fiona

18!! 🦈🦈

[inthelow]

── STUPID SONG | min yoongi.

pairing: songwriter fem! reader x idol! min yoongi

summary: As a songwriter you’ve always trusted your words more than your feelings. Unfortunately, falling for Min Yoongi makes both impossible to ignore. Wanting someone so much that you’re lost for words was slowly driving you mad. And somewhere between studio sessions, late-night conversations, and one too many stupid songs that sound suspiciously alike, you begin to wonder if love is supposed to feel this wonderfully unbearable.

genre: (fluff). co-worker—friends-to-lovers. romantic comedy. idol au. idiots in love.

warning! ── none. yoongi might be the most patient and perfect man ever. reader a bit anxious and an over-thinker. bit of jealousy and hurt. cringe scenes of me pretending to know how’s the process of writing songs/music.

author’s note: i love this one so much i hope you do too. it’s so cute and i try to describe the feeling of falling in love so fast it makes you feel insane the best i could. hope i made justice to the song. i really hope u like this one<3

word count: +14k words

──── pretty sad for a girl so in love (series)

It was so frustrating how nothing felt exactly wrong and yet everything had somehow started feeling a little off.

You had spent the last couple of weeks waiting for something to happen, although you couldn’t have said what that something was supposed to be. Nothing in your life had changed enough to justify the feeling. Work was still work, your deadlines were still piling up in the same irritating way they always did, your friends were still dragging you out to places you didn’t particularly want to go, and you were still sleeping at whatever hour people who worked in music apparently decided sleep was optional. There was no crisis, no heartbreak, no sudden realization that you had chosen the wrong career and needed to disappear to a cabin somewhere in Vermont. If anything, everything was going suspiciously well. Which, somehow, was making it worse.

You sat on the closed toilet lid in the bathroom of someone’s apartment in Brooklyn, one knee pulled against your chest while the bathroom fan struggled uselessly against the smoke filling the room. Someone had opened the tiny window above the bathtub, but it hadn’t made much of a difference. Three of your friends were crowded around the sink, passing a blunt between them and arguing about whether a guy they had met downstairs was actually attractive or just tall. You had been listening for the last ten minutes, occasionally laughing when you were supposed to, but your attention had drifted somewhere else a while ago.

“You’re not even listening,” Maya said, pointing at you with the blunt.

“I am.”

“What did I just say?”

You looked at her for a second, then glanced at the others as if one of them might have been paying enough attention to rescue you.

“Something about his eyes?”

“See?” Maya said, looking unbearably pleased with herself. “She’s gone.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’ve been tired for three weeks. You’re not even sharing one with us.”

“Well maybe I’ve been tired for three weeks.” You repeated her words like that explained something.

That earned you a round of laughter, all your friends too high to think it was a great joke, although you only smiled before looking down at your phone again. You had been checking it more than usual lately, though you had yet to figure out why. There was always something waiting for you anyway. A producer sending a revision at two in the morning, a manager asking about a session, someone needing lyrics cleaned up before a demo was sent off, or one of the artists you worked with deciding that a song they had collectively abandoned six weeks ago was suddenly the most important thing in the world.

Your own work had become particularly strange lately. You were still writing, obviously, but everything seemed to take longer. You would sit in front of a notebook and know exactly what you wanted a song to feel like without being able to find the right words for it, then spend an hour changing one line and another hour convincing yourself the original had been better. It wasn’t writer’s block. It wasn’t even frustration with the work itself. You simply felt distracted in a way you couldn’t explain.

Maybe you needed a break, maybe you needed to sleep. Or maybe you just needed to stop saying yes every time somebody asked you to go out.. God, you were getting old.

Your phone buzzed in your hand. You glanced at the screen and saw Yoongi’s name.

For a moment, nothing about it felt unusual. You had been working together for a few months now, long enough that late-night messages from him weren’t particularly surprising. His new project was still mostly floating around in pieces, half-written ideas and unfinished melodies that existed in voice notes, scattered documents and whatever you happened to remember after a session. He was still working with his group, too, which meant your schedules were constantly shifting, so your work together tended to happen whenever you could find a few hours that belonged to neither of you.

The message contained a file and nothing else. You stared at it.

You: are you at the studio?

His reply came quickly.

Yoongi: Yeah

You: why

Yoongi: Couldn’t sleep

You smiled faintly, mostly because it was such a typical answer from him.

You: you have a session in the morning

Yoongi: I know

You: a group session

Yoongi: I know

You: so go to sleep

There was a longer pause this time.

Yoongi: got an idea.

You looked at the file he’d sent again, then at the time in the corner of your screen. It was nearly two in the morning.

You: for what? a personal or group project?

Yoongi: I don’t know yet

You could practically hear his voice in the vague little word.

You should have told him to send it tomorrow. You probably should have told him to stop working and go home, because whatever inspiration had decided to show up at two in the morning could survive until breakfast when you were in your paid schedule and sober enough to know what you were thinking about... Instead, you found yourself opening the message again without actually playing the song.

“Who you talking to?” Maya asked.

“Yoongi.”

She hummed. “Your Yoongi?”

You looked up. “He’s not my Yoongi.”

“I didn’t say he was.”

“You literally said ‘your Yoongi.’”

“Because you work with him.”

“Right.”

Maya raised an eyebrow at your defensiveness but wisely decided not to continue.

Your phone buzzed again.

Yoongi: Are you busy tonight?

You glanced around the bathroom, at the smoke, the cramped space, the people talking over each other, and then at the unopened song sitting on your screen… Busy? Not really busy now were you?

A minute later, you were typing before you could think too much about it.

You: i’ll come by.

His response was almost immediate.

Yoongi: okay

Yoongi: I’ll wait for you

That was it. No questions, no surprise, no attempt to talk you out of it and tell you how you should be out on a Friday night instead of working like him…

You slipped your phone into your pocket and stood, brushing imaginary lint from your jeans. “I’m leaving.”

Maya stared at you. “To where?”

“The studio.”

“At two in the morning?”

“Apparently.”

“Why?”

You shrugged, already reaching for the bathroom door. “I’m bored.”

That was true, at least.

It was easier to believe you were leaving because you were bored than to admit that, lately, there was something strangely comforting about the idea of being around Yoongi. Not exciting, not romantic, not anything you could put a name to yet. It was just comforting. You had started noticing that you felt more settled after your sessions, even when you hadn’t actually accomplished much, you had started looking forward to working with him in a way that felt slightly embarrassing considering you spent most of your life complaining about having to work.

Yoongi just gave you a sense of comfort about your work and understood how important was music for you. Working with him had become a pleasure.

Outside the bathroom, the party was louder than you’d remembered. Music shook the walls, someone was laughing loudly in the kitchen, and two people you didn’t recognize were making out against the hallway wall as if they had paid rent there. You found your coat among the pile near the door, waved goodbye to your friends, ignored several attempts to convince you to stay, and stepped outside into the cold Brooklyn night.

The air felt good against your face. You stood on the sidewalk for a moment, pulling your coat tighter around yourself while the noise of the apartment disappeared behind the door. New York was still awake, as usual. Cars passed at the end of the street, a cab slowed near the curb, and somewhere a siren echoed between the buildings before fading into the distance.

You checked your phone again. Nothing from Yoongi. You shoved your hands into your pockets and started walking toward the studio, telling yourself that you were only going because you had nothing better to do.

By the time you got to the studio, the city had gone quiet, the streets were still full of people but the noise had softened into something distant and almost comforting. You let yourself in with the code Yoongi had given you a few weeks ago after the company gave him a studio there. You shrugged off your coat as you walked down the familiar hallway. You had been there enough times now that you didn’t really think about it anymore. The studio had stopped feeling like a place you were visiting for work and started feeling like somewhere you could show up without needing a reason, which was probably why you hadn’t thought twice about coming over at two in the morning.

There was light coming from underneath the studio door. You knocked twice before pushing it open.

Yoongi was sitting on the couch with his laptop balanced on one knee, headphones hanging around his neck and a half-empty cup of coffee sitting on the table beside him. He looked up when you walked in, and for a second his expression was almost surprised, as if he hadn’t actually expected you to come despite having told you to. Then his mouth curved into a small smile.

“You actually came.”

“You told me to.”

“I didn’t tell you to.”

“You sent me a song at two in the morning.”

“I sent you a song.”

“At two in the morning.”

Yoongi nodded thoughtfully, as if you had made an excellent point. “Right, because that’s so different.”

You laughed as you dropped your bag beside the couch. “That’s practically begging.”

“It isn’t!.”

He shifted to make room for you, and you sat down beside him, close enough that you could see the project open on his laptop. There were several tracks stacked across the screen, most of them labeled with names that were barely distinguishable from one another, along with a handful of notes he’d apparently written for himself and then forgotten to make comprehensible for other people.

“So,” you said, leaning forward to look at the screen, “what exactly was so important that you couldn’t sleep?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Great.”

“I said I had an idea.”

“You sent me a twelve-second clip.”

“It’s a good twelve seconds.”

You looked at him and he looked back at you, completely serious.

You laughed again, and he finally smiled properly, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he tried to hide it by looking back at the laptop. You had noticed his smile before, obviously, but you still found it slightly strange how different he looked when he actually let himself grin. Yoongi had a naturally quiet expression, one that could make him seem more intimidating than he really was if you didn’t know him, but when he laughed properly, that entire impression disappeared. His gummy smile made him look almost boyish, and you had already seen it enough times to know that he smiled a lot more than people probably assumed he did.

You had learned that about him over the last few months.

When you’d first started working together, you’d assumed he was going to be difficult to get to know. Not because he’d been unfriendly, but because he seemed like the sort of person who could spend an entire afternoon sitting in silence and genuinely enjoy himself. You had prepared yourself for short answers, long stretches of awkwardness, and having to carry every conversation yourself.

Instead, once he’d gotten comfortable with you, you’d discovered that he talked. A lot.

Yoongi made stupid jokes when sessions got too serious, complained dramatically whenever someone suggested changing a part of a song he liked, sent you random voice notes that had absolutely nothing to do with whatever you were working on, and had somehow developed a habit of asking your opinion on things that had nothing to do with music. He was still quieter around people he didn’t know well, but with you, he seemed to have no problem filling the silence.

You liked that. And you liked working with him, too.

It had actually been one of the first things he’d told you when he’d mentioned wanting to keep working together beyond the album he was currently finishing with his group. A few months earlier, after one of your sessions had run much longer than expected, he’d casually mentioned that he had a lot of unfinished ideas and that, if he eventually put together another solo project— or even if he just wanted to keep making music without necessarily knowing what it would become— he wanted you involved.

“You have a good work ethic,” he’d told you at the time, like it was the simplest explanation in the world. “I like working with people who actually want to finish things.”

You’d laughed because you’d never considered yourself particularly disciplined, but you’d understood what he meant. You were stubborn about your work. If you started something, you wanted to see where it went, even if that meant staying in a studio until three in the morning arguing over one line.

That was how you’d ended up there, months later, with an unfinished album, dozens of half-written songs, and a friendship you hadn’t really expected to make.

And because of that, Yoongi texting you at ridiculous hours wasn’t unusual anymore.

Sometimes he wanted your opinion on a lyric. Sometimes he had a melody he couldn’t place. Sometimes he sent you something at three in the morning with absolutely no explanation and expected you to understand what he meant from context alone. You did the same thing to him. It had become part of the rhythm of working together, and somewhere along the way, the conversations had started lasting longer than the work.

Tonight wasn’t any different. You listened to the melody a few more times, stopping it occasionally to point out something you thought could work better. Yoongi played around with the chords while you hummed different possibilities, and eventually the original twelve seconds had turned into almost a minute of music.

“This part,” you said, pointing at the screen, “feels like it wants to go somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere.” He looked at you. You shrugged. “That’s why I said feels like.”

“You’re very helpful.”

“I came here for free.”

“I didn’t ask you to come.”

“You literally sent me the song like you were begging for help.”

“I sent you the song because I wanted you to hear it.”

“And now I’m here because of those actions.”

“And now you’re complaining.”

“I’m always complaining. Be glad I’m here.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

You smiled and leaned back into the couch.

For a while, the conversation drifted away from the song entirely. It happened naturally, like it usually did with him. One minute you were talking about the melody, and the next you were telling him about the party you’d just escaped from, complaining about one of your friends and the guy she’d spent the entire night talking about. Yoongi listened with the same amused expression he’d had all evening, occasionally interrupting with a question or making some comment that made you laugh.

“Should we try putting some lyrics?” You grimaced at that. He immediately noticed. “What? Too tired now?”

“Nah. I just don’t know if now I’m able to write a song,” you said with honesty.

“What do you mean?”

With that, you found yourself telling him about the strange feeling you’d been carrying around lately. “I don’t know,” you said, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “I’ve just felt weird recently.”

“Weird how?”

You thought about it. “I don’t know. That’s the problem.” He waited. You looked down at your hands. “It’s like I know there’s something I want to write about, but every time I try, it doesn’t sound right. And it’s not even one specific thing. It’s just… this feeling. It’s been there for a couple of weeks.”

“Maybe you’re overthinking it.”

“I always overthink.”

“I know.” You gave him a look but he just smiled. “You do.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m helping.”

“You’re really not.”

He laughed softly, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Maybe you just need to force yourself to write it down.”

“Force myself?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry about whether it makes sense. Just write whatever comes into your head.”

“That’s terrible advice.”

“It’s literally how writing works.”

“Not for me.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I know it sucks, I won’t leave it alone until I get it perfect.”

“Just write something that sucks and get it out of your system.”

You laughed under your breath. “That’s easier said than done.”

“You’re a songwriter. You’re allowed to write a bad song.”

“I know.”

“You don’t seem like you know.”

You turned your head toward him. “I won’t write a bad and stupid song!”

Yoongi smiled again, softer this time. “Just try it.”

You looked at him for a moment before nodding. “Fine… Maybe I will.”

The conversation moved on almost immediately. He started telling you about something ridiculous that had happened during a group schedule earlier that week, and you listened, laughing when he exaggerated certain parts of the story. At some point he reached across you for the laptop, his arm brushing lightly against yours as he pulled it closer so he could show you something on the screen.

You looked down at the screen while he explained what he’d been trying to change, his voice close beside you, his shoulder nearly touching yours. You nodded along, half listening before you looked at him.

And something inside you shifted. Not because he’d done anything different. That was the worst part… It was completely ordinary. So ordinary that you didn’t even think about it at first.

He was still Yoongi. Still your coworker, still your friend-ish, still the person who sent you unfinished songs in the middle of the night because he trusted you enough to listen to them before they were ready. He was still the same person you’d been sitting beside for months, the same person whose bad jokes you had started anticipating, the same person whose messages you’d begun answering even when you were busy.

You simply looked at him and suddenly understood why everything had felt strange.

Why you’d been checking your phone. Why his messages had started standing out among all the others. Why you had started looking forward to sessions even when you were exhausted. Why you felt strangely disappointed whenever someone else had his attention. Why leaving the party at two in the morning had seemed like the easiest decision in the world. Why being around him had started feeling like something you needed rather than something you simply enjoyed.

Your stomach dropped.

Oh.

Oh.

You looked away so quickly that Yoongi glanced at you. “What?”

“Nothing.”

He studied your face for another second, clearly noticing something you didn’t, before turning back to the laptop.

“Okay.”

You swallowed and stared at the screen, although you couldn’t tell him what he was showing you anymore. Because suddenly the feeling you’d been trying to write about for weeks didn’t seem so mysterious.

You knew exactly what it was. You just really, really wished you didn’t.

——————————

Realizing you had a crush on someone was embarrassing enough on its own. Realizing you had a crush on someone you worked with was worse. Realizing you had a crush on someone you worked with, actually liked as a person, and had absolutely no intention of doing anything about was, in your professional opinion, humiliating.

You spent the next few days trying very hard not to think about it…. This proved to be considerably more difficult than you had expected.

The problem was that there were too many reasonable explanations for what had happened at the studio that night, and you intended to use every single one of them. You and Yoongi had been working together for months. You had spent countless hours in studios together, usually at unreasonable times, talking about music and life and whatever else happened to come up when you were both too tired to keep pretending you were only there to work. Songwriting was intimate by nature, anyway. You had to be honest about things you would probably never say out loud otherwise, and even when the songs weren’t autobiographical, there was something about sitting beside another person and pulling apart emotions until you found the right words for them that made you feel closer than you probably should.

Maybe that was all it was.

Maybe you’d simply confused intimacy with attraction because you’d been spending too much time with him.

It happened… Probably.

You had read about it somewhere, or maybe you’d invented it to make yourself feel better. Either way, it sounded plausible enough.

And Yoongi was nice. Really nice. He was funny, he listened to you, he respected your work, he remembered stupid little details you mentioned in passing, and he had somehow become one of the easiest people in your life to be around. None of those things necessarily meant you wanted him. They just meant you had a good friendship.

That was normal.

Having a crush on your friend was not. Especially not when your friend happened to be someone you were professionally involved with, someone whose music you were helping shape, someone who trusted your opinion and had made it clear that he wanted to keep working with you beyond the current project. There were lines you didn’t cross simply because you were capable of understanding consequences, and you were, at the very least, supposed to be an adult with a functioning brain.

You were a professional, for God’s sake!

So you decided the best way to deal with the entire thing was to write about it. It was what you always did when you didn’t understand something. You put it on paper until it stopped being yours.

You sat at your desk one evening with a notebook open in front of you and your laptop pushed aside, determined to finally get the strange feeling out of your head. You weren’t going to write a song, exactly. You weren’t even going to write anything good. You just wanted to give the feeling somewhere to exist so it would stop taking up space inside you.

For a while, you stared at the blank page.

Then you finally started writing. You wrote about wanting something you didn’t have a name for. You wrote about how easy it was to mistake familiarity for desire, how spending too much time beside someone could make ordinary things feel important when they weren’t. You wrote about a voice that had become familiar enough that you could recognize it through a crowded room, about hands resting on a piano, about someone laughing when they were trying not to, about the strange comfort of knowing somebody would answer if you called them at an unreasonable hour….

The more you wrote, the more obvious it became that you were writing around the thing rather than about it, carefully avoiding the center of whatever you’d been trying to understand. So you kept it vague. You turned it into a poem instead, something distant enough that you could pretend it belonged to somebody else.

By the time you reached the final lines, you were almost annoyed with yourself. You stared at the page for a moment, then wrote the last sentence.

But maybe it isn’t anything at all.

You looked at it. That was good. That was exactly what you wanted. You added one more line underneath it.

But maybe it is only a feeling, and feelings passed.

Then you put the pen down.

There. Problem solved.

You tore the page out, folded it twice without really looking at what you’d written, and threw it into the trash beside your desk. You sat back in your chair and let out a quiet breath, suddenly convinced that you’d just performed some sort of emotional surgery on yourself.

It wasn’t important, it was just a crush. A stupid, inconvenient, temporary crush. You could handle that. And if you ignored it long enough, eventually it would disappear…

A few days later, you found yourself back at the studio with Yoongi and the rest of the group.

The session had been much more crowded than the ones you usually had with him, mostly because they were working on something together and you had been asked to help with a few sections. It was different seeing Yoongi around the others. He was louder, more animated, constantly interrupting someone or laughing at something happening on the other side of the room, and every once in a while you caught yourself watching him before remembering that you had promised yourself you weren’t going to do that anymore.

You were doing very well… Mostly.

By the time the session wrapped up, it was late enough that everyone was starting to gather their things. You were slipping your notebook into your bag when Yoongi looked over from the computer.

“You’re leaving?”

You glanced at him. “Yeah.”

He nodded toward the screen. “Can you stay for a bit? I want to fix something and I could use another opinion.”

You hesitated for approximately five seconds. “Um, yeah. Sure.”

Totally normal.

You were coworkers. Friends, technically. People who worked together. Nothing unusual about staying late at a studio with him. You were very normal about this.

You sat down on the opposite end of the couch, leaving what you considered a perfectly reasonable amount of space between you. Yoongi looked at you for a second, then went back to the computer. You tried to focus on the track, you really did. Unfortunately, your brain had apparently decided that now was the ideal time to become hyperaware of every single thing about him. The sound of his voice, the way his fingers moved across the keyboard, the little crease that appeared between his eyebrows when he concentrated. You became painfully conscious of the fact that he was sitting only a few feet away.

This was ridiculous.

You shifted farther toward the edge of the couch.

Yoongi looked over. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Why are you sitting over there?”

“I like this part of the couch.” He stared at you and you looked around trying to ignore his eyes.

Yoongi seemed unconvinced but didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned back to the computer, played the section he’d been working on, and asked what you thought.

You listened carefully, giving him a few suggestions, and slowly the tension in your shoulders began to disappear. It was strange how quickly that happened around him. Within twenty minutes, you were back to normal, arguing about a lyric and laughing when he insisted one of your suggestions was “objectively terrible.”

“You’re the one who asked me.”

“I regret it.”

“You always regret asking me shit”

“Because you’re mean.”

“You can handle it.”

Yoongi didn’t directly looked at you. He only smiled behind his fingers before shaking his head. “See? Mean.”

You smiled despite yourself.

The rest of the evening passed almost exactly like every other session you’d had together. The work became less important as the hours went on, conversations drifting from music to food to his schedule and then somehow to a story about one of his members that made you laugh so hard you had to put your head down on the table.

You forgot, for a while, that you were supposed to be worried about liking him.

You realized that was the thing with Yoongi. He made it too easy to forget. There was something calming about being around him that you hadn’t fully appreciated until recently. You could sit beside him without talking and it didn’t feel awkward. You could complain about something stupid and he would listen without making you feel stupid for complaining. He never seemed to expect you to perform a particular version of yourself around him. You could be tired, irritated, sarcastic, quiet, distracted, and he treated all of it like it was normal.

By the time you finally looked at the clock, it was well past midnight.

“Oh, shit.”

Yoongi glanced over. “What?”

“It’s late.”

He checked the time too. “Yeah.”

“I’m going home. I have an early session tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Yoongi didn’t seem bothered by it. He simply saved the project and started shutting things down while you gathered your things.

“You staying?”

“Probably.”

“You should sleep.”

“I’ll do that eventually.”

“That’s why people always complain when you fall asleep in random places.”

“I’m trying to survive.”

You rolled your eyes. “Barely.” He smiled. You put your coat on and slung your bag over your shoulder, lingering for a second longer than necessary before finally heading toward the door “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight. Get home safe.”

You walked out before you could think too much about the fact that you’d spent another night with him and survived.

See? It wasn’t that bad.

Maybe you’d exaggerated everything in your head. Maybe the crush really was just a crush, something small and harmless that had appeared because you’d been spending too much time together. Maybe you could simply acknowledge it without doing anything about it and eventually it would disappear on its own.

By the time you got home, you were almost completely convinced.

You changed into your pajamas, washed your face, crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling for a while, thinking about absolutely nothing in particular.

Except, unfortunately, you thought about Yoongi.

You remembered his laugh. Then the way he’d smiled when you’d made that stupid comment about him handling when you were mean. You remembered his hand resting on the edge of the laptop. His fingers on his lips. His voice. The way he’d looked at you when you were leaving….

Stop!

You closed your eyes. It wasn’t a big deal, it was just a crush. You could live with a crush!

Eventually, you fell asleep.

And sometime in the middle of the night, your brain decided that all of your careful reasoning had been completely irrelevant. What usually ended up with dreams about future lyrics or anxious thoughts over what will you be working on tomorrow… it all changed suddenly. Now you dreamed about him.

Not about music, or work, or some vague version of him sitting beside you in the studio. You dreamed about his mouth. His hands. The warmth of him standing close enough that you could feel his breath against your skin. You dreamed about his long fingers brushing against yours, against your mouth this time, you dreamed about looking up at him and somehow knowing exactly what was going to happen before he leaned down and kissed you.

It felt real enough that when you woke up, you heart was already beating way too fast.

Your eyes opened fast. You lay completely still, staring at the ceiling, your heart pounding so hard it felt ridiculous. Your skin was hot, your hair was sticking to your forehead, and you were breathing like you’d just run several blocks.

You covered your face with both hands. “Oh, God.”

You stayed like that for another moment, desperately hoping that if you didn’t acknowledge what had just happened, it would somehow stop being real. It didn’t. You dropped your hands and stared into the darkness of your bedroom.

You groaned and pulled the blanket over your face.

You didn’t just have a crush on Yoongi. You were falling in love with him.

This was going to be a problem.

——————————

The worst thing about realizing you’re falling in love with someone was that, eventually, you had to admit you were falling.

There was no pretending it was a crush anymore, not after the dream, not after the way you’d spent the following morning thinking about him before you’d even properly opened your eyes, and definitely not after you caught yourself checking your phone three separate times before breakfast in the hope that he might have messaged you. You had crossed some invisible line somewhere between one late-night studio session and the next, and now you were on the other side of it, looking back at the person you’d been a few weeks ago and wondering how she’d managed to be so blissfully unaware.

You were falling in love with Yoongi.

It was a ridiculous thing to know about yourself with such certainty.

You tried avoiding him at first, mostly because you thought distance would help. You told yourself that if you stopped accepting every invitation to the studio, stopped replying immediately when he sent you something, stopped finding reasons to linger after sessions, the feeling would eventually become less intense. It was a sensible plan. Mature, even. You could give yourself some room to breathe and allow your brain to remember that he was a person you worked with and cared about, not the center of the universe you’d somehow made him into.

The problem was that you didn’t actually want to avoid him.

That was the part you couldn’t seem to explain away.

You could spend an entire afternoon convincing yourself that you needed to create boundaries, and then your phone would light up with his name and you’d find yourself smiling before you’d even opened the message. If he asked whether you were free later, you were free. If he mentioned that he was going to be at the studio, you somehow found a reason to be there too. If he sent you a song, you listened to it immediately, even when you were in the middle of something else. You wanted to know what he was working on, what he was eating, whether he’d slept, whether the ridiculous story he’d told you about one of his members had actually ended the way he’d claimed it did. You wanted the insignificant pieces of his life just as much as the important ones, which was perhaps the clearest indication that this had stopped being a simple attraction a long time ago.

You wanted time with him. You wanted all of it.

And there was something humiliating about knowing that while simultaneously having no idea whether he wanted the same thing.

That was the worst part. You could spend hours trying to interpret every little thing he did, but there was no way of knowing what any of it actually meant. Yoongi was affectionate with people he cared about. He was attentive. He remembered things. He listened when you spoke. He had a way of making people feel like they were the only person in the room when they had his attention, and because you had become one of the people he trusted, you couldn’t tell whether the things that made your stomach flip were simply the way he treated his friends.

Sometimes you’d catch him looking at you across the studio and immediately wonder what he’d been thinking. Maybe he was wondering whether you’d finished the lyrics. Maybe he’d noticed that you were staring at him first. Maybe he was thinking about something completely unrelated.

You wished you could read his mind. You wished you could sit inside his head for five minutes and find out what he thought of you.

Not even what he felt romantically, necessarily. You wanted to know how he described you when someone asked about you. You wanted to know whether he considered you a close friend or simply someone he enjoyed working with. You wanted to know whether he ever thought about you when you weren’t around, whether he ever saw something during his day and instinctively wanted to tell you about it, whether your name ever appeared on his phone and made him feel the same small rush of happiness that his name caused in you.

Mostly, you wanted to know what he would say if he knew.

Because sometimes you imagined telling him. Not actually telling him, obviously. That would have been insane. But you’d imagine sitting across from him after a session and finally saying, I think I have feelings for you.

Then you’d imagine his face.

Would he laugh because he’d already known? Would he go quiet? Would he look uncomfortable? Would he tell you that he’d never thought about you that way? Would he say something kind because Yoongi was incapable of being cruel even when he had every reason to be? Would everything suddenly become awkward between you?

That last possibility was the one that scared you most. Because whatever you were feeling, whatever had happened inside your head over the past few weeks, what existed between you and Yoongi already felt like something worth protecting.

You didn’t know exactly when the two of you had become friends.

There hadn’t been a moment where either of you had announced it. You had simply started knowing things about each other. You knew what kind of coffee he preferred when he was tired and what kind of coffee he ordered when he was pretending he wasn’t tired. You knew which songs he was proud of and which ones he refused to play for anyone until they were finished. You knew when he was genuinely annoyed and when he was pretending to be annoyed because he wanted you to argue with him. You knew that he talked more when he was comfortable, that he got quieter when something was actually bothering him, and that his laughter changed depending on how funny he found something.

Yoongi knew things about you too.

He knew when you were lying about being tired. He knew which parts of your writing you were insecure about. He knew that you hated being interrupted when you were trying to tell a funny story and that you tended to tap your fingers against whatever surface was closest whenever you were thinking.

None of it was extraordinary but, somehow, it was everything.

One afternoon, you were sitting across from him in the studio while he worked through a melody, and you caught yourself watching his hands instead of the screen. He noticed after a while. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You keep staring.”

“I’m thinking.”

“About?”

“The song.” He looked at you skeptically. You held his gaze for a second before smiling. “I’m allowed to think.”

“I know. I’m just curious what you’re thinking about.”

You almost told him. The answer was sitting right there, painfully obvious, and for one terrifying second you wondered what would happen if you just said it.

You.

Instead, you pointed at the laptop. “I think the second verse needs something.”

He nodded and turned back to the screen. You breathed again.

Another time, he sent you a message asking if you wanted to grab food before a session. You spent the entire walk there wondering if he’d asked anyone else or if he’d thought specifically of you. When you arrived, he had already ordered something for you because he remembered what you liked.

You stared at the food. “How did you know I wanted this?.”

Yoongi looked up from his phone. “I think by now I pretty much know everything you like.”

It was such a simple answer but you didn’t like how much it affected you.

“Right. We are spending a lot of time together.”

He smiled. “We are.”

You wanted to ask him what he thought about that.

You wanted to know whether remembering you was something he did without thinking because he knew you well, or whether there was some part of him that actively paid attention to you in the same way you paid attention to him.

But you didn’t ask, you never asked. You became an expert at almost asking.

You’d start a sentence and change it halfway through. You’d look at him for a second too long and then pretend you were distracted. You’d find yourself wondering what would happen if you leaned closer, then immediately move away as if your body had betrayed you.

And Yoongi never seemed to notice… Or maybe he did.

That was the other thing driving you insane.

Sometimes you’d catch a look on his face that you couldn’t interpret, something quiet and thoughtful that disappeared before you could decide what it meant. Sometimes he seemed to anticipate what you were going to say before you said it. Sometimes he’d look at you for a little longer than necessary, and you’d spend the rest of the night wondering if you’d imagined it.

You wanted to ask him. God, you wanted to ask him so bad. But every time you came close to the idea, you remembered what you already had.

This new friendship, those stupid late-night messages. The jokes that weren’t funny enough to justify how hard you laughed at them. The comfortable silence. The way you could walk into a room where he was and immediately feel less tired.

You had spent your entire life believing that knowing whether someone loved you was the most important part of loving them. Now you weren’t so sure. Because the more you thought about it, the more you realized that even if someone could guarantee that Yoongi didn’t feel the same way, you still wouldn’t want to lose him.

You would still want to sit beside him in the studio. You would still want to hear all his unfinished songs. You would still want him to send you ridiculous messages at two in the morning. You would still want to know what made him laugh, what annoyed him, what he was thinking when he stared at the ceiling after a long session. You would still want to be his friend… And maybe that was what frightened you most.

You had always thought love was supposed to make you want more.

More time, more certainty, more closeness, more of the person until eventually you couldn’t imagine being satisfied with anything less. But with Yoongi, wanting more didn’t make you want less of what you already had. You wanted him desperately, yes, but you also wanted to keep the exact relationship you had with him now, even if it meant carrying this ridiculous, aching secret for as long as you had to.

Maybe that was love too. Maybe love was wanting someone so badly that you were willing to let them remain exactly where they were, simply because having them in your life was better than having nothing at all.

So you stopped trying to figure him out. Not completely, of course. You were still curious. You still wondered sometimes what he would say if he knew, still caught yourself studying his expression when he looked at you, still wished you could reach into his mind and steal one honest thought about yourself.

But you stopped needing the answer. Because whatever Yoongi thought about you, whatever he might or might not feel, there was one thing you already knew. He was your friend. And you loved him.

And for now, that was enough.

——————————

You had written three versions of the same chorus, hated all three, deleted two of them, and were currently staring at the third one as if looking at it long enough might make the words rearrange themselves into something worth keeping… They didn’t.

The cursor blinked at the end of the line, patiently waiting for you to figure out what came next. You played the melody again, fingers moving absentmindedly over the keys while the piano filled the studio with something soft and unfinished, and the moment the chorus came around you made a frustrated noise and stopped playing altogether.

“God, this is so stupid.”

You leaned back in your chair and rubbed both hands over your face.

The problem wasn’t that you didn’t have anything to say. You had too much. And that’s what made it so unbearable. For the first time in your life, you understood what it meant to have a feeling that was bigger than your vocabulary. You had spent years turning emotions into songs. Heartbreak, jealousy, loneliness, desire, grief, infatuation, all of it had always been manageable once you had a melody and enough time alone with a blank page. You could take something messy and private and turn it into three minutes of words that made sense.

But this was different. Every line sounded too small. Every metaphor felt embarrassing. Every attempt at describing what you felt seemed almost insulting to the feeling itself, as if reducing it to a lyric made it less true. You had written about someone’s hands and deleted it because it sounded too obvious. You had written about someone’s laugh and immediately hated yourself for how sentimental it looked on the page. You had tried writing about wanting to be around someone all the time and decided it sounded like something a seventeen-year-old would put in their diary.

Nothing worked, nothing came close.

You played the chorus one more time, grimaced, and started pushing two notes with anger making the piano sound horrible.

“Stupid ass song. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—”

The studio door opened behind you.

“If you break it you’re gonna pay it.”

You turned your head, stopping your tantrum. Yoongi stood in the doorway, one hand still on the handle, looking at you with a small smile. You stared at him for a second before turning back toward the piano. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He closed the door behind him and walked farther into the room. You heard him move around behind you, followed by the quiet sound of him dropping his things somewhere near the couch. You didn’t turn around again. You were too busy pretending that the last thing you’d said hadn’t been heard. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Working.”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“I’m working badly.”

“Ah. Makes more sense.”

You heard the couch creak as he sat down behind you.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. You adjusted one of the controls on the equipment in front of you even though there was nothing wrong with it, then played a few notes without really listening to them. Yoongi didn’t interrupt. That was something you’d learned about him. He never rushed you when you were struggling to explain something. He didn’t fill silence just because it existed. He seemed perfectly comfortable letting you take your time, even when you were obviously trying to figure out how to say something.

Eventually, he spoke again. “What’s wrong with it?”

You sighed. “Everything.”

“Be more specific for me.”

“I’ve been trying to finish this for hours and I can’t.”

“Why? What’s it about?”

You hesitated. Then you shrugged, pretending like it wasn’t something big. “Love.”

There was a small pause behind you. “Love?”

“Yeah.”

“Since when do you write love songs?”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to look at him over your shoulder. “I’ve written love songs.”

“You’ve written songs that sounded like love songs.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“No.”

You narrowed your eyes at him and he smiled. You turned back around, trying not to smile yourself. “Whatever.”

He was quiet again for a moment. “So what’s different about this one?”

You stared at the keyboard. You could have lied and you almost did. Instead, you said, “I’m trying to write how I feel about someone. How I’m… in love with someone.”

The words felt strange as soon as they left your mouth. Not because you hadn’t admitted it to yourself. You had. You’d spent weeks thinking about it, arguing with yourself about it, trying to write it away and failing spectacularly. But saying it aloud made it real in a way thinking about it never had.

Behind you, Yoongi was silent.

“Oh.”

You couldn’t see his face. But didn’t turn around anyway. For some reason that made it easier for you.

You watched the little light blinking on the equipment in front of you while you continued, your voice quieter now. “I thought I could just write about it, because that’s what I do when I’m overwhelmed about my feelings… But I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

You rested your elbows on the desk and leaned forward. “Everything I write sounds stupid. I keep trying to describe it and it just feels…” You searched for the word. “Wrong.”

“Wrong how?”

“Too small.” He didn’t say anything. You swallowed. “It’s like I know what I feel, but I don’t know how to explain it. And that’s never happened to me before.”

Yoongi hummed quietly, thoughtful rather than judgmental.

“Maybe you’re trying too hard to explain it.”

You frowned at the screen. “What does that mean?”

“Maybe you don’t have to explain the feeling.” You looked over your shoulder again. Yoongi was still sitting behind you, relaxed against the couch, his attention on you even though you weren’t facing him properly. “You always try to make everything make sense,” he continued. “Maybe this doesn’t have to.”

“But it’s a love song.”

“I know.”

“So it has to make sense.”

“Does it?” You opened your mouth to argue but nothing came out. Yoongi smiled faintly at that. “You could just write what happened.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Something happened.”

“No, I mean…” You sighed. “Nothing happened between us.”

That earned a brief silence. You hadn’t intended to emphasize the us. You immediately wished you hadn’t.

Yoongi didn’t comment on it but instead, he asked, “So what happened to you?”

You looked down at your hands. “I just started feeling differently.”

“About them?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

You laughed softly. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Maybe you don’t need to.” You looked at him again. He shrugged. “Maybe you just like them.”

“Him. I love him.”

The words came out too quickly. You froze in place for a long second. It was the first time you had said it out loud. You loved him.

Yoongi didn’t say anything for a second. “Okay.”

You looked back at the keyboard. You weren’t sure why saying it in front of him made your chest feel so tight. You wanted to throw up so badly. Maybe because you’d never told anyone. Maybe because you’d spent so much time trying to convince yourself that it wasn’t serious, and hearing yourself say I love him made every excuse you’d invented seem ridiculous.

Yoongi’s voice was gentle when he spoke again. “Does he know?”

You shook your head. “No.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

You smiled bitterly. “He’s my friend.”

“So?”

“And we work together.”

“That’s complicated.”

“Exactly.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then he asked, “Do you think he’ll be upset?”

You thought about it. “No.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

“I don’t want to lose what we have.” There was something about the silence that followed that made you feel as though he’d understood more than you’d actually said. You kept your eyes on the keyboard. “I really like what we have now,” you admitted. “They’re one of the few people that understands me. I don’t want to risk that just because I decided to develop feelings.”

“You can’t really control that.”

“I know.”

“Then maybe you don’t have to do anything.”

You looked over your shoulder. Yoongi was already looking at you. You couldn’t quite read his expression from the angle, but there was something soft about it, something that made you look away again before you could think too much about it.

“Have you ever felt like that?” you asked.

“Like what?”

“Like you loved someone and didn’t know what to do with it.”

He considered the question. “Yeah.”

You turned slightly in your chair, just to see him properly. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

He smiled a little, looking at the other side of the room now. “A while ago.”

“Did you tell them?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to make things complicated.”

You stared at him. For a second, you wondered if he was talking about someone specific. You didn’t ask, you didn’t want to know really . Instead, you looked back at the piano and said, “So we’re both idiots.”

Yoongi laughed quietly. “Maybe.”

You smiled. The tension you’d been carrying in your shoulders seemed to loosen a little. There was something comforting about knowing that he understood, even if you had no idea whether his experience had anything to do with yours. He didn’t try to convince you to confess. He didn’t tell you that you were being stupid. He simply listened, offering small pieces of advice when you needed them and leaving everything else alone.

Eventually, you played the song again. This time, you didn’t try to fix the words. You let the melody run while you listened to it, thinking about what he’d said. Maybe you didn’t need to explain everything. Maybe the feeling could exist without being perfectly translated. Maybe the song didn’t have to capture all of it, maybe it didn’t have to be the greatest melody or the most heartfelt lyrics.

Maybe it could just be a stupid song.

“That part,” Yoongi said from behind you, “is good.”

You glanced back. “Which part?”

“The melody of the chorus.”

“It’s unfinished.”

“I know.”

You smiled. “It’s still bad.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Wow. High praise.”

“I’m serious.”

You turned back toward the piano, trying not to smile too much.

For another few minutes, you worked quietly while Yoongi sat behind you. He didn’t offer more advice unless you asked for it, and eventually you realized that you weren’t struggling quite as much as you had been before he’d walked in.

When you finally stopped playing, you leaned back in your chair.

“I think I’m done for tonight.”

“Good.” You heard him stand. He walked around the chair and stopped beside you, looking down at the notes scattered across your desk. You expected him to say something about the song, but instead he simply looked at you. “You got this.”

You smiled tiredly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Then he reached down and gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze, the kind of casual gesture you’d seen him make countless times before, and stepped away. It shouldn’t have meant anything. It was just Yoongi being Yoongi. You watched him grab his things and head toward the door. “Goodnight,” he said.

“Goodnight.”

The door closed behind him. You stayed in your chair for a while, staring at the empty doorway.

When you turned back toward the piano and looked at the unfinished song for once you didn’t hate it. It still wasn’t enough to say everything you felt. But maybe that was okay. Maybe some things weren’t meant to fit neatly into three minutes of music.

——————————

By the time dinner started, you had almost convinced yourself that you were doing better.

Not better in the sense that you had stopped loving Yoongi, because you weren’t delusional enough to think a few days of trying not to think about him could undo months of growing closer. But you’d gotten better at carrying it. You could sit beside him without analyzing every word he said. You could listen to him talk about music without wondering whether every opinion he gave you had some hidden meaning. You could leave a studio after spending four hours with him and make it all the way home without replaying every second of the evening in your head.

You were learning how to live with it… Which was why it was particularly unfair that the universe had apparently decided to test you at dinner.

It was supposed to be an easy night. Nothing formal, nothing work-related, just a group of friends getting together at a restaurant in Manhattan because it had been too long since everyone had been in the same place at the same time. You had arrived in a good mood, genuinely excited to see everyone, and for the first hour or so, you had almost forgotten that you were supposed to be worried about anything at all.

Yoongi was sitting across from you, laughing at something one of the others had said, and every once in a while you’d catch his eye from across the table. He’d smile, you’d smile back, and then you’d go back to whatever conversation was happening beside you.

It felt normal and comfortable… Until she arrived.

You had known who she was long before you’d ever met her. Most people in the industry did. She was a well-known producer, someone who had worked with Yoongi for years, long before you’d ever been introduced to him, and their history together was one of those things people seemed to know without ever knowing exactly what was true. There had been rumors about them dating years ago, speculation that had never really disappeared despite neither of them ever confirming anything. They were close, obviously. They had worked together for years, understood each other’s music almost instinctively, and had the kind of familiarity that came from knowing someone long before anyone else had a reason to pay attention.

It didn’t bother you at the start. Even before you had feelings for Yoongi, you’d noticed them. You’d noticed the way she could interrupt him without apologizing. You’d noticed how easily they fell into conversations that nobody else at the table could follow. You’d noticed the way he laughed around her, the way she leaned toward him when she spoke, the way he sometimes looked at her like he already knew what she was going to say.

It had never mattered before. Or at least, you’d never had a reason to let it matter. Now, sitting across the table and watching her lean closer to him as they talked, you felt something inside you quietly collapse.

It wasn’t even anything dramatic. She said something you couldn’t hear over the conversation happening around you, and Yoongi laughed, lowering his head for a moment as she nudged his arm. She laughed too, covering her mouth with her hand, and then she leaned closer again so she could say something else.

You looked away so quickly it made you dizzy for a second.

You tried to keep eating. You tried to listen to the person beside you talking about something that had happened at work, nodding at the right moments and making the occasional comment, but your attention kept drifting back to the other side of the table.

You hated yourself for noticing every little thing. You hated that it was bothering you. Most of all, you hated that you didn’t have the right to care.

Yoongi wasn’t yours. He had never been yours.

He hadn’t promised you anything, hadn’t led you on, hadn’t done anything wrong. He was sitting at dinner with a friend and talking to someone he’d known for years. There was nothing inappropriate about it, nothing you could point to and say there, that’s the problem. The problem was you. You were the one who had fallen in love with him without permission. You were the one who had started wanting things you had no claim to.

By the time the main courses had been cleared, you were barely participating in the conversation anymore. Your mood had gone from bright to flat so gradually that nobody seemed to notice. You weren’t angry, you weren’t even exactly sad, you simply didn’t feel like pretending anymore.

When someone suggested ordering dessert, you shook your head.

“I’m good. I think I’m probably going to head out.”

Several people immediately looked at you. “Already?”

“Yeah. I’m really tired.”

It was a terrible excuse. You knew it. Yoongi knew it too. He had looked at you the moment you said it, his expression changing slightly as he studied your face. “Hey. You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Just really tired.”

He didn’t argue about that. You said your goodbyes, hugged a couple of people, and slipped your coat on. You were almost at the door when you heard footsteps behind you.

“Hey. I’ll take you home.”

You turned around and Yoongi was already reaching for his coat. “Oh, you don’t need to. I’m taking a cab.”

“It’s safer if I take you home.”

“It’s just a car. I can’t take a taxi by myself. You were having a great time here I don’t want to bother you.”

You stared at him, starting to get a little irritated. Yoongi stared back. “I’m taking you home.” There was something so matter-of-fact about the way he said it that arguing seemed pointless.

“You really don’t have to.”

“I know.”

You sighed, already feeling exhausted. “Fine.”

The drive started quietly.

You sat in the co-pilot seat looking out the window while Manhattan passed by in streaks of light, your hands folded in your lap. Yoongi drove with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting near the center console, and for several minutes neither of you said anything. Which actually made you a little glad, you didn’t want to talk at all.

Eventually, he turned the music down a little bit.

“Was dinner bad?”

“No.”

“You didn’t even wanted to stay for dessert. That’s when the conversation gets better.”

“I guess I’m really tired.”

“Yeah. You’ve said that twice.” You looked out the window. Yoongi didn’t push. Instead, he tried something else. “Did something happen?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

You could tell from his voice that he didn’t believe you. You didn’t blame him, you weren’t doing a great job either trying to hide your frustration.

The silence returned and you watched the city outside, trying to settle the uncomfortable feeling in your chest. You didn’t want to talk about it. You didn’t want to lie to him, either. There was no version of the conversation where you could explain why you’d suddenly become miserable without saying something you weren’t ready to say… so you stayed quiet.

After a few more minutes, Yoongi spoke again. “You know you can tell me if something’s bothering you.”

Your throat tightened. You wanted to cry so bad it felt almost pathetic. “I know.”

“Okay.” He left it there. A few blocks later, he glanced at you. “Did I do something?”

You turned toward him. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, but you could see that he was thinking. You looked back out the window. He didn’t ask again. That somehow didn’t make it better. You knew he was giving you space, but you also knew he was paying attention. He wasn’t going to force you to talk, but he wasn’t going to pretend he hadn’t noticed either.

When he eventually pulled up outside your building, you unbuckled your seatbelt. “Thanks for driving me.”

“Of course.” You reached for the door but eh called again. “Hey.” You paused and looked back at him. Yoongi was already looking at you. “If you change your mind…” You waited and he smiled faintly. “You know where to find me.”

