriously, then that ain’t really about me being young.”
Ivy went still. Tyriq’s smile faded just enough for her to feel the loss of it.
“That’s about you being scared.”
There it was. The hook beneath the honey. For a moment, Ivy could only look at him, the noise of the party blurring at the edges until it became surf, until the whole glittering room felt less like Olympus and more like some old shore where gods came down from their thrones to meddle in mortal weather. She felt herself exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the dress fitted over her hips or the diamonds at her ears or the gloss on her mouth. This was not the crude exposure of being wanted. Ivy knew how to handle being wanted. Want was common. Want walked up to bars every night wearing cologne and borrowed confidence. This was worse. Tyriq had seen the locked gate and commented on the fence.
“You don’t know me well enough to say that.”
“You right.”
His answer came too easily.
Ivy frowned.
“I am?”
“Yeah,” he said, and that swagger slid back over him, warm and aggravating, a velvet cloak over a blade. “But I know women don’t ask a man his age like that unless they already thought about what it would mean if they liked him.”
Ivy’s mouth closed. His eyes dropped to it. Only for a second. Only long enough for her to feel it. Then he looked back up, and the restraint in that return did more damage than any blatant stare could have done. There was eroticism in the discipline of him, in the way he did not crowd her though she could tell he wanted to, in the way he let the silence touch her first. It was not the rushed hunger of a younger man trying to prove he could devour. It was the patience of a tide that understood shorelines always gave way eventually, not because they were weak, but because water knew how to wait.
Ivy swallowed, furious at the fact that he noticed.
“Careful,” she said.
Tyriq’s head tilted slightly.
“With what?”
“With assuming I like you.”
That smile returned, slow as dawn over dark water.
“I ain’t assuming.”
“No?”
“Nah.” His gaze moved over her face again, lingering not on the obvious places, not on the cleavage her dress allowed or the curve of her crossed legs, but on the tension near her eyes, the exhaustion at her temples, the small pulse betraying itself at the side of her throat. “I’m observing.”
Ivy breathed out a quiet laugh.
“You are very pleased with yourself.”
“I got reason to be.”
“And humble.”
“When necessary.”
“And is it ever necessary?”
“Depends who I’m standing in front of.”
That made her pause, because he did not say it flirtatiously enough for her to dismiss. There was a shade of reverence beneath it, not worship exactly, not the clumsy pedestal men loved to put women on so they could complain later when they turned out human, but recognition. He saw her beauty, yes, but he also seemed aware that beauty was only the shoreline. Something in his gaze kept looking inland, past the white sand and the pretty palms, toward the places Ivy had spent years fortifying. She hated that. She wanted him to be simpler. Beautiful men were easier when they were simple.
“You should be talking to women your own age,” Ivy said, though even she heard that the sentence had lost some of its force.
Tyriq gave her a look so unimpressed it nearly made her laugh again.
“I do.”
“Then go find one.”
“I don’t want one.”
The answer came without hesitation, landing between them with all the weight of a door closing behind someone who had no plans to leave soon. Ivy stared at him. He stared back. No grin now. No teasing. Just that impossible steadiness.
“You don’t even know me,” she said, but it came softer than before, not because she meant for it to, but because her voice seemed to understand the temperature of the moment before she did.
“I know enough to want to.”
“You’re very sure of yourself for a man standing at a bar with a stranger.”
“I’m sure of what I feel when I’m near people.”
“And what do you feel near me?”
Tyriq did not answer immediately. That was what made it dangerous. He took his time, and the pause unfurled between them like a sail, catching every unsaid thing, every warning Ivy had given herself, every rule she had written in the private law book of her life. No athletes. No younger men. No men whose names could pull cameras out of bushes. No men who looked like temptation and spoke like they had already survived the consequences. Then Tyriq leaned in—not enough to touch her, not enough to make a spectacle, just enough for his voice to lower into something meant only for her.
“Like you tired of being looked at and not seen.”
Ivy’s breath caught so quietly it almost did not happen. Almost. But Tyriq saw it. Of course he did. His gaze softened then, and somehow that was more erotic than the heat, more devastating than the swagger, because it turned the space between them from flirtation into something dangerously close to intimacy. The party continued around them, diamonds flashing like constellations over a black sea, laughter breaking against the walls, cameras waiting beyond doors like hungry gods demanding sacrifice, but Ivy felt the world pull back until there was only this man and the unbearable accuracy of his attention.
“You don’t get to say things like that to me,” she said.
Tyriq’s voice stayed low.
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t know what they cost.”
His jaw shifted slightly, and for the first time since he came over, something in him looked less amused and more serious, less like a man playing with fire and more like one who understood that the flame had a history before his hand ever reached for it.
“Then tell me.”
The simplicity of it almost undid her. Not fix it. Not let me handle it. Not I’m different, not trust me, not all those pretty useless things men said when they wanted access to a woman’s wounds without respecting the scar tissue. Just tell me. Ivy looked away first, because she had to. Her gaze found the bottles behind the bar, amber and green and clear glass lined up like little gods of forgetfulness, each promising a different kind of mercy. She should have dismissed him then. She should have smiled, made some sharp comment, left him standing there with his blue eyes and his audacity and his youth. She was good at exits. Elegant ones. Cruel ones. Necessary ones.
But Tyriq was still beside her. Warm. Present. Not pushing. And somehow that patience was the worst seduction of all.
“You don’t want that,” she said.
He was quiet for a moment.
Then, “I don’t know who taught you to keep telling people what they want before they even get a chance to decide, but that ain’t got nothing to do with me.”
Ivy turned back to him slowly. The look she gave him could have turned a weaker man to stone. Tyriq only smiled, faint and devastating.
“There she go,” he murmured.
Her eyes narrowed. “There who goes?”
“The woman everybody scared to bother.”
“I thought you weren’t scared.”
“I’m not.”
“You should be.”
“Maybe.”
He stepped a fraction closer then, still not touching, but close enough that Ivy could feel the heat of him through the charged air, close enough that his cologne threaded through her breathing, clean spice and smoke and something like cedar after rain. Her body noticed him with an honesty her mind found humiliating. The breadth of him. The height. The calm. The danger. The way he made no apology for wanting to be there, in her orbit, under her scrutiny, taking her age and her warnings and her fear and refusing to bow before any of them like they were gods worth worshipping.
“But I’m still here,” he said.
Ivy’s throat worked. Tyriq’s eyes flicked to it again, and this time he did not pretend she missed it.
“You flirt like you’re trying to get slapped,” she said.
His smile turned wicked at the edges.
“Nah. I flirt like I’m trying to get your number.”
“That’s worse.”
“Depends what you do with it.”
Ivy laughed under her breath, shaking her head, and Tyriq watched her like the sound had pleased him more than he wanted to admit. There was something almost boyish in that pleasure, but not immature, not green. Just unguarded for half a second. A flash of warmth beneath all the swagger. A glimpse of the man behind the actor, behind the blue eyes and diamonds and six-foot-five worth of trouble leaning too comfortably into her evening. That was the part Ivy knew would be dangerous. Not his beauty. Not his age. Not even the way he wanted her. It was the way he looked genuinely interested in what lived past the want.
“I’m not giving you my number,” she said.
Tyriq nodded as if she had said something reasonable.
“Okay.”
Ivy blinked.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s it?”
“For now.”
Her lips twitched. “For now?”
“I ain’t begging at a bar, Ivy. You grown. You said no. I heard you.”
The heat of that should not have moved through her the way it did. Respect, Ivy had learned, could be erotic when it came from a man who had enough power to push and enough discipline not to. It landed in her chest first, then lower, unfurling through her like warmth over cold land. He was not retreating, not really, but he was letting the gate remain closed without rattling it. Letting her hold the key. Letting her feel the rare pleasure of being pursued without being cornered. She studied him, suspicious of how much she liked that.
“And if I keep saying no?”
Tyriq picked up the drink the bartender had set down for him, finally breaking eye contact long enough to take a slow sip. When he looked back at her, his mouth was wet from it, and Ivy, to her own disgust, noticed.
“Then I’ll believe you.”
The answer was too good. Far too good. Ivy leaned back slightly, needing space from him and getting none, because the problem was not his proximity anymore. The problem was that Tyriq Withers had walked over with the face of a sin and the confidence of a king, only to reveal something worse beneath it: restraint, emotional intelligence, and the kind of directness that made a woman feel foolish for trying to hide behind semantics.
“You are irritating,” she said.
“I been told I grow on people.”
“Like mold?”
“Like ivy.”
She stared at him.
He grinned.
And that, unfortunately, made her laugh again. Really laugh this time, her head tipping down for half a second as the sound left her, soft and warm and unwilling. Tyriq looked at her like he had been given something. Not won it. Not taken it. Given. That distinction mattered. Ivy wished it did not.
“You think you’re cute,” she said.
“I know you do.”
“Tyriq.”
The warning in his name was immediate, instinctive, and he reacted to it like it had touched him somewhere low, his eyes sharpening, his posture shifting almost imperceptibly. Ivy noticed because she was watching him too closely now, noticed the way his fingers tightened once around his glass, noticed the breath he took before his smile returned.
“Say it like that again and I might start thinking you like me.”
“I already told you not to assume.”
“And I told you I observe.”
The party roared briefly behind them as someone famous entered, cameras flashing from the far side of the room like lightning over a black horizon, but neither of them turned to look. Ivy should have. It was the kind of distraction she needed, the kind of opening she could use to slip away from whatever this was before it became a thing with shape and gravity. Instead, she stayed. Tyriq’s gaze dropped once more, not to her body this time, but to her left hand resting on the bar. No ring. Ivy saw him notice.
“Don’t,” she said.
His eyes lifted, innocent in a way that was entirely false. “Don’t what?”
“Ask.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I think a lot of things.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Right now I’m thinking you need food.”
Ivy blinked again, thrown by the shift.
“What?”
“You running on caffeine and liquor.”
Her brows pulled together. “How would you know that?”
“You got that little tremor in your hand when you picked up your glass, and you look like if somebody breathe wrong near you, you might either cry or commit a felony.”
Ivy stared at him.
Tyriq shrugged.
“Could be both. I’m not judging.”
She should not have found that funny. She absolutely found that funny.
“You always this observant?”
“When I’m interested.”
The words returned the heat to the moment so quickly Ivy almost resented him for it. He did not even have to lower his voice that much. He simply let the truth sit there, heavy and warm, and Ivy felt it move over her like summer rain over dry soil.
“I’m not your business, Tyriq.”
“Not yet.”
Her eyes narrowed, but there was no stopping the smile now.
“You hear yourself?”
“Clearly.”
“And this works on women?”
He leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping back into that private register that made the party feel very far away.
“I don’t care what works on women.”
Ivy’s pulse betrayed her again. Tyriq saw it again. His gaze held hers, steady and darkening at the edges.
“I’m talking to you.”
For a moment, Ivy did not answer, and it annoyed her, the way silence had begun to gather around him like loyal subjects around a young king, the way the noise of the party seemed to thin whenever he lowered his voice, as if even the room wanted to lean in and hear what this beautiful, insolent man had to say. He had that thing certain men were born with and other men spent entire lifetimes trying to purchase: presence without desperation, confidence without performance, a swagger that did not need volume because it had weight.
He was not the most famous man in the room. Not yet. That was the dangerous part. There were men around them with Oscar nominations, box-office franchises, magazine covers, legacy last names, men whose faces had been projected thirty feet tall over cities Ivy could name by skyline alone, but Tyriq Withers carried himself as if fame had simply not caught up to him yet. As if the world was late, not him. As if whatever door he stood before would eventually open, not because he begged at the threshold, but because the hinges would get tired of pretending they did not know who he was. Ivy could feel that certainty on him. It moved with him like heat off asphalt after rain.
“You’re talking to me,” she repeated, because the words needed somewhere to go that was not directly beneath her skin.
Tyriq nodded once, easy, unhurried, the corner of his mouth tilting as he watched her try to turn plain confession into something negotiable.
“That’s what I said.”
“You say everything like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you already know how it ends.”
His smile deepened then, slow and devastating, the kind of smile that did not ask a woman to trust him so much as dare her to pretend she was unmoved.
“I don’t know how it ends,” he said, his voice still low enough to belong only to her, “but I know where I want to start.”
Ivy’s breath went shallow. She hated him a little for that. Not seriously, not with the clean heat of anger, but with the irritated fascination of a woman watching a storm gather over land she had spent years cultivating by hand. He was too direct, too steady, too young to speak with that kind of patience, and too beautiful to make patience feel safe. She could dismiss a man who pawed at attention. She could ignore a man who mistook desire for permission. But Tyriq stood there like he understood both want and restraint, like he could hold hunger in his mouth without letting it spill, and that made the room feel suddenly warm enough to be indecent.
“You’re very bold for somebody who just started getting invited to rooms like this,” Ivy said, turning the blade where she knew it might catch.
Tyriq laughed under his breath, not wounded, not embarrassed, not even defensive. If anything, he looked pleased that she had noticed.
“Damn,” he murmured. “You did some homework on me?”
“I exist in this industry, Tyriq. I know faces.”
“You know mine?”
“I know you were in that limited series on HBO.”
“Two episodes.”
“You died in the second one.”
“Memorably.”
Ivy’s mouth twitched despite herself, and Tyriq caught it like a man catching sunlight in his palm, his gaze lowering briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes with enough discipline to make the glance feel more intimate than touch.
“You had six minutes of screen time,” she said.
“And you remember all six.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I don’t have to. You keep helping.”
She stared at him, caught between irritation and amusement, and the worst part was that he did not look like he needed her laughter to survive, only like he enjoyed earning it. There was a difference, and Ivy had lived long enough to appreciate the distinction. Men who needed to be liked became cruel when denied. Men who enjoyed a challenge could be entertained by a no without trying to punish you for it. Tyriq, unfortunately, looked entertained.
“You’re new,” Ivy said, gentler this time, though she did not mean to soften it. “You don’t know what these rooms do to people yet.”
At that, something shifted behind his eyes, something subtle and dark, a cloud passing over blue water. Not insecurity. Not fear. Awareness.
“I know enough.”
“No, you don’t.”
His head tilted. “You warning me or testing me?”
“Maybe both.”
“I can take both.”
Of course he could. Of course he would say it like that, standing there with diamonds in his ears and the easy arrogance of a man who had not yet been ruined by the thing he wanted, who still believed ambition was a field he could cross without stepping on buried bones. Ivy looked at him and felt an old, unwelcome tenderness stir beneath her caution, the kind reserved for young actors at the beginning of the climb, when their hunger was still clean, before managers taught them to speak in angles and interviews taught them to smile with only half their mouths.
Tyriq Withers was not innocent. No man with eyes like that was innocent. But he was early. There was still something raw beneath the polish, something unbranded and unflattened, some dangerous inner flame that Hollywood had not yet figured out how to put behind glass and sell back to the public. He had the face of a future obsession, the height of a leading man, the mouth of a scandal, and the stillness of someone who had already decided that the world could come for him if it wanted to, but it would not find him easy prey.
“You think because you’re pretty and talented, this place won’t eat you?” Ivy asked.
Tyriq’s gaze did not move.
“I think because I’m pretty and talented, people gon’ try.”
Ivy paused.
He lifted one shoulder, casual as tidewater licking at the edge of a cliff.
“I also think I’m not stupid.”
“No one said you were.”
“Nah, you just keep talking to me like I’m a boy who wandered too close to the fire.”
There it was again. The accuracy. The hook beneath the honey. Ivy turned toward the bar, needing somewhere else to put her eyes, but Tyriq’s reflection found her in the mirror behind the bottles, tall and dark and gilded by chandelier light, looking at her as if her turning away was merely another language he had already begun to learn.
“I’m talking to you like a woman who has seen the fire do what fire does,” she said.
He was quiet for a moment, and in that quiet the party swelled around them, laughter cresting and breaking, glasses chiming, camera flashes bleeding white against the far wall where people were practicing being seen. When Tyriq spoke again, his voice had lost none of its swagger, but the heat of it had lowered into something steadier, something that touched the back of Ivy’s neck like a palm that had not yet earned the right to land.
“Then don’t save me from it,” he said. “Tell me where it burns.”
Ivy looked back at him before she could stop herself. That was the thing with him, she was beginning to realize. Tyriq flirted like a man who enjoyed the game, but listened like a man who understood that the game was not the prize. He had come to her with a grin sharp enough to cut fruit from a branch, with all that height and color and sinful symmetry, but every time she offered him a shallow surface to skate over, he stepped beneath it instead. Not clumsily. Not greedily. With patience. With nerve.
“You ask a lot of questions,” Ivy said.
“I asked one.”
“You implied several.”
“I’m an actor,” he said, mouth curving. “Subtext matters.”
That pulled a laugh out of her before she could lock it away, and Tyriq’s face warmed with satisfaction, not smugness exactly, though there was enough of that to make him insufferable, but pleasure. He liked her amused. He liked her difficult. He liked the fact that she did not melt beneath his attention like sugar in hot tea. That knowledge moved between them like a live thing.
“You’re an actor now?” she asked.
His brows lifted. “Now?”
“You said it very confidently for someone with two episodes and a death scene.”
“I booked a film too.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“With lines?”
“Several.”
“Living through the end?”
“Don’t know yet. They keep changing the script.”
Ivy smiled into her drink.
Tyriq leaned in a fraction, just enough for his shadow to fall warmer across her shoulder.
“But you know what’s funny?”
“What?”
“You teasing me like that, but you not asking because you think I can’t act.”
Ivy stilled.
His eyes sharpened, blue turning ocean-deep beneath the light.
“You asking because you think I can.”
