[cortisjames]

[cortisjames]

[cranialberry]

stay cool, be somebody's fool - z.yf.

ོ ☼𓂃 she sees my good deeds, and she kisses them windy

☀︎ tags: mechanic! james x reader | slice of life | ft. cortis n friends | james my dreamy cowboy mechanic 😍 | first meetings | summer romance | james smokes | flirting | kissing (suggestive) | two people one bed trope | driving into the sunset on his rusty truck cliche 😂 | (w.c. 17k)

☀ No one will tell you that on the summer of 2002, in a town on the west coast of southern California, your 1967 Shelby will break down. You'll end up going back to the same dusty auto repair shop all season to keep it running, and a boy your age will step out of the garage and offer to fix it. It is important that you say yes.

-> 💌 author’s note at the end! • PLAYLIST

The first sign should’ve come to you the moment your car gave out on the freeway.

It wasn’t objectively the safest place to stall out, with horns blaring around you like a road rage orchestra and cars speeding about while yours remained embarrassingly immobile. Eventually, a police officer took pity and helped tow it to a nearby shop in the city. The whole thing was all so suspiciously efficient, right up until the bill arrived, that is. And with another hit to your wallet, dinner plans with your friends dissolved into the expense of keeping your rust bucket running.  

But you’d trade a piece of anything just to keep this car alive; hell, heaven, whatever fell on either side of that. A Ford Mustang, your 1967 Shelby baby. Anything. 

Now, you weren't much of a car geek, but looking at it for the first time, you knew it looked too clean to pass up. And after a long stretch of convincing, it ended up waiting in your dad's garage on your eighteenth birthday. A parting gift, perhaps. Something to send you off to university with. 

Somewhere along that line, you eventually forgot that ‘vintage’, more than it meant ‘valuable’, also meant it was old. And age came with wear no matter how well-kept. 

“Honey,” Your mom began in that worried tone. “This is the third time this month that…thing has broken down.”

“I’m aware. I was there for all three events.”

From the other end of the kitchen, your sister perked up, suddenly useful. “I know a guy at an auto repair shop.”

To which you narrowed your eyes as you turned slowly to her. “You always know a guy.”

“Hey–”

“Okay,” Your dad cuts in, slicing clean through the escalating nonsense unfolding as breakfast was being prepared. He leaned back in his chair exhaustedly. 

“I know we all enjoy whatever this is–” he gestured vaguely between your sister and you, “–but I’m tired of picking you up from random highways, Y/n.”

You opened your mouth to defend both yourself and your car’s honor, but he beat you to it.

“Get it fixed,” he said plainly. “Or I’m scrapping it.”

“Dad you can’t just do that–”

“I’m the one with the lease.”

Which is how you found yourself in what can only be described as ‘nothing’ in the middle of nowhere, a stretch of gravel bleeding into the highway far ahead, and a few tired trees doing their best under the blaring sun. But this is Old Town Temecula, so none of that felt particularly out of the ordinary, and so was this repair shop. If anything, you’d like to simply feel bad for it. The exterior looked a little worse for wear.

“Hello?” You called out from outside the doorway, because you’re not entirely convinced this place was still open for business. You leaned in slightly, scanning for any sign of life. An employee, a shadow, a western-style tumbleweed situation. Nothing. 

You stepped forward and smacked the counterbell a little too enthusiastically. 

“Whoever runs this place, you’ve got yourself a customer!” 

Another beat of silence stretched out, and whatever optimism you had started closing in again. As you made plans to head right on home and tell your sister about how her ‘trusted location’ was in fact a sham, a door swung open and hit the wall with a loud bang. 

“Hey, lady!” 

When you turned back, you were met with the most wondrous sight. 

Like a scene slipping into place, there’s a guy that steps out through the door, probably over your age. White tank, worn jeans, both marked by some dirt and the intense weather. His hands looked it too. A wrench was tucked into his back pocket, and a rag hung from the other. Your unhelpful brain starts pulling references and time frames from several vague films: small town swelter, an open garage, and the concept of some dreamy cowboy mechanic. 

A hot guy in the hottest summer to date. The world must be running an experiment on me. 

But you digress, because this guy was looking for a reply, and unfortunately, none of your internal commentary would be appropriate to say in polite conversation. 

“Car givin’ you trouble, little miss?”

Little?

You briefly glanced around, just in case there'd been another designated “little miss” you somehow missed in the area. You realized he was referring to you. 

“...Uh, yeah.” You said slowly. “Lots of it.”

He leaned against the doorway and gave you a once-over. Eyes dragging up, down, then landing back on yours again. What? 

“Ain’t you something...”

“Huh?” 

He straightened himself up and cleared his throat.  “I said what kind of trouble?”

You’re fairly sure that was not what he said the first time, but you also definitely missed it, so you decided it’s safest to move forward. 

“It keeps breaking down,” you explain. Then, as if that isn’t already self-explanatory, you add, “Not right now. But it will.” 

He lets out a low hum, “Yeah?”

“Mmh hm.” You nodded. “Preferably whenever I’m driving on a highway.”

“I’ll take a look, see what I can do.” He jerked his chin toward the corner of the shop, at some cozy little lounging area. “Why don’t you sit down? Make yourself comfortable.”

Comfortable? Here with him? How ambitious.

You ended up on the sofa anyway, dropping with awkward commitment as you took in the surroundings of the shop. The place smelled like a hot spell, metal and tang, motor oil maybe, or grease. You looked around some more. At the mechanical parts lying around, at the tools hung on one wall, and then sometimes you’d let your eyes betray you at least once or twice, taking him in where he’d already be half-turned.

“You new here?” He asked.

“Kind of? My parents got a house here to get out of the city. It’s my first summer here, actually.” 

““Figures. Haven't seen this one around much.”

You blinked. “My car?”

“Yeah. It’s hard to miss. Very vintage.” He rolled right out again and gave you a small grin as he sat up.

“It was a birthday gift.”

“Must've been a good one.”

“It is,” You clicked your tongue as you reminisce bitterly. “When it works.”

He crouched by your hood, his shirt riding up just enough for you to catch sight of the tools tucked into his jeans. 

“I’ll get it to work.”

A nervous cough escaped you then as your eyes scrambled for anything else. Literally anything else will do, Y/n. 

“You sound pretty sure.”

He shrugged as he reached for a wrench. “I’ve got time.”

You hadn’t even realized you’d been dozing off after that, right there on the old couch of a random repair shop of all places. Maybe it was the smell of oil and the heat rising making your head a little light, but you woke up a while later by a few pokes at your shoulder. 

“Hey,” The guy’s voice reaches you through whatever heavy sleep you’ve sunken into. “Seize the day.”

You blinked slowly and let out a quiet yawn. “Sorry.”

“All good.” He’s standing over you, one hand half-lifted from where he’d been nudging. There’s a faint curve to his mouth, and you have an inkling feeling that he’s been watching you this whole time.

“Check it out.” 

You step out the shop and into the stretch of sun waiting just beyond the little shade, rough ground crunching under your shoes as you make your way toward where your car had been left. 

“So,” You circled the front, and half-expected it to look different somehow. You glanced back at James. “Is she gonna be ok?”

“She’s fine.” He leaned a shoulder against the side and folded his arms loosely over one another. 

“But your fuel pump’s an old piece of crap. That’s what's been killing it on you.”

“I uh, I don’t…” Confused was what you were.

“It’s okay.” He said it a little softer this time. “Your car's not great.”

You huffed out a small, offended sound under your breath.

“It runs fine,” he reassured you, and gestured toward the engine. “But then it doesn’t get the fuel it needs. That’s why it's cutting out on you, especially when you’re driving for longer.”

“Is that why I’m always breaking down on the freeway?”

“Yeah.” He said, and popped the hood open. “Your carburetor’s not in the best shape either. It probably hasn’t been touched in a while. And your wiring’s a little off.” 

He lifted a shoulder and added, “Nothing major, but it’s not helping.”

“Which means?”

“Which means, little lady,” He took a few steps toward you. “I can fix it. Just not today.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “How long will that take?”

“A couple days. Maybe three, depending if I have to order anything in.”

“I kinda need it,” You sighed, long and defeated. So much for being your group’s long-standing designated driver. 

“Yeah. But it needs a makeover.”

You kicked a loose pebble across the gravel and watched it skid under a few tires like that'll somehow help you decide. 

“And you’re sure you can fix it?”

“Have any doubts?” The guy tilted his head assuredly. “I’ll take care of it.”

You squinted at him a little. He squints back, in an effort to say what. 

“Okay,” you muttered, you accepted. “Guess I’ll take the bus back.”

“Do you know your way home?”

“I’ve figured it out. ”

You really hadn’t, but you’re grown. You’re going to have to figure it out.

He promptly reached for his back pocket and pulled out a flip phone, jamming in a few buttons before holding it out to you.

“By the way. Could I get your number?”

Well, he’s certainly straightforward. 

“Excuse me?”

He nudged the device toward you.  “To call you when it’s finished.”

You mentally face-palmed yourself for, once again, reading way too much into this guy.

“Right.”

Once you’ve typed in your number, you bidded each other a short goodbye as you stepped out toward the highway, where the bus stop waits a little further down. James has to squint through the glasses he’d just pulled from his shirt to make sure you actually get on one. Only when the bus carries you off does he return to the counter, write up the bill, and tuck it into his pocket. He made a mental note to stop by the bank soon, preferably before his dad noticed something was off with the payment logs.

It occurred to him with no small degree of disbelief and embarrassment in himself that this might just be the first time he’s been so horrendously head over his own shoes. Stupid, stupid James. 

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

“Is your ice cream any good?”

“Take a lick of my ice cream and I’m dumping it on your face.”

“Sounds like a yes,” Haerin mutters.

The sun hung overhead in its usual tyrannical fashion, pressing summer into everything in sight. You and your friends have claimed an outdoor table, holding ice cream and smoothies sweating through heir plastic cups. Condensation slips down the side of yours, cool against your fingers before pooling in the little hollow of your palm

“Oh look. It’s the Power Rangers.”

You follow their line of sight across the street where the park unfurls toward the water in a long stretch of green and glittering blue. Parked along the grass is a truck, and a handful of guys leaned against it in varying states of practiced poses, draped there as though they had been arranged specifically for public viewing. Someone would take their turn holding the camera, and the other being a subject. You thought it looked ridiculous. 

“A very managerless and underfunded boyband.”

“Are they trying to tan?”

There are five of them, sure enough, scattered around the truck with a sort of aimless patience. As your eyes move from one face to the next, your gaze snags on a familiar face, half-turned towards the water laughing at something one of them had said. The mechanic boy from the repair shop. The same one you had been eyeing up with all the subtlety of a Victorian man who’d just seen an exposed ankle. 

You take one aggressive sip of your smoothie in the hopes that the brain freeze might cool your head. 

You lean towards Haerin and jerk your head forward. “What’s that guy’s name?” 

“Grey shirt?” She asks as she tries to follow your line of sight.

“Next to him.”

She paused, then whipped her head at you. “James?”

Ah, so his name was James. You turn it over in your mind once, then again, and several more times. It suited him. Something sturdy and unfairly appealing. You think it would look rather nice written in your handwriting somewhere, though you wisely keep that thought to yourself. 

You shake your head and try to attempt the look of not caring, but achieve something considerably less convincing. 

“Isn’t he a mechanic?” You asked and tried to sound absentminded about it.

“How’d you know that?”

“I brought my car to the shop to get it fixed.” That earns you a look. 

“You seriously need to scrap that piece of junk,” Yunah says. 

“Moving on.”

“Right. Well, he’s not technically a mechanic. His dad owns the shop, and during breaks he takes shifts there. I’ve seen him around the community college a few times. He’s got an engineering track.”

Mina added in, “He kinda keeps to himself.” She nodded towards their direction. “Those are his friends. They’ve all known each other since forever. Just like us.” 

You look at them and think, sandbox love, a half-imagined and kind of shy concept for a group such as theirs. 

Yunah cuts in. “Remember Hana? I heard she’s still as obsessed with him as ever.”

“Oh my god, yeah.” Mina laughs. “It’s kind of tragic. Does he even like her?”

A shrug from Haerin. “I don’t think he likes anyone.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t like girls.”

“What a bold assumption.”

You’d still been looking even as your friends dissolved into their usual spiral of gossip beside you. Judge me all you want. It was a cute guy in the wild. That’s not a situation you simply can ignore. Whether you liked him or not had very little to do with it; staring was practically a reflex at this point. Something encoded deep in the inner workings of every girl who had come out the other side of puberty with functioning eyes. 

Because you’re staring a little too intently, you started to notice things more clearly: his dark brown and slightly messy hair, the way he’s leaning back against the truck’s hood, and the subtle bop of his head keeping time with the music from a small boombox nearby.

You’re also able to make out how he turned his head upward, just slightly, before his gaze landed directly on you. 

You’re fairly certain he might not even remember who you are. Why would he? You had been, in the grand scheme of his life, just one overheated girl with a broken car. He likely saw a dozen of those a week. Maybe two dozen, depending on what he looked like that day. It would be less embarrassing if he weren’t so aware of possessing a face. You knew he did, surely right?

So you keep looking anyway. Your eyes wander with an interest that could, in a court of law, be used against you. Even then, it felt like his eyes were tracking yours, following whatever it landed on. He shifts where he’s leaning, and though the distance between you is considerable, there is an unmistakable deliberation in his movement. A subtle squaring of his shoulder, the conscious vanity of a man who knows he’s being observed.

His expression seems to say, Well? The lack of concern on his end, and the complete drought of restraint on yours, was weird enough. 

“Y/n, ready to go?”

Right then, the sound of your name yanks you clean out of whatever trance you’d been happily deteriorating in. All your friends are looking at you with varying levels of suspicion and delight.

You straighten so fast your straw nearly launches itself from your drink.

“I–yeah. Fuck yeah, let's go.”

An answer so immediate, so aggressively enthusiastic, that it condemns you on the spot.

“Why don’t you wipe the drool on your face first?”

Your hand flies instinctively to your mouth, which, to your immense relief, is perfectly dry. Mina bursts into laughter before you can even process the betrayal. You give Mina a small slap on the shoulder, to which she cackles in reply. 

“Asshole”

You grab your cup as Mina loops her arm through yours, and when your group begins to head out and cross the street, you risk one last glance over your shoulder. James is looking too. 

He lifts two fingers in a lazy salute. You hate the way you wave back. 

You were not drooling. This is one cornerstone belief. Because if you had been, then James might have seen it. And while he may be very alarmingly attractve for a man, you are not under any circumstances prepared to hand him that sort of satisfaction. No fucking way, dude. 

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

You bump your hip against something metal the moment you step into the shop, and the sharp clang that follows has you muttering a curse beneath your breath. James had said three days, but it had taken a week before the call finally came. Longer than promised, sure, but you can’t exactly hold it against him. Your car in fact is a piece of scrap. 

“James?” You called out as you step further in. “I’m back.”

A pair of boots appear from beneath the undercarriage of a car, followed shortly by James himself, rolling out on one of those little mechanic creepers. He pushed himself upright in one smooth motion and wipes his hands on a rag. There’s a streak of grease along his forearm, and another near his jaw.

“How’d you know my name?” he asks, squinting at you through the bright light pouring in from the garage door. 

“Oh, y’know, people talk.”

His mouth tilted upward. “Been asking around about me?”

“No, stop that.” You pointed accusingly before he can get any smugger.  “Is my car fixed or what?”

James laughed under his breath and tossed the rag onto the counter.

“A thank you would be nice.” 

“For extending our business relationship by four whole days? No sir.” 

He shook his head, though he’s still smiling, and gestured toward the far end of the garage where your car sat looking, somehow, the same and yet marginally less likely to explode. 

“Here it is.”

You walked on over and ran a hand lightly along the hood as though greeting an old, troublesome friend. James follows close behind.

 “Please,” he says, leaning against the driver’s side door, “try not to put too much force on the gas.”

“If I can’t do that, I might as well not use the car.”

“Not my fault it’s an old tinker.”

Then he tosses you the keys. “Try not to break it to soon.”

“Thanks James.”

You turn the keys over in your hand, the metal still warm from his palm. Funny, that observation. Metal shouldn’t be warm unless it’s been left in the sun or held onto for a while. 

“Still don’t know where you got my name from.” 

You offer him your most innocent look, which fools neither of you.

“Hm,” He narrowed his eyes, “Well, if your car’s all junked up again, come around, ‘kay?”

“I have a feeling it won't take long.”

“Lucky me, huh?” He gave you one of those cheeky grins/ 

You reached for your back pocket and pulled out your wallet. 

“How much is it?”

He blinked.

“How much is what?”

“Cost of repair, James. How else do you people earn money?”

“Right.” He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly looking far less certain than a man who had spent the last week trying to resurrect your corpse of a vehicle. 

“I haven't really thought about it.”

You stared at him blankly. “What.” 

He laughed, a little sheepish now. “I’m not a licensed mechanic, my dad is. I don’t get a fixed professional fee like he does. Usually I’d just go with a gut feeling.”

“And is your gut currently giving you a feeling or…?”

“Yes. It’s telling me to defer payment.”

Yor fold our arms over one another. 

“I can’t not pay you, James.” 

“Sure you can.”

“No, I literally can’t. That’s theft.”

“I think that’s just called generosity.”

You rummage through your purse and pull out the only cash you have: a slightly wrinkled ten-dollar bill.

“Here. Ten bucks.”

James looked at the bill, and then back ar you, somewhat deeply offended and amused.

“10 bucks for a car fix? You might as well just give me dirt.”

“Do you want my money or not?”

He plucks the bill from your fingers, stretching it out between two grease-stained hands.

“I don’t want your money. But I at least expected more of it.”

“Well, lower your standards.” 

He folded the bill in a neat little rectangle. Before you could protest, or more importantly understand his intentions, he stepped closer. Far too close. His hand brushed your hip as he reached for the pocket of your jeans, and carefully tucked the bill inside. Oh, you were gone. 

“It’s fine, alright?” His hand lingers for one treacherous second longer before he pulls away. And there was that crooked smile again.

“Maybe next time you'll come back here full of guilt, and that would be the perfect excuse to see you again.”

You blink at him slowly. “I don’t get it.”

He laughed, a quick startled sound, and then took a step backward as he made his way toward the back door. He wiped his hands on his pants, though there’d be nothing left on them now but the persisting feeling of your worn denim. 

“I’ll see you around, Y/n.” 

He turned away, but after one dreadful moment you freeze. Your mind, which had only just returned from a blackout, scrambled to catch up. 

“Wait… hey–” You straighten so fast you nearly lose your balance. “How'd you know my name–?”

James paused with one hand on the doorknob. He glanced back over his shoulder, and the fluorescent lighting caught that unripe sheen in his eye. 

“Oh y’know.”

He opened the door, stepping halfway through.

“People talk.” 

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

After that, James seemed to migrate out of the garage and into the rest of your regular days with startling ease. This town seemed determined to place him directly in your little bubble, and you realized that summer didn’t so much follow your expectations as politely ignore them altogether.  

It kicked off at the bowling alley, your friends claiming one lane, and just a few steps to the right, that cluster of guys. Included, unfortunately, was the one you had been putting in a heroic amount of effort to ignore. 

Naturally, that effort lasted all of ten seconds.

With a focus usually reserved for something such as a life-altering decision, Juhoon stepped up, narrowed his eyes, and set the bowling ball down the lane. It rolled and rolled, and kept rolling, before slowly veering off into the gutter. Not a single pin moved. 

A performance, really. 

“Hey.” Haerin leans slightly over the divider as a laugh quickly slips through her words. “You know you’re supposed to hit the pins, right?”

Juhoon turns to her, caught somewhere between offended and amused, and wipes his hands on his jeans as if that might restore some of his dignity. “Oh I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was in the presence of professionals.”

“Relax.” Mina shoots back and crosses her arms. “I’ve barely played this myself and somehow I don’t suck as bad.”

“You wanna talk big?” Keonho chimes in as he leans on their own divider as well.  “Let’s see you do better.” 

“You’re embarrassing us.” You murmured from behind. You’ve forgotten just how aggressively competitive Mina could get over something as low-stakes as this.

“Speak for yourself.” She shoots back under her breath. “You’ve barely picked up a ball.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you let your attention ease itself out. To your friends, to them, to the easy back and forth. And then, inevitably, to James, who is already coincidentally looking back. Creepy. 

James looks back into the lane and clears his throat, then looks back at you again. 

“So when will your turn be?”

“I don’t–” you start and step back a little too soon. “I’m just here to give some moral support.”

“Kill joy.” he says, not unkindly, and then gives you a smirk.

“That’s a strong accusation for someone who's been sitting in the back the whole time since he’s got here.”

“Have you been taking notes on me?”

“Maybe I should stick to seeing you just at the garage. You’d be less insufferable if you’re being helpful.”

James doesn’t pretend to stifle the laugh that escapes him, and it's a nice sound, you decide. He doesn’t pretend to look away either. Not when you catch him or when you raise a brow in slight accusation. He only tilts his head in a considerable fraction.

You break eye contact first. Out of principle. Out of principle, Y/n. 

Your friend groups had merged into each other after that with surprising ease. A summer armistice, you called it, brokered over boredom and the simple fact that there were only so many interesting people in Old Town Temecula. They made things a lot more entertaining. 

Martin was easy company because you both shared a lot of common interests, particularly where music was concerned. You could spend an entire afternoon arguing over discographies, and each of you were convinced the other had somehow missed a foundational pillar of modern music. He was insufferable about it.

Keonho and Seonghyeon quickly assumed the role of the two younger brothers you never had. They were a matched set of nuisances incapable of minding their own business. Still, you think of them with nothing but fondness.

Then there was Juhoon, who possessed the personality of a man who had lived at least three separate lives and remembered fragments of each. He’d tell you something utterly deranged yet weirdly profound on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday, and then wander off. He was your wise old uncle. 

And then there’s James. You don’t know what he is to you. 

Everyone else seemed to fit into your labeled mind drawers. Friend. Acquaintance. Enemy. Sometimes two, sometimes all. 

You wouldn’t classify James as a friend. Friendship is like a tidy little house. You’d understand all its deep angles and know where the doors would lead. It wouldn’t usually contain that particular voltage. That’s right. Friends don’t prod at the electric fence just to watch it spark. Friends don’t test boundaries like that. Friends, generally speaking, also don’t flirt with each other. 

And you cared, far too much, about what he thought of you too. You had become quite skilled at disguising your curiosity casually when you’d ask one of his friends, as though it had only just occurred to you, whether James had happened to mention you lately. Your name, taking up room in his mouth. 

But acquaintances wouldn’t do either. That word was a handshake and a weather report, a polite distance, or a borrowed pen. You and James had long since trespassed beyond those borders. Whatever it was, it had sharp teeth.

And so you are left with the big question in the filing system of your life. If he wasn’t either, what other drawer could you possibly place him in? All these questions, and no one to answer them. 

But your hypotheses soon had the opportunity of being tested.

The beach was hardly the most forgiving place for you and James to see each other. 

But such were the circumstances that were so often stacked against you. The invite came with such spontaneity that you’d barely had enough time to throw a few beach essentials into your bag before there'd been a minivan already idling right across your house.

“You could’ve told me a lot earlier!” You shout from the front door, nearly tripping over yourself as you wrestle your sandals on. 

“I texted you thirty minutes ago!” Mina screamed back. It was thirty minutes too short. Entire civilizations would rise and fall in the time Mina usually took to get ready, so you had assumed she, of all people, would understand the necessity of advance notice. 

Then you spot James in the driver’s seat, window rolled down, and one arm draped lazily over the frame. He’s looking at you, actually looking, with an attention so direct it made you aware of every loose thread in your shorts and each misplaced hair on your head. You find yourself strapping your sandals much quicker than necessary. 

The drive to the resort transpired in a blur of Top 20 hits and some terrible group singing. Martin sat beside you, knowing every lyric to every song that came on, while Seonghyeon and Keonho contributed mostly by banging on the roof and shouting the choruses at times. A car full of kids drinking deeply from the season while it was still theirs. 

James didn’t say much during the ride. But every now and then, he would flick his eyes to the rearview mirror which had been angled just right, if only to catch you lost in song. 

By the time you arrive, and everyone had hauled themselves, their bags, and half the contents of a convenience store into the resort, the sun was hanging low and golden over the water like it too had paid for a weekend stay. 

The cottage sat right by the beach: bamboo walls, a tiny porch, and enough space to comfortably fit nine people. The door had barely swung open before Keonho burst out first with an overflowing paper bag to his chest.

“What’ve you got there?” you asked.

He angled the bag away immediately. “Get away.”

“You bought a dozen bags of chips.”

“The other ten are just emergency portions.”

“For what? The apocalypse?”

“The munchies.” 

Seonghyeon came out next, already wearing an inflatable around his waist. It squeaked every time he moved.

“I can’t find my sunscreen.”

Haerin points to his hand. “Kid. It’s right there.”

He looked down at the bottle in his hand while his mouth formed a little ‘O’ shape.

Martin followed close by, dragging a boombox nearly as large as the minivan’s side windows. He hoisted it onto one shoulder with all the pride of a man unveiling a monument. Juhoon glanced over from where he was taking off his sandals. 

“Y’know they charge a fee if you blast the music too loud, right?”

“What the fuck?” Martin froze.

“I didn’t ask my dad for extra money today!”

“Some employment would help,” James said from behind him as he carried in the cooler.

Martin gave James a side eye and a scoff. “I’m a teenager, James. I don’t need no goddamn job.”

“That mindset won’t pay them bills man.” Juhoon says, wise words from the wisest man. 

“What fucking bills–”

Mina sidled up beside you with the intention of delegating some sort of responsibility. She pressed a few crumpled bills into your palm.

“Y/n, why don’t you go order us some drinks?”

“You got two minors present by the way.”

Mina waved a dismissive hand. “Get them some juice.”

“I could drink,” Keonho says with confidence. You turned to him and shook your head.

“I’m serious! I have the liver of a champion.”

“No.”

“I got a mature palate.”

“You have the face of a middle school mathlete, Keon. What’ll the staff think when they catch you? You’re getting juice.” 

Keonho gave you a deflated stare. “You wanna be my mama so bad.”

“We’ll deal with you later.” Mina started counting on her fingers. “Two margaritas, a soda, one beer, juice, and some water.”

James emerged from… somewhere. He had changed into a loose shirt and swim trunks and glanced down toward the bar a little ways down the sand. 

“Need some help with that?”

“Um. Yes. Thank you James.”

Mina’s grin was immediate. “Oh, perfect.”

You narrowed your eyes at her with suspicion. When you turned around, James tipped his head toward the little path leading to the bar tucked just beside the open restaurant.

“C’mon.” 

So you fell into step beside him, your feet sinking into the sand as you passed the others who were still deep in argument.

“I’m not getting a summer job! I am seventeen! The only bill I have is my phone bill, and my mom still pays half.” Martin exclaims. 

Juhoon raises an eyebrow. “Half?”

“You burden this society.” Seonghyeon accused Martin with a pointed finger.

“I am society.”

“Who are you, fuckin’ Jean Jacques Rousseau–you’re a leech.”

“You guys are just jealous because I’m young, beautiful, and unemployed.”

“Only two of those things are true.”

“You’re a dead man, Eom.”

As soon as you step on the polished wood and under the hanging lights, you are hit with the smell of grilled seafood, sizzling meat, garlic, butter, enough to crave eating your body weight in some shrimp. The two of you made your way to the counter, sliding onto a pair of barstools, and the bartender handed you each a laminated drink menu. 

“You know,” you said after a moment of squinting, “a lot of these just sound like cleaning products.”

“That’s how you know they’re overpriced. Check this out. ‘Salted Breeze’.”

“‘Tropical Typhoon’? Jesus.” You turned the menu to show him. “Sounds like it could strip paint.” 

“Sounds tasty.”

“Kidneys, James. People need those.” 

“You only need one.” 

A few feet away, hidden just enough to be out of sight, Martin, Haerin, and Keonho had claimed a suspiciously dense bush. From behind it, three heads barely fit in the same line as they all angled toward you and James.

“I can’t see shit,” Haerin muttered as she shifted uncomfortably. 

“Move your giant head then.” Martin shot back.

“I have a normal-sized head.” She whispered defensively. “Your proportions, unfortunately…” 

Keonho leaned in between them as he squinted hard. “I’ll have you know we’re committing several social etiquette crimes.”

“We’re just taking a look.” 

“We’re stalking. If we were just looking we wouldn’t be hiding in a bush—hell, this itches.” 

“Potato potahto.” 

Keonho, who had insisted on bringing a bag of chips on the espionage mission, crinkled the packaging so loud it might’ve been able to alert a few wildlife nearby. 

You and James sat at the bar, leaning against the counter while the bartender prepared your orders. The string lights above cast everything in warm gold, and from this distance, the two of you looked really cinematic. 

“They’re talking,” Haerin reported. 

“How groundbreaking.”

“Oh my god they’re laughing.”

“People do that, right?”

Keonho dapped Martin’s shoulder hard. “Ohhhh, James touched her arm.” 

The entire bush shifted as everyone leaned forward at once, and Haerin had to grab Martin by the back of his shirt before he could topple out into the open. 

At the bar, James said something that made you laugh. Your head even tipped back. Martin had to clutch his chest. 

“He’s using jokes. Smooth bastard.” 

“That’s usually how flirting works. I doubt you’d know any of that.” Haerin said.

Keonho, mouth full of barbecue chips, narrowed his eyes. “Do you think they’re gonna kiss guys?”

“Keon,” Martin said blankly. “They’re just ordering mojitos.” 

“People have kissed over less.”

Haerin nodded in agreement. “That’s true. I see people make out on the bus every day. Like, over what? All you can smell are stinkin’ butts, and some people have died on that bus before.”

“What? I didn’t know this-”

“Wait wait–James is leaning in.”

James leaned closer to hear you over the music. Then the bartender handed him two drinks.

“False alarm.”

“I need a better angle.”

Before anyone could stop him, Martin rose approximately four inches too high. Unfortunately, four inches was all it took. James glanced over directly at the bush, and there was a beat of perfect silence after that. Then James slowly raised one eyebrow. 

Martin ducked first. The rest followed in a panicked domino effect as the branches shook violently.

“We’ve been made,” Haerin announced.

Martin is quick to tap out. “Abort mission, holy fuck–”

“Retreat. Hurry, go!” 

When you and James head back with a tray full of your orders, the three of the culprits were sitting on the porch in positions that bordered on performance art. Martin was whistling. Well, he was trying. Martin can’t whistle. Keonho was reading a magazine upside down, and Haerin still had leaves in her hair. 

James handed out the drinks without a word, though the corners of his mouth twitched suspiciously. 

“Oh, Haerin. You got a uh…” You gesture vaguely at his head. “A few leaves on your hair.”

“Yeah. Keonho pushed me into a bush. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“I did no such–”

Martin was quick to shush Keonho out, to which he let out a huff in turn. 

A little while later, once Keonho and Seonghyeon had sprinted into the water, Martin was left holding down the fort on shore. He was halfway through his juice, still salty about the fact that none of them wanted to hand him a margarita, when James wandered over and stopped behind him.

“Great hiding place, by the way.”

Martin choked on his juice so violently that some of it shot out of his nose. 

But eventually, no one cared enough to quarrel with the day. It was as gold and too open-handed for such a thing. The sun hung above like a coin freshly minted, bright enough to spend. The sea moved with its long and slow patience, folding salt into your skin, into hair, into the small seams of everyone else.

Troubles, those faithful little parasites, found the air too thin here, so they loosened their grip and drifted off like dandelion ash. And everyone was suddenly certain that this would be a day worth keeping. 

James sat on a sunbed a few feet from the shoreline with his sunglasses on and his shirt loosely unbuttoned to give way to the warm air. To his left, a few children have taken Martin hostage, burying him in sand and shaping him in what looks like a poor interpretation of a mermaid sculpture. To his right, Keonho’s trying to drag Seonghyeon down from his floaty. And in front of him, further out where the water is a lot stiller, you’re laughing and splitting the sea into smaller pieces as you pass through it in a fit of laughter. 

“Margarita?” Juhoon, who sits on the sunbed right beside him, passes him a glass.

“Thanks man.” 

Summer. It was a come-and-go concept to James. It would always come with promises, stay just long enough to keep him waiting, then abdicate. A season of suspension. While everyone else seemed intent on breaking free, he mostly found himself idling. The engine would be on, but there would be nowhere worth driving. He’d wait for summer to bring him something, then he’d wait for it to end. 

Summer was long. Summer was hot. Summer was sweat collecting at the base of the spine and sand in very weird places. Summer was–

“James! I caught a crab. Do you think we could cook it?” You shout from afar. 

Summer had you in it this time. Then, summer was brief as a struck match. Warm against his stomach. Sweet, sour, salty. A fruit eaten too quickly, juice running down the wrist, and always never enough. All this heat had revealed skin and nerves, all the thin bright wires beneath the casing. The things he preferred not to feel at all, now lit up like a switchboard. 

Summer has ruined the rest of the year for him. 

James huffs out a laugh and looks back out into the beach where he can maybe pull some restraint. “Do anything you want.”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

You had texted James yesterday and asked if he’d seen a Walkman hanging around at the garage that you might’ve left. James checked, to which he did find one sitting idly at your spot on the couch. So he texted you back saying he’d bring it over the next day. 

Which is how he ends up standing very chivalrously at your front door. Because this is also how he meets your father for the very first time.

“Good mornin’ Mr. L/n.” James looks around to further solidify his little act. “Lovely weather today, eh?”

Your dad narrows his eyes in what can only be close to disgust. “You’re Zhao’s son.”

“Did you sense some resemblence?” James gives your dad a charming smile. “Good eye there.”

“Don’t bullshit me, son. What the hell kind of business do you have here calling my daughter–”

“James?”

Your voice cuts through from all the way inside the house, and when you emerge from the front door, James internally sighs in relief and gives you a little wave.

“Sorry, I got your text a little late.” You look at James, and then suspiciously at your dad, who is looking sternly right at James.

“Dad? Is there a problem?”

He looks at you and points accusingly at James with shot eyes. “This boy standing on my front porch is what's the problem.”

James wants to laugh. He knows exactly why your dad doesn’t like him, and it had nothing to do with him at all. It comes with a silly memory: his own father coming home, holding up a fish like a trophy with a blue ribbon tied neatly around its still, unblinking body.

“He’s been fixing my car like you wanted. The least you could do is say thank you.” You scold.

“I am not saying thank you to one of Zhao’s kin–”

“Y’know what, it’s all good.” James cuts through the transpiring little argument. “I stopped by to give this. You forgot to grab it from the shop.” 

He stretched his hand forward to lend you your Walkman back, and you take it in pretend formality. James looks back at your dad and offers another much more charming (he hopes) smile.

“You have a good day, Mr. L/n. Tell the missus I like the flower arrangements up front.” 