You were supposed to complete the inside joke with ‘At the studio. As always’. Instead you nodded at him slightly before looking away. “Goodnight.” You stepped out of the car and closed the door.

You were halfway to the entrance when the window rolled down. “Hey!” You turned and Yoongi was watching you with that same patient expression. “You really were quiet tonight.”

You shrugged weakly, not knowing exactly what to say. “I guess.”

“You don’t have to be.”

You stared at Yoongi but he didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

For a second, you wondered if he knew. Not everything, surely. Not the extent of it. Not the fact that watching another woman laugh with him had made something inside you ache so badly you’d wanted to disappear. He couldn’t possibly know that… Could he?

You smiled faintly, because you didn’t know what else to do. “Goodnight, Yoongi.”

He held your gaze for another second before nodding. “Goodnight, Y/n.”

The window rolled back up and you walked inside.

You didn’t see him leave. You didn’t see the way Yoongi stayed parked for another minute, staring at the entrance you’d disappeared through, or the small sigh that escaped him as he finally started the car again. You didn’t know that he’d recognized the look on your face the moment she had sat beside him. He had noticed the way you’d gone quiet. He had noticed the way you’d stopped laughing. He had noticed that every time he looked across the table, your eyes were somewhere else.

He had even wondered, for a brief moment, whether he should move away from her. Not because there was anything between them, there wasn’t. There hasn’t been anyone… for a very long time. But because he’d started understanding you well enough to know that sometimes you needed things to be said without actually asking for them.

Yoongi hadn’t known whether you’d wanted him to move. So he’d waited. He would keep waiting. Not indefinitely, perhaps, but patiently. Because he wasn’t interested in guessing games, and he wasn’t interested in making you jealous just to see what you’d do. He stopped guessing and trying to read your mind the second he saw that look on you three months ago. The one he could recognize immediately because he had been wearing it for months before you even had the chance to wonder.

That’s why Yoongi didn’t want to manipulate whatever you were feeling into becoming something you weren’t ready to admit. He simply wanted you to know that if there was something you wanted to say, you could say it… And if there wasn’t, he would still be there.

That was the difficult part about caring for someone who hadn’t caught up to you yet. You couldn’t drag them there. You could only leave the door open and hope, eventually, they decided to walk through it.

——————————

It was insane how much you could think about one person.

You had always assumed there was a limit. A reasonable amount of time a human being could spend thinking about another human being before their brain simply became bored and moved on to something else. Apparently, you had been wrong, because Yoongi had managed to occupy an unreasonable amount of your thoughts without even being there.

It had gotten particularly bad over the last few weeks. His group had been busy promoting their new album, which meant their schedules had become impossible, and your usual late-night sessions had almost completely disappeared. You had seen him only a handful of times, usually briefly, usually surrounded by other people, and your conversations had been reduced to messages sent between schedules. Sometimes he’d send you a song or a voice note, sometimes you’d send him something you’d been working on, and every once in a while you’d manage to have an actual conversation that lasted longer than five minutes.

It shouldn’t have been enough to make you miss him but it was.

You missed him in embarrassingly specific ways. You missed hearing him complain about songs he was the one who had written. You missed the way he’d lean back in his chair and close his eyes when he was listening to a new melody. You missed his stupid jokes and the way he’d pretend to be offended whenever you told him one of his ideas was terrible. You missed sitting in the same room with him without having to talk at all.

You even missed his messages. That was when you knew you had a problem. You had started sleeping badly too, which would have been easier to blame on work if your dreams hadn’t become increasingly inconvenient. Yoongi had somehow managed to make an appearance in your subconscious often enough that you were beginning to resent your own brain for its lack of boundaries. You could go an entire day without seeing him and then wake up the next morning having dreamed about him as if you’d spent the entire night with him.

It was exhausting and very humiliating. But, worst of all, there wasn’t really anything you could do about it. You couldn’t exactly call him and say, Hey, I’m thinking about you so much that my own dreams have become a hostile environment.

… So you worked. You worked until late nights and early morning, because work was at least something you could control.

And one nigh, by the time you finally shut down your laptop and started gathering your things, the studio was almost empty. You stretched your arms above your head, rolled your shoulders and checked your phone before slipping it into your bag. Nothing from Yoongi. That was totally fine. You haven’t heard from him in three day, you could live like that… Yeah, you were lying.

You had just reached the hallway when you nearly walked straight into him.

You stopped so abruptly that your bag swung against your hip. Yoongi looked up from his phone. For a second, neither of you said anything.

You blinked confused. “What are you doing here?”

He smiled. “Hi to you too.”

“Hi.” You looked at him again, as if there was a chance you’d somehow mistaken him for someone else. “You’re supposed to be on promotions.”

“I am.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Finished early.”

“Oh.”

It was ridiculous how much relief you felt at seeing him. You tried very hard not to let it show, although you weren’t sure you succeeded.

He looked tired. Not exhausted, exactly, but there were faint shadows beneath his eyes, and his hair looked like he’d run his hands through it too many times during the day. He was still wearing the clothes he’d had on for his schedule, and something about seeing him like that, still carrying the evidence of a long day, made the familiar ache in your chest return.

“You just finished?” you asked.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re going to work?”

He glanced toward the studio. “I was going to.” You waited as he lazily shrugged. “Don’t really feel like it anymore.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You came all the way here to not work?”

“I guess.” There was something almost amused about the way he said it. You didn’t think too much about it. He looked at the bag hanging from your shoulder. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you eaten?”

You hesitated. “Not really.”

“Do you want to?” You looked at him. He nodded toward the elevator. “I mean, I’m hungry. Could use some company.”

There was no reason to say no. “Sure.”

His gummy smile appeared almost immediately. “Okay.”

You followed him toward the elevator, trying not to think about how stupidly happy you suddenly felt.

And if dinner was supposed to be quick, it clearly wasn’t.

You ended up at a small restaurant a few blocks away, sitting across from each other at a table near the window while the city moved around you. It wasn’t particularly fancy, and neither of you seemed interested in making it anything more than what it was. You ordered food, Yoongi complained about how hungry he was, you made fun of him for acting as though he’d been stranded in the wilderness, and within ten minutes you had fallen back into the rhythm you hadn’t realized you’d been missing so badly.

You had almost forgotten how easy it was with him.

He told you about his promotions, about how chaotic the schedules had been, about one of the members nearly falling asleep during a waiting period and another one stealing his food. You laughed at all the parts you’d already heard through messages, mostly because the stories were funnier when he told them himself.

“You look tired,” you said.

“I am.”

“You should sleep more.”

“I’ll sleep.”

“You always say that.”

“I do sleep.”

“Eventually.”

He smiled. “You’re keeping track?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You remember everything I tell you.”

You looked down at your food. “I worked with you a long time.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

“It is.”

He smiled to himself. You hated that you couldn’t tell whether he was teasing you or genuinely pleased by the fact that you remembered things about him.

The conversation moved on, and eventually he asked about your work. You told him about the song you’d been struggling with, leaving out the part about what it was actually about. He listened carefully, resting his chin against his hand. “Did you finish it?”

“Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“It’s not finished.”

“You always say that when you don’t like something.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Why?”

You shrugged. “Because it doesn’t sound right.”

“Still writing about love? Is the same song ?”

You looked up, caught in action. He was already watching you. You had forgotten you’d told him that. “Yeah.”

Yoongi nodded slowly. “How’s that going?”

“Badly.”

He smiled. “Maybe you’re getting better at it.”

“Or worse.”

“Could be.”

You laughed. There was something about the way he looked at you when you laughed that made you want to look away, but you didn’t.

For a few seconds, neither of you said anything. It wasn’t really awkward. You could sit there with him, looking at him across a table in the middle of a crowded restaurant, and somehow feel like you were alone. You found yourself wondering what it would be like to have this all the time. Not the studio or the late nights, or the unfinished songs. But dinner after work. Talking about nothing, knowing how his day had gone. Knowing he’d be there when yours was over.

The thought was so simple that it almost hurt.

Yoongi reached across the table and stole something from your plate.

You stared at him. “Did you just take my food?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s mine.”

“You weren’t eating it.”

“I was going to!”

“Too late.”

You shook your head, laughing. “You’ve become really annoying.”

“You’ve known me for months.”

“And you get more annoying over time.”

“But you’re still here.”

You looked at him and he was already smiling.

Something in your chest tightened. “Unfortunately.”

“Sure.”

You rolled your eyes, but now you were smiling too.

He leaned back in his chair, looking completely comfortable, and you realized how much you’d missed this. Not simply seeing him, but being around him without a schedule, without a deadline, without a room full of other people. You had forgotten how much you liked the version of Yoongi that appeared when he wasn’t working.

He was softer, looser. He laughed more, he talked about stupid things. He looked at you like you were someone he had chosen to spend time with rather than someone he’d happened to end up working beside. And that thought stayed with you. Because you couldn’t stop wondering why he was here.

He could have gone home, he could have gone back to the studio and worked. He could have called one of his friends. Instead, he’d found you leaving and asked you to dinner.

You didn’t let yourself read too much into it. You couldn’t. Maybe he was simply hungry. Maybe he really had wanted company. Maybe you were just projecting because you were hopelessly in love with him and had started turning ordinary kindness into evidence. So you pushed the thought away. You focused on him instead. On the way his eyes softened when he talked about something he cared about. On the way he smiled when you made him laugh. On the way he remembered things you’d mentioned weeks ago without you ever having to remind him. On the way he seemed to know when you were about to change the subject because something had made you uncomfortable.

You wondered, not for the first time, if he knew you were in love with him.

Then you immediately decided that was impossible. If he knew, surely things would be different… Wouldn’t they?

You didn’t notice the way Yoongi watched you when you looked away. You didn’t notice that he’d spent the last week thinking about seeing you. You didn’t know that when his schedule had ended early, the first place he’d thought of going was the studio because he knew there was a good chance you’d still be there. You didn’t know that he’d checked your usual working hours before leaving the building, or that the decision not to work had been made long before he’d found you in the hallway.

You only knew that he was sitting across from you now. And that you wanted him so badly it almost frightened you. You were sure nobody has ever wanted another person like this. Not with this much tenderness, not with this much patience. Not with the strange certainty that even if you never got what you wanted, you would still be grateful that you’d gotten to know him at all.

When dinner was finally over, neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave. You two slowly stood outside the restaurant together, the night air cool against your face.

“Thanks for keeping me company,” Yoongi said.

You smiled. “Thanks for asking.”

“I was hungry.”

“Me too.”

He chucked. You started walking toward his car, but after a few steps he fell into pace beside you.

“I’ll take you home.”

This time you didn’t fight him. “Thanks.”

You looked at him and he smiled softly at you.

And as you drive beside him through the city, talking about nothing and everything, you found yourself thinking that maybe this was enough. Maybe you didn’t need to know what he felt. Maybe you could just keep having nights like this. Maybe you could keep loving him quietly, keep writing songs that never quite captured it, keep pretending that your heart didn’t jump whenever he looked at you for too long.

Because if this was all you ever got, you thought, you’d still be happy… You didn’t know that Yoongi was thinking something remarkably similar. Only his conclusion was different. He didn’t need you to say it tonight. He could wait.

——————————

By the time you finally gave up, there were pieces of paper everywhere.

Some were crumpled tightly enough that you couldn’t remember what you’d written on them. Others had been folded in half, crossed out so aggressively that the ink had nearly torn through the page, while a few had been abandoned beside the piano with single lines written across the top and nothing underneath. Your notebook was open in front of you, several pages covered in half-finished verses, arrows, corrections and words you’d circled so many times that you’d almost worn holes through the paper.

You had spent the better part of the evening trying to write a love song. Again.

You had started with different type of music in your mind. But then you came up with a lovely melody, then changed it. You’d written a verse, hated it, rewritten it, hated that one too. You’d tried something softer, something more honest, something less obvious, something that didn’t sound like every other love song you’d ever heard. You’d tried metaphors and descriptions and memories and everything else you’d spent years learning to use when feelings became too complicated to say plainly.

Nothing worked and eventually, you had stopped trying.

You pushed yourself back in your chair and stared at the ceiling, letting your head rest against the backrest as the silence of the studio settled around you. The equipment was still on, little lights blinking quietly across the room, but you had stopped listening to the melody hours ago. For the first time, you weren’t angry about it. You weren’t frustrated anymore. You had simply accepted it.

Maybe some feelings couldn’t be turned into words.

Maybe that was all there was to it. You had spent your entire career believing that every emotion had a language if you were patient enough to find it, that somewhere beneath the mess of a feeling there was always a sentence waiting to be written. You’d built your life around that belief. You’d made a career out of taking things people couldn’t say and finding a way to say them for them.

And now you were sitting in the middle of a room full of paper because you couldn’t describe how much you loved one person.

It was almost funny….

The studio door opened. You didn’t move.

“What the fuck?”

You recognized Yoongi’s voice immediately. You lowered your eyes from the ceiling. He was standing in the doorway, looking around at the state of the room with an expression that was somewhere between amusement and genuine concern.

You sighed. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Good, let’s keep it that way. Don’t say anything.”

He ignored you. “I was going to ask what happened.”

You gestured vaguely toward the floor. “This.”

He stepped inside, carefully avoiding the papers scattered across the floor. “Did you lose a fight with your notebook?”

“I lost a fight with songwriting.”

“Again?” He asked jokingly.

You looked at him annoyed. “Again.”

Yoongi smiled faintly and closed the door behind him. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

He looked at the mess again. “Sure?”

You laughed quietly. “Yeah. I finally accepted something.”

He pulled the other chair closer to you and sat down, turning it slightly so he was facing you, your knees brushing. “What?”

“I can’t write love songs.”

He stared at you. “That’s dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

“So you’ve decided you’re incapable of writing about love?”

“I’ve decided that whatever I’m feeling isn’t something I can write about.” He nodded slowly, as if he understood the distinction. You looked down at the papers near your feet. “It’s driving me insane, though. I keep trying to forget about this but every time I sit down to write something else I just go back to this, it turns into this stupid love song, and then I hate it because it doesn’t sound like enough.”

“Enough for what?”

You hesitated. “For how I feel.” He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned forward and picked up one of the crumpled pieces of paper beside your chair. You reached for it. “Don’t.”

He looked at you. “Why?”

“It’s terrible.”

“I’ll decide.”

“You don’t want to read it.”

“I do.”

You sighed and let your hand fall. He unfolded the paper carefully, smoothing out the creases with his palm before looking down at the words. You watched his eyes move across the page, suddenly much more self-conscious than you had been when you’d written it.

It wasn’t really a song anymore. It was barely even a verse. Just fragments of thoughts you’d been unable to organize, lines about wanting someone so much that it made everything else feel insignificant, about being so consumed by another person, about cliches, about stupid songs. There were lines you’d crossed out and rewritten, words you’d circled and then abandoned, little pieces of honesty you’d only been brave enough to write because you knew nobody was supposed to read them.

Yoongi finished. He didn’t laugh, he didn’t make a joke. He simply looked at the paper for another moment before folding it once along one of the existing creases.

“I told you,” you said quietly. “It sucks.”

“I don’t think it does.”

“It does.”

“It’s unfinished.”

“That’s a nicer way of saying it sucks.” He smiled but you looked away. “I just hate that I can’t explain it.”

He glanced back at the page. “You write about everything.”

“I know.”

“You’ve written songs about things you said you couldn’t explain before.”

“I know.”

“So what’s different?”

You thought about it. “I don’t know.” There’s seconds of silence and after a moment, you added, “Maybe it’s because I want the person too much.” His eyes lifted toward you. You continued before you could lose your nerve. “I want them so much that everything I write feels smaller than what I’m actually feeling. I want him more than any stupid song could ever say. And that’s the one thing I’m supposed to be good at. I’m supposed to be able to take something like that and make it make sense.” You laughed softly, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “I can describe heartbreak. I can describe wanting someone. I can make a stupid three-minute song about missing someone sound like the end of the world, but apparently when it actually happens to me, I can’t find a single fucking word that feels right.” Yoongi listened without interrupting. You looked down at your hands. “I think I finally accepted that maybe some things just aren’t meant to be put into words.”

Yoongi looked at the page again. “Maybe.”

You smiled faintly. “It’s annoying.”

“Yeah.”

“Especially because I keep writing them anyway.”

He looked at you. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

You laughed under your breath. “You don’t have to be nice.”

“I’m not being nice.”

“You are.”

“I’m telling you what I think.” You looked at him. He was holding the paper loosely between his fingers now, his expression thoughtful. “I like it.”

“Yeah?.”

“Yeah,” his tone was softer. “And I think the person would understand.”

Something in the room changed.

It wasn’t obvious. There was no sudden movement, no dramatic shift in the air, nothing you could point to afterward and say that was the moment. It was just a look. Yoongi looked at you. And for the first time, you actually saw him. Not the version of him you’d spent months trying to understand from across studio tables and restaurant booths. Not the person whose smiles you’d memorized, whose messages you waited for, whose kindness you kept trying to convince yourself was simply kindness.

You saw his eyes. And you recognized them. Because you’d seen that look before. You had seen it every time you’d caught yourself staring at him in the reflection of a dark studio window. Every time you’d looked at yourself in the mirror after a long day and realized you were smiling because you’d been thinking about him. Every time you’d wondered what love was supposed to look like when nobody else was around to see it.

It was the same look you had.

It was him looking at you like you were something he didn’t know how to put into words either.

Your breath caught.

Oh.

You stared at him, suddenly understanding why he’d always been so patient. Why he’d never pushed. Why he’d always seemed to know when something was wrong without asking for an explanation. Why he’d found you at the studio after his schedule and claimed he didn’t feel like working. Why he’d insisted on driving you home. Why he’d sat in silence in the car and given you every opportunity to tell him what was wrong. Why he’d kept leaving the door open. Why he’d kept waiting.

You had spent so long wondering what Yoongi thought about you that you’d never considered the possibility that he’d been wondering the same thing.

Your voice was barely above a whisper when you finally spoke. “Would you…” You stopped for a second, and he waited again. “Would you understand?”

Yoongi didn’t hesitate. “I would.”

That was it.

Two words. Nothing poetic, nothing clever, nothing that could ever become a chorus or a bridge or a line worth putting in a notebook. But they were enough.

You looked at him, your chest suddenly too tight, your thoughts too quiet for once. Yoongi looked back at you. There was no uncertainty in his expression now. Now that you could see him clearly. There was only patience, only that same softness you’d been trying to write about for weeks.

You looked down at the crumpled paper still in his hand. “Don’t throw this away,” he suddenly said. “I think it can become something.”

You smiled faintly. “It’s a stupid song.”

“Well if you don’t want it,” Yoongi folded the paper again, more carefully this time, “I’ll keep it.”

You looked at him for a second longer than necessary before nodding. “You can keep it.” A tiny smile tugged at your lips. “It’s yours anyway.”

okay i’ll wait for you

series taglist — @tina-20 @anabeatrizal-blog1 @yawnzshit @jksusawife @djcaughtnamjooning @crimsonp3ak @nestarasikila @lovingkoalaface @iamsodonewithlemons @motheraiya55 @elodieous @goawaysha @s1mpf0rda1k1 @libriaryshelf @kentucky-criedfricken @akl3223 @taevescence @mima795 @avantika27 @bakudon

[luvismenu]

𝗙𝗨𝗖𝗞 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝗥𝗜𝗩𝗔𝗟 — 𝗃𝖾𝗈𝗇 𝗃𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗄𝗈𝗈𝗄 / m.list

Two rival CEOs who absolutely despise each other keep ending up in bed despite the hatred. Their relationship is nothing but angry texts, blackmail, and raw hate sex with zero feelings involved.

𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲𝘀 / 𝗮𝘂 (warnings): smau/texting au + written, ceo!jk x ceo!oc, enemies with benefits/enemies who fuck, sexting, smut, jealousy, intense competition, corporate sabotage, toxic rivalry. // NO SERIES TAGLIST

❚ 𝗜𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗫 ⎯⎯⠀3/4⠀mini series , on-going .

𝗢𝟭 — 𝗛𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗬𝗼𝘂, 𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗢𝘃𝗲𝗿 【 smau 】

𝗢𝟮 — 𝗙𝘂𝗰𝗸 𝗠𝗲 𝗢𝗿 𝗙𝘂𝗰𝗸 𝗢𝗳𝗳 【 written 】

𝗢𝟯 — 𝗗𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗛𝗶𝗺? 𝗣𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲. 【 smau 】

𝗢𝟰 — 𝗠𝘆 𝗗𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘁, 𝗜 𝗟𝗼𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗬𝗼𝘂. 【 written 】

© 2026 luvismenu. all rights reserved.

[rubber-feathers]

Loser in Love's Vigil

NO ONE DIES i swear but vigil bc this is a lot of waiting at night and its almost sacred…

reader gets hurt like somewhat bad? but not so bad. shes fine! bl00d. Rlly tried avoiding Y/N LOOL so a lot of she/her in reference to reader.

this is pretty angsty i would say, just follows around how alysa would react if her snowboarder gf took a fall and got hurt. also, so inaccurate timeline and scheduling wise bc i know nothing about either sport soooooo if u can ignore that plz do

For mixxedup-once's request

When people asked later what the Olympics were like, you both usually talked about the medals, the crowds, the pressure, the travel, the interviews—the obvious things. What neither of you really explained to anyone was that the Olympics didn’t just change your careers. They changed the two of you.

Somewhere between the opening ceremony and the last medal ceremony, between the distance and the argument and the quiet hurt neither of you knew how to say out loud at first, something cracked open and forced both of you to look at your relationship more honestly than you ever had before. Alysa had always loved you in that intense, slightly stubborn way she loved everything important—deeply, seriously but privately. She assumed you knew. She assumed the way she showed up for you in small ways was obvious enough. The Olympics were the first time she realized that love doesn’t count for much if the other person can’t see it. She realized you shouldn’t have to guess how important you are to someone; that she couldn’t keep waiting for you to make the first move in public, couldn’t keep acting like your relationship was something that only existed when no one else was looking. And you learned that pulling away when you were hurt didn’t protect you the way you thought it did—it just made both of you lonely at the same time. So, you talked, probably more honestly than either of you ever had, and when you came out the other side of that, something between you felt steadier. It wasn't perfect, and it didn't magically become easy, but you two were finally on the same page.

After the Olympics, when everything slowed down and the world stopped watching quite so closely, you both disappeared a little. Not entirely because you still had the mandatory press tour, still showed up to events when you had to, still smiled on red carpets and answered questions and even went to the Met Gala together that year like the world expected you to. But most of your time was spent at home, off the grid, just being normal with each other for once. Alysa started talking more at night when you were both half asleep, the kind of honest conversations that only happen in the dark when no one is performing for anyone else. She got better at saying what she felt instead of assuming you already knew. And in public, she stopped waiting. If she wanted to hold your hand, she just reached for it, if she wanted to touch your back, she did. If she wanted to kiss you goodbye, she didn’t check who was looking first. It wasn’t performative, it was just her finally understanding that loving you wasn’t something she needed to hide so carefully.

Since the Olympics, neither of you had felt lost in the relationship and neither of you spiraled wondering where you stood. You both knew.

Then Novemebr came, and with it, competition season again.

November in Nevada feels wrong.

Alysa notices that first thing in the morning when she wakes up in the hotel room and stares at the ceiling for a second too long before reaching for her phone. The air is dry in that way desert air always is, the sunlight too clean through the curtains, everything outside too beige and still compared to the places both of you usually end up this time of year. It isn’t bad exactly. It just feels off today.

That’s the word that follows her around all morning. Off.

It starts as one of those vague feelings she’d normally ignore. Alysa is used to nerves. Used to waking up with adrenaline already humming somewhere under her skin before competition days, used to the particular strangeness of hotel rooms and weird sleep and training schedules and too many people talking at her before she’s fully awake. But this doesn’t feel like skating nerves.

Warm-up goes fine. Better than fine, actually. Her body listens. Her jumps are there. Timing feels good. Nothing is fighting her. So technically, she has no reason to feel weird. And yet?

She’s sitting on the side of the rink after practice, jacket half-zipped, texting you while a coach says something to someone behind her that she doesn’t even process, and the feeling creeps back in again. Not sharp exactly but persistent, like a thread tugging somewhere low in her ribs.

You’re in Colorado for the U.S. Grand Prix. Big air and Slopestyle. She’s in Nevada for the ISU Grand Prix. Entirely different worlds, same day, same stupid sport schedules that have made long distance into something neither of you even question anymore. You’d both texted this morning the usual. Good luck. Don’t fall. Eat something.

Alysa stares at your last message for a second before typing something back.

Alysa:

i think u should retire after this szn lol

She only adds the lol because otherwise it sounds too much like what it is: serious. And she already knows how you get about this topic. You hate when she gets too visibly worried about snowboarding, and you hate even more when she sounds like she’s trying to police it. You say it makes you feel like she doesn’t trust you. Alysa always says that’s not the point. You always say then stop acting like it is.

The typing bubble appears almost instantly.

You:

whyyyyy

Alysa presses her lips together and types back with one thumb.

Alysa:

idk i hate that ur always in danger

This time the response takes a second longer.

You:

do u not trust me that im the goat

Alysa:

not that i just worry abt u

You:

dw abt me im a tough guy

Alysa’s face goes flat in that way it always does when you say something so ridiculous with complete confidence.

Alysa:

ur not a guy

You:

dont tell me who to be

That gets the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. She’s already typing back—something sarcastic, ok tough guy—when someone calls her name sharply enough to drag her back into the room.

“Alysa.” She looks up. One of the staff is gesturing at the rink. It’s time. Her phone screen goes dark in her hand. She slides it into her jacket pocket and stands. The weird feeling doesn’t leave. It just gets shoved down under muscle memory and competition routine, under the part of her life that has always known how to take up too much space and force everything else out for a little while.

A few hours pass. Her event goes well like really well. Clean enough that everyone around her is pleased, coaches calmer, the post-skate blur moving in that familiar wave of press and congratulations and quick comments from the press. Alysa nods through it all, answers what she has to answer, changes out of skates, gets halfway back to herself physically.

But the off feeling is still there. Which is what bothers her. If it had been about her skating, it should’ve gone away by now. Instead, by the time she’s in the locker room, jacket back on, hair slightly flattened at the crown from costume changes and adrenaline settling out of her bloodstream, the weird pull in her chest feels stronger. Not enough to name but enough to make her uneasy.

The TV mounted in the corner of the locker room is off when she walks in. She stops and looks around for a worker. “Can someone turn that on?” she asks, already shrugging out of one sleeve of her jacket before stopping halfway. “I need the snowboarding stream.”

Something in her tone must make it clear she’s not asking lightly, because a minute later the TV flickers to life with the slopestyle broadcast. Colorado fills the screen—bright snow, mountain shadows, announcer voices with that too-lively sports cadence.

Alysa stands there with her arms crossed and her thumb hooked against her lower lip, half biting at the nail without realizing she’s doing it. You’re not up yet.

Amber notices her first. Of course she does. She comes in mid-conversation with someone else, takes one look at Alysa standing there like her entire soul is apparently tethered to the TV, and just smiles. “Oh my god,” Amber says under her breath. “You’re in deep.” Alysa barely reacts. Amber steps closer, leaning in enough to catch the broadcast too. “She’s like a professional, you know.”

Alysa waves one hand at her without looking away. Not even dismissive so much as absent. Like please go away, I’m busy.

That gets a laugh out of Isabeau when she walks over a second later. “How many times have you seen her do this and she’s fine?”

Alysa still doesn’t turn. “Doesn’t matter. Just want her to be okay.”

Amber’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wow. She admitted she has feelings!”

“I’ve never denied it.”

“No,” Amber says. “But you used to act like you were too cool to have emotions.”

Alysa finally glances at her for half a second, expression blank. “Shhh.”

Alysa tunes the conversation around her out again almost instantly. She can feel both skaters still standing near her now, can hear the low amusement in their breathing, but they become part of the room’s background noise the second the broadcast shifts.

“Up next,” one of the commentators says, brightening audibly, “the reigning Olympic gold and silver medalist from earlier this year in February. She’s back here in Colorado defending a second-place finish from last season, and expectations are, understandably, very high.”

Your name appears on screen as Alysa goes perfectly still.

The camera cuts to you at the start area, board clipped in, shoulders bundled up against the cold. It zooms in enough that Alysa can see the small details she always notices first—the way you mess with the board strap when you’re waiting too long, the slight press of your lips together when you’re thinking, the expression you get when you’re annoyed but trying not to let it show too obviously.

And right now? Your face is scrunched. You bend down, fiddle with your binding or strap or something near your front foot. Then you say something to your coach. Even without sound, Alysa can tell from your mouth and the way your brows lift that it’s a complaint, or at least a concern. Your coach kneels immediately and starts messing with the same spot.

Alysa narrows her eyes and the feeling in Alysa’s chest sharpens.

Amber notices the change in Alysa’s posture. “What?”

Alysa doesn’t answer right away. “Something's wrong.”

Isabeau looks at the screen. “What is?”

“She’s worried about something.”

On screen, your coach finishes adjusting whatever it was, pats the board once, and stands. You get up too, test the weight of it, rock once, then settle.

The announcer is still talking about your Olympic results, about style and consistency and how you’ve become one of the women to watch in the discipline. Alysa barely hears any of it now. Her whole body is tuned to the image of you on the screen.

Then you drop.

The first section goes clean. You ride the rail with the kind of confidence Alysa has seen so many times it should maybe stop making her nervous and somehow never does. Body low and balanced, easy in that infuriating way top athletes can make dangerous things look almost casual. You come off the feature clean and head into the first smaller jump. You land it perfectly.

Alysa exhales once, not relief yet but getting there.

The broadcast follows you down the course, camera wide enough to keep your whole line in frame. You’re moving well, you're fluid, fast. By the time you set for the final jump, one of the announcers is already talking about how strong the run is shaping up to be, how this could put you in a really good place if you land.

Alysa’s stomach drops before anything even happens. It's a pulse of dread so sharp it makes her fingers curl into her sleeves.

Then...the takeoff. And immediately it's wrong.

Your body leaves the lip and Alysa knows before the spin fully sets. The timing is off by a fraction and somehow that fraction changes everything. Your hand goes for the board and misses. Or finds it too late. There isn’t enough air under you, not enough control, and suddenly the thing Alysa hates more than anything in this sport happens... your arms start flailing, signifying loss of control.

The second she sees your arms break wild like that, something in her body gives way.

It happens in almost unbearable slow motion after that.

You come down wrong—too far forward, too little control, body pitched in a way that is all panic and physics and no recovery. The board clips. Your upper body whips. Then your head and shoulder slam into the snow first with a sickening kind of force that seems to travel straight through the TV. Your helmet flies off. Actually flies off.

Alysa’s heart doesn’t just drop—it feels like it disappears altogether.

Your body ragdolls down the rest of the landing, limbs loose in that horrible, unnatural way that tells everyone watching you were no longer in control of what happened almost immediately.

Amber gasps and covers her mouth with both hands. “Oh my god.”

Isabeau’s head snaps toward Alysa instantly, concern already all over her face before Alysa even realizes she’s reacting. Alysa doesn’t move. She can’t. For one impossible second it feels like her entire body has been nailed to the floor. Cold all over. Nausea so immediate and violent it makes her throat tighten. Her vision goes weird at the edges, not blurry exactly but it's too sharp in the center and not enough anywhere else.

On the TV, the broadcast zooms out, then back in, then out again like the camera operators themselves don’t know how close is too close for something this bad. You try to sit up. Alysa sees it, sees the motion, desperate and instinctive, and then sees you collapse back flat again. There’s red on your face now.

Alysa feels like she’s actually going to throw up.

One of the announcers is still talking, voice lower now, stripped of the usual performative excitement. “That is a very, very hard fall. You can see immediately the concern here—especially with the helmet coming off. That is not something you ever want to see.”

Medics are already on you, running, sliding into frame. One drops to a knee at your side, another signals farther up the course. You move again—trying to sit up, maybe just reacting—and a medic immediately presses a hand toward your shoulder, guiding you back down.

The announcer keeps going, carefully now, “Her day is definitely over. Such a sad way to get this event started. Hopefully she’ll be alright.” Your board is somewhere behind the medics. The snow around the impact zone is scuffed and ugly. Your helmet is farther away than Alysa can stand to look at.

It doesn’t feel real. Not in the normal way bad things don’t feel real at first. In the specific way that Alysa’s brain rejects the image because it has already spent all day trying to tell her something was wrong and now that something is wrong, it’s too much. Too exact. Too cruel.

This is it. This is the shape of every worry she’s ever had about your sport, every stupid argument, every time she texted be careful and tried to make it sound like a joke because she didn’t want you rolling your eyes at her. This. The image of you hitting hard enough that your helmet came off.

She can hear her own pulse in her ears now. Fast and ugly and wrong. Her jaw hurts, her shoulders hurt. Everything in her body is braced so hard it’s almost painful but she can’t look away. And for a few endless seconds, that is the worst feeling she has ever known.

------

The two-hour flight to Colorado is the longest two hours Alysa has ever lived through.

She doesn’t remember packing her bag. She doesn’t remember the drive to the airport and she barely remembers boarding the plane. The last clear image in her head before everything turned into motion and noise and fluorescent lights was the TV in the locker room and your body hitting the snow and the helmet flying off and the red on your face.

That image won’t leave. It loops behind her eyes the entire flight.

She sits by the window but doesn’t look out of it once. Her phone is in her hands the entire time, screen lighting up every few minutes with messages she barely reads. She opens the messages, closes them, opens your contact, closes it again because there’s nothing to text. She doesn’t even know if you have your phone. She doesn’t know if you’re awake. She doesn’t know if you’re in surgery. She doesn’t know anything except what she saw.

Head first. Helmet off. Blood. Airlift.

She had snapped out of that frozen trance in the locker room the moment she saw the helicopter arrive on the broadcast and watched them lift you onto the stretcher. Something in her brain had switched from watching to moving. She grabbed her bag, called her manager, said she needed the next flight to Colorado, didn’t care about logistics or cost or schedule. Now she’s sitting on the plane and the movement is the worst part because she can’t do anything.

She just sits there with her hands locked together so tight her knuckles ache, elbows on her knees, head bowed slightly like she’s praying even though she’s never really been the praying type. Her brain is running through every possible version of what could be happening to you right now.

She knows crashes. She’s seen crashes. She’s watched enough snowboarding and skiing over the years to know what bad looks like and what really bad looks like. The crash could have been worse, she tells herself. She’s seen worse. She’s seen people not move at all. She’s seen people get stretchered out unconscious. She’s seen limbs bend in ways they shouldn’t. But you moved, you tried to sit up. That has to mean something. Then another memory slips in—some skier she’d read about years ago. Hit her head, stood up, talked to people. Then collapsed minutes later from internal bleeding.

Alysa’s stomach twists so hard she presses her fist against it.

No, this isn’t that. It can’t be that.

You’re tough. You’ve crashed before. You’ve gotten up laughing with blood on your lip and snow in your hair and told her you were fine while she yelled at you for scaring her. You’ve broken things before and walked it off like it was an inconvenience instead of an injury. You’re okay. You have to be okay. She repeats that in her head like it’s a fact she can force into existence if she thinks it enough times.

The plane hums quietly around her, people sleeping, people watching movies, flight attendants moving up and down the aisle like this is a normal day and a normal flight and nothing important is happening at all. But for Alysa, the world has narrowed down to one thing: Getting to you.

And until she sees you with her own eyes, she will sit here in this quiet, aching, suspended space between not knowing and knowing, between fear and relief, and she will wait. This is what loving you has always meant, even before she realized it. It's not just medals and jokes and lazy kisses and inside jokes with nights on the couch. It also means sitting in fear, holding her breath, refusing to look away from the possibility of losing you. It's her choosing you over everything else without even thinking about it.

This flight isn’t travel. It’s a vigil. And she will sit here, hands clasped, heart in her throat, and keep awake until she gets to you.

------

When the plane lands, she’s off before most people have even unbuckled their seatbelts. She orders an Uber from the curb and spends the entire drive staring out the window without actually seeing anything. Then the hospital lobby smells like antiseptic and coffee and too many people waiting for too many different reasons.

Alysa walks straight to the front desk. “I’m here for—” she says your full name, voice tight. “What room is she in?”

The woman at the desk types something, then looks up. “Are you family?”

Alysa doesn’t hesitate. “I’m her girlfriend.”

The woman softly says, “We’re only allowing two visitors at a time right now, and there are already two people with her. You’re going to have to wait.”

Wait. The word hits Alysa like a physical object. She has been waiting for hours already. Waiting on a plane. Waiting in a car. Waiting without knowing if you were conscious or breathing or in surgery or—

“I can’t wait,” Alysa says, voice dropping. Not angry or loud, just so desperate. “Please. Can you tell whoever’s up there that I need to see her? Do you know who’s up there so I can tell them myself?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t give out names.”

Alysa leans forward slightly, both hands flat on the counter now. “Please,” she says again, and she is actually begging now, voice shaking just slightly. “I need to get to her.”

The woman studies her for a second, clearly feeling bad but also clearly stuck in hospital protocol. Then she lowers her voice slightly. “Off the record,” she says quietly, “one of them seemed like a coach.”

Alysa nods immediately, already pulling her phone out of her pocket. Her hands are shaking so badly she almost drops it. She calls your coach.

A few minutes later, she sees two people walk into the lobby—your head coach and his assistant coach. The assistant coach gives her a small, sympathetic smile and sits down in one of the waiting chairs. Your head coach walks straight over to Alysa. “Come on,” he says gently.

They walk toward the elevators together, and Alysa starts talking immediately. “What happened? Is she awake? Did she hit her head really bad? I watched they airlifted her—was she unconscious? Did she—” She’s firing questions so fast she barely breathes between them.

He lets her talk for a few seconds, probably because he knows she needs to get it out. Then he presses the elevator button and finally says, “Alysa. She’s okay.”

The words hit her so hard she almost doesn’t understand them at first.

“She’s very lucky,” he continues. “Grade two concussion. Broken nose. A lot of bruising along her back and ribs. But no spinal injury, no internal bleeding, no skull fracture. They’re keeping her overnight for monitoring because of the concussion, but she’s going to be okay.”

Alysa feels like someone just let her breathe again after she’d been underwater for hours. Her chest actually hurts with how hard the relief hits.

She nods once, but she can’t speak for a second. Her throat is too tight. Her eyes burn suddenly and she blinks hard, looking down at the floor of the elevator like she needs to get control of herself before she walks into your room.

The doors open and he leads her down a quiet hallway, then stops at a door and pushes it open gently. You’re sitting up in the hospital bed. That’s the first thing Alysa registers. You’re upright and awake. Not hooked up to a million machines, just sitting there in one of those hospital gowns with a blanket over your lap, shoulders slightly hunched like you’re uncomfortable. There’s a metal splint across your nose, taped in place, and the bruising is already starting under your eyes—dark and spreading, the beginning of two black eyes that will probably look awful in a few days.

You look miserable. But you’re alive. Alysa’s heart physically aches at the sight of you.

She doesn’t say anything when she walks in. She just closes the distance immediately and grabs your hand like she needs to confirm you’re actually real and not something she imagined.

You smile at her, slow and a little lopsided, eyes half-lidded and heavy from the concussion. You squeeze her fingers weakly. “Told you I’m tough,” you mumble.

Alysa lets out a short laugh, but it’s not really laughter. It’s relief and disbelief and leftover fear all tangled together. “You’re insane,” she says quietly. “I was so worried.”

You nod slightly. “I was a little scared too,” you admit. “But I’m okay. Or that’s what they’re telling me.” You look at her for a second, then say, very softly, “Can I please kiss you?”

Alysa’s heart does something painful again in her chest. She wants to kiss you so badly it almost hurts. But the splint on your nose, the bruising, the way you’re clearly in pain even sitting still—it makes her hesitate. She doesn’t want to accidentally bump your nose or hurt you more.

You see the hesitation immediately. “Please,” you say again, voice quiet but stubborn. Then you add, “I heard you aced your program. I wish I could watch it but they took away screens from me.” You pause, then look at her with a small, tired smile. “But I don’t need to watch a replay to know you looked pretty and landed all your jumps perfectly. Unlike—” You trail off and look away.

And Alysa’s heart actually breaks all over again in that moment. She knows that look, that quiet frustration. The part of you that isn’t just hurt physically, but hurt that you didn’t land the run, that you didn’t get to finish, that you crashed in front of everyone. Your ego is bruised too, and she can see it all over your face even through the swelling and the exhaustion.

She can’t let you feel rejected on top of everything else.

So she sighs softly and leans in very carefully, one hand coming up to cup your jaw gently so she can control the angle, and she kisses you as carefully as she can. You kiss her back immediately, eager and a little clumsy because you’re trying not to move your face too much. But when your nose brushes her cheek, you wince sharply and Alysa pulls back right away.

“Okay, no,” she says softly. “We’re not doing that right now.”

“I’ll get over it,” you mumble. “We should try again.”

She shakes her head and sits down carefully on the edge of the bed instead, still holding your hand. “You’re concussed and your nose is broken,” she says. “You’re not doing anything.” You sigh dramatically and lean your head back against the pillows.

For a second, neither of you says anything. Alysa just sits there with your hand in hers, thumb rubbing slowly over your knuckles like she needs to keep reminding herself you’re actually here. She looks at the bruises under your eyes. The tape across your nose. The way you’re moving slightly slower than usual. And she thinks about the crash again, the way your body hit the snow, the helicopter, the blood. Her stomach twists again.

“I hate your sport,” she says quietly.

You open one eye and look at her. “You say that every year.”

“I mean it every year.”

You look at her for a long moment, really look at her, like you’re seeing how shaken she still is even though she’s trying to act calm now. “Come here,” you mumble.

She leans closer and you rest your head carefully against her shoulder, avoiding your nose. For the first time since the crash, Alysa finally feels like her heart is beating normally again. She’s still scared. Still angry at the mountain and the snow and the jump and the physics and everything that could have taken you away from her in a single bad rotation.

But you’re here.

-------

Alysa leaves the hospital feeling like she’s been peeled open. There’s nothing neat about it. It feels messy like the last several hours scraped something raw inside her and even though you’re okay—even though she saw you, touched you, held your hand, heard your stupid voice making stupid jokes with a splint on your nose—her body still hasn’t caught up to that fact.

It does not want to let go of you.

When visiting hours end and your nurse comes in with that apologetic, practiced tone hospitals use when they have to interrupt people in the middle of relief, Alysa’s first instinct is to ignore her. Her second instinct is to say no. Her third is to bargain. She manages none of those, because you get there first.

“You have to go,” you mumble, voice thick with exhaustion and the concussion and whatever pain medication they’ve given you. “You have a final.”

Alysa’s hand tightens around yours immediately. “I don’t care.”

You blink at her slowly, that half-lidded look on your face somehow both pathetic and still annoyingly smug. “You do.”

“I literally don’t.”

“You will when you’re not sleep-deprived and emotionally unstable.”

Alysa narrows her eyes, but there’s no force in it. Not with you looking like that. “You’re concussed and still talking too much.”

“And you still have to go.”

Your coaches agree with you, obviously. So do hers, over the phone, in that infuriatingly reasonable way adults in sports always do when they’re trying to make logistics sound more important than love. The final is tomorrow. She can still make it back. She should still make it back. You’ll be discharged soon anyway and flying home to California with your own people. The best thing she can do right now, apparently, is leave.

Alysa hates every second of it. She hates standing up from the chair by your bed. Hates pulling her hand out of yours. Hates the way you try to smile at her like you’re the one comforting her.

“Go win,” you say quietly.

She leans down and presses the gentlest kiss she can manage to your forehead because it’s the only place she can do it without risking your nose. “You’re the worst,” she mutters.

Your mouth twitches. “Oh, but you love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

You smile properly at that—tired, bruised, eyes heavy, but still you. And that’s the image Alysa has to carry with her all the way back to the airport, all the way onto another plane, all the way back into the bubble of competition like she didn’t just spend the day thinking she might lose you.

By the time she gets back, she feels hollowed out.

The arena the next morning is too bright. Too normal. Coaches and skaters and staff moving around like the world didn’t tilt violently off-axis yesterday. Alysa goes through the motions because she knows how to. Her body is so trained for this that it will keep performing routines even when the rest of her is somewhere else entirely.

People know, of course they do. Not every detail, but they heard or saw the crash. And there's the not-so-rumor that she disappeared across state lines for a few hours and came back overnight. A couple of people ask gently how you are. Alysa answers them. That, all by itself, feels new.

Before, she would’ve gone closed-off instantly. A short “she’s okay” and then silence sharp enough to end the conversation. Not because she didn’t care. Because she cared too much, and letting people see the shape of it always felt like exposure. Like weakness or giving away something private. Now she doesn’t have the energy for that kind of self-protection. Or maybe she just doesn’t believe in it the same way anymore.

So when people ask, she actually answers. “She’s okay,” Alysa tells one of the coaches passing by. “Concussion. Broken nose. Bruised up pretty bad, but okay. They kept her overnight, but she should be flying home now." And every time she says it out loud, it makes it a little more real in a good way. Home. Safe. Not still lying in that snow. Not frozen forever in the image her mind keeps trying to replay.

Still, the pressure under her ribs doesn’t lift all the way.

She’s in the locker room tying her skates when Amber sits down beside her. No jokes first. No teasing. It's that calm, open presence Amber slips into when she knows someone is hanging on by more threads than they’d like to admit.

“Hey,” Amber says quietly.

Alysa keeps her eyes on the laces for a second too long. “Hey.”

“Are you okay?” The question sits there. It's so simple, so genuine. Amber leans her elbows on her knees, looking at Alysa without forcing eye contact. “That was really scary,” she says. “And I know you traveled all night so you must be exhausted.” A beat. “It’s okay if you’re not totally okay.”

It's like whenever someone asks if you're okay, it snaps any ounce of self-restraint all at once. There’s no sudden sob, no full collapse. It’s more like the thing holding her together quietly gives way. Her hands stop on the laces. Her shoulders cave in a little. Then she turns, almost blindly, and lets herself fold into Amber. Amber catches her immediately. Firm arms. One around her shoulders, one hand at the back of her head for a second before moving down to rub her back, there's no surprise like she expected this.

Alysa cries quietly. She doesn't make a noise, really, as tears slide down her face while she tries to breathe through the pressure in her lungs and can’t quite get a full breath for a few seconds. Her face is tucked against Amber’s shoulder, one hand twisted in the fabric of her own warm-up jacket, trying to get enough control over herself not to shake apart entirely.

Amber doesn’t rush her, doesn’t say it’s okay in that empty way people sometimes do when they’re uncomfortable with someone else’s fear. She just holds on and keeps rubbing Alysa’s back in slow circles like she knows Alysa needs steadiness more than reassurance right now.