She tried to answer too quickly, but no words came, and Tyriq’s smile returned, smaller now, quieter, more dangerous because it was not just flirtation anymore. He had caught her seeing him. Worse, he had caught her respecting something in him. That was intimate. More intimate than if he had touched her knee beneath the bar. More indecent than if his mouth had brushed her ear. The body could lie. Attention rarely did.
“You have a good face,” Ivy said, because it was easier than saying anything else.
“I got more than that.”
“I’m sure your agent tells you so every morning.”
“My agent tells me I need to smile more in rooms like this and stop looking like I’m deciding whether I want to fight somebody.”
“And are you?”
“Depends who interrupts me.”
The answer came so smoothly that Ivy blinked, and then she followed his gaze just enough to see a woman across the room waving lightly in Tyriq’s direction. Mid-thirties, sleek ponytail, black dress, phone in hand, the unmistakable expression of representation trying not to panic in public. His agent, most likely, or publicist, or some handler who had dragged him here with instructions to network, smile, shake hands, collect contacts, become visible without becoming messy. Tyriq did not move.
Ivy looked back at him, amused.
“You’re supposed to be working the room.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re talking to me.”
“Like I said.”
“Tyriq.”
He loved when she said his name. She could see it now, could see the tiny shift it caused in him, the flicker of heat behind his eyes, the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw as if he had to stop himself from reacting too openly. Ivy filed that away before she could ask herself why.
“You are just starting out,” she said, her voice lowering into something serious because she knew the shape of this particular cliff and did not want to watch him step backward over it. “You should be shaking hands, meeting directors, letting people see you in rooms where you don’t blend into the wallpaper.”
Tyriq’s expression softened, but the swagger did not leave him; it simply settled deeper, as natural to him as breath, as impossible to remove as salt from the sea.
“I don’t blend into wallpaper.”
“No, you don’t.”
The admission landed between them like a hand laid flat against a chest. His eyes held hers.
“And I saw who I wanted to see.”
Ivy swallowed. There it was. Plain. Unashamed. No little dance around it, no polite exit ramp, no laugh to soften the blade. He wanted her, and he said it the way other men announced facts about the weather, not careless, but certain. She had been desired loudly before, crudely before, publicly before, in ways that felt less like admiration and more like being appraised for auction. This was different. Tyriq’s want did not paw at her. It stood in front of her, broad-shouldered and unapologetic, waiting to see whether she had the nerve to look back at it without flinching.
“You don’t know what you want,” she said, but it sounded weak even to her.
Tyriq’s mouth curved.
“See, you keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Talking for me.”
“I’m making an observation.”
“So am I.”
“And what are you observing now?”
His gaze moved over her slowly, but again, maddeningly, he did not let it turn cheap. He looked at the careful set of her shoulders, the exhaustion beneath her makeup, the guarded humor at her mouth, the hand wrapped around a glass she probably did not need, the elegance she wore like armor because the world had taught her that softness needed witnesses and witnesses could not always be trusted.
“I’m observing that you’re tired,” he said. “I’m observing that you keep giving me reasons I should leave, but you haven’t told me to leave. I’m observing that you like honesty, but only when you can control how much of it comes at you. And I’m observing that the age thing don’t bother you as much as the fact that it doesn’t bother me.”
Ivy stared at him.
“You rehearse that?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I’d deliver it better if I rehearsed it.”
“That was you doing badly?”
“That was me being nice.”
She laughed again, and this time there was no disguising the warmth in it. It loosened something in her face, something that made Tyriq’s gaze flicker, not down, not away, but deeper, as if he had just seen a door open in a house he had been admiring from the road. He liked her laugh. Damn him, he liked her laugh too openly.
“You are not as charming as you think you are,” Ivy said.
“I’m exactly as charming as I think I am.”
“Terrible.”
“Effective.”
“Debatable.”
“But you still here.”
“So are you.”
“Because I want to be.”
The simplicity of it made her chest tighten. That was the problem with men like Tyriq, Ivy thought. Not young men. Not actors. Not beautiful men. Men like him specifically, men who did not hide behind irony, who did not drape desire in plausible deniability so they could retreat later and claim you misunderstood. He stood in the open field of what he wanted and let the lightning come. Ivy had forgotten how erotic it could be, being wanted without being tricked into admitting it first.
She took another sip of her drink, mostly to give herself time, but Tyriq’s gaze dropped to the glass and stayed there long enough for her to notice.
“What?” she asked.
“You need to eat.”
“Again with this?”
“Yes, again with this.”
“I am not a child.”
“Good.”
The word came out lower than expected, and Ivy’s eyes snapped to his. Tyriq did not smile. That was worse. The air between them altered so quickly it felt atmospheric, the shift of pressure before a summer storm, the sea drawing itself back from the shore before returning with force. Good. One word, nothing more, and yet it moved over Ivy’s skin like a thumb dragged lightly across a matchbook. There was no explicitness in it, no vulgarity, no performance for the room, but the implication was there, dark and warm and adult enough to make her remember the exact difference between being handled carelessly and being handled by someone who paid attention.
Tyriq’s eyes stayed on hers.
“I know you’re not a child.”
Ivy’s voice thinned despite her best efforts.
“Then stop fussing.”
“I’m not fussing.”
“You are.”
“I’m taking inventory.”
“Of me?”
“Of what you need.”
A laugh escaped her, softer now, less defended.
“You are very sure you know what I need.”
“No,” he said, and that one word surprised her because it carried no flirtation at all. “I know what I see. There’s a difference.”
For the first time since he had approached her, Ivy let herself look at him without strategy. Really look. He was younger, yes, and there was no use pretending otherwise. Twenty-seven sat on him not like immaturity, but like voltage. There was still speed in him, still hunger, still that beginning-of-the-road brightness beneath the composure, but there was also discipline in the way he held himself, a steadiness that did not feel borrowed. He had the confidence of someone who had been underestimated often enough to become uninterested in convincing people too quickly. Let them doubt. Let them learn. Let them clap later. It was a dangerous kind of patience. The kind that made a woman wonder what else he knew how to wait for.
A server passed behind him with a tray of small plates, and Tyriq turned just enough to catch her attention without fully taking his focus off Ivy. It should have been arrogant, the ease of it, the way people responded to his presence before they seemed to realize they had done so, but Ivy could not even pretend it did not suit him. He asked for something low and polite, voice softened by manners that made his earlier audacity even more frustrating, and when the server left, he turned back to Ivy as if nothing important in the world had happened outside the narrow country of their conversation.
“I didn’t ask you for food,” she said.
“I know.”
“And yet.”
“And yet,” he agreed.
“You always this bossy?”
“When I’m right.”
“And when you’re wrong?”
“I correct myself.”
Ivy studied him.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to find out.”
The words were not loud, but they landed heavy. There was a beat where neither of them moved. Ivy felt the shape of the invitation beneath the sentence, not to his bed, not even to his life, not yet, but to the possibility of discovery, to the unsettling idea that this man might be exactly as direct tomorrow as he was tonight. That he might not vanish when the music changed. That he might not turn into smoke the second she reached for substance.
“You’re dangerous,” she said.
Tyriq’s smile returned, faint and wicked.
“You knew that when I walked up.”
“I knew you were pretty.”
“Beautiful,” he corrected.
Ivy blinked, then laughed despite herself. “Excuse me?”
“You said it in your head.”
“You don’t know what I said in my head.”
“I know you ain’t look at me like I was just pretty.”
The audacity. The accuracy. Ivy shook her head slowly, unable to decide whether she wanted to slap the confidence off him or study it under glass.
“You are insufferable.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I smile at funerals sometimes. It doesn’t mean I’m happy.”
“That’s dark.”
“That’s experience.”
“There she go again.”
“With what?”
“Trying to scare me.”
Ivy’s smile faded. Tyriq noticed immediately, and the pleasure in his expression shifted into focus, his attention tightening around her not like a trap, but like shelter drawn closer before rain.
“I’m not trying to scare you,” she said after a moment. “I’m trying to be honest with you.”
“Then be honest.”
“I am.”
“No,” he said gently, which somehow made it harder to bear. “You’re being careful.”
Ivy’s jaw tightened. Tyriq leaned one elbow against the bar, his body still angled toward her, still close enough for his warmth to reach but not close enough to touch. He was letting her decide the distance, which irritated her because it made his nearness feel chosen by her too.
“You think careful is dishonest?” she asked.
“I think careful is what people do when honesty cost them too much before.”
The sentence struck something. Not dramatically. Not like thunder splitting a tree. More like water finding a crack in stone and making a home there. Ivy looked at him, really looked, and for one terrible second she imagined what it would feel like to let a man like him see the less curated parts of her, the places fame had bruised, the places love had failed to be gentle, the places thirty-five had taught her to keep locked because people liked a grown woman’s strength better when they did not have to witness the exhaustion underneath it.
“You’re too young to be talking like that,” she said.
Tyriq’s eyes softened, but his mouth curved because he was still him, still arrogant enough to be beautiful with it.
“And you’re too grown to keep using my age as a hiding place.”
Ivy’s lips parted. Nothing came out. Tyriq nodded once, like he had proven a point but was kind enough not to celebrate too loudly.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s what I thought.”
The server returned with a small plate of something delicate and expensive, all architectural greens, fruit, and a piece of bread crisped golden enough to look like it had been stolen from a goddess’s breakfast table. Tyriq took it with a murmured thank you, set it between them, and slid it toward Ivy with two fingers. She looked at the plate. Then at him.
“I don’t eat strange food from strange men.”
“I’m not strange.”
“You walked up to me at a bar and started reading me like scripture.”
“You liked it.”
“I tolerated it.”
“You smiled.”
“I regret that.”
“No, you don’t.”
She picked up the piece of bread only because her hand was shaking and he had noticed, and because she would rather feed herself than give him the satisfaction of being right while she sat there pretending hunger was beneath her. The first bite was crisp, salty, bright with something citrusy and sharp, and her body responded with immediate gratitude that made her want to roll her eyes at herself. Tyriq watched her eat with a satisfaction so quiet it felt indecent.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said.
“Like what?”
“Like you won something.”
“I did.”
“It’s bread, Tyriq.”
“It’s you listening.”
Ivy stopped chewing for half a second. He did not tease her for it. That was becoming the worst part, honestly. He knew when to press and when to let the moment breathe. He understood rhythm. Maybe that was the actor in him, she thought, the instinct for pauses, for silence, for the tension that lived between lines more than inside them. Or maybe it was just him. Maybe Tyriq Withers was dangerous because he knew how to make a woman feel like every small surrender was witnessed without being exploited.
“I don’t usually listen to men I meet at bars,” Ivy said.
“I don’t usually leave my agent hanging to feed women at bars.”
“She looks stressed.”
“She is.”
“You should go.”
“I should.”
He did not move. Ivy hated the heat that crawled up her neck.
“You’re not going?”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
Tyriq’s eyes held hers, steady, confident, absolutely unashamed.
“Because I want you.”
The words did not shock her because she had not known. They shocked her because he did not dress them in anything prettier. No joke. No metaphor. No little grin to make it less dangerous. Just the truth, placed before her like an offering at an altar neither of them had agreed to build and both of them suddenly stood before. The party went soft at the edges. Ivy could still hear everything — the laughter, the music, the clink of glass, the artificial thunder of celebrity weather moving through an expensive room — but it all became distant, like sound traveling across water. Tyriq’s voice stayed near.
“I want you,” he said again, quieter now, not because he was unsure, but because repetition made the sentence heavier. “And not in the way men in here probably been wanting you all night.”
Ivy’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.
“You don’t know how men have wanted me.”
“I know how men look when they only see a body.”
His gaze moved to her face, and stayed there.
“I also know how I’m looking at you.”
Ivy breathed in slowly, and the air felt too warm going down.
“You’re very confident for someone admitting that to a woman who already told you no.”
“You told me no to your number.”
“And you think that’s different?”
“I think no means no,” he said, calm as bedrock beneath stormwater. “I also think wanting you ain’t a crime as long as I respect what you do with it.”
God. That was the part that made her feel stripped without being touched. Respect had no business being that sensual, but from him, here, with his blue eyes steady and his mouth softened around restraint, it moved through her like heat. It was one thing to be desired by a man who would test every boundary to see which ones gave way under pressure. It was another to be desired by one who saw the boundary, leaned his shoulder near it, and waited for her to decide whether the gate opened. Ivy had prepared herself for temptation. She had not prepared herself for patience.
“You say things like you’ve practiced them,” she said, though her voice lacked its earlier bite.
Tyriq smiled faintly.
“I’m just telling the truth pretty.”
“That’s still performance.”
“Everything is performance in here.”
He glanced around the room then, briefly, taking in the glittering bodies, the curated laughter, the famous faces arranged beneath soft light like offerings to a god that fed on visibility. When he looked back at Ivy, the swagger returned, but it was sharpened by something almost private.
“But this?” he said, gesturing once between them. “This ain’t fake.”
“You don’t know that yet.”
“I know what fake feels like.”
He said it too quietly for someone who had not been burned. Ivy caught that. He saw her catch it. For the first time, a flicker of guardedness moved through him, not enough to close him off, but enough to remind her that he was not only beauty and confidence and youth. There was a life there too, unspooled behind him, not as long as hers perhaps, not as publicly weathered, but real all the same. People loved to flatten younger men into appetite and ambition, but Tyriq stood before her with both, yes, and also something more complicated beneath the skin.
“You’ve been in enough fake?” Ivy asked.
His mouth curved, though the smile did not quite reach his eyes.
“I’m an actor trying to break into Hollywood, Ivy. Half the people who hug me don’t know if they like me yet. They just like that somebody told them they should.”
She was quiet. That sentence did something to the air between them. For all his swagger, for all the lazy confidence and beautiful audacity, there it was: the thin, sharp edge of beginning. Tyriq had entered a world where everyone smiled with measuring tape hidden behind their teeth, where people shook your hand and weighed your usefulness in the same motion, where desirability could get you through the door but not always keep you from being devoured once inside. Ivy knew that road. She knew the early parties, the names forgotten on purpose, the small humiliations dressed as advice, the way success arrived in flashes before it became a shelter.
“You’ll get used to it,” she said, though the words tasted bitter.
“I don’t want to.”
That surprised her. Tyriq looked at her, the gold light catching the line of his cheekbone, the diamonds in his ears, the clean shape of a face the industry would try to own if he let it.
“I’ll learn it,” he said. “I’ll play when I need to. I’m not naive. But I don’t want to get used to people making me less human because they think I might be useful one day.”
Ivy had no immediate answer.
He shrugged once, as if he had not just handed her something honest.
“Besides,” he added, mouth curving back into something wicked enough to save them both from too much sincerity, “if I get too used to fake, I might miss when a fine woman at the bar actually likes me.”
Ivy exhaled a laugh, grateful and annoyed.
“I never said I liked you.”
“No, but you keep not leaving.”
“I was here first.”
“And I came over second.”
“Exactly.”
“Now we’re here together.”
She stared at him, then looked down at the plate because the smile was coming and she refused to give him the full view of it.
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m consistent.”
“You’re a menace.”
“I’ve heard that too.”
“I’m starting to think everyone in your life is very honest with you.”
“They try,” he said. “I’m hardheaded.”
“I would have never guessed.”
His grin flashed, and for a moment he looked younger, not childish, but bright in a way that softened the hard edges of his beauty. It was disarming. Unfairly so. Then his agent waved again from across the room, this time with more urgency, and Tyriq finally looked over long enough to lift one hand in acknowledgment.
Ivy followed the gesture.
“You really should go.”
“I know.”
“This is your job.”
“I know that too.”
“And yet you’re still standing here.”
His eyes returned to her, and the humor in them eased into that same steady want that had made her breath misbehave earlier.
“I told you,” he said. “I saw who I wanted to see.”
Ivy’s throat tightened.
“You don’t even know what that means.”
“I know exactly what it means for tonight.”
“And what does it mean?”
“It means I’m going to walk over there,” he said, nodding toward his agent without looking away from Ivy, “shake whatever hands she tells me to shake, smile at whoever needs to feel important, act like I’m not thinking about coming back over here, and then I’m going to come back over here.”
Ivy arched a brow, grateful for the return of teasing because the sincerity had begun to feel too much like a tide at her knees.
“And if I’m gone?”
“Then I’ll find you.”
“Confident.”
“Determined.”
“Stalking is not romantic.”
“Good thing I said find, not follow.”
“Semantics.”
“Subtext,” he corrected again.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Tyriq stepped back half a pace, and Ivy felt the absence of his warmth immediately, which was humiliating enough that she lifted her glass to disguise it. He noticed anyway, because of course he did, but for once he showed mercy and said nothing. Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a plain black card, the kind actors carried when they were still early enough to need cards and confident enough not to be embarrassed by it. He set it on the bar beside her plate, two fingers resting on it for a moment before sliding away.
“I’m not giving you my number,” Ivy reminded him.
“I remember.”
“Then what is that?”
“My number.”
She looked at the card. Then at him.
“That is not how this works.”
“That’s exactly how it works.”
“I said no.”
“You said you weren’t giving me yours,” he said, and there was that swagger again, smooth as oil over dark water. “I heard you.”
“So you gave me yours?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“So when you decide you want to call me, you don’t have to go looking.”
Ivy stared at him, half offended, half fascinated, fully aware that her pulse was no longer behaving like something she owned.
“You really think I’m going to call you?”
Tyriq leaned in just slightly, not enough to crowd her, only enough for his voice to lower into that private place again, that warm, dangerous register that made every word feel like it had been placed directly against her skin.
“No,” he said. “I think you’re going to tell yourself you’re not going to call me.”
Ivy’s eyes narrowed.
“And then?”
His smile came slow.
“And then you’re going to remember I’m not scared of you.”