He’s ready to head in and leave before this got any more awkward when he hears you say his name. 

“Bye James.”

He turns around to steal another glance, and gives you a generous grin. 

“Bye.”

When James leaves, you take your dad back inside and prepare to reprimand. So much were the roles reversed today.

You turn to him immediately. “What was that about?”

Your dad, already walking deeper into the house, grumbles. “Nothing.”

You follow him into the kitchen. “This Mr. Zhao… isn’t he the one who’s been beating you at those fishing competitions?”

“I bet you he’s cheating.”

You let out an exasperated sigh. “All that rage for some petty contest.” 

You both had to admit there was something almost absurd about this long-standing, entirely unearned fatherly feud. It was hilarious and stupid. What would be even funnier is if maybe, assuming a possibility, that they’d find out about this little thing happening between the two of you. This unsure predicament, a scandal in the eyes of two middle aged men. You want to laugh. You almost do, right there on the kitchen island. 

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

James receives a panicked call from you at three in the morning a few days later as he’s half-asleep, buried under the dull noise of his father and his friends still arguing over a game on the television.

“Somebody better be dying,” he mutters, voice dragged through sleep.

On the other end, your voice cuts through in whispered panic. “Yes. It’s my Shelby. She’s dying again, James. What am I gonna do?”

“You can bring it to the shop later.”

“I know. I was gonna do that anyway.” 

He exhales into his pillow. “Then what’s the emergency?”

“You sure I shouldn’t just scrape this thing?” you ask with a suddenly unsure tone in your voice.

James opens one eye. “You’re thinking of killing her now?”

“She might as well be on life support.”

He closes his eyes again and lets out a sigh. There’s no denying your car really was a stubborn one. 

“Bring her to the shop, okay? We’ll figure it out.”

You pause. 

“We will?”

“Yes. Now can I go back to sleep?”

“Okay” You say through a small smile. “I’m trusting you James. Sleep tight.” 

“Tight as a bug.” he replies as he’s already halfway gone. “Bye.” 

Somewhere downstairs, the voice of a man is heard screaming in cheer. James buries his ears with his pillow and tries to go back to sleep. 

A little past noon, James was out back giving his motorcycle some attention. He had a towel slung over one shoulder, grease staining the heel of his palm, and was halfway through polishing the handlebars when he heard an engine spitter its way into the lot. It was a very particular, familiar sputter.

He tossed the used rag onto the workbench and headed around to the front. Sure enough, there you were, climbing out of your car with a frustrated expression. You shut the door a little harder than necessary. 

“I got her to work this morning,” You announce by way of greeting. “But I swear the engine’s making this weird noise.”

James circled the front, listening as the engine rattled in protest. “I heard it from the back. Did it break down again?”

“Just before I called you.”

James looked at you suspiciously. “Where were you off to at 3 in the morning?”

“My sister needed a ride home from a party.”

He popped the hood and propped it open. “‘Kay, I’ll take a look. You know the drill.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth as you headed inside. “I’ll take the couch.” 

So you had, in fact, taken the couch. 

There was something so deeply humbling about becoming a regular at an auto repair shop. It would tell people everything they needed to know: that your car was a piece of absolute shit from a butt. But at least the couch was comfy. That had to count for something. 

You were halfway through a bag of stale chips and a quarter through a sports magazine when James pushed through the garage door, wiping his hands on his jeans and staining them in the process. His expression alone told you everything.

“How bad is she?”. 

He looked like he bared bad news. 

“It’s your alternator.”

You blinked silently. “My what?”

“Alternator. It keeps your battery charged while the engine’s running.”

“So… important.” You deduced.

“Very.”

“Love that.”

James huffed out a laugh and told you to follow him.

“The bearings are shot, see? That’s the noise.”

You slumped your shoulders forward. “Can you f ix it?”

“I can. I should be able to replace it.

The pause he made was a little ominous, so you probe further.

“But?”

“But we don’t have one in stock.” He clicks his tongue. “And a new one isn’t exactly cheap.”

“Define cheap.” 

James named you a number, to which you nearly choked on your saliva.

“James, that is rent.”

He winced sympathetically. “Yeah. Such is the beauty of owning a car.”

“I didn’t even buy it myself. How am I supposed to afford that?” You turned back to walk toward the couch before slumping on it once more. 

“I should’ve asked for a horse.”

“Maintenance is worse. My uncle’s got a ranch up south with horses. They shit big.”

You sighed long and hard. “Horses don’t need alternators though.”

“Didn’t I just tell you? They shit big. And they bite too.” 

For a moment, the only sound that could be heard was the faint hum of the soda machine and the distant clanking something he had left on. James tapped his finger on his lap thoughtfully.

“But I might know a way around it.”

You lifted your head in desperation.

“How illegal are we talking?”

He put his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Moderately legal?”

“James.” 

He gave you a mischievous grin. 

“There’s a junkyard about twenty minutes from here. They got totaled cars in all the time. If we’re lucky, we can pull an alternator off something compatible.”

“Dude. Isn’t that stealing?”

“It’s cheaper. Wait no, it’s free.”

That, admittedly, was a compelling argument. You narrowed your eyes at him.

“And you know this place how?”

“I know a guy.”

Of course he knew a guy. You suspected a lot of these mechanic boys operated like they were part of a secret underground network. They know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy. 

“You had me at free.”

James grabbed his dad’s truck keys off the wall while you stood from the couch. You followed him outside, both of you climbing into the truck and buckling in. Desperation was going to take you places today. He reversed out of the lot with one hand on the wheel, and you caught the sunlight glinting off the silver ring on his finger. Then you were off. 

The drive was mostly filled with silence. The windows were down as the wind rushed in to occupy all the empty spaces. It threaded through the car, rifled your hair, and carried off any thoughts James was trying very hard not to have. 

Outside, the road kept company with the town’s river, each pretending not to notice the other. You watched the water slide past in silver influxes as James watched you in the rearward pull of seconds. The wind would unmake your hair and remake it a little better. He found this, like many things he’s thought of, very compelling. 

The junkyard was exactly just as you imagined.

Rows and rows of dead cars stretched beneath the afternoon sun, metal skeletons stacked two, sometimes three high, each one looking as junked up as the other. Windows were shattered, doors hung open, and somewhere in the distance, something metallic clanged with the ominous acoustics of a horror movie.

“People have gotten murdered here.”

“You got a strong feeling ‘bout that?”

“Absolutely.”

When you both got out of the truck, the air smelled like rust, hot rubber, and tetanus. A heavyset man behind a cluttered counter looked up from his newspaper as you approached. He wore a baseball cap that might once have been red. 

James gave him a nod. “Afternoon, Rick.”

The guy, Rick, squinted over the rims of his glasses.

“James!” He exclaims excitedly. “You break another one?”

James jerked a thumb toward you and shook his head. “Not mine this time.”

You placed a hand over your chest and bowed. “Thrilled to be here.”

Rick snorted before bowing curtly at you in return, and waved the two of you through the gate.

“Imports are in row seven. Don’t steal anything that ain’t bolted down, yeah?”

“‘Course, Rick. We all know how that went last time.”

That was sketchy, you think. You followed James between towering rows of vehicles, gravel crunching beneath your shoes. Every few feet, James would glance at a car, dismiss it, and keep walking. He looked like a vulture on the lookout. 

James stopped in front of an okay Mustang, and knew this particular model was manufactured just a few years before yours was. He figured it could work. 

“There she is.”

James popped the hood of the car with ease, and you leaned in beside him, staring at an engine that looked, to your untrained eye, like just a bunch of metal scraps put together.

“So which one is it?”

He pointed. “That.”

You nodded solemnly as if you understood anything at all. James reached into the small bag you had brought and took out some kind of tool, and went to work.

You folded your arms and watched him. His brow gathered itself to the middle in concentration, sleeves shoved carelessly to his elbows, grease smudging dark against his knuckles. There was sweat clinging to all sorts of places. His temples, along the line of his throat, tracing the strong cords of his arms where the veins stood out with clarity. 

It was incredibly rude of him to look that good in a junkyard. 

“Hold this.” 

He handed you a wrench, and you took it like he’d entrusted you with a sacred artifact. And so, under the blazing sun, you helped James steal (sorry, salvage) an organ from a dead car. Your week had taken a very strange turn. 

After he gets the part off, you both make quick work of stuffing it into the bag before heading back toward the big gate again. 

“Find everything you need?” Rick calls from where he idles.

“All good here Rick.” James replies. “You have a good one.”

A small nod, a mutual dismissal of the world, and you’re both back in motion. You toss the bag into the back of the truck, and James climbs in after you then turns the ignition. The engine makes a weird sound, but neither of you comment on it. 

You’re on the road for a while, and nothing seems to be the problem. That is, until the engine coughs first. A small, offended sound. Then again, this time deeper. The truck shudders, and with dread on both your faces, it finally gives up and stops. 

“James. What the hell.”

“I’ll go take a look.”

Both of you are out the truck in seconds. James lifts the hood and leans into it, and you watch from the side. He works in silence for a few minutes, which doesn’t really help the unease you’re feeling. He straightens eventually, and gives you the look.

“We’re fucked.”

That is how you both end up pushing the truck. Its wheels roll reluctantly, and you want to laugh at how utterly absurd this it. You both steer it into the nearest empty patch of land: an abandoned gas station’s parking lot. 

There’s nothing for miles, you believe. No phone booth, no convenience store. Not even the promise of signal. You checked your cellular and couldn’t pick up on anything.

James calls you through a whistle. “Hey. Look at that.”

You walk over toward him and follow his line of sight. There, just a few meters ahead, is a sign, which tells you there must be some sort of establishment nearby. 

“Let’s take our chances. It’s almost dawn.”

Because there are no better options or sudden miracles waiting in the wings, you head to the back of the truck and reach for the bag in case it gets snatched. James reaches into the dash, retrieves his wallet, and pockets it to the back along with his keys.. Then you walk. Side by side. 

A motel is what awaited you.

You exhale, long and unamused. A motel. Of all places. In the middle of nowhere. Onl motorcycles are parked up front, which suggested everyone else came here alone. Everyone except you two. 

“This sucks.” You say, staring up at the motel in quiet offense.

“Better than sleeping on a truck in an abandoned gas station.”

“I don’t even have any money on me right now.”

James takes out his wallet and waves it lightly in front of you. “Problem solved.” 

You hated how this looked from the outside. A boy and a girl walking into a motel close to night time. The story is practically writing itself. But night is already closing in, and better ideas are not arriving soon. So when James walks first, you trail close behind. 

The lobby was warmer than expected, and surprisingly clean. Not exactly luxurious, but as cozy as a motel in the middle of who knows where could offer: wood-paneled walls, a coffee machine humming quietly in the corner, a rack of brochures advertising attractions that looked suspiciously closed.

A woman sat behind the front desk, reading a magazine. She looked up as the two of you entered. James stepped forward while you wandered over to the little lounge area and sank into one of the couches.

“One room with two beds, please.”

The receptionist looked through some logbooks, then offered an unapologetic smile.

“I’m sorry, sir, but our double rooms are all occupied tonight.”

James nodded. “That’s fine. Two rooms, then.”

More checking of the logs. The receptionist’s smile grew somehow more apologetic.

“I do apologize, but we’re fully booked on singles as well.”

James blinked blankly. “…What do you have, then?”

She consulted with the papers on her desk.

“We currently have one queen room available.”

Silence.

From your spot on the couch, you suddenly found the complimentary pamphlets fascinating.

James turned slowly.

“Give me a moment.”

You spotted James making his way back across the lobby, and immediately straightened from your position on the couch. 

“Are we good to go?”

James stopped in front of you, one hand hooked on his hip. He looked almost amused, which should have worried you more than it did.

“Y/n.” That was already a terrible start.

“What?”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“They have…” He paused, and then again. “It’s a room with one bed. That’s all they’ve got.”

You stared at him. Then at the receptionist. Then back at him.

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Wish I wasn’t.”

Which was only partially true, and James knew it. Unfortunately, he also knew better than to examine that thought too closely. He mentally shoved it into a locked drawer and sat on it.

You stood so quickly the couch wheezed beneath you.

“All the other rooms are booked? This place looks like a shithole, how are they fully booked?”

“I don’t know. I’ll just take the floor, okay?”

“I can’t let you sleep on a motel carpet James. These things have organisms—“

Before you’re able to chime in another word, James turns around again and heads back to the to the receptionist. He pulls a couple dollar bills and slides them on the counter surface. 

“We’ll take it.” 

The receptionist slid the key across the counter with a smile. James took it, thanked her, and turned toward you, giving a slight tilt of his head.

“C’mon.”

You pushed yourself off the couch and trudged upstairs, and it creaked beneath your feet as the two of you climbed to the second floor. The motel hallway stretched long and narrow, lit by buzzing overhead lights that did very little to improve its already questionable atmosphere.

James found your room quickly enough. He stopped outside the door, key poised, then hesitated. When he turned to face you, the teasing had slipped from his expression. 

“Okay. A few things.”

You nodded.

“If you ever feel uncomfortable at all about anything, just tell me.” The seriousness in his voice caught you off guard.

“I mean it,” he added. “I don’t want you pretending you’re fine about this. I get it, it’s weird. No walking on eggshells. Alright?”

You managed a small forced smile.

“Got it.”

“And another thing. Try not to head out alone too much tonight.”

He gestured toward the parking lot below. You leaned toward the small window just enough to spot those half a dozen motorcycles lined up beneath the flickering motel sign.

“A bunch of bikers are staying here. They’re in a group, I’d guess.”

“You say it like they’re a migrating species.”

“They usually are.”

You laughed as he rested one shoulder against the doorframe.

“Make sure the door’s locked and just… stay out of trouble.”

He unlocked the door and pushed it open. The room beyond was exactly as promised: one bed, one television, one lamp. You both stared at the queen-sized bed. Awkward.

James hurriedly moves to the bedside table and snatches up the telephone, and punches some numbers in. You, meanwhile, drift toward the balcony. The curtains part with a soft sound, and the sliding door gives you the entire cold night as you step out. 

“I’m heading to the bathroom.” You say as you head back in. “Does the telephone work?”

“Yeah,” he replies, hand still on the receiver. “I managed to call Rick for a tow truck. Says they won’t be able to come until 9 tomorrow.”

“You didn’t think of calling your parents first?”

“My dad would probably say I could get things sorted out on my own.” He says.

“Can I call my parents?”

“Sure. Do you know your landline?”

You pause. “We got a new one, so I don’t.” a dismissive shake of your head. “Never mind.”

You head to the bathroom and turn the lock behind you, the sound like a line being drawn. Inside, you try to breathe in something quiet and steady, but you can’t. In the mirror, you look for the parts of yourself you can pick on, the little flaws you think to be pluckable. Frustrated you were that they stay exactly as they are. 

Meanwhile, James watches you disappear into the bathroom and waits for the door to close you out of sight. Only when you’re fully gone does he drop onto the bed. He exhales then, long and unspooled.

There are many things James can handle. He had always considered himself fairly adaptable. Plans change, cars break down. He knows these men in leather jackets and wrinkled hands surrounding the rooms around them as he thinks these things through. He had, at various points in his life, been punched in the face and kicked in the shin, and more than once did he have to explain to his father how exactly he got each bruise if he ever got home with any, which was usually most of the time. 

All that, he could handle half-asleep with a hand tied behind his back while someone was yelling at him. He’s slept under less forgiving roofs, and he’s had worse company (worse had rarely been this pretty, though). 

Then put him in a room with one very beautiful girl he just so happened to be hopelessly, helplessly in love with, and watch all that competence go missing. 

He tried to shake it off. People shared these kinds of rooms all the time. Travelers. Families. Sports teams. Criminals on the run, probably. 

I need a cigarette. 

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

“I’m back.” You emerge from the bathroom a while later, still in your old clothes, a borrowed robe loosely tied over them. 

“Stuff on your mind?” You ask. 

James is on the balcony sitting on the ledge with his back turned half to you, and the rest towards the open night. He’s got a cigarette between his fingers, one you’re not sure where he got from. 

He glances back over his shoulder. 

“Yeah,” He said after a moment,  “You could say that.”

You step closer, and James watches you all the way. He realizes faintly that seeing you through the smoke makes his head feel a lot dizzier. 

“You really need to stop that.”

“Stop what?” 

“Smoking.”

He lets the cigarette tilt slightly between his teeth. “You don’t like it?”

“I don’t.” When you’re close enough, you flick the tip of it with a finger. “And your lungs don’t either.”

That earns you a laugh. “You sound like my mother.”

“Better that than an enabler, right?” 

Better that than an enabler, and James almost loses it. The irony is there. You have enabled much worse in him than a little ash or smoke in his lungs. Want, for one. Hope, for another. A hundred reckless instincts, each one wearing your face. 

He wants to either fold himself in half or shake some sense into you. To pry your skull and point: there, there, look at what you’ve done. 

“C’mere.”  

You step closer until you’re right in front of him, too close that you’re aligned with the bend of his knees on the ledge. James takes the cigarette from his mouth, holds it between two fingers like a small and solved problem, then tosses it over the edge. If you wanted him clean so badly, then so be it. 

Something in him responds as unsteady beings do when the wind would find their hems. A pressure and a lean toward form. Toward articulation. Toward you. But he keeps it contained by the narrowest margin of will, because he doesn’t know yet what it is.

“What is it?”

He shifts slightly from where he sits. “You think your dad's gonna kill me?”

“For what?”

“When he finds out I’m spending my sweet time with his precious little princess in a motel in the middle of nowhere.”

“If you say it like that, he might.”

“Well, what am I saying it like?”

“Like you have some… intentions.”

“Intentions.” He clicks his tongue and thinks. “What kind?”

The sun goes down, and the balcony becomes a place slightly outside the map. James sits there as though he has been left on a higher shelf of the world. You looked at him then, almost invasive.  If invasions could be curious instead of cruel. As if, by looking hard enough, you might just be able to persuade him into things. 

“I don’t know, James.” You lean forward on your toes, then backward on your heel. “You keep saying things a certain way. I have to retrace them until I go crazy.” 

“Don’t you think maybe you’re just reading into me too much?”

“Am I ?”

He could say yes. Could blame it on you, say you were overthinking, making something out of absolutely nothing. And if he played the role right, you might even buy it. But it’d be a lie, and James has found it incredibly hard to keep lies from you. He couldn’t even say no to you half the time, let alone lie through his own teeth. Not when he’d already gone out of his way to fix that junky Shelby, cutting corners on the bill, paying for things himself so his dad wouldn’t catch on that he’d been letting some girl leave the shop receipt-free every time. Subtlety, he’s never been good at it. 

“No.” Lying, even less so. “You think I should act on ‘em?”

“Your intentions?”

“Yeah.”

You look at him knowingly, hopefully and without unrest.

“If they’re not going anywhere, why not?” If you’re not going anywhere, why not here?

The season has gone on longer than he’d been able to imagine. Or maybe not long enough. Either way, when he looks back at you across the thinning dark, he understands to himself that he isn’t ready for it to end. 

Ah, what am I doing? 

Who knew a mere inch of opening was all James would ever need. It happens in the space of a blink. He steps down from the ledge, his hands already rising as they settle at the sides of your face. And then, in the slim, unsteady breath between one moment and the next, he leans down and catches your lips with his. 

It doesn’t take much after that for things to turn. In a fit of urge and desperation, he backs you up until your knees buckle at the edge of that tiny queen bed. ‘Queen bed’ as the receptionist said, was too much of a stretch for this one. Then another moment, you both collapse on it anyway. 

You discover quickly that James doesn’t like to drag things out. You feel it in these betrayals: the restless twitch of his hands and his protested stillness. You hadn’t pegged him to be the impatient type. Tonight, though, his skin runs warm, almost fever-bright. His breathing forgets its rhythm, then finds another. And when he reaches to switch on the lamp beside the bed, the room fills with amber, turning his eyes from their usual dark wood into something honey-struck. 

You switch it close immediately. 

“No, no James—I like it closed.”

“But I can’t see you.”

I’d look nicer when the lights are off, you try to tell him. The words are small and brittle in your throat. 

“You don’t have to.” You say instead.

I need to, he thinks. Else my insides get eaten up.

James laughs low and helplessly, the sound brushing warm against your skin. “You trying to hog?” 

He wants nothing more tonight than to take you in. Entirely and improperly, in visions, in motion, in all your strange fullness. The flush in your cheeks, the bright sheen at your throat, he’d only want to leave you more potent than how he found you. And when at last your pulse remembers its manners, he finds that he would like, very much, to be the reason for that too. 

“There’s nothing to hog.”

“Yeah, there is.”

The orange wash of the bedside lamp makes James greedy the instant he turns it back on and looks down on you. It gilds the room, gilds your skin, gilds his appetite, and he wonders how much worse it will get once it's morning and he wakes to find you there again as living proof rather than of a dream. 

“Maybe we really do need to turn the lights off,” he decides.

You tilt your head against the pillow. “Changed your mind?”

“Oh, my mind hasn’t changed a bit,” James replies, then inches closer once more. “You push me over, lady.”

“Don’t call me that.” 

His hand betrays him to humiliating degrees. Lifting, pausing, and reconsidering as it is traitorously decisive, until it finally settles lightly against the edge of your cheekbone. Your breaths breathe warmth into his face, and he registers with mild alarm that they turn him a little visibly red. Even as he’s above you, when he can only look down earnestly at the gleam and glow that's made up this whole season, all that sun made flesh, you still hold every right and all the ability to make him act entirely insensible.

“Make my night, yeah?”

His mouth is so inconveniently human as it tries to chase the sweetness he’s found in your own, like a child finding the unreachable cookie jar. His hands are no better, and his skin is rough against yours that is soft as they insist on remembering what they shouldn’t have been taught so quickly.

James has never been with anyone. Not like this. So he’s scared by how natural you seem to fit into places in him he hadn’t realized were so empty. 

“Only if you make mine.”

Your dad tells you time and time again, beware of boys, they’re never honest. Says they lie, that they always will. He tells you this with personal conviction. But like something you never thought you’d do, you want to tell him not this one. Not this boy. 

Perhaps every girl before you has thought the same. Maybe they were laying as you are now. But this one is different, you think, you believe. You bring the thought with you as James leans in and kisses you again, drawing you under until you’re pressed into the pillow with nowhere else to go. You believe it through the warmth of his hand tracing the skin under your jaw, with the other moving over your hair. And you believed it most when you touched him back and thought never to return. 

“I’ll make a fantasy out of you,” James breathes out as he buries his head in the crook of your jaw. And then I’ll make a believer out of myself. A flame and a moth. 

You huff out a little airy laugh. “Could you?”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you. “Have I ever disappointed you before?”

The rest of the night, if “night” is even the correct term for it, and James is not entirely convinced it is, breaks apart into the most non-linear little pieces, as though misfiled in the wrong century. There are, instead, these conditions: warmth with a clear origin, motions in improper geometry, and the strange, persistent closeness. 

James remembers the beaches of his childhood. Of tides returning to their remarkable shoreline no matter how often they should be pulled away. His thoughts, ordinarily so well-trained, behave much the same around you. It’s an inefficient system, all this remembering. 

Skin to skin, breath upon breath, there was nowhere else to go but under. 

And with all the pretty things James had whispered to you that night, if it were truly what you thought it to be meant anything at all, then you took them with you to your dreams in the hopes that they’d be better interpreted there. 

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

If you had just lived through the best night of your life a few hours ago, you certainly left no such obvious traces of it this morning. None that James could see. 

The diner sat in a quiet early-hour warmth just beside the motel, low light with clinking cutlery, and something steady about it. James has always been like that with breakfast. No matter where he ends up, no matter how far off or unfamiliar, he makes time for it. You sit just right across from him in the corner booth, and though he thought maybe this would be the perfect time to pick up on the conversation he’d left to fend for last night, you just wouldn’t look at him. 

You keep your head held low as you fix your attention to the food you’d been picking on your plate and chewing. Is facing him really going to cost me something? 

James clicked his tongue. “You don’t like eggs?”

“I don’t like the sunny side ups.” You say through a mouthful, not bothering to look up. 

“Give it here.”

You slide the plate across as ceramic grazes the table in a soft passing sound, slipping between the diner’s lull of conversations. He switches it out with his own, then shifts his plate of scrambled eggs closer to you. 

“Eat,” he says. You do. 

Not because you’re still hungry. You just need to give your hands something to commit to. Across the table, you feel him watching you in that pressing way of his. 

“Slept well?” he asks. 

“You tell me. I was literally next to you.”

His mouth shifts, and he wonders how far he’s able to take this.

“Just trying to add some light to this shit. You’re making it awkward.”

Why wouldn’t it be awkward?

You shake your head. “I’m not making it awkward.”

“Yeah?” He leans forward slightly as his elbows brush the edge of the table. “Why won’t you look at me?”

“I don’t know James.” You move your food around, and the grip on your fork is a lot tighter now. “This was so unplanned.”

“Hmm?”

“None of this would’ve happened if the truck hadn’t broken down.”

There’s something barely offended, but ultimately unreadable in his expression. 

“So what are you saying?” His voice lowers just a little. “You wouldn’t have wanted this to happen?”

And you finally look up at him for the first time today. “No, I–”

You wonder what it was you were even trying to argue against. There’s no denying you’d never regret what you had done yesterday. Not now, not later, not even if your dad found out. It seems entering adulthood had a way of overcomplicating things, layers upon layers where there might have been none if only you had tried. 

“Don’t tell me you got a boyfriend back in college you forgot to mention ‘cause I do not want to be your little homewrecker–”

“I don’t have a boyfriend, God, I’m not that awful.” You rub at the corners of your eyes in frustration.

“So what’s the matter?”

The matter for you was simple: that this was going to be one of those cute little flings, as fleeting as they were all unplanned for. The cruel fate of someday being remembered as that ‘summer of ‘02’ months or years from now, and nothing more.

“Nothing.” And you know he doesn't believe you. 

“I just,” Your fork pauses on your plate, and you think of either being straightforward or telling another one of your unbelievable lies. 

“I’m gonna have to go back to college sooner or later.”

A weak defense mechanism presents itself in your throat, small and evasive. It’s then that James now understands. So that's what you were fussing about. 

He’d been so caught up in the present tense that he’d neglected the so-called never-not-befores. By then, he’s realized a little late how soon you’d be gone for months at a time. It wouldn’t be the first. Only now, he’s going to have to learn the hard way of an act called letting go.

There were slips of transcripts his grandmother kept around the old house that he used to read. All those Chinese sayings about destiny, yuanfen, she called it. The idea of encounters not being all that random. and that certain intersections have been pre-authored into the margins of existence. Red strings, love locks, the Old Man of the Moon, the sort of things that make you think of magic. James had always found it a little too bogus to be true. And yet, if such a thing does exist, if yuanfen is by any bit operational at all, he hoped it would be on your side. 

“I hope you’re not taking that junky car with you–”

“Keep my Mustang out your mouth James.”

James can only smile at you in turn and think about that stupid car that started it all. He huffs a laugh and slides his leftover hashbrowns across the table. 

“You better eat it. Need to make up for the rice.” 

Your fork cuts through the food he’d offered as you take a big bite. “Alright.”

He hoped it would be you. 

Because then he wouldn’t have to worry in the end. Ten miles, a thousand, an ocean or two, it made no meaningful difference. Water returns to its level. Winds to their courses. You, he hoped, would return to him. Or he to you. 

The train ride back to Old Town Temecula had been as eventful in that it made your hairs stick out and your attention a little too heightened. You sat closely next to each other, as close as any two people could be. Looking around at everyone else, the old couple with their arms knotted together, the lonely guy just by the door, and behind him, a young pair stealing too many kisses as if they might run out, you realize nearly everyone’s got something of their own.

And while you were busy doing just that, James hovers his rough hand over your soft one lying on your side, doesn’t consider such consequences of it, and presses it down, nudging his fingers in between yours. They interlock much like zipper teeth. 

Just like your face, his hands stayed warm the whole train ride back, the way you had imagined often and always a little too vividly. 

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

James remembers the summers he’d spent in a plastic pool on Fridays, not a day over five. That, or when he’d spend them in Martin’s treehouse watching movies on the television they’d found at the back of a storefront. He remembers the heat pressed as close as another body, the exhilaration, the freedom to act his age. But this is the first summer he’s looked at a girl and almost scared himself to death from the guilt. Guilt, the word he uses to think less of his desire. But looking at you now, he could think of nothing more. 

This was the cruelest season of them all. 

“Do I look alright?” You ask from your vanity, turning just enough to catch James in the mirror who’s sprawled across your bed, hands folded behind his head. You’d waited until noon for your dad to leave for yet another fishing trip before sneaking James inside. It had been a successfully executed operation if you ignored the part where he nearly slipped off the roof and met an embarrassing end. The things James was willing to risk just to see his girl were far from limited. 

“Looks like it.”

“Seriously James?” You snap the cap back onto your lipstick with a sharp  click and move to the edge of the bed, bending down to slip on your shoes.  “Spent three hours getting ready for the date where you spent at most 10 seconds to ask me on. Some enthusiasm would be appreciated.”

Ah, but my throat’s all caught, Y/n. How could I say anything at all?

“You look great. Amazing. Your hair looks like a shiny toilet surface. Did you want that?”

The words came out clumsy on the way free. He had better ones, prettier ones lined up behind his teeth, but he was saving those for later.

“Thanks.”

For the better part, you suspected James had every intention of spending whatever time remained of your vacation planted firmly at your side. He’d developed this habit of appearing wherever you happened to be. Was he your boyfriend though? Absolutely not.

“I’m all ready. We should head out.”

But whether he was your boyfriend or not seemed beside the point, because when your ‘not boyfriend’ pushed himself upright, he once again tried his best to maintain composure and try not to tackle you back onto the mattress. You looked beautiful. Well you were always beautiful, but tonight you clearly made an occasion of it. The sight alone was enough to set James’ face ablaze.

“I’ll wait for you right here.” He said as he stood up, finding his way behind you so that he could whisper it in the shell of your ear. ‘Pretty, pretty lady’, to which you gave him a warm smile. His day opened up like a fruit under a knife. 

You hurry on downstairs, catching your mother in the kitchen. A quick goodbye, a promise that you’d be out with friends and come home late enough to warrant concern, but she let you go. James counted as a friend. Never to you, but technically, in the broadest possible sense, he was. You slipped outside and circled beneath your bedroom window, shielding your eyes from the rays as you looked up. James was perched on your sill like a disturbed cat. 

“Sight’s clear.” You announced in a stage whisper. James tried his best to wriggle out the window and grabbed for the nearby branch. There was a lot of rustling, a muffled curse, before he dropped to the patch fo grass with an unceremonious thud.

He brushed the dirt off his jeans, still catching his breath. “You seriously need to properly introduce me to your parents. I can’t keep this up.” 

“You don’t like sneaking up to my room?” You tease as you both make your way to where he parked the truck. Fixed, this time. You trust it to work. “That’s a shame. I happen to find it quite romantic.” 

“Try being on the climbing end, and you'll be thinking twice.” By the time James said it, the two of you had reached the clearing where the truck waited. A faint smile tugged at his mouth, as if the sight of it stirred up an old memory. You both scrambled inside, James fired up the engine, and the rock rolled forward. 

James figured that if he was gonna do this, he ought to do it properly. A real date, something with intention (and a lot of money) behind it. But time was proving itself annoyingly finite, so early afternoon would have to do. The sun was what brought you two together, so it seemed only right to make it a little centerpiece.  Besides, James liked you best in daylight. Not because you were any less lovely at night, but that daytime laid everything out to him in the clearest golden motions. Like citrus and canary yellow, sweet tea and dynamite. 

The drive pulls you farther into town, past the familiar corners and into the part with the nicer sidewalks. When James finally pulls up in front of a restaurant with gleaming windows and a valet service, you turn to look at him. He catched your stare and gave you that unreadable almost-smile, then shook his head. 

And dinner was wonderfully surreal. No boy had ever gone out of their way to take you someplace this nice out of their own volition. That was James all over, thoughtful in ways that would sneak up on you. He was so generous with you, honest too, and knew how to say the right things. He was also blessed, or perhaps cursed, with remarkable hands. One of the first things you’d learned about them was that they could fix almost anything put in front of them. The second was that, whenever given the chance, they were good at taking you apart. 

You saw it now too, as James sat across from you, laughing at every little thing you said. He did it with his whole body, as if his joy were too large to contain in something as small as his teethy grins. You found that he had the face of an old song, of one your mother liked to play through the record every morning. There is only so much considerable longing you can fit into the four minutes of a song. 

Halfway through your food, you suddenly remembered something, then quickly reached for your handbag.

“Oh! By the way…” James, who had been in the middle of demolishing a truly unfair amount of delicious clam shells, paused with his fork halfway to his mouth.

You rummage through some receipts, a lip gloss, and maybe half your earthly possessions. At last, your hand emerged triumphantly, clutching a tiny plastic toy dog. 

“I wanted to give you this. Thought it looked like you.”  You placed it in his held out palm, and he turned it over in his fingers, brow furrowing. It was a small brown dog with oversized eyes and a permanently alert expression. Frankly, the ‘resemblance’ was confusing. 

“... What is it?”

“It’s a little pet, from the Littlest Pet Shop.” You said with all the reverence of introducing royalty. “I’ve been collecting them forever. They’re adorable, and look–” You reached over and tapped its head. It wobbled enthusiastically from side to side. James watched with captivation and held it up, examining it like an archeologist uncovering a priceless relic. 

“Thank you. Seriously. I could glue this down on my dashboard–”

Your expression turned murderous “Do not glue this anywhere, James. These are precious things. I expect you to care for this as your own child.” James nodded solemnly, and then cradled the little dog in both hands.

“Gotcha.” 

The little dog, Doudou, as James had named him (brown rice), sat perched beside the salt shaker keeping a vigilant eye on the proceedings. The restaurant had filled in around over the last few hours, and sunlight spilled through the windows, catching the rims of glasses and turning everything faintly sparkling. James had loosened up considerably, which was to say he kept taking unwanted bites of your cake, denying your every retort. 

“Hey–” You fought his fork away from your plate with your own. “You should’ve ordered another earlier. This is criminal.”

He shrugged unrepentant and took another piece. “Possession is only nine-tenths of the law, by the way.”

You pointed a fork at him accusingly. “One day James, your hubris will be your downfall.”

His smile was enough to make you forget whatever mean thing you’d been preparing to say. Eventually though, perhaps it was the angle of the light, or how your eyes drifted toward the window, again and again, that had James wondering yet again.

He sets his fork down. “What’s wrong?”

“You think we've been here long enough?” You asked.

A brow lifted. “Why? You wanna leave?” You glanced out at the lowering sun, and the sky beginning its slow descent, and nodded. 

“Yeah.” A small smile tugged at your mouth. “I wanna see the sun before it sets.” 