When Alysa finally pulls back a little, it’s only enough to wipe at her face with the heel of her hand. Her skin feels hot and awful, her nose burns. Her chest still hurts with the memory of the panic. “I was so scared, Amber,” she says, voice rough and embarrassingly thin. “I’ve never felt that sick in my life.”

Amber nods once, eyes soft but not pitying. “I know.”

Alysa swallows hard. “I was waiting for some headline to announce she didn’t make it before I got there.” Her mouth twists. “Like I kept thinking my phone was gonna light up and it was gonna be… I don’t know.” She shakes her head because she can’t even finish that sentence without feeling like she’ll throw up again. “It felt like torture.”

Amber keeps listening, lets the words come.

“I couldn’t do anything,” Alysa says. “I was just sitting there on that plane and all I knew was what I saw on TV and it was just her hitting the snow over and over again in my head and I—” She stops to catch her breath, presses her lips together hard enough to steady them. “I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

There it is. The thing that used to stay buried inside other sentences, under jokes, under coolness. Under Alysa pretending not to be the kind of person who needs someone that badly.

Amber’s expression doesn’t change much, but her hand presses once, firmly, between Alysa’s shoulder blades. “You won’t ever have to find out,” she certain. “She wouldn’t leave you like that. She’s a fighter, and she’s tough, okay? She’s okay.” Then, more gently, “She’ll be waiting for you after this. At home. And then you’ll be there taking care of her.”

The picture of that lands softly in Alysa’s heart. It doesn't completely erase the fear. Alysa nods slowly, sniffles once, annoyed at herself. Wipes the rest of her face and exhales like she’s trying to clear the last of it out of her body.

Amber squeezes her once more—quick, solid, no lingering weirdness—then leans back enough to look at her properly. “Want me to stay?”

Alysa shakes her head. “No. It’s okay.” Her voice is still scratchy but more stable now. “I’m done.”

Amber lifts one eyebrow like she doesn’t believe that for a second, but lets it go. “Okay.” They stand. The rhythm of competition starts to gather around them again—coaches moving, names being called, the low scrape of blades somewhere beyond the room.

Then Alysa’s phone vibrates in her pocket. She pulls it out automatically, expecting maybe one of your coaches updating her with something else. Instead she sees your name and her heart jumps into her throat.

You:

Hey, Alysa. Good luck today on your final.

Alysa stares at the screen, eyes narrowing at the formality of your text. But before Alysa can respond, another text comes through.

You:

This is her coach typing for her, she can’t look at her phone.

Alysa’s mouth finally lifts. Of course. Of course you’re concussed, probably squinting at light, probably under strict instructions not to be on screens, and you still found a way to make sure she got a message before her final. Of course you made your coach type for you like some absurd little dictator of affection still thinking about her. Something warm and painful moves through her all at once.

She types back more slowly than usual.

Alysa:

tell her thank u and i love her

A new bubble appears almost immediately but disappears for a minute, only for a voice memo to appear. She clicks play and the sound of your raspy voice comes through the speaker.

He won't say this for me, I don't know why. But I think you're so hot and I'm so in love with you. And I really miss you so I can't wait to see you again. I also can't wait to get my phone back and watch how hot you look in that little red-- it cuts off and Alysa's sure it was your coach who took away the little screen time you had for abusing your privileges.

Amber groans. “You’re both embarrassing.”

Alysa can feel something in her chest settling now. The fear isn't gone, maybe it won’t be for a while. Maybe every time you drop into something dangerous from now on, a part of her body will remember that crash before anything else. But right now, you’re home and you're still you, waiting for her.

So Alysa draws in one deep breath, squares her shoulders, and starts toward the rink because she still has to skate.

------

The bronze medal feels heavier than Alysa expects. Not physically—the medal itself is lighter than gold, obviously, smaller—but everything attached to it feels heavy. The last 24 hours, the flights, the hospital, the fear that still hasn’t fully left her body, the program she skated on almost no sleep, running on adrenaline and dread and the image of you sitting in that hospital bed with a splint on your nose telling her she still had to compete.

Her skate wasn’t bad but it wasn’t her best either. She felt it the moment she stepped onto the ice. That slight lag between thought and movement. The triple Axel that she usually snaps into clean and confident felt hesitant on takeoff. She landed it, but she knew it wasn’t sharp. The rest of the program she fought for—not elegantly, not effortlessly like the day before—but stubbornly, the way you snowboard. Like she was finishing it out of principle more than joy.

Still, the score from the previous day carried her. When the final placements came in and she landed in third, she didn’t feel disappointed so much as relieved it was over. But landing podium also means more days. More photos, more press, more gala rehearsals, more smiling when all she really wants to do is get on a plane and go sit next to you on a couch and make sure you’re actually still okay and not just pretending to be.

The medal ceremony feels like it happens to someone else. She stands on the third step, medal around her neck, smiling when she’s supposed to smile, waving when she’s supposed to wave, but her mind keeps drifting to California.

After the ceremony she barely gets time to breathe before someone is guiding her toward the press area. It's the usual semicircle of reporters and recorders and people leaning forward waiting for sound bites. Except this time, she can tell immediately something is different. There are too many eyes on her with too many cameras pointed directly at her instead of rotating evenly between the medalists.

She knows they don’t just want to talk about skating tonight, they want to talk about you.

She sits down, adjusts the medal slightly so it stops hitting the table, and fumbles with the microphone stand a little because her hands are still slightly shaky and she’s more tired than she’s ever been at a competition.

The first question comes quickly. “Alysa, first of all, congratulations on the bronze. You looked a bit hesitant on your opening triple Axel today. Was it difficult to stay focused on your own programs while knowing what happened in Colorado? And to add, how is she doing? Have you spoken to her yet?” It's not even subtle or attempts to be.

Alysa glances down at the microphone for a second, then back up. She clears her throat a little. “Uh, thanks,” she says. “Yeah… she’s doing better. It really is just lucky that she didn’t suffer any major injuries besides a concussion and a broken nose.” She pauses for a second, fingers lightly tapping the edge of the table. “I actually saw her last night, which is why I guess I looked hesitant out there. I was feeling a little more tired today.” It’s a very honest answer but she doesn’t have the energy to manufacture polished media answers right now.

Another reporter jumps in. “Did you consider withdrawing from the event after what happened?”

Alysa doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah,” she says immediately. “I was very close to withdrawing today. But everyone was in my ear about being here and putting down a score,” she continues, then adds, without really thinking about how it sounds publicly, “especially her. So here I am.”

A few reporters exchange glances before another question comes from the other side. “Do you wish you placed higher? Do you feel like there’s something you would’ve done differently in the program if you were more focused?”

Alysa leans back slightly in her chair and shrugs, the medal clinking softly. “No,” she says. “I haven’t even really thought about how I looked out there. I’m not really attached to any scores or anything.” She pauses, then adds, very matter-of-fact, “But I couldn’t disappoint my team or my girlfriend, so what happened happened.” The word girlfriend leaves her mouth before she fully processes it. There’s a half-second where she realizes what she just said in front of a room full of reporters and cameras. She feels heat rise into her face immediately, a light blush spreading across her cheeks.

Pre-Olympics Alysa would have never said that so casually. Pre-Olympics Alysa would have dodged the question or would have said someone important to me. She used to be so careful about protecting the privacy like it was something fragile that would break if people looked at it too closely.

That slowly changed in the 3-day distance between you after the opening ceremony and it gradually changed after that long emotional talk in your dorm in the Olympic village.

Now, it officially and completely changed when she thought she might lose you on a mountainside in Colorado and realized she does not care who knows anymore. She has one thing she is actually afraid of losing. And it’s not medals.

Another reporter raises a hand. “How did you feel when you first heard about the crash?”

Alysa exhales slowly through her nose. Her fingers lace together on the table for a second before she answers. “It was definitely scary watching it live,” she says quietly. “I guess I’m kind of trying to block that out right now, so…” She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t need to.

The room goes quiet for a second, respectful. It's like everyone suddenly remembers that behind the medals and rankings and headlines, these are just people watching people they love get hurt in real time sometimes.

Finally, mercifully, someone asks a question directed at one of the other medalists about their program layout, and the attention shifts slightly away from Alysa. She can breathe again.

She answers a few more skating questions after that but her answers are shorter now. She's polite, but distant. Her energy is gone and her mind is already somewhere else.

Back when she first started dating you all those years ago, she treated your relationship like something she had to keep separate from skating. Like there was Alysa the athlete and Alysa the girlfriend and those two people shouldn’t overlap too much in public. She thought she was protecting something, protecting privacy. Protecting the image of being calm and detached and unaffected. But now she sits at this table with a bronze medal around her neck and realizes something very clearly:

She was never detached. She was just scared of people finding out how easily she could crumble if it came to you. But the truth is out there now and the truth is simple; she doesn’t want to pretend otherwise anymore.

She can lose competitions she can miss jumps. She can place third or fifth or get disqualified. She can live with all of that. But she cannot live in a world where she pretends you are not the most important thing in her life just to look more composed in a press conference.

So when the press conference finally ends and someone thanks the athletes and the microphones click off and the cameras start lowering, Alysa stands up, adjusts the medal once more, and exhales slowly. She doesn’t care what the headlines say tomorrow, she just wants to go home.

-------

By the time Alysa finally gets back to California, the last couple of days feel like it lasted a year. Everything blurred together into one long stretch of noise and fluorescent lighting and people asking questions she didn’t really care about answering. The only thing that felt sharp and real through all of it was you: in a hospital bed, or on a phone screen through your coach’s texts, and in the back of her mind every time she stepped on the ice.

So when she unlocks the apartment door and steps inside, the quiet almost surprises her. There aren't any crowds here, no cameras or even sound--partly because you're still concussed. She's finally home.

She drops her bag by the door and takes a few steps into the living room, and that’s when she sees you on the couch.

You look worse than the last time she saw you. The bruising under your eyes has fully bloomed now—dark purple and blue spreading across your cheekbones, the broken nose splint still taped across the bridge, faint yellowing bruises starting to show along your jaw and temple. You’re sitting up, head resting against the couch cushion in sweats and one of her hoodies, looking like someone who got into a fight with a mountain and technically won but at a cost.

And then you see her. Your entire face lights up so fast it’s almost painful to watch. Your smile spreads wide and bright and immediate, and then you wince slightly because smiling that wide probably pulls on your bruises and your nose, but you don’t even try to hide it.

Alysa feels something in her chest loosen for the first time in days. She walks over slowly, like she doesn’t want to startle you, and stops in front of the couch for a second just looking at you. Taking in the bruises, the splint, the way you’re sitting carefully like your ribs probably hurt. She also notices the way you still somehow look happy just because she walked into the room.

She sits down next to you carefully, not too close at first, like she’s still half in hospital-mode where everything about you is fragile. She reaches for your hand which you let her take it immediately, your fingers sliding into hers like they’ve been waiting for that specifically.

“I really missed you,” she says quietly.

You squeeze her hand. “I missed you more.”

She huffs a small laugh. “That’s not possible.”

“It is,” you say. Then you look at her properly, eyes softening. “And I’m so happy for you. Bronze isn’t bad for running on a few hours of sleep.”

Alysa smiles a little at that, the corner of her mouth lifting. She brings your hand up slowly and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles. You close your eyes at that, like even that small contact feels like something you’ve been waiting for.

“I’m really happy you’re back,” you say quietly.

Alysa leans back into the couch slightly, still holding your hand. “Oh yeah?” she says lightly. “Your coach wasn’t cutting it for you?”

You snort softly. “No. I couldn’t convince him to let me do a single thing.”

“But you’ll convince me?” Alysa asks, raising an eyebrow slightly.

You open your eyes again, a tiny smile tugging at your mouth, but you don’t answer that question. You just look at her for a second, studying her face like you’re making sure she’s actually here and not about to disappear onto another plane again. “Can I have a kiss?” you ask quietly.

Alysa immediately shakes her head. “We can’t. You’ll hurt your nose.”

“Please?”

“No.”

You squeeze her hand. “Please?”

She narrows her eyes slightly. “You’re concussed and manipulative.”

You tilt your head just slightly, that stubborn look she knows too well. “Please?”

Alysa exhales slowly through her nose, already losing the argument. She leans in very slowly, one hand coming up to gently cradle the side of your face, careful to avoid your nose and the bruising. The kiss is soft and careful, short. Just lips touching and lingering for a second longer than necessary because neither of you wants to be the one to pull away first. When she pulls back, she stays close enough that your foreheads almost touch.

You open your eyes again and look at her, then say, very casually, “I wanna watch the replay of my run.”

Alysa immediately leans back like you just suggested something insane. “No.”

You frown slightly. “Why not?”

“We are not watching that. Ever.”

You shift a little on the couch. “I think I looked cool for the most part.”

“Please,” Alysa says, shaking her head. “We can’t watch that. I don’t want to see it.” Her tone is different now; it doesn't sound joking or teasing. It's something sad sitting underneath the words.

You notice immediately so you don’t push it. Instead you just nod slightly and say, “Okay.” Then after a second, softer, “Can I watch your program then?”

Alysa sighs, leaning back into the couch. “Maybe tomorrow,” she says. “Or the day after.”

You nod again, like that’s fair. Your eyes close after that, not fully asleep, just tired. Healing-tired. Concussion-tired. Everything-hurts-and-I’m-trying-not-to-complain tired. Alysa shifts a little closer and gently leans her head against your shoulder, careful not to jostle you too much. Your hands are still intertwined between you on the couch.

“Did you eat yet?” she asks quietly.

You hum softly. “Yeah.”

“You tired?”

Another small hum. “Yeah.”

So you just sit there. It's rather conservative to what you're both used to. There are not tight hugs or intense make out sessions or making up for lost time. It's just quiet hand holding. And yet somehow it feels bigger, much more important. Like all the things you didn’t say during the worst week of both of your seasons are sitting quietly in the space between fingers and shoulders and the way neither of you lets go first.

Alysa stares ahead at nothing in particular, feeling the warmth of you next to her, the slow rise and fall of your breathing, the slight squeeze of your fingers every few seconds like you’re making sure she’s still there too. She thinks about how close she came to a world where this couch would be empty.

Her grip on your hand tightens slightly without her meaning to. You squeeze back immediately, eyes still closed.

And for the first time in days, Alysa finally feels like she can sit still without waiting for something bad to happen next.

BONUS:

Three weeks into recovery, the apartment has fallen into a very specific rhythm. Lights dimmed more often than not because of your concussion. Curtains are half closed. The TV volume is always low. Alysa's moving around quieter than she normally would. Your world has shrunk down to the couch, the bed, short walks around the block, doctor appointments, and Alysa. Mostly Alysa.

Your nose is finally healing enough that the splint is gone, the bruising has faded from dark purple to that ugly yellow-green stage, and the swelling has gone down enough that you don’t look like you lost a boxing match anymore. You still can’t snowboard, still can’t train, still can’t look at screens too long, still get headaches if you move too fast.

But you can kiss now without feeling like your face is going to fall off. Which has quickly become your favorite development.

It’s mid-afternoon, the curtains slightly drawn so the room is filled with that soft, grayish light that makes everything feel slower. You had gone on a walk that morning—Alysa insisted on it, said you needed fresh air and sunlight and “normal human activity”—but by the time you got back you were exhausted in that deep, concussed way where your brain just feels heavy. So you convinced her to lay down with you.

Now you’re both on your sides in bed, facing each other, blankets half tangled around your legs, her arm resting loosely across your waist. You’re close enough that your knees keep bumping every time one of you shifts slightly. You’re talking about nothing important. Like literally nothing. Groceries, a movie you half watched last night, your coach sending you rehab exercises you don’t want to do. It’s quiet and slow and comfortable in a way that feels like something you waited weeks for.

Alysa is halfway through telling you about something Massimo and Philip said at practice when you just lean forward and kiss her. For a second she just kisses you back automatically, like muscle memory, soft and familiar. Your hand slides up to her jaw, thumb resting just under her ear, and the kiss lingers a little longer than a casual one should.

When you pull back slightly, you’re still close enough that your noses almost touch. She looks at you for a second like she’s trying to act unimpressed, but her hand slides up your side a little under your shirt anyway. You kiss her again before she can say anything. This time it’s slower. You don’t rush it. Your lips just move against hers gently at first, soft and careful, even though you don’t need to be anymore. Her hand settles at your waist, fingers spreading there like she wants to keep you close without pulling too hard.

You kiss like that for a while—slow, lazy, unhurried. The kind of kissing where no one is trying to get anywhere, just staying there because it feels good and safe.

After a few minutes, the kisses get a little less careful. Like you’re both remembering what this feels like after weeks of hospital rooms and flights and distance and being scared and not being allowed to touch each other properly.

Your hand slides from her jaw into her hair. Her hand moves from your waist to your back, fingers pressing lightly through your shirt. You kiss her again and again, sometimes slow and lingering, sometimes a little hungrier like you’re making up for lost time.

Every once in a while one of you smiles into the kiss for no reason. At one point she kisses you and you make this soft little sound without meaning to, and she pulls back just enough to look at you.

“You know we can't do anything,” she says quietly.

“Shush,” you murmur, already leaning in again.

You kiss for so long that time starts to feel weird and stretchy, like you’ve been there for ten minutes or an hour and it doesn’t really matter which.

Eventually Alysa pulls back a little more, resting her forehead gently against yours, both of you breathing a little heavier than you were before. “We have all the time in the world, you know,” she says softly. "So, we don't have to have all our kisses right now."

You look at her, eyes still half-lidded, and smile a little. “I know.” Then you kiss her again, quick this time. “But this is just my favorite thing in the world,” you add quietly. Then after a beat, “Well… it’s my favorite thing that I’m allowed to do.”

Alysa rolls her eyes immediately. “You’re being silly.” But she’s already leaning in again before she finishes the sentence, and you meet her halfway.

You're two people lying in a dim room in the middle of the afternoon, kissing like you’ve got nowhere else to be and nothing else you’d rather do. And after everything that happened, that feels like the best possible ending to the worst few weeks of both of your lives.

------

was this too much? idk sorry. if u think abt it,,,, alysa having that weird feeling in the beginning was kinda like her spidey senses going off so does this count as a spidey update too??? (im at a crossroads w spide!alysa which is why i'm here with this instead)

--—-

tag list :P

------

@eternalcitadeltotem @lyzsaphrodite @mrtwizz @petrolprettyplease @gaytrashgoblin @graceeeeeesblog @slippinthrumyfingers @aka-persephone @moltenessencepuppet @sani-sunny @mochi-nugs @yournextdooralien @bobthegoldfishhere @raiex @internetgurll @urwavvy @falleo4d @exclusivitymajor @fruitgirl329 @wintrjen @givewandahugspls @mannslvr @gimbapab @kozukenapplepi @blueslashephaim @ririhatesmen @jenxninja

[inthelow]

PRETTY SAD FOR A GIRL SO IN LOVE — bangtan series.

·.·★ ｡･:*˚:✧｡ you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love…

— a BTS theme series inspired by Olivia Rodrigo’s newest album. Each fic is loosely based on one of the songs and borrows the heart of it— not necessarily its plot— to create a new story centered around one (or more) members. While every fic can be read on its own, together they explore the many faces of love and heartbreak.

author’s note: this took me way longer than it should. it’s my first time editing and doing a ‘theme’ masterlist so i’m really excited about this!! i really hope you like it<3 Links will be added into the tittles once they’re posted!!

｡･:*˚:✧｡ GIRL SO IN LOVE. . .

1. DROP DEAD — kim seokjin.

summary: It all started as a silly joke between friends. One harmless unimportant conversation, one impossible name thrown into the mix, and one boring late-night search that should’ve ended after a single Instagram post and not in thousand of hours stalking a famous idol. Looking back, maybe your feminine intuition already knew that the story wouldn’t stop there… because once Kim Seokjin crossed your mind, it seemed impossible for the universe to keep him out of your life.

warning! ─ +18 (to be added).

2. STUPID SONG — min yoongi.

summary: As a songwriter you’ve always trusted your words more than your feelings. Unfortunately, falling for Min Yoongi makes both impossible to ignore. Wanting someone so much that you’re lost for words was slowly driving you mad. And somewhere between studio sessions, late-night conversations, and one too many stupid songs that sound suspiciously alike, you begin to wonder if love is supposed to feel this wonderfully unbearable.

warming! ─ none.

3. HONEYBEE — kim taehyung.

summary: Moving into a new apartment wasn’t supposed to change much of your life. Except, you moved next to Kim Taehyung— a man who’s always had a habit of making himself at home wherever he goes. Funny enough, neither of you noticed you’d been building one together all along.

warning! ─ none.

4. MAGGOTS FOR BRAINS — kim namjoon.

summary: You always thought people who couldn’t function without their partners were being stupid and pathetic. That was until Namjoon leaves for tour, suddenly every song, every meal, and every quiet moment seems determined to remind you that you’ve officially lost your mind. Nobody warned you that missing someone could feel like a full-time job— or that love had a way of making even the smartest people act a little stupid.

warning! ─ none.

5. U + ME = <3 — jung hoseok.

summary: Dating Jung Hoseok feels a little like breaking every rule you’ve ever had about taking things slow. Between meeting his family, compatibility quizzes that insist you’re all wrong for each other, and a future that somehow keeps slipping into everyday conversations, you and Hobi are determined to prove everyone wrong— even if it means falling a little too hard and a little too fast.

warning! ─ +18 (to be added).

6. MY WAY — park jimin.

summary: You’ve never considered yourself the jealous type. Petty? Maybe. But there’s a difference between insecurity and watching someone repeatedly ignore the word ‘no.’ As Jimin’s ex grows increasingly creative in her attempts to stay in his life, you find yourself running dangerously low on patience. You were determined to handle things like a mature adult… at least right up until the night you realize there are far more satisfying ways to remind someone exactly who he goes home with.

warning! ─ +18 (to be added).

7. PURPLE — jeon jungkook.

summary: Loving Jungkook feels like watching two pretty colors blend into something even more beautiful. The trouble is, once they become one, it’s hard to remember what they looked like apart.

warning! ─ +18 (to be added).

. . . PRETTY SAD ｡･:*˚:✧｡

8. THE CURE — jeon jungkook.

summary: You had dated enough men to know exactly when the doubt would start. The comparisons, the jealousy, the quiet certainty that eventually you would never be enough. Dating Jungkook had cured every fear you ever had about love. For the first time, loving someone didn’t feel like drowning…. Which only made it more terrifying when you realized the thing ruining your relationship wasn’t him— It was you.

warning! ─ +18 (to be added).

9. BEGGED — kim namjoon.

summary: Namjoon has always loved you the best way he knows how. Between late-night promises, postponed plans, and a man who always means well, you’re willing to be patient. After all, it’s a virtue to not let good love slip away. But it’s funny how easily patience can disguise itself as hope… You just never imagined that one day you’d find yourself wondering whether love should have to be asked for in the first place.

warning! ─ +18 (to be added).

10. WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME — kim taehyung.

summary: Taehyung loves you exactly the way you’ve always dreamed of being loved. So why does every morning feel a little heavier than the last? When doctors insist there’s nothing wrong and even happiness starts to feel like an unbearable weight, you’re left wondering if the greatest love of your life might somehow be the very thing making you sick.

warning! ─ +18 (to be added).

11. LESS — min yoongi.

summary: You never imagined the person who loved you most would also be the one forced to let you go. But when every attempt to save your relationship only leaves you both hurting a little more, you’re left wondering if the cruelest kind of love is the one that knows when it’s time to end.

warning! ─ none.

12. EXPECTATIONS — park jimin/jung hoseok.

summary: After one heartbreak too many, you’ve decided to raise your standards. Lucky for you, Park Jimin and Jung Hoseok seem determined to exceed them. Whether they’re trying to impress you or simply outdo each other is still up for debate— and while neither of them looks particularly promising as husband material… you’re beginning to suspect they’d make an excellent team.

warning! ─ +18 (to be added).

13. CIGARETTE SMOKE — kim seokjin.

summary: It’s strange how every memory of Jin seems to come in pairs: one that reminds you why you stayed, and another that quietly explains why you couldn’t forever. The hardest part is deciding which one deserves to be remembered and which one will help you decide your future with him.

warning! ─ +18 (to be added).

UPDATE SCHEDULE:

── AUGUST

── SEPTEMBER

── OCTOBER

── first of all, i knowww yoongi is a piscis and taehyung gives paris but but you have to walk with me on this one okay? trust me that i know bts better than all of you cause we’re really close friends and i’ve been really stressing the fuck out which song to chose for everyone so you better stfu. i only accept good criticism. anyway im actually shaking for this fics!! i really hope you guys like it. and let me know what you think about the theme and the short summary so far<33

permanent taglist (1): @lovingkoalaface @dna-black-and-blue @hoemeprazole @deedeeps @taegiekookk @gukihoney @sftlrmin @libbieminie @savorghost @moonprincesskoo @yooforeaa @kelsyx33 @jjkszn @st4rbbg @senaqsstuff @connnn @rpwprpwprpwprw @llallaaa @lovelye79 @jjkkkk15 @nellbyy @jkmommymilkies @chaerinmin @albascardigan @wvndkoo @pradaheeseung @annyeongbitch7 @tastykookoonut @whoa-jo @zsazshiiing @taylorluvation @parapiop7 @j0cgr0c @elinaki92 @osakis-gf @mar-lo-pap @angeleclipsey @jkayy-prodian @bjoriis @sweetnspicyworld @sadiayn @kookdollia @jcnggukie @imjustcrabby

[keeksdiner]

Hopelessly devoted to you. pt2

Pairings: katseye ot6x 7th member femreader

Warnings: smau style. Suggestiveness eventually. Kats are yearning heavy… reader is stupidly oblivious.

A/n: heres the long awaited part two…i apologise for the wait…i work 10 hour shifts everyday. Your girl is exhausted🫠

Hopelessly devoted to you. Part 1.

[pupusboy]

Gen Z Luv | M. Bannerman (rewrite)

synopsis: yvrs is a drill rapper and one days he’s scrolling through instagram when he comes across manon’s profile. the natural response to seeing her is sliding into her dms.

pairings: manon bannerman x transmasc!reader

warnings: fluff, a bit of angst, kinda very different from the og version, y/n is stealth, mature themes ig, british slang, uh… idk

featuring: katseye, central cee as y/n’s fc, pinkpantheress

profiles (all in one)

chapters (w)

taglist: open (0/50)

[sxmi-mp4]

LORD I AM BACK HOME

[pupusboy]

👀👀👀

[jacefiles]

PRETTY THINGS | J.V

Synopsis: He fell from the sky. She rose from the deep. When an unlikely savior pulls a prince back from death’s door, neither of them can quite stay away from the shore that brought them together.

Word Count: 6.0K

Pairing: Prince!Jacaerys Velaryon x Mermaid!Reader

Genre: Mermaid au, Jace lives!, fluff

Warnings: Mermaid descriptions of reader but nothing too specific about looks, Jace and Baela aren’t betrothed, vermax :(, brief mentions of nudity.

A/N: Based off THIS REQUEST, I hope this doesn’t seem rushed :) lowkey used my physics knowledge to make bs up 🥴

Divider credits to: @uzmacchiato <3

In a world where dragons roamed the sky and stranger things still lurked in the far reaches of Sothoryos, the existence of merfolk was hardly a thing beyond belief.

Yet for centuries the merfolk had kept to themselves, hidden from human eyes by choice rather than necessity, for the sea was their domain, vast and forgiving, older than any castle built of stone, and they had little wish to share it with a race that seemed forever at war with itself and everything around it.

In time, that same secrecy had turned them into little more than legend, tales spun by sailors over cups of watered wine on nights when the wind howled and the deck rolled beneath them. Sirens were known to lure ships onto rocks with voices sweet enough to make a man forget his own name, and feast on whatever remained once the rocks had finished their work.

Mermaids were a gentler breed by comparison, prone to guiding lost sailors safely home as often as they were blamed for storms and ill weather they had no hand in at all. Two natures entirely, wearing similar faces, and precious few humans who lived long enough to learn the difference between them.

They were beautiful creatures beneath the waves, long tails the colour of pearl and coral fading seamlessly into human torsos, faces too fine and too still to belong to any mortal woman, gill feathers tracing delicate lines along their throats that fluttered faintly with every breath of water drawn through them. Webbing caught the light between their fingers and along the curves of their ears, and their eyes, when a sailor was unlucky or lucky enough to catch one open beneath the surface, ethereal was the word men reached for, when they had any words left at all.

It had been pure chance that placed you so close to the Gullet on the day the battle came, chance and your own incurable curiosity, which your sisters had scolded you for since you were small enough to hide behind their tails.

You had always had a weakness for collecting things. Rings slipped from dead men's fingers, buckles and buttons and the little bronze bells that sailors sometimes wore for luck that had done them no good at all in the end, coins gone green and soft with centuries beneath the salt.

You kept them in the hollow belly of an old sunken hull you had claimed as your own years ago, arranging and rearranging them the way a child arranges shells on a beach, and you were forbidden, absolutely forbidden, from ever breaking the surface to retrieve anything that had not already sunk deep enough to be safely yours. The deep waters near the wreck sites were permitted. The world above the waterline was not.

You had seen fleets pass overhead before, dark hulls cutting shadows across the sunlit shallows, and it had never troubled you much. Ships came and went. Men fought their wars on the surface and left their dead to sink down to you eventually, and you had learned not to think too hard about where the trinkets came from.

What startled you that day, what sent ice through your veins even in water still warm from the summer sun, was the sound. A battle breaking out with no warning at all, not the slow grinding approach you were used to but something sudden and enormous, the water shaking with it as though the sea itself had been struck. Fire that should not have been able to burn beneath the waves somehow did, hissing and spitting where it touched the surface, and ash sifted down through the water like grey snow, and wood came apart in great splintering chunks, and bodies. So many bodies, falling and falling, sinking past you like stones dropped from a terrible height, men who had been laughing and cursing and praying only moments before.

You very nearly got swept into the worst of it yourself. Your pale pink tail caught for one heart-stopping instant on a length of trailing rigging, and you fought and thrashed to free yourself, kicking hard for clearer, deeper water, away from the chaos above. It was then that something struck the surface with such force that the shockwave of it rolled straight through your chest, and you turned back despite every instinct screaming at you to keep swimming, and saw a dragon.

Only the one. You did not know his name yet, though you would come to learn it soon enough. Vermax, green as new leaves, thrashing against water he had never been built to fight, wings beating in great useless sweeps, trying and failing again and again to claw his way back up into a sky that no longer wanted him.

And strapped to his back, tangled in leather that should have kept him safe and now threatened only to drown him with the beast, was a boy.

A very pretty boy, you thought, even through the horror of it, because you had always had a weakness for pretty things as well as shiny ones, and some habits did not care what was happening around them.

He fought his harness with a growing, panicked desperation, one leg caught fast beneath a buckle that would not give no matter how he wrenched at it, and you watched the fight slowly bleed out of him as the water rose past his chin and then his mouth. You watched him press his palm flat against his dragon’s scaled hide, whether in farewell or in simple desperate comfort you could not say, and something inside your chest twisted so hard and so suddenly that it hurt, a feeling you had no name for and no time to think about, and you were moving before your brain had caught up to it.

The buckles gave easily enough beneath your fingers, quick clever things built for human hands rather than merfolk ones but simple enough once you understood the shape of them, all but the one pinning his leg fast, which would not release no matter how you pulled. It was your sister's whalebone dagger, tucked always at your hip, that finally cut him free, the leather parting in one long stroke. By then the boy had gone entirely still, his eyes half open and unseeing.

You spared one moment, only one, though it cost you dearly to spare it, to press your palm flat against Vermax’s scales in something like an apology, for jot being able to save him. The great beast simply closed his eyes, as if content that his rider had found safer hands than his own to carry him the rest of the way, and sank without a struggle into the dark below, leaving no trace but a slow drift of green scales catching what little light remained.

Surfacing was a huge mistake. You broke into open air in the very heart of the wreckage, ships burning on every side, smoke thick enough to sting your eyes, and had barely a breath to get your bearings before an arrow split the water beside you, close enough that you felt the wind of its passing against your cheek and almost hitting the boy in the neck.

You looked up into a row of crossbows all trained your way, men shouting words you did not understand but whose meaning was plain enough in the set of their shoulders, and understood with sudden, terrible clarity exactly how little difference they would see between a dragon’s rider and whatever monster had come to finish the work the sea had started.

You went back under. Humans could not breathe water, but neither, you thought grimly, dragging the boy's dead weight down with you, could you survive a volley of bolts meant to end lives.

You swam hard and fast and low, keeping to what cover the drifting wreckage offered, dragging him through water gone thick and stinging with smoke and ash, until the sounds of battle fell away behind you into a dull, distant roar and the nearest shore rose dark and welcoming against the horizon. You hauled him up onto the sand with strength you did not know you possessed, adrenaline lending you what your body alone could not, and only then let yourself look at him properly.

Your stomach dropped. His lips had gone the deep, bruised blue of a man already claimed by the sea, his skin pale as the underbelly of a fish, and his chest did not move at all.

The old stories. Your grandmother had told them half as warning and half as wonder, back when you were young enough to still believe every tale she spun, of how a drowned man's lungs might yet be coaxed back to life if the sea inside them was driven out in time, before the body forgot how to want air at all. You laid both palms flat over the centre of his chest, unsure of your own strength, and pressed down hard.

Once. Nothing happened. Panic clawed up your throat.

Twice. Your own breath caught, tight and painful.

Thrice, and you pressed with everything you had left in you, uncaring now whether you cracked something beneath your palms, because a bruise, even a broken rib, was nothing at all set against death.

On the fourth press he convulsed beneath your hands and turned sharply to one side, retching a lungful of seawater onto the sand, coughing so violently his whole body shook with the force of it. You sat back, tail curling instinctively beneath you, heart hammering, and watched the grey slowly bleed out of his face as air, found its way back into him at last.

He did not understand, in that first hazy moment, anything beyond the fact that he was somehow, impossibly, still alive. The world swam in and out of focus around him, blurred and ringing. The last clear memory he had was of Vermax beneath him and the water closing over them both in a great green rush, of struggling against a harness that would not give no matter how he fought it, and then a blurred pale shape cutting toward him through the murk like something out of a half remembered dream, and then nothing at all.

He sat up too quickly. Pain lanced through his skull bright enough to make him gasp, and he only dimly registered that he had knocked someone backward in the process, hearing a small startled sound beside him.

"I am sorry- I did not mean to- are you..." The words died somewhere in his throat.

A hand still rested lightly against his shoulder, small and cool and strange. He gaze followed it down past a bare collarbone, down a torso, and then no legs at all, only a long tail the colour of pale coral, still trembling faintly where it lay half in the surf, catching what little light the dying sun still offered.

His eyes came back up to meet yours. Yours were already wide with fright, caught somewhere between diving straight back into the water and staying just long enough to see what he would do with the knowledge now sitting plainly on his face.

"You," he breathed, and could not seem to manage a single word more than that.

You did not wait to find out what he would say next. You began dragging yourself backward toward the water on your palms, tail scraping over wet sand, and that seemed to break whatever had held him frozen in place, because he scrambled after you across the shore despite the state of his own battered, aching body.

"Wait, please, don't go, who are you? What is your name? Why did you save me? Why?" The questions tumbled out of him faster than you could possibly have answered even if your voice had worked properly, one tripping over the next, desperation making him clumsy with his words. When you opened your mouth to try anyway, nothing came at all, no sound, not even a whisper. You touched two fingers to your throat and shook your head slowly.

"You cannot speak?"

You nodded, something apologetic in the tilt of your head.

There was no simple way to explain it to him, not with gestures alone, that merfolk voices were shaped and tuned for the weight and pressure of deep water and simply could not survive in air thin and empty as this, so you only looked at him, sorry, and slid a little further back toward the tideline, the cool water lapping welcome against your tail.

"Wait!" He was on his feet now, unsteady, swaying slightly as he turned to take in the shore around him properly for the first time. "This is Driftmark- I think- and that," he pointed to a dark shape rising jagged from the water in the distance, smoke still curling faintly from somewhere within the battle behind them, "that's Dragonstone. That is where I live. I must find some way to thank you properly, I do not even know how yet, but I will. I swear it."

You gave him one last long look, drinking in the sight of him properly now that the worst of the danger had passed, pale and shaking and utterly unlike anyone you had ever pulled from the wreckage before, and nodded once before the water closed silently over your head.

What he did not know, could not have known, was that you had not truly gone. You lingered just beneath the surface, hidden in the shallows where the light still reached, watching as the full weight of what he had lost caught up to him at last.

You watched his shoulders begin to shake, watched him sink slowly to his knees on the wet sand as the grief he had been too shocked to feel finally broke over him, grieving the bond severed so suddenly with his dragon, a bond you understood was not so different from the ones your own kind shared with the great whales that sometimes let mermaids ride upon their backs through the deep currents. You felt sad and helpless and entirely too far away to do anything about either, your own chest aching in sympathy for a boy you did not even know the name of yet.

Trinkets, you thought at last, retreating slowly deeper into the water where the cold and the dark could swallow the strange, unfamiliar feeling sitting heavy in your chest. I will bring him pretty things. Pretty things always help. Everyone knows that.

By the time Jace made it back to Dragonstone, disguised as best his battered state allowed, the sun had long since set and the castle had already begun to mourn a prince presumed lost at sea.

Rhaenyra, who had spent the whole of that day and the one before convincing herself, against every hope, that he was truly gone, very nearly lost her composure entirely at the sight of him standing whole in the doorway of her solar, swaying but breathing, and threatened violence on anyone who dared suggest it a cruel trick before she was even certain of it herself.

Then he was close enough to touch, close enough that she could feel the warmth still clinging to him despite the cold seawater soaked through every layer of his clothes, and she crossed the room in three swift strides and pulled him into an embrace so fierce it near cracked his ribs, one hand cradling the back of his neck the way she had when he was small enough to carry on her hip.

She pulled back only far enough to strike him hard across the face, the sound of it sharp in the quiet room, then dragged him straight back into her arms before he had time to recover from either the blow or the embrace that followed it.

"Never," she whispered fiercely against his hair, "never again. Do you understand me?"

Jace made no complaint about any of it. He only held on, breathing in the familiar smell of her, flowery and something that had always simply meant home no matter where in the world he found himself, and let himself be scolded and forgiven in the very same breath, over and over, until the shaking in his hands finally began to still.

There would be time to explain everything later, the mermaid and the potion he did not yet know he would go looking for and the strange ache already settling in his chest at the thought of never seeing her again. Tonight he only wanted this, his mother’s arms and the solid stone floor beneath his feet and the simple, overwhelming relief of being alive.

It was two full days before he saw you again, two days that felt considerably longer to both of you than their number suggested.

He had taken to walking the shore each evening as the sun went down, though he offered no one an explanation for it beyond a vague murmur about wanting air, and Rhaenyra, watching her son closely for any sign of the grief she knew still sat unresolved in him, chose not to press the matter, not yet.

On the second such evening, with the light turning gold and heavy across the water at the very edge of dusk, a small shape broke the surface some distance out from where he stood. Only your eyes showed at first, wary, scanning the beach with the caution of a creature that had learned, however briefly, exactly what danger humans could pose. Once you were certain he was truly alone, no soldiers, no crossbows waiting in the shadows, you swam closer, arms full of things gathered carefully from the seafloor over the two long days you had spent working up the courage to return.

He laughed before he could help himself, disbelieving, because you had brought him what looked like a small fortune of drowned treasure: coins gone green with centuries of salt, sea glass worn to the smoothness of river stones in every colour from deep emerald to pale, milky blue, pearls still crusted faintly with the ghosts of the shells that had once held them, all of it cradled carefully against your chest as though it were the finest gift any king had ever received.

"For me?" He pressed a hand to his own chest, incredulous, and you beamed and nodded so hard your whole body shook with the force of it, tail flicking once against the shallows in what he would later come to recognise as excitement.

"I have nothing half so precious to give you in return," he said, quieter now, kneeling properly in the wet sand so that he was closer to your level, and you shook your head firmly, as if to tell him that was hardly the point of any of it, that gifts given freely required nothing given back.

He knelt at the waterline for a long while that evening and talked, filling the silence you could not, telling you his name, his House, that he was a prince of Dragonstone and heir to something called an Iron Throne that sounded, from the little he explained, far heavier a burden than any crown ought to be. Your eyes lit at the word prince, delighted, and you pointed to your own chest in turn, tapping it twice for emphasis.

"A princess, then?" he guessed, and you nodded, pleased as anything with yourself, and something in his chest that had been wound painfully tight since the moment the water closed over his head two days before finally began, slowly, to loosen.

You tried, that first proper evening, to tell him other things too, though the telling was slow and clumsy without words. You drew shapes in the wet sand with one finger, a rough sketch of a tail, of waves, of something that might have been a whale or might simply have been a very poor circle, and Jace watched with a fascination that made you strangely warm beneath your scales, guessing at your meaning and laughing softly whenever he guessed wrong, which was often.

When the moon rose high enough that you knew you had to leave, you leaned in and pressed a quick, shy kiss to his cheek, as if to tell him not to be sad any longer, that you would return, that whatever grief still lived behind his eyes need not be carried entirely alone. That Vermax lay peacefully beneath the sea. And if he had been pretty enough to catch a second glance from you even amid the chaos of a burning battlefield, well.

You had always liked pretty things, and you saw no shame in admitting it, even silently, even only to yourself.

In the days that followed, Jace found himself buried in the library far more often than seated at council, a fact that did not escape his mother's notice for long. The war, if it could even still be properly called that, had cooled in the aftermath of the battle into something closer to a wary, watchful peace, both sides circling cautiously around the idea of parley rather than open slaughter, and so Rhaenyra could afford, for the first time in longer than she cared to admit, to spend her worry on her son rather than entirely on her crown.

It was on the seventh day since his return that she finally cornered him about it, finding him hunched over a table stacked high with scrolls he had clearly been picking through for hours, Daemon lounging nearby against a bookshelf with a look of a man who had already scented an amusing story and had no intention whatsoever of leaving before he heard the whole of it.

"The one who saved me from the water," Jace admitted at last, ears burning red under his mother's steady gaze, "was a mermaid. I have been meeting her at dusk every evening since. She brings me gifts."

Silence, and then Daemon's low, delighted laugh rang out across the quiet library. "A fish," he said, "has stolen my son’s heart. Rhaenyra, did you hear that? A fish."

"She is not a fish," Jace snapped, mortified, colour flooding all the way up to the tips of his ears, and would say nothing further no matter how Daemon pressed him for details, though his ears stayed scarlet the rest of the evening and he refused, quite pointedly, to look either of them in the eye.

It was only once they were alone, Daemon finally chased off by some matter of ships needing his attention, that Rhaenyra asked, more gently now, what exactly he hoped to find buried in all those old scrolls.

He confessed it slowly, haltingly, that he was searching for some means of letting you speak properly above the water, because you listened to him so patiently each evening, tilting your head at his every word as though nothing he said could ever bore you, and he found, to his own quiet surprise, that he wanted very badly to hear your voice in return, to know what you sounded like when you laughed instead of simply seeing it in the curve of your mouth.

Something in her face softened at that, the last of the earlier sternness melting away entirely. She crossed the room and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, something she would often do when he was but a babe and even now.

"I nearly lost you once already," she said quietly. "I do not think I would survive losing you a second time, not truly. If this girl from the sea brings you peace after everything, then that peace is worth more to me than I can properly measure. I will help you find your answer, if I am able. You have only to ask."

He thanked her, throat tight, and went to bed that night lighter than he had felt in a very long time.

By the tenth day, though, his search had turned up nothing but dust and disappointment, page after page of tidal charts and shipping records that told him everything about the sea and nothing at all about the creatures who lived beneath it, and he was scowling so fiercely at a particularly useless scroll that he did not hear Baela approach until she dropped a stack of books onto the table hard enough to make him jump nearly out of his seat.

"What have I told you about pouting, cousin? It hardly befits a prince, especially not one so recently returned from the dead."

"I am not pouting," he said, pouting.

She laughed, unbothered, and pushed the books toward him anyway, settling into the chair across from him with the satisfied air of someone bearing very good news. "Found these buried in the old archive, behind a shelf half the household seems to have forgotten existed. Scrolls on sea creatures, potions, that sort of thing, all written in the old tongue. Some of it looks to go back to Old Valyria itself, if the binding is anything to judge by. Thought they might serve you better than moping about the library like a wet cat."

His whole face changed, disappointment giving way so suddenly to hope that Baela laughed again just watching it happen. He thanked her so earnestly, gripping her hands in both of his, that she looked half embarrassed by the whole display and waved him off with a mock scowl of her own, and then he buried himself in the texts for the rest of the day and well into the night, barely stopping to eat, ink staining his fingers as he copied out passage after passage by candlelight.

The gods, it seemed, had finally decided to smile down upon him after everything, because tucked among the brittle, crumbling pages he found precisely what he had been searching for all along: an old Valyrian draught, described in cramped, faded script, said to grant a creature of the sea, mermaid or siren alike, a brief and temporary span of human legs, the magic bound to fade again once enough days had passed.

Gathering the ingredients took the better part of two more days, some of them common enough to find in any well stocked kitchen and others requiring correspondence sent quietly to a maester on the mainland who asked no questions he clearly did not wish answered, and finding an alchemist both skilled and discreet enough to brew the whole of it properly took longer still. But by the fourteenth day since the battle, Jace stood at the shoreline at dusk with a small vial clutched tight in one hand, its contents glowing faintly violet in the fading light, and his heart hammering somewhere up near his throat.

You surfaced as you always did by then, cautious first, scanning the shore out of old habit, then delighted once you saw him standing alone, swimming in swiftly with your usual haul of shells and drowned bottles clutched against your chest. He knelt at the waterline and, for once, did not simply talk about his day or ask after yours in the halting, gestured way you had both grown so used to.

He explained the potion instead, slowly, carefully, holding the vial up so you could see the strange violet light swirling within it, watching your face closely all the while for any sign that this was too much, too strange, too great a thing to ask of you.

You went very quiet. Your brow furrowed the way it always did when you turned something over carefully in your mind, weighing it from every side, and Jace, who had come to know that expression well over a fortnight of evenings spent together, made himself sit still and wait, though every part of him wanted to fill the silence with reassurance.

"It is only if you wish it," he said softly, when the silence had stretched long enough that he could not help himself any longer. "I would never have you feel forced into anything on my account, not after everything you have already given me. If you would rather not, I will understand completely, and I will still come to see you each evening, just as I have."

You studied the vial a long moment more, turning the choice over one final time, thinking of your sisters and the warnings you had grown up hearing about the dangers of the world above, of legs that were not truly yours and a voice that might vanish again the moment the magic faded.

Then you looked at him, at the earnest hope he could not quite hide no matter how he tried, and something in your face settled at last, resolve chasing out the last of the hesitation, and you nodded.