Her breath caught, small enough to deny if anyone asked, but they both knew. Tyriq’s eyes flicked over her face once more, lingering with an attention so thorough it felt like touch, though his hands remained respectfully to himself.
“And you’re going to like that.”
Then he straightened, leaving her with the card, the plate, the heat, and the deeply inconvenient realization that she had not wanted him to leave as much as she had wanted to see whether he would.
“Eat,” he said, voice returning to that easy command.
Ivy gave him a look.
He grinned.
“Please,” he added, with a sweetness so false and charming she nearly threw the bread at him.
“Go work the room, Tyriq.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The ma’am hit worse the second time. He knew it too. He walked away with the kind of unhurried confidence that made people look before they understood why they were looking, shoulders broad beneath black fabric, head high, stride loose and certain, every inch of him giving not a man desperate to be chosen, but one already convinced he belonged wherever his feet landed. Ivy watched him cross the room, watched his agent begin speaking before he fully reached her, watched him nod, smile, extend a hand to a director Ivy recognized immediately.
And because she had been in the game a long time, she saw it. The shift. The director had glanced at Tyriq politely at first, with the mild interest people gave promising young faces they had been told might matter soon. Then Tyriq smiled, said something, and the man’s attention sharpened. His posture opened. The conversation held. Tyriq did not fidget, did not over-laugh, did not shrink beneath proximity to power. He stood there like a coastline daring the ocean to keep arriving, like he knew erosion was just another form of being shaped for greatness.
Ivy picked up the card. Tyriq Withers. Actor. A number beneath it. No management email. No agent listed. No glossy logo. Just his name, his title, and the audacity of giving her a direct line to him as if directness itself was a signature. She should have left it there. She should have. Instead, Ivy slid it beneath her phone.
…
Later that night, when the party had finally spat her back out into the city, Ivy Jermaine returned to her hotel room alone. Not lonely. There was a difference. Lonely was a hunger, a raw little animal pacing behind the ribs, begging to be fed by any voice willing to call it beautiful. Alone was cleaner than that. Alone was the lock clicking shut behind her. Alone was the hush of an expensive suite high above Manhattan, where the windows looked out over the city like black glass over a restless sea, all glittering lights and yellow taxis moving below like ships with lanterns caught in fog. Alone was the soft groan that left her body the moment she stepped out of her heels and felt the floor beneath her bare feet, cool and solid as old marble.
The room smelled faintly of lilies, linen, and the citrusy spray housekeeping used to convince guests that exhaustion could be sanitized if the sheets were crisp enough. Ivy stood in the entryway for a moment, dress still clinging to her like a second skin, phone in one hand, clutch in the other, her earrings heavy against her neck. The silence received her without applause. No cameras. No shouting assistants. No stylists pinching fabric at her waist. No publicists reminding her who to greet, who to avoid, who had liked something messy about her three years ago and should therefore be handled with caution.
Just Ivy. Thirty-five years old. Tired down to the bone. Still beautiful, because beauty had become so practiced on her that it stayed even when she no longer had the energy to hold it up. She dropped her clutch onto the console table and walked deeper into the suite, the hem of her dress whispering around her legs like dark water around a dock. The city watched her from beyond the glass, neon and moonlight braided together over the skyline, and for a moment Ivy felt like Persephone returning not to the underworld, but to some quiet room between seasons, one where she could take off the crown, unclasp the armor, and admit that being admired all night had somehow left her feeling untouched.
That was the strange cruelty of fame. Everyone looked. So few people saw. Her hand stilled on the zipper at the side of her dress. Tyriq Withers had seen too much. The thought arrived without permission, warm and inconvenient, slipping through her exhaustion like tidewater through a crack in stone. She closed her eyes, and there he was again, leaning against the bar like trouble had learned manners, all blue eyes, diamonds, broad shoulders, and that low, steady voice that seemed to speak beneath the skin rather than above it. I’m talking to you.
Ivy opened her eyes quickly.
“No,” she murmured to herself, because sometimes a woman had to speak sense aloud before her body started making reckless legal arguments.
She moved into the bathroom, where the lights were soft enough to be merciful, and braced both hands against the marble sink. Her reflection looked back at her, composed but not untouched, lips still glossy, eyes lined dark, hair arranged into something sleek and intentional. The dress made her look like a goddess dragged from a storm, all curves and gold undertones and exhaustion disguised as elegance. Tyriq had looked at her like he knew the disguise by name. That was what bothered her.
Not the wanting. Ivy knew what to do with wanting. Wanting was common; it leaned too close at parties, sent bottles to tables, slid into DMs with flame emojis and spelling errors, wrapped itself in compliments so thin they tore if you touched them too hard. Wanting had followed her for years in cologne clouds and rented confidence. Tyriq’s want had been different. It had stood still. It had waited. It had said, plainly and without shame, I want you, and then respected the distance between them like restraint itself was part of the seduction.
Ivy exhaled, slow and annoyed, before reaching up to remove one earring, then the other. They landed on the counter with two delicate sounds, tiny offerings placed before the mirror. She unpinned her hair next, letting it fall loose around her shoulders, and the woman in the reflection softened by degrees. Less goddess. More mortal. Less Ivy Jermaine, the public-facing thing. More Ivy, the woman whose neck hurt, whose feet ached, whose heart had become too disciplined to run toward anything just because it felt warm.
Her phone buzzed once against the counter. She looked down. Not a message. A notification from a news account. A photo of her leaving the party had already surfaced.
Ivy Jermaine stuns at pre-Met event.
She stared at the headline, then laughed under her breath without humor. Stuns. As if she had not spent the entire night holding herself together with caffeine, under-eye concealer, and God’s leftover patience. She turned the phone face down. Then turned it face up again. Because beneath it, partly tucked into the case from when she had slid it there at the bar, was Tyriq’s card.
Plain black. White letters. Tyriq Withers. Actor. His number beneath it. Nothing else. No agent. No brand. No glossy little emblem trying to make him look more important than he was. Just his name. His dream. His audacity.
Ivy picked the card up like it might be hot.
“You are not calling that man,” she told her reflection.
Her reflection, traitorous thing, said nothing.
She carried the card with her into the bedroom and set it on the nightstand, far enough away to suggest discipline, close enough to ruin the lie. Then she changed, slowly, peeling herself out of the dress with the careful exhaustion of someone unwrapping from a role. The fabric fell down her body and pooled around her feet like a shed shadow. She stepped out of it and reached for the silk robe hanging near the closet, tying it loosely around her waist before sitting on the edge of the bed.
The suite was too quiet now. Not peaceful. Quiet. There was a difference there too. Peace had weight. Quiet had space. And space had a way of filling itself with thoughts. Tyriq’s voice came back first. You’re too grown to keep using my age as a hiding place.
Ivy’s mouth pressed into a line.
Cocky little—
No.
Not little.
That was the problem. He was twenty-seven, yes, but there had been nothing little about him. Nothing uncertain, nothing pleading, nothing boyish in the way he stood before her and made his interest known without asking her to reassure him for having it. He had not acted like her age was a hurdle. He had acted like it was information. A fact. Eight years, measured and dismissed, as irrelevant to his desire as the weather outside. She should have found that absurd. Instead, it had touched something ancient in her. Some buried, feminine, saltwater thing that remembered being wanted by men who did not ask permission from fear.
Her hand reached for the card before she could stop herself. She stared at the number. Put the card down. Picked it up again.
“This is embarrassing,” she whispered.
The city blinked beyond the windows, unconcerned. Ivy unlocked her phone. Opened the keypad. Typed the first three digits. Deleted them. Locked the phone. Threw it onto the bed beside her. Then sat there, staring straight ahead, robe slipping off one shoulder, the ache in her neck pulsing beneath her skin, pride and curiosity wrestling in her chest like two gods fighting over a coastline.
She lasted all of forty-seven seconds. Then she snatched the phone back up with a frustrated little inhale and dialed before she could talk herself into dignity.
It rang once. Not even fully once. He answered like he had been waiting with the phone already in his hand.
“Ivy.”
Her whole body went still. Not hello. Not who is this. Her name. Low. Certain. Warm with something that sounded far too much like satisfaction.
Ivy closed her eyes.
“You don’t know it’s me.”
Tyriq’s voice came through the line with a smile in it.
“Yeah, I do.”
“How?”
“Because I gave one woman my number tonight.”
“That doesn’t mean I was going to call.”
“But you did.”
Ivy stared at the ceiling like it might offer help, but the ceiling, like all expensive hotel ceilings, remained useless and tastefully lit.
“You answer the phone for every unknown number like that?”
“Nah.”
“So you were waiting.”
“I was hoping.”
The honesty sat between them differently through the phone. At the bar, it had been gilded by chandeliers, sharpened by eye contact, protected by the noise of the party around them. Here, in her hotel room, with the city pressed dark and glittering against the windows and her robe loose on her skin, his honesty became more intimate, stripped of spectacle. There was no room to hide inside a crowd now. No drink to sip. No server to interrupt. No agent waving him away. Just his voice. Just her breath. Just the thin electric line between them, humming like a wire stretched over deep water.
Ivy shifted on the bed, tucking one leg beneath her.
“You always this available?”
“For you?”
She huffed softly. “Careful.”
“I am.”
“You don’t sound careful.”
“I sound honest.”
“You sound pleased with yourself.”
“I am.”
“At least you admit it.”
“I told you earlier,” he said, his voice dropping slightly. “I don’t have to pretend with you.”
That was unfair. He had no right to make something so simple sound like a hand at the back of her neck, guiding her gently out of armor. Ivy looked toward the windows, where her reflection was faintly visible against the city, silk robe, bare shoulder, phone pressed to her ear. She looked like a woman caught between a locked door and the sea.
“You made an impression tonight,” she said.
“Good.”
“That wasn’t necessarily a compliment.”
“I know.”
“You take everything well.”
“No,” Tyriq said, and the answer came so smoothly she could almost see him leaning somewhere, one shoulder against a wall, mouth curved, eyes steady. “I take you well.”
Ivy’s breath slipped. Quietly. Barely. But the silence after it told her he had heard. Of course he had heard.
“Tyriq.”
“Yeah.”
There it was again, that slight change in him when she said his name. Even through the phone, she could feel it, the way the air thickened, the way his reply landed lower, rougher at the edge. Ivy had spent years being desired in rooms full of people, but there was something obscene about realizing desire could travel through a single syllable and still arrive intact.
“You are very dangerous on the phone,” she said.
He gave a low laugh, soft as thunder far out over water.
“I’m better in person.”
Her eyes closed. The room tilted a little, though she had barely drunk enough for that to be the reason.
“You’re very sure of that.”
“I’m very sure of a lot of things.”
“Like?”
“Like you’re sitting somewhere pretending you didn’t call because you wanted to hear my voice.”
Ivy opened her eyes.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I called because I was curious.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“It’s the correct word.”
“No,” he said, that smile still in his voice, insolent and intimate all at once. “It’s the safe word.”
The silence that followed was so charged Ivy felt it move over her skin. Not vulgar. Not explicit. Worse. Accurate. She pressed her tongue lightly against the back of her teeth, trying not to smile, trying not to let him hear that she was smiling, because men like Tyriq fed on openings and she had no intention of becoming a meal.
“You think you know so much,” she said.
“I think I know enough.”
“You met me two hours ago.”
“And you called me thirty minutes after you got to your room.”
Ivy froze. Her eyes narrowed, though he could not see it.
“How would you know when I got to my room?”
“Because you told me you were leaving when you walked past me.”
“I said goodnight.”
“You said, ‘Enjoy shaking hands, Tyriq,’ and then you left with your assistant.”
“You remember that?”
“I remember most things involving you.”
The line went quiet again. Ivy hated how much that did to her. Words were easy to dismiss when they were grand. Men could make cathedrals out of exaggeration when they wanted something, could turn a compliment into stained glass and still leave you cold beneath it. But details had weight. Details meant attention had roots. Details meant something had gone into the earth.
“You should be asleep,” she said, because it was safer than admitting anything else.
“So should you.”
“I’m older. I can survive on less.”
“That’s not how bodies work.”
“You’re an actor now and a doctor?”
“I’m a man with eyes. You were exhausted tonight.”
“I looked that bad?”
“No.” His answer came immediately. “You looked beautiful.”
Ivy’s mouth softened despite herself.
Then he added, quieter, “And tired.”
Something about the separation of those things undid her more than the compliment itself. Beautiful and tired. Not beautiful despite tired. Not beautiful but tired. Both. Seen together. Allowed to exist in the same room without one canceling the other.
Ivy looked down at her hand resting against the white duvet, at the faint tremor still there from too much caffeine and too little food, at the phone glowing against her cheek like a small, dangerous moon.
“You notice too much,” she whispered.
“No, I notice what people miss.”
Her throat tightened.
“Why?”
There was a pause on his end. For the first time, Tyriq did not answer quickly. When he spoke, the swagger was still there, but quieter now, not gone so much as set aside out of respect for the dark.
“Because people missed a lot with me.”
Ivy’s chest changed shape around the sentence. She could picture him then, not at the party, not gilded by chandeliers and dressed in black, but somewhere younger, somewhere before the industry had begun sharpening its teeth around him, learning to stand tall because being overlooked had taught him the cost of shrinking. It was only a glimpse, but it was enough to remind her that his confidence was not empty decoration. It had been built. Maybe out of talent. Maybe out of survival. Maybe out of the stubborn refusal to wait for permission.
“Tyriq,” she said again, softer this time.
He exhaled through the line.
“Say my name like that again and I’m gon’ start thinking you miss me.”
“I don’t know you well enough to miss you.”
“You know me well enough to call.”
“You gave me your number.”
“You still had to use it.”
Ivy laughed quietly, tipping her head back against the headboard.
“You are not letting me have anything tonight.”
“I let you have no at the bar.”
The reminder settled over her. Gentle. Respectful. Heavy.
“Yes,” she said, quieter. “You did.”
“I meant what I said.”
“I know.”
“No,” he said. “I want you to really know. I’m confident, Ivy, not careless.”
The distinction moved through her like warm rain. She was silent long enough that the city seemed to grow louder beyond the glass, sirens in the distance, traffic murmuring below, the whole island breathing beneath its bright skin.
“I’m not easy,” she said at last.
Tyriq’s answer came without hesitation.
“I didn’t come over because I thought you were.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“I have a life.”
“I figured.”
“A full one.”
“I hope so.”
“I have a career, history, scars, habits I’m too old to explain, and a very low tolerance for being embarrassed.”
“I don’t want to embarrass you.”
“You might anyway.”
“Then I’d fix it.”
Her brows drew together.
“You say that like it’s simple.”
“No,” he said. “I say it like I’m willing.”
Willing. That word landed differently. Not promising perfection. Not selling fantasy. Just willingness, which Ivy had learned was rarer than love in some men. Love could be declared. Willingness had to show up on ugly days, had to carry groceries, had to listen without turning defensive, had to stand still when someone else’s fear came dressed as attitude. She did not know Tyriq well enough for that word to matter. And still, it did.
“You’re twenty-seven,” she said again, but this time the sentence sounded less like a warning and more like the last wall trying to remember what it had been built for.
Tyriq hummed softly.
“And you’re thirty-five.”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“I can count, Ivy.”
She laughed, and the sound came easier now, slipping into the room like light under a door.
“You’re so annoying.”
“You called me.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I should.”
“You should.”
Neither of them moved toward goodbye. The silence became something else then, not empty, not awkward, but thick with the intimacy of two people standing on opposite shores and realizing the tide between them was coming in. Ivy could hear faint noise behind him now, distant voices, a low pulse of music, something that sounded like an elevator chime or a lobby door opening. He was not in a bedroom. Not fully alone. Wherever he was, he had stepped away from someone, from something, to answer her.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Downstairs.”
Ivy sat up slowly. Her robe slipped further off one shoulder, but she did not fix it.
“Downstairs where?”
A pause.
Then, softly, with that same maddening calm, “Your hotel.”
Her heart gave one hard, foolish beat.
“Tyriq.”
“I’m not at your door,” he said immediately, and there it was again, the restraint arriving before her fear could dress itself properly. “I’m not pressing you. I’m in the lobby because my agent booked me here too, and because I told myself if you called, I’d ask if I could see you again before the night ended.”
Ivy stared at the window, at her own reflection caught inside the city lights.
“You were going to ask?”
“Yeah.”
“And if I said no?”
“I’d go upstairs, take my ass to sleep, and try again another day.”
“Another day?”
“I told you I was determined.”
She closed her eyes, but that only made his voice closer.
“You are impossible,” she whispered.
“I’m downstairs, Ivy.”
The sentence was quiet. No command. No demand. Just truth. And somehow that made it worse, because truth left room for choice, and choice meant Ivy could not blame anyone else for what her pulse did next. She stood from the bed. Slowly. Bare feet sinking into the carpet. Phone still pressed to her ear. Across the room, the city glittered like an altar built to bad decisions and beautiful consequences.
“I’m not dressed for company,” she said.
Tyriq’s voice lowered.
“I ain’t company.”
Her breath caught. The line hummed. She could imagine him in the lobby beneath her, still in that black suit, maybe tie loosened now, maybe one hand in his pocket, maybe looking too large for the elegant furniture, too alive for the curated quiet, waiting with the patience of a tide that knew the moon had already turned.
“Ivy,” he said.
She swallowed.
“Yes?”
“Tell me to come up.”