And so the bill was paid, Doudou was safely secured in James’ jacket pocket, and within minutes you were back in the truck, the engine rumbling to life from beneath you. 

The truck heads a little towards the edge of town and uphill, and the field beyond steals the breath right out of you. It rolls outward in waves of tall grass and dandelion silk, all gold and green and dreamlike as you both got out.

And though you dress was never made for such things, you run straight down the slope, the ground catching you in a fit of laughter as you fall to your side. James could only shout for you as you rolled on down. 

The sun had reached the ruinous hour when it seemed time to finally spend itself entirely. It scattered light all over, and it made you think of beauty and whether grass stains ever truly came out. James, for his part, felt his insides turn over like a drawer being searched. The land went on and on, exceeding the eye and all good manner. Yet for all that breadth, all that open country, he need only lower his eyes. 

You lay there on the grass with the last of the sun’s rays tangled in between your hair, smiling up at him from the same green earth that had made him, had made trees and rivers and every other ordinary miracle, and seen fit, had placed you here before him. And what is another miracle if not this?

“Please don’t do that ever again.” 

“Come–!”

You tug him by the hand and pull, and the two of you roll a little further down the slope in a tangle of hair, fabric, and breathless laughter. James has to gather your hair away from your face and disentangle it from your mouth just so he can kiss you properly, and fold himself around you like an unblooming flower. 

And when he looks at you after, he wants, wants, and wants some more. Against all the reasonably unreasonable forces. To be yours. To be of you and for you. To make a home somewhere in the crook of your neck or the dip in your chest, the two places where your heartbeat is clearest.

“My dress is all ruined.”

“I’ll buy you a new one, how does that sound?”

“You oughta just buy me a new car.” A joke, obviously. But James asks the question anyway.

“Will you like that?”

You both commit to a very spontaneous decision, and James is grateful he had the intuition to keep a clean blanket in his truck beforehand. The sun sets, and by the time the stars had gone up, he slid open the sun roof upon your request. In the blinking machinery of the darkness above, James points out plants like he’s naming his old acquaintances, then offers you the strange superstitions he collected as a child.

Then you fall asleep right there, wrapped in a blanket on the backseat of his father's truck while the stars slip down like a drawn curtain over the world. James stays awake and keeps vigil through the night, held up by the weight against his chest and the soft cadence of your breathing, borrowing from it a calm he’s yet to learn to keep for himself. 

A little later into morning, he drives the coastal road that leads home. And he pulls into that same clearing again, and lifts you carefully from the passenger seat. He reaches for your purse with the key to your front door, and lets himself i as quietly as he can. Inside, he moves slowly and watches his every step so the floorboards won’t creak. He takes the stairs just as carefully, until he makes it to your room without a suspecting soul there to catch him. 

He lowers you onto your bed gently, and you sink into your mattress much like he does as he follows, dropping down beside you to fit himself right into the sprawl of your limbs. His breath is warm where it brushes your skin, his nose tingling where it touches yours. 

“Wake up, little lady.” He murmurs, voice still rough with groginess..” You want me to clean you up??”

“Later…” You mumble. “Stop calling me that.”

“I’ll leave you be.” He shifts a lot closer, if being closer was still possible. “I need to head off to the shop.”

Your fingers crumple slightly around his sleeve. “Stay a while.” 

“How long did you want this while to be?” He looks at you earnestly, as he looks for a similarly earnest answer. 

The morning light slides further in through the curtains, catching on the edges of your hair, the folds of the blanket, and James grants himself a moment.

“A long kind of while.” 

He couldn’t say no to that. 

Later that afternoon, at the shop when James is helping adjust something from under the hood of a car, his dad’s sights narrowed onto that small dog figurine sitting new and unfitting on the counter next to the piles of papers and blueprints.

“What the hell is that thing?” He finally asks.

James doesn’t even need to look up from where he’s looking to know what he was referring to. “It’s a dog.”

“This yours?”

“Gift.”

“Whatever for?”

James tightens a bolt a little too firmly and scoffs, a tiny sign of a grin pulling at his face. “It’s normal to receive gifts dad.”

His father exhales through his nose unimpressedly. “Well this looks like a gift you give to a girl, and you ain't one.”

James wipes his ands on his stained jeans and turns to grab Doudou. From the counter, he quickly settles him onto the workbench, one he shared with his dad. Out of some half-assed spite that made him want to laugh, he turns to him and points at Doudou the dog. “Just deal with the damn toy.” 

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Your mom has been trying not to cry since you’d went downstairs with your bags, which only made her more talkative as she circled around the same three instructions: study well, eat properly, wash your sheets when you get back. 

“And don’t forget to call, okay?” she says again, holding your hands like an anchor. You wanted to die of embarrassment because James was standing right at the front door. 

“I’ll be back before you know it, Ma.” you answer as you lean in to kiss her cheek. Your dad stands a little behind her, arms crossed trying not to be part of the emotional fiasco happening in front of him. He clears his throat when James shifts from where he stands.

“You’re always taking her off to places, huh.” 

“I’m getting her to the airport, Mr. L/n.” James tries to feign nonchalance, and your dad buys it cluelessly. Your mom finally lets you go, stepping back with a long look like she’s trying to memorize your face. When you turn back, James helps you haul your things out the door. As you start walking away, he glances at you sideways.

“You think your dad's softening up to me?” 

“He lets you in my room now. With the door closed, mind you. That’s gotta be it.”

The car ride was quiet. James didn’t know what to say for once, so he kept his eyes on the road, fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel. He watched the streets roll by, the stoplight changing, strangers crossing intersections, and the usual moving on of life. 

By the time the airport came into view, James pulled into an empty space near the terminal entrance, close enough that he could spot the steady stream of travelers coming and going, departures, arrivals, reunions, the like.  He killed the engine, and you carefully unbuckled your seatbelt. James glances over at you, then quickly away, and back again. You folded your arms across your chest and turned to meet his gaze. 

“You have my new number saved right?”

“Yeah I do.”

“And you'll call?”

“I’ll call you when you arrive.”

James looks at you and catches something small and uneasy. He shifts in his seat and leans over the console. “What’s wrong?”

You look out the windshield for a moment. And once you seem like you’ve made up your mind about something, you lean in as well, and kiss James breathless. 

When you pull back, James looks struck, and a laugh seeps out of you. “I’ll let you be my boyfriend now.”

James thinks fucking finally. He’s waited this long. 

“You could’ve made the decision a little earlier, no?”

You give him a look of fake compassion and press your foreheads together. “We sure still had a good time.”

We sure did. 

“I’ll see you in a few months.”

He’ll certainly remember the way you would sing that godforsaken song, Shape of My Heart by Sting over and over, every time it was on the radio. And he wonders what shape his heart would prove to be (thank you Gordon Sumner) if you were to cut him open and take a peak. He would have to explain it to you then, if he could find the words:

Love, yes, he had love, and felt it in these accruals.  The way limestone was his peculiar little architect, building cathedrals in his mind out of the most ordinary memories. You’d be lodged to the base like a seed in a seam splitting ground and stone. Or maybe he’d be changing oil, or turning a wrench, and there you’d be again, threaded through the gears smiling from between its teeth.

The shape of his heart: an endless concept to think about. 

When he drives home, the seat is empty beside him. Somewhere above, his heart has slipped its moorings and gone migrating an inch closer to yours, just a few thousand miles away. And from where you were, you held the same bit of hopefulness, your measure of passing slowly turning into a clockwise cycle of before James, after James, and the exquisite ache of wanting for James again. 

Summer made conspirators of everyone. The trees would lean closer, the sun softened the pavement. Time, to most, could stretch themselves as thin as caramel. But summer has ended, so he’d have to stick to a memory on his way back. 

And the town could forget your tire tracks by autumn. Rain will smooth it over and leaves will litter over green and brown. James, though, knows he won’t. 

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

(BONUS)

A few months later, James steps into the auto lot the way he’s done a hundred times before. Rust, oil, hot metal, everything baked under the sun and layered into the air to smell. Rick sits on the hood of a sedan, half-slouched and wiping grease off his hands with a towel.

“Morning Rick.”

“Hey!” Rick waves, squinting at him and then the car he’s got. “Whatchu here for? What’s with the Mustang?”

“Here to scrape it. It’s done its time.”

Rick gives a low whistle, hopping down from the hood and eyeing the Mustang down. “Ah, then you'll have yourself a good deal for it. I’ll say.”

And that’s all James was really here for, really. To grant your one wish as though it were a dying one. It left him confused in some way, he’d have to admit. You loved that car. He hadn’t expected you to let go of it the moment you left.

Yet the poor thing had exhausted all of its potential by the time you were done with it, so the junk or resale was the next best thing.

Rick jerks his thumb toward a corner of the lot. “Oh these just came in.” He walks them over.

“They’re not brand new, but it’s solid condition. Engines clean, suspensions intact, minor wear on the bushings but nothing too big The boss man’s thinking of flipping ‘em for a nice penny.”

Theres a Toyota Prado sitting right at the corner, boxy and grounded, and built to take on dirt. James takes a closer look.

“Try and sell this one to me, will ya Rick? C’mon, advertise.” 

Rick raises a brow. “You don’t want that truck no more, huh?”

“‘S not for me.”

He looks at the mustang, that vehicle of memories he was so adamant on talking you out of scraping. A good gift, huh? 

“I’ll take it.”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

mari here! guys did u get the ‘somebody better be dying’ Shrek reference…? no? that's OK D: lowk lost it w ts fic bc the direction was all over the place but HEYYY I'm back but not rly ! I posted this to like make up for the long dcu wait yall r gonna have to bear with 😭 I promise it's not scraped at all in fact it barely started 😛 but ur gonna have to give me some time bc I’ve been super busy and burnt + I’ll be honest this whole tumblr thing has been making me feel v anxious lately (?) 😅 it’s not u it’s me ahh 💨 which is why I haven’t been getting into the blr these past few days 😞🙏 tho i will answer a few asks tonight mwahahaha ill try </33 ily 

[vivvangel]

BABY, WASSUP? — C.JY

synopsis: your boyfriend, choi yeonjun, seems to have this natural dominant thing to him.

› pairings & contents: choi yeonjun x reader, established relationship.

✧ warnings: non sexual dominance, dom!yeonjun, use of nicknames (baby), headcannons + drabble.

• you wouldn't expect a guy like yeonjun to be dominantly in an intimidating way, because truly, he's not. it's quieter than that. he just... naturally takes the lead without making it feel like he's forcing you to follow. somehow, everyone ends up listening to him anyway.

• he'd absolutely do that thing where he guides you through a crowded place with a hand resting lightly on your lower back or around your shoulder. not possessive, just making sure you don't get separated. if someone bumps into you, he'll instinctively pull you a little closer before asking, "you okay?"

• if you have the tendency of overthinking,, or just overthinking something in general, he won't sit there entertaining every "what if." he'll listen first because he genuinely wants to know what's bothering you, but eventually he'll sigh, look you dead in the eye, and go, "okay. enough. we're not doing this to ourselves anymore." and somehow... you actually stop spiraling.

• he has a habit of making decisions when he knows you're mentally exhausted. "what do you wanna eat?" turns into, "don't think about it. i already ordered." because he knows you'll spend forty minutes saying, "i don't mind."

• he's definitely the type to tease you for pretending you're independent twenty-four seven, even if you really are an independent person. "you know you can let me help, right?" followed by a grin because he already knows you're about to refuse.

• eye contact is kind of his thing. if you're trying to lie to him or hide that something's wrong, he'll tilt his head a little and just... look at you. not saying anything. waiting. he knows you'll crack eventually.

• if you're arguing, he isn't the type to yell over you. honestly, he'd probably get quieter. calmer. almost annoyingly calm. he'll wait until you've gotten everything out, then respond without matching your energy. somehow that's way scarier than shouting.

• he'd gently fix things without asking. your hoodie's twisted? fixes it. your necklace clasp turned around? fixes it. a strand of hair stuck in your lip gloss? already moving it away before you even notice.

• "come here."

yes, that's literally it.

not demanding though, not harsh, either. just confident enough that you find yourself walking over before realizing you didn't even question it.

• he's competitive by nature, so if you challenge him to literally anything, he'll get this little smirk that says oh, you're serious? then he'll beat you while laughing the entire time. and yes, he'll remind you about it for the next week.

• if someone disrespects you, he just steps in. i doubt he'd be the type to cause a scene, honestly because there's something about the way he carries himself that makes people rethink what they were about to say.

• he'd absolutely steal your phone when you've been doomscrolling for hours. "that's enough." you'd complain, reach for it, and he'd hold it juuust out of reach with the biggest grin on his face. "go drink water first."

• when you're walking together, he subconsciously adjusts his pace to yours. if you're distracted and drifting toward the road, he'll lightly hook a finger around your sleeve and guide you back without even interrupting the conversation.

• he's really good at reading people, so he'd notice the little things before you mention them. the fake smile. the shorter replies. the way you start picking at your rings when you're anxious. he won't ask, "are you okay?" ten times. instead he'll quietly clear your schedule if he can, hand you your favorite drink, and say, "talk whenever you're ready."

• physical reassurance comes naturally to him. a hand on the back of your neck when you're stressed. squeezing your shoulder as he walks past. resting his chin on your head while you're standing next to him. nothing dramatic—just little habits that somehow make everything feel calmer.

• he's the type to casually move you behind him without thinking if a bike comes speeding down the sidewalk or if there's a crowd pushing through, because protecting the people he cares about is almost instinctive. (please do not mistake this for him thinking you're incapable, absolutely not.)

• if you're being stubborn for absolutely no reason, he'll match your energy. "fine." "fine." ten minutes later he's standing in front of you holding out the thing you refused to let him carry earlier. "are we done?" and somehow he's smiling the whole time because he knew you'd give in eventually.

• compliments from him feel different because he doesn't throw them around every five minutes. don't get me wrong, he compliments you so well. if he tells you, "i'm proud of you," or "you handled that really well," you know he means every word. he's observant enough to notice the effort nobody else sees.

• at the end of the day, remembering the little things so you don't have to. making decisions when your brain is fried. standing in front of you when things get messy and beside you when they don't. he never makes you feel smaller,, if anything, he has this quiet way of making you feel safe enough to be completely yourself.

— FURTHERMORE . . .

"you're sulking."

"i'm not."

yeonjun looked up from his phone for maybe half a second before humming.

"you've answered every question with one word for the last ten minutes."

"...have not."

"there it is again."

you crossed your arms harder, determined to stare out the café window instead of at him.

he let the silence sit.

most people would've rushed to fill it.

yeonjun never did.

he was annoyingly patient.

"...you gonna tell me what's wrong?" he asked eventually.

"nothing."

"right."

another few seconds passed.

he reached across the table, not for your hand, but for your untouched iced coffee.

he took the straw, used it to stir the drink, then slid it toward you.

"drink." followed by a "please."

you blinked.

"that wasn't an order."

"i know."

"...you're weird."

"probably.

you took a sip anyway.

he smiled to himself like he'd expected that.

"better?"

"a little."

"good."

you narrowed your eyes.

"don't do that."

"do what?"

"the... thing."

"very descriptive, baby."

"where you somehow make me do what you want."

he laughed under his breath.

"i didn't make you do anything."

"yes, you did."

"you made the decision."

"because you looked at me."

"that's usually how conversations work."

you groaned, dropping your forehead onto the table.

"you're actually impossible."

he reached over and gently flicked your forehead.

"dramatic."

"mean."

"still drinking your coffee though."

"...don't ruin this for yourself."

"too late."

he grinned.

a few minutes later, you finally admitted what had been bothering you all afternoon.

he listened without interrupting once.

when you finished, he nodded like he'd already been piecing everything together in his head.

"okay."

"okay?"

"yeah."

"that's all you have to say?"

"no."

he stood, grabbed both of your bags before you could reach for yours, and slung them over one shoulder.

"come on."

"where are we going?"

"walking."

"yeonjun—"

"you're overthinking."

he held the café door open.

"and i'm fixing it."

"...you always think you know best."

he shrugged.

"not always."

a beat.

"just most times,"

you rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, but you walked through the door anyway.

he smiled to himself.

he knew you would.

[myungjaehycn]

[unanuvola]

HAN×CHANGBIN • "RUN IT" IN SEOUL DAY #2

[hyunpic]

[puppyms]

it's 2min monday

[wolfchans]

cutest guy ever 🥹 © bbuggu_ming2

[blossom-hwa]

5:13 pm | c.bg

it was raining about a week ago but I was so warm and sleepy in my room that I came up with this :) hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Beomgyu x reader

Genre: fluff, domestic!au

Word Count: 663

It’s a quiet, rainy day when Beomgyu calls. 

TXT Masterlist

[ 5:13 pm: rain on the window like your lips on my face ] you’re mid-yawn, half settling into a nap, when beomgyu calls. 

“good morning.”

you roll your eyes so hard you’re certain he can hear it over the phone. “it’s mid afternoon.”

“it’s morning somewhere.” to punctuate the inane thought he yawns, which causes you to yawn as well, more deeply than before.

“piss off,” you say when the ping pong round of yawns is finished, fondly, so fondly that neither of you can hold back a laugh when you stop speaking. “what do you want?”

on the other end beomgyu sighs softly, more of a brief exhalation than anything, but somehow the tiny sound seems to wrap around you like the warm blanket already settled over your shoulders, relaxing any final tensions in your face and body and dragging your eyelids down further. “’m warm. and sleepy.”

“so am I.” you blink your eyes open a little more to look out of your window, at the gray sky and clouds scattering rain onto the panes of glass. it’s cold outside, you know, but somehow that just makes you feel warmer, burrowed all comfortable into your blankets and pillows as rain drums steadily on the roof. like the rain isn’t just water pattering on glass, but beomgyu’s lips pressing kisses to your skin. “I was almost napping, jerk.”

“oops,” beomgyu says with so little sincerity that you have to snort. “you should come over. be warm ‘n sleepy together.”

you ponder the thought. it’s certainly an inviting one, curling up with your boyfriend in his comfortable bed with his comfortable warmth on a rainy day like this, but more inviting than the warmth of your own blankets right now? “you come over here,” you bargain, “and we can still be warm and sleepy together.”

“no, you come here.”

“no, you.”

“no, you.”

“no -”

“I’ll pay for takeout.”

damn. he does know you too well. already your mouth is starting to water at the thought of your favorite dish from your favorite restaurant, of sitting on the floor of beomgyu’s tiny apartment and eating together because you’re too tired to sit at his equally tiny dining table. “I hate you,” you say with no real venom because you’re smiling a little too hard, but it’s fine because you can practically hear beomgyu’s smile too. 

“I’ll order the usual,” he says, and despite the fact that he’s won your little mini argument, the quiet certainty in his voice makes your smile grow softer. you fell in love with beomgyu’s brightness, his laugh, the way he seems to exude the rays of the sun even on the darkest of days, but it was a pleasant discovery to learn of his softness, his gentle romanticism, the quieter ways in which he’s patiently learned to care for you behind the sunlit smiles and cackling laughs. “unless you want something else?”

“no, that’s perfect.” with that, you finally acquiesce to the need to slip out from under your soft, warm blankets, to stumble out of bed and slip on your coat and shoes, tucking an umbrella under your arm. “I’ll pick up snacks. be there soon.”

the force of beomgyu’s smile that you can’t see hits you even through the phone, infusing you with a warmth that doesn’t fade even as you prepare to step into the cold rain. “counting the minutes.”

“I’m going to be late on purpose,” you threaten. 

he laughs easily. “no, you won’t.”

he’s right. you won’t, and he knows it. you sigh, still smiling. “don’t fall asleep before I get there.”

“no promises,” he mumbles, and privately you think that even if he did fall asleep, you wouldn’t be so upset. “get here faster and you might catch me before I pass out.”

“you drive a hard bargain.” with that, you start to put your phone down. “I’ll see you soon. I love you.”

on the other end, beomgyu yawns, but even that couldn’t disguise the fondness in his garbled words. “I love you too.”

If you enjoyed, please don’t hesitate to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

[junsfriend]

loyal puppy — sjy

SUMMARY: Ever since your boyfriend Jake transformed from his nerdy high-school self into the university's star football player, you've become everything you thought you’d never be. Jealous. Anxious. Clingy. But Jake really doesn't mind your newfound possessiveness. He encourages it, even. So when he defies expectations again to star in a musical with a stunning costar, you spiral. Now, the “lowkey” relationship you once insisted on gets jeopardized under the weight of your own insecurities.

PAIRING: popular!jake x fem!reader

WORD COUNT: 26k+

GENRE: secret!relationship au, university!au, grumpy gf x sunshine bf (?), smut, angst, fluff, some toxic themes

WARNINGS: mdni, nsfw, porn with plot, tsundere!reader, lowkey crazy!reader, whipped!Jake, lowkey masochist!bf Jake, switch!Jake, emotional constipation, he want that cookie bad, jealousy, avoidancy, football = soccer, unsafe/unprotected sex, cursing, sweat, dacryphilia, storage closet sex, lots of biting/marking, 69, cumplay, jewelry play, begging, failed pull-out method, creampie, squirting, lmk if i missed anything

A/N: Not to pick a favorite child but… I loved writing this fic so much. 

a year ago.

It’s the last year of high school, on a relatively normal walk back home. The same cracked sidewalks, the same autumn breeze, the same shy boy matching his steps beside you like he always did. Just like any other day. 

Until he decided to ruin it.

“Do you wanna… like, date?” Jake asked suddenly, hands shoved deep into his uniform pants pockets, trying too hard to sound nonchalant. “You know… put a label on us. Or whatever.”

You remember almost running away out of pure instinct, soul escaping your body. But instead, you laughed. Because what the fuck was he on about?

You? Jake? Date?

The two of you were barely even supposed to be friends. He's a straight-A student teachers constantly compared you to, with those thick-rimmed black glasses glued to his face and unkempt bowl of hair. A striker on the football team who watched matches from the sidelines just as much as you did… and you weren't on the team.

And on the other hand, there’s you. Not-so-pleasant you. Considered a troublemaker because you always showed up late to class, talked back to ill-meaning adults, and picked fights with boys who catcalled too much. A rumor spread through school that your dad was a terrifying loan shark with gang ties. He’s a banker.

Assigned classroom cleaning duties was what brought you two together in the first place. It wasn’t fate. Nothing notable. You more or less picked him up on your shoulder and claimed him as a personal assistant. Someone who would fetch you water when you’re thirsty or give you answers to math problems when you were too lazy to solve them yourself. 

So why in the world did he think you two should date?

“Who put you up to this?” you wheezed between bursts of cackling. “I’m gonna beat their ass.”

Jake scratched the back of his head, clearly not amused.

“I mean… You and me?” you continued, tears of laughter blurred your vision. “We would make the worst couple ever—”

“I don’t think so.”

You froze mid-step. Jake had slowed his strides down a long time ago, but now he was completely still. You turned to find him a few steps behind, face flushed and hands by his sides. 

He’s holding something. A small, turquoise box. One that looked suspiciously like…

You felt like throwing up.

“I-I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he stammered. “What it’d be like if I were your boyfriend. If we… went on dates and stuff.”

Oh, hell no.

It’s like an immediate sense of panic overcame your body. And before your brain could process a single rational thought, you broke out into a sprint. Running down the street like a maniac. In hindsight, you probably should’ve known that you couldn’t outrun an athlete. But you weren’t really thinking, period. 

You feel a tug on your waist. Jake had already caught up to you. He spun you around, like the male leads do in those stupid romcoms, and pulled you into him. His face was close. Too close. His glasses slipped halfway down his nose, and a bead of sweat clung to his temple. And it wasn’t from running.

It was from you.

He looked nervous. Ridiculously nervous.

The ring box pressed into your back, and you put your palms sternly against his chest, trying to create some distance between you two. It wasn’t helping.

“Jake,” you warned. “Let go of me or I scream.”

He shook his head, his arms only wrapped tighter around you. “Only if you promise you won’t run,” he replied, a sort of desperation laced in his voice. “And that you’ll listen to what I have to say.”

You bit your bottom lip, suddenly too aware of his intense gaze and how they searched yours through those big, fat lenses. You gave a small nod, not trusting your voice to come out right. The moment his grip loosened, you broke your agreement almost immediately. Your feet moved on their own, like fight-or-flight, as you tried to rush out of his arms. But he was one step ahead of you, grabbing your wrist to bring you back right where you were.

“Really?” he asked, exhausted. “That’s not gonna work a second time.”

You glared, but your eyes betrayed you. They slid down to the turquoise ring box, still in his hand. Jake's eyes flickered in the same direction, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

“I can put it away if it’s freaking you out,” he muttered, slipping it back into his pocket. You almost let out a sigh of relief, but not when his large hand was still wrapped around your wrist.

“...Thank you,” you mumbled, eyes fixed on the ground. “Now make it quick.”

Jake's heart constricted. ‘The worst thing she could say is no!’ the internet had told him. This was a lot worse, actually!

“[Y/N],” he started sharply, and the sound of your name on his lips sent shivers down your spine. He released you, only to set both his hands on your shoulders, guiding your gaze up to meet his.

“I… I think—” He stopped, inhaling a deep breath. “No. I know. I… really… really… l-like you.”

His voice was as shaky as his hands, and for a brief second, almost every part of you wanted to knock him out with your backpack because your heart was beating too loud in your chest. It pissed you off. But you held back and just… stared.

Jake, ever the hopeless romantic, had fallen for you the moment you asked him to clean the entire classroom alone while you skipped duties to hang out with your friends. He said yes, only because he has a hard time saying no, especially to someone he found so pretty. But then you laughed and told him you were joking. Told him not to bend over backwards just to please other people. Spent time with him that day when usually, others paid him no attention.

He was enamored ever since. 

But the silence between you two was suffocating, heavy enough to stall his breathing. Jake’s palms were growing damp against the fabric of your uniform blazer, and his heart felt like it was ready to fall to the floor. Maybe this was a bad time to do it. Or maybe the ring really freaked you out. Was it too big a gesture? The WikiHow tutorial he consulted had told him to bring a gift, after all. 

“Hello?” Jake’s voice cut through your thoughts. He gave your shoulders a tiny shake, trying to pull you out of your entranced state.

“Hm? Sorry… say that again? I don’t think I heard you…”

Jake’s expression fell as he dropped his hands back to his sides in defeat.

“Okay,” he muttered, voice small. It wasn’t worth it. Everything went off script anyway. “Never mind. Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

He brushed past you, shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep in his pockets again. He was fidgeting with the ring box, wishing he could throw it into the nearest bushes. God, he felt dumb. So fucking dumb.

Of course you’d say no! He was nobody. Just Jake. Just some guy you latched onto at the start of high school so you could poke fun at him for the next few years and make him pay for your boba addiction. And you, with your cool-ass friends with eyebrow slits and really underground music tastes. You’re way out of his league—

“Jake,” you called out, surprised at how loud your voice could get if you were desperate. 

He turned around immediately, wearing such a pronounced pout even from a few meters away. Somehow, seeing his face again made your throat close up. He liked you. He really liked you.

“Say it again,” you demanded, arms crossed with doubt written all over your features. “I need to hear you say it one more time.”

You walked toward him until you stood close enough to see the nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth. Was this it? Would you actually give him a chance? Jake pressed his lips together and inhaled a deep breath to calm himself. 

“I like you,” he said as softly as a whisper. “Would you… Be my girlfriend?”

You looked at the ground, feigning a calmness when your mind was racing with thoughts too insane to vocalize. When you finally looked up again, your heart betrayed you. It skipped a beat at the way his gaze fell on yours, wide and hopeful. It almost hurt. He was too bright, too cute.

(Okay, so what if you liked him back. He didn’t have to know that.)

“Sure,” you said, forcing your voice to sound casual. Jake froze.

Then his entire face lit up. Suddenly, he was grinning from ear to ear, jumping in place like a dog begging for a treat. “Really? Like really? You’ll go out with me?!”

He took your hands in his, tenderly. Like he wasn't entirely sure the moment was real. You felt the dampness of his palms first, then the tug of his fingers intertwining with yours, like he had already rehearsed this part of his confession a thousand times in his head. Your cheeks warmed.

‘What a weirdo,’ you thought to yourself. It’s not like he’d just won the lottery. What was he so happy about?

“Just don’t make it weird,” you grumbled. “Keep it on the down low.”

Jake’s smile faltered, brows knitting together so tightly you were sure it’d leave a wrinkle on his cute face.

“Like… you don’t want people to know?” he asked, voice quieter now. You nodded, confused by his confusion. 

“Why would anyone need to know?” you asked genuinely. He frowned, his thumb gently rubbing the back of your hand, silently asking you to reconsider.

“Not even Sunghoon or Jay?”

You scoffed. “Especially Sunghoon and Jay.”

“Why not?” he groaned. You just shrugged.

“I don’t want our dynamic to change just ‘cause we’re dating,” you reassured him, letting go of his hands to ruffle his hair. Like you always do when you tease him. Like that would make it all better. “And all that coupley PDA stuff draws too much attention anyway.”

You’d spent years cultivating your intimidating persona, and in your mind, it was simple. No one else needed to know that you were vulnerable to something as cringe-inducing as dating. The other students would only use it against you. For what? Who knows.

But you could just imagine the teasing glances and whispers in the hallways. If Jake were really serious about dating you, surely he’d be understanding of your aversion towards embarrassment. Right?

He didn't seem entirely convinced. At all. “So… what would be the difference then? Between us now and before?” 

You sighed and stepped past him.

“It's what we'd do in private, you know?” you muttered over your shoulder. “Kissing and all that…”

You didn’t see it, how Jake’s ears completely reddened or how his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. His fingers twitched at his side, like he was already imagining what it’d be like to hold you properly. To touch you. To kiss you. Like real couples do.

“D-do you want to see the ring I got you?” he blurted out, catching up to you. “I swear it’s lowkey. It has a ‘J’ engraved inside the band. I got a matching one with your initial, too! No one would even notice if you wore it—”

And you feel your heart thunder in your chest, scaring you into another sudden sprint. “Get the hell away from me, weirdo!” 

Your joined laughter echoed down the street as he chased after you. And even though he could catch up to you, he let you have your fun, staying just a little out of his reach.

–

Jake is very good at obeying orders, always has been. Especially after the first few times you glared at him for accidentally reaching for your hand in the cafeteria. He learned fast.

He tried his best not to show affection publicly, no matter how badly he wanted to wrap his blazer around your shivering frame when you would nap during class. He forced himself not to linger near you when you were loitering with your fellow delinquents by the school staircase, laughing at a joke he didn’t quite understand. He suppressed the urge to defend you from teachers who reprimanded you out in the hallways. Tried not to look behind at you for too long during football games he never played in anyway.

Once, someone asked him about his love life, and he instantly turned into a blushing, mumbling mess. And they laughed it off. It was Jake. No one thought twice. He was always like this. Awkward. Flustered.

The parasites he calls friends, Jay and Sunghoon, would probably go into cardiac arrest if they ever found out how he doted on you in private. How soft he was. How gentle.

You pretended not to notice. But ever the observer, Jake sees how your defenses weaken, ever so slightly, each day.

You let him put his arm around you in dark movie theaters instead of yanking it away. Let him stay for dinner with your parents when he comes over to help you study (because lord knows you need it). You stopped flinching when he called you ‘babe’ in private, sometimes responding without even questioning who he was speaking to. It was baby steps, but to Jake, it was everything.

Was it awkward? Yes. The way his glasses got in the way when he finally kissed you for the first time. Your noses bumped together. Too much tongue involved. It was a mess. Still life-changing, nevertheless. 

He replays the memory often. The two of you on your bed, him holding your plushie hostage, you trying to rip it out of his arms. The way you fell on top of him with your lips accidentally crashing on his. He pretended like the make-out session that occurred immediately after didn't absolutely ruin him.

Jake edged past the warmer parts of you when no one was around to bear witness. And you both were so good at keeping secrets. No one would have believed it anyway. You’d made sure of that.

–

“You two are very strange,” Jay commented, maybe a couple of months into your secret relationship. Every senior was gearing up for graduation, choosing which universities to attend or which path to take in life.

And of course, Jay and Sunghoon found out that Jake and you would both be attending the same university. Not just any school. A top one. Yonsei. 

Jake had earned a full-ride scholarship after finally getting off the damn bench and scoring four goals in a single match against the best high school team in the nation. Jake could've gone abroad to an Ivy League, but he chose not to. Because at Yonsei he could visit family more often, save a lot of money, and… well, keep you close, most of all.

And by the will of a higher being (Jake’s relentless tutoring), you somehow made it in as well.

“I thought you said you wanted to go straight into the workforce,” Jay questioned you. “Now you’re telling me you somehow, in some way, got into the same school as Jake? This fucking nerd?”

Sunghoon chimed in with a smile he always wore before teasing you. “I didn’t even think you could get into college, honestly.”

You wanted to hit him so bad, but you stopped yourself. Your resolution for the new school year was to turn over a new leaf. And that comes with not hitting annoying boys over the head with your fist. You could get arrested for that from now on... So instead, you used your words.

“You’re mad I got in, and you didn’t,” you snorted, sticking out your tongue as Jake snickered beside you. You sat close enough to feel the warmth of his shoulder, but far enough apart to keep Jay and Sunghoon from noticing.

“You guys have no faith in her,” Jake sighed earnestly. “She’s really smart when she applies herself. She just needed a push, that's all.”

You glared at him, not sure if his comment was entirely a compliment. Yes, he played a role in your achievements. No, he could not credit himself for the hard work you put in to get that high-ass score on the college entrance exam. Even your teachers apologized for doubting you.

“Should’ve put those hours of tutoring her into me instead,” Jay groaned. “Now you’re gonna be all alone with no friends.”

Jake’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean? S-she’s my friend.”

He stumbled over the words, clearly thrown off by the ominous comment. You watched him, amused. God, he was so obvious.

Sunghoon just looked between you two, doubt etched all over his face. “Barely,” he scoffed. “Trust me, bro, you are getting left behind as soon as she finds another victim willing to pay for all her food.”

You can start your resolution next week. This time, you really smacked him, sharp on his bicep. Sunghoon yelped.

“Why are you always so aggressive?” he whined, rubbing the sore spot with his arm. You raised your hand threateningly again, but you stopped yourself short. 

At the corner of your eye was Jake’s soured expression, a flash of worry obviously overcoming him. But you couldn’t comfort him. Not now. You wouldn’t hear the end of it from these two.

“You never know,” Jay chirped, faking thoughtfulness with a hand on his chin. “Jake might be too cool for us once school starts.”

Jay and Sunghoon exchanged a look and then burst into laughter.

“Ain’t gonna happen!” Sunghoon cackled, putting his whole gut into it. You joined in hesitantly, though your eyes kept drifting to your sullen boyfriend. And he wasn’t amused. Not at all.

Because he never found it funny, the idea of you leaving him behind.