He could have wept from the sheer relief of it. He handed you the vial with hands that were not entirely steady, and you drank it down in a single determined swallow, immediately screwing your face up at the taste, which was somehow both bitter and sickly sweet beneath it, like rot dressed up in honey, and Jace laughed at the disgusted noise you made.

The change came almost at once, faster than either of you had quite expected. Your tail began to glow faintly from within, the violet light spreading through the coral pink scales, and then, slowly, the scales themselves began to dissolve and reshape, splitting and lengthening before your very eyes.

You watched it happen to your own body with something closer to wonder than fear, propping yourself up on your elbows in the shallow water to see it better. It did not hurt, not truly, only felt strange, an unfamiliar pulling and settling sensation that ran the length of what had been your tail only moments before, and then, quite suddenly, you had legs. Two of them, unfamiliar and entirely new to you, kicking weakly in the shallows as you tried, with no success at all, to make them do anything useful.

It was Jace who first remembered, with a start that nearly gave him whiplash, that you now had absolutely nothing on at all beneath the water. He spun to face the other direction so fast he nearly lost his footing on the wet sand, hurriedly unclasping his own travelling cloak and passing it back over his shoulder to you without turning around, ears burning scarlet all over again.

"Here, please, wrap this around yourself, I am so sorry, I did not think- I should have thought of it before you drank the wretched thing."

You took the cloak, bewildered by the whole strange business of clothing, and wrapped it clumsily about yourself as best you could manage with limbs that still refused to cooperate properly.

"Why," you whispered, voice thin and strange and entirely your own, and both of you went utterly, completely still.

"You spoke," Jace said, turning back around despite himself, eyes wide with wonder, all thought of modesty forgotten entirely.

"I did," you said, marvelling at the strange, thin sound of your own voice carrying through open air, so unlike the way words moved and pressed through water, lighter somehow, and stranger, but yours all the same.

He knelt properly before you then in the wet sand, something almost formal in the gesture despite how thoroughly absurd the whole moment truly was, both of them soaked and shivering and grinning like fools, and asked if he might finally know the proper name of the maiden who had pulled him back so stubbornly from death's door.

You told him. Your name, spoken aloud for the first time in your life, and that you were the seventh daughter of a house that ruled beneath the narrow sea, a true princess in every sense, just as you had claimed all along through nothing but gestures and a proud tilt of your chin.

"I know this may only last a short while," Jace said, still kneeling, still holding your hands as though he feared letting go might undo the magic.

"And I mean to keep searching, if that is what you wish, for some way to make it last longer, or even permanent. But for now, will you come and meet my family properly? They ought to see, with their own eyes, the girl who saved their prince from the bottom of the Gullet."

You tried to stand at that, eager and entirely too confident in limbs you had possessed for all of ten minutes, and discovered immediately that legs demanded a coordination and strength the sea had never once asked of you. You stumbled, pitched forward, and landed hard on your knees in the wet sand with a startled, frustrated huff.

You tried again, gripping his shoulder for balance this time, and managed perhaps three wobbling steps before your legs betrayed you a second time, sending you tumbling sideways with a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan of pure exasperation.

Jace, biting back a laugh of his own though it clearly threatened to escape, knelt beside you and tightened the cloak properly around your shoulders, then slid one arm behind your back and the other beneath the crook of your knees, lifting you up into his arms with far more ease than his still-recovering body should reasonably have allowed.

"I will teach you to walk properly," he promised, adjusting his grip as you settled, somewhat stiffly, against his chest, your new legs kicking experimentally against nothing at all. "Though I think that particular lesson is better suited to daylight and a rather softer patch of ground than this. Just now I have limited time before the magic fades, and I intend to make the very most of it while I can."

The jaws that dropped when Jacaerys Velaryon strode into Dragonstone’s great hall carrying a girl in his arms, salt still drying in tangled waves through her hair, wrapped in nothing but his own travelling cloak and kicking her bare feet with open, delighted fascination at the strange new sensation of having feet at all, were a sight none of the household would soon forget, and several among the kitchen staff would still be whispering about weeks later.

Baela nearly dropped the tray she was carrying. Rhaena’s mouth fell open mid sentence and simply stayed that way. You met Rhaenyra and Daemon’s twin looks of open astonishment with wide, curious eyes of your own, entirely unbothered by the attention, as though growing an entirely new pair of legs within the hour were the most ordinary thing in all the world, and gave the queen a doe eyed stare that made it very difficult indeed for anyone in that hall to remain suspicious for long.

Daemon was the first to find his voice, low and disbelieving, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Well- damn. He wasn’t kidding about the fish.”

Rhaenyra’s palm found the back of his head before he had even finished speaking, a sharp, swift smack that made him yelp and rub at the spot, wounded.

“Mind your tongue,” she warned, though there was little real heat in it, her gaze already softening as it moved from Daemon back to her son and the girl held so carefully in his arms.

In the end, there was little else for anyone present to do but believe it, however improbable the tale sounded when spoken aloud: that the lost prince of Dragonstone had indeed been pulled from the bottom of the sea by a little mermaid, and that she, in turn, without quite meaning for it to happen at all, had followed him all the way home.

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[jacefiles]

PRETTY THINGS | J.V

Synopsis: He fell from the sky. She rose from the deep. When an unlikely savior pulls a prince back from death’s door, neither of them can quite stay away from the shore that brought them together.

Word Count: 6.0K

Pairing: Prince!Jacaerys Velaryon x Mermaid!Reader

Genre: Mermaid au, Jace lives!, fluff

Warnings: Mermaid descriptions of reader but nothing too specific about looks, Jace and Baela aren’t betrothed, vermax :(, brief mentions of nudity.

A/N: Based off THIS REQUEST, I hope this doesn’t seem rushed :) lowkey used my physics knowledge to make bs up 🥴

Divider credits to: @uzmacchiato <3

In a world where dragons roamed the sky and stranger things still lurked in the far reaches of Sothoryos, the existence of merfolk was hardly a thing beyond belief.

Yet for centuries the merfolk had kept to themselves, hidden from human eyes by choice rather than necessity, for the sea was their domain, vast and forgiving, older than any castle built of stone, and they had little wish to share it with a race that seemed forever at war with itself and everything around it.

In time, that same secrecy had turned them into little more than legend, tales spun by sailors over cups of watered wine on nights when the wind howled and the deck rolled beneath them. Sirens were known to lure ships onto rocks with voices sweet enough to make a man forget his own name, and feast on whatever remained once the rocks had finished their work.

Mermaids were a gentler breed by comparison, prone to guiding lost sailors safely home as often as they were blamed for storms and ill weather they had no hand in at all. Two natures entirely, wearing similar faces, and precious few humans who lived long enough to learn the difference between them.

They were beautiful creatures beneath the waves, long tails the colour of pearl and coral fading seamlessly into human torsos, faces too fine and too still to belong to any mortal woman, gill feathers tracing delicate lines along their throats that fluttered faintly with every breath of water drawn through them. Webbing caught the light between their fingers and along the curves of their ears, and their eyes, when a sailor was unlucky or lucky enough to catch one open beneath the surface, ethereal was the word men reached for, when they had any words left at all.

It had been pure chance that placed you so close to the Gullet on the day the battle came, chance and your own incurable curiosity, which your sisters had scolded you for since you were small enough to hide behind their tails.

You had always had a weakness for collecting things. Rings slipped from dead men's fingers, buckles and buttons and the little bronze bells that sailors sometimes wore for luck that had done them no good at all in the end, coins gone green and soft with centuries beneath the salt.

You kept them in the hollow belly of an old sunken hull you had claimed as your own years ago, arranging and rearranging them the way a child arranges shells on a beach, and you were forbidden, absolutely forbidden, from ever breaking the surface to retrieve anything that had not already sunk deep enough to be safely yours. The deep waters near the wreck sites were permitted. The world above the waterline was not.

You had seen fleets pass overhead before, dark hulls cutting shadows across the sunlit shallows, and it had never troubled you much. Ships came and went. Men fought their wars on the surface and left their dead to sink down to you eventually, and you had learned not to think too hard about where the trinkets came from.

What startled you that day, what sent ice through your veins even in water still warm from the summer sun, was the sound. A battle breaking out with no warning at all, not the slow grinding approach you were used to but something sudden and enormous, the water shaking with it as though the sea itself had been struck. Fire that should not have been able to burn beneath the waves somehow did, hissing and spitting where it touched the surface, and ash sifted down through the water like grey snow, and wood came apart in great splintering chunks, and bodies. So many bodies, falling and falling, sinking past you like stones dropped from a terrible height, men who had been laughing and cursing and praying only moments before.

You very nearly got swept into the worst of it yourself. Your pale pink tail caught for one heart-stopping instant on a length of trailing rigging, and you fought and thrashed to free yourself, kicking hard for clearer, deeper water, away from the chaos above. It was then that something struck the surface with such force that the shockwave of it rolled straight through your chest, and you turned back despite every instinct screaming at you to keep swimming, and saw a dragon.

Only the one. You did not know his name yet, though you would come to learn it soon enough. Vermax, green as new leaves, thrashing against water he had never been built to fight, wings beating in great useless sweeps, trying and failing again and again to claw his way back up into a sky that no longer wanted him.

And strapped to his back, tangled in leather that should have kept him safe and now threatened only to drown him with the beast, was a boy.

A very pretty boy, you thought, even through the horror of it, because you had always had a weakness for pretty things as well as shiny ones, and some habits did not care what was happening around them.

He fought his harness with a growing, panicked desperation, one leg caught fast beneath a buckle that would not give no matter how he wrenched at it, and you watched the fight slowly bleed out of him as the water rose past his chin and then his mouth. You watched him press his palm flat against his dragon’s scaled hide, whether in farewell or in simple desperate comfort you could not say, and something inside your chest twisted so hard and so suddenly that it hurt, a feeling you had no name for and no time to think about, and you were moving before your brain had caught up to it.

The buckles gave easily enough beneath your fingers, quick clever things built for human hands rather than merfolk ones but simple enough once you understood the shape of them, all but the one pinning his leg fast, which would not release no matter how you pulled. It was your sister's whalebone dagger, tucked always at your hip, that finally cut him free, the leather parting in one long stroke. By then the boy had gone entirely still, his eyes half open and unseeing.

You spared one moment, only one, though it cost you dearly to spare it, to press your palm flat against Vermax’s scales in something like an apology, for jot being able to save him. The great beast simply closed his eyes, as if content that his rider had found safer hands than his own to carry him the rest of the way, and sank without a struggle into the dark below, leaving no trace but a slow drift of green scales catching what little light remained.

Surfacing was a huge mistake. You broke into open air in the very heart of the wreckage, ships burning on every side, smoke thick enough to sting your eyes, and had barely a breath to get your bearings before an arrow split the water beside you, close enough that you felt the wind of its passing against your cheek and almost hitting the boy in the neck.

You looked up into a row of crossbows all trained your way, men shouting words you did not understand but whose meaning was plain enough in the set of their shoulders, and understood with sudden, terrible clarity exactly how little difference they would see between a dragon’s rider and whatever monster had come to finish the work the sea had started.

You went back under. Humans could not breathe water, but neither, you thought grimly, dragging the boy's dead weight down with you, could you survive a volley of bolts meant to end lives.

You swam hard and fast and low, keeping to what cover the drifting wreckage offered, dragging him through water gone thick and stinging with smoke and ash, until the sounds of battle fell away behind you into a dull, distant roar and the nearest shore rose dark and welcoming against the horizon. You hauled him up onto the sand with strength you did not know you possessed, adrenaline lending you what your body alone could not, and only then let yourself look at him properly.

Your stomach dropped. His lips had gone the deep, bruised blue of a man already claimed by the sea, his skin pale as the underbelly of a fish, and his chest did not move at all.

The old stories. Your grandmother had told them half as warning and half as wonder, back when you were young enough to still believe every tale she spun, of how a drowned man's lungs might yet be coaxed back to life if the sea inside them was driven out in time, before the body forgot how to want air at all. You laid both palms flat over the centre of his chest, unsure of your own strength, and pressed down hard.

Once. Nothing happened. Panic clawed up your throat.

Twice. Your own breath caught, tight and painful.

Thrice, and you pressed with everything you had left in you, uncaring now whether you cracked something beneath your palms, because a bruise, even a broken rib, was nothing at all set against death.

On the fourth press he convulsed beneath your hands and turned sharply to one side, retching a lungful of seawater onto the sand, coughing so violently his whole body shook with the force of it. You sat back, tail curling instinctively beneath you, heart hammering, and watched the grey slowly bleed out of his face as air, found its way back into him at last.

He did not understand, in that first hazy moment, anything beyond the fact that he was somehow, impossibly, still alive. The world swam in and out of focus around him, blurred and ringing. The last clear memory he had was of Vermax beneath him and the water closing over them both in a great green rush, of struggling against a harness that would not give no matter how he fought it, and then a blurred pale shape cutting toward him through the murk like something out of a half remembered dream, and then nothing at all.

He sat up too quickly. Pain lanced through his skull bright enough to make him gasp, and he only dimly registered that he had knocked someone backward in the process, hearing a small startled sound beside him.

"I am sorry- I did not mean to- are you..." The words died somewhere in his throat.

A hand still rested lightly against his shoulder, small and cool and strange. He gaze followed it down past a bare collarbone, down a torso, and then no legs at all, only a long tail the colour of pale coral, still trembling faintly where it lay half in the surf, catching what little light the dying sun still offered.

His eyes came back up to meet yours. Yours were already wide with fright, caught somewhere between diving straight back into the water and staying just long enough to see what he would do with the knowledge now sitting plainly on his face.

"You," he breathed, and could not seem to manage a single word more than that.

You did not wait to find out what he would say next. You began dragging yourself backward toward the water on your palms, tail scraping over wet sand, and that seemed to break whatever had held him frozen in place, because he scrambled after you across the shore despite the state of his own battered, aching body.

"Wait, please, don't go, who are you? What is your name? Why did you save me? Why?" The questions tumbled out of him faster than you could possibly have answered even if your voice had worked properly, one tripping over the next, desperation making him clumsy with his words. When you opened your mouth to try anyway, nothing came at all, no sound, not even a whisper. You touched two fingers to your throat and shook your head slowly.

"You cannot speak?"

You nodded, something apologetic in the tilt of your head.

There was no simple way to explain it to him, not with gestures alone, that merfolk voices were shaped and tuned for the weight and pressure of deep water and simply could not survive in air thin and empty as this, so you only looked at him, sorry, and slid a little further back toward the tideline, the cool water lapping welcome against your tail.

"Wait!" He was on his feet now, unsteady, swaying slightly as he turned to take in the shore around him properly for the first time. "This is Driftmark- I think- and that," he pointed to a dark shape rising jagged from the water in the distance, smoke still curling faintly from somewhere within the battle behind them, "that's Dragonstone. That is where I live. I must find some way to thank you properly, I do not even know how yet, but I will. I swear it."

You gave him one last long look, drinking in the sight of him properly now that the worst of the danger had passed, pale and shaking and utterly unlike anyone you had ever pulled from the wreckage before, and nodded once before the water closed silently over your head.

What he did not know, could not have known, was that you had not truly gone. You lingered just beneath the surface, hidden in the shallows where the light still reached, watching as the full weight of what he had lost caught up to him at last.

You watched his shoulders begin to shake, watched him sink slowly to his knees on the wet sand as the grief he had been too shocked to feel finally broke over him, grieving the bond severed so suddenly with his dragon, a bond you understood was not so different from the ones your own kind shared with the great whales that sometimes let mermaids ride upon their backs through the deep currents. You felt sad and helpless and entirely too far away to do anything about either, your own chest aching in sympathy for a boy you did not even know the name of yet.

Trinkets, you thought at last, retreating slowly deeper into the water where the cold and the dark could swallow the strange, unfamiliar feeling sitting heavy in your chest. I will bring him pretty things. Pretty things always help. Everyone knows that.

By the time Jace made it back to Dragonstone, disguised as best his battered state allowed, the sun had long since set and the castle had already begun to mourn a prince presumed lost at sea.

Rhaenyra, who had spent the whole of that day and the one before convincing herself, against every hope, that he was truly gone, very nearly lost her composure entirely at the sight of him standing whole in the doorway of her solar, swaying but breathing, and threatened violence on anyone who dared suggest it a cruel trick before she was even certain of it herself.

Then he was close enough to touch, close enough that she could feel the warmth still clinging to him despite the cold seawater soaked through every layer of his clothes, and she crossed the room in three swift strides and pulled him into an embrace so fierce it near cracked his ribs, one hand cradling the back of his neck the way she had when he was small enough to carry on her hip.

She pulled back only far enough to strike him hard across the face, the sound of it sharp in the quiet room, then dragged him straight back into her arms before he had time to recover from either the blow or the embrace that followed it.

"Never," she whispered fiercely against his hair, "never again. Do you understand me?"

Jace made no complaint about any of it. He only held on, breathing in the familiar smell of her, flowery and something that had always simply meant home no matter where in the world he found himself, and let himself be scolded and forgiven in the very same breath, over and over, until the shaking in his hands finally began to still.

There would be time to explain everything later, the mermaid and the potion he did not yet know he would go looking for and the strange ache already settling in his chest at the thought of never seeing her again. Tonight he only wanted this, his mother’s arms and the solid stone floor beneath his feet and the simple, overwhelming relief of being alive.

It was two full days before he saw you again, two days that felt considerably longer to both of you than their number suggested.

He had taken to walking the shore each evening as the sun went down, though he offered no one an explanation for it beyond a vague murmur about wanting air, and Rhaenyra, watching her son closely for any sign of the grief she knew still sat unresolved in him, chose not to press the matter, not yet.

On the second such evening, with the light turning gold and heavy across the water at the very edge of dusk, a small shape broke the surface some distance out from where he stood. Only your eyes showed at first, wary, scanning the beach with the caution of a creature that had learned, however briefly, exactly what danger humans could pose. Once you were certain he was truly alone, no soldiers, no crossbows waiting in the shadows, you swam closer, arms full of things gathered carefully from the seafloor over the two long days you had spent working up the courage to return.

He laughed before he could help himself, disbelieving, because you had brought him what looked like a small fortune of drowned treasure: coins gone green with centuries of salt, sea glass worn to the smoothness of river stones in every colour from deep emerald to pale, milky blue, pearls still crusted faintly with the ghosts of the shells that had once held them, all of it cradled carefully against your chest as though it were the finest gift any king had ever received.

"For me?" He pressed a hand to his own chest, incredulous, and you beamed and nodded so hard your whole body shook with the force of it, tail flicking once against the shallows in what he would later come to recognise as excitement.

"I have nothing half so precious to give you in return," he said, quieter now, kneeling properly in the wet sand so that he was closer to your level, and you shook your head firmly, as if to tell him that was hardly the point of any of it, that gifts given freely required nothing given back.

He knelt at the waterline for a long while that evening and talked, filling the silence you could not, telling you his name, his House, that he was a prince of Dragonstone and heir to something called an Iron Throne that sounded, from the little he explained, far heavier a burden than any crown ought to be. Your eyes lit at the word prince, delighted, and you pointed to your own chest in turn, tapping it twice for emphasis.

"A princess, then?" he guessed, and you nodded, pleased as anything with yourself, and something in his chest that had been wound painfully tight since the moment the water closed over his head two days before finally began, slowly, to loosen.

You tried, that first proper evening, to tell him other things too, though the telling was slow and clumsy without words. You drew shapes in the wet sand with one finger, a rough sketch of a tail, of waves, of something that might have been a whale or might simply have been a very poor circle, and Jace watched with a fascination that made you strangely warm beneath your scales, guessing at your meaning and laughing softly whenever he guessed wrong, which was often.

When the moon rose high enough that you knew you had to leave, you leaned in and pressed a quick, shy kiss to his cheek, as if to tell him not to be sad any longer, that you would return, that whatever grief still lived behind his eyes need not be carried entirely alone. That Vermax lay peacefully beneath the sea. And if he had been pretty enough to catch a second glance from you even amid the chaos of a burning battlefield, well.

You had always liked pretty things, and you saw no shame in admitting it, even silently, even only to yourself.

In the days that followed, Jace found himself buried in the library far more often than seated at council, a fact that did not escape his mother's notice for long. The war, if it could even still be properly called that, had cooled in the aftermath of the battle into something closer to a wary, watchful peace, both sides circling cautiously around the idea of parley rather than open slaughter, and so Rhaenyra could afford, for the first time in longer than she cared to admit, to spend her worry on her son rather than entirely on her crown.

It was on the seventh day since his return that she finally cornered him about it, finding him hunched over a table stacked high with scrolls he had clearly been picking through for hours, Daemon lounging nearby against a bookshelf with a look of a man who had already scented an amusing story and had no intention whatsoever of leaving before he heard the whole of it.

"The one who saved me from the water," Jace admitted at last, ears burning red under his mother's steady gaze, "was a mermaid. I have been meeting her at dusk every evening since. She brings me gifts."

Silence, and then Daemon's low, delighted laugh rang out across the quiet library. "A fish," he said, "has stolen my son’s heart. Rhaenyra, did you hear that? A fish."

"She is not a fish," Jace snapped, mortified, colour flooding all the way up to the tips of his ears, and would say nothing further no matter how Daemon pressed him for details, though his ears stayed scarlet the rest of the evening and he refused, quite pointedly, to look either of them in the eye.

It was only once they were alone, Daemon finally chased off by some matter of ships needing his attention, that Rhaenyra asked, more gently now, what exactly he hoped to find buried in all those old scrolls.

He confessed it slowly, haltingly, that he was searching for some means of letting you speak properly above the water, because you listened to him so patiently each evening, tilting your head at his every word as though nothing he said could ever bore you, and he found, to his own quiet surprise, that he wanted very badly to hear your voice in return, to know what you sounded like when you laughed instead of simply seeing it in the curve of your mouth.

Something in her face softened at that, the last of the earlier sternness melting away entirely. She crossed the room and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, something she would often do when he was but a babe and even now.

"I nearly lost you once already," she said quietly. "I do not think I would survive losing you a second time, not truly. If this girl from the sea brings you peace after everything, then that peace is worth more to me than I can properly measure. I will help you find your answer, if I am able. You have only to ask."

He thanked her, throat tight, and went to bed that night lighter than he had felt in a very long time.

By the tenth day, though, his search had turned up nothing but dust and disappointment, page after page of tidal charts and shipping records that told him everything about the sea and nothing at all about the creatures who lived beneath it, and he was scowling so fiercely at a particularly useless scroll that he did not hear Baela approach until she dropped a stack of books onto the table hard enough to make him jump nearly out of his seat.

"What have I told you about pouting, cousin? It hardly befits a prince, especially not one so recently returned from the dead."

"I am not pouting," he said, pouting.

She laughed, unbothered, and pushed the books toward him anyway, settling into the chair across from him with the satisfied air of someone bearing very good news. "Found these buried in the old archive, behind a shelf half the household seems to have forgotten existed. Scrolls on sea creatures, potions, that sort of thing, all written in the old tongue. Some of it looks to go back to Old Valyria itself, if the binding is anything to judge by. Thought they might serve you better than moping about the library like a wet cat."

His whole face changed, disappointment giving way so suddenly to hope that Baela laughed again just watching it happen. He thanked her so earnestly, gripping her hands in both of his, that she looked half embarrassed by the whole display and waved him off with a mock scowl of her own, and then he buried himself in the texts for the rest of the day and well into the night, barely stopping to eat, ink staining his fingers as he copied out passage after passage by candlelight.

The gods, it seemed, had finally decided to smile down upon him after everything, because tucked among the brittle, crumbling pages he found precisely what he had been searching for all along: an old Valyrian draught, described in cramped, faded script, said to grant a creature of the sea, mermaid or siren alike, a brief and temporary span of human legs, the magic bound to fade again once enough days had passed.

Gathering the ingredients took the better part of two more days, some of them common enough to find in any well stocked kitchen and others requiring correspondence sent quietly to a maester on the mainland who asked no questions he clearly did not wish answered, and finding an alchemist both skilled and discreet enough to brew the whole of it properly took longer still. But by the fourteenth day since the battle, Jace stood at the shoreline at dusk with a small vial clutched tight in one hand, its contents glowing faintly violet in the fading light, and his heart hammering somewhere up near his throat.

You surfaced as you always did by then, cautious first, scanning the shore out of old habit, then delighted once you saw him standing alone, swimming in swiftly with your usual haul of shells and drowned bottles clutched against your chest. He knelt at the waterline and, for once, did not simply talk about his day or ask after yours in the halting, gestured way you had both grown so used to.

He explained the potion instead, slowly, carefully, holding the vial up so you could see the strange violet light swirling within it, watching your face closely all the while for any sign that this was too much, too strange, too great a thing to ask of you.

You went very quiet. Your brow furrowed the way it always did when you turned something over carefully in your mind, weighing it from every side, and Jace, who had come to know that expression well over a fortnight of evenings spent together, made himself sit still and wait, though every part of him wanted to fill the silence with reassurance.

"It is only if you wish it," he said softly, when the silence had stretched long enough that he could not help himself any longer. "I would never have you feel forced into anything on my account, not after everything you have already given me. If you would rather not, I will understand completely, and I will still come to see you each evening, just as I have."

You studied the vial a long moment more, turning the choice over one final time, thinking of your sisters and the warnings you had grown up hearing about the dangers of the world above, of legs that were not truly yours and a voice that might vanish again the moment the magic faded.

Then you looked at him, at the earnest hope he could not quite hide no matter how he tried, and something in your face settled at last, resolve chasing out the last of the hesitation, and you nodded.

He could have wept from the sheer relief of it. He handed you the vial with hands that were not entirely steady, and you drank it down in a single determined swallow, immediately screwing your face up at the taste, which was somehow both bitter and sickly sweet beneath it, like rot dressed up in honey, and Jace laughed at the disgusted noise you made.

The change came almost at once, faster than either of you had quite expected. Your tail began to glow faintly from within, the violet light spreading through the coral pink scales, and then, slowly, the scales themselves began to dissolve and reshape, splitting and lengthening before your very eyes.

You watched it happen to your own body with something closer to wonder than fear, propping yourself up on your elbows in the shallow water to see it better. It did not hurt, not truly, only felt strange, an unfamiliar pulling and settling sensation that ran the length of what had been your tail only moments before, and then, quite suddenly, you had legs. Two of them, unfamiliar and entirely new to you, kicking weakly in the shallows as you tried, with no success at all, to make them do anything useful.

It was Jace who first remembered, with a start that nearly gave him whiplash, that you now had absolutely nothing on at all beneath the water. He spun to face the other direction so fast he nearly lost his footing on the wet sand, hurriedly unclasping his own travelling cloak and passing it back over his shoulder to you without turning around, ears burning scarlet all over again.

"Here, please, wrap this around yourself, I am so sorry, I did not think- I should have thought of it before you drank the wretched thing."

You took the cloak, bewildered by the whole strange business of clothing, and wrapped it clumsily about yourself as best you could manage with limbs that still refused to cooperate properly.

"Why," you whispered, voice thin and strange and entirely your own, and both of you went utterly, completely still.

"You spoke," Jace said, turning back around despite himself, eyes wide with wonder, all thought of modesty forgotten entirely.

"I did," you said, marvelling at the strange, thin sound of your own voice carrying through open air, so unlike the way words moved and pressed through water, lighter somehow, and stranger, but yours all the same.

He knelt properly before you then in the wet sand, something almost formal in the gesture despite how thoroughly absurd the whole moment truly was, both of them soaked and shivering and grinning like fools, and asked if he might finally know the proper name of the maiden who had pulled him back so stubbornly from death's door.

You told him. Your name, spoken aloud for the first time in your life, and that you were the seventh daughter of a house that ruled beneath the narrow sea, a true princess in every sense, just as you had claimed all along through nothing but gestures and a proud tilt of your chin.

"I know this may only last a short while," Jace said, still kneeling, still holding your hands as though he feared letting go might undo the magic.

"And I mean to keep searching, if that is what you wish, for some way to make it last longer, or even permanent. But for now, will you come and meet my family properly? They ought to see, with their own eyes, the girl who saved their prince from the bottom of the Gullet."

You tried to stand at that, eager and entirely too confident in limbs you had possessed for all of ten minutes, and discovered immediately that legs demanded a coordination and strength the sea had never once asked of you. You stumbled, pitched forward, and landed hard on your knees in the wet sand with a startled, frustrated huff.

You tried again, gripping his shoulder for balance this time, and managed perhaps three wobbling steps before your legs betrayed you a second time, sending you tumbling sideways with a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan of pure exasperation.

Jace, biting back a laugh of his own though it clearly threatened to escape, knelt beside you and tightened the cloak properly around your shoulders, then slid one arm behind your back and the other beneath the crook of your knees, lifting you up into his arms with far more ease than his still-recovering body should reasonably have allowed.

"I will teach you to walk properly," he promised, adjusting his grip as you settled, somewhat stiffly, against his chest, your new legs kicking experimentally against nothing at all. "Though I think that particular lesson is better suited to daylight and a rather softer patch of ground than this. Just now I have limited time before the magic fades, and I intend to make the very most of it while I can."

The jaws that dropped when Jacaerys Velaryon strode into Dragonstone’s great hall carrying a girl in his arms, salt still drying in tangled waves through her hair, wrapped in nothing but his own travelling cloak and kicking her bare feet with open, delighted fascination at the strange new sensation of having feet at all, were a sight none of the household would soon forget, and several among the kitchen staff would still be whispering about weeks later.

Baela nearly dropped the tray she was carrying. Rhaena’s mouth fell open mid sentence and simply stayed that way. You met Rhaenyra and Daemon’s twin looks of open astonishment with wide, curious eyes of your own, entirely unbothered by the attention, as though growing an entirely new pair of legs within the hour were the most ordinary thing in all the world, and gave the queen a doe eyed stare that made it very difficult indeed for anyone in that hall to remain suspicious for long.

Daemon was the first to find his voice, low and disbelieving, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Well- damn. He wasn’t kidding about the fish.”

Rhaenyra’s palm found the back of his head before he had even finished speaking, a sharp, swift smack that made him yelp and rub at the spot, wounded.

“Mind your tongue,” she warned, though there was little real heat in it, her gaze already softening as it moved from Daemon back to her son and the girl held so carefully in his arms.

In the end, there was little else for anyone present to do but believe it, however improbable the tale sounded when spoken aloud: that the lost prince of Dragonstone had indeed been pulled from the bottom of the sea by a little mermaid, and that she, in turn, without quite meaning for it to happen at all, had followed him all the way home.

© jacefiles - all rights reserved, please refrain from copying, reposting, modifying or translating my work on any platform.

[exokatz]

GO BABY !

pairing ✧ hockey player!manon x cheerleader!reader

warnings & tags ✧ strong language, dark humour, alcohol use, partying, nsfw content, pregnancy??, messy situationship?? (idk they just aren’t official), manon is a red flag, g!p manon (don’t like don’t read), baby daddy!manon, college au, hockey player x cheerleader, wlw, katseye, smau, written, manon x reader

featuring ✧ all of katseye, chaewon and yunjin of le sserafim, yeonjun and beomgyu of txt

summary ✧ manon expected for you to call quits on things after a very messy night. the sudden lack of communication, to which you were good at, disappeared. it had her convinced you were really done. then, when you show up at her dorm, teary eyed and holding a box that can determine your future, she realizes your relationship is far from over.

status ✧ in progress

update schedule ✧ tbd

notes ✧ let’s give this another shot i promise i’ll lock in this time 🙏 anddd she plays hockey now hehe

profiles ✧ harvard dropouts | buzz ballin

— taglist is open !

[aerienchanted]

RUMOR HAS IT megan skiendiel x fem!reader

in which you, fed up with dating rumours with men, start your own with your best friend and group member, megan skiendiel chapter one: i love queerbating

content: seventh member!reader, fem!reader, omegaverse jokes, sub!megan jokes, yunjin (le sserafim) and james (cortis) mentioned, fake dating ss count: 5 note: new smau!! i hope you guys enjoy it <3

series: masterlist next part

series tl: comment to be added!

katseye taglist: @lalaraah @nightmanon @icecreamcakepopp @yournextdooralien @cceanvvaves @katseyeloversgroup6 @pikachuu115 @aoeiurgnmddk @x-d4cvalentine-x perm taglist: @emmaitoshi @madwheelerpilled @kpopluver167 @seonghwaswifeuuuu @mwaeom

divider credits to @/muerdida (recoloured by me)

[gukcnt]

《 ONE NIGHT CONTRACT 》 BTS‏

𓊆 ❤︎ 𓊇 ──── seven powerful businessmen have the luxury, the influence and anything they could ever desire — yet none of it makes them feel alive anymore. that is, until they become captivated by a waitress who awakens something inside them for the first time in years. drawn in by your presence, they offer you one night of passion and pleasure in exchange for money, never expecting it to end in such an unforgettable way.

PAIRING ✦ dom!bts x sub!f.reader

GENRE ✦ gangbang au, BDSM, polyamory, eightsome, porn with little plot, smut, fluff

WARNINGS ✦ 18+, explicit smut, consensual rough sex, eightsome, multiple orgasms and positions, creampie, unprotected sex, free use, semipublic sex, breeding and impregnation kink, degradation, power play, size difference, bondage, reader gets passed around, oral sex (f. receiving), double penetration, triple penetration, vaginal and anal sex, anal training, spanking, impact play (use of hands, belts etc), choking and breath play, possible use of sex toys, overstimulation, forced orgasms, cum inflation and belly bulging, pussy eating and fingering, squirting, wet & messy sex, body worship, dirty talk, fisting and gaping, breast play, mentions of safe word (not used), oral sex (m. receiving), sloppy blowjob, throat fucking, manhandling, use of lube and saliva, cum stuffing, use of belt as a collar, reader takes three cocks at the same time, sweetest loving aftercare, more tags to be added...

WC ✦ 30k+ ( estimated )

NOTE ✦ 5k followers special oneshot as i promised to you babes *MWAAAH*

TAGLIST ✦ OPEN .ᐟ

『 MASTERLIST | READ ON WATTPAD 』

➥ SNEAK PEEK ‹𝟹

[st6rship]

Nikki Freeman x F!Reader

warnings: yandere themes, dark fic, female rivalry at the start, one sided hatred(sort of), jealousy/envy, wish Nikki is bat shit crazy about R, suggestive content that leads to mature themes, Nikki acting sort of like an AI bot, R is no better than a man *in a negative way*

(more to add as the story fowards.)

CUPIDWONTMISS

masterlist

summary: All you ever wished for was for bear to look at you, not as a friend but as a partner. So when you get the opportunity to wish that Nikki stoped being so obsessed with bear you take it.

What’s the saying: be careful what you wish for?

chapter 1: wrath

chapter 2: “run rabbit run”

WORK IN PROGRESS!

(Comment if you want to be mentioned on the chapters)

[inthelow]

SORRY, WRONG NUMBER ! — jeon jungkook (seven).

pairing: student! fem reader x student! jeon jungkook

summary: when you finally get your crush’s number, you expect the start of an epic love story— not a random guy making fun of you because he thinks the guy you’ve been obsessed with for the last six months gave you a fake number. Jeon Jungkook, the one who replies, finds it entertaining and helps you chase the guy… at least until he finds out that the person he’s been helping date another guy is you, the girl he’s been obsessed with for the last two years.

genre/warning: this is a smau fic!! with narration included in some chapter but it’s mostly messages/tweets. very unfunny jokes. this is mostly crack/fluff.

authors note: chapter so long i couldn’t put my dividers 💔💔 the tweets have to be read from bottom to top btw okay bye<33 enjoy this is a mess and i had to delete a lot of things but i couldn’t make it shorter i’m sorry 😭😭 it would be better if u open the pics to read it>_<

chapter index | previous — next

——————————

— chapter seven: holy crash-out!

——————————

messy ass chapter but life is like that we know. i might forgotten to add some people im sorry guys. 💔💔

taglist: @louxmclll @fluffysheepmaster @labbbaaa @yooniebuns @oncyanii @taetaecatboy @yawnzshit @mniys @kit9doctordreamer @asyr97 @wonderlandkook @songbyeonkim @jksusawife @lackingdopaminesince2007 @amimi-bts @unknownbeknowst @koobiiiistar @nastypinkbunny @mninotjungkook @4rmyf1cs @iiunique @oopscoop @dollyunjinz @junecat18 @gwonlvr @pprettyanna @94hobi @spenceatiny18 @mikrokookiex @urmotherlvr @akl3223 @@dim18 @bloopkook @cherrieshyy @lizka007 @hagridshaircare @jooniesthigh @star-my @iridescentshine @kookie96 @brieally @fadedmixtape @xyz77777777 @hennessysthings @snipky @taemanikoo @fullcolorfreaklight @jjanajk @badaspice

[bighitfics]

WITH OR WITHOUT YOU ── 004, JJK.

summary: “your boyfriend has been worried sick,” the nurse explained warmly. “he’s been pacing back and forth through the corridor this entire time. I think he asked me the same question at least twenty times.” she let out a small amused laugh while adjusting the blanket over me slightly. “I had to reassure the poor guy over and over that I was here with you before he finally agreed to grab a sandwich from the café downstairs. It’s almost midnight now, after all.”

genre : slow burn, childhood acquaintances to lovers, angst, smut, mutual pining, age-gap.

pairing : older jungkook x younger female oc.

warning : oc our self deprication and avoidant final boss but she finally stands on business, yearner jungkook has been activated guys there’s no going back from this point on (he’s just going crazy atp), our broski jungkook graduated from bridgerton yearning school, triple the tension from part two, three and throw it all in part four, explicit content — sexual tension, passionate make out, neck kisses, they're both TOUCH starved, vague wet dreams, feral jungkook.

RATING : 18+ MINORS DNI.

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ next chapter? ⋆ ⋆˚࿔

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The sound reached me before anything else.

For another minute, there was nothing but faint shuffling somewhere nearby, the noise blending into the heavy brume clouding my mind. Gradually, my hazy consciousness began catching up to the unfamiliar chemical like scent lingering in the air.

I exhaled weakly, my entire body feeling unbearably heavy, like two mattresses had been dumped over me, pressing me deeper into exhaustion.

I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids refused to cooperate.

After a few seconds, I forced them open anyway, immediately hissing at the blinding white lights above me.

That was when I felt it.

The faint sensation of something cold and wet against my hand.

Then a pressure around my knuckles.

I tried to move instinctively, but even lifting my arm felt impossibly difficult. A groan escaped my lips as a sharp sting pulsed through my vein.

Fuck, what was happening to me?

It's way too chilly.

Why do my eyes burn so badly?

Why is it so tough to open my eyes?

My thoughts burst out in frenzied panic, I was alarmed yet I couldn't even act on it.

I slowly turned my head to the side, squinting slightly, and as my eyes gradually adjusted to the harsh brightness, a woman came into view.

She wore a nurse uniform, and though a little slow I could finally process the state I was in.

She was carefully tearing open a bandage before placing it over the cannula attached to my hand. The pain wasn't excruciating but it wasn't faint either.

“Please don’t open your palm completely, keep your hand in a loose fist,” her husky voice advised gently, showing me a small visual demonstration with her own hand, a practiced smile resting on her small face.

“I was getting worried because you’d been unconscious for more than five hours now. Your blood pressure dropped to forty, and you had a pretty severe case of dehydration. You might also want to get checked for jaundice later,” she explained slowly, adjusting the IV line slightly. “It’s become really common lately because of the insane humid weather, but thankfully you were brought here just on time, so there’s no need to worry. You’ll be perfectly fine.”

She spoke gently, probably trying to reassure me, while I could only offer her a tight, forced smile in return.

Yesterday’s events flashed through my head in a blur. I remembered feeling heavy headed the entire day, but I brushed it off, thinking it was just another migraine caused by my horrible sleeping schedule. We had seventeen bridal dress orders lined up, and the entire day had been chaos from the very beginning.

Running between tailors, matching fabrics, comparing different shades of white under proper lighting because apparently ivory and soft ivory were two completely different things to brides, reviewing pearl detailing, checking lace samples, making sure the embroidery placements aligned perfectly with the designs I had sketched out earlier, and on top of that, I had to repeatedly explain every tiny detail to the tailors like the fitting, the corset structure, the sleeves, the beadwork, because one small mistake could ruin an entire dress.

Not to mention dealing with customers.

One bride wanted softer lace.

Another changed her neckline design three times. 

Someone else suddenly decided she hated floral embroidery after approving it two weeks ago. 

I was so consumed with work that I barely noticed how unbearable the headache had become. 

I even skipped lunch.

By the time I got home, my entire body felt weak and painfully drained mostly mentally.

I barely managed to change into my night pajamas before the hunger hit me all at once, so painfully intense it felt like my own stomach was about to consume itself.

But the second I stood up, my head spun violently.

I remember stumbling slightly before collapsing right back down on my couch, my body started burning feverishly hot while my head pounded so badly it felt unbearable.

My thoughts paused briefly before another memory flashed through my mind.

I saw a car.

I could faintly remember a tattooed hand cupping my chin gently.

And worry filled eyes.

Jungkook. 

Somehow, he was the last thing my mind held onto before everything went dark.

I inhaled sharply.

But… how was that even possible?

My apartment door had been locked.

Only my family knew the password.

Confusion slowly crept deeper into my chest as I stared blankly ahead.

I had way too many questions.

“Nurse, who br—” My voice cracked midway through the sentence before I could even finish properly.

I immediately looked away, clearing my throat in embarrassment at how painfully dry it sounded.

The kind woman softened instantly.

She bent down toward the small stroller beside her, pulling out a bottle of orange juice before carefully placing the straw inside. Then she held it up toward me.

I drank without hesitation.

My eyes fluttered shut the second the cold, sweet sour liquid hit my tongue, soothing the unbearable dryness in my throat almost instantly.

I ended up finishing the entire thing within seconds.

God bless this angel of a nurse. 

“What were you saying?” she asked politely, tossing the empty juice can into the dustbin nearby.

“Wh-who’s here with me?” I asked quietly, hating how weak my voice still sounded, silently wishing the last memory I had before losing consciousness had just been another one of my longterm delusions.

The nurse’s smile widened softly as she tucked an annoyingly loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Your boyfriend has been worried sick,” she said warmly. “He’s been pacing back and forth through the corridor this entire time. I think he asked me the same question at least twenty times.” She let out a small amused laugh while adjusting the blanket over me slightly. “I had to reassure the poor guy over and over that I was here with you before he finally agreed to grab a sandwich from the café downstairs. It’s almost midnight now, after all.”

Wait… did she just say boyfriend?!

I exhaled heavily, so it really was him.

I blinked at the nurse in confusion, utterly baffled as to what exactly gave off that impression between us.

I could only let out a chuckle mockingly, shaking my head. Even the idea of it was bizzare now because it’s never going to happen.

“He’s not my...” 

Ironically, the door opened right as the word “…boyfriend” left my mouth in the quietest mutter possible. It seemed like she didn’t hear me, too busy scribbling something down on the report card clipped to her clipboard.

I heard his footsteps before I saw him.

With his ebony hair grown a little longer than I remembered, falling slightly into his eyes, Jeon Jungkook stood at the doorstep frozen for a second, those stupidly expressive eyes widening the moment they landed on me, like relief and disbelief hit him at the same time. 

He strode inside in all his glory while I fidgeted with my fingers, swiftly looking away before his eyes could meet mine. Instead, I stared aimlessly outside the large glass window. 

The nurse cleared her throat, excusing herself but not before saying, “You should be relieved, Mister Jeon. She’s awake and doing well, but make sure she doesn’t eat anything fried or spicy within the next twenty four hours.” she instructed firmly. 

Rather than being worried of my critical condition, I was more distressed with the idea of the nurse declaring me as his girlfriend.

Thankfully the angels from heaven were on my side today.

I think I would’ve died on the spot from pure cringe if she had.

“Noted. Thank you for taking care of my friend, Daniela,” he replied appreciatively.

Keeping my head turned away, deliberately ignoring his presence, I looked straight at Daniela instead, feeling his eyes on the side of my face. “How long will this take?” I asked impatiently.

“It should take around 4 to 5 hours maximum. If you need to use the restroom, just ring this bell. If I’m nearby or any other nurse on patrol, we’ll help you.” The nurse gestured towards the small bell placed beside the bed before turning towards Jungkook. “And if none of us are around, Mister Jeon can take you. Just be careful with your injected hand, and the IV fluid attached to the stand.”

“Sure, thanks once again.” She nodded and left, while I leaned back into the pillow with a huff.

So I have to be in this room with him for like… what, five hours?

What in oblivion is this.

Not my mom, nor the aunty who comes to clean my house every week, but I wake up to see Jungkook out of all these people randomly appear like some kind of guardian angel.

Whoever sent him, may their side of the pillow never stay cold.

I closed my eyes, trying to steady the chaos in my head, trying to make sense of everything still buzzing under my skin.

But then there was barely there thud beside my bed. Then a few soft shuffling noises. I opened my eyes slowly. And I already knew before I even looked that he sat beside me on a stool. After a few anxious moments of self-inflicting, the urge and curiosity to know got the better of me.

“How did you even get to me?” I queried, my gaze flickering up to him, almost accusatory. 

He stared at me with a slightly perplexed expression.

The bright hospital light reflected against his tan skin, almost creating a faint golden outline around him. If I wasn’t so uncomfortable and starving, I probably would’ve kept staring longer than necessary, just thinking about how devastatingly good he looked even right now.

“That…” He blinked a few times before rubbing the back of his neck. “Minha Aunty called me while I was on the way to work.” He paused briefly before continuing again, almost rambling now. “She sounded really panicked and said you weren’t answering her calls since morning, and I don’t know, I just…” He exhaled quietly through his nose, shaking his head. “I got so worried.”

“She’s probably panicking now that I’m in the hospital, she does know, right?”

“Of course, I informed her the moment we came in here.”

 I nodded slowly pinching the bridge of my nose, yes you were here and it was the issue, Jungkook.

The molten embarrassment from earlier had barely begun settling when another wave of discomfort crashed over me.

“My phone…” I muttered with a groan, sinking deeper into the pillow. “Ugh, it’s back home.”

“Why? Do you wanna talk to Minha Aunty?” he asked immediately, already reaching into his pocket before I could even answer. “Here, use mine.”

My eyes unwillingly dropped to his tattooed hand as he pulled out his navy blue iPhone and handed it over to me.

God.

Even his hands looked annoyingly attractive. I took the phone carefully, avoiding brushing my fingers against his. The last thing I needed right now was another reason for my brain to malfunction.

The call connected after a few rings.

I expected my panicking mother, dramatically crying when she heard my voice.

Instead I got—

“Do you even understand how irresponsible you are?” my mother’s voice erupted through the speaker so loudly I nearly flinched. “No proper sleep schedule, barely eating vegetables, surviving on coffee and instant noodles like some raccoon living behind a convenience store, what exactly did you think was going to happen?”

I immediately lowered the volume, mortification creeping up my neck.

The last thing I needed was for him to hear this.

I peeked up briefly.