Her hand tightened around the phone. The whole room seemed to hold its breath with her. And then, just as her lips parted, there was a soft knock at the door.
tags : @mamasturn @sheinaskirt @authentic-girl03 @k0niiii-blog @trustmymood @glizzymcguirex @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @blackfemreaderr @blckblossom @trustmymood @unicoo @yourleogf @uniqueoutlierblog @og-goddesstrill @determinednot2fall @melaninhawtie @xoadaraox @thatssokarii @kirayuki22 @the1miscief @plan3tch1ld @daliscrim @szatears @that-one-anxious-mango @sonder-slut @saintaquarius (lmk if you wanted to be added or removed )
Synopsis: You were both the picture-perfect image of romance in f1, everyone's favourite couple. But then the frame broke, the glass shattered, and all fans could do was speculate and hope for some kind of explanation.
Starring: Sir Lewis Hamilton
Form: SMAU
☀️Sunny says: we've reached the finale! Thank you for granting me so much patience and this series so much love!
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☆ March '26
Show Me Love (with WizTheMC, bees&honey) • YN YLN
Liked by romeflynn, spinzbeatsinc, danielkaluuya and others
sincerelyn always thankful to the people who managed to help put my broken pieces back together again. Each and every one of you who always follow, support, and cheer me on count as well, so get ready for a very special announcement soon😝
user678 is that oscar award winning michael b jordan in slide 4????😧👀
user682 curse him for not having ig😑😑
user686 I was wondering why she hadn't been tagging him in her stories all this time🫢it's bc bro doesn't have an account to tag in the first place!
user693 does this mean they're confirming the dating rumours???
user456 just looked at my friend group and sighed😔😔😔
user789 she's alive, she's well, she's smiling again! fuck you lewis hamilton
user794 tried to take my girl's light away and got himself left in the dark💀💀
user234 lewis hamiltons closest friends turning their backs on him and taking his exs side I'd set myself on fire😭😭😭😭
user253 losing everything in #thegreatdivorceof2021 and only being left with kim kardashian on his side😬I almost feel bad for lewlew
user279 I don't. screw that prick!
isackhadjar what's the surprise??👀
kimi.antonelli mamma is cooking...
gabrielbortoleto_ kimi what do you know?!
francolapinto it's gonna be crazy, hermano😎
liamlawson30 stop keeping secrets, mate🫤
olliebearman liam??
liamlawson30 isack and arvid converted me🙁
sincerelyn you boys are so silly
isackhadjar MON DIEU😧🫢
arvid.lindblad mother, I miss you😔
sincerelyn see you in miami, baby goat
arvid.lindblad AAHHHH I mean cool😎
user123 MICHAEL B JORDAN😀😀
user166 hamiltonupdates and ynupdates may have been right...
user567 slide 8 is CRAZY
user588 how does it feel to live MY dream MBJ HUH?!
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Liked by theynstan, hamiltonupdates, landhoeluver and others
deuxmoi While everyone was focused on the NY Yankees thrashing the Red Sox, our eyes were glued on a certain couple in attendance. Despite not confirming the rumours, alt pop legend YN YLN and esteemed actor Damson Idris publically enjoyed the game wrapped up in each other👀
tagged: sincerelyn, damsonidris
user777 HOLY PLOT TWIST?!?!?!
user444 she really took every friend that man had and left him with the kardashians I can't breathe😭😭😭🏃➡️
user476 lewis certainly brought this on himself🫤🫤I can't even try to defend him
user483 that man has always been a poser😒
user497 "man"💀💀💀
user498 guess no one ever taught him how to be a real man🚶🏾➡️
user222 the way he's gripping her hand??? I know a yearner when I see one☝️🙂↕️
user238 someone on twitter said he had his eyes on her more than on the game😭😭
user266 my baby deserves this kind of love🗣
user888 I was at the game and when I tell my neck damn near snapped when I saw them further in the crowd🧍🏾♀️thought I was hallucinating😭😭
user892 not you giving yourself whiplash💀
user111 luv how they aren't keeping it a secret but aren't shoving it in everyone's faces either
user127 THEE f1 couple and neither of them are even drivers😭😭
user143 they're so classy I LUV IT🙂↕️🙂↕️🙂↕️
user167 it shows this isn't a pr scheme☝️🤓
user333 I was sitting a few rows behind them, and damson was always fixing her hair and placing kisses on her shoulder he does NAWT play about her🗣🗣🗣
user378 my girl got her happy ending😭😭
user555 bro watched his friend fumble a 10 and said PUT ME IN COACH😭😭
user999 not the whole friend group cutting lewis out🫣💀
user666 does this mean "Show Me Love" was written about Damson????
user678 I'd write a song like that about Damson Idris too
user684 it's FREAKIN DAMSON IDRIS
user699 he showed her true love🧎🏼♂️
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☀️Sunny says: thank you for coming along for the ride! Also, you'll never believe it, but this is still not proofread😭
☀️Sunny's playlist:
1. Show Me Love (with Tyla) by WizTheMC and bees&honey
hyunjin starts noticing a pattern no one else has been paying attention to, following a single red thread through old cases that never seemed connected. the more he digs, the harder it is to ignore what it might mean—and how long it’s been happening. when the latest victim is finally given a name, he knows he can’t let it be dismissed again.
pairing detective!hyunjin hwang x fbi agent!reader
genre detective au ; angst ; slow burn ; mystery / thriller
chapter rating pg
word count 3.2k
chapter warnings descriptions of crimes / violence against women
𓄲 and we're back! these first few chapters are a little slower just so you guys can get to know detective hwang and the victims more. later chapters will be quicker paced <3 enjoy hunnies!!
m a s t e r l i s t ⋆ i n b o x
🗂️ CASE FILE: JANE DOE 326DATE: January 14, 2026
TIME: 11:48 AM
📍 LOCATION: Detroit Police Department, Homicide Unit
By late morning, the night has not loosened its grip on him so much as rearranged itself into paperwork.
The bullpen is louder than he wants it to be. Phones ringing, chairs scraping, somebody laughing too hard at something not worth laughing at, the old radiator near records knocking every few minutes. Light pushes weakly through the windows lining the far wall, washed pale by winter and the grime worked into the glass over years of city soot and neglect. It does nothing to brighten the room. It only makes the fluorescent overheads feel crueler.
Hyunjin sits at his desk with his leather jacket still on.
A mug of coffee cools untouched near one elbow, his laptop open in front of him, Jane Doe’s preliminary file pulled up alongside three older case reports he should not already know as well as he does. He has been here for hours, though “here” feels generous when his mind is still split between the riverfront lot, the shape of the body under the floodlights, and that single strand of red lifted carefully into evidence like it had arrived carrying a message.
The fiber report is not back yet. The ME’s office has sent only the earliest notations, stripped to their clinical frame. Female. Approximate age twenty-three to twenty-six. Signs of strangulation. Secondary trauma consistent with sharp force injury. Time of death still being narrowed. Identity pending.
Identity pending.
He hates that line more every time he reads it.
A few desks over, someone says “Jay” to get his attention, then changes course when Hyunjin does not look up. “Hwang,” the same voice corrects.
Hyunjin keeps scrolling.
He started with Detroit because that was the simplest place to begin, old trace notes buried in closed files and archived scene logs, everything searchable only if you know how to ask for it and patient enough to sit through the garbage the system throws back first. Most detectives don’t have the patience. They search for weapon, cause of death, victim profile, obvious variables. They search the way people are taught to search, which means they only find what someone else once decided was important enough to name properly.
He typed in fiber first. Too broad.
Then thread.
That narrowed it enough to be irritating instead of useless. Hundreds of hits, most of them irrelevant. Red thread from a coat seam. Blue thread from carpet transfer. Fiber-like material. Loose textile contamination. Cases where the mention was incidental, one line in a report swallowed by ten pages of more urgent evidence.
Still, he kept going.
He knows better than to trust the first pass of anything. The truth is usually stuck halfway down the page where everyone else got tired.
The first file had made him sit up straighter.
Female victim. Twenty-nine. Found behind an abandoned service building on the west side eighteen months ago. Cause of death: blunt force trauma, though the body had shown signs of restraint. No purse. Phone missing. A notation deep in the evidence log, almost insultingly brief.
Single dark red thread recovered from victim’s coat sleeve. Trace value undetermined.
No follow-up listed.
The second hit came from Toledo, entered into a shared regional system because the original case had briefly raised trafficking concerns before collapsing into the shapeless category of unsolved homicide.
Female victim. Mid-twenties. Found near a rail yard access road. Minimal belongings. No immediate witnesses. Evidence notation: Fine burgundy thread collected from victim’s scarf. No significant findings.
No significant findings. As if the phrase itself could close a door.
The third took longer because Chicago’s entries were messier, attached to broader departmental imports and tagged inconsistently. But it was there once he dug deep enough. Another woman. Another night scene. Another line buried where no one would look unless they had already decided the thing they were looking for existed. Dark red fiber noted at scene and victim clothing. Presumed environmental transfer.
Hyunjin leans back just enough to rub a hand over his mouth, eyes never leaving the screen.
Three women before Jane Doe.
Different cities. Different lead investigators. Different causes of final classification. Not identical enough to leap off a page at someone who wanted neatness, but close in all the ways that matter when you have spent enough years standing over bodies to understand that killers are rarely as dramatic as the stories people tell about them later.
Similar age range. Similar isolation. Similar missing personal effects. Night scenes with limited witnesses. Controlled violence. And now the thread, appearing not as centerpiece but as residue, like the killer trusts invisibility more than spectacle.
He clicks back into Jane Doe’s report.
The red thread sits there in its own line because he made sure it did. Collected separately for analysis.
He stares at it for a long moment, then reaches for the desk phone.
The number attached to the first old Detroit case routes him through two transfers and an irritated administrative aide before landing in the voicemail of a retired detective who, according to the directory note, now consults part-time when it suits him.
Hyunjin hangs up before the tone and tries the mobile listed beneath it.
The man answers on the fourth ring, already sounding annoyed. “Yeah?”
“Detective Mercer?”
A beat. “Who’s asking?”
“Detective Hwang, Detroit Homicide.”
Another pause, this one sharpened by the old instinct of a cop measuring whether he wants to be involved in something before he agrees to hear it. “What do you need?”
Hyunjin keeps his voice even. “I’m looking at your West Warren case from August, eighteen months back. Female victim behind the service building. I had a question about trace evidence.”
There is a rustle on the other end, maybe movement, maybe a cigarette pack being handled, maybe just the sound of a man settling into memory he did not expect to revisit before noon.
“That case is dead,” Mercer says. “Has been for a while.”
“I can see that.”
“So why are you calling me?”
Because dead women do not stop being dead just because paperwork gets bored of them, Hyunjin thinks.
What he says is, “There was a red thread recovered from the victim’s sleeve. Logged but never followed up. I’m trying to determine why.”
Mercer gives a short exhale that could almost be a laugh if there were any humor in it. “Because it was a thread.”
“Yes.”
“That’s why. Girl was found behind a building full of old insulation and busted office furniture. You pull enough garbage off a scene, eventually something looks interesting until it isn’t.”
“Did lab compare it?”
“Not beyond prelim.” A pause. “Didn’t have enough to make it sing.”
Hyunjin turns slightly in his chair, eyes moving to the notes field he has already opened. “What about the victim?”
“What about her?”
“She was alone?”
Mercer is quiet long enough that Hyunjin knows the question landed where he meant it to. “Mostly,” the older detective says finally. “Worked nights, lived by herself, family out in Macomb or maybe farther. Had a boyfriend who swore he wasn’t really her boyfriend. No one saw much. She kept to herself.”
Hyunjin writes that down. “Anything else unusual?” he asks.
Mercer lets out another breath. “You calling everybody on your old files for textile trivia, Hwang?”
The name is not unkind, but it is careless in the way older men on the force often are, flattening people into whatever version is easiest for their tongue, least disruptive to their sense of the room.
Hyunjin lets it pass and repeats himself. “Anything else?”
This time Mercer does laugh, dry and brief. “You sound young.”
Hyunjin says nothing.
“Fine,” Mercer mutters. “Scene was clean. Too clean, actually. Not much personal property. No bag, no phone. We looked at exes, drifters, opportunists, the usual parade. Nothing held. You asking me if it bothered me? Yeah. It bothered me. But bothered and provable aren’t the same thing.”
No bag. No phone. Hyunjin writes that down too.
By the time he hangs up, he already has the number for Toledo pulled onto his screen.
The detective there, a woman named Ruiz, does not make him work as hard for her memory.
“Burgundy thread?” she says the second he mentions it. “I remember that.”
Hyunjin straightens. “You do?”
“Because it pissed me off.”
The answer almost startles something like a smile out of him, but not quite. “Why?”
“Because it looked like it should mean something.” Papers shuffle on her end, keyboard clicks following. “We had a young female victim off an access road near the freight yards. Lived alone. Limited social circle. Missing phone, purse never found. The fiber came off her scarf. Lab said same thing they always say when they don’t want to marry a theory too early. Could be transfer, could be environmental, could be meaningless.”
“And you didn’t think it was.”
“I thought it was above my pay grade to insist on it once the rest of the case started sinking.” Her tone flattens on the last part, self-disgust hidden badly. “What’ve you got?”
Hyunjin glances around the bullpen. A patrol officer is crossing toward the lieutenant’s office. Someone in vice is arguing over printer access. Everything ordinary, everything moving, while beneath it the shape begins to sharpen.
“One current Jane Doe,” he says quietly. “Detroit riverfront. Similar age range. Missing personal effects. Controlled scene. Red thread recovered separately.”
Ruiz does not speak for two full seconds.
“Shit,” she says finally.
“Yeah.”
“You call Chicago?”
“Not yet.”
“Call them.”
He almost says he was already going to. Instead, “I am.”
The Chicago detective is younger than he expected, her voice clipped and brisk with the kind of alertness that suggests she has not yet had enough years in the job to start pretending detachment is the same thing as wisdom. Detective Lena Park. The name catches him for half a beat, but only because he is tired and noticing patterns everywhere now.
When he explains why he is calling, she goes quiet in a way that tells him she is opening the file while he talks.
“Victim was twenty-four,” she says after a moment. “Part-time student, worked at a nail salon. Found near an underpass not far from the river. Phone missing, bag gone. Cause of death was listed as sharp force trauma with evidence of manual strangulation. We had the red fiber but nothing tying it anywhere useful.”
“Anyone push it?”
“Not enough.” There is irritation under the words, aimed inward as much as out. “Lab kicked back a preliminary saying cotton-wool blend, dyed, commercially common. That was enough for command to stop caring. We were drowning in worse scenes that month.”
Hyunjin leans back again, staring at the ceiling for one brief second before looking down at his notes. “And the victim profile?”
“Lived with a roommate. Quiet. Worked, went to class, sent money to family. Why?”
Because the shape of it is becoming impossible to deny.
Because once is a scene, twice is coincidence if you are lazy, three is a pattern if you are paying attention, and four starts to look like someone moving through women’s lives with the same cold hand every time.
Because somebody has been allowed to stay invisible by counting on departments not talking to each other unless the blood gets loud enough.
“No reason,” Hyunjin says, which is not true enough to satisfy either of them.
When he hangs up, he sits still for a while. Around him the precinct keeps breathing.
It would be easy, at this point, to get ahead of himself. He knows that. Easy to build a structure out of instinct and force the evidence to live inside it because the alternative is admitting he may have spent the last six hours pulling ghosts out of old paperwork. He has seen younger detectives do exactly that, drunk on the idea of being the first person to name something no one else caught.
That is not what this is. This is the opposite, actually. This is him resisting the urge to make it cleaner than it is.
Not all the victims match perfectly. The methods vary at the edges. Time of death windows are not identical. There is no dramatic signature carved into skin, no taunting letter, no staged tableau meant to flatter law enforcement into paying attention. Just a quiet kind of repetition. A killer who trusts systems to fail the women he chooses and, so far, has been right.
A knock lands lightly against the side of his desk.
Hyunjin looks up.
Officer Bennett, the one he sent running the first wave of missing persons and community checks, stands there with a folder in one hand and a look on his face that is part relief, part caution. “We may have your Jane Doe.”
Hyunjin stands so quickly his chair rolls back half a foot behind him.
“Who?”
Bennett opens the folder. “Name’s Yoo Minji. Twenty-four. Reported missing this morning by her coworker when she didn’t show up for her shift and stopped answering her phone. Came over from South Korea two years ago on a student visa, switched status after transfer, now working and taking classes part-time.” He glances down at the page. “Lives alone in Hamtramck. Coworker said she usually checks in with her aunt in New Jersey every Sunday, but they haven’t gotten there yet.”
Minji.
The name settles into the room with a quiet force that makes everything else move back around it.
Not Jane Doe. Not pending. Not unidentified female.
Minji.
Hyunjin takes the folder from him more gently than the moment deserves. The attached DMV-style photo is slightly overexposed, washing out her skin beneath bad fluorescent light, but it is her. Same dark hair, same mouth. Alive in the picture in a way that always feels like a cruelty when compared against the body.
For one stupid second, all he can think is that she had time enough to renew an ID photo and not enough time enough for anything after.
“She had a roommate?” he asks, eyes moving over the page.
“No. Studio apartment. Coworker says she kept mostly to herself. Worked at a bakery mornings, classes some evenings. No immediate local family.”
The words hit one after another in the exact places he expected them to and still leave bruises anyway.
“Any known boyfriend?”
“Nothing confirmed yet.”
“Phone records?”
“Requested.”
Hyunjin nods once, sharp. “Good.”
Bennett hesitates. “You okay?”
It is not the question itself that catches him off guard. It is the fact that Bennett asked it without performance, without making a joke first to soften whatever he thinks concern costs between men in a precinct like this. Hyunjin looks down at Minji’s photo again before answering.
“I’m working,” he says.
Bennett seems to understand that for what it is and what it is not. “Right.”
When he leaves, Hyunjin lowers himself back into his chair with the folder still open in front of him.