–

“Do you think I’m weird?” Jake asked one evening, with you curled up beside him on your bed. Your knee draped over his stomach, his glasses pushed up just enough to rest comfortably against your pillow. On his late-night visits, your parents would come in to check if you two were truly studying as you claimed. After Jake gained their trust, they learned to leave the two of you alone (when they probably shouldn’t have).

Your eyes were shut tight to prepare yourself for an oncoming nap.

“Yes,” you said quickly, not even giving him time to process the response.

“Like… bad weird?” he asked after a second. He’d been thinking lately, after the conversation with his friends, how different the two of you really were.

How easy it was for you to stand up for yourself. Go against the grain. How you don’t automatically default to nods as he does or lose your train of thought mid-conversation. How you hated being touched by most people but would smack someone’s shoulder when you genuinely found something funny. 

He wanted that, wanted to see the world the way you saw it. To move around without hesitation. Even when people called you a troublemaker. Even when teachers scolded you for wearing your uniform skirt shorter than the dress code. How was confidence so natural for you?

“Bad weird,” you teased, eyes still closed. “But it’s okay. I’m used to it by now.”

A small ache tugged at his heart. “You still like me though, right?”

You laughed. Jake loved to do this sometimes. Bait for reassurance. But you’re not that kind of fish.

“Who said I ever did?”

You said it jokingly, but a silence followed. You don’t quite catch it as you drift to sleep, the way Jake’s eyes dimmed.

“Oh,” he said disappointingly, staring at the ceiling.

Sometimes, he wondered if the reason you wanted your relationship to be private in the first place was because of him. If his inability to relate to your friends with secret tattoos and chains on their jeans made you embarrassed to be his girlfriend. 

Because you got along well with his friends just fine, could tease Jay and Sunghoon like you’d known them your whole life. But it was so hard for him to do the same with yours. To look natural when he joined that one karaoke hangout, where they looked at him expectantly because you had bragged that he could sing well.

You said it so proudly too, and he wanted to prove himself to them. That he was worthy to be in their presence. And then his voice had to crack.

“Should we get your friend some water?” someone joked, and the whole group laughed. With his cheeks red with embarrassment, Jake sat back down next to you, silent for the rest of the night. It was lame of him. Even he knew that. 

But even as he watched you defend him with all your heart, he couldn’t find himself to cheer up. Because in your world, he had always felt out of place. 

–

And so Jake did what he’s known to do best. Research.

He avoided WikiHow tutorials on how to ask out a girl and headed straight to the most honest part of the internet: Reddit.

‘makeover tips for guys’

‘how to gain more confidence’

‘how to be attractive enough that your girlfriend isn’t ashamed of you (serious responses only pls)’

He frequented the self-help section of the school library, took notes on everything from fashion advice to fixing his posture. He practiced eye contact with himself through the mirror until they watered, joined Sunghoon in the gym, and copied his weirdly intense routine.

Jake kept this process all to himself, much like your relationship. He learned to be good at that. Keeping secrets.

He would reinvent himself for university. Become someone you’d be proud to show off because he didn’t want to feel like this anymore. Like he would fall behind. And knowing you… he wasn’t sure if you’d bother to look back and see if your loyal puppy was still there trailing behind you. 

–

present. 

So that’s how your relationship’s been going so far. While Jake was on this great journey to undergo metamorphosis, there were no real complaints on your side.

So why was it like this now? 

Waiting for your very late boyfriend, who was making you miss the first minutes of the university’s freshman orientation ceremony. You almost text him a paragraph about how, usually, you're the unpunctual one in the relationship, but a stranger approaches you.

“BOO!” 

You almost let out a scream when you notice who it is. Or who you think it is. Is it who you think it is?

Because instead of wild, unruly hair hiding his eyebrows and big black frames resting on his nose bridge, your boyfriend looked like someone else entirely. His hair was styled in a middle part, framing his handsome features perfectly. Instead of his usual oversized hoodie with holes on the sleeves masking his athletic body, he’s wearing a varsity jacket and a simple white shirt that clung way too well to his muscular frame. You could even see the faint outline of contact lenses in the whites of his eyes.

Your eyelashes flutter in confusion. You literally just saw him yesterday. When did he find the time to get a haircut and invest in a new closet?

Jake steps forward with a small, hopeful smile and holds out a box of egg tarts. Did it add to his already late ETA? Yes, but he always thinks about you and what you'd like to eat. Could you blame him for getting you a sweet treat?

But that wasn’t the part you were really focused on.

“Who are you and what did you do to Jake?” you ask, fists raised like a boxer. He chuckles nervously, bringing the pastry box back to his side.

“Do I look weird?” he asks quietly, shifting his feet. The vulnerability in his voice made you lower your hands instantly.

“So…” you start, eyes looking him up and down. “This is on purpose? Like, Sunghoon didn’t put you up to this? Or Jay?”

He pouts. His mom practically screamed, “So handsome!” when he showed her his new look over video call. So, why was your reaction like this? 

“I just thought… new school year, new me! No?” he says, puffing up with pride.

You shake your head, moving your hand on instinct to ruffle his freshly styled hair. But he catches your wrist before you can touch him. You pull away, heart squeezing a bit, knowing that he dodged one of your rare bouts of affection. Or whatever you call it.

“It took me forever to get my hair to look like this,” he mutters, looking away. “Don’t want my hard work to go to waste.”

You click your tongue, trudging past him. Since when did he care about what his hair looked like? This was the same guy who showed up to graduation with a T-shirt and sneakers and got confused when the teachers asked him to go back home and change.

“Whatever,” you sigh. “No more standing around. We have to go—”

“Still not wearing the ring?” he asks, catching up to you. He noticed it earlier when he caught your arm. 

When Jake gave it to you just a year before, he set no expectation for you to wear it. He really hadn’t… But it has been a year. Wasn’t it about time? He wears his everyday…

You suck in your teeth and glare at him. “Why would I?” 

He flinches. And you start to feel guilt bubbling in your chest as his steps start slowing next to you.

“It’s just…” he mumbles. “It’s not like we’re in high school anymore. No one’s even gonna notice. And no one’s gonna care if we’re dating.”

You roll your eyes. You care. You still had a reputation to uphold. Maybe not as a troublemaker anymore. But still. Something about wearing your boyfriend’s ring for everyone to see and question seemed like your own personal hell. Who would want to be the center of attention as a university freshman?

“It’s the principle,” you say, not really knowing what you mean by it either. Because you are wearing it. Just not on your finger. It hangs around your neck, hidden underneath your blouse. But Jake didn’t have to know that.

You would rather die than give anyone the satisfaction of knowing you were smitten with this man. Soft, but only for him. Your biggest weakness.

“So are we always just gonna be a secret?” he sighs. You turn to face him, but you keep it pushing. It’s too much to explain right now. Or ever.

“Come on,” you insist. “We need to get to the orientation.”

–

Indeed, it wasn’t high school anymore. Because everywhere you turn, Jake’s name is being brought up.

“The hot guy on the football team—”

“He set the curve on the first exam and proved Professor Kim wrong on the board—”

“I saw him help a grandma cross the street. Soooo dreamy—”

It was enough to almost make you pull your hair out of your head. This was Jake they were talking about! The guy who was too shy to ask for no pickles in his damn burgers, who used to let Sunghoon copy off his homework and then rewrote his own just to make sure the teachers wouldn’t catch on. This was your Jake.

You take a moment to breathe.

You sound crazy. Deranged, even. It shouldn’t even matter. Jake was always good-looking! People just never noticed or took the time to appreciate him outside of his ability to decode the most difficult of physics equations.

“A couple of guys from the team think I’d look good with a sweatband,” he says, showing you a photo during a late-night walk. He’s shoving his phone screen to your face, and you pout at the sight. His hair pushed back, forehead glistening. A perfect view of his beautiful, dark eyes. 

“Nah,” you say dismissively, trying to push down the fluttering in your heart. He tilts his head, staring at the photo once more.

“Really?” he mutters. “I thought it looked pretty good.”

“Do you really wanna look like Jay in junior year? He’s gonna tell you that you copied him.”

He gives a small sound of acknowledgement. You could tell he’s taking your comment seriously, like you said something truly eye-opening.

“You’re right,” he nods. “Then, how do you feel about a lip piercing?”

Your brows furrow at the thought of metal against his pouty lips. The way his teeth would tug on it. The effect he would have on all of his newfound admirers…

“Absolutely not!” 

Yeah, you were losing it.

–

No, really, you might actually be going insane.

It was hard enough for you to create genuine friendships at Yonsei, full of stuck-up rich kids who only managed to get in through elite cram schools and expensive tutors. But after a few polite conversations, their masks fell to show their true intentions. You know now that you are being used as a shortcut to get on Jake’s radar. 

Because why do people you’ve never met before suddenly feel comfortable enough to ask you to introduce them to him? Why do they request to follow you on Instagram only so they can find his account more easily? And what pisses you off most—the question they always ask, without fail: “Is he single?”

And you know there's a quick answer you can give. A very simple solution to your eye-twitching problem. Because every time someone high-fives him in the corridors or bats their eyelashes flirtatiously in his direction, you have the overwhelming urge to just pounce on him. To wrap your arms around his middle and never let him leave your sight. 

But you can’t. Your pride is too big, your ego too fragile to admit that someone actually managed to slip past the cold exteriors of your heart. So instead, you're waiting impatiently for him to reply to your text.

He's not at practice. He's supposed to be on his way. So where the hell was he?

jake: sorry! study group went for a lil bit longer than I thought. everyone kept asking me for help haha. omw!

And then he sends a photo. It's a group selfie, with him in the middle. Three girls on his right and another two on his left, surrounding him like a piece of meat.

you: dont bother coming. im sick.

With envy, maybe. But you're perfectly healthy.

jake: im sorry babe :( you feeling okay? want me to get you anything from the store?

you: Nah.

You almost scream. There's so much you want to say and admit, but your fingers won’t type any of it. You really don't deserve him. He's so nice, and you're so… Fuck.

Why is it so hard to admit to your own boyfriend that you miss him?!

jake: ok :( I love you!

Your stomach flips.

Haha… You needed professional help. Really.

–

Jake was better at football than the bench in high school ever suggested. Senior hierarchy was everything at Yonsei. A starter as a freshman was practically unheard of before Jake. How he managed to level up from being a designated benchwarmer to being on the field at all times felt like whiplash.

Did he just have this in him this whole time?

I mean, you guess he looked kind of cool out there, all sweaty and serious-looking. Shouting call-outs to his team mid-game. Your legs squirm at the sight. He really needs to put on his damn glasses. (Though knowing you, that might only make things worse.)

You sit there, wearing the university colors of white and blue, holding onto a sign that says “Go Team!”

You would have made something with his name on it, but the thought alone sends shivers down your spine. You could not bear to give the stupid boys beside you the ammo of watching you scream Jake’s name and go crazy over his goals. So instead, you silently watch and admire as he steals the ball yet again.

Jay and Sunghoon, decked out in the rival school’s signature red for no reason whatsoever (they don’t even attend that university either), stood on either side of you with a level of passion you’ve never seen from them before.

“GET HIS ASS!” Jay screams. “Play the mental game! When Player 15 cries, he calls his mom first—”

Player 15 would happen to be Jake.

“The guy with ‘Sim’ in the back of his jersey loves to sing Celine Dion in the shower—”

You groan as heads turn, not enjoying the various glares and snide remarks from your surrounding schoolmates. You still haven't made any substantial friends yet at university. Being associated with these bozos would only make it that much harder. This would be the last time you sneak them into the student section. 

“Can you two please sit down?” you mutter. “We’re ahead by like four goals. Psychological warfare is not enough for Jake to lose.”

Sunghoon drops back into his seat with a huff, cracking his neck.

“This won’t do,” he mutters. “Jake’s gonna surpass me in Instagram followers if he wins this.”

Jay chuckles on your left side, still standing and selfishly blocking the view of everyone behind him. “If he wins, you think he’ll invite us to their celebration party after?”

Your brows furrow. “What party?”

Jay finally sits down when the opposing team calls a time-out, one eyebrow raised at your confused expression. “Isn’t that like a thing every school does? First big game of the year, there’s bound to be something.”

Sunghoon nods in agreement. “Yeah, that’s like common knowledge.”

You almost pout before catching yourself. Jake never mentioned anything about a party. 

So when the game ended and, of course, Yonsei won, the two boys could not help but ask. 

“So there’s a party, right?”

“And you’re taking us?”

Jake looks between the two of them, forehead glistening and hair damp with sweat.

“What party?” he asks, and you smile gingerly. That’s right! You weren’t crazy. He would’ve told you if there was—

“You have to go to the party, Jakey!” a voice chirps from behind you.

You recognize her. The team manager of the football team. Short hair and a cute button nose. Very pretty. Your eyes cut between Jake and her. Wait.

Jakey? Who the hell calls him that?

Jay and Sunghoon give each other some shifty glances and step aside, letting the girl join the conversation. You feel this weird inclination to move closer to Jake, but you suppress the urge. 

“Hm?” Jake finally replies, confused more than ever. “No one told me about a party.”

The girl giggles. What even was her name?

“Oh, Jakey! Since you’re a freshman, I’ll give you the rundown.” 

She scooches in between you two, pushing you slightly to the side. The boys don’t seem to notice, and you have half your sense not to shove the girl right back.

“Whenever we win,” she starts, “the whole school goes to En Bar nearby and takes it over! Free drinks and everything. You’re our star player, so you definitely can’t miss it. Your friends are invited too, of course.”

She looks between Jay and Sunghoon, not even sparing you a glance.

Jake scratches the nape of his neck. “Sorry, I’m actually feeling pretty tired—” 

“We’ll be there!” Jay and Sunghoon say instantly. You raise your eyebrow at them, and the two brush it off.

“We’ll make sure he comes,” Jay laughs, slapping Jake hard on the shoulder. Having gotten hit by the ball in that exact spot just an hour before, he winces.

“I’m not really—”

“Great!” the girl smiles, clapping her hands together. “I’ll see you all there then?” 

Of course, her back is fully turned towards you. Dumb and dumber nod in unison, and as the girl walks off, they push at each other excitedly.

“First college party,” they cry out in joy.

“Oh my god,” you mutter. “You two are pathetic.”

Jake nods slowly in agreement. “Well… you guys have fun. I think I’m just gonna head back to my dorm and shower…”

“And get ready, right?” Sunghoon says dangerously, wagging a finger at him. “Because you are coming, right?”

Jake shivers under his friends’ threatening glares. But what really scares him is when his eyes find yours. You look pissed. Fuck. What did he do this time?

“I mean… I guess I could pop in…” Jake says reluctantly. He sneaks in another glance in your direction and sees that your frown grows even deeper. Was that the wrong thing to say?

“Babe?” Jake calls after you as you stride across campus, shivering in your t-shirt and mini skirt. “Why are you walking so fast?”

It’s dark now, save for the dim street lamps. You stop abruptly, and he almost bumps into you. When you turn, your jaw is already clenched.

“Am I crazy, or did that girl just completely ignore me?” you ask genuinely, voice at the seams of losing composure. Because what the fuck was her problem?

Jake laughs nervously. “Choa? I thought she seemed pretty friendly?”

Your expression sours. “Yeah, maybe a little too friendly,” you say under your breath. Jake catches it.

“Wait,” he says with a shit-eating grin, leaning in. “Babe… are you jealous? Hm?”

Your cheeks heat up, arms crossing like a toddler. “Fuck off.”

He laughs now, twisting you around and guiding you forward with an arm around your shoulder. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, babeeee…”

He notices how you don’t pull away from his touch, when normally you would hiss something like, “people are watching,” or something like that. Jake bites back an even bigger smile. You just let him hold you.

The walk to his dorm was peachy for him, save for the fact that his sweaty arm stank up your shirt.

You! Jealous. This has to be a dream. When you reach his room, shared with a sophomore named Heeseung who never seems to be around, you sit on Jake’s bed, still reeling from the earlier interaction.

“Am I overreacting?” you ask him, not at all bothered that he was taking his jersey off. You’re well past the stage of pretending his bare torso flusters you. “Like… did it not seem like she wanted you?”

Jake laughs, wiping his underarms with a nearby towel. “Me? Babe, no. That’s out of the question. She's like four years older than us—”

You roll your eyes. “So where the fuck did ‘Jakey’ come from?”

He shrugs, catching his reflection in the wall mirror hanging on his door. His muscles flex in a way that makes your eyes travel down his well-toned back…

You snap your gaze back to the wall. No. Focus. You’re supposed to be mad.

“New year, new nickname?” he offers, teasingly.

You throw a pillow at his head. Like the athlete he is, Jake dodges it. He turns to you, laughing, amused by how sulky and adorable you look on his bed. Brows furrowed in contemplation, tugging your legs close to your chest. Your plush thighs in your pretty little skirt that would have gotten you dress-coded back in high school with your knee-high socks and…

Fuck. 

“It’s not like I care,” you mumble, unconvincingly. 

Jake huffs out something that sounds like a chuckle, but his thoughts are elsewhere. His mind (and eyes) are on the edge of your skirt. He places a hand on your thigh and rubs it softly. To you, it felt like reassurance, and it was. But he was also incredibly horny.

“Babe,” his words drawl. “Look at me.”

Your eyes meet his for a split second before he plants a wet kiss on your cheek. “Hey—”

He chuckles as he plants another on your nose. Then your chin. And then your other cheek. And now you’re trying to push him away, but he holds your wrists to prevent you from stopping his incessant attacks. 

“Jake—You stink—Freak!” You try to say as his lips find yours, while he’s giggling up a storm. So cute. You're so fucking cute. 

His next kiss is deep, drawing out your breath sharply. Your back is on the bed now with Jake on top, his hands still wrapped around your wrists.

Jake’s lips move against yours, your eyes fluttering shut. His tongue prods and pushes in, his taste so sweet and heavy as you breathe in his weirdly intoxicating scent. Like fresh laundry doused in the salt of his sweat. You clench his biceps as he comes up from the kiss to catch some air.

He looks at you, face flushed and mouth parted. 

“I’m hard,” he blurts out, and you smack him on his naked chest.

“What do you want me to do about that?” you mutter as you start to feel him press against your stomach. “Don’t you have a party to go to?”

He shakes his head, burying his face in your hair. He lets out a groan, grinding onto you just to feel any part of you against his football shorts. You let out a squeak, clenching at his toned muscles harder.

“You’re not coming with?” he asks, and you can hear the shakiness in his breath. You smirk, wrapping your legs around him and shifting up so that his tent could meet your core. Jake fit between you so snugly.

His head lifts to meet yours, pupils already so dilated.

“Why would I?” you say through hooded eyes, and you could visibly see him gulp. It almost makes you laugh. But instead, you tease him, moving your hips up to graze his bulge. 

“I have time,” he groans quickly. “For this. Or whatever you want to do. Like I’m really down for any—”

You roll your eyes, gripping the back of his head to smash him back down to your lips. Your movements are messy, tongues clashing at a feverish pace. He’s still sore from earlier, but like hell he would let this opportunity go. Not when you looked this fucking good. And angry too. (For him, these things aren’t mutually exclusive...)

With trembling fingers, he lifts your shirt and almost moans at the sight of your bare skin. While he wants to thank you for saving him the trouble of not fiddling with a bra clasp, you pat yourself on the back for leaving your necklace at home.

Knowing how frisky Jake gets after the adrenaline of a good win runs through him, it was the right call. You don’t think you could handle Jake seeing you so jealous while having his ring resting on your chest. Yeah, you’d probably die right in front of him.

His hands grab your tits softly, massaging them between his fingers. Jake dips down, swallowing a nipple in his mouth as he watches you sigh out in pleasure.

He’s confident in one thing when it comes to you, and it was this right here. He could make your tough exterior melt just as long as you were under him. Or over him. He has no preference.

His tongue circles your bud, tugging with his teeth lightly. 

“Jake—” When he hears you squeak, his dick twitches with anticipation. So pliant now. What happened to that dominance earlier? He’d like to see it come back…

He moves on to the other breast, licking and massaging so it doesn't feel too neglected. Jake loves your tits, could be buried between them for the rest of his life if you let him. But now isn't the time! He has a very mean and very jealous, but also very hot, girlfriend to please. And maybe some party to make it to, who knows.

Jake pulls his shorts down roughly, just enough so that he can take his dick out. Already so big, the bulbous tip weeps with desire for you. He’s palming himself, relishing in how your eyes shut tight, lips parted open as his wet, pink muscle traces circles over your sensitive skin.

He’s nipping the top of your breasts now, careful not to leave marks in visible areas. Jake knows how you get about that sort of thing. 

His fingers drag your white, damp panties off your legs, but keeps your skirt on. And the knee-high socks for good measure. His hand meets your core, pushing down on your clit with a heavy pressure he knows you like.

You gasp, covering your eyes with your forearm. You’re so embarrassed. The noises you're making are unbecoming of you. All he does is laugh. Still so sensitive during sex after a whole year of dating. And he’s supposed to be the shy one.

His fingers drag slowly on your folds as he spreads your juices all over his digits. Jake might just cum in his pants with how soft your tits feel as he nestles his head in between them. 

He pushes two fingers in right away, and you draw out a sharp breath. You almost hit him on the shoulder. He has no idea how big his hands are. How sometimes you would eye them whenever he helps you with homework. Veiny, like his cock.

He’s moving his fingers in and out of you at a steady pace, wet squelches echoing through the room. 

“Ngh—Mmm—” you groan, arching your back to meet his movements. Impatient. You’re always so impatient.

“JAKE!” you cry out, when he rubs over a certain spot.

He looks up at you from his comfortable position between the valley of your chest, and with a teasing glint in his eyes, he says, “You mean Jakey?”

And it’s not an exaggeration in the least to say that you start seeing red. You grab his wrist, the pads of your fingers digging into his flesh. He stops his movements, looking at you with those puppy-dog eyes like he did something wrong. And he did. Something very. Very. Wrong.

“Sorry, I just wanted to tease—”

You pull his fingers out of you. With one swift movement, you grab him by his shoulders and push him down onto the bed. You’re hovering over him now, eyes dark.

Jake swallows nervously. Why’d you have to look so hot when provoked?

“Did I ruin the vibe or…”

“Shut up,” you growl, crashing your lips onto his. He tries to hold your waist to offer support, but you hold his wrists down onto the sheets. He could probably push you off very easily. But he doesn’t. Because he loves seeing you like this. Loves the urgency in your touch.

You want him! And you’re showing it! His heart is practically doing backflips in his chest.

Your tongue explores the inside of Jake’s mouth, licking the roof of it in a way that has him seeing stars. You’re so rough with it. Sucking on his, biting his lip, moving so desperately against him.

“Babe—” he tries to say in between your assaults on his mouth. But it comes out in a breathless whisper when he feels you grinding your slick pussy against him.

“I said,” you say through gritted teeth. “Shut. Up.”

He almost moans when his leaking tip hits your clit. Just the contact alone has the back of his head hitting the pillow roughly. But he forces himself to watch as you move against him as he offers no assistance. Your grip on his wrists moves to the sheets as you focus on grinding against his dick. Swiveling yourself on him back and forth. Rubbing and rubbing. But it’s not enough. He needs to be inside. Needs to feel you right now.

Your breath is on his neck now, riling yourself up at his stunt. Jakey? What grown woman calls someone that? Choa and her nice ass bob... Fuck her!

“Ngh—” he lets out as you suction an erogenous zone on his neck, sucking and biting him like a vampire. Your tongue lapping at his skin to soothe him from the brutal assaults of your teeth. You close your eyes to relish in his taste. So salty from sweat, but still so sweet. But you’re distracted now as Jake breaks free from your hold. He grips your ass with one hand, the other guiding his pulsing member to your slippery entrance.

“Wha—” 

He’s looking at you with pleading eyes. “Can I, baby?” Jake begs, cheeks tinged pink. “Please?”

You bite back a smile. What a fucking loser.

You push down on him, just slightly, just enough for his bulbous tip to slip inside. His grip on your ass is now slack. He doesn't even want to fight back, really.

“Fuck—” Jake’s mouth parts open, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes when you come back up. No longer inside you, he groans.

“Whyyy,” he whines. “I said I’m sorry—”

He inhales a sharp breath when you engulf his tip again, tightening around him just a little harder. 

“Do you like being called Jakey?” you question darkly. “Like it when other girls feel up on you?”

He shakes his head desperately. “No—Only you—” he says through pained groans.

And then you lift again, laughing at his pathetic form. “I don’t believe you.”

He’s practically writhing underneath you now, his mushroom tip pulsing against your folds. Your skirt hides it all from view, and he just wishes he could rip it off you. Give you a new one, much, much shorter, so he can see everything better. 

But only if you let him.

“You’re literally torturing me,” he whimpers, hips jutting up messily. He keeps missing your entrance, the one he desperately needs to be buried in. “Need to feel you right now—”

“What’s it to me?” you ask meanly, your thumb prodding at his bottom lip. His tongue comes out to lick at the pad of your thumb, sucking it ever-so-slightly. You enjoy this view. Him underneath you. Pleading. Whining. Like he's starving. 

“I’ll make you feel so good, baby,” Jake offers through the haziness of his lust. Not entirely conscious of how desperate he sounds. “You can use me however you want. I’ll literally do anything. Just please—”

And then you sink, so slowly that his eyes roll to the back of his head. The devil. His girlfriend is the devil.

“Babe—” You shut him up with another open-mouthed kiss. Messy, just how he likes it.

He grips his hands into yours as you suckle his tongue, intertwining your fingers together. You try not to wince as you sheath him fully, realizing now that you were overconfident in taking control before he could properly prep you.

Usually, sex was an hours-long ordeal with Jake. He likes to finger you, then eat you out, then repeat, until he can slip into your slick warmth with little issue. Sex is the only time you don’t deny him the pleasure of seeing you flustered over him. Over what he could do for you. What he could provide you if you let him tell everyone in the world that he’s yours. 

Regardless, Jake will always be long and thick, and he still stretches you out so deliciously. Your mouths clash against each other, swallowing back both of your moans as saliva pools at the sides of his bruised lips.

Depraved. That’s all you could think of when Jake bottoms out inside you. He’s so sweaty now, the scent so musky that it drives you insane. Do other girls smell these pheromones when he’s around? Or is this just you and your hypersensitivity to everything that involves him?

You’re moving up and down now, with shallow thrusts that do little to satiate the flame in your stomach. You don’t do this enough—take control enough. Your knees are already weak, wobbling, as you grind down on him.

But you push through it as you continue to impale yourself on his cock, gummy walls clenching him tightly with each thrust. You want to get him off like this, even if your whole body is trembling above him. 

And it’s not like Jake doesn’t notice. But like the little shit he is, he doesn’t feel like helping. Because he enjoys the feeling too much, of your breasts bouncing filthily against his chest. When you lift yourself from his lips so that you can focus on riding him, he finds it so endearing. How you put your hands on his abdomen to steady yourself, how you fuck yourself on his length. How much you struggle to take all of him in. Not sure what to do with yourself.

‘My poor baby,’ Jake thinks, chuckling at how tight your eyes shut just to feel him better. 

“Need help?” he hums, his hand drawing circles on your hip. You shake your head, teeth gritted.

“N-no,” you try to muster out, but it’s unconvincing. Your movements are stuttering, moans slipping out of your mouth too easily. He smirks. His little pillow princess. 

Jake, with his grip on your hips, pulls you down onto his cock. Hard. You gasp as his hips snap up with it.

“Ah—” you cry out, your nails now digging into his shoulder blades. He pounds into a spot that had you almost come undone at that very moment. How did he get so good at this?

Jake lifts you, all the way until his pink tip is the only thing in your wet pussy. Then, as harshly as he could, he pushes you down on him, his thickness grazing at your deepest parts. And he does this again and again until you collapse onto his chest from the roughness of his thrusts.

“I’m gonna—Ngh—Fuck—You—” you try to say through your moans, try to sound angry. But you love it. Love how tight he grabs your bum. Love the slight stretch of pain as he stuffs you full of him. Love that trickle of spit that falls out of his mouth as his back lifts off the bed to feel you better. Ugh, you hate him.

“JAKE—”

“Shhh, baby, ” he whispers, forcing your face into the crook of his neck. “Just take it.”

Jake plunges up into you, propelling your hips down with his harsh grip. He lifts a heavy hand, smacking your ass from behind as you try to match his timing. You scream. He does it again, massaging the tender spot. The pain mixes with the pleasure, as tears prick the corner of your eyes. You feel your climax building now as your lips find his neck again, sucking and biting. Marking him. Let everyone know that he’s yours. That you own him.

“Babe…” he whines, too lost in the suctioning of your tightness to really care. Because he’s close too. So fucking close. 

Jake’s arms move up to your back, caging you into a bear-like embrace. His feet plant themselves on the bed, as his dick shoves into you with newfound energy. He’s going so fast, you could practically hear the speed. Feel it too. The wet squelches of his balls slapping against your ass. You move with him, trying to sync your rhythm to his.

“Mmm—Ahh—” your moans jumble into each other. Your legs are trembling, even more than they were before. A searing feeling within you continues to build and build. A single, full thrust from him has you biting into his neck brutally, stifling your moans as your orgasm crashes through you in waves. 

“Shit—” he cries out, from both the pain of your teeth and the pleasure of your cunt's constricting grip. You grind down on him, whimpering into his skin, back arched to ease yourself through the sensitivity.

Jake’s dick twitches in you once, then twice. He pushes you off of him and onto the bed, harsher than he intended. But he doesn’t have a condom on, and... he likes the way you look in white.

He hovers over you now, his painfully hard length in his hand. He’s stroking himself with urgency, fist wrapped around himself with a panicked grip. He’s watching you intently as you splay out underneath him. So fucking pretty for him. Lips bruised and bitten so sensually. Legs opened with your juices glistening on the inside of your thighs. Maybe he should stuff his cock into your—

“Fuck—” he groans, mouth parting at the sight of his thick ropes of cum spurting out of him, coating your stomach and tits. He strokes slowly, pumping all that he’s worth onto your body. You welcome it, eyes drinking in his flushed demeanor.

“I love you,” Jake mutters as he comes down from his high. And you don’t say anything back, distracted as your fingers coat themselves on the sticky fluids on your skin. Such a mess, both of you.

You hear it then. Intense vibrations on his nightstand. Jake’s phone, very much neglected, is blowing up with texts and calls. Was it going off like that the whole time? Then his eyes go wide like saucers.

“Shit! The party—” 

Your eyes narrow. Before he can pick it up, you grab the nape of his neck to pull him down into another sloppy kiss. Your legs wrap around Jake once more, smirking as you feel him melt into you with little resistance.

“What party?”

morning after.

“You’re a bitchhhh,” Sunghoon cries out, over a FaceTime call that Jake was forced to pick up at nine in the morning. You were already gone by then, running late to your morning lecture. 

Heeseung, thankfully, still hadn’t returned to the dorm. Or else you wouldn’t have been able to stay over and let Jake devour you a few more times, but that’s besides the point. He starts humming happily to himself with the memories of last night still fresh in his mind.

“They wouldn’t even let me into the bar because I was wearing the wrong colors,” his friend continues to complain.

“I get it, I get it,” Jake replies, only half-listening. He’s fixing his outfit in the mirror, admiring how well a polo shirt fits him. It’s weird. He’s getting used to not looking like a dweeb all the time, just a few weeks into his big transformation, even with his glasses on right now.

“Yo, do you think these pants look better with a belt or nah?” he asks, not really sparing Sunghoon a glance. He adjusts his shirt’s collar slightly until—

“WHAT THE FUCK—”

Jake jumps, phone nearly dropping from the desk he sat it on.

“WHAT IS THAT?!”

“What? What?!” Jake snaps his head to look behind himself, like Sunghoon might have seen a ghost.

“Did you get eaten by a fucking lion?!” Sunghoon gawks. Jake’s cheeks turned a bright shade of red.

Damn, he forgot.

“W-what are you talking about?” he mutters unconvincingly, slowly coming out of frame. He strips the polo off in a panic, digging through his closet until he finds a turtleneck. It’s autumn anyway. This is fine, right?

“Our friendship is done,” Sunghoon deadpans at the camera. “You got fucking laid and didn’t tell me?! I mean, I understand Jay, he’d make it weird. BUT NOT EVEN ME?!”

Jake shakes his head, tugging the turtleneck on. He tries to roll up his sleeves to look more casual, but now he looks like Steve Jobs. Shit. He should put his contacts on.

“So who is it?!” Sunghoon presses. “Who’s the unlucky girl?” 

 When Jake doesn’t reply, Sunghoon gasps.

“Unlucky guy?!”

“Man, shut up!” Jake cries, snatching his phone off the desk and coming back into frame. “Please don’t tell Jay.”

–

“Okay, so he told Jay,” he blurts, shielding himself with his arm like you’re about to hit him. “Please don’t get mad at me.”

You almost asked why he was wearing a turtleneck in relatively warm weather when he tugged the collar down to show his neck. Absolutely purple and bruised. And yes. Maybe a dark, suppressed part of you jumped with glee. But the more rational part started cursing yourself out.

“I can’t believe you’d video call him the morning after,” you groan, massaging your temple with your fingers. “Ugh, I’m so stupid. What was I even thinking?!”

Jake gives you a sly smile. “I mean, I’m not complaining—”

You shoot him another icy stare, and he stops. 

“W-well, it’s not like they know that it’s you! They probably think it’s someone else…”

You inhale a sharp breath at the thought. Was he gonna tell them the hickeys on his neck were from someone else? Who? Choa?

“Whatever,” you mutter, whipping around as your bag purposely smacked his bicep. You walk off, fists clenched, ignoring Jake’s calls out to you. 

Fucking Choa.

–

A full week has passed since the disaster that was Sunghoon seeing Jake’s bruised neck. Your boyfriend only felt safe enough to see the two idiots once the marks faded, and even then, he was a little disappointed to wake up and see them all gone. 

“So run it through with me again,” Jay requests, leaning over the boiling hot pot broth. The boys sit in a dimly lit restaurant with a stage in the back. 

“Like, you were just walking back to your dorm and boom—you found a rando to hook up with out of nowhere?!” Jay questions, dropping tofu into the soup so aggressively that it splashes Jake’s wrist.

“Why are you making up fantasies in your head about my sex life?” Jake mutters, pushing his glasses up his face. He was too lazy to put his contacts on just to hang out with these two. “I plead the fifth.”

“Bro, I thought you were a virgin this whole time!” Sunghoon adds unhelpfully. “Excuse us for trying to be supportive.”

Jake rolls his eyes, struggling to grab an udon noodle with his chopsticks.

“Wait,” Jay says through the hot pot steam. “Weren’t you walking with [Y/N] that night?”

Jake gulps, throat bobbing as he fiddles with the noodle more to avoid suspicion.

“Right!” Sunghoon snaps his fingers, and for a second, Jake’s life flashes before his eyes. They know. They have to! Fuck, you’re gonna be so mad at him—

“Why don’t we just ask her who it was?”