Jungkook pretended not to listen dusting the nonexistent dirt from his pants, but the slight twitch near his mouth told me he definitely heard at least half of it.

How wonderful!

“Oh god…” I sighed tiredly, rubbing my forehead. “Can you not start right now?”

“No, because this is the time! Do you see how your body is literally giving up on you, ____!?”

I let her ramble. Because truthfully, part of me deserved it. No maybe all of me did.

Still, being lectured like a child in front of Jungkook felt like psychological warfare. I stared blankly at the IV bag hanging beside me while she continued listing every bad habit I’d accumulated over the years.

Then suddenly in the midst of her venting an idea hit me.

“Ma, can you call Mari?” I interrupted quickly. “Tell her to come stay here for the night, I’m sure Jungkook is tired and should go back home.”

I didn’t look at him immediately, but I felt it. 

That tiny shift in his movements, because from my peripheral vision I could see his hands clasping together.

“She was actually the first person I called,” my mother replied. “She didn’t pick up.”

“What? Call her again then,” I huffed. “Or text her. Tell her to come.”

“She’ll just go to your house in the morning when you’re discharged,” my mother said. “It’s already one in the morning. Besides…” she paused briefly. “Jungkookie is already there, it’s best he stays with you.”

My body went rigid instantly, I tightened my hold on the phone trying to control the frustration surging out of me.

Something faint flickered across his face for half a second. It wasn’t anger, not exactly, but something close to displeasure.

“…Okay, I’ll call you later.” I muttered under my breath with a huff.

Great!

 There was no way I was surviving five whole hours trapped in a hospital room alone with Jeon Jungkook.

I handed his phone back quietly, avoiding his eyes once again.

As if reading every thought running through my head, he cleared his throat awkwardly. Jungkook slipped his phone back into his pocket before leaning back slightly in the chair beside my bed, exhaustion practically dripping off him now that the panic from earlier had settled. That was when I properly noticed it.

 …The matching gym set from his own company, PrimeForm Studios, clung to him like a second skin, stretching taut across broad shoulders and biceps that looked moments away from bulging through the sleeves. Even exhaustion couldn’t dull how unfairly attractive he looked even in this state. But the slight slump in his posture and the faint shadows beneath his eyes did. These were tiny things no one else would probably notice, yet I did instantly, and my poor, pathetic heart still carrying every leftover feeling for him ached at the sight.

I sat with it for another minute, letting the thought sit heavy in my chest, before I finally leaned forward.

My fingers tightened slightly around the hospital blanket. “Jungkook…” I mumbled.

He immediately looked up at the sound of my voice, almost too quickly. “Yeah?”

“You should leave now.” I proposed. 

He waved his hands dismissively as if I said something foul and just stared at me with a flat expression. 

If I said I wanted him to leave it would be a lie, I wanted him to stay, but I needed a break, a rest, from the thoughts of him, from feeling the hurt when he’s near, him staying here would only make resting harder for me.

Trying to mask the growing restlessness, I tried to reason.

“There are nurses here anyway, and it’s only five hours, I can manage on my own.“

“I’m not leaving you alone in a hospital at one in the morning, ____.”

I exhaled sharply through my nose.

“I’m not a kid, Jungkook.”

His gaze flicked to mine.

“I didn’t say you were. But you literally passed out in your apartment not many hours ago,” he added with conviction.

“And now I’m in a hospital. Clearly, things are under control.” My reply seemed to disturb him because I swear I saw his jaw tightening slightly before easing his expressions into a composed one, but his voice stayed annoyingly calm.

“I mean… it’s Sunday anyway,” he slid in before I could make a comeback. 

“I don’t really have anything urgent tomorrow, so, it’s fine. I want to stay.”

He had that irritating look of quiet satisfaction, like he already knew this was going to end in his favour.

I opened my mouth again, ready to argue—

And before I could, there was a knock at the door.

This time a different nurse stepped in with a tray of food, and I even forgot what I wanted to say, my stomach chose that exact moment to growl loudly, and I acted indifferent to conceal the growing embarrassment, yet I could feel my face heating up like a volcano. Instead of giving me space like a normal human being, he immediately stood up to adjust the tray table closer toward me before I could even move properly.

“I can do it myself,” I grumbled.

Ignoring me entirely, he inserted the straw into the orange juice bottle before placing it carefully beside my plate. “Yeah, I know,” he replied absentmindedly, like my protests barely registered in that thick brain of his anymore.

The nurse placed a pack of tissues on the small table, handed my medicines over to Jungkook, and quietly left the room.

I focused entirely on my food after that.

It was chicken corn soup with warm bread, and honestly, it looked way too appetising for hospital food. Or maybe I was simply too hungry to care either way.

The rich smell alone made my painfully empty stomach twist. Jungkook shifted slightly beside me the moment he noticed my trembling hands wrapping around the spoon.

I had seriously underestimated my condition because even lifting the stupid thing felt like a month’s worth of labor, but obstinately, I tightened my fingers around the cold steel anyway, refusing to let him notice just how weak I actually felt.

“You need help?” he asked cautiously.

“I can eat by myself,” I replied sharply, shooting him a clear don’t even try me look.

His lips pressed together instantly.

Then he nodded once, almost hesitant, and leaned back into the chair again.

But his eyes didn’t stop gazing at me.

I tore a small piece of bread slowly, suddenly hyper-aware of his gaze lingering over every movement I made. 

It wasn’t intense or creepy.

But he was still staring.

And suddenly, my mother’s rage baiting comments echoed inside my head.

Your chewing makes me want to send you to an etiquette class.

Close your mouth when you chew, dear.

Why are you so loud when eating?

I hated how quickly those words crawled back into my brain.

Because after a certain point, once I became too aware of myself, even the food started tasting unpleasant.

Unaware of my inner turmoil, Jungkook kept zoning in on the way I was eating, the way my fingers trembled slightly every now and then, the way I kept readjusting myself because of the stupid cannula attached to my hand.

Could he give me a little break?

Goddamn it.

After a few awkward seconds, I finally glanced up at him with annoyance plastered all over my face.

“…Can you please stop staring?” I said flatly. “I know I look horrible. You don’t have to make it so obvious.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly, almost caught off guard. “You don’t look horrible, not at all.”• he replied softly.

He looked away briefly, his body shaking, clearly trying and failing to stifle a laugh.

“You look like a stoat.” A chuckle managed to escape him afterward.

I blinked at him in disbelief.

Did this man just call me a fucking…..stoat? 

Wasn’t that some kind of a rodent?

Or a damn ferret?

Whatever it was, I was pretty sure it wasn’t a compliment by any means.

Who does he think of himself? As if he was Henry Cavill!

I scoffed under my breath and aggressively tore another piece of bread, silently cursing my mother for calling Jungkook out of all the people living nearby me.

After I finished eating, I had to suffer through him hovering close again.

He gathered my medicines carefully before handing them over one by one, then poured water into a glass and held it out toward me because apparently I was incapable of doing anything myself tonight.

And do you know what’s the worst part?

He was so unbelievably patient about it. When I coughed midway through swallowing the pills, he immediately held the glass closer for me, helping me drink properly, he was so naturally gentle that despite my irritation, something warm and fuzzy kept blooming inside my chest.

He even stepped outside afterward to give me privacy while the nurse helped me use the washroom.

She washed my face gently with cold water, helped fix my tangled hair before loosely braiding it back for me.

By the time I finally settled back into bed, it was already past two in the morning.

I laid down carefully, overly paranoid about the cannula in my hand, before slowly closing my eyes. I wasn’t even sleepy, but my eyes felt unnecessarily heavy.

A few moments later, the door opened and shut again with the faintest thud possible. It was so quiet it felt eerie, because at one point I could only hear my own breath.

I could tell it was him the moment the strong smell of cigarettes hit my nostrils.

Most of the bright hospital lights had been dimmed now, shadows stretching softly across the walls.

I held my breath instinctively when I felt him move closer to the bed. Then the blanket shifted slightly as he carefully pulled it higher over my shoulder, probably noticing how much I kept shivering around because of the cold.

The chair screeched softly against the floor before he sat back down beside me with a tired yawn loud enough for me to hear. A few seconds later, he began humming some unfamiliar tune under his breath before he eventually stopped and sighed. And then the room was swallowed by silence one again. I had no idea how much time passed after that.

Probably minutes, hours or maybe both. I didn’t know how long he stayed awake, or I pretended to be deep in sleep. 

I felt on edge, growing increasingly impatient to open my eyes because the curiosity was genuinely going to murder me.

Until…

I heard soft snores.

I slowly peeked one eye open before carefully opening both.

It was a devastating sight.

Jungkook had somehow fallen asleep on that tiny hospital chair, his giant body barely even fitting into it properly. His head tilted awkwardly to the side, neck bent in a way that would definitely leave him sore in the morning. His arms stayed loosely crossed over his chest, I guess the exhaustion finally won against whatever stubborn determination had kept him awake this whole time. And without even realizing it, the reserved, and indifferent mask I had been forcing onto myself ever since waking up in this hospital bed quietly cracked apart right there. 

I couldn’t stop the smile that slowly took over my face, even though my chest tightened simultaneously.

How could something so soft sting this much?

My eyes burned not long after, tears slowly gathering before I could stop them, finally letting all the suppressed feelings leak out of me.

Throughout the night, I only looked at him.

My eyes never strayed away, silently tracing every inch of his face.

The quiet rise and fall of his chest.

The exhaustion still lingering across his sleeping features.

And the cute little pout his lips formed as soft snores escaped him every now and then.

I wanted to etch this version of him into my memory forever before dawn arrived, and we went back to becoming strangers knotted together only by a forgotten friendship once again. I kept staring or you could say ogling, unable to look away, needing just a little more time because what were the chances of ever seeing him like this again, in the same room as me, so quietly asleep?

Eventually, my own eyes began growing heavier.

And right before sleep fully pulled me under, I could feel something rough but warm wrap gently around my cold IV injected hand, holding it firmly in place, but I had crossed the border to dreamland, yet my subconscious was yet to shut down.

My lips curled slightly before I could stop them and then I finally succumbed to sleep.

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The same nurse who gave me food yesterday came in quietly, checking the IV one last time before removing it with careful hands and putting a small bandage over the spot. She helped me change back into the clothes I wore yesterday, wished me a fast recovery, and left shortly after.

I sat there with my bare feet hanging off the bed, realizing I seriously needed to get a pedicure again because my feet looked dull and rough as hell.

Ah fuck. 

I should probably call the nurse.

I obviously didn’t come here on my own feet, and I needed another pair of those hospital cloth slippers anyway because I accidentally soaked the ones they gave me in the washroom earlier. There was a knock on the door before it opened, and Jungkook strolled in shortly after, looking annoyingly awake for someone who barely slept the entire night.

No traces of tiredness from yesterday remained in his eyes.

He stood by the bed with a paper cup of black coffee in his hand, blowing on it lightly before taking a slow sip, as though he had already been awake for hours.

“Oh…there’s another thing.”

He reached into a shopping bag before fishing out a cute pair of polka dot sandals.

…Did he buy those for me?

“Here,” he said, stepping closer. “I bought these sandals for you. I didn’t know if your shoe size was still 36 though, so I got them in size 38 instead.…”

He sounded oddly sheepish toward the end.

Could he stop being so…ugh….so him?

I only sat there stunned before immediately jerking away when he suddenly knelt down in front of me. I gasped softly the moment his warm hands touched my freezing feet.

What was his damn deal? 

“God,” he muttered, mostly to himself at this point. “They’re so cold, did you give your feet an ice bath?”

The ability to speak was genuinely taken away from me. He carefully slipped the sandals onto my feet one by one. They were way bigger than my actual size but I couldn’t deny the fact that him buying those for me without even asking ignited an unnamed feeling inside my chest.

Then he slowly stood back up again, giving me a soft smile that immediately sent my mind into complete disarray. “I spoke to Minha Aunty,” he said. “She told me your friend Mari’s already at your home. Just let me go fetch your reports and then drop you off.” And when I tried to stand up properly, he was already there again, his warm hand firm against my back to steady me. I gulped quietly, trying not to make a big deal out of the mindless, innocent touch when my entire body seemed painfully aware of it.

I was more than stable enough to handle my shit by myself, but that clearly didn’t matter to him because I could tell just from his body language that was annoyingly certain about one thing. He is going to drop me home one way or another and he won’t take no for an answer. So instead of wasting my remaining energy I kept my mouth zipped, though I was certain that my expressions gave away the turmoil inside my head.

Before we left, he didn’t forget to tip the two nurses either. By the wide grins they both gave us, I could already tell he had tipped more than necessary.

And I mentally noted to pay him back all the money.

And somehow despite it being the last thing I wanted, I ended up in Jeon Jungkook’s black Mercedes anyway. 

Because the lesser I resisted, the faster it would get over. In the car it felt too quiet forbthe first few minutes, while I just stared at the passing skyscrapers of shopping malls, arcades, restyling, pastry shops, the plant shops, pharmacies. 

Then it didn’t stay quiet for long.

I could feel him glancing at me in every red light stop. He cleared his throat. “How are you feeling now?” he asked again, like the answer might change in the span of thirty seconds.

I sighed under my breath.

“Way better than yesterday.”

“Are you hungry? Wanna eat something?”

“I’ll be home in a few minutes, I’ll make something later.” Another red light stopped the car.

From the corner of my eye, I watched Jungkook reach behind toward the backseat without saying anything. A faint crease appeared between my brows as he pulled out a neatly packed bibimbap container before handing it over to me. The bibimbap packet lay in lap.

I froze slightly. It was oddly specific. The exact convenience store bibimbap I always bought ever since I was a highschooler. Before I could even process that, he reached behind again and handed me the same orange juice bottle from last night. I tried not to notice how his silver watch rested against the veins of his hand as he passed it to me. Then he pulled out another orange juice to drink it himself. That made me finally turn around fully towards the backseat, and my eyes almost popped out at the view. There were massive shopping bags. A huge fruit basket. And various flavours of oats packet everywhere. Did this man decided that he wants too bless a family of 5 in need? With the amount of grocery sitting in the backseat it looked like he was about to go giveaway free groceries.

“Did you empty the entire grocery store?” I stared at him in disbelief. 

“Don’t exaggerate, It’s not even that much,” he exclaimed casually, eyes still focused on the road now that the signal had turned green again. “I brought these for you.”

I blinked, my mouth agape.

“There are fruits, juices, oats—”

“Jungkook, it is thoughtful of you,” I cut him off. “but I can’t take it.”

He ignored that completely.

I took a look at the backseat again before looking at him.

“…I won’t even be able to eat half of it.”

He didn’t even look embarrassed.

I have the appetite of a gold fish, with only eating meal once a day.

All of this food will only go to waste.

“You have iron deficiency and dehydration,” he replied matter-of-factly. “You need to eat healthy foods.”

“How do you know that I don’t eat healthily?”

That finally made him glance at me briefly.

Like he was seconds away from arguing again.

But I spoke first.

“How much was all of this?”

I saw him tensing slightly. 

“Come on, I only bought a few stuff, not a whole mansion.”

“That’s not the point—”

“Then what is the point?” His voice stayed calm, but I could hear the vexation slipping underneath it. 

“I’ll pay you back right now. It isn’t a simple meal you bought me, if it was, I wouldn’t have even mentioned it. Asan is an expensive hospital,” I stated, the agitation evident in my voice. “And it was a private cabin too. How much did it cost? The IV? All those medicines? Everything! Just tell me the amount so I can pay you back.”

He ran a hand across his jaw and I couldn’t help my eyes from straying to his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.

He stayed mute for a second, eyes fixed on the road ahead before he exhaled softly through his nose.

“Why are you acting like this?” he husked, and a  hot, suffocating pressure built in my chest, I glared at him. “Acting like what?”

“You know what I’m trying to say, ____.” From his voice alone I could tell he was trying arduously to keep it neutral.

I shook my head and shot out. “No, I don’t. Can’t you be a little more clear?” 

He slapped his hand roughly against the steering wheel once

“You keep talking to me like we haven’t been friends ever since you were a teenager and I a struggling first year uni student juggling two part time jobs.” That one sentence hit so hard it almost knocked the air out of my lungs.

But I refused to let it show through my expressions, because we weren’t friends anymore, we haven’t been for a long time.

I kept staring outside the window with my arms crossed tight, like it would stop the loud pounding of my heart.

What else was I supposed to do?

I couldn’t act like I didn’t completely humiliate myself infront of him, like he didn’t date another woman while I sat there grieving a one sided relationship he never partook in. I would be a hypocrite if I blame him for not feeling the same way, because how could one reciprocate a love that had never been professed before?

Yet I couldn’t stop myself from hurting and feeling two-timed. Was it casual when he sent me letters while he was serving in the military? Was it casual when he transferred his military salary to me for four straight months even when I kept begging him to stop? Was it casual when a cake arrived on my 21st birthday with no explanation? Was it casual when he carved out his limited time to call me, to check on me, like I was still part of his world even when he barely had one of his own in the military? Was it casual when he said he thought of me during his hardest days, when he was scared during missions our funny memories gave him peace? 

Did he do that for just anyone?

And if not…

Then what was I to him?

I think it was my conscience’s fault for still longing for him fully knowing he was committed to another woman.

He didn’t say anything else after seeing my lack of response.

The engine lowered into a quiet hum before fading completely, leaving only the distant sound of morning traffic and birds somewhere near the trees. The car rolled slowly into a side lane beside a small park, my apartment complex stood just a short one minute walk away.

“These days I don’t really understand you,” he said finally.

I stayed silent wanting to know what he has to say.

“What?”

But his eyes didn’t meet mine.

But his eyes didn’t meet mine.

They stayed forward, fixed on nothing in particular through the windshield, like looking at me directly would make whatever he was feeling harder to contain.

“First you send a text, then you delete it before I have the chance to see it,” he said, quieter this time.

My stomach dropped.

It was a small, delayed reaction, like my body understood before my mind could even comprehend.

He finally turned slightly in his seat then, not fully facing me, but enough that I could see the tension in his expression now. The tiredness. The frustration layered under something sharper.

“Then you suddenly block me on every social media, then you unblock me again.”

“And ever since then you’ve been treating me like I’m your enemy.”

I swallowed against the sudden tightness in my throat.

Huh?

What is he even saying?

My brain… genuinely lagged.

Like the words weren’t processing correctly.

Because I saw the seen sign.

I saw it.

I remembered staring at that tiny word for hours until my vision blurred, remembered the humiliation clawing through me afterward, the panic, the regret, the spiraling shame that followed after convincing myself he had read every single word.

His voice tightened at the end, barely restrained now. “I don’t know what went wrong,” he said quietly, exhaustion laced through his voice. “I only found out later that the persom I don’t even wanna mention, apparently deleted it before I could even see it.”

“For months I wasn’t aware that you texted me.”

Jungkook fastened his seat belt again before turning fully toward me this time, a strange intensity taking over his features, it was something fiercer.

His left hand came up to rest against his chest like he needed me to understand the sincerity behind his words.

“I don’t care what anyone says,” he said firmly. “And even if I did see it, I wouldn’t still believe anything until I heard it from you, ____.” His brows furrowed slightly, eyes locked onto mine with an honesty that almost made me look away. “I’ll only buy what you say, because I trust you. I need you to know that.”

I only stared at him in astonishment. My brain had been rotting in the gutter for so long, tangled in shame and humiliation and assumptions, that it genuinely struggled to process anything anymore. If he didn’t see it…

Then probably his ex girlfriend did.

A sick feeling twisted inside my stomach. It was too much for me to take right now. I needed to process it alone.

I didn’t know if I wanted to cry from relief, guilt, fear, regret, rage or if I wanted to slam the car door shut, run upstairs to my apartment and scream until my throat gave out. I had suffered through this unbearable mental burden for months.

Months of believing he knew.

Months of replaying that humiliation over and over until it hollowed me out from the inside.

And now suddenly I get to know that he didn’t even read it.

I couldn’t do this anymore.

But this was the last step I had to make, the perfect opportunity to slip in a story convincing enough to erase any lingering doubt from his mind once and for all. 

Maybe then I’d finally be released from this endless misery festering inside me, and finally sleep peacefully again instead of seeing him in every nightmare that jolted me awake in the middle of the night.

“It was meant for someone else,” I admitted quietly, forcing the words out before I could stop myself. “When I sent you that text…” My voice shook slightly. “I was drunk out of my wits, I don’t even remember who I sent it to.” I swallowed harshly, fingers tightening around themselves in my lap.

The silence afterward felt catastrophic. 

I felt nauseous instantly.

Like I had physically thrown something irreversible between us.

“When I woke up, I panicked and deleted it,” I said quickly, my breath catching halfway through the sentence. “And then I realized I sent the same text to, like… four other people too.”

A strained laugh slipped out before I quickly smoothed my expression over again, rushing out my next lie before I could overthink it.

“I somehow sent it to everyone except the person it was actually meant for.”

Jungkook didn’t interrupt me once.

The morning light filtered faintly through the windshield, pale shadows stretched across his face while he sat there quietly absorbing every word, and for the first time since this conversation started, he looked lighter, like something that had been weighing on him for months had finally loosened slightly from around his chest. 

Yet there was still something unreadable lingering in his eyes now, something deeper sitting quietly underneath the assurance, and somehow that uncertainty made my stomach twist even more. 

Why do I keep hyper analysing everything about him? I grunted internally.

Taking the silence as my cue to escape, I quickly told him to just stay inside the car, even though his stubborn ass argued a few times about walking me all the way to my apartment before he finally stopped resisting after taking one proper look at my face, the exhaustion written all over it was impossible to miss. His eyes narrowed slightly at me afterward, not exactly angry, but frustrated in that restrained way people always got whenever they clearly wanted to say more but forced themselves not to.

Before he could say something that would make this conversation even harder to survive.

I barely even remembered opening the car door afterward.

The cold morning air hit my face immediately as I stepped out, my legs still weak from the hospital but moving too fast anyway, almost desperate to escape before my composure cracked in front of him again.

Right before entering the apartment complex, I don’t know what possessed me to glance back.

Only his eyes were visible through the half-shut black tinted window, still watching me.

My chest tightened painfully at the sight.

Like my body had been holding them back through pure force this entire time and finally gave up.

The tears kept falling endlessly as I somehow forced myself through the hallway and toward my apartment, my vision so blurred I could barely even see properly anymore. I stood in front of the entrance for a few embarrassing seconds, fingers trembling violently while trying to type in the passcode, messing it up twice because I couldn’t stop crying long enough to focus. The moment the door unlocked, I practically stumbled inside.

Everything after that happened in a blur.

I barely even managed to kick the door shut behind me before my legs gave out completely and I collapsed against the sofa, my body hitting the cushions limply as loud, crushing sobs ripped out of me so violently it physically hurt. My chest ached horribly, breaths breaking unevenly between each cry while tears soaked into the fabric beneath my face.

And now suddenly none of it even made sense anymore.

I sobbed harder.

It wad the kind of heartache that leaves your body shaking uncontrollably, ugly and breathless and impossible to stop once it starts.

I didn’t even notice the panicked figure rushing toward me until I suddenly felt warmth engulf me from behind, familiar arms wrapping around my trembling body tightly.

“____? Oh my god—bub, what happened?”

Mari’s voice sounded distant and muffled.

Like I was hearing it underwater.

And the moment I felt her holding me, and pressing kisses against my temple.

The walls that I had built crumbled completely.

I closed my eyes and sobbed harder into the couch, I kept on sobbing until it hollowed me out from the inside.

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It was 5pm in the afternoon.

The warm amora of lavender tea hung in the air.

The two women sat side by side.

But you also felt a sense of liberation because Mari didn’t leave you instead she held you throughout your emotional eruption, listening to every painful cry, every sobbing description until you fell asleep.

She was your anchor. Your red bloodshot eyes stared into the monotone painted wall ahead of her. Her face was swollen, her nose red from cleaning the snot repeatedly, her throat felt sore but more than that it was her heart that was sore. Mari, sat beside you, her head resting on her knuckles as she stared at her absentminded best friend. 

“The tea’s gonna get cold.” Mari pouted, playing with a strand of your hair.

“Chestnut brown really suits you, it makes your face look so much more radiant and your eyes stand out more too,” she complimented.

You felt a little guilty for not being able to reflect her cherry mood today, but could you really blame yourself? It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours yet, and your body had already gone through what felt like twenty panic episodes back to back. So pardon you for feeling as though every last bit of life had been drained out of you.

“My eyes are black, Mari.” You boredly replied to her.

Mari rolled her eyes.

“Okay, I give up bruh, it’s not gonna work on you, but I don’t know if you’re ready to hear what I have to say either.” She implored.

You finally looked at her, prepared to finally enough to share it with her. Mari is the only the person who has known about your deep rooted feelings for Jungkook. Out of every person in your life, even your mom, she was the one person who knew every little detail of your life.

Mari, albeit a little too blunt sometimes, wasn’t someone who would fabricate and filter her opinion just to preserve someone’s comfort or keep the peace. Whether you liked it or not, she always had a clear-cut opinion on things and she never hesitated to voice it.

And she was the perfect person to seek advice from.

“No. That’s the last thing I’d want you to do Mari.” 

“I want you to tell me the truth.”  Now I was the eager one, I put my hands above hers, slightly squeezing it and bopping my head up and down, indicating her to speak.

Mari sighed, her shoulders dropping slightly as if she had been holding all of it in for too long and only now letting it breathe out.

“Almost eight years ago when you first admitted to me about crushing on Jungkook after I basically put you on gun point,” she began, leaning back into the couch before slowly shifting forward again like the memory itself was pulling her in, “I honestly found it adorable how you’d crashout every time you shared a moment with him and then excitedly tell me over sleepovers.”

“It was harmless back then, you were a fifteen year old kid.” She adds on.

Then her expression changed subtly, from something softer to sharper.

“I never told you this… but I did start noticing, a little too late, how much it was slowly beginning to affect your life to the point where it was becoming self destructive. Your mood started depending on your interactions with him.” She looked at you with a pitiful smile. “You’ve always put him in this golden category, like he’s some unreachable dream. And I understand it, he’s all macho and cool, he’s super kind, hardworking, and he’s always been so sweet with you. Though I can’t lie, I do have to say that some of his actions were misleading at times…”

Her voice trailed for a second as she shifted fully upright, turning her body toward you now, her hands coming up as if she needed them to properly hold her thoughts in place.

A fiery look in her eyes.

“But ____ you seem to forget who you actually are. You were the most popular girl of our school, you used to get scouted by agents of big entertainment agencies randomly, when we’d go out to group study at the cafe near Seokchon Lake, or at those arcades we used to go to. It would happen so frequently.  From juniors to seniors you had everyone crushing at you.”

Then she dramatically put her hands on her mouth, making an equally dramatic noise of disapproval.

“I still can’t get over the Nam Joo Hyuk thing.” she exaggerated.

“I was furious when you turned down a date with THE Nam Joo Hyuk,” she groaned dramatically, throwing her hands up. “And Jungkook had literally gone into the military like five months before that. ____ , what do you mean you turned down the ‘Korean Adonis’ for a guy who wasn’t even your man just so you could act like his sad, depressed military wife?”

Mari sighed like she was recounting the most tragic story of her life before continuing, eyes widening for emphasis. “Like actually, what do you mean you turned down Nam Joo Hyuk? Do you even realize how insanely popular he is now? His fan following is insane. He’s literally one of the highest paid actors in South Korea.”

You rolled your eyes internally.

Sure, Nam Joo-hyuk was objectively good-looking, but he was nowhere near your ideal type. And the arrogance in the way he’d asked for your number, as if there was absolutely no possibility you’d say no, was irksome. Maybe if he was a little mo-

You stopped yourself before your brain escalated back to the same decade old description of a specific person.

Mari’s hand dropped back to her lap with a frustrated slap against her thigh.

“I stayed silent because I thought you and Jungkook had some sort of secret situationship going on,” she added, leaning back again, still watching you closely, “but then my assumptions were proven wrong when he spawned with a girlfriend right after his military discharge.”

“Now he never cared enough to reach out until you two were forced to be in the same place. I’m not saying it’s his fault… because bubs, that’s what life is about. People….drift away.”

Her voice dipped slightly, becoming quieter now as she stared down at her own hands for a second.

“You remember when Seokjin and I used to date,? We used to spend almost half of the day together for seven years, and now we don’t even wish each other on New Years or let alone birthdays.” Her fingers curled slightly.

“Do you know why it never affected me?” She questioned, gently before answering herself.

“It’s because my joy never depended on Seokjin. I was happy in my own skin, so fulfilled within myself that even when we broke up, I got back up on my feet faster, because my life went on, be it with or without him.”

“The reason why you’re so disturbed and torn apart by his absence is probably because there was a time when you used to be a part of his everyday life, but the military broke that seesaw. And I think deep down, it was needed…”

“____ , I think you’re more in love with the idea of him than the reality of him.” Her eyes were unflinching.

“Because you two have only seen each other within a box, that couldn’t go beyond a boundary but have you ever experienced him outside of who he showed you he is? Do you know anything about his work? How he is with his friends?”

The room felt awfully quieter with the truth out open.

“He only knows you as the teenage high school junior he tutored and adored like a little sister, he remembers you in your fuzzy socks and oversized pink hoodies but does he know the woman you are now?” Her eyes softened, like she almost regretted how honest she was being. “I know it’ll always leave a void in your heart,” she said finally, voice quieter now, almost careful, as if she was placing the words down gently instead of throwing them. “But I pray that someday you get over the fantasy of it. I know you will.” She looked at you with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

This probably is the most you’ve heard Mari speak in one breath. You realized many occasions stopped her from saying all these things to your face, but you couldn’t be anything but glad that she did. You needed to get slapped in the face.

It was almost horrifying how well she observed your feelings for Jungkook, but it was Mari after all.

Hearing your situation, your life through her lense changed the trajectory of your perspective  as well and it was like a cold bucket of water was thrown at your face.

You pondered for a few minutes, while Mari’s gazed stayed on you. “You cannot expect a man to remain the same after military. It changes them a lot, especially a man you haven’t really personally known-” Before Mari could continue, you leaned forward and pulled her into a tight hug, your movement slightly shaky but firm. She froze for a fraction of a second before instantly wrapping her arms around you too, one hand pressing firmly against your back, the other gently rubbing slow, grounding circles. “You’re right.” You softly admitted.

For the first time in years, today you gave yourself the time to think of an alternative scenario, in a way you haven’t before, in a way that made the pang in your chest hurt a little less. While you breathed out, your chin rested on her shoulder.

“Mari…didn’t you say that you were gonna host a get together soon?”

She pulled back, her forehead creasing.

“Yes, why are you asking me this out of the blue.”

In his twenty-nine years of life, Jeon Jungkook had signed contracts worth millions without blinking twice.

He had built three brands from scratch, negotiated with investors twice his age, replied to life changing business emails while eating cold takeout at three in the morning, approved campaigns, closed deals and transferred amounts of money that would make most people nauseous. He did all of that without hesitation, because he’s always intentional when it came to his business. Yet somehow one single text message had him erasing and rewriting the same sentence in different ways for the ninth fucking time today.

Currently it was 3PM, he was in his office branch in Yeouido District, on the eighth floor of the towering glass building.Jungkook leaned back against his leather office chair with a livid exhale, dragging a hand down his face before staring back down at his phone again.His employees continued discussing projected launch numbers for the new gym supplement line somewhere across the long conference table, their voices kept overlapping with presentation slides flipping quietly in the background, Jungkook had been focused in the beginning but for the past sixteen minutes, his mind had gone completely blank.

This was messing with him because he rarely checked his phone during meetings.

But the second the screen lit up beside his laptop earlier, with the one name he hadn’t expected to see, his entire train of thought derailed so badly he almost stumbled over his own words mid-l presentation and had to glance twice just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

You [3:40 PM]:

Hey, it’s been a while.

You [ 3:41 PM]:

I’ve been wanting to reach out to you… I got caught up with work so I’m late.

It had been three weeks since he last heard from you. 

Three weeks since you adamantly got out of his car that morning looking exhausted enough to collapse right there, refusing to even take the groceries he bought for you despite the argument it caused.

He remembered sitting there afterward in annoyance while staring at the untouched fruit baskets and grocery bags occupying his entire backseat.

Eventually he gave all of it to his security guard when he reached home. The old man nearly cried seeing the amount of imported strawberries alone. Jungkook sighed again before glancing back at the popped up text in his notification bar.

He typed a sentence, then deleted.

It looked too blunt.

He typed again, shaking his head because it was getting too long, 

He deleted it again.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard while the faint sound of his employees laughing as they left the office somewhere outside the conference room echoed through the glass walls of his office.

Jungkook [3:57 PM]:

No worries…. How are you? How’s your health now?

He realised that he was taking too long to reply, when your reply came instantly.

You [3:58 PM] 

I’m doing a lot better than the last time we saw each other :)

You [3:58 PM]

Btw are you free today?

He leaned back slightly against his chair before replying, his index finger rubbing against his jaw, absentmindedly.

Jungkook [4:05 PM]:

Today? Yeah, I get off work within 5pm.

You [4:07 PM]:

Great then, I’m hosting a get together party with my best friend, I was wondering if you could come and join me.

That was a whiplash from the way you had been avoiding him like the plague..not wanting to 

Jungkook [4:07 PM]:

A gathering party? Where is it?

The typing bubble appear almost immediately.

You [4:10 PM]:

It’s located in Itaewon, it’s called Yact Core.

Jungkook pondered for a few seconds, eyes narrowing slightly while trying to remember if he had heard of the place before. His fingers moved over the keyboard slowly, typing out a response before pausing midway, because your next text came in before he could even hit send.

You [4:14 PM]:

So are you coming or not, Oppa?

His phone slipped right out of his hand.

The loud thud against the wooden floor made him curse under his breath immediately as he bent down too fast to grab it, nearly hitting his knee against the desk in the process.

“Ugh...” He grunted at the shot of pain that went through his knee.

“What on earth…” he muttered under his breath, heat rushing unexpectedly to the back of his neck.

Oppa? Never in your life have you called him that, ever, even when you were talking about him to someone else. It was only a honorific that he never cared for even though you were almost eight years younger than him.

Usually, in any other circumstance, Jungkook was strict about addressing elders properly with honorifics. Maybe it was the Korean in him, maybe it was just the way he had been raised. Yet somehow, when it came to you, he never corrected it. If anything, he found it stupidly sweet.

The way you called him “Kook” so naturally, like the nickname belonged to you and you alone and the most embarrassing part was that it kind of did.

Because nobody else called him ‘Kook’ besides you.

This sudden friendliness of yours made him wonder if you somewhere hit your head and had a loss of memory? Lately he had been so used to the distant attitude you maintained with him, after everything that happened recently, after months of avoidance, seeing a snippet of your sweet, old version suddenly appear on his screen again felt absurdly more intimate than it should’ve.

His heartbeat quickened annoyingly fast while he unlocked the phone again, rereading the text twice before forcing himself to type something back normally.

Jungkook [4:15 PM]:

Yeah, I’ll come for sure.

Your reply came less than ten seconds later.

You [4:15 PM]:

I’ll be waiting hehe 😛

Jungkook stared at the conversation for another embarrassing amount of time before abruptly locking his phone and tossing it onto the table like it had burned his hand. He pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes for a second. No, he really needs to stop drinking caffeine in the morning on an empty stomach. This is why he's been feeling so weird.

“Yo Boss! A sublime day, isn't it?" Gwanshik’s chirpy voice echoed through the office suddenly.

“Indeed, Gwanshik.” Jungkook muttered.

His head jerked up almost instantly only to find his assistant standing by the doorway holding a thick black file against his chest, brows raised suspiciously.

“Wait, why are you so red?”

Jungkook scoffed immediately, straightening himself in the chair. “I-I’m not red.”

“You absolutely are.” Gwanshik snorted, walking further inside. “Your ears too.”

“Did you listen to the new album by that boygroup CORTIS? They have a song called ‘RedRed’. So you lying to my face, that’s red’red~” Gwangshik singsang giggling like an imbecile.

Whatever.

Jungkook only coughed, reaching out for the file the second Gwanshik handed it over.

“Samples for the new starter pack campaign,” Gwanshik explained while Jungkook flipped the file open a little too rapidly, very obviously trying to redirect the conversation before the older man could tease him any further. “The new employees suggested going for a more raw gym aesthetic this time instead of those overly edited luxury concepts,” he continued, leaning against the desk casually. “And honestly? I agree. You probably will too once you see their vision.”

Jungkook hummed scatterbrained, with his eyes scanning through the printed sample photographs spread across the pages. There were at least twelve varieties of samples of shaker concepts, gym bag layouts, compression wear samples, and minimalistic black packaging. On other days this was the kind of thing he’d immediately hyperfocus on.

But today?

His mind kept drifting back toward his phone sitting face down beside him.

Gwanshik caught onto Jungkook’s lack of attention instantly, because it wasn’t common at all.

A grin slowly spread across his face.

“…Ahhh,” he dragged out knowingly.

Jungkook already sighed in annoyance before the other guy could even continue.

“Is it a woman?.”

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed. 

“No.” 

“You got rejected?”

“No.”

“Then it’s worse.” Gwanshik nodded seriously thinking. “You like her.”

Jungkook almost choked on absolutely nothing.

“It’s not even close to that,” he shot back angrily, face heating all over again while Gwanshik burst out laughing right in front of him.

“Ehhhh sure, I’ll take my leave since nothing’s getting into your head right now anyway.” He taunted before turning toward the door. “I’ll just email you the documents. You can always check them later.” And with that, he walked out singing some painfully cringe love song lyric, clearly far too entertained by Jungkook’s misery.

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ────

Jungkook arrived at the location you shared a little later than he originally planned.

The car door shut behind him with a quiet click, and for a moment he just stood there outside the venue, taking in the building like he was trying to recalibrate what kind of night this was supposed to be.

He had expected loud music, disco balls and, shouting, something club themed, because that was the definition of a party he and his friends did when they were at this age. Instead, the moment he stepped inside, the atmosphere was completely unanticipated. Soft jazz wrapped around the space like a warm haze, low enough to feel like background breathing rather than music. Somewhere further inside, a faint track of Luis Miguel played. The lighting was warm gold, spilling gently over marble flooring and glass decor. People stood in small clusters instead of crowds, talking, laughing, posing occasionally for pictures. He didn’t wear any suit like every other man here, but rather a black Calvin Klein jacket, with matching black jeans, it didn’t exactly blend into the crowd. In the midst of his eyes scanning the room looking for a certain five foot something woman, someone tapped him on the shoulders, when he turned around his eyebrows lifted in recognition. Mari stood there, a tight smile resting on her lips.

“What are you doing here all on your own?” she asked lightly over the music. “____ didn’t see you yet?”

Jungkook gave a small smile, slipping one hand inside the pocket of his jacket. “I just got here.”

“Oh.” Mari nodded once before glancing toward the crowd behind her. “Well… she’s been excited about tonight after all the storm she went through.”

What is that supposed to mean?

Before he could respond, Mari stepped aside slightly, motioning vaguely toward the deeper part of the lounge. “She’s probably somewhere there with our friends. I need to save my drunk boyfriend before he embarrasses himself infront of strangers.”

Jungkook let out a quiet chuckle. “Another babysitting duty I see.”

“Unfortunately.” She stated.

“Good seeing you though,” she added more genuinely this time.

“You too.”

And then she disappeared somewhere into the crowd.

Jungkook walked further inside, eventually rounding into a quieter area near the open space of the lounge, unlike the entrance area the atmosphere here felt even calmer somehow, he could hear a saxophone playing and faint laughter and chatter somewhere. And then he saw you.

Just the back of your head, at first.

You were standing near one of the lounge tables, surrounded by a loose circle of people, a few men and women gathered comfortably around the dimly lit space with drinks resting lazily in their hands. A tall South Asian guy dressed in a fitted brown shirt and black pants stood in the middle of telling some dramatic story, his hands moving animatedly while everyone leaned in with amused expressions.

You were listening too.

Then the South Asian guy said something that made the entire group erupt into laughter in unison, your head tipped back briefly as you laughed, your hand instinctively coming down to smack the arm of the lean man standing beside you while he groaned dramatically at the hit, making everyone laugh even harder. Your chestnut hair fell down your back in a long straight flow, catching the warm yellow lights every time you moved. You wore an ocean blue bodycon dress that looked like it had been stitched specifically to fit your body. Beside you a shorter redhead woman in a hot pink dress, leaned to whisper something in your ear. And almost immediately —

Your head turned slightly, your gaze absentmindedly drifting across the other tables first, barely paying attention to anything you were looking at.

Then your eyes landed on him.

And kept moving.

For half a second Jungkook genuinely thought you hadn’t recognized him.

Before your head snapped back toward him almost instantly. Jungkook’s lungs forgot what they were doing for exactly one second as a wide smile slowly pulled onto your lips. He stared back. It took him a minute too long to realize his mouth had parted slightly. He closed it. And smoothed his expression. Something strange sat in his chest, it was a feeling he could describe as closest to discomfort. You lifted your hand slightly from around your wine glass before motioning him over with two small curls of your fingers and Jungkook began making his way towards you, with his eyes not leaving you for once. He almost forgot there were other people around until one of your friends suddenly looked between the two of you and asked “Wait… isn’t that your University classmate?”

Then your voice reached him properly for the first time that night. “No.” You exclaimed with a chuckle.

“Kids, I have to introduce you all to someone.” You announced loud enough to capture everyone's attention.

He could feel multiple eyes on him the moment you said that. “This is Jungkook. “You glanced at him, smile still sitting warmly on your face. “A close friend of mine.”

“Ah, you came just at the right time.” the redhead said briefly looking at him then teasingly bumping her shoulder with yours.

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ────

It didn’t take long before all of you migrated toward one of the lounge sections of the venue, the large velvet couches quickly filling with half finished drinks, scattered phones, and overlapping conversations.

 To Jungkook’s surprise, your friends were actually really welcoming to him. 

They asked him about his work almost immediately, curiosity lighting up their expressions the moment he briefly mentioned his gym brand.

“No way, that’s actually sick.” The South Asian guy who's name he later got to know was Ishaan Khatter, a well-known A-list actor working in Bollywood, exclaimed in astonishment.

“Wait, so you own multiple branches?” the blonde Korean-Canadian friend of yours, Bently Kim, impatiently asked.

“Isn’t that insanely stressful?” Sonjin who he remembers used to live in his neighbourhood years ago, queried.

They asked questions enthusiastically, leaning forward while he answered, occasionally throwing in their own opinions about fitness trends and gym culture as if they’d known him for longer than thirty minutes. Amidst the overlapping conversations and soft clinking of glasses around the table, Jungkook slowly realized your body had been turned toward him for the last ten minutes, your thighs brushing against his. Not fully though just slightly. Enough that every time someone else spoke, your eyes still drifted back to him in between.

“You seem to blend quite well with my friends,” you said finally, a sly grin pulling at those glossy pink lips.

Jungkook looked at your side from his beer immediately. The warm lighting softened your features, made your skin glow faintly golden, and for some reason he found himself staring at your mouth for half a second too long before forcing his gaze away.

“I’m a gen-z too, it’s not that hard to blend in.” he said softly his dark eyes borong into yours.

You laughed softly at that, leaning your chin against your palm while still maintaining the eye lock, expectedly he was the first to break it off.

Good God.

He only drank a little of the white beer one of your friends had poured for him earlier, barely enough to even qualify as drinking, but somehow his head still felt warm and strangely hazy. 

He needed to finish at least one bottle of Budweiser to get properly drunk.

He definitely wasn’t drunk.

Probably… a little off balance.

And he hated how aware he was of it.

Before he could say anything else, your friends suddenly erupted into loud complaints over taking pictures.

“Girls get up RIGHT NOW before the makeup starts melting off.” One of your girlfriend's beseeched.

You groaned dramatically as one of your friend grabbed your arm and the other one grabbed your wrist.

“Hey! Sajal, at least let me take my purse—” you whined.

“Oh, just leave it here, the boys can watch over our precious purses,” she said, waving it off casually. “Come on!” Jungkook watched you get dragged away.

He couldn't remember the last time he’s seen you as radiant as you were in this very moment. Tonight, you were beyond his limited knowledge of you. It feels like he’s getting to see you in a different light than he had all those years ago.

It was like he was meeting the same person, but again for the first time, like déjà vu.

Swaying softly with every step, camera flashes briefly illuminated your face again and again, catching the confidence in your expression as it flickered under the light.

Your friends and you got occupied making TikToks. Until a slower track slid in, almost sensual in the way it filled the space. You swayed your hips and danced to the rhythm, your movements syncing with the beat in an effortless, teasing flow. Your hands traced over your own arms, sliding down, then drifting to your hips as you kept moving, completely lost in the music, your friends circled you, laughing, filming, but his attention stayed fixed where it shouldn’t have.

Then you turned around.

Your eyes locked with his in a matter of seconds, like you already knew he would be looking.

A devilish smirk pulled up on your pouty lips.

Your hands danced over your body again, palms dragging across your chest, then down to your hips, slow and deliberate, like you were fully aware of being watched.

He should’ve looked away, he knew he should’ve.

Yet, he didn’t because he couldn’t.

You kept moving with the music in a torturously slow pace., your focus never fully leaving him even as you rejoined your friends’ rhythm.

Jungkook felt his throat go dry.

He turned away like someone threw acid in his eyes and hastily chugged down his entire drink in one go.

His heart was pulsing hard inside his chest, loud enough that it felt impossible to ignore.

It’s disorienting, the way you feel both known and unfamiliar at the same time, like everyone else already knew something about you he was only discovering now.

The realization unsettled him more than it should have.

Because when had that happened?

There was no denying that you had become this alluring woman people naturally gravitated towards.

Yet whatever he was feeling was not appropriate.

What would you even think of him if you knew the things his mind kept drifting towards.

A strange restlessness settled under his skin soon after.

The music suddenly felt louder indoors.

This space feeling congested now.

He exhaled quietly and leaned back against the couch for a moment before eventually deciding to step outside for air.

It wasn’t because he disliked your friends company or anything, they were a bunch of good hearted kids, well except one of them a little too self ware, one acting like all the negative things only happen to them, another one with the self confidence of the Burj Khalifa, when he sat with them he remembered how he had already passed this phase in life.

Nowadays, rather than being out till 3 AM, clubbing, and drinking with friends just to escape the mental torture that university midterms brought, those years are over, now he cares more about being in bed by 11 PM. He still goes to clubs every now and then, but only if the food is good.

There was only so much conversation he could maintain with guys nearly eight years younger than him before every discussion somehow turned into them asking him for life advice.

And his battery was already beginning to drain, his brain needed a little rest.

He eventually stepped toward the open space of the rooftop balcony, the cool night air immediately brushing against his overheated skin. From up there, the city stretched endlessly beneath him, streams of headlights moving through the roads below while distant traffic echoed faintly into the quiet. For a few seconds, Jungkook just stood there silently taking it in the skyline, the cold air, the temporary silence away from the music and laughter inside. 