Minji.
He says it once under his breath, not loudly enough for anyone else to hear. Just enough to set it firmly where the file can’t take it away again.
Then he reaches for a fresh report template.
The cursor blinks in the empty field for classification recommendation while he thinks.
Departments hate the word serial unless it arrives already dressed in certainty. The term invites press, task forces, oversight, political panic, budget fights, inter-jurisdictional bruising, every bureaucratic headache command would rather postpone until the body count becomes too embarrassing to ignore. Use it too early and you sound reckless. Use it too late and you look negligent. There is no clean timing for a thing like this. Only nerve.
Hyunjin rolls his shoulders once, feeling the accumulated stiffness of the night and morning pull along his spine, then starts typing.
Potential linked homicide series.
He stops then deletes it. Too soft.
Potential serial offender operating across jurisdictions, connected by recurring victimology, scene control indicators, and repeated trace evidence involving a dark red thread recovered in multiple cases.
Better. Not because it sounds bigger, but because it sounds precise.
He builds from there carefully, sentence by sentence, giving the argument structure before anyone can accuse it of being only instinct. He lists Minji first, current case details up front, then the old Detroit file, then Toledo, then Chicago. He includes dates, victim ages, missing personal effects, similarities in isolation, evidence notation language, the fact that prior detectives independently remembered the thread because it stood out even when nothing came of it. He writes like he is laying boards across a river, one after another, until no one can claim there was never a way to cross.
By the time he finishes the first draft, the room around him has shifted into afternoon. His coffee is fully cold now, but he drinks it anyway, making a face he is barely conscious of.
Then he prints the report, gathers the attached case summaries, and heads for the lieutenant’s office before he can give himself enough time to wonder whether command will hear what he is actually saying or only how inconvenient it sounds.
The lieutenant’s door is half-open. Through the gap Hyunjin can see him bent over paperwork with the resigned posture of a man who has spent too many years being asked to care about budgets and politics by people who never have to stand in the dark beside a body themselves.
Hyunjin knocks once.
“Yeah?”
He steps in and closes the door behind him.
The lieutenant glances up. “What is it?”
Hyunjin sets the report down on the desk between, placed with enough certainty that the paper carries its own weight. “I need this flagged.”
The lieutenant looks from the report to Hyunjin’s face, already wary. “Flagged as what?”
There is a beat, small and dense. Then Hyunjin says it plainly. “Potential serial homicide.”
The room goes still in that particular way offices do when a word too large has been brought into them.
The lieutenant leans back slowly, eyes dropping to the report without touching it yet. “That’s a hell of a swing.”
“I know.”
“You got more than a feeling?”
Hyunjin could say yes. He could say no. Instead he says the truest thing available. “I have a pattern.”
The lieutenant studies him for a long moment, weighing not just the paperwork but Hyunjin himself, his track record, the cost of being wrong measured against the cost of doing nothing and learning later that wrong had simply been late.
Finally he reaches for the first page.
Hyunjin stands there while he reads, hands loose at his sides, pulse steady in a way that surprises him. Not calm exactly, but certain. More certain than he was at two in the morning beside the river, when all he had was a dead woman and a thread that refused to look accidental.
Minji’s face rises in his mind again. The old cases after her. The women no one had linked because no one had reason enough to insist on it. The detectives in other cities who remembered the fiber anyway, still annoyed by it, still haunted by the sense that something had sat wrong and been left there.
It starts with something small. Something easy to ignore.
Hyunjin waits while the lieutenant reads, letting himself believe the thread might finally be strong enough to pull something larger into the light.
“could be torn between two roads and I just can’t decide which one is leading me to hell or paradise.. baby, I can(t) hurt you, sure, but I’m the jealous type..” 🍒
In which you stake your claim on two of the most popular boys on campus 🍒
warnings: 18+ material (MNI), dark! reader, obsession, infatuation, d*ath, mentions of blood, smuttt — MFM threesome, fingering in a public place, choking, spitting, possessiveness, double penetration, jealousy, use of a knife, biting, cussing/swearing, creampie, just filth and a really dirty, fucked up two man 😭
a.n: heed these warnings and strap in boo, that’s all I gotta say 😭 those mf a lil long so have fun. I’ll talk to y’all later 😚
on the jukebox: ‘Jealous Type’ by Doja Cat 🎀
.
“I wonder how many girls they sleep with on a daily basis”
Kaylie, your friend muttered under her breath as you both sat in the collegiate cafeteria courtyard outside.
They were friends, best friends actually. Best friends and roommates.
Class clowns and yet managed good grades, jokers and yet acquired the respect of not just students but faculty.
Everybody loved them. Boys hated them because they weren’t them, girls adored them with hopes of being up in the rotation next to sleep in their beds.
You? You didn’t know if you loved or hated them. Them— Rafe Cameron and Cameron Cade. Both over six feet, long and lanky, they actually had a lot to bond over.
Maybe it was because they came from different yet similar walks of life but sat on their high horses. They bypassed a lot of ridicule and obscurity simply because of who they were.
You didn’t know how they did it. It was stupidly impressive and it pissed you off.
It wasn’t hard to spot Rafe and Cameron from where you sat, they were two of the tallest motherfuckers in your undergrad grade.
Cameron cradled a football, occasionally throwing it from one hand to the other. Rafe sported a notebook and wore his backpack that had his lacrosse sticks connected to it.
They conversed, one made a joke and the other laughed loudly, tossing his head back.
“Don’t you ever think about that?” Kaylie asked.
You didn’t have to think, you already knew it.
Both boys weirdly had the same body count of 15, almost like they fucked together. Rafe was a bit more modest about his but he still kept pussy on his arm. Cameron was far more loud and clear about it.
“I bet you I could fuck them. Not just Rafe or Cameron but both of them, y’know?” Kaylie continued to rave as you both stared at the two men.
You ignored the confidence Kaylie shouldn’t have had.
“How when they don’t know who we are? They get around and have groupie campus bitches, I’m sure they fuck on them every night. No use for regular girls like us”
You didn’t mean to sound so jealous or pessimistic. It was a natural thing whenever you saw the boys.
“Chill out, (Y/N), I doubt Rafe and Cameron even do relationships.. but some good dick will go a long way”
“You think so?”
“I’m willing to bet my life, girl”
It was true that the boys weren’t dating the girls but your jealous streak came out every time you saw them, let alone heard their names.
What was it about Rafe Cameron and Cameron Cade?
Maybe it was their charm. Maybe it was their smiles, their laughter, their ways with words that often had you blushing and laughing along with them with that twinkle in your eye.
Probably the fact that they always knew to come to you for questions about the Hiroshima and Nagasaki incidents, the Gettysburg battle, or even something as basic as fucking where Angel Island was on the map compared to Ellis Island.
It was having them so close to you when they looked at you expectantly for answers. It was how excited they got when you helped them paired with a squeeze of your arm or even a full on hug and kiss to your cheek.
You fucking hated it. Hated it because you knew they had that effect on everybody else and were making other people laugh and blush like you— other women.
Your eyes caught the movements of the exact reason your skin crawled. As if on cue, as if in sync.
Sofia and Jasmine approached the men and greeted them with hugs, both of their lanky arms wrapping around their necks. Their bodies swaying to the sides… both Rafe and Cameron’s arms hugged the girls’ waist so low…
Women like them.
“What the fuck do they have that I don’t?”
You just briefly met the girls’ eye contact before turning away, before sighing out of frustration and packing up your things, before standing up and slinging your tote bag over your shoulder.
“Girl, where’re you going? We still have two more chapters to study for” Kaylie’s frown was soft on her gorgeous, nerdy facial features.
“I need to go”
You stomped on your MaryJanes until you exited the courtyard and found the pathway to the library.
You didn’t know it yet but you caught more attention than just the women you’d steadily grown jealous of.
.
“For your final project of the semester, I’m putting you fours on a collaborative project and I expect you all to work equally to succeed on a passing grade”
The next day found you sitting in the same library next to Kaylie.
Arms crossed and frozen, your heart racing in your ears.
“I hope you know who want to pair up with because I’m picking your other partners”
You and Kaylie met each other’s eyes, telepathically telling each other this project was a cake walk no matter who you got paired with.
But it was your professor’s next set of words that you couldn’t have predicted even if you put money on it.
“(Y/N) and Kaylie, Rafe and Cameron”
This couldn’t be real. Kaylie looked at you like it wasn’t. Eyes wide, a small gape in her mouth that slowly turned up into a smile. She grinned and quietly cheered, she eyed you hoping you to do the same but all you could do was sit there frozen.
You stared at the tan marble table before you and before you knew it, your peripheral vision saw the boys approaching. They sat their backpacks down and pulled out the chairs, getting situated.
When you looked up, you wanted to vomit.
Two sets of the prettiest eyes you’d ever fucking seen stared between you and Kaylie, their smiles pulled and poking at their dimples.
“Hi girls” Rafe smirked, crossing his arms. You tried to ignore the way his biceps peeked through his cream colored Henley shirt. Or the way the small diamonds in his ears dazzled and complimented his buzz cut.
“H-Hey” you murmured.
“Looks like it’s us four together, huh?” Cameron Cade leaned back in the library chair, mirroring Rafe and also crossing his arms with a smirk.
You finally spared the boys a bold glance only to find Cameron Cade staring you down, a certain fire in his eyes. He was unabashed with his gaze on you, you didn’t miss the way his irises checked you up and down.
It was something about his greenish hazels that made it hard for you to pull away from him. It felt trance like.
“Looks that way” you replied back to him. You opened your mouth to speak but the voice beside you was faster.
“So where are we starting first? Better yet, where should we study outside of class? Not to sound thirsty but my spot is pretty spacious—“
You grimaced at your friend, looking to your left. “Kaylie—“
“What? The library isn’t open on the weekends and who knows how much time we’ll get during the week”
She looked at you and shrugged before turning her attention back to the boys.
The same boys who were suddenly so interested in her suggestion, their bodies leaned in and listening to Kaylie ramble about her off campus apartment.
You put a hand on her shoulder, stopping her, leaning in to whisper in her ear.
“I know you don’t mean to sound thirsty but you sound and look it. These boys just sat down, can you chill out?”
Kaylie pushed out another sigh, looking both boys square in the eyes and giving them the biggest, fakest smiles you’d ever seen.
“Can y’all give us a minute? We just gotta straighten something out real fast”
They only nodded, those same smirks still pulled at their lips. Next thing you knew, Kaylie was hauling you up by the arm and dragging you over to a section within the library.
“(Y/N), you must not know what God just blessed us with. You’re not dreaming, okay? I need you to wake up and get on that right with me. Why’re you acting like such a prude?”
You blinked at the woman before you, “Kaylie.. for your sake and mine, I’m going to ignore that word choice—“
“But I’m saying, (Y/N)—“
“But I’m saying too, Kay” you put your hands on her shoulders, looking in her eyes, “men like that can see when we’re coming on too strong. I want that just as bad as you do but we have to ease into it. We can’t look desperate to fuck them”
With the way Kaylie’s nose turned up and the way she shrugged your hands off of her, you’d think you called her all kinds of names and told her to go fuck herself.
“So you’re calling me desperate?”
You frowned, confused. “What— Kaylie, no—“
“You act like you ain’t been wanting to fuck them since we started college, that beating around the bush shit is for little girls, (Y/N), you’re too grown to not know what you want.. I know I do”
Kaylie shrugged again. You watched her become bolder, not to mention physically fixing herself— she fluffed out her boho braids and unbuttoned another button of her shirt, subtly exposing her cleavage.
“I mean, you can wait around all you want to but you said it yourself, they’re not fucking on regular girls like us so why not change that when we have the opportunity? You know what I’m on”
All you could do was stare at Kaylie, who the fuck was this girl? And who was she talking to?
“Say the word, (Y/N), I can have both of them to myself if you don’t want them. I’on see you tryna make plays, what are you willing to do?”
She sauntered off, leaving you standing there and stunned.
When you returned to the table, Kaylie had helped herself to sitting closer to Rafe and Cameron. Your professor had already given out the assignment and provided books.
The boys smiled upon your return, Kaylie only smirked at you. Except it didn’t feel welcoming, it felt like she was rubbing it in your face. You swallowed hard, trying to control your emotions.
She sat in the middle of the boys, you noticed an empty seat next to her. That’s when Rafe stood up, easily towering over you.
“Come sit” he smiled that stupid smile that had his dimples exposed, “we didn’t wanna get started without you, sweetheart”
His hand ghosted over the small of your back, guiding you past him and to your seat directly next to his.
Before you could even sit down, you felt the sneaky hand of Rafe Cameron press at your back fully. You glanced up at him with a soft shock in your eyes.
Slyly, he leaned down, his lips through your hair.. his warm, minty breath so suddenly in your ear and down the side of your face.
“You can always sit in my lap if you want” he murmured “I don’t mind”
When you shivered, Rafe chuckled. His heated gaze met Cameron’s over Kaylie’s, she was too busy going over the project for them to notice.. but you noticed.
It felt like the boys were telepathically communicating, a certain language that’d go over many heads.
At first you didn’t understand it but when you did.. Kaylie’s words rang in your head.
‘What are you willing to do?’
Your decision wasn’t hard.
.
“(Y/N), it’s almost quarter after eight, where’s Kaylie?” Your professor quizzically asked as she approached your empty library table.
It was just you sitting there a few days afterwards.
Your phone stayed open with Kaylie’s text chain on the screen, you’d been texting her since yesterday. Nothing, not even a delivered message. You showed your professor.
“She slept at Danielle’s dorm last night and didn’t come back to our apartment so I’m not sure. We’ve been studying like crazy so I’m sure she overslept, didn’t hear her alarm”
Solid. Your professor nodded and walked away, approaching another student table. Behind her walked up the two boys who immediately upped your blood pressure. They even smiled in sync when they saw you.
“Pretty girl” Cameron mumbled as he approached the table, “how are you this morning?”
You prayed the fluster wasn’t obvious.
“Flirting with my girl this early in the morning, Cade? Is bro code not a thing anymore, or what?”
Rafe dropped his backpack beside his chair and sat down with folded arms, a playful look of competitiveness in his blues as he looked at Cameron Cade.
“Jesus” you breathed out a giggle, covering your face, “enough, we have to focus today, guys, okay? Please chill out”
“Yes ma’am” they both said in unison, you rolled your eyes.
.
Call it being the scholar you were but you immersed yourself perfectly in your work despite the fact that you had two of your crushes working so closely to you.
But that was soon short lived.
“Hey, (Y/N)” Cameron whispered across from you, “you mind helping me find a book about this project? I’on really know where to look in here”
You didn’t think anything of it. How could you? You nodded.
“Of course, c’mon”
Cameron Cade followed you eagerly, his tallness towered over you as you walked. The expansive library had so many twists and turns to it, so many corners and hooks to get lost. Easy to hide out.
The history section just so happened to be tucked off.
You were so oblivious. Not just to the lewd thoughts of Cameron Cade but the way he looked at you.. but the way he stalked towards you as you bent over to grab at the book he purposefully placed so low to the ground yesterday.
“Mhphm— it’s so stuck back there— got it! Here you go, Cam”
You turned around to find the man just at your back, all he did was smile and pluck the book out of your grasp. He was close to you, if you wanted to kiss him, you could.
“Y’know I never got to ask you but where’s your lil friend at today? Class damn near over and she ain’t show up yet”
Shrugging, leaning against the bookshelf, “I’ve been calling and texting all period, nothing”
Cameron nodded, saying nothing. All he did was look at you.. more like look through you.
It was starting to make your skin crawl and not in the bad way. He suddenly reached above your head and grabbed another book.
“Yeah I hope she’s alright but uh, it doesn’t matter much to us.. that right, Rafe?”
From around the corner, his best friend emerged. He shook his head, eyes drinking you in. “Nah, not much to me.. if anything, we’ve kinda been hoping to get you alone, (Y/N)”
This couldn’t be real life. You had to be dreaming, right?
You finally found your words but your throat was dry. “W-what are you guys talking about?”
Cameron chuckled, “c’mon, pretty girl.. use that head..”
He slick leaned into you to put the book back but caged you into him, both hands on the sides of your head. Cameron Cade had no shame as his lips found your neck.
Heated, wet, splotches to your skin.. your eyes shut pathetically, a low mewl just barely creeping out of you.
“Can’t tell me you haven’t seen the way we look at you.. ‘s been that way since the beginning, princess.. we’ve been wanting you”
Your lips softly gaped open, you stared at Rafe who stood ahead. His blues going darker by the second.
“We? As in you both? Not just one of you?”
That had Cameron pulling back and Rafe stepping forward, nobody said anything. They both surged in and kissed your lips, blood raced in your ears.
Somehow you moved in a slow, sensual tandem kissing Cameron and Rafe at the same time. Soft smacks and heavy breaths.
Both boys occasionally took turns kissing you individually— Rafe taking you by the chin, Cameron a bit rough and grabbing by the neck as he stuck his tongue down your throat.
It was easily the hottest thing you’d ever done in your life.
If that wasn’t the cherry on top, it was—
“Can we touch you, baby?” Rafe mumbled against your lips. He smirked at your soft panic.
“R-Right now? In here? Our class is just out there, someone could walk in on us any moment” you whispered.
Neither of them responded right away, instead one found your neck and the other began kissing you again.
Cameron held your kiss in place with his hand over your throat, the other hand boldly going under your pleated skirt and pushing your panties to the side. Upon finally feeling the promised land, Cameron groaned.
“Fuck… wet as fuck for me, sweetheart..”
The pads of his thumb circled your clit and all over your pussy before pressing at your entrance, surging forward. Not to start moving but to stay there, Cameron’s fingers were thick.