Jake stares at them and breaks out into a nervous laugh. Never in his life was he happier to have a more idiotic set of childhood friends.

“Please do,” Jake smiles, wondering how you would weasel out of that conversation with them. “She knows her very well…”

A piercing sound of microphone feedback ricochets through the restaurant. The three cover their ears as everyone’s attention turns to the neglected stage.

“Who wants to sing?! It's open mic night!” the restaurant owner booms. When a deafening silence fills the air, Jay lifts Jake’s hand straight into the air without hesitation.

“This guy loves Celine Dion!” he cries out as Jake tries to yank his arm back down. He curses at his friend, but to no avail.

“Okay!” the owner shouts excitedly. “Come on right up, sir!” 

Jay and Sunghoon practically drag Jake up the stage, laughing themselves all the way back to their seats in the far back of the restaurant. Jake stands frozen as dozens of strangers stare at him, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. He takes off his glasses, shoving them in his pocket, and brushes his hair back. He couldn't bear to look at all these blank faces staring at him. Confidence. This is all about confidence.

When ‘My Heart Will Go On' starts echoing through the restaurant walls, Jake’s face flushes all the way red. This is exposure therapy; he tries to cope with himself. If he could do this, he could probably build up the courage to ask you about going public. So that his friends stop thinking he’s a loser. Maybe for you to stop thinking it, too.

He sucks in a deep breath. What’s the difference between this and a showerhead? Nothing. Absolutely nothing!

“Every night in my dreams, I see youuuu… I feel youuu…” he starts slowly, welcomed with a soft gasp from an audience member. Jay and Sunghoon’s laughter dies as Jake sings. Shit. He was actually doing it. And he sounded good, too. Like an angel. Was Jay crying?

Jake loses himself in the slow melody of the song, singing his heart out as he does in every postgame shower. ‘This one’s for you, babe,’ he thinks. Wherever you are… 

When the song ends and Jake’s eyes open, he’s met with a standing ovation. At a damn hot pot restaurant. Jay and Sunghoon are cheering the loudest, holding their hearts like their once-nerdy best friend was their child at a talent show. The owner comes up to the stage, sniffling.

“Give it up for this random kid!”

As Jake makes his way back to the table, he holds his head up high. He couldn’t have imagined doing this a year before, let alone ordering food at a kiosk without stuttering. It’s like taking off his glasses gave him super powers.

“Excuse me—” Jake turns around. A girl with long flowing hair stops him. 

“Are you Jake Sim? The freshman on the football team?” she asks, eyes bright. He nods. Does he know her?

“I’m Suji from the Dance department.” She bows slightly. “Your performance was incredible, by the way!” 

He nods, giving a small “thanks,” before he turns back around.

“Actually!” She calls after him. He stops again. “I just wanted to ask if you were interested in auditioning to be the male lead of our upcoming musical! It’s about a football player who finds passion in singing and dancing. I just thought it would fit you so well!”

Jake turns back to face the stranger. He ponders deeply. A musical? Him? He’d never thought about it before, but what the hell! He guesses he’s the type to try new things now. The power of a good haircut, maybe.

“I’ll think about it,” he says with a polite smile. 

Suji grins back. “Auditions start tomorrow. We’d love to have you.”

By the time Jake finds his way back to his seat, his friends are already geeking.

“You pulled another?!” Jay cries in anguish, biting his fist. “I should have gone up there. That should have been me! Damn it!”

“It’s not fair,” Sunghoon wails, leaning his head dramatically against the wall. “You had no play in high school. Like absolutely zero bitches—”

Jake snorts, scrounging for his glasses once more to slip them back on. “She was just asking me to audition for some musical.”

“I’m sure she was,” Jay says with a smirk. “I’m sure she’s staring straight at your back right now because she wants you in that musical soooo bad.”

Jake shifts in his chair uncomfortably, and sure enough, Suji is watching him. She shoots up her arm to wave. He looks back at his friends with a confused glance.

“Maybe they’re desperate?”

Sunghoon groans. “I’m gonna call [Y/N]. Let’s get her expertise on this.”

“Don’t!” Jake lunges, trying to grab Sunghoon’s phone as he takes it out of his pocket. But then flashes from that night start playing in his head. You above him. Riding him. Gripping his shoulders. Your lips on his neck, marking him until he whined and begged. All at the mere mention of Choa’s weird pet name for him. Jake clears his throat and sits back, not even trying to hide the shit-eating grin spreading across his face.

“...Yeah,” he says more casually. “Ask her.”

–

ma baby: Come over. Now.

Jake receives your text after Sunghoon’s impromptu call, bringing his hands together in a prayer position to the sky. Thank you to whatever higher being was watching over him.

When he reaches your residence hall, you’re waiting outside your door in pajamas, foot tapping impatiently against the carpet. You start glaring at his silhouette even before he comes into view. 

“So,” you start slowly, “you just let anyone talk to you these days?”

Jake’s already giddy. Yes… Be angry with him… Let him in your dorm room and reprimand him, while you’re at it…

“Babeeee,” he teases, his arms already reaching for yours. You dodge him. “Are you mad at me?”

“No,” you reply flatly. “I’m just wondering when you started serenading restaurants and accepting invitations from random girls?”

“Just thought I could finally get some appreciation for my many talents,” he says teasingly, raising an eyebrow at you. 

“Are you saying I don’t appreciate you?” you ask, not at all amused by his playful gaze. “I tell you all the time that you’re smart!”

He chuckles. “Everyone and your mom knows that by now, babe.”

You narrow your eyes. ‘He’s learning how to fight back,’ you think sourly. 

“So you enjoyed that girl's appreciation, then?” you counter, knowing that you were riling yourself up by asking such a loaded question. Jake bites his lip to stifle a smile. There it is. 

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, pushing his glasses up. “I think I might actually consider auditioning!”

And this part is genuine. He’s always enjoyed singing. It could be a cool new experience, especially since he shied away from doing theater back in high school. Maybe now was his moment to shine... But when he notices how your expression darkens, he’s suddenly excited to audition for the musical for a whole different reason.

You look around the hallway, checking to see if anyone's coming by. Then you pull him by the collar and into your dorm room. The door shuts behind you two as you push him to sit on the bed. Jake looks up, eyes bright with pure anticipation as you climb onto his lap.

“What’s up, babe?” he asks, feigning ignorance. And you fall for it. Because your cute, nerdy boyfriend couldn’t possibly have ulterior motives… Right?

“You have class tomorrow?” you ask as you adjust yourself on him, legs encasing both sides of his thighs. His hands find your hips, pulling you closer.

“It depends,” he says, knowing full well he has an 8 a.m. physics lab. “Is your roommate coming back anytime soon?”

Oh yeah. Her. 

“Not tonight,” you mutter, already peppering his neck with small kisses. “She’s visiting her parents.”

Jake smirks, tilting your chin up so your eyes meet his. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip as the wheels are already turning in his head. He fakes a cough.

“You know… I think the musical is actually a romantic comedy.”

You’re on your knees, carpet harshly grazing your skin. 

“Fuck,” Jake groans, head thrown back as his hand clutches your hair. He’s pushing you down onto his cock, relishing in the way your cheeks hollow around him. How you take his whole length into your mouth without your usual snappy commentary. Look at you. Underneath him. So eager to please, but so in need of control. He bites his bottom lip at the view. It's addictive.

“Just like that,” Jake encourages, stroking your cheek so lovingly. Your tongue licks the underside of his thickness, careful not to have your teeth graze his sensitive skin. He’s so flushed above you, a darkness blooming in your heart. The sight of his glasses pushed so low on his nose bridge. So focused, so desperate for release.

‘My Jake,’ you think to yourself. ‘All mine.’

You bob your head up and down, your mouth plunging down to the base of his member with the help of his tight grasp on your hair.

“Y-yes,” he sighs, his hips coming up to meet your lips. Jake’s gaze never leaves yours, unable to tear his eyes from the tears forming in your eyes from just how much he fills you up. You always had something to say. Always rolling your eyes at him. Now, your eyes were rolling back for a different reason.

His mouth falls open. “F-fuck—” 

You smirk as his hips start to lose rhythm. You remember the first time you gave him head. Just like this, knees on the floor of his room back home, with his parents watching TV downstairs. Glasses perched and foggy. He came within seconds. You were proud, just a little, that he was able to last this long now.

“B-babe?” he tries to cry out. “I’m close—”

You pull away from him with a pop of your lips, teasing the slit of his tip with the flat of your tongue. He groans in frustration, but his hands don’t push you down to take him in again.

“Already?” you say, eyes batting up at him. “Why should I give you the satisfaction?” 

He whines, his grip on your hair tightening just a little. 

“Please?” he asks, not really sure what you want from him. It’s not like he asked you to just fuck him with your mouth! That was all your doing. Okay, yes, maybe he did provoke you. But did that mean he didn’t deserve to orgasm?!

You’re pumping him slowly with your right hand, gripping tightly and stroking enough so that he’s still edging close to his climax. But not close enough to actually reach it.

“I thought I was supposed to be showing you appreciation,” you say pointedly. “Take my time with you and all that.”

He shakes his head ferociously, his hips snapping up into your fist. 

“Babe—Please—I’m so—” he groans when he feels you slow your pace again. 

“So what?” you ask, feigning naivety. You really are the devil.

He shakes his head. He can’t speak. Can’t even think. Just frustrated with how your lips aren’t wrapped around his fucking dick anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he cries. “I’ll do anything, baby. Please—Just stop teasing—Please—”

His sobs are music to your ears. Your wrist’s pace on him quickens, as your mouth engulfs his swollen tip. Your tongue circles the head, pumping him up and down with all your strength and might. Jake’s hands are clutching the sheets, hips pistoning up into your sticky fingers. He feels his load threatening to spill over. 

“Fuck—Yes, baby—There—” He pulls your head back, hand encasing yours, pumping ferociously with you. Your mouth is wide open, tongue sticking out, eyes looking directly up at his. An invitation.

Spurts of his hot, white release coat your pink tongue. He unloads everything within him all over your features. Your cheeks. Your chin. Your cute ass nose. All covered in his milky cum. His mouth parts at the sight. So pretty. His girlfriend is so fucking pretty.

“I love you,” he whispers, as he wipes dribbles of his liquid off your chin with his thumb. “I love you so fucking much…”

You hum back in approval as he lifts you back up and onto his lap. Your face, still stained with his orgasm, comes up to kiss him. He grimaces slightly. You taste infinitely better than he does. He’s almost thankful you part ways with his lips so that you could pepper kisses down his neck.

And when you start sucking and nipping in the same way you did that game night, he smiles. His arms wrap around your waist as you suction his pulse point.

‘I could get used to this,’ Jake thinks.

The audition the next day went surprisingly easily. He truly was the only one trying out for the main role, while Suji was already pre-selected to play the female lead. Jake thinks it’s a bit unfair. What if other people wanted to audition too? But whatever. At least he got the part.

He finds you in between your lectures, holding out a boba for you in his hand. Jake’s not wearing a turtleneck this time, proudly wearing the battle scars of your teeth on his neck. No one’s brave enough to bring it up to him yet, to his dismay. Except you, who promptly smacks him in the arm for his shamelessness. 

“You look like a pervert,” you grumble, still taking the drink from him.

He chuckles at your cute expression. You say that like it wasn’t your intention to have him show the bites off. To show that he is very much occupied with someone else. Not Choa. Or whoever this other girl was.

“I was wearing my jacket the whole day,” he reassures. “Just took it off when I came to see you.”

He flexes slightly. “You think I’ve bulked recently?”

You roll your eyes and ignore his obvious fish for compliments. “So how’d it go? The audition?”

He smiles. “You’re looking at the male lead of Singing Striker,” he says proudly, hand to chest. “And before you ask, the name was not my choice.”

You scoff at the cheesiness. “Congrats,” you say through small sips of your gifted drink. “Break a leg.”

“Babe… when you say it like that, I feel like you mean it the other way.”

You shake your head, speaking robotically. “So who’s the female lead? It’s a romcom, you said?”

“The girl,” he starts, snapping his fingers like he doesn’t already know who she is. “Suji. From the restaurant. The one who recruited me.”

Your eyes morph into a squint, like you’re glaring at him. 

“...Interesting,” you say, willing yourself not to overreact. So Jake is hot now (always was). Girls just love to approach him with invitations to stuff. And he gets to act in a musical with someone that Jay described as “the baddest girl I’ve ever seen in my life.” Great! You love that, actually.

You bite down hard on the boba straw. “You know what… Are they casting for extras?"

And it's like a bad habit now. How you nip and scar his neck like you’re feeding off him every time a girl even so much looks in his direction. It’s easier than saying you’re jealous, easier than admitting that you have a sick sort of need to control who Jake interacts with.

You almost bent a metal spoon in the cafeteria when a girl asked for his number while you were sitting right in front of him. Granted, you did denounce being in a relationship with him pretty heavily the first few weeks at school. You knew she had every right to shoot her shot, but that didn't stop you from taking Jake right into a janitorial closet and making you eat him out as an apology.

“Fuck, baby,” he moans into the space between your thighs as your hands push him deeper into your wetness. “I've never even seen that girl in my life—”

You grit your teeth, angry that he even mentioned her.  “Did I ask?” you growl through sharp breaths. “Just shut up.”

He smiles against your clit, sucking harshly to elicit more of your beautiful noises. He hums into you. Happy that you're mad at him. Happy that he gets to do dirty things with you without having to practically be on his knees and begging. Well, really, he already was.

His tongue laps at your folds, thrusting in and out to prolong his stay in between your thighs. Maybe he is teasing, but really, he’s just taking it all in. Your addictive noises. Your sweet taste. The feeling of his fingers digging into your ass just to hold you up. The way you clench around his tongue when he arches it inside, real deep. Yeah, he needs you bad.

Jake is lapping at you, your legs constricting around him even tighter when he finds his way back to your clit. When he tugs on it with his teeth, you jolt.

“Jake—” He does not care. He nips again, flattening his tongue to soothe the slight pinch. You arch your back into him, riding his face until you stop yourself. You look desperate. Pathetic even. But Jake groans.

“Keep going,” he huffs. “Use me, babe. Use me like I’m your fucking toy.”

You tsk, wondering where he learned to talk like that. 

“Fucking pervert,” you mutter through harsh breaths. But your grip on him does tighten, and he whimpers at the feeling of you tugging on his locks.

“You like it when I'm like this, don't you?” You grit your teeth, pushing him in further. His nose is practically buried into your clit as he fucks his pink muscle into you at a merciless pace.

“Like when you get attention. Like when everyone fucking wants you.”

You're seething, practically riling yourself up. He tries to speak, but you clench around his tongue, trapping his voice. He hums into your folds instead, licking the roof of your warm hole as he finds the exact spot he's been searching for. You mewl.

“Fuck! T-there!”

You're grinding onto his face now, smothering him with your scent. Yes, he thinks to himself, please suffocate him. Tremors go through your body as you feel something intense build in the lower pit of your stomach. So close. So fucking close.

Jake’s grip on your ass loosens as he lets you do all the work. Your legs over his shoulder pump furiously into his face. Like, Jake is just a mere vessel for your climax. And he wouldn't have it any other way. He doesn't even nurse his own hard-on, one that's painfully stretching his jeans. 

You're fucking his tongue, whining with each thrust, eyes starting to roll back, fingers almost pulling Jake’s hair from his scalp. Your hips stutter and then—

“Fuuuck…” Your orgasm pulses through you in ways that have you screaming silently. Your legs are trembling as his mouth vibrates with his hums against your core. Jake’s lapping up all your juices with an urgency.

Everything. He wants to taste everything. When you gently push him off from the oversensitivity, he resists at first. He holds you in place until he gets his fill, until tears are threatening to spill over. But your legs finally find the ground as he looks up at you with half-lidded eyes.

“I love you,” he whispers, out of breath. 

‘Whore’ you want to say out loud, but you know that would only make him hornier. He’s weirdly into stuff like that. But you smile as you comb through his hair. He doesn’t have complaints about you messing it all up as long as you’re fucking him, huh?

Jake, still on his knees, looks up at you with a lick of his lips, savoring the remaining taste of you on it. You wish he could see how he looked. Flushed. Damp. Yours. You almost lift him up to kiss him when—Ding.

The loving gaze you two share is cut off by the sound of his phone. He finally gets up from his knees, checking the notification.

“Oh shit,” he mutters. “Suji says I missed the costume fitting. I think I need to head out soon—”

You smash your lips against his, interrupting his train of thought. You moan at the taste of yourself on his devious tongue. Jake smirks, wrapping his arms around your waist. Maybe you could add a few more hickeys to his collection before he heads out... Just for good measure.

jake: let’s go to jay’s together?

For one of your weekly hangouts. The nights you try to avoid because they always end with you ignoring the pile of assignments you’ve already been putting off. 

you: sure. wya rn?

You smack your forehead the second you realize how quickly you sent that text. You swear you weren’t waiting. It wasn’t like you were staring at the last message he sent five hours ago, ruminating over whether it was appropriate to tell him how much you missed him.

jake: meet me by the bleachers :D practice is ending soon.

The speed at which you change outfits is impressive, already heading to the damn field before you realize it. He’s there, dribbling with a couple of his teammates. You sit at the top of the stands, a bit out of his sight. He catches a glimpse of you anyway and waves. You shoot him a simple smile of acknowledgement that dampens almost immediately.

Because you also see Choa, handing him a water bottle. When Jake reaches for it, trying to avoid brushing her hand, she purposefully finds his fingers anyway. It’s enough for your stomach to sink.

Even though he’s just smiling politely. Even when it looks like their conversation lasts for two seconds. It doesn’t feel any less bad. Choa notices you staring, and she scoffs. “This is a closed practice—”

“She’s with me,” Jake corrects her immediately. “I told her to come. That’s okay, right?”

You lift an eyebrow, challenging her. Jake said it the nice way. If she had to hear you speak, you would have probably been escorted off the field by now. She coughs awkwardly and nods, instantly folding under Jake’s attention. Your boyfriend, by the way.

“O-of course,” she stammers. “Just make sure she doesn’t see the playbook.”

The guys continue playing, and you move down a few rows, keeping Choa in your line of sight. It’s like she feels the daggers you send her way because she whips around to glare at you.

“It’s kind of pathetic,” she starts. “How you cling onto him.” You squint at her, not sure if you heard her correctly. You turn around, too, to check if she really had the audacity to speak to a stranger like you in that way.

“You talking to me?” you ask, pointing at yourself mockingly. She clicks her tongue.

“Who else?” she bites back. “Do you even have a name, or do you usually just go by Jake’s guard dog?”

Your cheeks burn in anger. Oh, if you were in high school… She’d have been on the ground by now, makeup stained with turf and pebbles. But unfortunately, you’re trying to stick to your resolution. A reformed delinquent girl at a prestigious university—

“You mute too?” Choa adds in for good measure. You stand, and it’s like Jake’s Spidey senses tingle because he stops to watch, monitoring if he needs to step in.

“You know,” you say, voice cool and devoid of emotion, “you’ve got a lot to say for someone who has to talk like a baby to get a man’s attention.”

She snarls. “Excuse me?”

“Jake’s not gonna let you hit,” you mock, scanning her up and down with a disgusted face. You only say the next part just to piss her off. “You’re not really his type.”

“And you are?” She steps in closer. “You’re stuck in the fucking friendzone, acting like hot shit—”

Oh, if only she knew. The truth is sitting on your tongue, burning, begging to be spoken just so you can wipe that stupid smirk off her face. But you’re not that angry yet. Not enough to expose yourself.

“You seem like such a loser,” she continues, voice laced with malice. “Everyone already thinks you look like some stray puppy following Jake everywhere he goes. Don’t you have a life of your own? Any hobbies? Isn’t it sad showing up where you’re not wanted?”

Ouch. Jake was your puppy. He follows you around everywhere. 

She digs right into that ugly little fear in the back of your mind. That you look as pitiful as you feel. That you truly were just biding your time in this dumb university until Jake showers you with attention. Is this what a relationship’s supposed to feel like? Like you’re waiting for him, all the damn time?

You inhale a deep breath. You’re better than this. Better than catfights over someone that’s already yours. A man who sleeps on your chest almost every night... But you’re not above being petty.

“And did he tell you all that,” you ask with fake sweetness, “or are your delusions that Jake’s gonna fuck you starting to get to your brain?”

She opens her mouth, but you cut her off. “I’ll make sure to put in a good word for you,” you continue, sarcasm dripping in your voice. “Make sure Jakey knows exactly the kind of girl you are.”

Choa bites the inside of her cheek. “Not like I said anything wrong.”

“Oh, right.” You pitch your voice up to that grating baby tone she uses with Jake. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate you calling me a ‘fucking loser,’ since you care so much about what he thinks.”

You could laugh at her suddenly hunched shoulders, but you just drop back down onto your seat, fake scrolling through your phone. “Don’t you have a team to manage?”

Choa whips her bob around, stomping back toward the group and desperately hoping that no one heard. But Jake is already staring. He doesn’t look mad. Just resigned. 

“Choa?” he calls out, voice low and almost inaudible. He’s not smiling like usual.

“Yes?” she answers immediately, with that lilted tone that sounds like nails on a chalkboard. You don’t hear the conversation that takes place, so curious as to why Choa’s expression suddenly drops.

“Don’t ever talk to her like that again,” he says, and the entire team stiffens around them. 

“And next time,” he adds, walking past her, “Just mind your fucking business.”

–

You never, in all your years of living, thought you’d be sitting in an auditorium seat watching your boyfriend act like he was in love with another girl on stage. But here you are, leg bouncing and forearms itching from the irritation bubbling in your chest.

“But don't you get it?!” Jake rehearses, script in hand. His hands flail in fake exasperation. You cover your mouth to hide the wince forming on your lips. “How can I choose between the stage and football?!”

“You don't have to choose,” Suji steps in, acting much better than Jake, at least. “You can do both.”

Jake sighs, throwing his hands up in the air. He's facing her now.

She's pretty, you think. Really pretty. Probably one of the most gorgeous girls you've ever seen in your life. And Jake is staring right into her eyes. You can’t help but wonder if he thinks the same. You grit your teeth at the thought.

“But what would people think of me?” he sighs. Suji shakes her head, moving closer. Your brows knit. That's not part of the script.

“Who cares what other people think?” she says softly, resting her hand on his chest. Your expression darkens immediately. “If it feels like you're alone… Then I can be there to support you.”

Maybe Jake's character should care what other people think, especially if he’s gonna prioritize singing on stage with some pretty girl over his football career—

You slap your own cheek lightly. Relax.

“Cut,” the musical director calls out. “Great job, you two! After this is the dance scene. We can rehearse that tomorrow. I think that's all for the day.”

When the actors and stage crew finally funnel out, you watch Jake stay behind, chatting with his costars onstage. So radiant, smiling at them with his toothy grin and cracking jokes as he says goodbye. He never used to be like that. Used to be so painfully shy that Jay had to accept his academic awards for him in high school.

And yeah, you feel like shit when he's standing there, surrounded by people who have stars in their eyes when he talks, while you're grumpily waiting in a faraway seat with no real excuse to interrupt. You're just part of the stage crew, after all. Just one of the invisible people who move props in between scenes while Jake and Suji’s characters fall deeply in love with each other. Yuck.

But you’re not gonna do the usual thing of dragging him to the nearest secluded area and fucking his brains out. No—you’re better than that. You’re not a loser! You’d let this pass.

“Bye, I’ll catch up with you guys soon! My friend’s waiting for me.”

The word ‘friend’ digs deep into your heart. But that’s your own fault.

Jake walks toward you, and the quick smile he throws your way is cut short the moment he pulls his phone out of his pocket. He stops in front of you, forehead still glistening from the stage lights, eyes glued to the screen even as he talks.

“I have practice in like thirty minutes,” he sighs, scrolling through his calendar. “And then the crew wants to have, like, a group dinner later tonight.”

He cranes his neck to release some tension, finally looking up at you. “Damn. My character is lowkey right. It really is hard balancing the two.”

You roll your eyes and stand up. “The crew? Like Jay and Sunghoon?”

He shakes his head as he walks beside you, still a bit occupied with his phone. He's sending text messages to some massive group chat, text bubble after text bubble popping up.

“The main acting crew,” he says, emphasizing the second word. “I think they wanna run the lines at En Bar and get a couple of drinks.”

You almost stop in your tracks, but you force yourself to continue walking with him, arms crossed. Good for him, you think. And you mean it. He's adjusted so well to university life, while yours feels like it revolves around him.

What's Jake up to? Is his practice done? Who's he talking to? Is it Choa? Is it Suji? Is it every girl that makes eye contact with your newly socially adept boyfriend, who just so happens to have the most gorgeous face known to mankind?

You want to punch yourself real bad.

“Do you wanna come?” he asks when he notices you've fallen silent. He thinks it's cute when you're jealous. Sulking and pouty—when it’s obvious why you’re upset. Not when you're quiet. Not when you're creating distance between you two as he walks beside you.

“I can ask them if we can reserve more chairs—”

“It's fine!” you interrupt, but even you don’t convince yourself. “I have work to catch up on anyway.”

His lips part as if recalling something important, something he promised you. 

“I'm so sorry, babe!” he gasps. “I totally forgot that you needed help studying for your exam tomorrow!”

You shrug your shoulders. You’re a cool girlfriend. Super chill. Not crazy at all.

“No, it's okay,” you say, chain necklace feeling heavy on your chest. “I'll just go to the tutoring center. You're busy, I get it.”

His eyes are still laced with concern. You sound so disconnected, so not yourself. Did he do something wrong?

“I can come over tomorrow?” he suggests, but it almost comes out as a plea. “We can watch the new movie you wanted—”

“My roommate’s gonna be home.”

“Okay…” he says, voice fading. “What about my dorm?”

You shake your head.  “I'm not really up for a movie, I guess.” 

Jake’s expression sours. It feels like you’re shoving sheets of metal down his throat. He can take you angry. Can handle you screaming, kicking, crying, and calling him names. He can’t take whatever this is.

“I can just cancel,” he says quickly. “I’ll come over tonight!”

And Choa’s voice resounds in your ear.

“You seem like a fucking loser.”

You bite your bottom lip and stare at his wavering gaze. You wonder if he pities you. 

Has he noticed? How quickly you reply to his texts? How often you show up to his extracurricular activities? How you can’t seem to admit that you’re hurting, even when he’s right here in front of you? God, you hate this feeling.

“It’s okay,” you say, and it’s small like a whisper. “Need some alone time anyway.”

“Alright,” he breathes, relenting to whatever boundary you’ve set with him. He reaches out to brush a strand of hair from your face, but when you flinch, he retracts his hand instantly.

“I love you?” he tests.

You give him a small smile and nod, pushing past him. He moves like he wants to catch your hand and stop you. But as always, he lets you walk just a little too out of his reach.

Because you still don’t say it back.

–

So this is what it feels like to twiddle your thumbs and try not to scream as Jake misses yet another hangout... He’s busy with his daily practices and rehearsals. You get that. But it’s still physically torturous to sit through Jay and Sunghoon stoking the fires of your insecurities.

“He’s gotta be seeing someone,” Sunghoon sighs, reclining into the beanbag in Jay’s apartment. “Dude just abandons his friends without any pussy involved? There’s no way.”

You smash a throw pillow from the couch and into his face, and Jay throws another one for good measure.

“Why do you always think with your dick?” Jay mutters. “Just let Jake be. This is his moment. Not like he had much to work with in high school.”

Sunghoon sighs. “Yeah,” he mumbles, almost apologetic. “He was pretty lame back then.”

You never thought so. Maybe you joked about it, but you never really meant it. He was kind. A little shy. So eager to please and follow you around. And now that the roles were reversed, you weren’t sure how to feel anymore. Fuck. Why couldn’t you just be happy for him?

He has this amazing life outside of you now. Cool friends (not Jay and Sunghoon). Great prospects for the future. It’s like a bird leaving the nest. Your carefully cultivated nest.

You felt like a cloud raining over his head when you’re around him now. After Choa, you started to notice the whispers around campus a little more. How people avoid him when you’re around because you can’t carry empty conversations about upcoming exam scores the same way Jake can.

It’s just different. He is. And it feels like you are too. But not a good different. It’s the kind that makes you feel like this isn’t how you should be. That you aren’t who you want to be… Maybe Choa was right.

And now a pillow is thrown in your direction. You shoot daggers at Sunghoon with your glare.

“What?!” you yell. He pounces in fear.

“I asked,” he coughs. “Is college treating you okay? You making friends?”

You roll your eyes. “Are you my dad?”

Jay sighs. “We always talk about Jake. Sue us for wanting to know how you’re doing for once.”

The words linger. What are you doing?

–

You’re stewing in it, marinating in how lonely it feels to stand in a corner with the stage crew while Jake, Suji, and the rest of the main cast laugh amongst themselves. Whatever.

“Those two are so cute,” a girl beside you says. Gaeul. So sweet, so bubbly. So oblivious to how tightly you clench your teeth. “They’d be like the it couple on campus, no?”

When you look between Jake and his toothy grin and Suji with her sweet laugh, you can’t help the way your heart constricts. “Yeah,” you mutter in disgruntled agreement. “I guess.”

Jake sends you sneaking glances, ones you don’t notice despite your eyes lingering on him. 

You haven't been the most responsive lately. He texts you a lot in between practices and rehearsals. Whenever he has the chance. He asks to come over. Asks you to come over. And you’ve turned him down almost every time.

You didn’t attend his last two games, you’re skipping rehearsals that you used to sit through for hours, and Jay knows where you're holed up more than he does. He’s worried about you. Worried that you’re avoiding him. Were you avoiding him?

“I heard you two are really good friends,” Gaeul asks you with sparkling eyes. “He seems like such a catch. How’d you not fall in love?”

You shrug. What answer are you supposed to give? It’s not like you were resistant to his charm either. “He went through a transformation recently,” you admit. “We were both kind of outcasts in high school.”

“Me too!” she says excitedly. “I bleached my hair, and everything before uni started. What about you? Were you two like super shy?”

You shake your head. “Jake was. I was just a bad student. Got in trouble a lot. My parents literally laughed when I told them I wanted to go here.”

And your heart thuds in your chest from a memory. Because Jake believed in you. Sat through hours of studying, teaching you the difference between derivatives and whatever the fuck linearization was, just for the chance to attend the same university. So he could spend time with you, so he could be with you. And now you barely see him.

“Really? I’m not surprised, though. You seem like such a chill girl. Like you don’t care what other people think of you.”

“Trust me. I’m far from it.” You catch Jake’s longing gaze again, but you turn away.

“Starting to think it was a mistake joining this thing,” you mumble, “with how often everyone forgets their lines.”

She laughs. “I like how straightforward you are,” she says with a wide smile. “Don’t really mince your words, do you?”

You smile too, in what feels like forever. It felt free to talk about something—anything—outside of him.

“Unfortunately, I don’t know how to hold back what I say.” Which is a lie. Because you hold back a lot. More than you let on. 

“Alright!” the stage manager yells. “Let’s get in position for the final scene.”

The kiss scene. The one you’ve dreaded for so long. You and Gaeul move across the stage, setting up the mics and instruments in their right place. You move past Jake with your head down. He frowns. So you are avoiding him.

“Places, people!”

You watch, from the wings, as Jake pours his heart out into the lyrics. A song about breaking free from stereotypes and whatever other inspirational stuff this whole musical’s about. He’s good. Really good. He moves like a natural on stage, throwing Suji these soft, tender glances that look so painfully real. She glows under the lights, stars in her eyes. And as the song comes to an end, he picks her up to spin her.

Just like the script says. And you clutch your forearm at the sight.

“I feel like I can really be myself with you,” he says to her. “Like I don’t have to hide or pretend.”

Whatever.

“And you make me feel like the luckiest girl in the world.”

The two stare at each other. A pause. Jake leans in. And so does she. Fuck.

You can’t do this. Can’t watch. You turn and walk out the back exit. Your chest is heavy, constricted with that ugly pang of envy.

Fuck this feeling. It hurt. Why did it have to hurt? You hate the tears that well up in your eyes, hate the shivering of your shoulders as you hug yourself in the parking lot of the stupid auditorium. You need to go back in. Save face. Show how little that kiss scene affected you because you’re supposed to be his friend in the eyes of everyone else.

You clutch your necklace through your shirt, fingers twisting the ring. Jake, who loves you. Who desperately wants your relationship to be public, to show you off. The same Jake on stage kissing another girl for a stupid musical you didn’t even want to be a part of.

He doesn’t deserve this. This monstrous version of you, who cares too much but gives too little. Overbearing to the point of suffocation.

So you walk back in, face steeled and tears wiped. He’s talking to the director with Suji, like nothing happened. Like all semblance of your self-esteem wasn’t just ruined a few minutes ago. But you need to stop. Because it isn't his fault. It isn't even Suji’s.

It’s yours. You hurt your own feelings.

Jake sees you and immediately lights up, calling your name as he jogs over. You don’t smile back.

“I have some time after rehearsals,” he says lovingly, his hand tugging your arm. “Wait for me?”

This would be the last time you would.

–

He tries to hold your hand on the walk back home to steady his heart rate. Opening night creeps closer and closer, and preparation alone won’t save him from the nerves. But when you pull away before his fingers can intertwine with yours, he flinches.

Maybe there are too many people around, Jake tells himself. You’re probably worried about being seen. And so he continues his merry yapping. He doesn’t notice the defeated glint in your eyes or the slow steps you take next to his. He’s still riding the high from rehearsal, still proud he finally made it through every line without stuttering or needing the script.

Maybe he’ll do well enough on opening night that you’ll let him kiss you afterward. Maybe you’ll walk toward him with flowers while he wraps you in his arms. He’d spin you around, brag to the whole world that you’re his girlfriend. Say it loud and proud in front of annoying ass Jay and Sunghoon, who got front row seats.

The thought pulls a grin onto Jake’s face, making him skip ahead a little. And you both keep walking toward the dorms. Just like any other day.

Until you ruin it.

“I’m dropping out of the stage crew,” you say, casually. He stops in his tracks. All semblance of a smile wipes from his face. The show is sold out. It’s too late to get you tickets. 

“You won’t be able to watch,” he says, panic laced in his voice. You’re at a standstill, in the middle of campus, surrounded by trees and concrete. “You should’ve told me! I can see if I can pull some strings—”

He’s already taking his phone out to text someone. Probably the director. He doesn’t even ask why. Just goes straight to problem-solving. Your Jake. Too good. Too kind. Too forgiving.

It’s too much.

“I’m not coming to watch,” you say, harsher this time, stopping him from sending the message. Guilt washes over you instantly. Because he looks at you with his brows knit together, eyes wavering.

“I don’t understand.”  You don’t want to come? You don’t want to support him?

Your mouth opens to say something. Anything. But your throat feels hoarse, shoulders too heavy. Shit. Don’t cry. You don’t cry in front of anyone.