He slipped a hand into the pocket of his jacket out of pure habit before groaning quietly under his breath when his fingers came up empty. Right. He left the packet of cigarette at home. “Fuck,” he muttered tiredly to himself. Usually he’d smoke whenever his head got too crowded like this, whenever his thoughts started overlapping too loudly to sort through properly. And seems like tonight he has no other choice but to let his mind keep making noises.

Jungkook leaned both forearms against the railing instead, head tilting back slightly as he shut his eyes for a moment. The metal felt cold beneath his skin, grounding him enough to stop the strange restlessness sitting inside his chest from plummeting any further. At least that was the plan.

But every time he closed his eyes, he kept seeing…

 A certain smile from across the lounge.

Pink glossy lips.

The way their dress embraced the curve of their body when they walked away with their friends. The way their hands traced their torso as they danced while looking at him.

Jungkook ran a hand across his bottom lip.

This was ridiculous!

Jungkook wasn’t even sure when exactly he’d started feeling like this around you.

Maybe it was the alcohol slowly settling into his system.

This fuckass bone chilling cold was supposed to help clear his head to some extent, make every thought inside his head blank. That had been the entire point of stepping out onto the balcony for a minute to pull himself together, to remember how he was supposed to act around you.

He’d known you for what, eight to nine years now? Ten? Between these years it came easy and natural for him to be around you as a….friend, a tutor, a well wisher, an acquaintance.

Jungkook felt even more aware of you now that it was him with his pondering alone, the quiet had stripped away the one buffer keeping him from paying too much attention.

He’d known you….eversice you were fourteen, still sleeping with your seven-year-old plushies, he’d seen you cry after your cousins teased you about the demon from hellfire coming for you when you refused to eat your vegetables.

He'd known you when you were seventeen and crying over a mysterious boy who’s identity stayed hidden to this day. He'd been the only person besides your parents to be present at your high school graduation. He was there during your bob haircut era. He knew the sound of your laughter before it even left your lungs, knew exactly which of his jokes would work and which ones would earn him a shove on the shoulder. To him you had always been a sister like friend, that’s what he’s been saying to everyone, to himself.

That was the box you and him had always existed in.

And for the first time that box seemed to shook like a falling stack of cards.

Somewhere in the middle of his thoughts, the sound of the balcony door sliding open behind him snapped him back to reality. “There you are…” Your voice wrapped around him softly as he heard your heels clicking lightly against the balcony floor while the dim light spilling from inside traced softly along your figure. He didn’t turn around instead he looked down at the buzzing street as if it had acquired his complete interest.

From his peripheral vision, he could see your silhouette stepping beside him now, the wind pushing your hair gently over one shoulder as you leaned the back of your body against the railing instead of looking down at the street below. Jungkook kept his eyes lowered for a moment before finally forcing himself to look at your face. You were staring at the wooden door with a distant look. “You disappeared,” you murmured, stopping beside him against the railing. “I thought my friends scared you away.”

“Nothing like that, I just needed a little air,” he breathed, his thumb rubbing slowly against the cold metal railing.

You hummed, standing near enough for him to smell the faint sweetness of your perfume.

“You clean up well today,” you compliment him, your tone carrying a teasing hint.

Jungkook swerved toward your form now, leaning the weight of his body sideways with one arm resting against the railing, and you turned sideways too with the side of your body leaned against the railing wall, because of your much shorter height.

This way he could see you properly now.

A lopsided smile rested on your lips, your eyes were red around the rims while the cold painted your cheeks and nose pink.

“Really?”

“I like this jacket on you,” you clarified casually, eyes slowly tracing over his jacket again.

His throat tightened slightly.

“It makes you look buffer.”

He looked away, appearing a little flustered.

“Why did you want to meet up?” he asked with a restrained voice.

“Just…wanted to see how you’re doing and properly thank you.” Your voice sounded softer now.

And before he could say something, your palm landed lightly against the center of his chest.

The second your hand settled against his chest, Jungkook felt his pulse shift noticeably beneath it.

Your fingers moved against his jacket once… then again… gliding lazily over his chest.

“You don’t really have to thank me for that,” you whispered even though it was just you and him in this open space.

Jungkook forced himself to think about literally anything else. The unopened file Gwanshik had handed him earlier. The thirty pages waiting on his desk.

Tomorrow’s schedule.

Anything.

But with your hand slowly moving against the center of his chest, it was becoming impossible to focus on a single coherent thought.

That possibility made heat rush violently into his bloodstream.

His body locked up almost instantly. His senses kept hyper focusing. On the warmth of your palm, thr soft drag of your nails against the fabric, the way your body leaned just slightly closer every time you spoke.

Jungkook tried to look at the closed entrace door, and the thin glass window where he could see movements of people. It didn’t help one bit, because deep down a dangerous part of him didn’t want you to stop.

“It’s been long since we’ve hung out, the last time we saw each other was before the end of my first semester.”

“Yeah….”

“You’re awfully silent. Are you okay?”

Your fingers slowly smoothed over the front of his jacket again before lightly pinching the collar between them. “I’m fine.” he reasoned, while you pursed your lips not convinced at all.

The violent wind pushed your hair across your face again and it was like Jungkook’s body had a mind of its own, reacting before he could properly think it through. His fingertips grazed softly against your cheek while he tucked the strands behind your ear, A few strands had stuck lightly against the gloss on your lips, and you blinked slightly when his fingers brushed them away.

The second his skin came in contact with yours the coquettish expression on your face faltered slightly.

That heavy silence where both people suddenly become too aware of each other.

His hand lingered for a fraction too long near your face before slowly dropping again. This was getting precarious. Jungkook knew that much.

The space that was big enough to fit in hundreds of people suddenly felt too small, your body was too close to the point he could feel the warts radiating off you, your eyes too focused on him in a way that made his rationality keep slipping out of his grasp.

He should’ve stepped back already.

Should’ve moved your hand off his chest.

Should’ve stopped touching you the second his fingers brushed your cheek.

Instead he was still standing here staring at you like he’d forgotten about time itself.

And the unexplainable part was that you didn’t seem unaffected either, but rather inviting.

Your eyes kept dropping to his mouth.

So did his.

Jungkook swallowed hard, taking in a deep breath and exhaling through his his nostrils.

Don’t do this. He begged his subconscious.

She doesn't know what she's doing. She's a little drunk and you're standing too close and this is nothing. You've known her for over a decade. You used to tutor her. Get it together, you bastard.

The thought came too late, became irrelevant just as rapidly, because the second your eyes shifted from his mouth to his eyes, you and him both stepped closer again, he had exactly one second to think about consequences before you whispered his name in the quietest tone. “Jungkook.”

After that, everything in his head seemed to blur together.

Your noses brushed softly once, then again, neither of you properly pulling away.

His lips hovered inches from yours while the cold night air wrapped around you both uselessly, your breathing turning uneven in the small space between you.

You were even more close now. So close that he couldn’t properly see your eyes anymore, only feel the hot puffy breaths against his mouth while the cold night air moved around you both uselessly.

His thoughts stopped eventually when he leaned down.

The moment he felt the sensation of yours lips on his, he shuddered. He paused for a brief moment, before he couldn’t wait anymore and embraced your warm mouth around his.

At first it was only the slow press of lips, warm and unhurried, his mouth catching yours carefully like he was still holding himself back.

Your lips barely moved against his at first, warm and tentative, both of you kissing each other like neither of you fully understood what was happening yet, but the affect of it was more intense than it would’ve been with a stranger.

Then your hands slid upward from his chest, one settling around the side of his neck while the other disappeared into the hair at the back of his head, nails scratching lightly against his scalp.

Jungkook felt that final wall inside him give way almost instantly.

He groaned against your mouth before his motionless arms moved to wrap around your waist, pushing you into him. The movement made your body stumble lightly against his and the airy sound you made nearly destroyed whatever self control he still had left.

You shivered when the firm muscles of his abdomen pressed against the exposed skin of your waist. The kiss deepened without warning after that. His mouth moved against yours with a kind of restrained desperation now, like he’d spent the entire night holding himself back only to lose the ability to do it anymore.

One gruff hand stayed firm against your waist while the other slid upward to cup your jaw, thumb pressing lightly beneath your cheekbone as he angled your face toward him more. And when his palm slipped lower for a second, brushing against the exposed skin of your back beneath the fabric, both of you visibly shuddered at the same time. Your fingers tightened against him immediately causing Jungkook to press his lips on you harder, with more fervour.

When the realization that this was actually happening, and he had let his frenzied thoughts loose, finally hit him all at once.

And then in a flash—

Jungkook pulled back with a quiet pop breaking between your lips, breathing unevenly as he stared at you with wide eyes. He looked at you in horror. “I’m so sorry,” he gasped immediately, voice rough from kissing you. “____, fuck! What did I just do? You-you I-We’re not in our senses right now, I shouldn’t have done that, not when yo- you’re tipsy.” His grip loosened from your waist as he forced himself to take a few steps back, brows tightening like it physically hurt him to put distance between you. You only stared at him with a hazy expression, your own breaths coming out in uneven, heavy puffs.

“No,” you panted, before shaking your head. Your slightly trembling hands found him again before he could retreat any further, fingers curling tightly into the front of his jacket as you pulled him back toward you. “Don’t say that.” You exhaled, one hand moving comfortingly over his shoulders. Jungkook’s chest rose and fell sharply, as he bended down to match your height, his brows furrowed with conflict glimmering in his clear orbs. His large hand moved to rest on top of yours.

You got on your tiptoes, nuzzling the tip of your nose against his as you stepped closer, the warmth of your breath mixing with his.

“I’ve never been more conscious of my senses,” you whispered softly against his lips. “I know what I’m doing, Jungkook.”

His eyes shut briefly.

He knew it was fruitless to resist, he should’ve known the moment you looked at him that he was bound to accept defeat in this battle.

“Are you sure?”

His voice wavered when he asked you that, a final, trembling thread of restraint snapping as he searched your face for any sign of hesitation.

The moment he felt your head nodding against his forehead, his mouth crashed into yours again. There was no gentleness in the collision. It was a crash, a collision of teeth and tongue, a desperate claim. He groaned into the kiss, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief. Jungkook’s morality, and values could come and fuck him up later, he was more greedy. One strong arm snaked around your back, fingers tracing every soft ridge of your spine until he reached the nape of your neck to cup it firmly.

Somewhere between uneven breaths and tangled hands, Jungkook backed you against the railing without thinking. You gasped into his mouth, and he took the opportunity to slide his tongue deep inside. He pushed you harder against the cold metal, his hands shifting from your neck to tangle in your soft, silky locks, pulling your head back to expose the line of your throat. Your tongues intertwined in a hungry, wet dance; he could taste the lingering sweetness of red wine on your. The hand that had been on your hip slid down, palms molding to the curve of your bottom, gripping you tightly as he pulled your lower body flush against him.

You leaned even closer, your chest pressed tightly against his, feeling the frantic thrum of his heart mirroring your own.

You let out a low, broken whimper as he nipped sharply at your bottom lip, the sting sending a jolt of electricity through you.

His soft lips finally detached from yours, but only to trail a path of soft, chaste pecks down the sensitive column of your throat.

You tilted your head to the side, giving him full access, one hand wrapping around the hard swell of his bicep while the other clung to his shoulder.

In the middle of the hot, consuming exchange, the balcony door slid open. A stranger stepped out, phone in one hand, lighter in the other.

They paused immediately and turned around in a haste.

“…Oh.” The man let out an exclamation, his eyes moving between you both with immediate understanding.

The sound cut straight through the moment.

You shrank back instantly, the sudden distance feeling like a physical blow.

It was as if he’d been snapped out of a trance, ripped violently from a headspace he shouldn't have been in. His breath came in ragged, uneven heaves that mirrored the turmoil in his eyes.

The haze vanished, replaced by a sudden, jarring awareness of their surroundings, the sheer recklessness of what he had just been doing to you.

The stranger muttered something awkward, something about needing a smoke, and immediately turned away, suddenly very interested in leaving.

The sound of retreating footsteps echoed in the silence that followed, leaving a thick, charged tension in the air. Jungkook remained frozen, his fingers twitching as if fighting the urge to drag you back against him. The conflict was written all over his face: the lingering, carnal greed battling with the sudden return of his conscience. He looked at you, his eyes dark and dilated, the ghost of that desperation still flickering in his gaze. He was breathless, flushed, and utterly undone, caught in the suffocating space between the man who wanted to do more and the man who knew he should stop.

"I think I should leave now," you suddenly declared, your voice steady, almost airy.

You smoothed your dress down with a slow, deliberate motion, the fabric gliding over skin before bending slightly to pick up your purse he hadn’t even noticed lying near the railing, pulling your phone out to check the time with the nonchalant energy of someone who had not just turned his entire understanding of your relationship upside down. "It's almost eleven, I have a morning class." Jungkook didn't move, his body locked in a state of high alert, the air around him still thick with the scent of your perfume and the ghost of your lips.

“I’ll see you around, Kook,” you added, casting one last look over your shoulder. You gave him a dark, mischievous smile, your lips now red, swollen, and puffier from the violence of his kisses.

He only looked at you with a puzzled expression, his brain struggling to process the sudden shift. Jungkook hated how different the old nickname suddenly felt after tonight. He watched you turn and glide back through the door, watched the yellow light and the noise of the party swallow you back up without a second glance.

Jungkook remained alone in the cold, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, his fingers still tingling from the feel of your hair. The silence of the night rushed in to fill the space you had left behind, leaving him with the crushing realization that while he was drowning in the aftermath, you had already stepped back into the light, leaving him shattered and wanting more.

His pulse hammered in his throat, a frantic rhythm that refused to slow down even as the wind chilled the sweat on his skin. He said nothing. There was nothing to say, honestly.

He stood there in that spot you left him for another 10 minutes before he went straight to the parking lot.

He speed through the roads, don’t ask him how he just did somehow. Because all he could feel were your soft petal lips on his.

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ────

It was exactly 12:03 AM.

The first thing he did when he got home was finally kick his shoes off.

He staggered into his restroom, his finger barely clicking the lights on as he walked toward the sink.

There was a rush of adrenaline, but also a strange weakness beneath it that stole away his ability to feel fully stable.

He felt some sort of high from it.

It was some unnamed awakening of emotions he wasn’t even aware could exist in this equation until now.

The mirror was an immediate reminder of the incident that had occurred. His lips were swollen, his chin and the sides of his mouth still glistening faintly with the remnants of your lip gloss. Jungkook stared at himself for a second before running his thumb slowly across his lips, wiping it off, then he bent down abruptly, splashing water all over his face in the most aggressive manner possible. Water dripped from his jaw onto the sink while he stayed there gripping the marble edge for a second longer than necessary, breathing unevenly.

After that, he only vaguely remembered stumbling toward bed and collapsing into the sheets, twisting and rotating restlessly beneath them for what felt like hours.

Then sleep or something close to it finally took him.

The next time he awakens in a dream.

You were there in that, still adorning that same blue dress.

You crawled slowly across the mattress toward his sprawled form, the fabric hugging your body every time you moved while your luscious hair fell over one shoulder. Jungkook tried to move toward you instinctively, but the second he did, his body locked up completely, he tried to call for you, but couldn’t, it felt like some cruel invisible force had pinned him down, like he’d been forbidden from touching you entirely. Forced to sit there and watch you approach him without being able to do anything about it.

You climbed onto his lap now, straddling him with slow, deliberate grace, that same cheeky smirk resting on your lips.

A strained groan escaped him as his arms shook reaching upward, desperate to feel the silk of your skin beneath his palms, desperate to grip your waist and pull you down until there was no space left between you both. His fingertips hovered mere millimeters from your hip—

And right before he could feel the silken skin beneath his hands, the world vanished.

The sensation hit like freefall.

A violent plunge straight into nothingness.

Jungkook’s eyes shot open violently, a sharp ragged gasp tearing from his chest as he jolted upright in bed. His heart hammered frantically against his ribs while the room around him slowly came back into focus.

His arm reached beside him instinctively and touched nothing except cold empty sheets.

He paused there for a moment, chest heaving while the phantom feeling of you still lingered against his skin like heat that refused to leave.

Slowly, Jungkook blinked toward the digital clock resting beside the bed, it read 4:20 AM.

A long shaky breath escaped him before he sank back against the pillows, staring blankly at the ceiling above him.

He reached for his phone.

4:24 AM.

Of course there were no texts. It was four in the morning and you were asleep somewhere across the city and you had walked away from him smiling like the night had cost you absolutely nothing, like you had simply experimented something and found it interesting and moved on, and here he was lying fully clothed in the dark of his bedroom with a racing pulse and the ghost of a dream he was going to spend the rest of the night trying to forget and the rest of his life failing to.

He mindlessly scrolled through YouTube shorts for a minute and then he opened instagram, his fingers typed your name as if it was automatic to do so, he clicked your Instagram account.

A new post sat at the top of your profile.

You were posing in that blue dress at some earlier point in the night before he had arrived, before any of it, you were laughing at something off-camera, one hand raised, the yellow light of the venue catching the curve of your face.

He stared at that picture for an alarming amount of time, until the screen dimmed. And when he realised, he locked the phone and dropped it onto the mattress and turned onto his side, staring at the far wall of his bedroom and understood, with the particular clarity that only comes in the morning in the aftermath of something you can’t take back, that he was in serious trouble.

His chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with wanting and everything to do with recognition.

Sleep never properly returned after that.

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ────

⤷ ᴊᴜɴɢᴋᴏᴏᴋ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

I was back in the gym by 6AM the next morning like the night before hadn’t been a tug of war in my mind, like I hadn’t lain awake until sunrise with my phone face down beside me and my own ceiling for company. I ran four kilometres more than my usual, weirdly I didn’t notice until I checked the treadmill display and even then didn’t stop untill I almost blacked out from the ferocious running. I reminded myself that a company wouldn’t run with wobbly legs, not when I had a brand new launch to finalise.

I cursed out loud as I remembered that two brand deals sat in my inbox, waiting for my confirmation.

If it wasn’t for Gwanshik’s voice mail I would’ve missed today’s meeting. The table had samples spread across it, matte boards, fabric swatches, digital mockups cycling on the screen at the front of the room. My creative director was talking through the options with the specific enthusiasm of someone who had prepared extensively and expected me to share it. I had already decided on a brown palette long before this launch was finalized. It was grounded, masculine, and fit the brand perfectly, everything I’d argued for in those preliminary meetings two weeks ago. And then I glanced over the blue samples in the corner of the spread.

“I want to revisit the colour direction.”

“The palette?”

“The blue samples.” He tapped a finger against the corner of the spread. “Have the team build a few concepts around those instead. I’d like to see what we can do with them.”

My creative director paused mid-sentence.

“Sorry?”

“Blue is more eye-soothing.” I tapped the sample board once without looking up. “Let’s go with the blue colour palette.”

A brief silence settled over the table.

“Sir,” Mister Gong began carefully, “we already started the process after you approved the brown palette last week.”

“I changed my mind, Mister Gong,” I stated simply.

He stared at me for a minute.

“You spent two weeks convincing everyone brown was the right direction.”

“And now I think blue is.”

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. For a second, he looked like he wanted to launch the sample board at my head. Instead, he forced a tight smile and gave a short nod.

“Understood.”

I stared at the sample for another second before looking back at my laptop. I wasn’t even particularly fond of blue, but lately, it was starting to look like a pretty colour.

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ────

The first week passed by.

I religiously contributed to my work.

I ate at reasonable hours and slept at unreasonable ones.

I checked my phone a deeply unnecessary number of times per day.

From KakaoTalk to Instagram then back to KakaoTalk.

The conversation thread between us sitting there exactly as I had left it, my last message, a week old now, still unanswered, the small indicator beside it telling me absolutely nothing useful.

My notifications filled with everyone on this damn earth except the one person I needed answers from.

By the second week, I had expected something, anything. Instead, I found myself staring at the same message I’d sent days ago.

You reached home? On delivered.

It was a weak excuse for a conversation starter, embarrassingly so, but it had been the only reason I could think of to text her. Now it just sat there, unanswered, mocking me every time I opened the chat.

My KakaoTalk had forty three unread messages by Friday.I had read exactly one of them.

Everyone texted me, my business partner, my gym trainer, my brother, my mother, and even separate brand reps.

Everytime the phone would buzz my stomach would do something humiliating twist before my eyes even reached the screen and then it would be anyone.

Anyone at all.

By the time the third week rolled around I had lost my ability to sleep.

First it was just later at night, one, then two, then three in the morning staring at the plain ceiling of my apartment and my brain refusing to downshift into anything useful.

I started going to the gym at 4:00 AM instead of 6:00 AM. The punching bag took the brunt of my frustration all week. By the end of it, even my trainer had started calling me out.

At some point during the fourth week.

The shower had become a problem.

I had always been disciplined about that kind of thing. For years, desire had been nothing more than pressure and distance, a vague humming in the background of my life that I could easily tune out. But lately, the discipline had fractured.

Now, I would stand there in the rising steam, closing my eyes to find peace, only for the specificity to arrive without invitation. It wasn’t vague neither was it abstract. It was her, particularly and precisely. In vivid details that my waking mind had not consciously constructed, but that my sleeping mind had apparently been building for weeks, she would appear. I could almost feel the ghost of her touch on my skin, the imagined scent of her hair mixing with the humidity of the bathroom. I would snap my eyes open and stare hard at the white tile, breathing through the rush of heat in my gut, trying to think about literally anything else. Brand campaigns or something as irrelevant as supplement formulations.

I would cling to those mundane thoughts like a lifeline.

It worked for approximately five seconds.

Then, the image of me and her in those dreams would flood back in, leaving me breathless and aching in the silence of the room.

I had started taking colder showers, hoping the shock of the ice water would kill the fire in my blood.

But that didn’t work either. They were just colder, and as I stood there shivering, the mental image of her warmth only became more intoxicating.

I had spent the entire month fighting a war against my own mind, trying to freeze out a hunger that was only growing stronger.

On the fifth week I had drafted texts that I was never gonna send.

Hey. Delete.

I’ve been thinking— Delete.

Are you— Delete.

Never mind. Delete.

The delete button and I had become intimately acquainted over the past month. I would type something, stare at it for a moment, and promptly decide it revealed too much or the wrong thing or something I hadn’t yet decided whether I was ready to even admit myself, and then I’d delete it and put the phone down and last approximately less than a hour before the cycle restarted.

I made up my mind on the sixth week.

I was going to call her, because she obviously wouldn’t.

That was it.

I had arrived at it the way you arrive at something after fighting it for six weeks, not gracefully, not with any of the composure I would’ve preferred, but with the particular surrender of a man who had simply run out of other options.I was going to call her and sound normal and it was going to be fine because I was a normal person having a normal phone call.

I sat in my office chair for eleven minutes after making this decision without calling.

The sky outside my window had gone the heavy grey-green colour it went before rain.

The city below moved in its usual indifferent way. My phone sat on the desk in front of me.

My hands sat beside the phone.

I picked it up.

Put it down then picked it up again.

My thumb hovered over her contact.

You are a grown man.

Call her.

A voice in my head yelled.

I pressed dial before I could talk myself out of it a fourth time.

The line connected.

Rang. One.

I straightened slightly in the chair.

Two. Three.

My thumb pressed unnecessarily hard against the phone like applying more pressure would somehow make her answer faster.

Four. Five.

My knee started moving under the desk.

I stopped it.

It started again.

Six. Seven. Eight.

Pick up. Pick up. Pick up.

Nine. Ten.

The line went to voicemail.

Her honeyed voice, asking me to leave a message.

I hung up with a frown.

I couldn’t have articulated a single thing I would’ve said if she had answered anyway.

I sat there with the dead call still glowing on my screen while the city outside turned darker beneath the storm clouds gathering over Seoul. The first sounds of rain finally started hitting against the windows behind me in soft scattered taps .And somehow that sound pissed me off more.

I slammed the phone against the desk harder than I intended before leaning back into my chair and dragging a hand over my face tiredly.

Goddamnit!

I was a grown functioning adult!

Not some teenager crashing out because the popular girl didn’t answer his call.

Yet somehow that wasn’t far from the truth.

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ────

He left the office around 8:30 PM.

The building lobby was quiet at that hour, the security officer nodded at him as he passed while the automatic doors slid open, letting in the delightful smell of rain. He headed toward the underground parking and swung a leg over his motorcycle, the metal still faintly warm beneath his hands from sitting indoors all day. The engine rumbled alive underneath him a second later as he pulled out onto the main road.

His office sat obnoxiously far from his house because the land he had originally wanted, the perfect location barely fifteen minutes from his place had already been bought out by some old investor before he could secure it. He remembered being irrationally pissed about it for weeks when eventually he had no choice but to settle for the current building instead, it wasn’t that bad except by the time work ended, he was usually exhausted out of his fucking mind.

That’s the only downside.

The city blurred around him as he rode through it, headlights smearing against wet asphalt, neon signs reflecting across puddles, traffic slowed near the overpass and he eased the bike to a stop alongside the line of cars, gloved fingers tapping once against the handle absentmindedly.

Cold wind pushed against his helmet while rows of red brake lights stretched endlessly ahead of him, reflecting across the wet asphalt in long distorted streaks. With the current situation he already knew his apartment was still another thirty six minutes away at best. His shoulders ached, while his mind crowded with restless thoughts, and in that moment, all he wanted was the serenity of his home, to collapse onto his bed, watch anime or some Netflix show and sit alone in silence for the rest of the night drinking whiskey to let loose, even though that silence had started feeling a little too lonely, lately. Traffic had slowed to an unbearable crawl near the overpass by the time his phone buzzed inside his jacket pocket. And his chest reacted before his brain did. That same sharp pathetic leap happened instantly, violent enough that he was genuinely beginning to get irritated at himself for it. He pulled the phone out quickly, already looking at the screen before the name fully registered.

Only to sigh once he heard the voice.

What was he expecting in the first place?

It was his younger brother, Jinu.

“What.” Jungkook answered listlessly.

“YO BROO!!” his brother’s voice blasted through enthusiastically, loud enough that Jungkook had to pull the phone slightly away to protect his eardrum. “Mom and Dad aren’t coming home tonight, come over right now, let’s order some food and play Xbox later.” Jungkook snorted quietly, eyes still fixed on the endless line of cars ahead. “You call me like I’m one of your little friends .”

“You are too old for that, unc.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes then playfully stating. “Alright then, I’m hanging up.”

“Okay wait, wait—” He could practically hear Jinu panicking through the phone. “Where are you right now?”He glanced briefly at the overhead signs before answering flatly, “Already passed Goyang like twenty minutes ago.”

“The traffic’s fucking endless,” he grunted, pissed beyond.

“See this is what happens when you decide to build offices on the other side of the country.”

“The land near my house was already bought,” he muttered tiredly. “I didn’t exactly have options.”

“I called since you’re usually done with work around this time.” Jinu explained.

Jungkook sighed quietly, slowing the motorcycle slightly as the line of cars ahead stopped once again. “Why? What happened to your friends? Tell them to sleep over.”

“Nah, Yoojun’s out with his girlfriend,” Jinu said dismissively. “And Kinseom’s busy crying over his midterms or something.” Jungkook hummed absentmindedly at that. “Knowing you, you’re not cooking anything, order some good stuff, not that cheap ramen you always eat and then cry about your diarrhoea, I’m sending you money.”

“See? This is why you’re my favorite sibling.”

“You only have one.”

“Shut up.” A faint laugh almost left Jungkook before Jinu spoke again.

“Also…can you send a bit more than $200? I only have $160 right now, and I need to order for three people.”

Jungkook’s brows furrowed slightly beneath the helmet. “You got company at home?”

“Mm.”

“Who?” Jungkook queried.

There was rustling on Jinu’s side, voices moving faintly somewhere behind him before he spoke again, completely unaware of the effect his next words were about to have on his poor brother.

“____ and Samuel are here.”

Jungkook’s grip tightened unconsciously around the handle.

Jinu kept talking absentmindedly. “Minha aunty sent over kimchi and those pickled radishes you like, so they came by to drop it off and I may or may not have hold them hostage.”

Jungkook’s expression stayed completely blank.

“Oh,” he answered in an even tone, a little too even.

“Yeah,” Jinu continued. “Me and Samuel are watching football, and I didn’t want ____ to feel left out, so I figured I’d call you to keep her company.”

“How long are they staying?”

The question left his mouth before he could stop it.

Jinu paused briefly this time, as if he noticed the shift in his brother’s voice. “I dunno…” he wondered slowly. “They literally just got here.”

Jungkook’s pulse stumbled for a second. “Hello? The signal’s bad, can you hear me? Hyung?” Jinu yelled before the line went off.

Before his brain fully caught up, the traffic ahead loosened slightly and he abruptly twisted the handle hard enough for the motorcycle to surge forward between lanes, then cut across and made a sharp U-turn.

A car honked instantly.

Some irritated old man shouted a curse at him from somewhere behind.

He barely heard it.

It happened on a random Saturday.

Every year, your mother made a huge batch of kimchi, spending nearly a full week preparing enough to last the year. As always, she carefully set aside portions for your aunts, your grandmother, and her closest friends. This year was no different.

She had practically begged you to accompany Samuel because his only condition to your mother was that he wasn’t going alone. So eventually you were bound to tag along, because apparently, that little shit had told her he felt “awkward” showing up by himself and would only go if you came too as if he hasn’t known them since he was diaper years old.

The Jeon residence looked even more beautiful at night, especially beneath the rain. It didn’t feel like one of those aggressively modern mansions built only to show off wealth. Instead, stepping through the gates felt strangely nostalgic, like walking straight into a warm 90s Japanese home from an old film.

The interior was breathtaking.

Rich oak floors creaked softly beneath your shoes while warm ambient lighting cast honey-colored shadows across the walls. Wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, large indoor plants occupied nearly every corner, and low furniture sat scattered around the living room beside stacked books, ceramic vases, framed paintings, and old vinyl records displayed elegantly.

Even the rain tapping softly against the windows somehow made it feel warmer.

Objectively, you loved it.

It reminded you of being little again, standing awkwardly beside your mother while Minha Aunty hosted dinners here years ago, back when the adults laughed loudly over tea and dinner spread while you and the boys ran around the house without care. That specific memory hit you unexpectedly as you stood there now years later, dripping rainwater onto the entrance floor while the familiar warmth of the house wrapped around you all over again. And for a fleeting second, you caught yourself thinking that one day, when you finally built a life of your own, you wanted a home that looked exactly like this, but the thing about homes were that they went beyond the exterior and decor.

By the time you and Samuel entered at the Jeon residence it had only been a little past 9:40, only to find out Hanmi Aunty had gone over to her nephew’s house and wouldn’t be back till late. Jinu, despite being two years older than you, had always been one of your easier friends to be around, you wouldn't exactly say you and Jinu were close in a way 'we're each others ride or die' type of way but more in a 'I'm always cheering for you, from far away.’ type of way. He is intellectual, quick-witted, surprisingly mature when it came to business despite his unserious personality. You honestly would’ve dropped the kimchi off and left Samuel with him before heading home yourself, but Jinu kept dragging you back into conversations about startups, investments, branding strategies, wanting advice because he apparently had been wanting to start his own business too.

When he casually mentioned Jungkook a few times throughout the evening, it took genuine effort to keep your face neutral.

You, Jinu, and Samuel were currently sprawled across the couch in the living room.

The rain had finally eased to a drizzle, pattering softly against the windowpane.

You were still reeling from that night at the gathering party.

The memory of his eyes, heavy lidded and intense, his strong gaze… the way he had held you, kissed you, the way he looked like a sad little kicked puppy once you retreated.

You couldn’t deny the strange sense of rush you felt after that night.. But you also could not act like he hadn’t consumed your mind ever since.

It was even worse than the dreams.

Then it was only imaginary. Now, the reality of what you had initiated gripped you.

Now you knew.

Now you knew the way his breathing had changed against your mouth, the way his body reacted to your touch, the way he looked at you when he stopped thinking and simply felt.

It had wrapped around your mind ever since.

And maybe that was why you took a step back afterwards. Because you had already done the hardest part. You had shown him through a charged glance, a deliberate proximity that he wasn’t just some “older brother” figure in your life. You had broken the socially expected dynamic. You had freed him from that cage, or so you told yourself. That balcony had changed something permanently between you both, and Jungkook had no other option but to admit it. Now, you just wanted to sit back and let him take the remaining few steps. You wanted to take a little time and see if he would risk it, if he would call or make the efforts. Because you knew if you were the one constantly making all the calls, there would be an imbalance, with one falling harder, hurting harder, wanting more while one remained safely undecided.

So you built the wall back up. You took advantage of your busy schedule, your midterms just so you can easily ignore his texts and stare unnecessarily long at his missed call today before locking your phone again.

Truthfully, your heart had leaped the second you recognized his number.

But you ignored it anyway.

A cruel little part of you enjoyed it.

Enjoyed pushing his buttons.

You wanted to push him to his limits.

The apartment was filled with nothing except the noise of the television, Samuel and Jinu yelling every few seconds, and the occasional aroma of kimchi and ramen seasoning lingering from the kitchen while you all still argued over what to order for dinner.

Out of boredom, you picked up your phone and lazily scrolled through your socials instead. Then suddenly in the thick silence—

The doorbell rang.

All three of you looked toward the entrance in unison.

Jinu squinted at the door. Two rings, close together, impatient. He unfolded himself from the floor with a groan and padded toward the entrance, his socked feet quiet on the floor, his broad shoulders blocking the doorway entirely as he pulled it open.

You weren’t looking at first.

“Now, now, now, look who’s where?” Jinu chanted.

Putting your phone aside, you looked in front of you to see Samuel grinning ear to ear, because from where he was sitting he could see who it was. Now you were interested to see who the person was. Then something shifted in Jinu’s posture, a small surprised sound left him, a laugh caught in his throat. And your eyes moved before you told them to. Jinu’s back was still blocking most of the doorway. And then he stepped aside. You felt the surprise move across your face before you could catch it. Jungkook stood at the threshold, rain damp and breathing slightly harder than usual, like he had ran a marathon before getting here, his hair was wet, dark strands pushed back from his forehead, the white t-shirt clung to him, rain-soaked at the shoulders, the fabric pulling taut across his chest and abdomen. A black motorcycle helmet was cradled between his arm and his body, tucked against his bicep. His eyes moved across the room. Swept once, nodding ar Sameul happily. And then when they found you, he held your gaze for one long, unhurried moment. Then he stepped inside and set the helmet down by the door.

He reached up and pushed his damp hair back from his forehead with one hand, the movement made the sleeves of his shirt ride up, revealing the lower edges of the intricate tattoos that you knew snaked up his arms before disappearing under the fabric. You tilted your head as you looked at him. While Jinu leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, “I’m wondering why you’re here all of a sudden when you already reached your home.” His eyes were bright with it. “What happened to ‘I’m already near home, call your little friends.’ huh?”

He did a deeply unflattering impression of Jungkook’s lower register that made Samuel snort from the living room floor.

Was Jungkook’s only reply. “Get me a towel.” as he was taking off his shoes.

Jinu finally pushed off the doorframe with a playful scoff and turned back toward the living room with his hands in his hoodie pocket. “How’s it going, hyung?”

Samuel paused the TV and asked. “Good, good.” Jungkook smiled as he moved toward the living room. He rounded the couch, looking for somewhere to sit. His eyes passed over the available space and landed, briefly and inevitably, on the floor beside you before moving away again. Instead, he dropped onto the couch opposite you and leaned back.

Running a hand through his still-damp hair, he barely had time to settle before he jerked in surprise as Jinu threw a towel at him out of nowhere. Jungkook tsked in annoyance while Jinu laughed.

“Dry yourself before you catch a cold.” Jungkook muttered something under his breath and began drying his arms, neck, face, and hair. “The rain got worse, and I realized my house was farther away. The safest option was to just make a U-turn and come here,” he explained simply. Jinu stared at him for a long moment. “Uh-huh.”

“It did get worse. I’m just wondering how we’re gonna leave, noona,” Samuel said worriedly, gesturing toward the rain-streaked window.

You shrugged. “I don’t think it’s stopping anytime soon.”

“Man, I’m gonna get bored out of my mind,” Samuel complained. Jinu stood infront of Sameul with a knowing expression.

“Not a chance. We can play on my PlayStation. It’s been forever since I’ve played.” Jinu boasted.

Samuel immediately sat up like he won the lottery. “Jinu hyung, that’s a great idea.”

The two boys high-fived each other, watching them, it was hard to believe Jinu was almost five years older than her little brother.

“Okay, wait. Let me go set it up then. My bedroom’s right next to the corridor.”

As Jinu got to his feet, Samuel’s attention shifted to the man sitting motionless.

“Jungkook hyung, join us too.”

While he only shook his head, a small apologetic smile appearing on his face. “Next time. I’m too tired today. You two go play.” The younger brothers of the duo disappeared up the corner into the bedroom. For approximately 40 seconds the silence was complete. Then from behind the door, there was an immediate sound of a game starting up.

The living room stayed quiet.

The rain against the windows filled the space between, you kept your eyes on the dark screen of the television that no one had bothered to turn off properly, a screensaver moving slowly across it, and you were aware, acutely, precisely aware of him on the couch to your opposite.

You could feel him looking.

You didn’t turn to confirm it.

You didn’t need to. It was the same way you had always been able to feel it, that specific quality of his attention, the weight of it, except now it had a different texture than it used to.

A few seconds passed.

Then you turned your head and looked directly back at him. He didn’t look away.

This was new. The old Jungkook, the oh so composed, careful, and categorising one would have shifted his gaze by now, redirected smoothly, given them both the exit of plausible deniability. This one just looked back at you with his dark eyes and his still damp hair and that unreadable expression he’d been wearing since he walked through the door, unhurried and completely unashamed about it.

You didn’t shy away either, reeling in the elongated eye contact. Something catastrophic had apparently occurred in the game as Samuel’s voice rose above it in protest. You broke the eye contact first, not from nerves, but deliberately, on your own terms and leaned forward toward the low table. Jinu had left snacks out, a small bowl of strawberries and a generous jar of Nutella sitting beside you like an offering. Your hands moved towards the bowl to pick out the largest strawberry you could find and dipping it leisurely into the Nutella. His eyes had followed your hands without him meaning to, you could see it, the way his gaze had tracked movement and was now zeroed in on your mouth as you brought the strawberry to your lips. You took a slow and easy bite.

Keeping his gaze the entire time like you weren’t clocking every micro-expression moving across his face. You lowered the strawberry from your mouth and then, with a careful, unhurried motion, brought it back up and licked the Nutella clean from the side of it, your eyes sliding back to his as you did it. Ignoring the knot in your stomach you stood up slowly and sauntered towards him. Jungkook’s hands settled tightly on his knees. You stopped in front of his spread legs, too close for the living room of his parents’ house, with his brother twelve feet away behind a door that was very much unlocked. As you leaned down slightly, his eyes dropped without permission, sliding past your neckline to the soft swell of your cleavage. And for some reason, a shiver ran through you.

His gaze lingered for half a second more before dragging itself upward again, back to your face, your eyes and your mouth.

“It’s so good,” you hummed delightfully, holding up the strawberry between your fingers. “Would you like some?” The question was innocent but the smile that accompanied it wasn’t.

There was a small smear of Nutella at the corner of your mouth.You weren’t doing anything. You were just standing there looking down at him with that mischievous expression of yours.

His throat bobbed while he licked his lips.

You held the bitten end of the strawberry out toward him, your slender fingers streaked with Nutella. It dangled above him like a forbidden fruit, your wrist level with his mouth, and for one second he just looked at it.He brought his hand up and losed it over yours. He felt it immediately, the faint tremor running through your fingers beneath his palm, his thumb rested over your knuckles. He took the strawberry into his mouth gradually.

And then, without fully deciding to, let his tongue drag across your index finger where the Nutella had gathered, he watched your face while he did it. You held your breath. The sweet taste lingered on his tongue. He kept his hand over yours for longer than necessary, and in that suspended second, something in him strained against doing something unfathomable right then and there. From your expression, he could tell you weren’t thinking any differently. “I-” he got cut off as the door to Jinu’s bedroom swung open.

“Guys, we’re ordering pizza.” Jinu stood in the doorway, phone in hand, blissfully unaware.

Both pairs of eyes darted toward the doorway while you snatched your hand back, while Jungkook sat up straighter against the couch cushions. Jinu looked between the two of you once with eyes that were perhaps not quite as oblivious as they appeared, then glanced back down at his phone. “Samuel suggested the one with extra, olives, and tandoori chicken from PizzaHi is their bestselling. Anyone have objections?”

“No.” both of you said at the same time.

“Cool, we’re joining you in a minute.” Jinu turned and disappeared back into the hallway, already talking to Samuel, the door swinging halfway shut behind him. The living room exhaled. You moved to the other side of the table without comment, casually eating another strawberry, biting your lips to hold back a smile and putting a socially reasonable amount of distance from him. While Jungkook’s attention snagged on you at the same time…..his pulse did whatever it wanted without his permission.

At the table, it was only Jinu and Samuel talking now, fully absorbed in their games, the two of them going back and forth about PlayStation games, some heated debate about GTA versus God of War that had been ongoing since approximately 2019, Jinu slammed his hand on the table at some point passionately declaring his high scores and kills, something you didn’t fully follow. It felt like there was something looped around your throat all through dinner, some invisible, tightening thing, and underneath all of it was a want so embarrassingly simple it made your jaw clench. It was easier to avoid him then pretend like there’s nothing going between you two.

That is a dangerous thing, the two of you sitting in all that noise and somehow being the stillest points in the room. Your confidence felt slightly misplaced after that, like it had slipped out of your hands without asking.Because you couldn’t stop thinking about earlier.The way his tongue had brushed your finger. You’d built yourself a little rule over the course of the meal: look at Jinu, look at your plate, laugh when Samuel said something, sip your drink slowly. Do not look left. Do not look across. Do not. Let him make the next move. Jungkook murmured something about changing his clothes and left the table before the rest of you, he disappeared down the hallway toward his old bedroom, the one that still had his things in it. You took another bite of your delicious pizza, your eyes fixed on the corridor he disappeared into. You stood up too, offering to help clean, to wash the dishes, anything to move your hands, but Jinu refused “Don’t even think about it,” he declared as if offended, already stacking plates. “You’re my guest.” By the time the table cleared, the rain had stopped. Everything outside looked washed clean and still. “Samie.” You tapped your brother’s chin. “It’s past eleven.”

“Noona.” Samuel caught your hand before you could pull it back, and when you looked at him he had the eyes out. The full ones. The ones he’d been deploying on you since he was seven years old and they still worked, infuriatingly, every single time. “I’m gonna stay over actually. We’ll play games, I’ll go home tomorrow morning.” You shook your head. “AND,” he said, louder, cutting off whatever you were about to say, straightening up like he’d just played his final card, “I already told mom. So

you don’t even have to worry about it.”

“You already—” You stared at him. “When did you—”

And then Jinu’s hand landed on top of you

“Let the poor guy stay, it’s gonna be a fun match.” he said, and his voice had gone a little softer, a little less loud than his usual. “Besides, I know for a fact Jungkook hyung’s gonna disappear sooner or later. Mom and Dad are on vacation, so I’ve got the whole house to myself.” You looked at Jinu then at Samuel, who was still holding your hand and looking at you with a hopeful expression. The argument dissolved somewhere in your chest before it could make it to your mouth, it was unlike him to want to stay over, and you didn’t wanna kill his fun.

“Fine, I’ll uber alone.” you said.

Samuel made a noise like he’d won a championship.

You reached for your purse, the skirt of your black polka-dot midi dress brushing lightly against your legs. Your hair hung loose down your back, the styled front pieces framing your face, with Jinu and Samuel trailing after you toward the entrance.

Jinu held the door open while you crouched down to slip your ballet flats on.

You flashed him a small smile in thanks. As you opened the Uber app, your expression immediately soured. It said ‘No cars available.’

You refreshed once, but it didn’t change anything. It was understandable, considering the weather. The rain had stopped, but the storm had kept most drivers off the road. You leaned back against the doorframe with an annoyed sigh. “What?” Samuel asked, reading your face instantly. “There aren’t any Ubers available.”“Seriously?” Jinu shook his head. “That sucks.”“It’s fine,” you said, already pulling up Maps.

“There’s a bus stop nearby, I’ll just take that.” You hummed. “Are you sure, noona?” Samuel’s voice shifted into that tone, the worried one tgat he pretended he didn’t have. “Yes, of course. I can manage by my—” A deeper voice cut through.

“I’m about to leave too.” You looked up. Jungkook was standing in the doorway now, changed, black tee, fitted, grey trousers, hair dried and falling naturally. His eyes found yours and stayed there. “Can I drop you off?” Jungkook was standing in the doorway now, changed, black tee, fitted, grey trousers, hair dried.

You felt your hands move on their own, sliding behind your back, fingers clasping together. “If it doesn’t bother you too much,” you said, “then yes.” Something softened at the corner of his mouth. “Never a bother.” he said simply. You turned to wave at Jinu and ruffled Samuel’s hair messily and stepped out onto the porch. The wood was damp under your flats.

Jungkook followed, falling into step just behind you, and the door clicked shut at your backs.

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ────

His motorcycle sat at the curb, black and low beneath the glow of the streetlights, the chrome catching flashes of yellow every time a car passed. Without a word, Jungkook silently held the helmet out to you, the visor clicked shut. Jungkook swung a leg over first, settling into place while you stood beside it a second longer, suddenly aware that getting on meant surrendering every last bit of distance the two of you still had between you. You climbed on behind him.

The seat was smaller than you’d expected. Your knees brushed his sides. Your chest nearly against his back. Nowhere for your hands to go except around his waist, so that’s where they went, and the moment your arms wrapped around him you felt his whole body tensing.

His black tee was warm beneath your palms, stretched across the width of his shoulders, and then the engine turned over and the motorcycle hummed alive beneath you both and Jungkook pulled away from the curb and there was nothing to do but hold on.

The city was unusually quiet tonight. Most of the roads were nearly empty, slick from the earlier rain, streetlights reflecting across the asphalt in long ribbons of gold. At first you sat stiffly behind him, then gradually, minute by minute, the tension left your shoulders. The cool wind brushed against your cheeks.

And somewhere between one traffic light and the next, you began to stop cataloguing every point of contact between your body and his. The motorcycle slowed to a stop at a red light. Jungkook’s hands dropped from the throttle briefly, flexing once before settling back onto the handlebars. His forearm brushed against yours, yet neither of you moved away. The light stayed red, the city humming quietly around you.

And without over thinking about it, you rested your chin against his shoulder. For a second you wondered if he would tense. If he would say something. If he would shift away. But he didn’t. When the lights turned green. The engine surged forward. And you stayed exactly where you were, eyes closed, the wind cool against your face, the city coming apart into streaks of light and shadow around you. The familiar streets of your neighborhood appeared slowly, then all at once. The motorcycle slowed, turned, stopped in front of your complex.