And if that wasn’t worse—
“What about me, huh? This pretty pussy got room for another?” Rafe muttered in your ear, also going up your skirt.
Similarly to Cameron, he sought out your sopping clit, making your back arch. Two equally thick digits encased themselves inside of you.
You felt a deep moan immediately creep up in your throat, ready to tear itself out but your brain recognized your surroundings. You’d be expelled in no time if someone caught this and reported it.
Just as your hand flew to cover your mouth, Cameron Cade was faster. He grabbed it and put it back to your side, he condescendingly shook his head.
“I’on care about all’a that” at the same time, his fingers began pumping, thumb hitting your clit, “i wanna see this face when you cum.. you better be quiet though.. can you do that for us, baby?”
Rafe’s fingers also began thrusting, you could barely fucking think.
All you could do was bite your lip and swallow hard, that hot, white feeling of pleasure creeping up your spine and spreading throughout your body.
“P-please I c-can’t—“
Cameron frowned down at you and instead of slowing down, his fingers fucked you harder.
“No? Fuck you mean no? You must wanna get caught, huh? You hear that, Rafe? She wants somebody to walk in on us stretching her out”
Rafe mirrored Cameron’s frown and much like him, his fingers also sped up. Your eyes rolled back to your head, your buttoned chest heaved.
Disappointment swarmed throughout your chest as you looked in between your crushes.
“Just f-feels so good.. please, I w-won’t be able to shut up. I-I have to—“
An involuntary yelp of a moan almost sounded from the deepest depths of your body but Rafe quickly swallowed it with a kiss. You melted into him easily, kissing him back and submitting to his dominance. It quieted you down for sure.
The only noises present should anybody walk by being that of labored, heavy breathing, and your squelching pussy wrapped around four fingers.
Still kissing you, Rafe looked over at his best friend— the culprit that rubbed your clit a certain way to emit such a noise. Cameron Cade merely smirked and shrugged.
“Stop bein’ so fuckin’ nice to her” Cameron muttered.
But Rafe was too much of a softie, especially with the more he kissed you and after he pulled back to look at you. Swollen pouty lips, lust blown eyes, you just wanted to be good for them.
“‘m gonna cum” you just barely whispered out, “please don’t make me hold it, I’ll be so good, I promise”
His dark blues peered deeply into yours, he nodded, taking in the desperate and pleading look in your eyes that had his cock rock solid.
“I know baby, I know.. it’s okay..”
You turned your head to look at Cameron for what felt like an eternity. It lit a fire within you. You took him by the shirt and kissed him deeply, it felt like he was the hardest to convince.
“I’ll be so good for you, I fuckin’ promise”
Cameron looked at you with a challenge in his greenish hazels, “yeah?” His fingers sped up, “I’ll hear you scream for me later but for now, I just wanna see you cum.. you’re so fuckin’ pretty, baby, I just wanna see you come apart for me that’s all..”
From the side, Rafe was at your neck, placing the lightest, teasing kisses that was doing everything it needed for you in this moment.
“Yeah c’mon, baby, cum for us.. get my fingers real messy so I can taste you… bet she taste real good, don’t you think, Cam?”
Cameron smirked, “I’m already knowing”
You were surprised you didn’t scream or didn’t black out. Your orgasm slammed into you without notice.
Your legs quivered, hands digging into both Cameron and Rafe’s shirts for some kind of purchase for your release. If anything, your vision was spotty and probably bit on your lip so hard you drew blood.
All you could recall was the snapping and release of your walls, the thrumming feeling that left your body vibrating.
But the looks of the boys said you were in the clear. You watched them slowly, carefully remove their fingers and stick them in their mouths. Their groans soft.
You opened your own mouth to say something but the bell sounded, cutting you off. Whatever message you had in your head was already a thing that the boys picked up on.
They approached you closely and kissed you again, Rafe first, Cameron last.
“Text us your address, let’s finish this tonight, yeah?”
.
If the boys knew what was good for them, they’d have pulled out the very driveway they eagerly parked into.
Turning off the car, they exited and approached your off campus apartment. Nightfall was in full effect, the clock struck 8 PM the last time they checked.
They rang your doorbell and waited only a moment before you opened the door. You dressed in a floor long black silk robe, your kinky hair pressed out in big, fluffy curls.
“H-Hi! Hi, come in! Sorry, i was cleaning up a little bit before y’all came but it’s okay, c’mon”
Both men gave each other a look before stepping inside. You were just a little out of breath, a little flustered but nothing out of the ordinary.
When they stepped inside fully, Cameron’s sight caught notice of an extra set of everything. Shoes, a jacket on the chair, a put up purse.
It seemed like the boys had the same thought but you were on them faster. You wrapped your arms around Rafe’s neck, kissing him deeply. You moved over to Cameron and did the same, leaning into him, your acrylic nails brushing over his buzzed head.
“Mhm..” Cameron groaned as his own hands settled on your hips, “sweetheart, hold on—“
“What’s the matter?” You mumbled. You reached out and gently took Rafe by the back of his neck, bringing him in for another hungry kiss, your tongues mingling.
“Where’s your roommate at?” Cameron asked.
“Where’s she been at?” Rafe mumbled.
You waved them off, “oh she’s fine, Kaylie’s out running some errands for the apartment and doing her thing. She’ll be gone for a couple of hours, it’s okay”
Your sentiment didn’t really convince the men fully but it convinced them some. They should’ve listened to their gut.
“So she’s—“
You silenced Cameron’s concerns with a peck and a nibble to his earlobe.
“If you’re worried about her walking in on the both of you stretching my pussy out, then you have nothing to worry about”
You turned to Rafe and began kissing the column of his neck.
“I promise everything’s okay.. just.. please take care’a me..”
Still on Rafe, you single-handedly worked Cameron’s belt loose and opened his pants, surging your hand past his briefs and seeking out his warm, thick cock. Cameron hissed as you began jerking at him, twisting at his base.
“Been thinkin’ of the both of you since this morning.. I came back home afterwards and tried to make myself cum just as hard as y’all did but I couldn’t do it”
You giggled to yourself as you continued with Cameron and kissing on Rafe. With your other hand, you paid Rafe the same attention.
His dick was a bit longer from what you could feel but just as thick and heavy as Cameron’s, it had your heart racing in anticipation.
It took nothing to get both men hard and ready.. if they weren’t already. They moaned and groaned out into the air with no shame. They weren’t afraid to touch you either.
One of them had reached out to untie your robe, grunting at the sight of you naked underneath. Cameron slid a hand behind and grabbed your ass, Rafe slid up and grabbed at your breast.
“You’re so fucking sexy, baby” Rafe mumbled hoarsely, squeezing your tit, his thumb brushing over your nipple. He leaned in heatedly and captured your lips.
Cameron Cade was growing jealous right beside you. He gripped your ass hard, one of his fingers dipping in between your folds and finally seeking out your pussy. You whimpered pathetically.
“Enough’a that, c’mere, baby”
Cameron Cade led his kiss tongue first. Wet, messy, sloppy, filthy, and you loved everything about it.
“Ooh somebody’s jealous, huh?” Rafe said with a smirk, “I think I can fuck her better than you, Cade.. probably make her cum harder than this morning in the library”
Cameron pulled away, staring down at you. He covered your hand with his that was still stroking his cock, stroking faster.
“Tell him that’s not possible baby. Tell him the only reason you felt so good this morning was because of me”
The attention was becoming overwhelming in the best way possible, it was what you saw in your dreams. You laughed.
“Come on, boys” you pecked their lips individually, “isn’t it better to be about it instead of talking about it?”
That seemed to activate both men. From the middle of the living room to your bedroom, you were finally stripped naked.
Stripped naked and lying on the bare chest of Cameron Cade who fondled at your breasts without a care in the world, not a teasing bone in his body.
All the while his best friend was between your legs, eating your pussy like his fucking like depended on it.
One hand on Rafe’s head as you rode his face, one hand behind Cameron’s head as he tongued you down.
You opened your eyes and suddenly you were on your knees, mouth full of Cameron Cade. Rafe Cameron was behind you, one hand further mold you into a deep arch and in one swift motion, letting the head of him breach your entrance.
“Oh.. fuck..” Rafe groaned under his breath, “fuck, sweetheart” his hand slapped at your ass.
You had two hands at Cameron’s thick base, you dropped his tip from your mouth, your head falling forward.
“So big..” you muttered, tossing your head over your shoulder to look at Rafe.
“Oh yeah?” Rafe probed, beginning to thrust, his hands at your hips. “Just like that, princess? You ever had someone stretch you out this good?”
You didn’t mean to look Cameron Cade in the eyes but when you did, you were glad you did. Mischief swirled in your irises, your hands still stroking him.
“Never had anybody stretch my pussy this good, baby.. and I don’t think I ever will except you”
You knew what you were doing and it pissed Cameron Cade the fuck off. He growled and took you off of him completely.
“Get her up” Cameron ordered, he stood before Rafe, “gettin’ real sick of her mouth”
Rafe only chuckled and hauled you up in his arms, he guided you back until yours met Cameron’s chest. Your legs dangled in Rafe’s arms, your arms around his neck.
You still had a certain playful expression in your eyes but it was nothing like seeing it disappear as both men had you stationed on their lengths, easing you down and stuffing you full of both of them.
“Oh— oh my fucking— shit!” You cried out, tossing your head back onto Cameron’s shoulder. The man took that opportunity to sling an arm around your front to keep you close.
“Nghh fuck, Rafe, she’s so tight. Could cum like this alone” Cameron grumbled.
It wasn’t long before both men began fucking you. They weren’t nice about it either. Ragged, hard, and fast.
At some point, you began bouncing. Your body jutted, hair all over the place, titties jumping up your chest.
There was a slight burn with accomdating two monstrous lengths inside of you at the same time but you were so wet with slick, it became easier.
“You feel so good, sweetheart..” Rafe murmured in your neck, “bein’ such a good girl for us, ain’t she, Cam? Ain’t that many girls on this campus that can take two of us at the same time”
Cameron chuckled, “nah not many at all… but she’s special.. our girl, our sweet girl— this pussy is special.. made just for us to fuck”
The boys so blown in lust and close to their own orgasms weren’t expecting your next response.
“And you better know it too”
You had Rafe on his back, Cameron behind you, still inside of you. You began riding Rafe Cameron like the world was ending tonight. There was a look of possessiveness in your eyes that was scaring him yet driving him wild.
But it wasn’t just him that needed to know. You reached back to caress Cameron’s head.
“Both of you are mine and mine only.. and it’s not just because I can fit the both of you inside of me, it’s because I said so. We make each other feel so good.. why give that to anyone else, huh?”
You rode Rafe harder, inadvertently riding Cameron harder. The boys groaned loudly.
“I have no plans to give this pussy away which means you can’t give this dick away, do y’all understand me?”
Call it being pussy whipped and close to an orgasm that had the boys nodding their heads vigorously but they nodded.
“Such good boys..” you leaned back and hungrily kissed Cameron before leaning down and kissing Rafe.
You bounced on him, grinding against his pelvis. “Open” you ordered him and grabbing his jaw. The slack opening saw you dribbling a line of spit onto his tongue.
“Where’s mine?” Cameron gruffly asked from behind. You simply smirked, leaned back, and opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out.
Cameron hesitated none with drawing out a line on your tongue, watching in pure pleasure as you swallowed every bit of it.
Maybe that’s what sent him over the edge.
“Fuck, I’m cumming”
Rafe grabbed at your breasts, “‘m right there too, oh shit—“
Their orgasm triggered your own and when you fell apart, it was much more intense than the first time. The difference being, you got to scream about it.
Your walls squeezed every drop out of poor Rafe and Cameron into your greedy canal, filling you up like you’ve never known. So much that you’d already began leaking.
You didn’t collapse right away, you stayed straddling Rafe, still with him inside of you. Cameron pulled out and laid beside him instead. A post orgasm euphoria coated your body as you looked in between them.
“Better than I’ve ever imagined”
One peck to Rafe, one peck to Cameron.
“After this, we have to promise we’ll be on our best behavior with this project and get it finished” you giggled.
Cameron chuckled, “we can once your load gets lighter, pretty girl. Can’t have you doing all the work. Where is your roommate?”
You laughed again and shook your head, “she’s dead in my bathroom. I killed her before you guys got here”
The boys blinked at you.
“Figured I couldn’t fuck you guys with the smell of her body in here if she died a few days ago, that kind of smell tends to linger”
Call it a coping mechanism but they finally began laughing. A nervous filter behind it, they prayed to every God that you were joking.
You giggled with them, finally getting off of Rafe and grabbing at your robe to dress yourself.
“Don’t laugh, I’m serious! C’mere, I can show you!”
Standing before the audience in your bathroom was very obviously, something heavy wrapped in a blanket. Decorated in a bloody splotches all over, signs of struggle. Placed cramped up in the bathtub.
“Things got a little messy despite me trying to keep it clean but Kaylie she just— she’s been pissing me off lately.. for a long time actually. I should’ve left the bitch a long time ago”
You slithered in between them and also stared. You hugged on Cameron’s arm and played with Rafe’s fingers as you spoke.
“She, um, she got a little too close and showed too much interest in what was mine. Because truthfully, I’ve had dibs on the both of you since I saw you. That was all I needed to do. It was just a matter of getting all of us on the same page. No Jasmine, no Sofia, no Kaylie. Just us.. she asked me what I was willing to do to get you both…”
You snickered, “here we are..”
Horrified was an understatement for Rafe Cameron and Cameron Cade. They stood frozen in fear, fucked, truly fucked.
“It’s something I’ve been trying to work on I swear but I guess sometimes I get jealous”
Synopsis: You were both the picture-perfect image of romance in f1, everyone's favourite couple. But then the frame broke, the glass shattered, and all fans could do was speculate and hope for some kind of explanation.
Starring: Sir Lewis Hamilton
Form: SMAU
☀️Sunny says: she loves you. Here's a chapter to keep you satiated while I'm away🫶🫶It's not much, but it's a peace offering.
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☆ March '26
...
Liked by hammertime44, lewlewluvr, teamh44m and others
f1 In an exclusive interview with the 7-time world champion, Lawrence Barreto sneaks a personal question past the GOAT's usually unbreakable walls. lewishamilton talks about how he only wishes the best for #YNYLN like the true gentleman we know him to be. We can't wait to see more podiums in red from the legend himself!
Comments on this post have been restricted.
☆ April '26
...
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☀️ Sunny says: oh, Lewis, your friends are turning on you...
☀️Sunny's playlist:
1. IWH2BMX by FLO
2. Future Lover by Thee Sacred Souls
3. Good Intentions by RINI
4. Show Me Love (with Tyla) by WizTheMC, bees&honey
( 애인 ) 𝒾n which ︵ when jisung puts his phone on silent, the rest of the world (and your seven other boyfriends) can only watch in horror as he casually spills every domestic secret you own. it turns out "saving the environment" by sharing a shower is much harder to explain to the internet than it was to the group chat.
12ss mildly suggestive banter & themes (hanji has a hickey) established polyamorous relationship accidental reveal han does not put his media training to use everyone is downbad for iyen minho is a softie
idk man there's nothing i love more than poly skz
⌨️ like&&reblog for a kiss. ── #click4masterlist to see more.
Dedications: To all of you who commented and made this story feel like an active community. This happily ever after is dedicated to you 🩵
9 YEARS LATER
Leaning into your vanity you squint your eyes to assess your makeup blending skills. You’re completely out of practice these days. Your music stops playing and you see Tias name flash across the phone’s screen.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. I hope you’re ready!” She shouts over her blaring car stereo.
“Almost!” You respond, blending out your concealer.
“Alright see you soon” she shouts and you shake your head as your first born enters your bedroom. Time has blown by and it amazes you everytime you look at him how much your baby has grown. Taking all of the best parts from you and his father.
“You look pretty,” he smiles, charming as ever.
“Thank you baby” you smile, kissing his cheek and leaving a lipstick mark. He leaves it there when you go to wipe it off before laying one on you.
“But you’re gonna be back in the morning to see my soccer game right?” He asks for the third time tonight.
“Wouldn’t miss it” you promise.
“Okay, I’m going to bed now.” he nods, giving you a warm hug, nuzzling into your neck like the spoiled overgrown baby he is when his dad isnt looking.
“Sleep tight, champ” you smile, squeezing your eight year old tight.
“Love you” he says first.
“Love you too” you smile blowing him a kiss. Setting your face you remove your robe to reveal your outfit for girls night. The one you didn’t ask for but were roped into. Apparently your friends and family were tired of nights in and wanted to be outside again with you. For the sake of peace you’ve agreed. Dressed and ready you head downstairs where you find your husband with your newest edition awake in his arms and your twins out cold on the couch. His eyes drink you in the same as always, the eternal flame of desire in your relationship is too hot to burn out.
“Dont look at me like that, I have to leave soon” you warn, making him smile.
“You made mama even more gorgeous” Rio says standing with your youngest daughter, a nine month old chunk with a deep attachment to her daddy. You’re grateful for how RIo’s taken to the baby weight and your ever evolving body after 3 pregnancies and 4 children. Your babygirl coos making you smile.
“Thanks baby, I’ll call you if anything comes up. Tia should be here any minute.” You tell Rio before kissing him goodbye. He rids his lips of the lipstick, unlike his eldest son and you smile.
“When will you be home?” he probes.
“One - ish, I don’t want to be too tired during the game and I might be full” you explain touching your breasts to signify the ever present rounds of milk being produced to satisfy the baby.
“Alright” Rio nods, kissing the top of your head.
“Ugh, Christopher get off of her. Four kids is enough!” Tia says looking in from the screen door. Laughing, you unlock the door and she heads straight to the baby.