“Jake,” you start, clenching your quivering hands open and closed. “I can’t do this anymore.”

His heart drops. 

“Do what anymore?” he swallows, his mouth dry. “I’m confused—”

“I think we need to break up.”

Numb. Everything is numb.

“W-what?” Tears sting Jake’s eyes before he can blink them back. “Don’t… don’t say that.”

You shake your head. “Jake,” you whisper, careful not to get too close. Careful so you don’t make the mistake of taking back your words. “I don’t think we’re good for each other.”

He inches forward. You take a step back.

“Do you think that? That I’m not good enough—”

“No,” you interrupt. But he isn’t listening. And he doesn’t want to. Because this feels like a fucked up joke, a prank on him that’s been taken too far. Won’t you stop?

“Because if it’s something I did, I can change,” he begs. And your heart breaks a little at how desperately he searches for a hint of emotion in your face. But you don’t relent. You can be the bad guy. You always are. 

“Please. We can talk this through.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, an unusual softness in your voice. “I don’t want to change my mind—”

“Why not?!” he asks, voice louder. The quiet that falls between you two is masked by the rustle of surrounding trees, orange and red leaves falling around you two. The cool, autumn air brushes your face. His eyes sting with redness. 

“Why don’t you tell me anything?” His voice cracks. The aching in your heart makes you want to give in, to take it all back. But you aren’t like Jake. You can’t adjust, can’t welcome change so openly. 

So as you look at him with his slicked back hair and sharp features, so different from a year ago, it feels like you've already lost something. The version of yourself who had more to give than hollow excuses and marks left on his skin.

You couldn’t admit to it even now. That you hate who you’ve become. “I’m telling you right now,” you gulp, bracing your own words. “That I want to break up.”

And the first semblance of tears falls down Jake’s cheeks as he lets out a bitter laugh. He doesn’t believe it. Can’t accept it. He won’t let this be the end.

“If it’s because of what Choa said—”

Your brows furrow. “You heard what she said?” 

His hands are in his hair, tugging at it with frustration. You seem angry, but he doesn’t know why. He never does.

“I told her to mind her business,” he explains quickly. “It doesn’t matter what she thinks. So if you’re breaking up with me just because she called you clingy or whatever…”

And he doesn’t know it, but the words trigger something in you. Something you’ve been pushing down over and over again. The feeling of seeming weak, of needing him. The need to monopolize. It sickens you.

“It matters what I think Jake!” you finally burst out. Frustration etched in your voice, shaky from the cold air and your wavering emotions. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

“All I ever do now is wonder who you’re with, why you’re with them, and I just… I just feel so fucking lonely.”

He reaches for you, but you push him away. Your grievances spill out of you before you can hold them back.

“I’m paranoid of anyone who talks to you. I couldn’t even fucking watch you do that stupid kiss scene,” you continue. 

“We didn’t even kiss!”

“That’s not the fucking point!” you scream, before you can stop yourself. You inhale sharply when he flinches. Calm down. This is not his fault. Why are you getting angry with him?

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, taking one more step back. He holds your wrist gently to keep you in place.

Jake stares at you with his lips parted, stunned. “So why can’t we just go public?” he pleads. “You wouldn’t have to feel this way if—”

“That’s not the issue either,” you scoff, but you can’t even convince yourself. Because isn’t this how it all started? Your unwillingness to be embarrassed, to seem vulnerable in front of others. Was this not the root of it all?

“Then what is?!” he cries, his grip on your wrist tightens, not to hurt you, but so that you don’t run. Because you’re good at that. Running.

“I get insecure too,” he reassures, but you look past him now. “But I tell you. I tell you when I’m hurt, I tell you when I’m down. Because I… I want you to understand me. I want to understand you too…”

He swallows hard before continuing. “So I don’t get why you would even bring up breaking up before we even try to solve the problem together—”

“Because I don’t want to solve it, Jake.”

His hold on you loosens instantly, arm dropping to his side. You feel colder as he steps back. Jake stares at you, hurt laced in his gaze. Like you stabbed him in the heart and twisted the knife in to marinate.

“...You're always like this,” he mutters under his breath. “Always saying hurtful things without thinking about how they make me feel.”

He feels his throat close up as he draws in some baited breaths. The tears come in more heavily, his cheeks damp as they roll down his pained face. 

“So you see what I mean?” you say, your own tears threatening to spill over without you even realizing. A part of him instinctively wants to wipe them away, to pull you close and make it stop. But all he feels is anger. Because you’re the one breaking up with him. You’re the one choosing to end things. What right do you have to cry? What right do you have to look shattered when he's the one in pieces?

“I’m horrible to you,” you let out with pained laughter. He shakes his head immediately. 

“No, you’re not—”

“I always pick fights—”

“You don’t—”

“I act like a fucking bitch—”

“Don’t call yourself that—”

"I feel like I’m insane when I’m around you,” you let out, before you can stop yourself.

“I don’t think that at all—”

“But I do, Jake,” you cry. “I hate how jealous I get when you’re surrounded by other people. I hate feeling like I’m holding you back. I hate what I’ve become since…”

And you can’t finish because his tears have stopped. He’s looking at you with a new kind of anguish. The kind that you don’t necessarily expect. The kind that feels like disgust. 

“Since you started dating me?” he says like he correctly finished your statement. But that’s not what you're going to say. Never that.

“Since you didn’t need me anymore,” you whimper. “I’m not a good girlfriend, Jake. You’d be so much happier without me. Everyone would think it if they knew.”

He stands in front of you, hollow. If they knew. He has to laugh. That’s the problem. No one does. You don’t want them to. It’s clear now.

“Fine,” he says, and the steadiness of his voice makes you shudder. Good. This is what you wanted. 

He’s staring at you, jaded like he had come to terms with it. He used to love how insistent you were about your point of view on things, how firmly you stood by your opinions. Used to envy it. But now, he detests it. That stubbornness. 

“Whatever you want,” he sighs, hands slipping in his pockets. “Let’s break up. Pretend we never happened.”

Your mouth parts. “Excuse me?”

Jake scoffs, hands tightening into a fist. They’re trembling, but he won’t let you see. He can do what you do. Act like he’s okay. Act like you didn’t just kill him. He’s gotten very good at that. Acting.

“I’m being honest, Jake—”

“You don’t love me,” he cuts in. And your heart sinks. “That’s all this is. You never show it. You never say it. And I’m tired of hearing you pretend like you’re doing me a favor when I’m practically begging you not to leave.”

His voice cracks, but he continues. “So fine,” he mutters. “Have it your way. You won’t ever have to admit that we dated, start a clean slate without me. Just like you want.”

He presses his lips together and gives you one last look before he takes his hands out of his pockets. He’s fiddling with the ring. His ring. The ring that matches yours.

“You know,” he starts, voice trembling and bitter, “when it was the other way around… when I felt like shit about myself…. I never once thought of leaving you.”

His gaze is on the ground. “Because I always thought I was better with you than without. Because you made me want to be better.”

His voice falters. He looks at you now, sniffling. 

“I tried to be better.”

And in one swift motion, Jake takes off the ring.  “...But you didn’t even want me enough to stay.”

“Jake, no—” 

But it’s too late. You see him throw it, the bushes rustling nearby. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He shoves his hands back in his pockets and walks past you to the direction of the dorms.

“There,” he says quietly behind you. “Like we never happened.”

He doesn’t look back, doesn’t even spare you a glance. It’s only when he’s fully out of sight that you dig through the orange and red pile of leaves, through dirt and branches. Tears stream down your face as you sob, searching for it like a mad woman. Pathetic. So fucking pathetic. 

But you can’t find it. No matter how hard you try to find a silver glint in the greenery, there is nothing. And you clutch onto yours like it’s your lifeline. He threw it away. How could he throw it away?

And you wonder then if you made the biggest mistake in your life.

–

You thought the pit in your stomach would fade once you ripped the bandage, but the hole in your heart opened wider. And it’s only been a week.

Jake used to dodge questions about his love life, but now he admits to anyone with ears who walks by that he’s single. You have ears. And you walk by often. You’re not sure if he’s taunting you or if you just want him to be.

When your eyes meet his at the one lecture you still share, he’s the first to turn away. Jake used to sit beside you, shoulder brushing yours, tilting his laptop so you could keep up when the professor switched the slides too quickly. When you pass the football field, you try not to wince when you see Choa latch onto his arm like she belongs there. He used to always pull away. 

The worst part is that these stolen glances are all you have of him. He’s blocked you on everything, which feels weird to think about. Jake, who’s always gentle, always forgiving, always offering second chances—even to people who don’t deserve it. Maybe this time you’re one of them.

You have no right to be upset. Not anymore.

And so you wrap yourself in your studies, check out new extracurriculars, even try to make new friends on campus who know nothing about Jake. You try to rebuild, try to go back in time before that fateful day in high school when you met him. But it’s been far too long. 

He was a part of you, so deeply ingrained in your daily life. How could you act like you two never happened? Like your relationship never existed? How could he do it so well?

And then, you have to remind yourself. You'd already been doing that anyway.

–

“So what did he do?” Jay questions, tuning his guitar while Sunghoon and you sit in his living room. “Did he tell you he was done paying for your stuff or…”

“Shut up,” you grumble, already agitated enough as you scroll through Suji’s Instagram. You couldn’t even muster the energy to be jealous over a photo of Jake and her holding up peace signs next to each other. You just feel empty. “Nothing happened.”

Jay rolls his eyes. “He’s usually texting one of us to get you to answer his messages by now. It’s been crickets from him for the last two weeks.”

You swallow hard. He used to do that?

Jay’s gaze flickers toward you and sighs as he fiddles with his guitar strings. “You know, I really don’t get the two of you,” he mumbles. “Like you already rejected him in high school, you’re practically just stringing him along at this point—”

You sit up. “Excuse me?”

He shakes his head, dropping the guitar onto his lap. “Jake told us,” he starts hesitantly. “That you ran away when he tried to confess last year.”

‘But that’s not the full story,’ you want to scream out loud. 

“Yeah,” Sunghoon laughs as if recalling a memory. “Dude! Remember in the summer when he started going to the gym with me?”

Jay cringes. “Yeah, and he told us it was because he’d be starting this season, but we knew it was just because you said you liked macho guys.”

You shake your head, ears warming at the thought. That’s insane. 

“Oh, and that stupid ass ring,” Sunghoon adds, clutching his stomach. Your hand instinctively clutches at your necklace, fingers brushing the chain. “His mom beat the shit out of him when she found out how much he spent on it.”

You twiddle with the ring through your shirt. You should've taken it off by now. He'd already thrown his away. So what use was it leaving him if all you were going to do was hold on?

“Why would he do all that for me?” you mutter, not realizing that you said your thoughts out loud. 

Jay shrugs. “Love makes you do stupid things.” And then he sighs. “Go easy on him, okay? You know how he is. Jake’s a sensitive boy. Especially when it comes to you.”

You look down at the ground, shame bubbling up in your chest. Jake loved you. He really did.

–

You smile from your view of the auditorium, even from the back, feeling like a speck of dust in the full house. A bouquet is in your hand as you nervously find your seat. Jake’s right. Everyone’s here to watch.

You could see Jay and Sunghoon’s tiny heads toward the front, pushing down the bitterness of not being able to sit as close as they were. It's not fair, you think. You had to buy a last minute ticket off a student who could no longer make it while they don’t even like musicals. You shake your head.

This isn’t about you. It’s Jake’s big night. 

The lights dim. Your boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—steps onto the stage in a football jersey that looks almost exactly like his real-life one. The audience quiets at his entrance. As he delivers his cheesy opening monologue, you mouth the words with him. He’d practiced it so much in front of you. Pride wells up in your chest. He doesn’t stutter once. 

Even when Suji joins him on stage, even as they sing together during their characters’ first meeting, you couldn’t help but smile. 

The scenes blur as you lose yourself in the show. You watch the characters as they are and not as your ex and the girl you desperately wanted to hate. It was actually fun. The cheeky glances, the perfectly rehearsed dance scenes. The way the main character so seriously thought that singing was going to affect his football career. It made you laugh, made you tear up, made you suck in a deep breath when Jake leaned into her. 

And because you’re still you, and because the wounds still feel fresh, you close your eyes. You don’t have to know if he really did it or not. It doesn’t matter. It’s his moment.

‘If only I felt like this the whole time,’ you thought to yourself. Then maybe you wouldn’t have to psych yourself up to find him afterward and pour your heart out to him. You shiver at the thought.

But Jay had said it: love makes you do stupid things.

And you do. Love him. 

Enough to buy him flowers. Enough to admit that you’re done hiding. Enough to risk asking him to love you again—even if there’s a chance that he already moved on.

–

“Bro,” Jay starts, with tear-stained cheeks. “Don’t ever do that again. I can’t be crying like that in front of everybody.”

“Quit football,” Sunghoon says, patting Jake on the back with unusually red eyes. “Just focus on this musical shit. I swear you could make it big time.”

Jake chuckles, watching as the auditorium empties of guests. “Thanks, guys. I’m glad you two liked it.”

God, he wishes you were here. He could imagine exactly what you’d say when you walk up to him, with a small smile you try to suppress. Saying good job while ruffling his hair. Trying to act like you didn’t cry like everyone else. Jake smiles, quietly, at his own thoughts. It’s ridiculous, coming up with hypotheticals when you’d already made it clear. You don't want to be with him anymore. 

“Jake.” 

His heart instinctively skips a beat.

When he turns, the air in his lungs escapes him. You’re holding a bouquet so big it hides most of your frame, looking at him expectantly as you push it towards him. His eyes widen, unable to speak or even take the flowers from you. Is he dreaming?

“You did a good job,” you say, trying to sound as genuine as possible, wanting him to feel your sincerity.  “You killed it up there.”

“Thanks,” he says shortly, finally taking the flowers from your hands. He can’t help but stare. 

“I—” you try to push out, but Suji rushes to the stage to tap Jake on the shoulder.

“Hey.” She smiles up at him. “We're heading out soon for the celebration. Did you still want a ride with me?”

“Damn, even musicals got afterparties?” Sunghoon mutters to Jay, who attempts to shush him.

Jake returns a smile. “Yeah, just give me a second.”

And when he turns around to look at you, to finally hear what you have to say, your eyes are glossed over. Maybe you’re too late. Maybe this is idiotic after all. It's been weeks. There's no guarantee he'll even listen.

“I just wanted to say congratulations,” you mutter, though you've changed the words you meant to say entirely. It's supposed to be: ‘I’m so proud of you. Will you take me back? I’ll stop being so mean. We can tell everyone we’re in love—yes, even Jay and Sunghoon.’

But old habits die hard. And Suji—beautiful fucking Suji—crushed every ounce of confidence you had to come up to him in the first place.

“That's all,” you say, shooting him a small grin. It doesn't quite reach your eyes. He notices. Jake always does. Just never knows the reason why.

Before you can step back, he grabs your wrist, spinning you into his arms. Like the male leads do in those stupid romcoms.

“Don't,” he whispers. “Please… don't run away this time.”

You stare up at him, searching his gaze.

“Man, what the fuck is going on…” Jay whispers behind the two of you.

Sunghoon shrugs. “You think they finally…?”

Jake turns his head to give a disgruntled look to his two idiotic friends, and they shrink, making their way down the stage to finally give the two of you more privacy. He turns his attention back to you, wrist still in his hand, and gently moves it down to take your hands in both of his.

“I thought you didn't want to come,” he starts, licking his lips through the nerves. “Why are you here?”

Your cheeks heat up. Fuck. Where do you even start?

He draws circles with his thumb on the back of your palms. “Why?” he asks again, more confident this time.

It would be easy to act like your old self and push out a half-assed excuse. That you just want to be supportive, even after you’ve broken up. That you don’t miss him at all. But you're too tired to pretend like Jake's absence in your life didn’t feel worse than when you were with him. 

“Because…” you start, with a shaky breath. “Because I wanted to talk to you.”

His brows furrow. “About what?”

And you feel your heart pumping in your chest, your palms slick with sweat. This is harder than you thought.

“I wanted to—” You swallow, taking in a deep breath before continuing. “I wanted to apologize. With the ring. The one you threw away.”

You see Jake's ears turn a bright shade of crimson. “Actually—”

“But I couldn’t find it,” you cut in. “No matter how hard I looked. I tried. I really, really…”

You start to choke up. Because fuck. He'd gotten you that ring to confess to you. Spent all his pocket money so that he could get something he knew you'd love. Had it engraved with the letter J. Your Jake. Your handsome, talented, smart, and wonderful Jake.

“...really want to get back together,” you finally let out, eyes shining underneath the stage lights as tears threaten to spill over. “I'm sorry, Jake.”

His breath hitches, hands releasing yours so suddenly. Your heart clenches. “You broke up with me,” he mutters.

You nod. “I-I thought I needed to. To find myself. But… you were right. I was just running away from my problems.”

You swallow hard, correcting yourself. “Our problems.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “So is this the part where you expect me to forgive you?”

Your heart clenches. “I'm sorry,” you say again softly.

“You still haven’t even given me a reason,” he scoffs. “So tell me why. Why do you want to get back together when—”

It’s like slow motion, what you do next. You cup Jake’s face right into your hands, crashing your lips onto his. In front of Sunghoon. In front of Jay. In front of the whole cast and crew who were packing up to leave. The same people he’s had to make excuses to about why he suddenly looked so distraught these past few weeks. You pull back, breathless.

“Because I love you,” you say, loud enough to elicit gasps from your watchers. You don’t even have it in you to be embarrassed anymore. Because the words fall naturally from your lips, like breathing. And it's like music to his ears. 

“I fucking love you,” you repeat, hands still on his cheeks. His mouth parts open, breathless. He blinks. Once. Twice. And then he smiles, tears forming in his eyes. Jake swoops in, his lips finding yours again. His mouth moves against yours in tandem, slow and passionate. Your eyes flutter shut, soaking in the taste of him. You missed him so much.

When he pulls away, a shit-eating grin lights up his face. “Finally,” he whispers, cheeks flushed. “You finally said it back.”

You lightly swat his shoulder. You should've known he was trying to egg you on. Jake and all his damn questions.

“I love you too,” he mutters against your temple, squeezing you against him. “I love you so much.”

He peppers kisses all over your face, and you hear gagging on the sidelines.

“Don’t ever leave me again,” he mutters into your hair. “That shit fucking hurt.”

You smile sadly. “I promise—”

“YOU TWO WERE DATING?!” a familiar voice cries out. Of course. Nosy-ass Sunghoon. You resist the urge to drop kick him right then.

“I have a better question,” Jay pipes in. “Are we invited to this afterparty too or…”

Jake furrows his brows, turning to the idiotic duo. “What afterparty?”

Sunghoon and Jay bombard you with questions about your secret relationship, but mainly just start arguing about who was gonna call the taxi for the party they still desperately wanted to go to, since Suji had already left.

Running far away from the auditorium, Jake and you giggle as the two idiots try to chase after you. When you both reach his dorm, he doesn't waste one second after you close the door to lift you over his shoulder. You yelp as your feet lift off the ground, squeaking when your back hits the mattress with a soft bounce.

He sets the bouquet softly on his nightstand before hovering over your frame, and his knees sink into the mattress as he traps you underneath him. Jake strokes your cheek lovingly, his hand trailing down and down until it reaches the edge of your skirt. Still as short as ever. Thighs so pretty underneath the thin fabric.

“I missed you,” he sighs, hands trailing to the edges of your panties. He strokes your plush skin, sending shivers down your spine. You want to roll your eyes, deflect the warm stirring in your core as he scans your figure, eyes clouded with lust. But you’re supposed to be turning over a new leaf. Honesty and all that.

“Imissedyoutoo…” you mutter lowly, rushing through your words.

He moves closer, ear practically touching your lips. “Hm?” 

You lose patience, baring your teeth and nipping his helix. He flinches, glaring at you with a playful scoff.

“You said you weren't gonna be mean anymore…” Jake sighs, tone dripping in mockery as he pouts. And you want to say something more, but Jake’s hands land on your ass, giving you a subtle squeeze.

You know what. You'll humor him. Just this once.

You bring your lips to the ear you just bit, kissing it lightly. Steady hands trail down the fake football jersey he adorns, and to the painful bulge of his shorts. Jake sucks in a deep breath.  You chuckle, amused at how suddenly it hardens. So easy to arouse. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, licking his outer shell. He shudders against your touch, your breath on his neck triggering goosebumps all across his arms. You squeeze him through the fabric, his head falling to your shoulder. “I’ll stop…”

“Don’t,” he lets out through ragged breaths, as you stroke him languidly. You chuckle. He’s so cute. Cheeks tinged with pink. It makes you want to do worse things to him...

“Lie down,” you command, and he gladly takes your place on the bed. Your knees encase him now, tugging his stupid jersey over his head. “Let me make it up to you…”

His muscles are so well-defined, glistening under the light of your dorm room. You trail kisses down his chest, licking down his abs. Salty. Just how you like him. Jake squirms underneath you as you tug his shorts down, his dick slapping your chin on the way up as it springs free. Jake almost cums from the sight, tip flushed red and pulsing with need. To feel you. To be so buried deep inside you that he can feel the head poking through your stomach. 

When you move your head down to kiss his hardness, he digs his fingers into your shoulder. “No, baby,” he mutters. “Come up here, hm?”

You furrow your brows. Why the fuck was he trying to interrupt you during your apology?

“Wha—” 

Jake cuts you short, manhandling your waist as his fingers press into your hips. He positions your knees on both sides of his head, turning you around. He pushes your mini skirt all the way up to scrunch around your midsection. Yes, you might have an amazing view of his throbbing cock, but now you can't see his beautiful fucked out face. He breathes in the scent of your panties with hooded eyes, nose grazing your clothed folds. 

You pout. “I thought I was the one making it up to you—”

“You are,” he chuckles, interrupting you instantly. He pushes your ass down to his face with one hand, using the other to press your chest flush against his body. Your face inches closer to his member. Oh. That's what he's doing.

“Pervert…” you mumble, coyly reaching out for him. So thick and large that you need to use both hands to engulf him, pre-cum dribbling out of him as if on command. 

“I am,” he mumbles, pulling your panties low enough to give him access to your cunt, lying just below your knees. He licks a stripe up your drenched folds all the way to your puckered hole. You wither against him. “Call me whatever you want, baby. Just sit on my face when you do it.”

Your hips land down on him softly as your thumb spreads his liquid down his engorged length. This position was new to you, meaning it was also new to him. But Jake moves expertly like the quick learner he is. He plants open-mouthed kisses on your folds, pink muscle lapping at your labia like a man starved. Your tongue sticks out to offer kitten licks over his tip. 

But Jake hasn’t had you in weeks. And he knows what he wants. And it’s not the weak jutting you do against his face, or the shallow sucking you offer his engorged cock. No. He wants all of you. The sick part of you that would degrade him, that would rile yourself up like all those nights before. And he doesn’t want to have to mention a stupid nickname some stupid girl said to bring it out of you.

There were more healthy methods, he’s sure, to guide you right where he wants to be. And so Jake’s hands grip your ass, pushing you down on him harder. Forcing your hips to grind back and forth against his face at the rabid pace he sets, nose sticking in between your folds slightly as his tongue laps at your clit. Like this. Dirty. Raunchy. Aggressive. He fucking loves it. 

“Ngh—” you cry out, propelling him to push himself deeper in your mouth. You take a deep breath so his cock can slide through more easily, taking as much of him as you can to drown out your warbled moans. Your tongue finds the underside of his thickness, tapping him as you start to gag. And when Jake reaches the back of your throat, he gives you a second to calm yourself before he bucks his hips up into you. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, remembering to hollow your cheeks as he shoots forward. But it’s hard to stay focused when his wet, pink muscle pushes into you. 

“Fuck—Taste so good, baby—” The squelching sounds that mix with Jake’s moans against your bundle of nerves are obscene, sucking and flicking his tongue with a fervor you try to match now. Your tongue curls up to meet the underside of his girth, bobbing your head up and down with ferocity. Anything to please him. 

“Mmmm—” you moan around him. Your mouth feels so fucking good, but your pussy on his lips was like actual heaven. He could eat you out all day. As a reward. As a punishment. Anything. 

And he breathes your scent in again, groaning once more. He pushes his nose closer to your folds, the tip of it engulfed in your wetness. You almost gag around his dick at the intrusion, saliva pooling at the base of his cock. You wrap your thighs around him tighter, bouncing on his face like he was nothing but a sex toy. Erratic. Desperate. Yes. Just like that. Fuck him like you never want him out of your sights again.

He knows you're close, knows by the way you start scratching at his thighs like an agitated pet. But, no. Jake needs it. Needs you to cum all over his face. Make a mess on him. Of him. His tongue plunges into you now, index finger coming up to play with your clit.

His cock pops out of your mouth with little resistance as your body goes slack with pleasure. You're just licking at his dick with a loose hand at this point, eyes rolling back from ecstasy. 

You whimper against the slickness of his sloppy mouth, drool continuing to fall out of the corners of your mouth through your slurred speech. “Ngh—No—Let me—Fuck—Jakeeee—” you try to say, but it all sounds nonsensical.

Jake understands, more than you know, as his heart constricts so deliciously. 'My poor baby,' he thinks. Just wants to make him feel good. Wants to make it up to him so bad. But you don’t know that the only thing that could make him happy right now is for you to choke him out with your sopping cunt. 

“Mmm—Ngh—Ahh—” He’s too good down there. Too fucking messy. Why does he do this? Why does he love making you sound like a fucking animal? Your toes curl, the grip around his shaft tightening as your back arches even more into him. 

You feel it. But it's different from usual. It feels like too much. Like an impending explosion. You claw at his thigh even more, all of a sudden panicked. “Jake—Let go—Jake—” 

When he shakes his head, his tongue swipes your clit left and right. His grip on your ass pushes his nose more deeply into your soaked folds. You whimper, cheek nuzzling against his length in desperation. 

“I'm serious….” you whine as you try to pull away. This is weird. You feel weird. You try to run away from it, that foreign feeling. But it's no use. Jake's too smart, too quick. He presses you down on him harder, hugging your waist, suctioning your clit, cheeks flushed from how quickly his mouth works against you. 

“JAKE!” you scream as your thighs clamp around him, hips shuddering uncontrollably. Like a hose turning on for the first time, a spray of your juices lands onto Jake's chin and neck, coating him in your dampness. He welcomes it, tongue sticking out to taste as much of it as he can.

You cry above him, tears landing on his dick that still rubs against your heated face. He laps up every last remaining bit of your climax desperately, like they’d dry up too quickly if he didn’t. You whine, grinding yourself on him to steady your heart rate. When he’s fully satisfied, Jake frees you from his clutches, lying you down on the bed so your head can finally rest on a pillow.

His cock is still incredibly stiff. And you're still in tears.

“You… fucking… dick,” you say in between sniffles, not believing you could ever climax that hard in your life. “Where the fuck did you learn how to do that?”

And he knows what’s going through your head. Because old habits do, in fact, die hard. And now you probably think he was out fucking anyone and everyone during the weeks-long hell that was your breakup. Jake chuckles, pulling your skirt down. He bites his bottom lip at the sight of your folds. Glistening with his saliva and your juices. He fists himself tightly. 

“Still so jealous, baby?” He smirks. God, please let him indulge in his pouty girlfriend at least once more.

“No, but be honest,” you mumble. “Did you—”

“Fuck other girls?” he finishes your sentence, scoffing playfully at the ridiculousness. Your eyes narrow.

“Well, did you?”

Jake spent almost every day crying, unblocking and blocking your number over and over again just to see if you'd notice. But he can tell you all that later. Because right now, you're giving him a death glare that only makes his cock throb harder. 

“No, babe,” he mutters, swiping his wet tip against your even more drenched folds. So puffy after all he's put it through. He peppers kisses on your shoulder. “You know I’d never.”

And you do. He’s only ever been with you. Will only ever be with you. You know that. But still. The wheels are already turning in your head. You know… you're usually the one worried about these things. Doesn't he deserve a taste of his own medicine?

“Imagine if I did—”

And he slams his dick into your plushness, eliciting a scream from you. He doesn’t even let you complete your evil plan.

“FUCK—”

“Don't finish that sentence,” Jake glowers, brows furrowed. You lick your lips deliciously. "That's not funny."

“See how it feels?” you whimper, as he delivers another harsh thrust, your shirt riding up your stomach from the impact. You arch your back off of the bed as Jake groans into your neck, licking a stripe up your jaw.

“All this just ‘cause I made you squirt,” he mumbles angrily, wincing as your pulsing walls squeeze his length into a tighter grip. “So fucking immature.”

You chuckle evilly. “Immature like who? Sungho—”

His childhood friend’s name doesn't even leave your lips when Jake clamps his teeth into your neck. Hard. “OW—”

A taste of your own medicine. But his skin grazes something then—a thin chain that he's seen before but never questioned.  You never wore it when you fucked. A circular hardness underneath your shirt that weirdly looks like…

He tugs on it before you can protest, and there on the chain is a ring. With J engraved on the inside. His gaze softens. And you become a blumbering mess underneath him, shy with embarrassment. “I can—Explain—Just—” 

Jake pulls out enough so his tip is the only thing suctioned in your folds before pistoning into you harshly once more. You whimper.

“Shut up and let me fuck you,” he mutters into your ear, before engulfing your lips in his. With a newfound energy, Jake pounds into you with urgency, pace brutal against your already sore pussy. His hand comes up to grab your tits, spilling over your bra from the impact of his movements. So rough. So mean. Damn, you were rubbing off on him.

You have this aching desire to flip him over and ride him back into submission, but the slapping of his hips into yours devolves your thoughts into unintelligible moans. 

“Ngah—Fuck—Oh my god—”

Jake’s mouth leaves yours as his eyes travel downwards to the piece of jewelry. He likes how it looks on you. Sitting so nice between your bouncing breasts. Maybe, he’d buy you a necklace next. A pretty Tiffany necklace to go with the pretty Tiffany ring on his pretty girlfriend’s pretty finger. Fuck. You’re so fucking pretty.

He brings the ring up to his mouth, biting down on the metal, before he lowers himself onto your lips once more. With the ring in between his teeth, he grabs at your jaw to open for him. Jake transfers it over to your parted lips as you catch the ring with your tongue, coated in his saliva. He dives down into you, your tongues battling as the coolness of the metal moves between your mouths. His thrusts are slower now, but you moan just the same.

Drool drips down both of your lips, the ring getting passed between you two in the movements of your open-mouthed kisses. He lets up, the necklace falling wetly onto the pillow. He admires the red marks the chain leaves on your neck. Maybe a Tiffany choker instead?

And his thrusts deepen, until your cervix repeatedly kisses his mushroom tip. He wished you could see your expression right now. So needy. So perfect. 

“Jake—Baby—” When the pet name leaves your lips, Jake lets out a deep, guttural groan. Like he'd been waiting his whole life for you to say it.

“Yes, baby?” He repeats after you, sweat beading down his forehead as he continues to split you open, pumping into your tightness with urgency. His hands are pushing your thighs open now, admiring how the ring sits sloppily on your neck as he jackhammers into you.

“I love you,” you moan out, your hands reaching for his face. “I love you so much.”

He looks at you with glassy eyes, soft and tender. He kissed you again, sweeter this time. 

“I love you too.” 

And he spreads you apart further, fucking you into the squeaking mattress with his pulsing dick, so big that it fills you everywhere you need him. He pushes in and out, evoking a new set of tears to stain your cheeks. “Baby,” you cry out. “I'm almost—”

“Wait for me,” he pleads, elbows falling to the sides of your head. He buries himself in the crook of your neck. “Can you, baby? Please—”

You try to nod as he's ramming into you as deep as he can go. He whispers sweet nothings into your ear, about how good you are for him, how pretty, how perfect, how he loves the marks you leave him, how he wants you to control him, how you’re the only one he’d ever be with in any lifetime ever.

“Ngh—” His hips snap forward with everything he can give. He feels it now, too. That coil that threatens to spill inside you. But he can't. No condom. No birth control. 

And when your hips rise, clenching around him, your orgasm hits you like a truck. You mewl out in pleasure, crying as Jake tries to pull out of you. But you suction him so well, too well, that it's a little too late. He twitches deep inside of your pussy. And his mouth falls open as the first spurts of cum spill, but nothing escapes his lips. 

“Fuck, baby,” he whines. He needs to pull out. But your cunt feels so damn good… So warm… So wet… And so much of himself has already spilled inside you… It's okay, right? To fill you up with all of it? But he has self-control. He swears it.

“No…” You whimper when he actually pulls away, his seed dribbling everywhere.

“...’m sorry, babe,” he groans, as his hand wraps around himself, stroking languidly. “I’m so sorry.”

Jake’s cheeks are flushed as he pumps the remainder of his climax on your drenched folds, painting your clit a milky white. He sees the first of his juices push out of you, his fluids like cream all over your puffiness.

“Fuck,” he moans, his fingers coming up to spread it all across your folds. But when you look down, all you feel is empty. All you feel is the need to push down against his fingers and take him all over again. 

Jake's eyes widen as he lets out a shaky breath. You look so desperate. For what? He's not sure. But he can't deny his baby anything. He can't deny himself either. He wants to see it just once. Seems like you do too. 

“Can I?” he asks in a low whisper, fingers spreading your folds apart to watch more of his load seep out of you. And you nod, shyly, relieved you didn’t have to beg for it yourself, already going through too much exposure therapy for one day.

And so Jake gathers the cum that's gushed over his digits, and with a shaky breath, he pushes them back into you. You tighten your grip on his biceps.

“Fuuuuck—” You cry out when he starts pumping them in and out, slow but still so fucking deep. His veiny fingers always know which parts to knead. 

Jake’s eyes are in a daze, obsessed with how his cum goes back in so easily—even when you’re still so tight and so sensitive. Everything feels so fucking drenched. And like this, he wants to see you come undone again.

“One more, baby…” he pleads in a low whisper, pressing butterfly kisses on your eyelids. He licks the tears that spill from your eyes. So pretty like this. “You want to make it up to me, right?”

You can only whine in response, hands shaking as they clutch onto him for dear life. 

“Hm?” He asks for confirmation, curling his fingers up to the spongy spot inside you. He grinds his palm on your engorged clit. Whimpering out a pathetic ‘yes,’ you let the pleasure overtake you once again. Your body feels like it's on fire. Too hot. Too much. But still, your back arches up into him, whimpering.

“Come on,” he whispers into your ear. Low and steady. “Give it to me.”

And you can practically hear the mess that his three fingers are creating as they pump into your folds, can feel the stickiness of your mixed juices coat your inner walls. But you shut your eyes, letting the warm tingling overtake your core. Yes—Right there—Fuck—

“I'M—” you screech, but it's no use. Your head falls back against the pillow as you sob. And Jake curses underneath his breath as you spray all over him once again, massaging your clit as he pulls his fingers out to watch. Your hips rise to meet nothing, just your body spraying so beautifully against his torso. His dick could harden once more any second now from the sight. He relishes in it, admiring his work as his cum pushes out of you again. Thick and creamy.