The engine went quiet, the sudden stillness felt enormous. His shoulders rose and fell with one slow breath. Your hands were still loosely around his waist, and you were still aware of every point where your body met his.

⤷ THIRD PERSON POV ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

She stepped off the bike with a stiffness that felt unnatural, her body betraying her with every shift of weight. She paused, biting down hard on her lower lip, a frantic, unspoken question forming in the silence of her mind.

Say something.

Stop me.

She looked at him, waiting.

But he barely looked at her.

“I’m gonna go then, thanks for the ride.” She muttered. Jungkook’s gaze was fixed forward, his hands gripped the handlebars tightly, so tightly that his knuckles bleached white, tendons straining against the skin. She could see the veins protruding in his neck, thick and pulsing, and his jaw was clenched so tight a muscle jumped rhythmically beneath the skin. He looked like a man holding back a tsunami, or perhaps a man who had simply decided the dam wasn’t worth breaking.

The silence hit her harder than she expected. Because he looked so tense, like there were a hundred things trapped behind his teeth.

And yet he forced himself to stay quiet, and only nodded once.

Fine. If he wants to be adamant then let him be. Her frustration flared up, shielding the bruise forming on her heart. If he didn’t think she was worthy enough to risk it all, if he couldn’t summon the courage to take what was already there, then he wasn’t the guy for her anyway.

Why was she doing this again? Putting all her validation onto him? Dumping it all on him? She vowed to not let herself fall into this loophole again, not after the physical, internal and mental damage she had to endure.

From that day in the balcony till today, she had been the one making the first move. As a woman, she had initiated way too much for a man who couldn’t even bid her goodbye properly. She wouldn’t do it again.

Not ever. That was the determination that gripped her until the door to her house closed.

The lock clicked with finality. She put her forehead on the door.

Leaned against it.

And breathed heavily.

Her knees were wobbly, as if the entire weight of what had happened today was rushing in on her at full force. She was exhausted, from wanting him, from wondering, from waiting for someone else to decide whether she was worth the risk.

The adrenaline crash left her hollow, shaking.

She could feel the wetness pooling between her legs, a heavy, throbbing evidence of her body’s traitorous response. Instinctively her legs clenched together.

Fuck. Just because of a damn bike ride? What was wrong with her? Was she that sexually deprived? Her vibrator worked more than enough. It worked enough to keep her pleased and content for weeks, it was efficient and detached. It didn’t ask questions. It didn’t make her feel vulnerable. It didn’t leave her wondering if she was too much or not enough. But this…This raw, chaotic need for him, for his acknowledgment, was a hunger no machine could satisfy especially after knowing the way his lips felt on her. Her throat felt dry, parched from holding her breath. She pushed off the door, her legs trembling as she started to walk towards her refrigerator.

She’d barely made it to the kitchen and as she grabbed the bottle, twisted the cap—

The doorbell rang. She set the bottle down slowly, brows pulling together.

It had to be Miss Pinky. No one else made sense at this hour. Her neighbor had a sixth sense for her arrivals, always seemed to catch her coming through the front door, she had a habit of surprising her with something wrapped in foil or stacked on a plate, a dessert she’d made too much of, or sometimes a request for one of hers. Miss Pinky was an angelic woman but with a terrible sense of timing.

She smoothed her expression into something presentable as she crossed to the door.

Wearing a smile she swung it open.

The smile dropped instantly because instead of a small, pale, grey haired woman there stood a man with fiery eyes.

Jeon Jungkook was right infront of her door. His chest heaving rapidly, his face damp with sweat, his eyes burning with something she had never quite seen in them before.

“What are you—” “I thought you—” she couldn’t even finish the sentence because he stepped forward. “Sorry,” he said, and his voice was low and unsteady in a way that made her go completely still. “But today — you’ll listen to me, ____.”

She stood frozen in the doorway, caught completely off guard by the sight in front of her.

“I can’t keep doing this.” He said it like it had been sitting at the back of his throat for weeks, like it came out because he simply couldn’t hold it anymore. His eyes were almost feverish

“I’ve spent the past month trying not to think too much about our kiss, thinking it was only a tipsy mistake.” He snickered.

“It didn’t work instead it was all I could think about.” His hand came up and pushed through his hair, gripping it briefly at the root before dropping back to his side. He looked like standing still was taking considerable effort.

“And I’ve realised—” he stopped. Pressed his lips together then he begin again. “I don’t know how to stop.” She said nothing. She was afraid if she made a single sound he’d remember where he was and pull it all back. His eyes didn’t waver from hers. Not once. “I can’t be near you without losing my head a little.” A short exhale left him, almost humorless, like he found himself faintly ridiculous. “And I can’t be away from you without it being worse.”

Silence pressed in before he spoke again.

“I’d be lying if I said I still think of you the way I used to.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to do with that. I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with that for five weeks.” And here she drowned in doubts, thinking he was just continuing with his life, wondering that he probably despised her, or was absolutely terrified by their kiss, and she forcefully convinced her conscience that it was for ‘the better’ but hearing his side of the story, changed the whole story. “I’m not asking you for anything you don’t want, neither am I gonna push you to reciprocate to me or do anything you’re uncomfortable with.” His voice dipped, the feverish edge giving way to something quieter and almost fragile underneath. “But also I keep fearing if something happens between us the next time, I won’t be able to hold back, and might end up pushing you far away.”

She opened her mouth but nothing came out except for air. He kept going. Like he couldn’t stop now, like the dam had broken and there was no use in holding back. “I know you’re probably regretting it.” He took an unsteady breath. “I’m way older, I probably look insane right now, showing up here like this, I probably come across as some creepy guy who doesn’t know when to take a hint.” he explained, his eyes moved over her face briefly, almost pained. “And you’re so beautiful, ____.” The words escaped him before he could stop them. “You probably have a lot of options. Guys your age lining up to take you out on dates and—” He shook his head.

“You probably think I’m some cheap, lustful guy who got the wrong idea and is now becoming desperate. He laughed once, humorlessly, dragging a hand across his face.

“Can you please just tell me what to do?” His voice cracked slightly on the last word. “Because I can’t keep doing this.” His eyes don’t fully meet hers; they land near her shoulder, then slip away “Please.”

A faint tremor in his fingers when he tries to keep them still “Tell me to leave and I will.” His voice flattens slightly, as if he’s trying to detach from what he’s saying

“Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll disappear.” His gaze drops again, longer this time, avoiding her entirely “You won’t have to see my fa—.” Before he could finish that sentence, She grabbed him by the collar, both hands twisting into his shirt, pulling him down to her, pressing her mouth to his and cutting off every last word still trying to crawl out of him. Jungkook went completely still, definitely not because he didn’t want it, but because he couldn’t quite believe it.

His forehead creased.

He stayed still for another minute, his lips pliant against her moving ones. Then not being able to take it anymore, he kissed her back. His hand found her jaw carefully, like he still wasn’t entirely convinced she was real, and she felt him exhale against her mouth, a shaky, disbelieving sound that made something inside her chest ache. And then something in him just collapsed. His hands came up to wrap around her waist, urgent and unsteady, and he kissed her back with everything he’d spent five weeks swallowing down.

Every fucking bit of it. Every looked away glance, every room he’d quietly left, every time he held back, every night he’d stared at the ceiling trying to think about literally anything else. The tension that had been simmering between them for days finally snapped, exploding into a kiss that felt less like a greeting and more like a collision. It was desperate and hungry, their mouths colliding with a force that left them both breathless.

With a low, guttural groan, he guided her backward, his movements urgent yet focused, until her back hit the wall with a dull thud. The impact sent a nearby vase sliding off a side table, shattering on the floor in a spray of porcelain and water, but neither of them gave a fuck. The sound was nothing compared to the roar of blood in their ears.

It wasn't a gentle kiss at all, that kiss on the balcony was a child’s play. He devoured her, his lips bruising hers with a desperate, starving force. His tongue forced its way inside, sweeping through her mouth with a greedy hunger, tangling with hers in a wet, frantic dance. He tasted her. the sweet, heady flavor of her mouth and the sound he made was a deep, needy moan that vibrated against her lips. He sucked on her tongue, pulling it into his mouth as if he were trying to drink her dry, their saliva slicking their lips as they breathed each other's air in ragged, desperate gasps.

Jungkook paused for a second, breaking the kiss just enough to press his forehead against hers. His dark eyes were blown wide, searching hers with a look of absolute, shimmering hunger. He watched her pupils dilate and her lips part, wet, swollen, and glistening, his eyes moved over her face, studying her reaction as if he were memorizing every inch of her pleasure.

Then, his hands moved.

He slid them down her body, his palms searing through the thin fabric of her clothes, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He didn't stop until he reached her bare thighs, he captured the tender skin in a firm grip. He hooked his hands under her, lifting her legs and hauling her hips flush against him.

[rubber-feathers]

Unraveling

Once again…. mentions of extreme dieting for the sake of competing, use of stimulants, mental abuse/manipulation. Basically just rlly toxic skating culture and reader’s coaches are ASSHOLESSSS

pt 3 to kiss it better then one more and im done yay!

Elena and Martin did not let Opening Ceremony go unpunished. Alysa understood that almost immediately, not because either of them said anything outright to her, but because she knew the grammar of people like that by now.

Control had been challenged in public, however politely. You had chosen something joyful over something they could monitor. Worse, you had chosen Alysa, openly, more than once, and Alysa had been too wrapped up in how good it felt to really grasp what that would cost you after. The shift in the days that followed was so sharp it might have been obvious to anyone looking closely, but the problem was Alysa only got you in pieces now, and the pieces kept arriving after the worst of the day had already happened.

Your coaches tightened everything. The hours at the rink stretched longer and longer until time itself seemed to belong to them. Breaks disappeared—water breaks especially. Alysa didn’t know that directly at first, but she saw the evidence in the way your lips had started looking dry by evening, in the way you reached for water too fast when no one was around, in the faint dizzy lag that sometimes hit you when you stood up after sitting too long. Food also got worse. That part Alysa felt before she fully understood it, because meals together—one of the few ways she had been quietly protecting you—started vanishing. The first time you brushed one off, it was easy enough to explain. Training ran late. You were tired. You’d already eaten, supposedly. The second and third time, it stopped feeling incidental. Alysa would text asking where you were and get back some soft little excuse: with coaches, going over programs, need to stay at the off-site rink longer, don’t wait up. When you did sit with her, your body carried the tension of someone who felt guilty for being there, and the meal itself turned into a fight so subtle it was barely one.

You’d insist you weren’t hungry. Alysa would slide something toward you anyway. You’d pick at it, or stare at it too long, or snap in that worn-thin way people do when they’re too depleted to hide it properly. It started to build something in you that looked from the outside like resentment, but Alysa, even when it hurt, knew that wasn’t really what it was. It wasn’t true resentment of her. It was exhaustion with nowhere safe to go, frustration so constant it had to land somewhere.

Your coaches were isolating you from the one person who kept trying to steady you, and the sick irony was that by the time you got to Alysa, part of you was too wrung out to receive help without feeling cornered by it.

So, they fed you a story while they were doing it. Alysa didn’t hear the whole narrative, but she pieced it together because she knew how manipulation worked and because she could feel its fingerprints all over the way you started reacting to her. They told you this was because they cared about your career. They were only pushing because the Olympics demanded it and Alysa, at the end of the day, was your competition before she was anything else, she was a girl standing in the way of your highest possible finish, of your gold medal, of the version of happiness they wanted to dangle in front of you like a prize. They made Alysa into the problem because it was convenient.

If Alysa kept you fed, rested, calmer, softer, more human, then they could frame that humanity as weakness. If Alysa got between you and their absolute control over your body and schedule, then she became interference.

Under normal conditions you would have rejected all of it. Alysa knew this about you, she knew you never really bought their attempts to pit you against other skaters, never internalized their ugliest messages the way they wanted. But this wasn’t normal you. Lack of sleep had hollowed you out and the hunger had made everything feel far away and effortful. Dehydration put that strange glaze over your eyes by nighttime sometimes, the one Alysa would notice and then try not to let her panic show. Thinking critically took energy, and your body had been starved of energy for days. So instead of arguing with their story, maybe you just stopped fighting it. Maybe part of you let it sit there because pushing back against anything at all had started to feel impossible. Alysa saw the consequence of that, even if she didn’t have every sentence they were putting in your head. You started choosing them over her more often, choosing them in ways that felt unlike you and yet still passed just enough as plausible that Alysa kept second-guessing how hard to push.

More practice sessions. More debriefs. More “I have to stay.” More canceled meals. More evenings where Alysa sat with her phone in her hand staring at a message from you that was sweet on its face and cold in the space it created.

And every time you bent back toward your coaches instead of toward her, they rewarded it. Alysa could see that too. There would be a slight easing in Elena’s voice when you complied, a small approving nod from Martin when you chose the rink over the lounge, a little less tension in the air around you when you acted as though they were your first obligation. They were training you with relief.

The worst part for Alysa was how little she could do in real time. That helplessness had sharp teeth.

During the day, you were almost never truly hers anymore. You were being moved around, worked, corrected, watched. If Alysa saw you at all, it was often from across a hallway or in some passing transition where your smile arrived for her a beat too late because you were already so tired. Once or twice she caught you in the athlete lounge after what had clearly been a brutal day, and those moments were almost worse because they showed her exactly how much damage had accumulated by the time you got to her. You’d fold into her arms the second you were close enough, not graceful about it, just spent. Alysa would be sitting there with her phone in hand and suddenly you were sinking against her chest, your whole body giving up the act because it finally could. She’d wrap both arms around you on instinct and feel how slack your muscles were with fatigue, how overheated or shivery you seemed depending on the day, how badly you needed something she could not provide in one quick stolen moment. Sometimes other skaters would tactfully look away. Sometimes Amber, from nearby, would go very still with concern and then deliberately start talking louder to someone else to give you both privacy without actually leaving. And Alysa would sit there holding you, furious and frightened and trying so hard to keep her voice gentle. “You need to stop letting them do this to you,” she’d murmur into your hair, or, “This isn’t training anymore, baby.” And then inevitably one of your coaches would see you there afterward, soft and collapsed and obviously soothed by Alysa, and the next day would be worse. Alysa figured that out quickly. Every time she managed to catch you when you were breaking, they punished the break. So she got trapped in this disgusting calculus of wanting to comfort you and knowing that visible comfort might cost you later, except of course she wasn’t going to stop comforting you. She couldn’t. She loved you too much to leave you shaking through it alone just because your coaches were cruel enough to escalate when they saw you need someone.

———

By six days after Opening Ceremony, the strain had already turned into arguments. Three of them. All of them variations on the same ache.

Alysa would finally get you alone at night—the only time she really saw you anymore in any meaningful way—and try to talk, really talk, because the evidence was piling up in front of her and she couldn’t keep pretending it was fine. You’d be sitting on the edge of the bed tugging your sweatshirt off with slow, tired hands, or leaning against the bathroom counter while wiping off makeup, or already curled under the blanket with your eyes half closed, and Alysa would start carefully. “You barely drank anything today.” Or, “Why did Martin have you on the scale again?” Or, “You’ve got new bruises all over your legs.” And sometimes you’d try to brush it off, but you were too exhausted now to keep your old neat defenses in place. So the conversation would fray almost immediately.

“Can we not do this?” you’d ask, voice thin with fatigue.

Alysa would kneel in front of you or sit beside you and keep going because she was scared and because stopping felt like abandoning you. “No, because you’re not okay.”

Then your face would crumple in that way she hated most, sudden and defenseless, and tears would come before either of you could redirect. These weren't theatrical tears, but the quiet result of complete overwhelm—the feeling of your body simply giving up. You’d sob like someone whose nervous system had simply run out of room to hold anything else, and the second that happened Alysa’s whole posture changed. The argument ended there every time. It had to. She’d gather you up immediately, pull you against her, one hand at the back of your head, the other firm around your shaking shoulders, and all the righteous anger would collapse into helpless tenderness.

“Hey, hey, okay,” she’d whisper, because what else was there to say when you were crying so hard you could barely catch breath? “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” She still wanted to fix it. God, she wanted to keep talking, wanted a plan, wanted a concrete next step, wanted to force the issue before it killed you by inches. But when you cried like that and then clung to her with the last of your strength, none of that felt possible without becoming another person demanding something from you. So instead she held you while you begged her softly to stop.

“Please just hold me,” you’d murmur between breaths, or, “Lysa, let it go, please, it’s okay, I’m okay.” The last part never sounded believable anymore. You said it like a prayer you were too tired to believe but still too trained not to repeat.

And every time, before Alysa could steer the conversation back toward action, sleep took you. It was frightening how fast it happened. One minute you’d still be sniffling into her shirt, words slurring with exhaustion, and the next your weight would settle more completely against her as your body simply shut down. Alysa would feel it happen and go still, that awful mix of relief and dread washing through her. Relief because at least you were resting and you weren't upset anymore. Dread because you were always this tired now, tired past the point of choice, tired in a way that made real conversation almost impossible. So she let you sleep. She knew how little you were getting. She knew your coaches had you jumping the second they called, that if you missed them you’d pay for it in practice with extra scrutiny or worse. She’d lie there in the dark with you half on top of her, one of her arms going numb under your weight, and stare at the ceiling while anger moved through her in waves too big to do anything with at that hour.

She saw the result of what they were doing mostly at night: the puffy eyes, the trembling hands, the way you’d fall asleep before finishing a sentence, the brittle edge in you that had nothing to do with not loving her and everything to do with being pushed beyond what a person could carry. The thing that looked like resentment when you pulled away from meals or snapped at her was not really resentment at all, and Alysa knew that in her bones even when it stung. Your coaches were isolating you so thoroughly that even Alysa’s attempts to help could start to feel like one more demand. She understood that, though understanding didn't help make the hurt any less sad. So night after night she took the smallest role available to her. She held you. She kissed your forehead when you were already asleep. She whispered things she wasn’t sure you could hear—You don’t deserve this. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll figure something out.—and then stayed awake long after you were gone to the world, listening to your breathing and hating how powerless love could feel when the person hurting you still had more hours of your day than she did.

She could hold you through the aftermath. She could kiss some of it better. She could make the nights gentler than the days. But she could not stop morning from coming, could not stop them from reaching for you again the second the sun was up. And lying there with your weight slack against her, Alysa would feel that helplessness like its own kind of bruise, because she knew she was watching something precious unravel and still had not figured out how to pull you fully back from it.

———

By February 15, the room itself felt tense before either of you even said a word. It was still early enough that the light outside had that thin gray quality of morning in a city that hadn’t fully woken yet, but your day had already started long before Alysa’s had. You were up, dressed in layers for practice, moving around the room with that quiet, mechanical efficiency Alysa had come to dread—the version of you that looked awake only because you had forced yourself there. Alysa was still in bed, half propped against the pillows, watching through sleepy eyes as you packed your bag.

She noticed things automatically now. She saw the way you checked the contents twice, like forgetting something would cost you more than it should. Saw the way your hands paused every now and then as if your brain had to catch up to them and the hollowness under your cheekbones in the low light. She’d gotten so used to tracking your condition that it felt involuntary, like her body started scanning for damage before her mind did. You had already been awake because your coaches wanted you up earlier, earlier than necessary, earlier than kind, and Alysa hated the idea of your day beginning in someone else’s grip before your feet even touched the floor.

She was about to sit up and ask whether you were going to eat first before training, whether you’d slept at all, when one of your alarms went off from the nightstand. You had started setting four of them, all fifteen minutes apart, because if you missed the first one and didn’t get moving quickly enough, there was always fallout. Alysa knew that much. So when the tone cut through the room, sharp and irritating in the dim quiet, she reached over on instinct to turn it off for you.

She wasn’t trying to snoop, she just grabbed your phone with one hand, thumb already moving to dismiss the alarm, and the screen lit fully in her palm. There, right on it, impossible to miss before it disappeared under anything else, was a message from one of your coaches.

We have extra caffeine pills if you ran out of them already.

Alysa stared at it for half a second too long, long enough for the words to lose shape and then snap back into meaning with enough force to make her stomach drop. Something in her went absolutely cold. Up until then, even with everything she had seen, everything she suspected, part of the horror had still lived inside the vague language of overtraining and strictness and cruelty that could be waved away by people invested in pretending this sport didn’t eat girls alive. But this wasn’t vague.

This wasn’t just emotional abuse, just body policing, just controlled meals and withheld water and exhaustion being reframed as discipline. This was direct, tangible, chemical. It was them deliberately keeping you upright with stimulants while your body was obviously failing under the weight of what they were doing to it. Alysa sat up so fast the sheets tangled around her legs.

“What?” The word came out small at first, disbelieving rather than angry. You looked up from your bag immediately. Your eyes flicked to the phone in her hand, and she watched the exact moment you understood what she must have seen. You didn’t even ask who messaged. You just sighed, shoulders dropping with that tired inevitability of someone who already knew the path this conversation would take and no longer had the energy to reroute it.

“Nothing, Alysa,” you said, too quickly, too flatly, turning back to zip your bag. “It’s absolutely nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

That was the worst possible thing to say. Alysa was out of the bed before either of you seemed fully prepared for how fast she moved, the phone still clutched in her hand, her bare feet hitting the floor hard enough to make a sound.

“Do you not see what they’re doing to you?” she demanded. Her voice cracked on the edge of the question because it was no longer even a question. It was panic mixing with fury. Helplessness wound so tight it sounded almost strangled. She shook the phone once, not at you exactly, but at the room, at the evidence, at the fact of it. “Caffeine pills? Are you serious? Are you hearing yourself? Are you looking at this and telling me it’s nothing?”

You didn’t answer right away. You kept moving, which somehow made it worse, slipping your extra skate guards into the side pocket of your bag like the conversation wasn’t detonating the room around you. But Alysa could see it in you too now, the way your jaw had set, the way your face had gone blank in that dangerous, overcontrolled way it did when you were trying to hold too much at once.

She stepped closer, voice breaking softer and then sharper again in the same breath. “Please,” she said, and now there was nothing dignified left in her tone at all, just desperation. “Please, if you can’t stand up for yourself, let me do it for you. I want to talk to them. I need to fix this. I need to set this right.” She meant it completely. She wasn’t posturing anymore, wasn’t just angry in theory. This was a line crossed, destroyed. She had spent weeks trying not to force your hand, trying not to become another person demanding something of you, trying to work around the damage without blowing up your life or your Olympic preparation or your trust in her. But pills? Stimulants because your body could no longer keep up with the damage? Alysa could not stand there and do nothing. Not now. Not when the harm had become this literal.

And that was when you snapped. Not all at once at first, but with the kind of brittle break that had clearly been building for weeks under pressure too relentless to survive intact. You straightened slowly and turned to face her, though not fully. Your eyes skated past her shoulder, down to the floor, anywhere but directly into her face, because if you looked at her too long maybe you’d lose the nerve to say it. Or maybe some part of you knew what you were about to say wasn’t entirely yours.

“I tried, okay?” The words came out clipped and sharp, already trembling with more emotion than anger alone. Alysa froze, the phone still in her hand. “I tried to make boundaries because you wanted me to, and look what happened.” Your voice rose on the last part, not loud enough to be a scream, but loud enough to fill the room with something raw and ugly and undeniable. “They got stricter. They got worse. Everything got worse because I listened to you.” Alysa opened her mouth, but you weren’t done, not even close. The whole thing cracked wide then, every ugly idea your coaches had been feeding you, every exhausted grievance that had nowhere to go, every fear you hadn’t been able to name because naming it would mean admitting how trapped you were. It all came at once, and because Alysa was the person closest to you, because she kept reaching and pushing and trying to pull you back toward something healthier, it all landed on her. “And you keep hovering,” you said, voice shaking harder now, your hands fumbling uselessly with the strap of your bag because you needed something to do with them. “You keep fighting them and getting involved and acting like you know what’s best, and you don’t have to deal with the fallout after. I do.” Alysa stood very still, trying not to flinch, because beneath the sting she also heard the truth buried under the distortion. You were talking about fear and punishment. About being the one left in the room with Elena and Martin after Alysa had walked away. But God, it hurt. “This is my career,” you kept going, and now the rant had momentum, carried along by sleep deprivation and hunger and the kind of fatigue that strips the filter off everything. “Not yours. You don’t get to keep barging in and making things harder for me because you think you’re helping. Every time you push, every time you step in, every time you make some scene or pull me away or act like they’re monsters, I’m the one who pays for it after. Not you. Me.” Your eyes still wouldn’t meet hers. That hurt too, almost more than the words themselves. “You keep saying you’re trying to protect me, but all you do is make everything worse. You get in the way and then I’m the one stuck with them when you’re gone. I’m the one who has to train. I’m the one who has to hear it and fix it afterward.” By then your breathing had gone shallow, your chest lifting too fast under your jacket. “So stop,” you said, and your voice finally cracked fully. “Just stop. Stop pushing. Stop making this bigger. Stop acting like you know how to save me because you don’t.”

Alysa tried, in those first few seconds, not to take any of it straight into the heart. She really did. She had been afraid of this exact moment for weeks, maybe longer—the point where their voices would get so far inside your head that when the pressure finally needed somewhere to go, it would come at her. And because she knew you, because she had seen the deterioration up close, because she understood how exhaustion could twist blame into the nearest available shape, she recognized almost immediately that this wasn’t really you in full. This was fear and isolation. This was their narrative coming out of your mouth because you were too depleted to keep rejecting it. But understanding that did not make it painless.

The sting still went through her anyway, quick and deep, because part of what you were accusing her of touched the exact place she’d already been guiltily prodding in herself. She had inserted herself in your life. She had not been able to stop wanting you, stop reaching for you, stop grabbing any scrap of closeness the second you offered it. She knew that it was causing them to be crueler. She also knew she couldn’t regret loving you like that, couldn’t regret being there when you fell into her arms, couldn’t regret feeding you, letting you sleep, pulling you toward joy. That shouldn’t have been a punishable offense. It shouldn’t have been something anyone could weaponize against you. But here it was in your voice anyway, thrown back at her with all the misery of the last two weeks behind it. Alysa stood there feeling suddenly useless in her own skin, like nothing she had done had reached you in time.

“Baby—” she started, but the word died the second she saw your expression. You were furious now only because fury took less energy than collapsing, and even that seemed unstable, like one wrong response from her would make you break apart right there. So Alysa swallowed the rest. She knew if she pushed again, you would either cry or leave. Maybe both.

You chose to leave anyway. You grabbed your bag with jerky, angry movements and headed for the door before Alysa had figured out what to say that wouldn’t make it worse. “I can’t do this right now,” you muttered, voice low and wrecked and final.

Alysa took one step after you on instinct. “Wait—” But you were already yanking the door open. You didn’t even turn back. The only sign that any part of you was hurting as badly as she was came in the way your shoulders hunched for half a second before you disappeared out into the hall. Then the door slammed, loud enough to shake the room into silence. Alysa just stood there, phone still in hand. Her heart pounding so hard it almost made her feel sick.

The quiet afterward was horrible. It felt like staring at the aftermath of something that had broken while you were still trying to convince yourself it might be fixable. Because that was what it was, really. For the first time she felt, not just feared, that she was actually losing you to them. They had gotten between your mind and your instincts. They had made her feel like danger to you. They had turned the person trying most desperately to protect you into one more thing you had to brace against.

Alysa stood there for another few seconds, breathing hard, her own hurt trying and failing to compete with the larger, colder fear underneath it. Then something in her locked into place. This was the last straw. She could survive you being angry at her. She could survive you blaming her if that blame had been fed to you by people hollowing you out from the inside. She could not survive standing back while you took stimulants to stay upright for them. That crossed a line too clear to ignore. Whatever happened next, she was not letting you get hurt because she was too afraid of upsetting you.

So she went looking for Philip and Massimo. She found them fast because the day was already in motion, people moving through hallways with credentials swinging and practice schedules in hand, and Alysa must have looked bad enough that both of them stopped what they were doing the second they saw her. Philip’s expression shifted first, all business beneath the concern.

“What happened?” he asked.

And Alysa, who had been holding herself together by force for the last ten minutes, finally let the full scope of it out. Not in some neat report but in a rush. She told them about your weight loss, how tired you were, how your coaches had been restricting food and water, how they kept you up, how bad things had gotten. Then she held up the phone like evidence and said, “They’re giving her caffeine pills. Or telling her to take them. She’s barely sleeping, she’s barely eating, and now this.” Her voice shook once on the last part and she hated that it did. “She won’t listen to me anymore. She thinks I’m making it worse.”

Philip went very still in the way he did when something crossed from upsetting to actionable. Massimo swore softly under his breath, face tightening with the same alarm Alysa had felt that morning.

Philip didn’t waste time. “Okay,” he said, calm in the deliberate way people get when panic would only slow them down. “Then we go to the chief medical officer. We raise a red flag that something’s wrong and they’ll do a medical check on her.”

Alysa nodded immediately because it was something. She wanted a clean rescue, but at least this was something concrete. A step. A way to get another adult with authority to look at you and maybe finally see what she had been seeing at night in the dark when you were too tired to hide it. For a second she almost sagged with relief just from hearing a plan said out loud. Then Philip put a hand on her shoulder.

“We’ll handle this part,” he said. “You need to get ready. Official practice starts soon.” Alysa wanted to protest, wanted to say no, wanted to tell him she couldn’t possibly go skate now with her insides scraped raw like this. But he was right, and that almost made it worse. The day was still moving whether her world had just tilted or not. She had to let them take over because there was nothing else she could do right this second without making a bigger mess.

So Alysa handed the problem off with the sick feeling of someone placing glass into another person’s hands and hoping it didn’t shatter further on impact. Then she went back to her room, or maybe straight toward the rink, already running on fumes of adrenaline and dread.

She felt hopeless in a way she had never allowed herself to before, because for all her anger and all her protectiveness and all the small acts of care she had forced into your days, she had still reached a point where begging you wasn’t enough. She had begged. She had literally stood there asking you to let her help, asking you to open your eyes, asking you to let her be the one to stand between you and the harm. And you had looked at her with all that fear and exhaustion and thrown their words back in her face because you were too worn down to do anything else. That image stayed with her as she moved through the rest of the morning: you not looking at her, your voice cracking, the door slamming behind you. Under all the shock and hurt, what remained strongest was still the same thing that had driven every fight between you—love sharpened into urgency. Alysa did not want to ruin anything for you. She didn’t want to cost you your Olympics, your trust, your sense of control, whatever was left of it. But she wanted even less to stand by and let your body break under their hands. If stepping in now meant you would hate her for a while, then maybe that was the price. She could live with your anger. She could not live with your collapse. And with that awful compromise lodged in her chest, she kept moving toward the rink because there was no other choice, carrying the knowledge that even while she was lacing up her skates, somewhere else in the building wheels had finally been set in motion to force someone to look at you before it was too late.

———

They were too late, and Alysa knew it before anyone said the words out loud. Not in some clairvoyant way, but in the sick, instinctive way she had come to know your body almost better than her own these last few weeks. She got to the rink on time, did everything she was supposed to do, let her own routine carry her forward even while her mind kept trying to run back to the room you’d stormed out of.

Official practice was already underway, the arena loud in that strange half-energized, half-clinical way practice sessions always were at something as big as the Olympics—music clips starting and stopping, blades scratching over fresh ice, coaches clustered at the boards. Philip and Massimo had already spoken to medical staff, but whatever urgency Alysa had felt in her own body clearly had not translated with enough force on the other side.

You had been flagged, yes, they told them that much. They’d check after your run-through, since you were already on the ice.

After.

Alysa had heard that word and felt something in her chest sink. After was too late when a person was being held together by fumes and caffeine and stubbornness. After was what people said when they still thought there was a comfortable margin left before anything went really wrong. Alysa wanted to argue, wanted to grab somebody by the shoulders and make them feel what she was feeling, but practice didn’t stop because one person was scared. So she moved with Philip and Massimo toward the arena and stood by the boards, arms folded tight over herself, trying to act like she was simply another skater watching the session while her heart kicked much too hard against her ribs.

She found you immediately. Of course she did. You were impossible not to find now, her eyes always going to you first before they settled anywhere else. You were with Elena and Martin near the far side, your jacket zipped up, posture too neat, too held together. Alysa saw the med team approach Martin a minute later and pull him slightly aside, speaking low enough that the content was lost beneath the general arena noise. Martin’s head turned almost instantly toward Alysa and her coaches, his expression flattening in a way that made it obvious he knew exactly where this had come from.

Philip, beside Alysa, watched him and murmured, “He definitely knows it was us.”

Massimo let out a short, contemptuous breath. “Good,” he said. “Who cares if he knows.” Alysa didn’t answer either of them. She just kept staring, her face gone still.

There was no satisfaction in being right anymore, no relief in seeing someone else finally paying attention. Only the awful sense that all of this was moving slower than it needed to. That even with medical staff now aware, you were still out there. Still expected to skate. Still under Elena’s hand and Martin’s eye. The air in the rink suddenly felt too dry, too cold, too bright.

Elena leaned in and said something. Alysa couldn’t hear it from where she stood, but she didn’t need to. She saw the effect of it in your body immediately. You got smaller in that familiar way you had around her—shoulders drawing in by a fraction, chin dipping, every line of you suddenly more contained. You nodded once to whatever Elena was saying, obedient and exhausted all at once. Then you peeled off your zip-up, hands slower than they should have been, and the announcer’s voice cut through the arena to call your name, signaling your turn.

Alysa’s stomach twisted. She watched you skate out to center ice and take your opening position, music already beginning to rise around you, and for one fleeting moment you looked almost like yourself again once the movement started. The first elements were clean. The blade beneath you sure. There were flashes of your old sharpness, enough that someone who didn’t know better might think the fear was overblown, that maybe this was just another hard day and not a body approaching its limit. Alysa didn’t, or rather couldn’t, relax. The bad feeling had already settled in her too deeply by then, sitting just under her breastbone like a stone. She followed every move with a kind of hyperawareness that made her feel slightly detached from her own skin. Then came the programmed glide toward the boards, and because that part of the choreography brought you along her side of the rink, your eyes found hers for the briefest second.

It was only a second, barely anything at all, but it cracked something open in Alysa. There you were, gliding past the boards as the choreography carried you down her side of the rink, and for one breath of a second your eyes met Alysa’s. It should have been nothing more than that—just a glance, a familiar point of comfort, the kind of tiny grounding moment two people in love steal from each other without thinking. But Alysa knew you too well not to feel the difference immediately. Usually, when you looked at her during a program, even for the briefest second, something in your face softened. Not enough to break performance, but enough that she could see you register her, could feel that flicker of mutual recognition pass cleanly between you. This time it didn’t feel clean. Your face stayed composed in the careful, overtrained way it always did when you were trying to hold yourself together, but your gaze looked thin somehow, stretched and delayed, like there was a fraction of a second between your body arriving there and your mind actually catching up to it. It was as if you saw Alysa and did not know what to do with seeing her. And Alysa, standing there with her hands curled over the boards, only had time to register that something was wrong before you were already gliding past her, the moment gone almost before it formed.

Then you drifted nearer to Elena’s side of the rink, and Elena—who had absolutely seen that glance, seen whatever softness or instinct had pulled you toward Alysa for even that split second—cut through the music with one cold word. “Focus.” She said it sharply, not loud enough to draw attention from most of the arena, but with that specific clipped precision Alysa had come to hate, the kind meant to land deep because it was aimed at a wound somebody else couldn’t see. Alysa didn’t know exactly what the word did inside your head. She couldn’t hear the whole rotten narrative your coaches had been building in there for weeks, couldn’t know how Elena had spent days trying to recast Alysa in your mind as a threat instead of a refuge, as competition instead of comfort. Alysa didn’t know that by saying “focus,” Elena wasn’t really talking about the program at all. She was reminding you, in the cruelest possible shorthand, of everything she wanted you to believe: that Alysa was the distraction, Alysa was the enemy, Alysa was standing in the way of your success, Alysa was why you were suffering now. And because you were so exhausted, so underfed, so dehydrated and overspun by then, there was no sturdy wall left in you to keep those ideas out. So the second Elena’s voice hit, it threw you into that awful clash of instinct and conditioning. One part of you had just looked at the girl you loved, the person your body still reached for automatically no matter how badly others tried to twist that impulse. Another part had been trained, over and over, to hear her name like a warning. To associate her with consequences. With punishment waiting later. With guilt. With the possibility of being weak, distracted, not enough.

Alysa didn’t know any of that as it happened. All she saw was the physical result. The word hit you and your body answered before your face really did. You faltered—not dramatically, not enough for anyone who didn’t love you to panic, just the slightest visible disruption, a tiny stagger in your edge, a near-miss in the smoothness of your glide. Most people would have called it nothing. A normal wobble. The kind of inconsistency every skater has at some point in a run-through. But Alysa saw the way it traveled through you. Saw how the disruption wasn’t just in your blade for that instant, but in your whole presence afterward. Something in you had split open. From that point on, the program changed in a way she could feel more than explain. You kept moving, kept hitting the structure of the routine, but there was a lag to you now, a strange secondhand quality, like your body was still dutifully performing the sequence while your mind was trapped half a step behind trying to sort through too many conflicting commands. The softness of that glance at Alysa had not fully faded before Elena’s voice came down on top of it, and suddenly you were trying to skate through both at once—through love and fear, through instinct and conditioning, through the brief comfort of seeing Alysa and the immediate punishment of being reminded what your coaches wanted her to mean. Alysa knew that the second Elena spoke, your skating stopped looking inhabited. The shell of the program remained, but you were harder to find inside it. And that, more than the small stagger itself, was what made cold panic spread through her so quickly. Because Alysa knew the difference between you making a mistake and you disappearing from yourself in real time.

From that point on the program changed. You were a half-second behind the music in places. Your movements had that awful, lagging quality of someone trying to push through a fog their body no longer had the strength to hide. You finished the routine in the center and stopped there, chest rising, arms lowering. Alysa could already see it: the shell of you continuing because it had been told to continue, while the rest of you was somewhere farther away, slipping.

Elena called for you immediately, voice clipped and impatient, motioning you back toward the boards. Alysa waited for you to respond the way you always did. You didn’t. You just stood there for one extra second. Then another. Elena called again. Nothing. And that was when Alysa’s gut truly dropped out from under her.

The feeling was so sudden and physical it nearly stole her breath. Her chest tightened with such force it hurt, as if her body had already registered the fall before her mind caught up. She was moving before she consciously decided to move, already heading toward the rink entrance with her guards still on, the blood rushing loud in her ears. Somewhere behind her Philip said her name, maybe sharp, maybe trying to stop her, but it didn’t matter. Elena called out again, harsher this time, and Alysa had just reached the opening when your body folded. There was no graceful catching yourself, no stumble recovered at the last second. You pitched forward and hit the ice hard enough that the sound of it seemed to slice through everything—the music, the chatter, the scrape of other blades. Alysa felt it in her own body like a blow. A brutal, immediate pain flared through her chest, not literal injury but the kind of fear that hurts so sharply it mimics one. Her voice broke before she was even fully on the ice. She took off her guards so fast one of them was flown away toward the boards and then she was running, blades biting in quick desperate strokes, getting to you in seconds that still felt impossibly slow. By the time she dropped to her knees beside you, you hadn’t moved. Not at all. You were facedown and still, and for one hideous instant the whole arena seemed to tilt around Alysa. Other skaters were coming in too, concern drawing them toward the center before officials began waving them back, but Alysa barely registered anyone else. Her hands shook as she reached for your shoulder, careful and terrified at once, rubbing gently because she couldn’t bear not to touch you. “Hey,” she said, and her voice was nothing like her own, thinned out by panic. “Hey, baby.” No response. Her throat closed around the next breath and then she was louder, lifting her head toward the approaching medics. “Help! Please—”

They were already coming, fast now, crossing the ice with equipment in hand, and a few officials were ushering the other skaters away to clear space. Somebody told Alysa to move back. She didn’t. Or maybe she physically couldn’t. She stayed right there by your side, knees freezing through her tights against the ice, one hand still on your shoulder as if keeping contact alone might anchor you. Then, after another agonizing 4 seconds that felt much longer than that, you stirred. It was slight at first. A blink. A breath dragged in unevenly. Your head shifted. Relief hit Alysa so hard it almost made her dizzy, but it wasn’t clean relief, because you looked so confused when your eyes finally opened, blinking slowly up into all that bright arena light. “Hey, hey,” Alysa said immediately, leaning closer so you’d find her first before anything else. “You’re okay. Don’t move.” Her voice was shaking badly now and she knew it, couldn’t stop it. Your gaze found her but didn’t quite settle. It drifted, unfocused, then came back. Medics were beside you, one kneeling near your head, another already talking in the brisk calm voices medical people use when they’re trying not to pour urgency into a situation that absolutely has urgency in it. They asked Alysa to give them room and this time she shifted only enough to let them in, never fully leaving your side. One of them checked your airway and breathing first, speaking softly to you while another assessed where you’d hit and whether there was any obvious neck or spinal concern from the fall. They stabilized your head, hands firm and practiced, and started asking you simple orientation questions while watching your eyes carefully. “Can you tell me your name?” one asked. “Do you know where you are?” Another medic shone a light briefly into your pupils, watching the reaction, fingers at your wrist a moment later to check pulse. Someone else was already unzipping equipment, preparing more formal vitals. You tried to push up almost immediately, instinct stronger than sense, but the medic at your shoulder pressed you back down gently and firmly. “Stay with us,” he said. “Don’t sit up yet.”

And you, in the middle of all that, still went straight to apology. Your voice came out rough and dazed and so heartbreakingly automatic Alysa wanted to cry from the cruelty of it. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled, barely louder than the scrape of the medics’ gear against the ice. “I just slipped. Please let me do it again.”

No one answered that directly at first because they were trying to assess you, trying to get your attention to stay on them. “What year is it?” one medic asked. “Can you tell me what event this is?”

But you kept trying to return to the only thing your mind seemed to think mattered. “I can do it again,” you insisted weakly, not fighting them exactly but not really hearing them either. “Please, I can finish. I’m fine.” Alysa felt another stab of pain go through her, fierce enough to make her chest seize. Even like this, even half-conscious and confused, you were still trying to earn your way back onto the ice.

She moved one of her hands to yours then, your fingers freezing cold in her grip, and held on tightly. “Baby,” she said, voice low and unsteady, trying to draw your focus back to her. “You already finished. You did it. You were amazing.” Your eyes flickered toward her again. “Just rest right now, okay? Just rest.”

Something in the sound of her seemed to reach you where the other voices couldn’t. You looked at her, really looked this time, and the frantic edge in you softened by a fraction, quieted enough that you stopped trying to rise. Alysa kept holding your hand between both of hers, rubbing warmth into it uselessly, like maybe if she held you tightly enough she could stop all of this from getting worse.

Once the medics were satisfied enough to move you, everything sped up and slowed down at the same time. A carrier came out onto the ice, the sight of it making Alysa’s throat tighten all over again because it made the whole thing feel unmistakably real in a way even the fall hadn’t yet. The medical team coordinated calmly, talking through each step, maintaining stabilization as they prepared to transfer you. They fitted a cervical collar as a precaution because of how you’d fallen forward and because you’d lost consciousness, then log-rolled you carefully onto a backboard before lifting you onto the stretcher, each movement controlled and deliberate. You looked so small under all of it. Too pale. Too still between moments of groggy blinking. Alysa hovered as close as they would let her, answering what little she could when they asked about how long you’d been overtraining, whether there had been dizziness before, what she knew about your intake. Her answers came out clipped and shaky because her whole focus kept breaking apart every time your face pinched faintly with discomfort.

When they finally started moving you off the ice, wheels rattling once they hit the rubber mats beyond the boards, Alysa went with them without hesitation. Of course she did. No one was keeping her back now, and even if they had tried she didn’t think she could have stopped. She followed close enough to reach for your hand again the second there was room, her own pulse still hammering uncontrollably, that bad feeling in her gut now transformed into something even heavier and more terrible: the confirmation that her fear had been right, and that being right had not protected you in time.

The walk off the ice felt wrong in a way Alysa would remember later not as a sequence of images, but as one long, distorted sensation. The corridor behind the rink was bright and clinical and moving too fast around her, people stepping aside, doors opening ahead, medics speaking in calm, efficient voices that only made the panic in her chest feel louder by comparison. You were on the stretcher, pale beneath the fluorescent lights, strapped down more securely now and the brace at your neck making you look even smaller than you already had on the ice. Every few seconds she squeezed your hand gently just to remind you she was there, that you weren’t alone in this, that even if your eyes kept drifting half shut and your responses were slow and delayed, there was still something solid beside you. You gave almost nothing back except small things Alysa had learned to read anyway—the faintest twitch of your fingers, the slow blink when she said your name, the way your eyes found her and stayed there for one extra beat before sliding elsewhere again because even that seemed to cost too much energy right now. Alysa kept talking in a low, shaky stream she barely registered afterward, little scraps of reassurance spilling out because silence would have been unbearable.

“You’re okay,” she kept saying, though her voice betrayed how badly she needed it to be true. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. You’re okay.” She was so focused on you, on the frightening stillness of your body and the fragile evidence that you were awake, that she barely processed anything else. Not the footsteps behind. Not the fact that Elena and Martin were following too. Not Philip and Massimo moving off to the side with tense faces and clipped questions to whatever official had met them in the hall. Alysa’s whole world had narrowed to the hand in hers and the impossible fact that only minutes ago you had been skating and now you were here.

They reached a set of double doors with frosted glass panels, the kind that marked a threshold from public crisis into private medical reality, and that was where everything stopped. An official stepped in front of the stretcher and told the medics to continue inside, then turned to the cluster of people trailing behind and held up a hand. “Only medical personnel past this point.” Alysa blinked at him, not understanding for a second because understanding would mean letting go.

“No,” she said immediately, voice cracking on the word. “I’m coming with her.” The man’s expression softened in that rehearsed way people’s faces do when they’re used to delivering bad news kindly but firmly.

“You can’t. Not right now.” He looked past her then, toward Elena and Martin. “Same for you.”

Only then did Alysa fully register that your coaches were there at all, just several feet away, all hard edges and watchful eyes, suddenly reduced to the same powerless position as everyone else by the closed doors ahead. But Alysa barely had room in her for them yet. She turned back to you instead, leaning down quickly before the stretcher rolled any farther. Your hand was still in hers, limp and cold, and she pressed a kiss to your knuckles because she didn’t trust herself to do more without falling apart. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” she whispered, trying to smile and failing somewhere in the middle of it. You looked at her with those dazed, exhausted eyes and blinked once, slow and heavy. It was the smallest thing, but Alysa understood it for what it was—your version of okay, or as close to it as you could manage right now. Then the medics guided the stretcher through the doors and they swung shut between you. Alysa stood there staring at them as if the force of her wanting could make them reopen.