“Mommy you’re gonna be with me tomorrow” Tia coos, making your youngest smile. “Hello Christopher” she says acknowledging who’s holding the baby.
“You don’t start no fights or get too drunk. My wife isn’t rowdy like you” Rio warns getting to business.
“If she can handle your ass, she’ll be fine” Tis says fanning him off with her quick wit.
“Love you, night” you wave before leaving. Your marriage turned out to be even more than you knew you wanted. Rio hadn’t tied you down. Marrying him felt like being set free. Although, lately your girls begged to differ. You were knee deep in mom-life. Eight, four and nine months. Four kids are no joke and they occupy your weekdays and weekends. You’re always ready to cut out of adult only functions to spend time with them. Rio’s an incredible father too. Patient with perseverance. There’s nothing he won’t do for them, nothing too lowly to his attention. He’s a hands-on father that’s present for his family. Looking down he finds his daughter pouting.
“I know I don’t like it either” he tells her, looking at the sleeping twins.
At the club you feel the bass and smile watching the girls dance around you. You move along to the rhythm with them having a great time. You can’t remember the last time you were in a club without Rio. It had to be before you met him. Tia dances, putting on a show and summoning more male attention than you’re comfortable with. You laugh watching your friends try to settle the men down and check your watch to see you’ve lost track of time. It’s 12:30. Looking at Tia there’s no way she’s letting up anytime soon.
“Want to dance” a man with a muscular physique says, reminding you of James.
“No” you tell him plainly causing him to walk away.
“You got your husbands I’ll kill you face down pat” Marisol jokes.
“He’s rubbed off on me.” You admit as the song changes. Marisol is something off the clock, she gets the rowdiest of all the girls. You guess listening to people’s problems all day will do that to you. Stepping out of the thick of it you head to the bar to get a virgin cocktail of your choosing.
“Virgin?” You hear after telling the bartender your order. You turn to see your husband seated beside you. He pays as the bartender slides you your drink. You have a million questions. But you relax.
“Mhm?” You nod sipping the drink with your eyes fixed on him.
“Are you sober or something?” He asks pretending to be a stranger. It reminds you of your first ever conversation all those years ago.
“Mother, I need to be clear headed” you correct over the music.
“Baby daddy let you out looking that good?” Rio says checking you out.
“Husband” you flash your rings. Rio pretends to be surprised at the size of the rings he put on your finger.
“Making money like that he’s probably a stiff fuck” Rio says, still the kind of spontaneity.
Shrugging you play along. “Can’t complain.”
“Well I think you’re sexy and with rings like that I know you have good pussy. Let me take you to a hotel huh. We can have a little fun and you can go play mom in the morning?” Rio says making you smile.
“You’re unbelievable,” you laugh.
“You’re crazy if you think I’m leaving you alone looking like that” he responds shamelessly.
“Why not?” You relent, unfolding your arms. “But you better not catch feelings, my husband is crazy” you agree continuing the charade.
“Can’t blame him” Rio says following suit.
“Ughhh” you hear behind you and find Tia hating.
“Don’t be like that!” You laugh heading out with your man. Hand in hand with Rio you head to your car. The G-Wagon is now an Escalade, because of the kids. When Rio takes the exit towards your favourite hotel you settle in your seat grateful for your life now. Thankful your first husband didn't keep you from the man of your dreams.
FIN
Author's Note: How's that for happily ever after my loves? I kept my promise and spoiled you like Rio. Shoutout to all the commenters and reblogers - you’re the real MVP’s and the story’s muses. If you enjoyed the Happy ending let me know. Sad to be finishing up with this story, but happy it's completed and something you all have enjoyed. You can also read the story on WATTPAD
Summary: While her husband is deployed overseas, Yn Ln Abbot boards a flight that never reaches its destination. They called it an aviation crash. He called it the worst day of his life.
notes: I have been playing Tomb Raider the past few days and I couldn't hold myself back. Don't worry, It's a girl (3/3) is in the works. Some Ogilvie bashing cause I couldn't find another character. No hate to the actor, he's doing an amazing job.
warnings: mention of death. Alleged death of reader. Reader description to match what she went through, I did try to make it as vague as possible. Reader mentioned to have been rich. Reader mentioned to have scars and burned herself (cauterization). A funeral being held. Burying someone without a body. Angst with happy ending.
wc♡4.1k
masterlist
When YN died, it was loud.
The aircraft came undone in pieces as metal and people alike shrieked through the sky. The sound carried, thin and swallowed by wind. The smell of fuel burned sharp in the air, thick and choking, mingling with the stench of burning wires. Fire bloomed where metal met ground as smoke clawed upwards into an indifferent sky.
It was chaos. It was catastrophic. It was final.
Jack was suturing a soldier’s arm when the lieutenant approached him.
The medical tent was suffocating, thick with the metallic scent of blood and antiseptic that never quite masked it. Outside, boots pounded over packed sand, radios crackled, and somewhere someone laughed too loudly at something that probably was not that funny.
“Sir.”
Jack didn’t look up at first. His hands were steady, gloved fingers precise as he guided the needle through torn flesh. “Hold still,” he murmured to the soldier on the cot.
“Sir,” the lieutenant repeated, voice tighter now. “There’s a personal message from command center.”
Personal.
Around here, personal never meant good news.
Jack tied off the final suture and cut the thread. He stripped his gloves off slowly, as if delaying his knowledge of the news might change it.
“I’ll take it." he said.
The lieutenant walked him across the base, the desert sun glaring overhead and the air shimmered with heat as sand shifted underneath their boots.
Inside the communications tent, a walkie sat on the metal desk. The lieutenant gestured to it gently, like it might explode if came too close.
“I’ll give you space, sir,” he said quietly.
Jack stepped forward as the younger man stepped out. For a second, he just stared at the device, his pulse was loud in his ears. And then, he picked it up.
“This is Abbot.”
Static crackled before a voice came through- calm, official and detached. Like he had delivered too many personal calls for him to be affected by them anymore.
“Doctor Abbot, I am Commander Reeves. I am calling in regards of your wife, Mrs. Yn Ln Abbot.”
Jack held his breath without realizing it.
“Yes?”
“There was an aviation incident early this morning. Flight 756. She was on the flight. There were no further updates after the mayday call, it was lost.”
Lost was military language for devastation, for saying that there are no proper coordinates where we can search, for saying that the last known location is beyond survival.
Lost was military language for your wife is dead and we will not say it plainly.
The noise outside the tent didn’t change- soldiers were still talking, guns clinked softly as they were cleaned and the wind pushed sand in restless whispers against fabric made walls.
But something inside him went quiet. Utterly and devastatingly quite. A silence so deep it felt like the world had been vacuumed hollow.
“We are so sorry for your loss, doctor.”
And with those words, his world collapsed. There was no dramatic reaction, no shouting and no begging. He just stood there, still holding the walkie, staring at nothing.
When YN came back to life, it was quiet. Too quiet. The roar of the crash had faded into a distant memory of fire and groaning metal as the hush of tide kept pulling it back from shore. And then the pain arrived.
Her shoulder was wrong- visibly, horribly wrong- as it was pushed out of its socket at an unnatural angle, her clavicle throbbed with the deep, sick certainty of a fracture, every breath sent a sharp, splintering agony through her ribs, and a long laceration along her thigh burned where blood had dried against her skin.
Her head rang like someone had dropped cathedral bells inside her skull and set them swinging. She laid on her back on wet ground, staring up at a sky that was impossibly blue. It was too calm, too beautiful.
She dragged herself out of the tide with the one functioning arm, nails digging into mud, body trembling with every inch gained as the ocean tried to pull her back as if claiming what it had been promised.
She cried out when she moved, raw, broken sounds ripped from her throat as pain flared through her body.
“Help,” she gasped.
Her voice disappeared into wind, then she tried again. Louder.
“Please!”
And again, and again. But no one answered. There were no sirens, no search teams, no hands reaching for her. No Jack. It was just the vast stretch of muddy grass and the indifferent sea.
That first night, she dragged a broken wing panel across the clay and propped it against debris sticking to the side of the bottom of a cliff to form a crude shelter. Every movement felt like she was tearing herself open again.
She knelt beside a rock, breath ragged, as she stared at her dislocated shoulder. There was no one else. And so, she pressed her shoulder against the stone and forced the joint into place. The sound it made was sickening and the pain was blinding- it tore a scream from her that echoed against empty cliffs before collapsing into silence.
She blacked out from it and when she woke, the stars were out. And she was still alone.
Jack buried an empty coffin.
He had been told that the ocean had swept away what was left of the flight. There had been no body to identify, no hand to hold one last time and no forehead to kiss goodbye. Just a polished wooden box filled with nothing.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
The phrase repeated so often that it lost meaning. People watched him carefully during the service, eyes tracking him like he was something fragile and volatile, like they expected him to shatter, to explode and to fall apart in front of the grave.
But he did not cry. Not when they lowered the coffin, not when the dirt hit wood with that final, unforgiving sound and not at the funeral reception where people whispered about how tragic it all was. He stood straight, he thanked people and he shook hands.
Three days later, he requested going back to base.
The house was the worst part, the silence there was different from the one in the desert, it wasn't just vast, it was intimate. Her shoes were still by the door, her mug still in the cabinet and her books marked halfway through chapters she would never get to finish.
And even years later, when he had exchanged the simmering, blinding desert for the cool white walls, he still hated the empty space on their bed and the way he still turned towards her side in his sleep. He saved lives in the ER like it was penance. Like every pulse he restarted, every wound he closed, every life he dragged back from the brink was a payment toward a debt he could never settle. Like he could restart her pulse and his own along with it.
Fourteen years was a long time for grief to stop being sharp and start being normal. It rooted itself into him, it influenced his decisions quietly and persistently; the shifts he took, the promotions he refused, the distances he kept from people who tried to get too close.
He built his life around her absence, he learned which memories he could afford to touch and which would unravel him completely. He never moved her books, he never packed away their photographs, he never erased her voicemail and he never took off his wedding band. It remained there, a thin circle of metal around his finger, a promise to a woman the world believed was gone.
Grief became his constant companion- silent, unyielding and unbearably alive.
Hunger teaches you humility. Yn had grown up in estates and private academies, she had worn silk and debated on real estate over wine. But the island didn't care; she learned how to split open a fish with a sharpened shard of turbine casing, learned how to trap small animals with vines, learned which berries blistered your tongue and which kept you alive.
She learned the sound of approaching storms by the way the birds vanished first and she learned how to stitch her own skin with fishing wire salvaged from the wreckage.
The first time fever took her, she hallucinated Jack’s voice. He was standing at the edge of the jungle, clean and pressed and furious.
“Yn,” he said in that controlled tone that always meant he was afraid.
She crawled toward him, but before she could get to him, he dissolved into light.
When she woke, her wound was infected and she had to burn it clean with heated metal. She did not scream, there was no one to hear her anyway, so instead she bit down on leather stripped from a seatbelt and let the smell of her own burning flesh sink into her bones.
She mapped the island in her head; freshwater spring to the north, jagged cliffs east, dense jungle that swallowed light and sound west.
She named nothing, because naming meant claiming, and claiming meant believing she had some control over this place. And that was hope- it was what made her wait for rescue that never came, it was what made her count days until she stopped feeling them at all.
Hope wasn't a lifeline, it was a wreckage- laying waste at the ocean's shore and scattered across unreachable cliffs.
At night she would sit on a cliff overlooking the ocean and press her palm against the hollow at her throat where her necklace used to rest. She pictured Jack the way he had looked the morning he left, half-dressed, hair still damp from the shower, leaning against the kitchen counter.
“I'll be fine,” he'd promised, he'd kissed her like every morning, like every time he was deployed and came back. He'd kissed her like he was so sure that he would come back and see her again. Only it wasn't him that didn’t make it back.
She wondered how long they waited before they told him. She wondered if he heard the words of her demise on repeat in his head. She wondered if he thought she was afraid at the end.
Years blurred. Her body changed fast, adapting; muscle layered over old softness, scars mapped her skin- thin white lines, jagged seams, a puckered mark along her thigh from where an infection nearly took her. Her hands grew calloused and her voice grew unused- sometimes she would speak aloud just to remember what it sounded like.
“My name is Yn Ln Abbot.”
Once, a tree collapsed onto her shelter in the middle of the night, it pinned her beneath splintered wood, cold metal and mud as she laid there in the dark, ribs screaming, lungs struggling. And for a moment- just a moment- she considered letting it end.
But then she saw Jack’s face in her mind- not as he was, but as he would be, she saw him standing at a grave with no body.
She shoved the tree off inch by inch. Survival was no longer instinct.
It was defiance.
Every day since, she climbed the highest ridge where an old radio tower leaned like a monument about to fall.
She stripped wires, rewired circuits, reinstated metal from the plane’s grave, only for static to answer her every time. Until something came through.
“Mayday, mayday, this is Yn Ln Abbot. Survivor of Flight 756. If anyone can hear me- please.”
Static filtered back like always, and then a voice- faint and distant but a human voice, a pilot rerouting around bad weather and he heard her.
For the first time since she clawed her way out of the wreckage, she let herself feel hope.
The ED was busy, not just busy- it was alive. The kind of alive that glared in fluorescent light and pulsed through tile floors. Monitors beeped in mismatched rhythms, stretchers rattled across, voices overlapped in controlled urgency.
Jack was hands deep in chaos, working alongside Robby, gloves on, jaw tight, eyes steady.
Ever since he’d come to The Pitt years ago, he had spent more time here than at his own house. His therapist had told him it wasn’t good. He had used words like avoidance and displacement and healthy grief response. He even dared to suggest that he should move houses.
Move. As if his grief was tied to wallpaper, broken bedroom locks and a wooden hairbrush. As if the memories of her wouldn’t follow him like a second shadow. As if leaving the home they built together would erase the way her laughter once echoed off those kitchen walls.
He couldn’t remember the exact year he moved into the guest room, he could only remembered why.
The first few years after her funeral, he’d still slept in their bed- on his side- careful not to drift too far into the cold space where she should have been. He used to lie awake and imagine he felt the mattress dip beside him. He would cry quietly at first when he'd look at her side, then he learned to do it without sound. He tried to trick himself into believing he was doing fine.
He wasn’t.
He still bought her favorite tea brand from the grocery store- even though he didn’t drink tea- the boxes stacked quietly in the pantry like a ritual offering. He would dust her vanity and line up the products exactly how she used to, lipstick angled slightly to the right, make up brushes in height order. He’d spray her perfume across the bedroom some nights, standing there as the scent settled into sheets and curtains and for a few minutes, if he closed his eyes, he could pretend she had just stepped into the shower.
The universe, however, had never been particularly kind to him.
The perfume went out of production. He found out in a brightly lit department store aisle, holding the empty tester bottle in his hand while a teenager apologized that it had been discontinued.
Discontinued. Like her. After that, he couldn’t step foot into the bedroom.
Not when even the closest thing he had left to her scent was gone.
Jack was hands deep inside a patient’s abdomen, correcting a mistake made by an ambitious new med student.
“Careful." Jack muttered, voice controlled but edged.
The heart monitor beeped steadily. His phone buzzed in his pocket, he ignored it. Then it buzzed again, he exhaled sharply through his nose. By the third time, the vibration felt invasive.
“Can someone,” he said tightly, not looking up from the open cavity in front of him, “get that thing out of my pocket and answer it for me before I throw it across the room?”
Unfortunately for everyone, Ogilvie was the only one not gloved up. The tall med student fumbled awkwardly, fishing the phone out like it might bite him.
“Hi,” he answered, a little too casually for someone holding his attending’s phone.
Jack tuned him out, refocusing on suturing the bleeding vessel. There was a long pause from the med student as he listened to whomever was on the other end of the call. It was long enough that even through the surgical haze, something felt off.
Ogilvie’s posture changed first. His shoulders straightened as his expression shifted between confusion, curiosity and disbelief. And after a few seconds, he looked up.
“It’s the Pittsburgh Police Station,” he said, voice suddenly small in the quite room. “They’re saying that your wife is there.”
God, Robby wished he could physically push the kid out of the room.
Jack’s hand froze mid-motion but his head snapped up, the heart monitor spiked wildly as if it was connected to Jack.
Joy went rigid from across the table. She was ready to strangle Ogilvie herself. Sure, she wasn’t planning on staying in the ED long-term, it had never been her end goal. But Jack Abbot was the kind of attending students stayed for.
The first time she’d spoken to him, she’d teased him about his age. He’d shot back with something dry and self-aware, he even made a joke out of it. He was good, insanely kind in ways that didn’t feel performative. And she knew that if she ever changed her mind about emergency medicine, it would be because of him.
Everyone knew about his wife. Even her, the new med student who came in one month ago, and she was sure that the tall bonehead standing there holding the phone knew as well.
It was whispered through hallways, uttered between shifts and coffee breaks. Jack Abbot is still in love with his wife who died fourteen years ago. It was said with reverence and quiet heartbreak.
Joy respected him more when she heard about it, even if it hurt to see. It was sweet in a way that made your chest ache. Love like that wasn’t common and now Ogilvie had just torn open something sacred in the middle of a trauma bay.
Jack stared at him- not blinking, not breathing- with fourteen years of layered wounds threatening to spill down the center.
His mind rejected it instantly. Cruel joke. Mistake. Wrong file. Wrong Abbot. The monitor kept screaming its erratic rhythm.
“Repeat that.” Jack said quietly.
Ogilvie swallowed. “They’re saying your wife is at the station.”
Silence fell heavy over the operating table, even the chaos seemed to dull around them. Jack’s world tilted violently, his wife was dead, he had a funeral, he had stood over an empty coffin, he had memorized the date of her death like a second birthday.