You look down too, seeing the fucked-out state he's put your body into. Maybe you would've been right to flick his forehead and call him every insult in the book for filling you up like that. But fuck. Could you ever have him cum outside of you again if it felt that good to have his cum inside you? No, you'd definitely need to get on the pill ASAP.

Jake’s gaze falls onto your face now, at your bruised lips and your dried tears. But the ring catches his eye once more, the one he hadn’t seen in a year. And his heart flutters.

“Babe?” he starts, lying softly next to you. He wraps you in his arms, not minding the dampness of the sheets below. He’ll clean you up later.

“Mmm?” You respond, on the brink of unconsciousness. Satiated. He touches your chain, the other hand wrapped around your stomach, giving a reassuring squeeze.

“How long have you been wearing our ring like this?” Your breath catches. You'd hoped that he'd forgotten, that the conversation could wait for the morning when your heart wasn't thumping so loud. It takes you a second before you respond.

“Since you gave it to me,” you admit, slowly. Jake can feel the warmth creep up to your ears. And he wonders how he's never seen it, how you seem to hide it so well after all the times he's undressed you before. But then again, you’ve always been good at keeping secrets.

Still, he smiles. Because even after you walked away, even when you said you were done, you still kept this piece of him. Wore it so beautifully around your neck, too.

Fuck—he’s never letting you walk out on him like that again. If you even hint at breaking up, he might actually end up begging on his knees and—

“Not like it matters anyway,” you cut through the silence grumpily. “You threw yours away.”

He lets out a surprised laugh and pulls you closer, squeezing you tight. You pout. What’s he so jolly for?

“What do you mean?” he asks cheekily. “That never happened.”

You turn around abruptly, facing him with furrowed brows. “I literally saw you—”

Your words are cut short when his mouth finds yours, one hand steadies your jaw as the other reaches blindly into his nightstand. A drawer opens. He pulls back just enough to show you the turquoise box, one eerily similar to the one you have in your closet, as he flips it open.

His ring. Silver and engraved with your initial. But how…?

“I guess I'm really good at pretending to throw things,” he answers before you can even ask. Thought I’d be a little dramatic that day…”

You smack his shoulder, but your hand massages the spot soon after, swallowed by the wave of relief that crashes over you. He didn't really let go like he made it seem. He was still yours, even when you thought you lost him. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” you grumble, pinching his cheek. All he does is chuckle. 

In one smooth motion, Jake lifts your necklace and unclasps it, letting the ring unfurl out and into his palm. You don’t stop him. 

He looks at you for a second, as if asking for permission. You offer Jake your hand instead of speaking. He slips the piece of jewelry onto your ring finger, kissing your knuckles. Then he slides his own ring back where it belongs, to where he’s always kept it. Jake smiles up at you, planting another sweet kiss on your lips.

And you know you’ll wear it proudly this time. Without him having to ask. 

“I love you?” he says, gently, like he needs to hear you say it back just one more time. Just to make sure. And you kiss him again, warmth coating your features.

“I love you too.”

His heart clenches in the best way possible.

Damn, he could really get used to this.

epilogue

Jake runs to the benches, grabbing at his water bottle like it’s his last salvation. He gulps it all down in seconds, sweat seeping down his body. Practice was way too intense today.

“Oh my god, Jakey,” a lilting voice punctures through his ear. “You're literally dripping.”

His eye twitches as she enunciates the last word. 

“Choa,” he starts, shooting daggers at her. He's too exhausted to put up with this today. Or ever. She was graduating in a few months anyway. He might as well say his piece. “First of all, my name is Jake. And second of all, it makes me really uncomfortable when you say things like that.”

Choa pouts, tugging his sleeve like a toddler. “Why?” she giggles. “Do I make you nervous?”

“No.” He pulls away, not even bothering to look at her. “I just don't appreciate how you talk to me.”

She glowers, thrown off by his disposition. He's usually so sweet, so polite. What happened?

“It's ‘cause of your friend isn't it? You know she was so fucking rude to me—”

“My girlfriend,” he corrects immediately. Choa’s hands drop down to her sides. Jake pays her no mind, packing his stuff into his duffle bag instead.

“W-what?” she stutters out. “Since when?”

He shrugs, finally slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Since forever.”

“What?!” she screeches. “How come you never told—”

“Oh Jakeyyyy,” you sing out in an octave higher than your regular speaking voice. He presses his lips together to prevent the laughter that almost seeps through his mouth.

“Yeah, babe?” He calls out, looking past Choa. You're standing with your arms crossed, eyeing her down from a few meters away. A bright new necklace shining above your shirt. 

Your gaze flickers back to him, not bothering to waste your precious energy on the small, vicious girl. You tilt your head to the side, beckoning him over in a silent command. And he follows.

Your loyal little puppy.

Jake takes your hands into his just to really rub salt on Choa's wound, your matching rings clinking against each other.

“Do you remember Gaeul from the backstage crew?” you announce proudly, the bob-headed girl long-forgotten. “She wants to hang out with me tomorrow!”

Jake smiles, ruffling your hair. “That’s great!”

“She's throwing something at her apartment this weekend, too,” you slide in. “Maybe… we can go together?”

“Oh yeah, Suji told me—” And he stops himself. But it’s too late. You’re already frowning.

“Okay, so let me go ahead and take Jay instead…” And he pouts at your words.

“Not fair,” he mutters, but you see the smile he suppresses. 'What a freak,' you think to yourself.

You click your tongue, squeezing his hand a little tighter. “...I'm biting the shit out of you later.”

And if Jake had a tail, it most definitely would’ve started wagging.

“Promise?”

fin.

A/N: Don't save him, he don't wanna be saved.

Taglist: @missoxy @cutehoons02 @zohaaz @f4loveex @rianzysworld @tinastar13 @woniewonwon @starfallia @liaviva @lhspeachie @fancypeacepersona @sanasour @reasonablyminiatureandroid @tinyhrry @nyxphobia @aernx @soulskiu @shining-won @esoteric-eye @yohanabanana @jungwongfs-blog @starjoongie @yeeunlvr @gyu-luvs @ikeuster @not-aya @ppeachyttae @psyches-reid @moonxiiey @hueningsgirl @sylphjeong @mariegibeau @beaepa @jisiziu @aloveminsalade @ilovetimotheechalamet8 @vixensss @chyshiacat @chuuiehearts @heyinnnn @sparkcling @moonstrucksofie @snghon @nct-sticker-127 @fdzvie @synielve @honeyyjw @simj4k3 @petalsofink @axfyl

[thedogbard]

You And I Would’ve Found Each Other (Sherlock x reader)

“It doesn’t work like that!” If he didn’t have eggs in the shopping bag, John would’ve thrown his hands up to the ceiling. “You’re always married once you’re married! Unless you get divorced!”

“No, I mean, Y/N has just gone to the airport - should be getting on her flight right now, actually, since boarding was delayed by five minutes - so I am simply keeping the ring safe.”

Why was Sherlock looking at him like he was the mad one?

*

Or, Sherlock as a husband throughout seasons one and two, and I don’t really know how it got this long, but anyway.

also on a03. five chapters long; they're all written/posted.

Chapter One: In My Worst Times, You Saw The Best In Me

So! I was NOT expecting this to be nearly thirty thousand words. In the words of Sherlock with his origami tissues: it just sort of… *spreads hands* happened.

This is season one/two, which Sherlock having this wife who kind of pops in and out of canon. I mean, more happens than that, but anyway. Requested by an anon on tumblr! I do hope you enjoy it!

Meanwhile I’m currently going through a phase of listening to Gavin James songs on repeat, so that’s why they’re littered through this mini-novel of a fic…

(I have not proof-read this. Oh well.)

Title from Timeless!

Our secret moments in a crowded room

They got no idea about me and you

Inescapable

I'm not even gonna try

Everyone thinks that they know us

But they know nothing about

All of this silence and patience

Pining and anticipation

Flashback to my mistakes, my rebounds, my earthquakes

Even in my worst lies, you saw the truth in me

And I woke up just in time, now I wake up by your side

My one and only, my lifeline.

- Dress by Taylor Swift

There was a woman sleeping in Sherlock’s armchair.

John came to a halt, acutely aware of the damp towel flung over his shoulder and the fact that he was in a dressing-gown. Had he cleaned all the shaving cream off his face? Where was Sherlock? Who the hell was this woman?

She was fairly young, drowning in an enormous dark green sweater with a crumpled white symbol that John couldn’t make out. Sleeping lightly, knees curled up and pulled under her. Napping. There was a woman napping in Sherlock’s armchair. A client?

John shook his head, opened his mouth, and Sherlock whirled through the door, fully-dressed, holding something in his left hand.

“Uh, Sherlock, a client-”

“For God’s sake,” Sherlock said. John blinked, then realised he wasn’t even talking to him. Sherlock crossed the room and tapped the woman on the head like he was tapping a hollow box.

John blinked again.

“Wake up,” Sherlock said curtly. “Stop it. You’re boring when you’re asleep, stop it.”

“No,” the woman mumbled, not moving.

Sherlock pushed past John and went into the kitchen. “Oh good, you’re talking. First sign of consciousness. Stop being a vegetable, it’s irritating. Interact with me while you can.”

“You’re so needy,” the woman said, lifting her head and rubbing her eyes. She looked tired. John frowned at her, and then turned to Sherlock, who had opened his fist over the sink.

“Are they finger bones?”

Clatter clatter clatter.

“Yup.”

“How did you get finger bones?” John shook his head. “Sherlock, you can’t just dump bones in the sink-”

“Molly gave them to me.” Sherlock flicked a sideways glance at the woman. John turned his head back to her, feeling like the umpire at a bloody tennis match. She was standing.

“Don’t let them get down the drain, right?” she said.

“Course I won’t.”

“Because even the best sink-cleaning fluid can’t burn through bones and Mrs Hudson will hate you if you break the plumbing in this incredibly ancient house.”

“I know.”

John ran his hand over his mouth, found a bit of shaving cream in the corner and was annoyed enough to finally turn to the mystery visitoress. “Sorry, who are you? Are you a client?”

Her mouth ticked up at the corner. “Um-”

“Of course she’s not, John, do use some of your deductive prowess. Granted, you don’t have much, but do try a bit, can’t you? She knows of Mrs Hudson and has an easy familiarity with me. What would that suggest about her, asides from the obvious?”

Coming from Sherlock, before John had even had his breakfast tea, this was too much. Consulting detective and genius he might be, but that didn’t give him the right to be a condescending dickhead before eleven AM. John finally removed the towel from his shoulder and turned back again. “Look, mate-”

The words died in his throat as effectively as if Sherlock had begun breakdancing in a frilly pink tutu.

Because his flatmate - his pale, posh, lonely and heartless and supercilious flatmate - was holding up his left hand, slightly dusty from ancient finger-bones.

Around his ring finger was a gleaming gold band.

John gaped.

Sherlock sighed.

John gaped.

“Sherlock?”

John gaped.

“Don’t mind him. He’s just processing the information. It might take a while.”

John gaped.

“Do we need to get smelling salts? Or, like, poke him with a finger bone-?”

John gaped.

“You can get your appalling airport perfume and spray it in his face if you need to.”

John gaped.

“That’s not very nice, Sherlock.”

John gaped.

“You know me, Y/N. I’m naught but a heartless bastard.”

Sherlock’s sudden Yorkshire accent was enough to break John out of the strange reality he had found himself in where the bachelor Sherlock Holmes had a wedding ring.

He blinked a few times, closed his mouth, blinked once more for luck, and realised that Sherlock still had the ring.

There was a faint whiff of perfume and shampoo and old fabric as the woman edged past him and into the kitchen; flicked the kettle on, took a mug from the shelf.

“Where’s the-”

“Coffee,” Sherlock said, reaching past her, his hand brushing her hip as he pulled the jar of coffee from its elusive place behind a measuring beaker. “Here.”

“You’re married,” John finally said, as the kettle built into a steaming crescendo.

They both looked around at him and spoke in unison.

“Yep.”

*

How had Sherlock married such an…an…ordinary woman? John couldn’t understand it. He simply couldn’t. Y/N Y/L/N, as she introduced herself, made herself a coffee and gave John a tea. Sherlock said something about Mrs Hudson and went downstairs. His wife sat down in his armchair, curled up again with her knees under her, cradling the hot drink to her chest, fingers interlaced. John tried not to stare at the slender golden band and sparkling engagement ring on her left ring-finger.

“I guess you must have questions.”

“A few, yeah.”

“He really didn’t tell you anything about me? Like…anything?”

She didn’t sound offended. More, just amused.

“He said he was…” John shook his head. “No. He didn’t.”

Sherlock’s footsteps thundered up the stairs just before he burst back in. “I need a shower,” he announced.

She glanced up at him, her eyes sparkling. John leaned his head around the edge of the armchair to see Sherlock’s face. He wasn’t exactly smiling. But he was looking back at her.

John cleared his throat and studied his tea.

“Am I your secret paramour, Sherlock?”

Sherlock snorted. “What gave you that impression?”

She pointed. “Your flatmate nearly had a stroke because I exist.”

“Not because you exist. Just because you happen to exist in my life as a legal spouse,” Sherlock threw over his shoulder, heading down the hallway.

She laughed, looked back at John with the laughter lingering in her face. “Okay, fire away your questions while he’s unable to make snarky comments. Quick, go for it.”

Finally, he was given permission. John waited until the shower began spitting water into the bathtub and the pipes were creaking and gurgling, and then really went for it. Hit the hardest deepest most-impossible-to-answer question, right then, first question, just putting it out there and working backwards to the easier questions like logistics.

“How?”

She grinned. “You need to elaborate.”

John gave her a level stare over his mug. “No, I don’t. He’s Sherlock Holmes. You know what I mean.”

“Alright, yeah I do. Um, I don’t know what to tell you, I guess? We just…got married, and we’ve been married for…oh, feels like an eternity now.” She shrugged. “We’ve known each other since uni. I live abroad most of the time, because I travel so much, but I come back whenever I can. I’m literally only staying for a few hours. Flew in from Australia a day early and I’m flying to Germany this afternoon. That’s why…” She gestured sheepishly. “I got up, got as far as the armchair, and literally fell asleep again.”

“Sherlock Holmes, married,” John said, shaking his head.

“You can’t believe it, can you?”

He had to be honest.

“I am finding it pretty bloody impossible to comprehend right now.”

*

Sherlock’s POV

A Few Weeks Earlier

“You don’t have a girlfriend, then.”

“Girlfriend? No.” Sherlock considered it, staring out at the street. Dear God, how could anyone chew the inside of their mouth that much? What an appalling habit. “Not really my area.”

“Alright,” John said quietly.

Why was he saying that. Like that. What did he mean. This was another of those examples of the intricacies of human emotion, wasn’t it-

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

Oh. That was what he meant. Sherlock looked at him wearily.

“Which is fine by the way-”

“I know it’s fine,” Sherlock said impatiently. He already knew John Watson was not a screaming homophobic. How dull-witted of the doctor to not realise that Sherlock already knew that about him. Obviously.

John smiled awkwardly. “So you’ve got a boyfrie-”

“No.”

“Right. Okay.” John gave an awkward half-laugh. “Unattached.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Thought of a face more familiar than his own. Unattached? That was…wrong.

“Like me.”

He watched his new flatmate realise what he had said and clear his throat awkwardly, not looking up or chewing his mouth for all of five seconds. “Right…”

For God’s sake. He’d better tell him just in case. He couldn’t afford any sort of a mix-up, not with the one man in London that he actually wanted to share a residence with.

“John, um…”

John looked up.

“I think you should know-”

As if in slow motion, he suddenly saw the way in which John Watson would react. The questions, the intrigue, the surprise. The tediousness.

And all of that would simply distract from the interesting case at hand.

He changed tack at lightning speed, without even losing his flow, the way that she could skip over a misplayed guitar note.

“-that I consider myself married to my work and while I am flattered by-”

John’s eyes widened. “No. No, I’m not asking - No - I’m just saying-”

Sherlock stared at him, almost amused despite himself. He wished she was here. She would find a way to defuse the tension and make everyone laugh.

“It’s all fine,” John said firmly.

“...Good,” Sherlock said, and attempted to dismiss the entire conversation from his mind.

All fine. Surely that could count for being married, too. “Thank you.”

****

John’s POV

Now

He only saw it by accident; happened to walk into the lounge, shopping bag in hand, just in time to see Sherlock slide the golden band off his finger and into the skull on the mantel.

“What,” John said, stopping, “what are you doing?”

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, mildly surprised. “I’ve stopped being… ‘married’ now.”

“It doesn’t work like that!” If he didn’t have eggs in the shopping bag, John would’ve thrown his hands up to the ceiling. “You’re always married once you’re married! Unless you get divorced!”

“No, I mean, Y/N has just gone to the airport - should be getting on her flight right now, actually, since boarding was delayed by five minutes - so I am simply keeping the ring safe.”

Why was Sherlock looking at him like he was the mad one?

“I’m finding this hard to comprehend,” John said with a sigh.

“You’ve only lived with me for a few weeks. There’s still quite a lot to find out.”

“I realised, yeah.”

Sherlock followed John into the kitchen, watching him unpack the groceries. “Are you…offended?”

“Am I - No. No I’m not offended.” John glanced at Sherlock’s haughty, slightly equine expression, and sighed, turning and gesticulating with a jar of pasta sauce. “You just didn’t seem the type, that’s all. And it’s quite a long-distance relationship.”

“Yes. It is.”

John threw him a glance, shoving milk into the fridge. The finger-bones were no longer in the sink, which was somehow more alarming than if they had been. “How did you meet?”

“At university.”

“She said. Also studying chemistry?”

“No.” Sherlock was staring at the windows behind John, lips quirking up at the corners. “She wasn’t.”

****

Sherlock’s POV

A Long Time Ago

The old, derelict town hall was beige bricks and a grey facade, arched windows grimy with dust. It still had a certain poetic beauty, especially in the warm autumn sunset. Sherlock sat down on the rusty bench and got out the book; glanced around. Opposite the abandoned town hall was as good a place as any for the sale of drugs. God, he needed some now. That was why he was almost half an hour earlier than the agreed time. Just some desperation that nicotine couldn’t satisfy.

His foot tapped on the pavement as he looked around. Nobody but people going home and students going out on their trite little quests. He reached for his textbook impatiently. Might as well try and read while he waited. The sunshine should have been soothing. It wasn’t. It felt itchy. Or maybe his hair needed cutting.

He tried not to think about the look on his parents’ faces if they knew how he had spent the first four weeks of life at university.

The plucked notes of a guitar pulled him away from the first black-and-white sentence in the fourth chapter of the textbook. He looked up.

Sitting opposite, on the stone steps leading up to the bricked-up front doors to the abandoned building, was a girl, playing a guitar. Oversized hoody, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, squinting. Sunlight in her eyes. Busking for money. Hmm, interesting. Doesn’t have a microphone or any way of amplifying her voice to catch people’s attention. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, peering between the cars, seeing a glimpse of the guitar. Second-hand. Bought recently. A good player. More talent than practise-

“Hey, hey, hey-hey, hey-hey,” she started singing, and Sherlock let out an annoyed groan. Oh God. Not just playing the guitar for money, but singing too. Of course. How was he supposed to even study now? He’d have to do it tomorrow instead-

A bus rumbled by, drowning her out for a second before she appeared again, tilting her head slightly, her knee jigging up and down.

“I knew when we collided, you’re the one I have decided who’s one of my kind-”

A student, too. Probably lived with other girls. He hadn’t seen her at campus. To be fair, he had been occupied. And she was not extremely remarkable. He couldn’t tell what colour her eyes were, they were too narrowed against the sharp golden sunlight.

“Just in time, I’m so glad you have a one-track mind like me, you gave my life direction…” An old man had stopped and placed some coins on the step beside her, and she strummed the guitar harder and gave him a bright grin of thanks. “A game show love connection, we can’t den-en-en-y…I’m so obsessed-”

More people were gathering now. Sherlock closed the book over his thumb and watched, curious despite himself. He had rarely seen buskers in this town before. Certainly not another student.

“The way you can cut a rug, watching you is the only drug I need, so gangsta, I’m so thug, you’re the only one I’m dreaming of…” She did a little shoulder-dance, the guitar notes changing pitch slightly. Sherlock pulled an involuntary face. Other people’s happiness often caused him to gag; it was a strange phenomenon that science had yet to explain.

“You see, I can be myself now finally, in fact, there’s nothing I can’t be - I want the world to see you’ll be with me.”

At that moment the girl lifted her head. A strand of hair had fallen loose into her face, and she looked directly across the road and noticed Sherlock staring at her.

He expected revulsion, or arrogance, or perhaps nothing.

He did not expect the smile.

She smiled, warm and secret like they were both supposed to be there, and kept singing. Her teeth glinted in the light, and he heard the higher note of her voice between the noise of two cars.

“Hey, soul sister, ain’t that Mr Mister on the radio, stereo - the way you move ain’t fair, you know…hey, soul sister, I don’t wanna miss a single thing you do tonight, hey, soul sister…”

When she finally finished the song, with a flourish, the three people who had stopped to hear it to its conclusion clapped.

Sherlock flipped open his book viciously. Still another twenty-four minutes.

Silence. Not silence, but not a guitar, not a voice. He glanced up. She was unscrewing a bottle of water; drinking.

Putting it away. He watched through his eyelashes as she did something to the guitar. Began strumming again, a very different tune.

“We were both young when I first saw you, I close my eyes and the flashback starts, I’m standing there…”

There was no point. No. Point. He would almost have gnashed his teeth together if they weren’t still sore from the last time he had done that - Sebastian had been particularly infuriating at lunch today. Slow-witted dullards.

“See you make your way through the crowd and say ‘hello’, little did I know…”

He slammed the book shut viciously, with a thud of too-thin pages and heavy hardcovers. No studying could be done with that pointless noise across the road. The traffic was thinning out and there was less of a barrier between him and the annoyance. And he couldn’t leave, either.

“Romeo take me somewhere we can be alone, I’ll be waiting, all there’s left to do is run…You’ll be the prince, I’ll be the princess, it’s a love story, baby, just say yes.”

People were gathering now. Paying more attention to her. He had to admit, she was fairly good at it. And fairly good at disturbing his entire evening. And his study-schedule-

“Romeo, save me, they’re trying to tell me how to feel, this love is difficult, but it’s real…Don’t be afraid, we’ll make it out of this mess, it’s a love story, baby, just say yes-”

Right. He’d had enough. She could do her busking somewhere else.

He stood up. Waited for a gap in the traffic so he could cross, slipping in front of a double-decker bus with the ease of someone who was more accustomed to London than his parents were aware of. Walked over, pushing past two middle-aged ladies that had stopped to listen.

She was angled slightly away, head bumping side-to-side in time with the music.

“I got tired of waiting, wondering if you were ever coming around…My faith in you was fading, when I met you on the outskirts of town, and I said-”

His shadow fell over her, and she glanced up.

“Romeo save me, I’ve been feeling so alone, I keep waiting for you but you never come…Is this in my head? I don’t know what to think-”

He opened his mouth, about to be belligerent. Tell her to find somewhere else. He had the deductions ready that would convince her, just harsh enough to make her want to leave his proximity, but not quite cruel enough to diminish her - fairly accurate - opinion and self-value of her own performance.

She smiled again.

And Sherlock Holmes did something he didn’t remember doing.

He faltered.

She didn’t expect him to hurt her. Basic naive human stupidity; they were all mostly like that. She had no reason that the words were on the tip of his tongue, the words to tear apart her evening and reduce her to sobs. He knew how to do it.

But she had no idea. In her eyes - those eyes filled with sunlight and mirth like they had an in-joke he didn’t yet know - he was a far better human than he actually was.

“He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring and said-” A furious flurry of strumming, a note of sudden warmth in her voice and smiles from the onlookers who knew the song; ‘Marry me Juliet, you’ll never have to be alone, I love you and that’s all I really know - I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress, it’s a love story baby, just say yes.”

Sherlock sat down on the step next to her, a good metre away, and waited for her to finish.

“You’re not bad.”

Amidst the praise from others, she still heard him. Flashed him a smile, stretching her arms out briefly. “Sorry.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Sorry?”

“I think I’m disturbing you.”

He stared at her and couldn’t think of a reply to that.

“You looked like you were trying to study,” she elaborated, pointing at his textbook. “And then I came along with my guitar and my fondness for loud songs…”

He huffed with reluctant amusement. “It’s alright. I’m just…waiting for someone.”

 “Okay.” She began strumming again. “You sticking here now like my busker’s arm candy?”

He couldn’t repress the surprised snort. She smiled to herself, bending forward over the guitar.

“I can hear better on this side.”

Her lips curved up again. “I’m Y/N,” she said.

“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

“This one’s sad.” She was still plucking lightly. “It should be played with a piano, but I’m not that melodramatic, to drag a grand piano out here outside a derelict building…”

He didn’t say anything. She adjusted her position, looked out at the busy high street, and began again.

“If you’re looking for the big adventure and gold is all that’s on your mind, if all you want’s someone to take your picture…” She strummed softly. “Then I won’t waste your time…See, maybe I’m too quiet for ya, you probably never noticed me…”

Sherlock watched her hands on the guitar. Not manicured. No rings. She had a small scar running across the back of her right hand.

“But if you’re too big to follow rivers, how you ever gonna find the sea? So follow me, I’ll be your river, river; I’ll do the running for ya-”

Interesting. The soft timbre of both voice and guitar had attracted more people’s attention, faster, than the flashier style of the first two songs.

“If all you want are answers to your questions and you can’t seem to find the love for free; if you’re looking for the right direction then…darling, look for me…See, I can make the load much lighter, I just need you to confide in me…”

Someone put down a five-pound note. It fluttered, like it might blow off in the wind. Without thinking, Sherlock picked up a pound coin and pinned the note down with it.

“Wherever you’re standing, I will be by your side, through the good, through the bad, I’ll never be hard to find…”

The sun was slipping down now, behind the wall of houses and shops that lined the street. There was a peculiar kind of beauty to this town, Sherlock admitted. An ancientness about it, that suffused even the Turkish barbers to his right.

She stopped the song, smiled bashfully at the praise, rolled her sleeves up more firmly. Looked at Sherlock.

“Do you play the guitar?”

“No.” He cleared his throat. “Violin.”

Her lips twitched. “Oh, you’re the real talent. Unless you’re snooty.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

“Or both,” she added with a grin. “I can’t tell yet.”

He looked down at himself. A sweatshirt; joggers, beaten-up trainers. Not the sort of clothes he wore on campus usually. He hadn’t felt like making an effort lately.

“What are you studying?” she asked.

“Why are you not singing another song.”

“Well, I’m trying to make conversation.”

“Why.” His voice was flat.

She blinked at him. “It’s…called…being friendly? Y’know, civil and stuff?”

“Oh. Boring.”

“You’re quite a grumpy guy, aren’t you? Are you doing Philosophy? I think you’d probably be more cheery if you were doing Theosophy.”

Despite himself, he couldn’t help a reluctant, amused grunt. “No.”

“Hmm. Maths? Wizard with numbers?”

“No.”

“Wizardry, full-stop?”

He gave her a look.

“Okay, fine. Uh. Um.” She crinkled her nose, idly strumming a few notes as she thought. “…Economics?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Oh, got it.” She slapped her hand against the guitar, causing a discordant jangle. “Mad scientist.”

“What makes you assume that?”

“Your hair,” she said instantly.

“My hair.” He touched his head. Curly, slightly unbrushed, too long, but-

“You look like a troubled mad genius scientist. So? Am I right?”

“...Chemistry,” he admitted.

She grinned and threw up her hands triumphantly. “I knew it!”

“You did not,” he felt compelled to remind her. “You thought philosophy.”

“I was, like, ten-guesses-lucky! Don’t spoil my moment here, Mr Mad Hatter Guy.”

I’m not, he thought. In another universe, she was going home, crying - whether openly or internally, and he was sitting across the road with his textbook and savage glee and that itching impatience-

That impatience.

He blinked, noting its absence.

In this universe, however, he was sitting on the step next to an unknown busker and making conversation with her.

“Your posture is terrible,” he told her.

She stuck her tongue out at him; started playing again in earnest. “Right, it’s time to sing a song called The Scientist.”

He sighed and turned his face away.

“Come up to meet ya, tell you I’m sorry…You don’t know how lovely you are, I had to find you, tell ya I need you, tell you I set you apart-”

People were looking at her again. And, Sherlock noticed, at him, at the boy - no, man, he reminded himself - sitting with her, as though they were supposed to be keeping each other company.

“I was just guessing at numbers and figures - pulling the puzzles apart, questions of science, science and progress do not speak as loud as my heart…but tell me you love me, come back and haunt me, oh and I rush to the start, running in circles, chasing our tails, coming back as we are…” Her voice softened, went high.

“Nobody said it was easy, oh it’s such a shame for us to part, nobody said it was easy, no one ever said it would be so hard…”

****

Sherlock’s POV

Now

“I’m going to be brutally honest, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked, looked around at the drab brownness of 221b Baker Street. No longer sitting on the cold step in an October sunset, next to the girl he had just met.

He glanced over at John. “Go ahead.”

“I’m amazed anyone puts up with you enough to marry you.”

In a different universe, Sherlock had dissected her to pieces and there was not, right now, a ring in the skull on his mantel. He didn’t like that universe. It was a lonely place. He had never heard the end of Love Story; never heard River or The Scientist. He would never even remember Soul Sister because the event would have been so insignificant.

“Yes, well,” he shrugged, slightly discomfited at the idea he had just conjured up. A life without knowing the woman on the plane flying to Germany at this very minute.

John didn’t seem satisfied, gesturing to the fridge behind him, then to the kitchen table. “I mean - you know - With that - and-”

“She doesn’t need me to be perfect,” Sherlock said simply. “And nor do I need her to be.”

John blinked tentatively. “Oh, right. Because you’re both perfect to each other?”

Sherlock stared at him. What sort of a soppy drivel was-

“No,” he said impatiently. “Because we’re both bloody annoying. And that’s fine.”

****

Reader’s POV

You walked into the lounge just in time to see a person dressed like a…like the mummified corpse of a priest?…possibly? - but you were too unawake to tell - anyway, you walked into the room just in time to watch Sherlock punch them and knock them out cold into his armchair.

He straightened his jacket, turned to you with the hint of a smile, breathing heavily. “Morning. Your hair looks nice.”

It didn’t. You rolled out of the bed exactly seventeen and a half seconds ago, when you heard shouting and thuds and what sounded like someone trying to hammer a pineapple through the floor. The reality of what was happening here was actually somehow worse.

“What the fuck going on?”

Sherlock strolled into the kitchen. You ducked back through the door and in the side door, meeting him as he grabbed his phone from the counter. “I’d better phone Lestrade.”

“Who - who is that?” You stared warily at the unconscious person in Sherlock’s armchair. “And like, shouldn’t you tie his hands or som- mppfhh-” You’re cut off by the most enormous, undignified yawn.

“Oh, he’s out cold.” Sherlock glanced at you, and his eyes softened a little bit, in a way that you recognised just before he put his hand on your face and pressed a kiss to your mouth.

You pulled back in the same movement that he wrapped his arms loosely around your waist. “Are you bleeding?”

“Am I?” He blinked, probing the inside of his mouth with his tongue. He pulled a face.

“Have you lost a tooth?”

“No. Just a cut gum. Didn’t even notice.”

“You were too busy headbutting some random guy.” You peered over his shoulder. “Just how hard do you punch if he’s still out cold?”

“One of my talents.” Sherlock tried to go in for another kiss. You dodged it, bumping your nose against his instead. “Where’s John?”

“Out on a ‘grocery run’.” Sherlock flicked his fingers against your waist in quote-marks. “Should be back in about, oh, maybe fifteen or sixteen minutes. Plenty of time for Lestrade to come and pick up our delightful visitor.”

“Were…they a client?”

“Of a sorts.”

“And does John know about my arrival this time? Did I…” You narrowed your eyes, trying to fight off another yawn. “Did I even meet him last night?”

You didn’t remember much of the night before. Your muscles were still heavy, sluggish, like someone tried to batter you into a circular pizza dough with a rolling-pin and failed badly. You remembered leaving Arrivals of Gatwick Airport; finding the black taxi with the same number that Sherlock had texted you; sliding into the back, too exhausted to do anything apart from shutting the door properly. You remembered Sherlock’s cologne and the brush of his scarf as he leaned past you to pull your seatbelt on. You remembered his curt voice telling the cabbie where to go. You think you mumbled ‘hi’, but you can’t - drum-roll, please - remember.

You do remember his arms opening as the car pulled away from the curb; the orange lights slipping through the windows, the blurring lights on the dashboard, and the way you curled into him, his gloved fingers cupping your shoulder. You think you said something then, but the words are lost to you now. You only have a vague impression of murmuring against woollen coat collar just before you fell asleep, finally safe, because you’re home.

He’d jogged you awake, and got you across the pavement and through the front door and up the stairs into 221b somehow. You remembered falling into his bed and you kept falling all the way back into a deep sleep, waking up briefly when his arm wrapped around your waist, before you fell back asleep.

Until you woke up now. Sherlock had clearly been busy this morning already.

“I need a shower to wake up,” you decided, stepping backwards. Sherlock stepped with you, keeping his fingers interlaced on the small of your back. “You need to get rid of this guy because I’m not eating breakfast with him in that armchair.”

Sherlock let out a little laugh and pressed a quick kiss against the corner of your mouth before he let you go. “Alright. I’d rather John doesn’t know about this one. Too much hassle to explain, so tedious. Off you go.”

*

You heard a knock; a voice; words. More words. And then the bathroom door opened, bringing a waft of cold air in exchange for a plume of steam escaping. You blinked blearily and yourself came into focus; your own face in the steamed mirror, Sherlock’s face hovering behind you. Your hair was dripping wet onto your bare feet and you’re simply standing there, hairbrush held limply in your right hand, wrapped in the most polka-dotted towel you’ve ever seen.

“I think I just fell asleep standing up,” you said with a groan.

“Looks like it.”

“Oh God. I’m a horse.”

Sherlock snorted, his hand ghosting over your arm as he moved closer, standing behind you. He was wearing his coat and scarf. “Go back to bed.”

“That seems kind of harsh, since I just-”

“I won’t be in, anyway. Going to the bank with John.”

You blinked, twisting your head. “The bank?”

“Yup. Visiting an old friend of yours!” Sherlock’s voice lilted sarcastically.

“I don’t have friends,” you mumbled, leaning back against him. He was like a vertical pillow. You might just-

“Don’t fall asleep again,” he said sharply, jostling you. “Not in the bathroom, for God’s sake, you’re not Elvis.”

A huge laugh escaped through your sinuses. “Holy shit, Sherlock-”

“What? I do listen when you tell me things. And this man certainly thought he was your friend.”

“Man? Uh-oh.” You turned around and wrapped your arms around him, burrowing your head against his chest. He let out a displeased noise, probably because your wet hair was dripping on his shirt.

“Yes. Sebastian Wilkes.”

“Oh God,” you said again. “Seriously? Him.”

“Yes. Needs my help with something, apparently.”

“I’m going back to bed,” you decided unanimously, and stood back, dumping your hairbrush on the edge of the sink.

“Got any messages to pass on?”

You held up your middle finger as you walked through the door and grinned to yourself as he snorted.

Next chapter

[thedogbard]

Been Waiting For You Ever Since (You've Been Gone) [chapter one]

How is it even possible? Only this morning you’d kissed him, holding onto the lapels of his coat for balance while his hand tangled through your hair. Then you’d sent him out into the world with a final kiss pressed to his cheek, thinking you’d passed through the storm successfully. Stupid you. The East Wind might’ve passed, but there’s three other directions and a multitude of evils out there, and Sherlock’s really, really good at finding those damn evils. He attracts them.

You get it, kind of. After all, he is attractive.

*

Eight months after The Final Problem, Sherlock gets amnesia when he’s injured on a mysterious case. Unfortunately, he doesn’t remember what the case is. Or that he has a girlfriend. And why the hell is John carting a baby around on his hip?

Also on a03.

Chapter One: Leave You Hanging Every Single Day

So! I wrote a whole fic about if the reader got amnesia, called Find The Missing Piece, and it’s one of my favourite Sherlock fics. But thanks to @catastrophiccblues ’s request, it’s time to write the opposite!

I don’t know how many chapters this will be yet - I mean, it’s already two chapters and it was only meant to be one. Maybe four? Five? We’ll see. I should post at least ONE chapter next week, if not two. Again, we’ll see.

If This Was A Movie is the main song for the fic, mainly because it’s such a compelling, urgent song. But I’ve got a LOT of songs and so I decided coney island fitted this chapter the most. Anyway…

Let me know if you like it!

But you’re right here

If I can’t relate to you anymore

Then who am I related to?

And if this is the long haul

How’d we get here so soon?

Wondering where did my baby go?

The fast times, the bright lights, the merry go

And when I got into the accident

The sight that flashed before me was your face

Lost again with no surprises

Disappointments, close your eyes

But I think I forgot to say your name

Over and over

- coney island by Taylor Swift and The National

There’s something about rituals, the importance of tiny movements and the order in which we do them. Tying shoelaces, one after the other. Zipping up a jumper, then straightening the collar. Putting a book down, placing a bookmark between the pages. Snipping tape with scissors. Laying cutlery on a plate, two clinks, knife then fork.

So when your phone rings, you reach for the kettle first. It’s building into a furious crescendo, steam and hisses and bubbling, and so you let the phone ring, vibrating on the counter, while your finger reaches over and flicks the switch lightly before picking the phone up. It isn’t a number you recognised. Which isn’t uncommon, so you still press ANSWER.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is that Y/N Y/L/N speaking?” Beeps of machinery, people’s voices, rattling. You recognise-

“Yeah, that’s me, hi-” -it, it’s a hospital, hospital background noises-

“You’re listed as the emergency contact for Sherlock Holmes?”

And that was the moment you realise you shouldn’t have wasted a second flicking the kettle off. Some part of you was already stumbling across the flat, pulling on your shoes and grabbing your coat and lurching down the stairs like a drunken, desperate woman.

But the rest of you stands stock-still, in the same spot, twisted sock against the tile, staring while burning ice-cubes ran up and down your body, inside each and every of your veins.

They were still talking.

“He’s just been brought in to St Bart’s Hospital. Head trauma, multiple lacerations of the skin, possibly a fractured lung - he’s going in for an X-ray right now.”

“Is he conscious?” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own.

The man - young, British, Indian parents, went into this career to help children specifically, you hear in Sherlock’s voice - hesitates. Desperate to give you an answer you want to hear, but he can’t. “Not currently.”

You finally move, hand pressing the phone against your ear, heading for your abandoned boots by the sofa. “Is anyone with him? What happened?” Why didn’t you tell me it’d be dangerous, where’s John, why why why-

“No, he’s alone currently. Ah…I’m not too sure on the details. An ambulance brought him in from near Croydon.”

Croydon. You’d laugh incredulously if you weren’t so panicked. “Right, I’m, I’m on my way. Thank you for calling me.”

“No problem, ma’am.”

When the call ends and a faint buzzing replaces it, you realise how entirely alone you are.

****

You got to Barts somehow; found the ward Sherlock was on, somehow. It was all a blur of white corridors and nurses in drab blue scrubs and the overwhelming sensation that there was no time left, there was a countdown and you couldn’t see the numbers but time was moving too fast and any second now, a buzzer would echo through the building and through your ears; tell you, “Time’s up,” and you would watch in real-time, watch with intense focus and be unable to look away, as the entire world and your whole life burned down around you and left you with nothing but grey ashes slipping through your fingers.

You see John first, standing outside a door with a face more grey-and-yellow than the walls behind him.

“John - is he-” When did your voice get so broken?

“Alive, he’s just…sleeping.” John sounds more shaken than you do.

“Were you with him?”

“No! Didn’t even know he had a bloody case!” He takes a deep breath, lifts his hands and looks at them with a mild, detached surprise. They were trembling. “Any idea what he was up to?”

You shake your head. “None. I-” And then you swallow, one two three, keep the tears back, no one needs them right now.

“I’m his second emergency contact apparently,” John rambles on. “So I got called. And then…Yeah. Just got here. He’s got some kind of head injury - they were worried it was a fractured skull.”

“I heard about a fractured rib?”

“Yeah - no, he hasn’t - just - God, Y/N, he’s…” John curls his hands into fists. “Beat up as shit. Bruised, bloodied, I have no idea how he doesn’t have broken bones-”

You look again at the door he’s unconsciously guarding. You need to see him and yet you’re terrified, and you’ve never done well in hospitals - every time you’ve been in one recently, it’s been to see Sherlock, except for the time eight months ago when you woke up between the clinical white sheets of a hospital bed and fuck when did the walls get so close together?

John checks his watch and curses. “I need to pick up Rosie. I’m going to be late.” He looks at you. “Y/N? Hey, you with me?”

You nod once, stiffly, jaw locked in place, and then again rapidly. “Yes, yeah, fine - You go get Rosie, I’ll stay with him-”

“Alright.” John makes up his mind and turns away. “Call me, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He turns away again, and then changes his mind and hugs you. The feel of someone’s arms and warmth and the sharp tang of his cologne suddenly make you real again, real enough to watch his hurried walk away down the corridor.

Then you turn and push the door open.

****

He’s lying in the bed, just like all those times before. A huge rush of warmth, relief and love and every messy feeling, swells up inside you and it’s the final push over the precipice that finally makes the tears start running aimlessly down your face.

Thank God he’s here. Thank God.

Whatever he’d been through, whatever had happened, was finished now. He was here. You were with him. And he was safe. You’d make sure of it.

You look at him for a moment. The cover is pulled up high, and his hands are outside the duvet, arranged in an orderly manner, like a mannequin. A handsome, bruised mannequin. You sniff, wiping away your tears with your wrist absently. There’s a huge bruise blossoming on his left cheek, spreading down to his jaw. You’re surprised his lip hasn’t swollen too. There’s little grazes and cuts peppered over his knuckles and the backs of his hands.

How is it even possible? Only this morning you’d kissed him, holding onto the lapels of his coat for balance while his hand tangled through your hair. Then you’d sent him out into the world with a final kiss pressed to his cheek, thinking you’d passed through the storm successfully. Stupid you. The East Wind might’ve passed, but there’s three other directions and a multitude of evils out there, and Sherlock’s really, really good at finding those damn evils. He attracts them.

You get it, kind of. After all, he is attractive.

Your lips twitch a tiny bit at that. You reach for the chair tucked into the corner and lift it until it’s by his bedside. Your backside recognises the strangely-yielding, unforgivingly-hard plastic seat. Well, it wasn’t the first time you’d been in a situation like this.

You put your hand on the duvet next to his and press down until the mattress sinks enough for you to wriggle your hand under his. His palm is warm, fingers limp and unresponsive. You hope there aren’t cuts and stings on the inside of his hand.

You wait, and breathe, and listen. Periodically, nurses come in, checking his chart and his vitals. They all give you an acknowledging nod or smile. Eventually you stop noticing them, or the strong scent of cleaning fluid and depression, or the controlled urgency outside.

It’s been eight months since That Day. The day you’ll always mark as an anniversary, the day you thought you wouldn’t survive. The day Sherlock discovered the truth about his life and the day Baker Street was destroyed. The Day Things Changed.

Your relationship has lasted eighteen months now. Long enough for it to no longer feel like a continual surprise. It’s only sometimes, when Sherlock hands you the breakfast cereal, that you feel a static shock of wait, really, this is real? Now, it feels commonplace to find kidneys (not beans, but beings) in the fridge, and normal to have drama exploding all over the lounge room like bubbles blown by an over-enthusiastic toddler.

Love is such a strange thing. Sometimes it’s just the cracks of light between the curtains illuminating a peaceful silhouette, or sometimes it’s a song through bass speakers and a pair of eyes meeting. A touch of hands in a Scotland Yard office surrounded by the funereal bleakness of another unstoppable death. Splashes of water and murmurs, yes, please, come here, you’re everything, damp palms on warm skin. A clink of a mug and the quiet words exchanged over a breakfast table and a makeshift lab.

Sometimes love is only definable by that feeling, when you look at someone and realise you can’t let them go, can’t imagine ever seeing them leave. And you feel that now, looking at a still, unresponsive Sherlock. You can’t imagine your life without him now.

You let your head fall back with a trembling, weary sigh. Oh, God. You’re going to have to have a talk with him. About exercising caution and being more careful. Because if you ever lost him, the way the three of you lost Mary Watson…

You stare at his pale face, mapping the terrain, every feature and quirk and the lines of his eyelashes, like you don’t already know every inch off by heart.

In eight months, a lot of things can change. Molly and Greg announced their relationship five weeks ago. The smiles on both their faces softened even Sherlock’s Grinchy heart. Baker Street has been repaired and restored and now you can walk through it without something immense tugging at your heartstrings - another bereavement, of a sorts. And that simile, it takes a village to raise a child, is proving very true for little Rosie Watson.

John is a great dad. You’d told Mary he would be. And now you wish you could see her and tell her again, say, I told you so.

Look at where we’re at, Mary. Sherlock’s been injured again. You said we’d be okay but we’re not. You told me to always keep my chin up and never look down when I was with Sherlock, keep flying even when it feels like we’re falling, but I don’t know what we’re doing anymore. He still has nightmares every few days. I can’t help him or heal him and you know I would if I could. I’d do anything.

Just like you would. And did.

Sherlock’s hand twitches over yours.

You snap to attention like a magnet snapping to a fridge. His eyelids flutter, and then his jaw works a few times. The gaining of consciousness is slow, and heavy. You look around. There’s not a nurse in the room right now, but you don’t want to leave him to alert one. So you wait.

Eventually his eyes open. There’s a few failed attempts before you finally see the full rich, icy blue of both eyes.

Another wave of warm, messy relief cascades through you, turning your limbs to jelly. He looks around the room, gathering his bearings, before his gaze suddenly shoots to you. His eyes widen.

“Hey,” you say, blinking back tears. Your smile is wobbly. “Hey. Welcome back to the world of the living.”

He stares at you.

Brain trauma, the doctor’s voice echoes through your head in an evil-cartoon-character little whisper.

“Sherlo-?”

He pulls his hand abruptly away from yours, nose wrinkling, the bruised skin of his cheek rippling. There’s nothing but coldness in those eyes.

You hesitate, feeling a fear you haven’t felt since the early days of your relationship. “Sherlock?”

He looks around the room again before narrowing his eyes at you. “Who are you?”

You stare.

He carries on.

“Journalist? Investigator? One of my big brother’s agents? Unlikely to be an assassin but I never rule that possibility out. Something else? Journalist is most likely. How did you get in, hmm? Lied and fibbed. Pretended to be my girlfriend, clearly, judging by the way you felt the need to have some sort of physical contact with me to fool the nurses. What next? Expecting me to be wearing the hat? Or are you hoping to get some sort of a-” He stops, hacking out a painful cough. Your mouth is hanging limply open. “-intriguing article on the front page about-”

Nurses flood the room.

You stare at him, the same words washing through your head again and again as they check his heartrate and ask him questions and peer into his eyes, those beautiful crystalline eyes that you can’t look away from.

Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?

You swallow. A strange calmness is in your blood now, like you’re entirely separated from all of this.

“Do you…” Too hoarse. Try again. “Do you really not remember me? At all? You - think we’ve…n-never met?”

Three of the four nurses stop everything to look between you.

Sherlock stares right back at you. Curly hair and pale skin and imperially-parted lips, everything, and you just - can’t - because the answer is right there, in his eyes, in the hand he pulled away. No need for doctors’ confirmations or (head trauma head trauma head trauma amnesia) double-checking or a verbal answer.

He says it anyway. He doesn’t know how to not hurt you.

“No.”

Plastic scrapes against the blurring, swimming floor.

You flee.

****

John finds you weeping in the little waiting-room. Sitting on a chair had proved too much effort. Your back is against the wall, knees pulled up, and you’re crying like the world has ended. Which, for you, it has.

Rosie, balanced on his hip, gurgles and then makes a sad noise.

“Y/N? Jesus, what’s happened? Is Sherlock-”

“A-am-nesia,” you gurgle, lifting your head. Fucking hell, everything hurts. Eyes swollen and nose stuffed and your throat is sore.

John, hunkered beside you, delves into a pocket and pulls out a wad of tissues. The doctor-turned-blogger-turned-dad learnt this lesson the hard way. “Here. What is it? Amnesia?”

“He doesn’t know who I - who I - am.” You take a deep breath. It stutters and gives out midway.

Rosie tries to pat your head. You blow your nose, one nostril at a time, wincing at the horrible sounds.

“I ran.”

How fucking selfish of you, anyway. To run like you were the only person involved.

“But he’s awake?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck,” John says. Then he gives Rosie a side-glance. “You didn’t hear that, young lady.”

She gives him a toothy grin. You laugh shakily and stand up. “I don’t know w-what he remembers. I-”

“Hey,” John says. He looks suddenly ancient, exhausted. “Let’s go find out. It’s probably just temporary. Maybe he was just groggy, he might remember you now.” You hold the door for him. “Oh Christ,” he adds, his trainers squeaking on the hospital flooring as you return to that dreadful little room. “I’m not looking forward to explaining to Sherlock who I am.”

“His best friend.”

“’I don’t have friends’,” he mimics, rolling his eyes.

Be brave, be strong, don’t scream.

The door is ajar and you step in. There’s a doctor by Sherlock’s bedside and a nurse by the charts. All three look up. John follows you in.

Sherlock brightens. Immediately. “Ah, John, I…”

He trails off.

You remember him? you scream internally. Him but not me?

“Who’s child is that?” Sherlock asks, pointing at Rosie with an imperial finger of disdain.

John hesitates awkwardly. Sherlock looks between the two of you, drawing conclusions so obviously they might as well have been verbal.

“No, mate, we’re not…” John takes a sidestep away from you, like he’s trying to emphasise it. “We’re not together. Actually, you’re-”

You step on his foot. Hard. No way are you going to watch Sherlock’s unfiltered disgust when he realises you’re his girlfriend. No. Just, no. You’ll never recover from a blow like that, ever.

John winces and nearly topples over. Sherlock’s eyes dart to you, clearly realising what you’d just done. You stare back at him like a terrified fox caught in the full-beam headlights of an articulated lorry.

“So what are you?” he asks, hurling the words at you.

The doctor tries to intervene. The nurse decides to leave.

You can’t bring yourself to tell him. “We’re flatmates.”

He stares at you. “No-o-o,” he drawls rudely. “John lives-”

“In a shitty little basement flat, actually,” John cuts in. “What’s the last thing you remember, mate?”

The doctor tries to intervene again, but he might as well be a ‘keep calm and carry on’ poster in the corner for all the attention you three pay him.

Sherlock tilts his head, considering it. “You gave me Irene Adler’s phone and pretended she was living in America.”

“Oh,” John says weakly. Sherlock’s eyes flit to you, waiting for a reaction, before immediately jumping back to John.

You can’t say anything. Irene. Irene Adler, The Woman, the woman who bested Sherlock, and the last thing he remembers is something about her? The woman he rescued from a beheading, who flirted with him for years, even throughout your relationship with him?

Something cold is coiling through you, cutting off vital supplies, making parts of your soul wither and die in a merciless emptiness.

“Right, so you remember that she, uh, died…?” John asks.

“No, she didn’t die. I saved her.” Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Amnesia? What happened? My body is significantly changed. How many years has it been? And…John…”

“Yeah?”

“Is that child really yours?”

At that moment, the distraction of the monitors proves futile. Rosie turns and looks at him, her little spidey-senses suddenly telling her that she’s the subject of conversation. She gives him her fanged grin and points.

“Sherlick!”

John suppresses a grimace. Sherlock looks openly aghast.

And you, you’re furniture. Irrelevant as the doctor. In this equation, you don’t exist. You’ve been minused as neatly as if you’d never even counted.

****

You don’t really remember clearing everything out of your - Sherlock’s - bedroom at 221b. Making sure everything is orderly and flatmate-like. You shift stuff upstairs, tears running down your cheeks. They say it’ll be temporary, and yet doctors can be wrong, and you have a panic attack in the bathroom when you put your toothbrush in a different area from Sherlock’s.

Because he doesn’t remember you. Doesn’t remember anything after the night John gave him Irene fucking Adler’s phone. It’s news to him that he’s thirty-four. He doesn’t remember Mary Watson, or his sister, or the two years he spent dead, or you.

You lost him.

And he doesn’t care. You’re some random speck in his life that appeared at a point he can’t remember yet, in a past that is still his future. So if he hurts your feelings, what shit does he give? None.

And he cannot cannot cannot know that you are - were? - are? or is it were, now? Does it exist in the past? - his girlfriend.

So you clear everything out and stand in the upstairs bedroom that used to be John’s, looking around, before your knees give way and you burst into tears for the umpteenth fucking time.

****

You bring him home the day after. John’s at work. Sherlock puts up with you the way he’d put up with a chauffeur or a stupid police detective at Scotland Yard. He treated Anderson with more courtesy than he’s treating you, now.

You watch him pull on his coat, flip the collar up, tighten his scarf. Such familiar movements. Your body aches with the want to go to him, touch him, hold him.

Sherlock doesn’t seem to care that you’re staring. He brushes past you and strides out of the hospital room, down the corridor, only nodding curtly to the hospital staff he recognises.

You didn’t know him when he was like this. John’s told you the stories, about how emotionally constipated he used to be. But this is…on a different level. Sherlock was bad enough as you knew him. This is calculated disinterest in all of humanity and its trifling little idiocies.

You walk in silence, a few steps behind him, arms wrapped around yourself. Into the black cab. He gives the address. You sit far apart. He doesn’t reach for your hand, because why would he? He stares out the window, chin jutting over his coat collar, unreachable.

He doesn’t even like you.

The tears don’t come. Maybe you used them all up yesterday.

Up the stairs. Mrs Hudson said she’d give you space; bring up tea in the evening. You’re thankful for it; Sherlock doesn’t seem fazed about where she is. He strides up the steps - and then stops short in the open doorway.

You hesitate behind him, peering past, trying to see what’s wrong. The room’s empty.

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything’s different. What happened? What’s wrong?” Sherlock takes a single step into the room, hands twitching, and continues his panicky ramble. “Why is everything different? What’s different? I can’t - It’s all-”

You edge past him. Coat-sleeves rustle together and your heart skips a goddamn beat. He smells of antiseptic and hospital toast, but his coat still smells of him - ancient tobacco, takeaway chips with too much salt, his aftershave, something soft and gentle like milky earl grey tea.

“Yeah, it was bombed a few months ago. And it took a long time to restore.” You pull your coat off and throw it over the sofa arm. “Um…do you want tea?”

Sherlock takes an unsteady step further into the room, like he expects the floor to sway and give underneath him. “It’s an almost perfect replica, but-”

“But you notice? I know. I do too.”

He looks at you sharply. “Yes.”

You start to offer a tentative smile, and then-

“To the tea.”

You nod wearily, the smile dying. He strides past to his armchair, dumping his own coat over the back. “Sure.”

His eyes track you, every movement, as you walk to the kitchen. Fill the kettle with gushing water; switch it on. Two mugs. Only one teabag - you changed your mind. Actually, no, you’d better have one. You’re too hot and not at all thirsty but you need something to occupy yourself with. You reach for a second bag.

You bring the finished drinks back over. He’s very careful to make sure your fingers don’t brush, like you’re contagious. You sit down in John’s - your - armchair. He notes you do it.

“So…” You take a deep breath. The doctors had briefed both you and John on everything to do. Don’t tell him too much, don’t let him fret or worry over memories. They’ll resurface at random moments or maybe in dreams. It should be temporary. No lasting damage. Rest and relaxation. Sharing little anecdotes is fine, it might jog the memory. Just don’t overdo it.

“Would you like to know anything?” you offer, with a lot of trepidation. After all, Sherlock’s life has hardly been simple. Asking one question might start unravelling an entire can of knotted wool and worms.

Sherlock tilts his head. Some part of you really really hopes he’ll ask about you. The two of you. Even if you have to lie.

But - you forgot. Not important.

“John,” he says immediately.

You exhale, cradling the cup between your fingers. The ceramic is too hot, scorching your lifelines. “Where should I start?”

“Personal life.”

Your lips twitch wryly. “Well…Yeah. The baby’s bothering you, isn’t she?”

His face remains blank at your attempt of gentle teasing. “Clearly his, genetically. Who is the mother?”

“Well…He met a woman. Mary Morstan.” You take in a shaky breath. Blonde curls, blue eyes, the most wicked grin you’d ever encountered, hugging you, poking your cheek to make you smile when you nearly cried about the catalyst of a malfunctioning vending machine.

“She died.” Sherlock doesn’t even try to soften it.

“Yeah. But they had a child. Obviously.” You give a weak laugh. “Rosamund, Rosie. You’re her godfather.”

His face clearly shows what he thinks of that.

“You loved Mary, you were great friends with her.” Scepticism, now. “And you were the best man at their wedding.”

Marginal surprise, now, that he tries to hide. God, you know his face so well. Every little expression. Every tic and quirk. “How did they meet?”

You suck your teeth thoughtfully. Your tea’s too hot, or you’d take a delaying sip. “Um…Well. You kind of, went away, for a couple of years, and they worked together. She was the receptionist. They fell in love.”

Involuntary disgust, at that. Sherlock, you don’t hate love as much as you pretend to.

“A couple of years of…what, exactly?”

“You were…” You shake your head, clinging tighter to the mug. There is no way you are going to explain Moriarty and the Fall and everything to him. “Away.”

Sherlock scoffs. “You make it sound like I was in prison.” But there’s a question there.

“No, you weren’t.” You look up at him. He’s only giving you his attention because you’re the only person who can give him answers. Strangely, it’s not hurting as much as you’d imagined. It had felt impossible, but it’s like talking to someone else. A stranger.

“To be honest with you, it was worse.”

****

You thought you’d done a good job pretending you were just platonic flatmates. You didn’t stare. You didn’t slip up and reach for him instinctively. You kept your head down, kept a watchful eye on him. He went to visit Mrs Hudson, and you let yourself cry for a few minutes in the bathroom before you pulled yourself back together.

He watched you making dinner. Pasta. A fancy sauce, some fried vegetables, some nice cheese. He just watches you, every movement tracked by those sharp glacial eyes.

You’re used to it, or you should be. But it’s become unsettling now. You’re waiting for him to walk over and wrap his arms around you, rest his head on yours, spin you around and pull you close, cradling your face to kiss you. Normally, if he’s got nothing to do, he takes advantage of your activities in the kitchen to try and get your attention, acting like a needy teddy bear. You’ll indulge him until you have enough and then set him to work chopping onions or rinsing beans or poking melting chocolate, or whatever task you can give him.

Now, he watches you, simply standing in the kitchen doorway with his arms crossed. And your body waits for him to close the distance instinctively. But of course, he doesn’t.

You want him to. To say, I remember you. Say, how could I ever forget you? Walk over, pull you into his arms and kiss you. And then, stand back and tell you exactly what he had been investigating that had led him to being attacked, or having an accident, that made him fucking forget five years of his life.

You sigh, checking the cupboards. You’ve got enough ingredients to make hazelnut brownies. As soon you eat dinner, you’re going to do that. Anything to keep yourself busy. And you desperately crave chocolate.

You drain the pasta, steam exploding up from the sink.

His voice cuts into your reverie like a sharp knife through butter.

“We had sex.”

You freeze, still holding the colander out, before slowly turning your head. You have to hitch your jaw up. “What?”

“Oh, don’t try to hide it. Your eyes often dilate when you look at me. You feel physically comfortable around me. You don’t have any other romantic attachments.”

You swallow, grabbing a fork and separating the pasta into two different bowls. It was so much more than ‘sex’, Sherlock.

You can’t say it. You can’t say anything.

He walks closer. “Well?”

“I don’t…” Your voice gives out. You grab the sauce. Normally you need a knife to pop the lid open. Now you twist it, with a superhuman surge of anger. “I really don’t want to get into it.”

He’s closer. “What was it, a rebound sex? Were you drunk? Or high? No, not that. You clearly don’t use. When was it? Before or after we became flatmates? Oh - after. I see. Didn’t know that was in the tenancy agreement; pretty sure I never did that with John, but at least the papers can prove I’m not gay now-”

Your hand jerks and you pour too much sauce into the pan. “Shut up!” you say furiously, turning on him. He’s closer than you expect. “I don’t want to talk about this!”

He narrows his eyes. “I see. You’re ashamed. It’s written all over your face. Strange, I would have thought Irene Adler’s attempts to get me to ‘have dinner’-” He flicks quote-marks viciously with his grazed knuckles, “with her would have been good practise with regards to resisting any future sexual invitations, especially from someone who clearly isn’t a dominatrix, but-”

Tears blur everything, including his stupid, gorgeous, familiar, alien, face. You shake your head furiously, nausea roiling. You can’t say it. You can’t say you were in love with me, and watch the aftermath. Especially not when he’s being so cruel.

You’ve never been on the receiving end of his cruelty. You’ve never known him when he was like this. Boundaries clearly don’t apply for him.

Sherlock has noticed your tears. Deduced them. But he carries on.

“When was it?” he pushes.

“No,” you say, voice trembling. “N-no.” Behind you, the pan of sauce bubbles and steams. You can smell the pasta in the bowls and you want to vomit. Weren’t you hungry? Brownies? No and no and no. You push past him, knocking against his arm roughly. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

He doesn’t try to stop you when you run upstairs. Doesn’t come after you. You lock the door and cry yourself to sleep.

You don’t burn to death in your sleep, so he must have turned the sauce off.

Shame.

Chapter Two

[moonsua]

i was looking for the andteam jyuugoya characters as pngs to use as an icon and couldn't find them anywhere so i made them myself! you don't need to credit me if you use these but a like and/or reblog would be appreciated ♡

[rhaemonds]

he said be reasonable, pls

[imfoive]

𝐒𝐨 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

BANG CHAN x READER GENRE: Boyfriend!Chan, Established Relationship, Romance, Fluff WARNINGS: none!, somewhat proofread WC: 1.5k A/N: Happy birthday to me! An itty bitty Chan scenario in celebration for me-day woohoo! (this was supposed to be a preluding vignette in the sunlight and daydreams universe but I figured that would be super evil of me so let’s pretend it’s not lmao) 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐑𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬, 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝! ── MASTERLIST

────────────────────────

The ocean sings. Waves crashing loud against the rocks, the late afternoon brings forth a beautiful pinkening sky and cool, hair-fluttering breeze.

A little chilly, but you don’t mind. Not when Chan’s grip is warm, fingers cupping yours as your entwined hands swing between the both of you.

Your feet sink in the sand, wet and cold against your bare feet the closer you get to the shore, leaving behind footprints and clinging to your skin.

You really don’t mind, Chan hums a soothing tune as you walk, distracting you from the fact that you’ve left all your belongings back there where you had spent the afternoon lounging under the sun and building sandcastles.

Though the walk is nice. Comforting, and soothing. The sun sinks lower by the minute, the kind that has both of you pause, facing the horizon to take in the glimmering sea that reflects the light like a painting. The kind of sight that has your breath hitch, has you stop, eyes shining as you take in the pink and purple sky, the bright orange sun ready to bid its farewell.

Chan seems to agree, your boyfriend squeezing your hand almost faintly before he mutters the words you would have missed between the sunset, the waves and the winds.

You don’t though, not when Chan looks as if you mean the word, the same shine in his eyes as they meet yours.

“—It would be perfect to propose here.”

You think you would’ve laughed startled at such a random exclamation, would have agreed with such an romantic observation. Yet before you can even giggle at the idea, even agree with him with a hum and a nod, you only turn to find a sight that has you freezing. 

Eyes widening and lips parting with shock because he doesn’t even wait for his words to settle, doesn’t tear his gaze away, already dropping down with a widening grin.

Chan kneels. Right there, right before your suddenly frozen form.

He’s on one knee, pants planted over the wet sand, the seafoam left after retreating waves seeping through the material, yet even the dirt and water isn’t enough to keep him from doing what he decided to do. 

Everything continues as it was. The sun still on its descent, the waves still crashing against the rocks, rising over sand, the winds still ruffle through his hair, tousling the strands.

Yet nothing remains the same for you, not when his gaze meets yours so warm, so fond. Locked onto you with a lingering softness that shows in the way he fishes out the small box from the depths of his pocket. 

Where had he hidden it all day? You’re clueless. Yet he holds it before you, opening with ease, the slight tremble in his hands going unnoticed amidst the sudden emotions that surge through you. Chan holds it out before you. Offering you something you’ve only dreamt of, you can’t help but gasp, eyes flickering to what’s inside. 

It’s a glimmering thing, dainty and elegant, the ring glints beautifully against the sunset. And he cradles it in his palms, inhaling deeply as he lets you react. Your hands fly to your mouth, pressing against your lips, as you once again gasp louder. The ocean waves are cold over your feet, wind biting at your skin, yet you feel as if you are burning up.

“I—” Chan begins, clearing his throat, a twinge of nervousness crossing his gaze but the wide smile remains.

“I love you.” He states, softly, loudly, those words coming out as easily as breathing.

His eyes dart over your shocked-still expression, at the misty haze in your own gaze as you finally grasp what is happening.

“‘Is this love?’” He whispered.

A repeat of a question you’ve asked. It’s a familiar question, one that has you break into a breathy and wet scoff-like giggle as you realize exactly what he is referring to, hands falling to your sides, shoulders relaxing as you let him continue.

Let him propose.

“The night after our first date, after I spent the entire after of it distracted by thoughts of you, you sent me that question.” His cheeks dimpled with the way he grinned, watching you exhale with a breathless laugh.

“—Granted, it was a message you accidentally texted to me instead of your friend—immediately followed with ten other messages of you freaking out over it, before threatening me to forget how you just embarrassed yourself.” He recalls with a chuckle, with a fondness and a grin that has you mimic the glee, though the tears now freely slide down your cheeks.

“But how could I have ever forgotten such a question when that same night I decided that I had an answer for it. That seeing your adorable sputtering and your refusal to meet my eyes the next day made me realize that it was love. That you were it for me.” There’s a waver in his voice, a shine in his own eyes as he takes in the beautiful sight that is you.

But he barrels on, as if he has so much to say but not enough time—at least not currently. Not when he has a ring to put on your finger. The recollection of your most precious moments could wait a little.

“I knew I wanted to marry you then. I knew I wanted a full life with you.” He swallows his nervousness, his emotions that threaten to crack in his voice.

You almost whimper shakily, happily, your expression soft and warm and oh-so-touched as his voice drops just a tad bit softer, just a tinge warmer.

“I want more late night adventures, more spontaneous trips, the slow strolls hand-in-hand. I want the growing birthdays to come, the wrinkles and white hair, all the way to the end. Till death do us apart—right after that first date. I want it all with you.”

You swipe the back of your hand to wipe away the tears that pool at your jaw, shuddery breath escaping your lips with a soft sob. Chan kneels patiently, as he continues to make your heart flip, your stomach swoop, your eyes prick with more happy tears.

“I’m sure you know by now how painfully obsessed I am with you.” He too chuckles wetly, his voice slightly shaky, yet dripping with something akin to adoration as he looks up at you, absolutely besotted.

“You already know how deeply I love you, but I’ll say it again. I love you. And I will continue to do so for the rest of my remaining life. Will you—” He stutters just the slightest as he swallows, taking in a nervous breath, his eyes locked onto yours.

“Will you please marry me?”

The waves crash loud, your feet sink into the wet sand, the sunlight is moments away from disappearing, yet you only look at Chan, on his knees, his own teary eyes and that beautiful smile of his that you’re so fond of. 

Your boyfriend awaits the answer he should know you would give him almost nervously. And even with the shock and the heart-touching words spoken, you can’t help but laugh almost helplessly. The tears continue to cloud your vision yet even with blurred sight you know exactly where to find your most special person, lunging forward you can’t help but wrap your arms around him, falling onto your own knees.

Chan wobbles just the slightest at the impact but he holds you firmly, pressed right against him.

“Yes. Yesyesyes.” Your voice is half-choked, half a whisper as you tug him closer into your embrace.

Chan’s own voice cracks as he laughs against you, arm wrapping tight around you as he inhales your scent.

“Thank you. I love you so so much.” He pulls away, just enough to gaze into your eyes, lashes wet from his tears, yet his smile remains.

“Give me your hand.” He whispers.

You don’t wait another second, your hand trembling between the both of your kneeling bodies as Chan looks down to pluck the ring out, box forgotten over the sand.

It slips on easily, cool against your skin, yet even that doesn’t last long, not when his hands cup your fingers in his, engulfing you in his warmth.

“You won’t regret it, I swear—”

As much as you want to hear more of his heartfelt promises, you can’t help but want to disappear in his embrace, melt into his arms. Squeeze into his chest, and make yourself home. You lean in to capture his lips, kissing him and swallowing his promises. And he easily allows you to do so. 

Melt into his embrace, disappear in his arms.

Kissing you in that slow, careful kind of way. The one where his fingers sit just right below your jaw, cradling your face as if you’re the most delicate thing he has. And you can’t help the sigh that leaves you, the way you pull him close and allow the thought to settle.

So this is love. 

He squeezes you a tinge bit tighter, kisses you just a tad bit harder, his mouth hot against yours.

And how sweet it was. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ e n d .

[hyunpic]

😆❤️🤣