Hope was not something he allowed himself anymore, hope was dangerous, hope destroyed people, hope ruined him.
“Go, brother. I got it.”
Robby was already moving, sliding seamlessly into Jack’s position, gloved hands steady as he took over. His eyes flicked between reassurance for Jack and a glare at Ogilvie.
Jack didn’t move at first, his chest felt tight, constricted, like something enormous was trying to claw its way out. Fourteen years of grief stood against one impossible sentence.
Your wife is there.
Alive wasn’t even a word his brain would form in relation to her anymore. If this was a mistake, it would shatter him in a way he wasn’t sure he’d survive. And if it wasn’t- he didn’t let himself finish the thought.
Because hope, after fourteen years, felt more terrifying than loss ever had.
The police station was painfully ordinary, fluorescent lights hummed overhead, printer spat out paper somewhere on the other side of the front desk, an officer murmured into a phone like it was any other shift, any other day.
The world was continuing. Jack felt like it should have stopped.
Interview room three.
His hand rested on the handle longer than it should have. It trembled, just slightly. He told himself this was a mistake, an error, a woman with the same name, a cruel prank that would gut him in front of strangers.
And then he opened the door.
She was sitting at a metal table, wrapped in a grey emergency blanket that did nothing to hide how much the years had changed her. Her posture was straight, almost guarded, and her hands rested on top of the table- scarred and calloused.
Yn Ln Abbot, alive and in front of him.
Her hair fell around her shoulders, uneven and rough at the ends. Her skin stretched over sharp lines and a jagged scar traced along her collarbone. She looked leaner, stronger, like she survived something that she wasn't meant to.
But her eyes- when she lifted her head and their gazes collided, the air left his lungs so abruptly it felt painful- those were her eyes.
“Jack.”
His name fell from her lips softly, but it hit him like a gunshot. It wasn’t a memory, it wasn’t the echo of a voicemail he refused to delete- it was real, it carried breath and warmth and tremor. For a second, he thought he might be hallucinating, that grief had finally split his mind open and that this was his punishment.
“You’re- ” His voice broke, he swallowed hard, but it didn’t steady him. “You’re dead.”
The words were jagged, disbelieving. A flicker of pain crossed her face, but she didn’t look away.
“I know,” she whispered.
He took a step forward without remembering deciding to, then another. His entire body felt foreign, heavy and trembling all at once.
“They told me you were gone,” he said hoarsely. “They said there were no survivors. They said-” His voice fractured. “They said lost.”
Her fingers curled against the edge of the table.
“I was lost,” she said quietly. “But I wasn’t gone.”
He stopped a few feet away, staring at her like he was afraid she might evaporate if he got too close.
“You have any idea what that did to me?” The words slipped out before he could stop them. They weren’t anger, they were agony.
Her face crumpled slightly, and that nearly undid him.
“I tried getting back to you, Jack,” she said, her voice trembling now, raw in a way that sounded unused to softness. “Every day, I tried. I climbed that damn ridge,” she continued, breath hitching. “I fixed that shitty broken radio tower over and over. I waited for planes. I lit fires. I-” Her voice broke entirely.
“I tried getting back to you, Jackie, every day, I tried.” she whispered. “I was screaming for you on that island. I thought- ” Her voice broke. “I hoped that if I screamed loud enough you’d hear me.”
His vision blurred. He saw it then, her alone on some endless stretch of a coastline, broken and bleeding, calling his name into a sky that never answered while he had been standing at a grave, sleeping in the guest room because their bed felt like a betrayal and spraying perfume that no longer existed just to breathe her in for a few seconds.
He closed the distance between them, hand lifted hesitantly, hovering near her face like he was afraid she might recoil. He touched her cheek; warm, solid, alive. She closed her eyes at the contact, and the small, involuntary exhale that left her lips nearly brought him to his knees.
“You’re real,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
“I’m real.” she said, and her voice cracked on the last word.
That was when control abandoned him. He pulled her into his arms, not gently, not cautiously, but desperately. His arms wrapped around her like he could fuse her back into the past fourteen years by sheer force. She made a sound against his chest- a broken, relieved sob- and her fingers twisted into the front of his shirt like she was afraid he might disappear.
His hands slid up to cradle her face, thumbs brushing over skin that had endured more than he could imagine.
She gripped his wrists, holding him there like the universe might throw her back into that dark, lonely place. Her fingers found his left hand and traced the wedding band that still rested there.
“You kept it,” she breathed.
“Why wouldn't I? You were my wife. You're still my wife.” he said, and the simplicity of it made it devastating.
“I’m not the same,” she said.
The words hit harder than anything else. He pulled back enough to fully look at her- really look at her.
“Neither am I,” he answered immediately. "But you're here."
“Yeah, I am.” she breathed against his chest, like she needed to convince herself as much as him. He wrapped his arms around her tighter, almost painfully so.
“I started sleeping in the guest room,” he confessed quietly. “I couldn’t stay in our bed. I kept reaching for you in the dark. I’d wake up angry at myself for expecting you to be there.”
She made a broken sound at that and leaned into him further, the years between them felt both infinite and nonexistent all at once.
“I was sleeping on grass,” she said faintly. “Under a piece of wing metal. I would close my eyes and pretend I was back in our bedroom. I would pretend you were next to me.”
The symmetry of it nearly crushed him- fourteen years of parallel loneliness, fourteen years of reaching for each other across impossible distance.
He realised that she fit differently in his arms- harder edges, new scars- but she fit, her body trembled against his as she clung to him with a desperation that matched his own.
And for the first time in fourteen years, the silence inside him wasn’t hollow.
Synopsis: You were both the picture-perfect image of romance in f1, everyone's favourite couple. But then the frame broke, the glass shattered, and all fans could do was speculate and hope for some kind of explanation.
Starring: Sir Lewis Hamilton
Form: SMAU
☀️Sunny says: that we're almost at the end🫣
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Escapism. • YN YLN
Liked by danielkaluuya, magui_corceiro, fencer and others
teamyn So sorry about that cliffhanger, but 'Escapism. ft 070 Shake' OUT NOW! Welcome to my first professionally prescribed journal entry of 2022. It's a bit of a nightmare, because what I experienced felt like a real nightmare at the time. Please don't feel sorry for me. Thank you Rayray and JB for riding along, and a special thanks to 2025 WDC Lando Norris for his surprising producing talents.
Sincerely, YN.
tagged: 070shake, raye, jensonbutton, lando
user789 😧whatdidijustwatch?!?!!
user456 lewis step forward and answer for your crimes right this instant🧍🏾♀️
user234 someone give jenson a fcking oscar😫
user247 the manic look in his eyes in the ENTIRE video??
user276 bc i believed his chilling obsession to ruin her and get rid of everyone around her, I really did🧍🏻♂️
user288 8 minutes of jenson making me deathly afraid of him😭
logansargeant I will never look at jb the same way again🧍🏼♂️
alex_albon seeing him for the skysports interviews is gonna be really awkward now🧍🏻♂️
pierregasly now imagine being lewis in those ss interviews🧍🏼♂️
yukitsunoda0511 how come all the drama starts when im off the grid🧍🏻♂️
schecoperez chismosos😭😭
mahalia bloody and bruised jenson button...what a concept👁🫦👁
dualipa behave!
user123 is the end supposed to symbolise YN burying her past relationship with the help of her friends and the people who support her?
user127 user123 your mind!!!🖐🏾👩🏾🦲
user678 "I don't wanna feel how I did last night" and it's YN taking an axe to jenson's head (metaphorically chopping lewis out of her life??)
user630 lemme go watch the mv again🏃➡️🏃➡️
user652 from false freedom, to forced capture, to reluctant detachment, to true freedom YN YOU ARE AN ARTIST🙇🏾
user890 YN's therapist (probably): "how did that make you feel?" // YN (definitely): "YOU ASKING ME MY SYMPTOMS DOCTOR I DONT WANNA FEEL🗣🗣🗣🗣"
user345 "the man that I love sat me down last night and he told that it's over DONE DECISION" we know he did a little more than sit you down sweetie EXPOSE HIM😫😫😫
user376 after everything lewis has done to her, this album has been a relatively tame response🧍🏼♀️
user389 wdym he broke her heart, broke her trust, lied on her name, and came out looking like a saint???? I'd show up at his place with a bomb strapped to my chest🧍🏽♀️
user567 "24 hrs since my ex did dirty//I've got a new man on me, it's about to get sweaty" OMG WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO??????
georgerussell63 lando did what?
oscarpiastri still hard to believe
maxfewtrell I was actually in the studio and I still don't believe it🧍♂️
mclarenf1 a papaya type beat🧡
mercedesbenz 🩵🎧
arvid.lindblad finish him🗣
arvid.lindblad omg who said that??
sincerelyn don't get involved, love
arvid.lindblad yes, ma'am🫡
romeflynn stab me next🙋🏾♂️
sincerelyn what is your deal?🧍🏾♀️
raye freedom at quite a hefty cost
sincerelyn the best kind of freedom
lando loved the ride
sincerelyn look at you acting nonchalant🙄
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Liked by spinzbeatsinc, fencer, damsonidris and others
spotify It is our esteemed honour to welcome her highness of heartbreak sincerelyn to the #BillionsClub 🎸🎶 In the special Bllions Club Live concert film, watch YN YLN take the stage in Melbourne to perform PILLOWTALK (with an extra special extended electric guitar solo), which reached 1 billions streams on March 1st.
user990 she can't keep getting away with this😭
user778 a billion streams on a song she wrote with her ex is actually perfect karma💪🏼🙂↕️
user745 referring to the 7-time WDC and sports legend SIR Lewis Hamilton as just YN's ex is actually so crazy, what kind of upside down world have I stepped into??🫤🫤🫤
user792 personally I refer to him as Mr Super Evil guy, but do you honey🤷🏾♂️
user445 wdym she's performing the song they wrote together in Melbourne, just days before the AUSTRALIAN GP???
user479 just playing in that man's face😭💀
user223 oh YN you are a legend of the game🙇🏼♀️
user889 UGH SHES SO ETHEREAL😩😩
mahalia oh lewishamilton may you never find peace🕯🕯🕯
raye THREE candles🧍🏽♀️really?
mahalia 😇
mercedesamgf1 see you on track sincerelyn?
sincerelyn maybe🫶🏾
user556 ok now give her a grammy🔪
arvid.lindblad I agree!
isackhadjar only thing we do agree on
user556 oh?!
user112 she is a vision😍🤩
user334 I hope she keeps haunting him and actually attends the aussie gp💀💀💀
dualipa look at my wife!
jorjasmith_ involve me
romeflynn I was half a billion of those streams sincerelyn🫶🏽
fencer 👀
sincerelyn swore off lightskinned men.
martinbobbsemple your next trick should be a best album grammy sincerelyn👏🏾👏🏾
fencer 👀
sincerelyn stop that.
user667 saw my hero irl✅️
sincerelyn it's actually MY honour to be in the club, get it right.
Synopsis: The chances of being in a duo with THEE Lewis Hamilton and having an all-star actor crushing on you are very low...but never zero.
Starring: Michael B Jordan
Form: SMAU
☀️Sunny says: that this came to her in a dream. A cute little unserious ting to get out of my writing slump, lovelies😝
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Sea Gets Hotter • oreo cookie
Liked by lloyiso_rsa, spinzbeatsinc, alexandramalenaleclerc and others
plusworld44 Something so nice had to be done twice! Save the date because oreocookie brings us their second ever single🎧 'New Gold' out 3rd Jan at 16:00 CAT🔥🔥
tagged: lewishamilton, prodby__yn
user777 when a running joke becomes an actually serious thing😭😭
user333 OMG THIS IS A REAL DUO NOW???
user367 never in my life did I think I would live to see the day that the GOAT of motorsports forms an official musical duet with future producing royalty YN YLN🧍🏾♂️
user344 I thought they'd be a one-hit wonder with 'sea gets hotter"😭
user325 if my friend and I made a song together and ended up at the top of the Billboard 100 for four straight weeks, I'd make it my entire personality🤷🏽♀️
user666 XNDA feeding us with music, Lewis feeding us with winter break pics, the world is healing🌬
fencer yall aren't ready🎧🔥
spinzbeatsinc new gold? more like pure gold!
user555 how could they possibly outdo Sea Gets Hotter??🤨🤨
kimi.antonelli AND SO WE CRUUUUISE BABY🗣
olliebearman just you and me🙂↕️
gabrielbortoleto_ AND SO WE CRUISE BABY!
francolapinto til land meets sea🏖🫠
liamlawson30 preparing myself to hear this 24/7 bc of arvid, js like when isack played their first song ALL of last season
arvid.lindblad at least ur aware😌
isackhadjar liam fck your house music🙄
liamlawson30 geez, guys😔
user234 your current AND your ex ganging up on u is CRAZY BUSINESS💀💀💀
ryandestiny awaiting the masterpiece♡
prodby__yn you da real masterpiece
ryandestiny 🤭
keithpowers hey stop!
prodby__yn what a buzzkill :(
raye beats by YN, raps by Lewlew
lewishamilton rachel?!
prodby__yn shoulda let me cuff her to the mixing desk like I suggested
lewishamilton YN?!
prodby__yn she's handing out spoilers!
prodby__yn and she woulda enjoyed it :/
raye I would have
lewishamilton guys?!!
scuderiaferrari we're SO ready😝❤️
charles_leclerc when am I getting a collab🫤
prodby__yn soon.
lewishamilton on whose authority?
prodby__yn my authority as the leader of oreocookie :)
lewishamilton darling, maybe we should disband?
charles_leclerc disband after my collab pls🙏🏼
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Michael < Lewis
Miles < Michael
Raye < Michael
...
Lewis < Reader
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
☀️Sunny's playlist:
1. Sea Gets Hotter by Durand Jones and The Indications
2. New Gold (feat. Tame Impala and Bootie Brown) by Gorillaz
Synopsis: You were both the picture-perfect image of romance in f1, everyone's favourite couple. But then the frame broke, the glass shattered, and all fans could do was speculate and hope for some kind of explanation.
Starring: Sir Lewis Hamilton
Form: SMAU
☀️Sunny says: she will finish this series one way or another! And thank you if you're still reading😝😝
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☆ February '26
escapism. • YN YLN
Liked by astonmartinf1, fencer, martinbobbsemple and others
teamyn 'Anxiety' music video OUT NOW! This song came to me after everything fell apart. After the night that I got so hurt that I tried to run away from it all. A true product of my blood and tears. I'd like to extend my appreciation to Jenson "DRS" Button and my baby Raye for starring in this chilling rendition of your girl's most famous downward spiral and the many mistakes that were made. Love you lots and lots raye and jensonbutton!
Sincerely, YN.
user999 WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT ✋️😧
user555 ariana (jenson) what are you doing here???
user222 what a turn of events?!
user257 oh, she's haunting him🧍🏾♀️
user269 in his movie album, ambassador of his prev team, kissing his prev teammate for the whole world to see, spearheading a smear campaign against him😭😭😭
user284 seeing my ex literally everywhere around me would drive me insane🧏🏼♂️🧏🏼♂️🧏🏼♂️
isackhadjar WE ARE OUT OF POPCORN
kimi.antonelli we agreed to stock up until the last mv🧍🏻♂️olliebearman
olliebearman don't blame me! francolapinto wanted to "save money" on the snacks
francolapinto you think money can grow from trees, hermano🧍🏻
user127 ur all millionaires btw
user333 jenson representing the terrors of trusting a man 🤌🏾
mahalia the wrapper might be wrinkly but the candy isn't 👁🫦👁
dualipa hey hey no!
sincerelyn nah, she's right
user777 not raye finally picking a side🙁
user767 the wrong side too😒😒
user722 imagine choosing some crazy btch side over a literal living legend user767
user734 imagine thinking you have a say in a friendship that isn't even yours user722
yukitsunoda0511 these side quests jensonbutton
logansargeant how did this even happen???
alex_albon you're either with her or against her guys😬 trust me...
logansargeant 🤨
yukitsunoda0511 🤨
georgerussell63 or don't stand in her way🙅♂️
user111 not this being a mini horror movie😭😭😭
user123 a 7 min vid for a 3 min song😭
user143 the subtle dark motifs between the partying and drinking...
user199 the chills I got watching YN and Raye realise that the other guests know smthng they don't🫣🫣
user202 indicating that everyone around her knew something about YN's relationship that SHE didn't
user888 the mv going from fun and bubbly at the beginning to daunting and borderline frightening near the end says something🧍🏻♀️😶
user891 lewisyn were picture perfect too...so that means their breakup was....👁👁
user898 definitely not mutual👁👁 user891
user891 ✅️✅️✅️
user444 seriously lewishamilton we're gonna need answers eventually👎🏾👎🏾
user666 YN chasing relevancy with Lewis's name in the big 2026🥀🥀
user699 ur aware she's one of the winning-est singer-songwriters alive today...right?🤨
user666 overhyped ahh😒😒
user709 who is bro sharing his only braincell with?
gabrielbortoleto_ 🍿
isackhadjar where did you get popcorn???
gabrielbortoleto_ nico.
hulkhulkenberg 😎
sincerelyn controversially younger bf core>>
mercedesbenz 🎧🩵
jorjasmith_ why'd it end like that🧍🏽♀️
raye a sudden ending for a sudden breakup🧍🏽♀️
jorjasmith_ WHY?
jensonbutton Clear the narrative sincerelyn 👏🏼
sincerelyn appreciate you JB
romeflynn you doing auditions? sincerelyn
sincerelyn why are you like this??🧍🏾♀️
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☀️Sunny says: she's not even sure if anybody that was on the taglist would still want to be on it😬. So I'm not taking any chances😭😭