For a few seconds she didn’t move at all. She just stood in the middle of that hallway with the imprint of your hand still in hers and an immense, unbearable weight settling in her chest. It was too much feeling at once, too many things trying to occupy the same space in her body. Love so fierce it hurt. Fear so sharp it had made her hands shake. Desperation, because the doors were closed now and you were behind them and she could no longer see for herself whether you were all right. Her whole body felt wrong, wound too tight and suddenly abandoned by action. On the ice there had at least been things to do—run, kneel, hold, speak, follow. Here there was just waiting, and Alysa had never been good at waiting when it came to you. She could feel her pulse in her throat, in her temples, in the tight corners of her jaw. Her breathing came a little too fast, each inhale catching against something sore and brittle in her chest.

She might have stayed suspended in that terrible, helpless stillness a while longer if not for the voices off to the side. At first they were just another blur of sound in the corridor, low enough to disappear beneath the general bustle of medical staff moving in and out. Then one phrase cut cleanly enough through the noise that Alysa turned her head without meaning to. Elena and Martin had cornered another medical officer near the wall, not close enough to seem aggressive, just close enough to make sure their version got spoken early. And what they were saying—Alysa only caught pieces at first, but the pieces were enough.

“We told her to rest…” Elena was saying, her voice pitched into something practiced and concerned.

“She gets anxious before big events, and sometimes she overdoes it on her own. She’s been taking some caffeine pills because she gets nervous and wants extra energy…” Martin added something lower, calmer, more insidious because of how reasonable he sounded. “…appetite’s been off too, likely nerves. This first official practice is a lot, but she was fine before. There really hasn’t been an issue.”

Alysa went so still it felt unnatural. Then all at once she felt cold from head to toe. Not the normal cold of a rink hallway, not the stale chill of air conditioning against damp skin. Something deeper and sharper than that, like ice had been dropped straight into her bloodstream. Her fists closed so hard her nails bit into her palms. She could feel the skin there protesting and didn’t care. Her lip twitched once. Then her eye. It wasn’t dramatic from the outside, probably—just tiny movements in a face gone frighteningly blank—but inside her, something was building so fast and violently it was almost hard to track. Because Alysa knew what they had been doing to you. She knew it in the accumulation of bruises and the exhaustion you wore at night and the meals you stopped coming to and the way your body had felt too light in her arms for weeks now. She knew it in that text message still burned into her vision. She knew it in the scale, the water restrictions, the relentless practice, the lies they’d fed you until your own voice started echoing theirs back at her. And now, standing not twenty feet from the doors you had just disappeared through on a stretcher, they were lying. Not just lying to save themselves, but shifting it onto you. Making you sound careless, unstable, self-destructive by choice. Playing the part of concerned adults trying to manage a nervous athlete who had gone rogue with stimulants and stress.

Alysa hated them so suddenly and completely it felt almost animal. She was not a person who lived in anger. She had fought too hard to stop giving ugly people power over her mood, over her body, over her peace. She had learned how to laugh things off, how to shrug, how to stay light. Most of the time anger slid off her before it could root. But this wasn’t irritation. It wasn’t even normal fury. It was hatred with sharp teeth. It rose through her so fast it made her vision pulse at the edges. For one raw second she genuinely thought she could kill them.

She turned toward them slowly, but only because the force of what she felt had to gather itself somewhere before it could move. Elena was still talking, still wearing that awful polished expression—the controlled frown, the hand lightly touching her own wrist as if she were burdened by concern. Martin stood beside her in his usual measured way, solemn and careful and every bit as false. If you didn’t know them, if you hadn’t seen what they did to you when no one else mattered, they might even have looked convincing. That was what made it worse. They were playing victim now, or close enough to it. They were the responsible coaches. The people caught in a difficult situation because their athlete had, tragically, pushed herself too hard.

Alysa’s body moved before her coaches could fully stop it. One second she was standing there rigid with rage and the next she was launching forward, all that cold fury tipping into motion so abruptly it startled even her. Philip was on her almost instantly, clearly having read the shift in her posture a beat before anyone else did. His hands caught her shoulders hard enough to jolt her back. “Hey, hey—” he was saying, voice low and urgent, trying to anchor her. “It’s okay, she’s going to be okay.” But Alysa didn’t hear him. Or maybe she heard the shape of the words and they simply couldn’t compete with the blood rushing in her ears. She jerked against his hold anyway, trying to get at them, and that was when Massimo came in too, grabbing at her forearms, helping keep her from actually making contact. Elena had gone wide-eyed now, Martin stepping half in front of her with that same infuriatingly calm expression as though he were the aggrieved party here. That almost made Alysa lose it worse.

“This is your fault!” she screamed. The sound ripped out of her throat so hard it hurt. She was not elegant when she was this angry. Not controlled. Her voice shook and broke and still she kept going, straining forward against Philip and Massimo as they held her back. “You did this to her! You pushed her, you kept pushing her, you made her do all this and now she’s hurt and it’s your fault!” The words were loud enough to turn heads all down the corridor. Alysa didn’t care. If anything, some vicious part of her wanted people to hear. Wanted the nice, professional little story Elena and Martin were spinning to be shattered publicly. “How dare you lie?” she shouted, her face hot now, tears stinging unexpectedly at the backs of her eyes from the force of everything in her. “How dare you stand here and act like she did this to herself? You know exactly what you’ve been doing to her!” Elena opened her mouth—whether to deny it, deflect it, or tell Alysa she was being inappropriate, Alysa never found out, because the second she saw Elena trying to form another lie she surged forward again with enough force that Philip had to actually haul her back against him.

“Don’t,” he warned, breathless himself now from the effort of holding her, but Alysa was beyond hearing warnings. Her whole body had become one line of desperate, shaking fury aimed at the two people standing there pretending innocence while you were behind those doors being examined for damage they had caused.

“She collapsed!” Alysa yelled, voice gone ragged. “She collapsed because of you! Because you wouldn’t leave her alone, because you kept starving her and pushing her and drugging her so she could stay on her feet for you—”

“Alysa,” Massimo cut in sharply, not because he disagreed but because she was close to ripping herself apart trying to get through them. “Enough. Come on.”

“No!” she snapped, twisting again, but the word came out thinner than before, already fraying under the strain. Philip’s hold on her shifted from restraint into something more protective as the fight started bleeding out of her all at once.

That was the thing about anger that big—it burned brutally, but it didn’t hold forever, not when the person carrying it was already exhausted, terrified, and running on nothing but adrenaline. The second the immediate chance to get at them was truly gone, the whole force of it folded in on itself and left Alysa shaking. Her breaths turned uneven. The scream in her chest changed shape. She gave one last, useless jerk against Philip’s grip and then just… gave up. Her knees didn’t fully buckle, but the tension holding her upright did. She sagged back into Philip’s chest like her strings had been cut, one hand fisting in the front of his jacket because she needed something to hold and because if she didn’t grip something she thought she might fall apart right there on the floor. Philip’s hands moved immediately, one flattening between her shoulder blades, the other firm at the back of her head for a second in that grounding, almost parental way he had when she was too far gone to steady herself.

“Shh,” he murmured, softer now, his mouth near her hair. “It’s okay. Come on. Breathe.” Massimo was there too, one hand rubbing down her arm, the other briefly touching her shoulder, all his earlier sharpness gone because now this wasn’t about management, it was about keeping her from imploding. Alysa pressed her face into Philip’s chest and felt how badly her whole body was trembling now that the rage had nowhere to go.

When she spoke, it came out in broken, desperate little fragments she probably would have been embarrassed by any other day. “I’m scared,” she mumbled into the fabric of his jacket, voice so small compared to how loud she had just been. “I just want her to be okay. I just—” The rest dissolved. Philip kept rubbing slow circles into her back like she was something frightened he was trying not to startle more.

“She’s getting help,” he said quietly. “She’s getting help now.” Alysa clung to the words because there was nothing else to cling to.

By then she was too tired to keep fighting anyone. Too wrung out from days of alertness, from the collapse, from the helplessness of those closed doors, from the hatred that had just ripped through her so violently it left her hollow. So when Philip and Massimo steered her gently away down the corridor, she went. Not because she wanted to leave the doors that separated her from you, but because there was no strength left in her to protest. Her steps felt strange, unsteady, like she was moving through water. She glanced back once, just once, at the double doors, and the sight of them still shut made something ache so sharply in her chest she had to look away again. Behind her, Elena and Martin were still there somewhere, still playing whatever role they thought might save them. Alysa couldn’t deal with that again right now. She let her coaches guide her toward the locker room, one on either side like they were escorting someone barely keeping it together, which, at that point, they were. The anger was still in her, yes, simmering hot and poisonous beneath everything else, but it was drowned for the moment by fear and by the awful emptiness of not knowing.

All she could do now was wait. And Alysa hated waiting almost as much as she hated them.

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the cure by olivia rodrigo is sooooo good. it had nothing to do with the making of this story but i love promoting my girl... stream if u want another update from me LOL

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tag list :P

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@mixxedup-once

[rubber-feathers]

Unraveling

Once again…. mentions of extreme dieting for the sake of competing, use of stimulants, mental abuse/manipulation. Basically just rlly toxic skating culture and reader’s coaches are ASSHOLESSSS

pt 3 to kiss it better then one more and im done yay!

Elena and Martin did not let Opening Ceremony go unpunished. Alysa understood that almost immediately, not because either of them said anything outright to her, but because she knew the grammar of people like that by now.

Control had been challenged in public, however politely. You had chosen something joyful over something they could monitor. Worse, you had chosen Alysa, openly, more than once, and Alysa had been too wrapped up in how good it felt to really grasp what that would cost you after. The shift in the days that followed was so sharp it might have been obvious to anyone looking closely, but the problem was Alysa only got you in pieces now, and the pieces kept arriving after the worst of the day had already happened.

Your coaches tightened everything. The hours at the rink stretched longer and longer until time itself seemed to belong to them. Breaks disappeared—water breaks especially. Alysa didn’t know that directly at first, but she saw the evidence in the way your lips had started looking dry by evening, in the way you reached for water too fast when no one was around, in the faint dizzy lag that sometimes hit you when you stood up after sitting too long. Food also got worse. That part Alysa felt before she fully understood it, because meals together—one of the few ways she had been quietly protecting you—started vanishing. The first time you brushed one off, it was easy enough to explain. Training ran late. You were tired. You’d already eaten, supposedly. The second and third time, it stopped feeling incidental. Alysa would text asking where you were and get back some soft little excuse: with coaches, going over programs, need to stay at the off-site rink longer, don’t wait up. When you did sit with her, your body carried the tension of someone who felt guilty for being there, and the meal itself turned into a fight so subtle it was barely one.

You’d insist you weren’t hungry. Alysa would slide something toward you anyway. You’d pick at it, or stare at it too long, or snap in that worn-thin way people do when they’re too depleted to hide it properly. It started to build something in you that looked from the outside like resentment, but Alysa, even when it hurt, knew that wasn’t really what it was. It wasn’t true resentment of her. It was exhaustion with nowhere safe to go, frustration so constant it had to land somewhere.

Your coaches were isolating you from the one person who kept trying to steady you, and the sick irony was that by the time you got to Alysa, part of you was too wrung out to receive help without feeling cornered by it.

So, they fed you a story while they were doing it. Alysa didn’t hear the whole narrative, but she pieced it together because she knew how manipulation worked and because she could feel its fingerprints all over the way you started reacting to her. They told you this was because they cared about your career. They were only pushing because the Olympics demanded it and Alysa, at the end of the day, was your competition before she was anything else, she was a girl standing in the way of your highest possible finish, of your gold medal, of the version of happiness they wanted to dangle in front of you like a prize. They made Alysa into the problem because it was convenient.

If Alysa kept you fed, rested, calmer, softer, more human, then they could frame that humanity as weakness. If Alysa got between you and their absolute control over your body and schedule, then she became interference.

Under normal conditions you would have rejected all of it. Alysa knew this about you, she knew you never really bought their attempts to pit you against other skaters, never internalized their ugliest messages the way they wanted. But this wasn’t normal you. Lack of sleep had hollowed you out and the hunger had made everything feel far away and effortful. Dehydration put that strange glaze over your eyes by nighttime sometimes, the one Alysa would notice and then try not to let her panic show. Thinking critically took energy, and your body had been starved of energy for days. So instead of arguing with their story, maybe you just stopped fighting it. Maybe part of you let it sit there because pushing back against anything at all had started to feel impossible. Alysa saw the consequence of that, even if she didn’t have every sentence they were putting in your head. You started choosing them over her more often, choosing them in ways that felt unlike you and yet still passed just enough as plausible that Alysa kept second-guessing how hard to push.

More practice sessions. More debriefs. More “I have to stay.” More canceled meals. More evenings where Alysa sat with her phone in her hand staring at a message from you that was sweet on its face and cold in the space it created.

And every time you bent back toward your coaches instead of toward her, they rewarded it. Alysa could see that too. There would be a slight easing in Elena’s voice when you complied, a small approving nod from Martin when you chose the rink over the lounge, a little less tension in the air around you when you acted as though they were your first obligation. They were training you with relief.

The worst part for Alysa was how little she could do in real time. That helplessness had sharp teeth.

During the day, you were almost never truly hers anymore. You were being moved around, worked, corrected, watched. If Alysa saw you at all, it was often from across a hallway or in some passing transition where your smile arrived for her a beat too late because you were already so tired. Once or twice she caught you in the athlete lounge after what had clearly been a brutal day, and those moments were almost worse because they showed her exactly how much damage had accumulated by the time you got to her. You’d fold into her arms the second you were close enough, not graceful about it, just spent. Alysa would be sitting there with her phone in hand and suddenly you were sinking against her chest, your whole body giving up the act because it finally could. She’d wrap both arms around you on instinct and feel how slack your muscles were with fatigue, how overheated or shivery you seemed depending on the day, how badly you needed something she could not provide in one quick stolen moment. Sometimes other skaters would tactfully look away. Sometimes Amber, from nearby, would go very still with concern and then deliberately start talking louder to someone else to give you both privacy without actually leaving. And Alysa would sit there holding you, furious and frightened and trying so hard to keep her voice gentle. “You need to stop letting them do this to you,” she’d murmur into your hair, or, “This isn’t training anymore, baby.” And then inevitably one of your coaches would see you there afterward, soft and collapsed and obviously soothed by Alysa, and the next day would be worse. Alysa figured that out quickly. Every time she managed to catch you when you were breaking, they punished the break. So she got trapped in this disgusting calculus of wanting to comfort you and knowing that visible comfort might cost you later, except of course she wasn’t going to stop comforting you. She couldn’t. She loved you too much to leave you shaking through it alone just because your coaches were cruel enough to escalate when they saw you need someone.

———

By six days after Opening Ceremony, the strain had already turned into arguments. Three of them. All of them variations on the same ache.

Alysa would finally get you alone at night—the only time she really saw you anymore in any meaningful way—and try to talk, really talk, because the evidence was piling up in front of her and she couldn’t keep pretending it was fine. You’d be sitting on the edge of the bed tugging your sweatshirt off with slow, tired hands, or leaning against the bathroom counter while wiping off makeup, or already curled under the blanket with your eyes half closed, and Alysa would start carefully. “You barely drank anything today.” Or, “Why did Martin have you on the scale again?” Or, “You’ve got new bruises all over your legs.” And sometimes you’d try to brush it off, but you were too exhausted now to keep your old neat defenses in place. So the conversation would fray almost immediately.

“Can we not do this?” you’d ask, voice thin with fatigue.

Alysa would kneel in front of you or sit beside you and keep going because she was scared and because stopping felt like abandoning you. “No, because you’re not okay.”

Then your face would crumple in that way she hated most, sudden and defenseless, and tears would come before either of you could redirect. These weren't theatrical tears, but the quiet result of complete overwhelm—the feeling of your body simply giving up. You’d sob like someone whose nervous system had simply run out of room to hold anything else, and the second that happened Alysa’s whole posture changed. The argument ended there every time. It had to. She’d gather you up immediately, pull you against her, one hand at the back of your head, the other firm around your shaking shoulders, and all the righteous anger would collapse into helpless tenderness.

“Hey, hey, okay,” she’d whisper, because what else was there to say when you were crying so hard you could barely catch breath? “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” She still wanted to fix it. God, she wanted to keep talking, wanted a plan, wanted a concrete next step, wanted to force the issue before it killed you by inches. But when you cried like that and then clung to her with the last of your strength, none of that felt possible without becoming another person demanding something from you. So instead she held you while you begged her softly to stop.

“Please just hold me,” you’d murmur between breaths, or, “Lysa, let it go, please, it’s okay, I’m okay.” The last part never sounded believable anymore. You said it like a prayer you were too tired to believe but still too trained not to repeat.

And every time, before Alysa could steer the conversation back toward action, sleep took you. It was frightening how fast it happened. One minute you’d still be sniffling into her shirt, words slurring with exhaustion, and the next your weight would settle more completely against her as your body simply shut down. Alysa would feel it happen and go still, that awful mix of relief and dread washing through her. Relief because at least you were resting and you weren't upset anymore. Dread because you were always this tired now, tired past the point of choice, tired in a way that made real conversation almost impossible. So she let you sleep. She knew how little you were getting. She knew your coaches had you jumping the second they called, that if you missed them you’d pay for it in practice with extra scrutiny or worse. She’d lie there in the dark with you half on top of her, one of her arms going numb under your weight, and stare at the ceiling while anger moved through her in waves too big to do anything with at that hour.

She saw the result of what they were doing mostly at night: the puffy eyes, the trembling hands, the way you’d fall asleep before finishing a sentence, the brittle edge in you that had nothing to do with not loving her and everything to do with being pushed beyond what a person could carry. The thing that looked like resentment when you pulled away from meals or snapped at her was not really resentment at all, and Alysa knew that in her bones even when it stung. Your coaches were isolating you so thoroughly that even Alysa’s attempts to help could start to feel like one more demand. She understood that, though understanding didn't help make the hurt any less sad. So night after night she took the smallest role available to her. She held you. She kissed your forehead when you were already asleep. She whispered things she wasn’t sure you could hear—You don’t deserve this. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll figure something out.—and then stayed awake long after you were gone to the world, listening to your breathing and hating how powerless love could feel when the person hurting you still had more hours of your day than she did.

She could hold you through the aftermath. She could kiss some of it better. She could make the nights gentler than the days. But she could not stop morning from coming, could not stop them from reaching for you again the second the sun was up. And lying there with your weight slack against her, Alysa would feel that helplessness like its own kind of bruise, because she knew she was watching something precious unravel and still had not figured out how to pull you fully back from it.

———

By February 15, the room itself felt tense before either of you even said a word. It was still early enough that the light outside had that thin gray quality of morning in a city that hadn’t fully woken yet, but your day had already started long before Alysa’s had. You were up, dressed in layers for practice, moving around the room with that quiet, mechanical efficiency Alysa had come to dread—the version of you that looked awake only because you had forced yourself there. Alysa was still in bed, half propped against the pillows, watching through sleepy eyes as you packed your bag.

She noticed things automatically now. She saw the way you checked the contents twice, like forgetting something would cost you more than it should. Saw the way your hands paused every now and then as if your brain had to catch up to them and the hollowness under your cheekbones in the low light. She’d gotten so used to tracking your condition that it felt involuntary, like her body started scanning for damage before her mind did. You had already been awake because your coaches wanted you up earlier, earlier than necessary, earlier than kind, and Alysa hated the idea of your day beginning in someone else’s grip before your feet even touched the floor.

She was about to sit up and ask whether you were going to eat first before training, whether you’d slept at all, when one of your alarms went off from the nightstand. You had started setting four of them, all fifteen minutes apart, because if you missed the first one and didn’t get moving quickly enough, there was always fallout. Alysa knew that much. So when the tone cut through the room, sharp and irritating in the dim quiet, she reached over on instinct to turn it off for you.

She wasn’t trying to snoop, she just grabbed your phone with one hand, thumb already moving to dismiss the alarm, and the screen lit fully in her palm. There, right on it, impossible to miss before it disappeared under anything else, was a message from one of your coaches.

We have extra caffeine pills if you ran out of them already.

Alysa stared at it for half a second too long, long enough for the words to lose shape and then snap back into meaning with enough force to make her stomach drop. Something in her went absolutely cold. Up until then, even with everything she had seen, everything she suspected, part of the horror had still lived inside the vague language of overtraining and strictness and cruelty that could be waved away by people invested in pretending this sport didn’t eat girls alive. But this wasn’t vague.

This wasn’t just emotional abuse, just body policing, just controlled meals and withheld water and exhaustion being reframed as discipline. This was direct, tangible, chemical. It was them deliberately keeping you upright with stimulants while your body was obviously failing under the weight of what they were doing to it. Alysa sat up so fast the sheets tangled around her legs.

“What?” The word came out small at first, disbelieving rather than angry. You looked up from your bag immediately. Your eyes flicked to the phone in her hand, and she watched the exact moment you understood what she must have seen. You didn’t even ask who messaged. You just sighed, shoulders dropping with that tired inevitability of someone who already knew the path this conversation would take and no longer had the energy to reroute it.

“Nothing, Alysa,” you said, too quickly, too flatly, turning back to zip your bag. “It’s absolutely nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

That was the worst possible thing to say. Alysa was out of the bed before either of you seemed fully prepared for how fast she moved, the phone still clutched in her hand, her bare feet hitting the floor hard enough to make a sound.

“Do you not see what they’re doing to you?” she demanded. Her voice cracked on the edge of the question because it was no longer even a question. It was panic mixing with fury. Helplessness wound so tight it sounded almost strangled. She shook the phone once, not at you exactly, but at the room, at the evidence, at the fact of it. “Caffeine pills? Are you serious? Are you hearing yourself? Are you looking at this and telling me it’s nothing?”

You didn’t answer right away. You kept moving, which somehow made it worse, slipping your extra skate guards into the side pocket of your bag like the conversation wasn’t detonating the room around you. But Alysa could see it in you too now, the way your jaw had set, the way your face had gone blank in that dangerous, overcontrolled way it did when you were trying to hold too much at once.

She stepped closer, voice breaking softer and then sharper again in the same breath. “Please,” she said, and now there was nothing dignified left in her tone at all, just desperation. “Please, if you can’t stand up for yourself, let me do it for you. I want to talk to them. I need to fix this. I need to set this right.” She meant it completely. She wasn’t posturing anymore, wasn’t just angry in theory. This was a line crossed, destroyed. She had spent weeks trying not to force your hand, trying not to become another person demanding something of you, trying to work around the damage without blowing up your life or your Olympic preparation or your trust in her. But pills? Stimulants because your body could no longer keep up with the damage? Alysa could not stand there and do nothing. Not now. Not when the harm had become this literal.

And that was when you snapped. Not all at once at first, but with the kind of brittle break that had clearly been building for weeks under pressure too relentless to survive intact. You straightened slowly and turned to face her, though not fully. Your eyes skated past her shoulder, down to the floor, anywhere but directly into her face, because if you looked at her too long maybe you’d lose the nerve to say it. Or maybe some part of you knew what you were about to say wasn’t entirely yours.

“I tried, okay?” The words came out clipped and sharp, already trembling with more emotion than anger alone. Alysa froze, the phone still in her hand. “I tried to make boundaries because you wanted me to, and look what happened.” Your voice rose on the last part, not loud enough to be a scream, but loud enough to fill the room with something raw and ugly and undeniable. “They got stricter. They got worse. Everything got worse because I listened to you.” Alysa opened her mouth, but you weren’t done, not even close. The whole thing cracked wide then, every ugly idea your coaches had been feeding you, every exhausted grievance that had nowhere to go, every fear you hadn’t been able to name because naming it would mean admitting how trapped you were. It all came at once, and because Alysa was the person closest to you, because she kept reaching and pushing and trying to pull you back toward something healthier, it all landed on her. “And you keep hovering,” you said, voice shaking harder now, your hands fumbling uselessly with the strap of your bag because you needed something to do with them. “You keep fighting them and getting involved and acting like you know what’s best, and you don’t have to deal with the fallout after. I do.” Alysa stood very still, trying not to flinch, because beneath the sting she also heard the truth buried under the distortion. You were talking about fear and punishment. About being the one left in the room with Elena and Martin after Alysa had walked away. But God, it hurt. “This is my career,” you kept going, and now the rant had momentum, carried along by sleep deprivation and hunger and the kind of fatigue that strips the filter off everything. “Not yours. You don’t get to keep barging in and making things harder for me because you think you’re helping. Every time you push, every time you step in, every time you make some scene or pull me away or act like they’re monsters, I’m the one who pays for it after. Not you. Me.” Your eyes still wouldn’t meet hers. That hurt too, almost more than the words themselves. “You keep saying you’re trying to protect me, but all you do is make everything worse. You get in the way and then I’m the one stuck with them when you’re gone. I’m the one who has to train. I’m the one who has to hear it and fix it afterward.” By then your breathing had gone shallow, your chest lifting too fast under your jacket. “So stop,” you said, and your voice finally cracked fully. “Just stop. Stop pushing. Stop making this bigger. Stop acting like you know how to save me because you don’t.”

Alysa tried, in those first few seconds, not to take any of it straight into the heart. She really did. She had been afraid of this exact moment for weeks, maybe longer—the point where their voices would get so far inside your head that when the pressure finally needed somewhere to go, it would come at her. And because she knew you, because she had seen the deterioration up close, because she understood how exhaustion could twist blame into the nearest available shape, she recognized almost immediately that this wasn’t really you in full. This was fear and isolation. This was their narrative coming out of your mouth because you were too depleted to keep rejecting it. But understanding that did not make it painless.

The sting still went through her anyway, quick and deep, because part of what you were accusing her of touched the exact place she’d already been guiltily prodding in herself. She had inserted herself in your life. She had not been able to stop wanting you, stop reaching for you, stop grabbing any scrap of closeness the second you offered it. She knew that it was causing them to be crueler. She also knew she couldn’t regret loving you like that, couldn’t regret being there when you fell into her arms, couldn’t regret feeding you, letting you sleep, pulling you toward joy. That shouldn’t have been a punishable offense. It shouldn’t have been something anyone could weaponize against you. But here it was in your voice anyway, thrown back at her with all the misery of the last two weeks behind it. Alysa stood there feeling suddenly useless in her own skin, like nothing she had done had reached you in time.

“Baby—” she started, but the word died the second she saw your expression. You were furious now only because fury took less energy than collapsing, and even that seemed unstable, like one wrong response from her would make you break apart right there. So Alysa swallowed the rest. She knew if she pushed again, you would either cry or leave. Maybe both.

You chose to leave anyway. You grabbed your bag with jerky, angry movements and headed for the door before Alysa had figured out what to say that wouldn’t make it worse. “I can’t do this right now,” you muttered, voice low and wrecked and final.

Alysa took one step after you on instinct. “Wait—” But you were already yanking the door open. You didn’t even turn back. The only sign that any part of you was hurting as badly as she was came in the way your shoulders hunched for half a second before you disappeared out into the hall. Then the door slammed, loud enough to shake the room into silence. Alysa just stood there, phone still in hand. Her heart pounding so hard it almost made her feel sick.

The quiet afterward was horrible. It felt like staring at the aftermath of something that had broken while you were still trying to convince yourself it might be fixable. Because that was what it was, really. For the first time she felt, not just feared, that she was actually losing you to them. They had gotten between your mind and your instincts. They had made her feel like danger to you. They had turned the person trying most desperately to protect you into one more thing you had to brace against.

Alysa stood there for another few seconds, breathing hard, her own hurt trying and failing to compete with the larger, colder fear underneath it. Then something in her locked into place. This was the last straw. She could survive you being angry at her. She could survive you blaming her if that blame had been fed to you by people hollowing you out from the inside. She could not survive standing back while you took stimulants to stay upright for them. That crossed a line too clear to ignore. Whatever happened next, she was not letting you get hurt because she was too afraid of upsetting you.

So she went looking for Philip and Massimo. She found them fast because the day was already in motion, people moving through hallways with credentials swinging and practice schedules in hand, and Alysa must have looked bad enough that both of them stopped what they were doing the second they saw her. Philip’s expression shifted first, all business beneath the concern.

“What happened?” he asked.

And Alysa, who had been holding herself together by force for the last ten minutes, finally let the full scope of it out. Not in some neat report but in a rush. She told them about your weight loss, how tired you were, how your coaches had been restricting food and water, how they kept you up, how bad things had gotten. Then she held up the phone like evidence and said, “They’re giving her caffeine pills. Or telling her to take them. She’s barely sleeping, she’s barely eating, and now this.” Her voice shook once on the last part and she hated that it did. “She won’t listen to me anymore. She thinks I’m making it worse.”

Philip went very still in the way he did when something crossed from upsetting to actionable. Massimo swore softly under his breath, face tightening with the same alarm Alysa had felt that morning.

Philip didn’t waste time. “Okay,” he said, calm in the deliberate way people get when panic would only slow them down. “Then we go to the chief medical officer. We raise a red flag that something’s wrong and they’ll do a medical check on her.”

Alysa nodded immediately because it was something. She wanted a clean rescue, but at least this was something concrete. A step. A way to get another adult with authority to look at you and maybe finally see what she had been seeing at night in the dark when you were too tired to hide it. For a second she almost sagged with relief just from hearing a plan said out loud. Then Philip put a hand on her shoulder.

“We’ll handle this part,” he said. “You need to get ready. Official practice starts soon.” Alysa wanted to protest, wanted to say no, wanted to tell him she couldn’t possibly go skate now with her insides scraped raw like this. But he was right, and that almost made it worse. The day was still moving whether her world had just tilted or not. She had to let them take over because there was nothing else she could do right this second without making a bigger mess.

So Alysa handed the problem off with the sick feeling of someone placing glass into another person’s hands and hoping it didn’t shatter further on impact. Then she went back to her room, or maybe straight toward the rink, already running on fumes of adrenaline and dread.

She felt hopeless in a way she had never allowed herself to before, because for all her anger and all her protectiveness and all the small acts of care she had forced into your days, she had still reached a point where begging you wasn’t enough. She had begged. She had literally stood there asking you to let her help, asking you to open your eyes, asking you to let her be the one to stand between you and the harm. And you had looked at her with all that fear and exhaustion and thrown their words back in her face because you were too worn down to do anything else. That image stayed with her as she moved through the rest of the morning: you not looking at her, your voice cracking, the door slamming behind you. Under all the shock and hurt, what remained strongest was still the same thing that had driven every fight between you—love sharpened into urgency. Alysa did not want to ruin anything for you. She didn’t want to cost you your Olympics, your trust, your sense of control, whatever was left of it. But she wanted even less to stand by and let your body break under their hands. If stepping in now meant you would hate her for a while, then maybe that was the price. She could live with your anger. She could not live with your collapse. And with that awful compromise lodged in her chest, she kept moving toward the rink because there was no other choice, carrying the knowledge that even while she was lacing up her skates, somewhere else in the building wheels had finally been set in motion to force someone to look at you before it was too late.

———

They were too late, and Alysa knew it before anyone said the words out loud. Not in some clairvoyant way, but in the sick, instinctive way she had come to know your body almost better than her own these last few weeks. She got to the rink on time, did everything she was supposed to do, let her own routine carry her forward even while her mind kept trying to run back to the room you’d stormed out of.

Official practice was already underway, the arena loud in that strange half-energized, half-clinical way practice sessions always were at something as big as the Olympics—music clips starting and stopping, blades scratching over fresh ice, coaches clustered at the boards. Philip and Massimo had already spoken to medical staff, but whatever urgency Alysa had felt in her own body clearly had not translated with enough force on the other side.

You had been flagged, yes, they told them that much. They’d check after your run-through, since you were already on the ice.

After.

Alysa had heard that word and felt something in her chest sink. After was too late when a person was being held together by fumes and caffeine and stubbornness. After was what people said when they still thought there was a comfortable margin left before anything went really wrong. Alysa wanted to argue, wanted to grab somebody by the shoulders and make them feel what she was feeling, but practice didn’t stop because one person was scared. So she moved with Philip and Massimo toward the arena and stood by the boards, arms folded tight over herself, trying to act like she was simply another skater watching the session while her heart kicked much too hard against her ribs.

She found you immediately. Of course she did. You were impossible not to find now, her eyes always going to you first before they settled anywhere else. You were with Elena and Martin near the far side, your jacket zipped up, posture too neat, too held together. Alysa saw the med team approach Martin a minute later and pull him slightly aside, speaking low enough that the content was lost beneath the general arena noise. Martin’s head turned almost instantly toward Alysa and her coaches, his expression flattening in a way that made it obvious he knew exactly where this had come from.

Philip, beside Alysa, watched him and murmured, “He definitely knows it was us.”

Massimo let out a short, contemptuous breath. “Good,” he said. “Who cares if he knows.” Alysa didn’t answer either of them. She just kept staring, her face gone still.

There was no satisfaction in being right anymore, no relief in seeing someone else finally paying attention. Only the awful sense that all of this was moving slower than it needed to. That even with medical staff now aware, you were still out there. Still expected to skate. Still under Elena’s hand and Martin’s eye. The air in the rink suddenly felt too dry, too cold, too bright.

Elena leaned in and said something. Alysa couldn’t hear it from where she stood, but she didn’t need to. She saw the effect of it in your body immediately. You got smaller in that familiar way you had around her—shoulders drawing in by a fraction, chin dipping, every line of you suddenly more contained. You nodded once to whatever Elena was saying, obedient and exhausted all at once. Then you peeled off your zip-up, hands slower than they should have been, and the announcer’s voice cut through the arena to call your name, signaling your turn.

Alysa’s stomach twisted. She watched you skate out to center ice and take your opening position, music already beginning to rise around you, and for one fleeting moment you looked almost like yourself again once the movement started. The first elements were clean. The blade beneath you sure. There were flashes of your old sharpness, enough that someone who didn’t know better might think the fear was overblown, that maybe this was just another hard day and not a body approaching its limit. Alysa didn’t, or rather couldn’t, relax. The bad feeling had already settled in her too deeply by then, sitting just under her breastbone like a stone. She followed every move with a kind of hyperawareness that made her feel slightly detached from her own skin. Then came the programmed glide toward the boards, and because that part of the choreography brought you along her side of the rink, your eyes found hers for the briefest second.

It was only a second, barely anything at all, but it cracked something open in Alysa. There you were, gliding past the boards as the choreography carried you down her side of the rink, and for one breath of a second your eyes met Alysa’s. It should have been nothing more than that—just a glance, a familiar point of comfort, the kind of tiny grounding moment two people in love steal from each other without thinking. But Alysa knew you too well not to feel the difference immediately. Usually, when you looked at her during a program, even for the briefest second, something in your face softened. Not enough to break performance, but enough that she could see you register her, could feel that flicker of mutual recognition pass cleanly between you. This time it didn’t feel clean. Your face stayed composed in the careful, overtrained way it always did when you were trying to hold yourself together, but your gaze looked thin somehow, stretched and delayed, like there was a fraction of a second between your body arriving there and your mind actually catching up to it. It was as if you saw Alysa and did not know what to do with seeing her. And Alysa, standing there with her hands curled over the boards, only had time to register that something was wrong before you were already gliding past her, the moment gone almost before it formed.

Then you drifted nearer to Elena’s side of the rink, and Elena—who had absolutely seen that glance, seen whatever softness or instinct had pulled you toward Alysa for even that split second—cut through the music with one cold word. “Focus.” She said it sharply, not loud enough to draw attention from most of the arena, but with that specific clipped precision Alysa had come to hate, the kind meant to land deep because it was aimed at a wound somebody else couldn’t see. Alysa didn’t know exactly what the word did inside your head. She couldn’t hear the whole rotten narrative your coaches had been building in there for weeks, couldn’t know how Elena had spent days trying to recast Alysa in your mind as a threat instead of a refuge, as competition instead of comfort. Alysa didn’t know that by saying “focus,” Elena wasn’t really talking about the program at all. She was reminding you, in the cruelest possible shorthand, of everything she wanted you to believe: that Alysa was the distraction, Alysa was the enemy, Alysa was standing in the way of your success, Alysa was why you were suffering now. And because you were so exhausted, so underfed, so dehydrated and overspun by then, there was no sturdy wall left in you to keep those ideas out. So the second Elena’s voice hit, it threw you into that awful clash of instinct and conditioning. One part of you had just looked at the girl you loved, the person your body still reached for automatically no matter how badly others tried to twist that impulse. Another part had been trained, over and over, to hear her name like a warning. To associate her with consequences. With punishment waiting later. With guilt. With the possibility of being weak, distracted, not enough.

Alysa didn’t know any of that as it happened. All she saw was the physical result. The word hit you and your body answered before your face really did. You faltered—not dramatically, not enough for anyone who didn’t love you to panic, just the slightest visible disruption, a tiny stagger in your edge, a near-miss in the smoothness of your glide. Most people would have called it nothing. A normal wobble. The kind of inconsistency every skater has at some point in a run-through. But Alysa saw the way it traveled through you. Saw how the disruption wasn’t just in your blade for that instant, but in your whole presence afterward. Something in you had split open. From that point on, the program changed in a way she could feel more than explain. You kept moving, kept hitting the structure of the routine, but there was a lag to you now, a strange secondhand quality, like your body was still dutifully performing the sequence while your mind was trapped half a step behind trying to sort through too many conflicting commands. The softness of that glance at Alysa had not fully faded before Elena’s voice came down on top of it, and suddenly you were trying to skate through both at once—through love and fear, through instinct and conditioning, through the brief comfort of seeing Alysa and the immediate punishment of being reminded what your coaches wanted her to mean. Alysa knew that the second Elena spoke, your skating stopped looking inhabited. The shell of the program remained, but you were harder to find inside it. And that, more than the small stagger itself, was what made cold panic spread through her so quickly. Because Alysa knew the difference between you making a mistake and you disappearing from yourself in real time.

From that point on the program changed. You were a half-second behind the music in places. Your movements had that awful, lagging quality of someone trying to push through a fog their body no longer had the strength to hide. You finished the routine in the center and stopped there, chest rising, arms lowering. Alysa could already see it: the shell of you continuing because it had been told to continue, while the rest of you was somewhere farther away, slipping.

Elena called for you immediately, voice clipped and impatient, motioning you back toward the boards. Alysa waited for you to respond the way you always did. You didn’t. You just stood there for one extra second. Then another. Elena called again. Nothing. And that was when Alysa’s gut truly dropped out from under her.

The feeling was so sudden and physical it nearly stole her breath. Her chest tightened with such force it hurt, as if her body had already registered the fall before her mind caught up. She was moving before she consciously decided to move, already heading toward the rink entrance with her guards still on, the blood rushing loud in her ears. Somewhere behind her Philip said her name, maybe sharp, maybe trying to stop her, but it didn’t matter. Elena called out again, harsher this time, and Alysa had just reached the opening when your body folded. There was no graceful catching yourself, no stumble recovered at the last second. You pitched forward and hit the ice hard enough that the sound of it seemed to slice through everything—the music, the chatter, the scrape of other blades. Alysa felt it in her own body like a blow. A brutal, immediate pain flared through her chest, not literal injury but the kind of fear that hurts so sharply it mimics one. Her voice broke before she was even fully on the ice. She took off her guards so fast one of them was flown away toward the boards and then she was running, blades biting in quick desperate strokes, getting to you in seconds that still felt impossibly slow. By the time she dropped to her knees beside you, you hadn’t moved. Not at all. You were facedown and still, and for one hideous instant the whole arena seemed to tilt around Alysa. Other skaters were coming in too, concern drawing them toward the center before officials began waving them back, but Alysa barely registered anyone else. Her hands shook as she reached for your shoulder, careful and terrified at once, rubbing gently because she couldn’t bear not to touch you. “Hey,” she said, and her voice was nothing like her own, thinned out by panic. “Hey, baby.” No response. Her throat closed around the next breath and then she was louder, lifting her head toward the approaching medics. “Help! Please—”

They were already coming, fast now, crossing the ice with equipment in hand, and a few officials were ushering the other skaters away to clear space. Somebody told Alysa to move back. She didn’t. Or maybe she physically couldn’t. She stayed right there by your side, knees freezing through her tights against the ice, one hand still on your shoulder as if keeping contact alone might anchor you. Then, after another agonizing 4 seconds that felt much longer than that, you stirred. It was slight at first. A blink. A breath dragged in unevenly. Your head shifted. Relief hit Alysa so hard it almost made her dizzy, but it wasn’t clean relief, because you looked so confused when your eyes finally opened, blinking slowly up into all that bright arena light. “Hey, hey,” Alysa said immediately, leaning closer so you’d find her first before anything else. “You’re okay. Don’t move.” Her voice was shaking badly now and she knew it, couldn’t stop it. Your gaze found her but didn’t quite settle. It drifted, unfocused, then came back. Medics were beside you, one kneeling near your head, another already talking in the brisk calm voices medical people use when they’re trying not to pour urgency into a situation that absolutely has urgency in it. They asked Alysa to give them room and this time she shifted only enough to let them in, never fully leaving your side. One of them checked your airway and breathing first, speaking softly to you while another assessed where you’d hit and whether there was any obvious neck or spinal concern from the fall. They stabilized your head, hands firm and practiced, and started asking you simple orientation questions while watching your eyes carefully. “Can you tell me your name?” one asked. “Do you know where you are?” Another medic shone a light briefly into your pupils, watching the reaction, fingers at your wrist a moment later to check pulse. Someone else was already unzipping equipment, preparing more formal vitals. You tried to push up almost immediately, instinct stronger than sense, but the medic at your shoulder pressed you back down gently and firmly. “Stay with us,” he said. “Don’t sit up yet.”

And you, in the middle of all that, still went straight to apology. Your voice came out rough and dazed and so heartbreakingly automatic Alysa wanted to cry from the cruelty of it. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled, barely louder than the scrape of the medics’ gear against the ice. “I just slipped. Please let me do it again.”

No one answered that directly at first because they were trying to assess you, trying to get your attention to stay on them. “What year is it?” one medic asked. “Can you tell me what event this is?”

But you kept trying to return to the only thing your mind seemed to think mattered. “I can do it again,” you insisted weakly, not fighting them exactly but not really hearing them either. “Please, I can finish. I’m fine.” Alysa felt another stab of pain go through her, fierce enough to make her chest seize. Even like this, even half-conscious and confused, you were still trying to earn your way back onto the ice.

She moved one of her hands to yours then, your fingers freezing cold in her grip, and held on tightly. “Baby,” she said, voice low and unsteady, trying to draw your focus back to her. “You already finished. You did it. You were amazing.” Your eyes flickered toward her again. “Just rest right now, okay? Just rest.”

Something in the sound of her seemed to reach you where the other voices couldn’t. You looked at her, really looked this time, and the frantic edge in you softened by a fraction, quieted enough that you stopped trying to rise. Alysa kept holding your hand between both of hers, rubbing warmth into it uselessly, like maybe if she held you tightly enough she could stop all of this from getting worse.

Once the medics were satisfied enough to move you, everything sped up and slowed down at the same time. A carrier came out onto the ice, the sight of it making Alysa’s throat tighten all over again because it made the whole thing feel unmistakably real in a way even the fall hadn’t yet. The medical team coordinated calmly, talking through each step, maintaining stabilization as they prepared to transfer you. They fitted a cervical collar as a precaution because of how you’d fallen forward and because you’d lost consciousness, then log-rolled you carefully onto a backboard before lifting you onto the stretcher, each movement controlled and deliberate. You looked so small under all of it. Too pale. Too still between moments of groggy blinking. Alysa hovered as close as they would let her, answering what little she could when they asked about how long you’d been overtraining, whether there had been dizziness before, what she knew about your intake. Her answers came out clipped and shaky because her whole focus kept breaking apart every time your face pinched faintly with discomfort.

When they finally started moving you off the ice, wheels rattling once they hit the rubber mats beyond the boards, Alysa went with them without hesitation. Of course she did. No one was keeping her back now, and even if they had tried she didn’t think she could have stopped. She followed close enough to reach for your hand again the second there was room, her own pulse still hammering uncontrollably, that bad feeling in her gut now transformed into something even heavier and more terrible: the confirmation that her fear had been right, and that being right had not protected you in time.

The walk off the ice felt wrong in a way Alysa would remember later not as a sequence of images, but as one long, distorted sensation. The corridor behind the rink was bright and clinical and moving too fast around her, people stepping aside, doors opening ahead, medics speaking in calm, efficient voices that only made the panic in her chest feel louder by comparison. You were on the stretcher, pale beneath the fluorescent lights, strapped down more securely now and the brace at your neck making you look even smaller than you already had on the ice. Every few seconds she squeezed your hand gently just to remind you she was there, that you weren’t alone in this, that even if your eyes kept drifting half shut and your responses were slow and delayed, there was still something solid beside you. You gave almost nothing back except small things Alysa had learned to read anyway—the faintest twitch of your fingers, the slow blink when she said your name, the way your eyes found her and stayed there for one extra beat before sliding elsewhere again because even that seemed to cost too much energy right now. Alysa kept talking in a low, shaky stream she barely registered afterward, little scraps of reassurance spilling out because silence would have been unbearable.

“You’re okay,” she kept saying, though her voice betrayed how badly she needed it to be true. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. You’re okay.” She was so focused on you, on the frightening stillness of your body and the fragile evidence that you were awake, that she barely processed anything else. Not the footsteps behind. Not the fact that Elena and Martin were following too. Not Philip and Massimo moving off to the side with tense faces and clipped questions to whatever official had met them in the hall. Alysa’s whole world had narrowed to the hand in hers and the impossible fact that only minutes ago you had been skating and now you were here.

They reached a set of double doors with frosted glass panels, the kind that marked a threshold from public crisis into private medical reality, and that was where everything stopped. An official stepped in front of the stretcher and told the medics to continue inside, then turned to the cluster of people trailing behind and held up a hand. “Only medical personnel past this point.” Alysa blinked at him, not understanding for a second because understanding would mean letting go.

“No,” she said immediately, voice cracking on the word. “I’m coming with her.” The man’s expression softened in that rehearsed way people’s faces do when they’re used to delivering bad news kindly but firmly.

“You can’t. Not right now.” He looked past her then, toward Elena and Martin. “Same for you.”

Only then did Alysa fully register that your coaches were there at all, just several feet away, all hard edges and watchful eyes, suddenly reduced to the same powerless position as everyone else by the closed doors ahead. But Alysa barely had room in her for them yet. She turned back to you instead, leaning down quickly before the stretcher rolled any farther. Your hand was still in hers, limp and cold, and she pressed a kiss to your knuckles because she didn’t trust herself to do more without falling apart. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” she whispered, trying to smile and failing somewhere in the middle of it. You looked at her with those dazed, exhausted eyes and blinked once, slow and heavy. It was the smallest thing, but Alysa understood it for what it was—your version of okay, or as close to it as you could manage right now. Then the medics guided the stretcher through the doors and they swung shut between you. Alysa stood there staring at them as if the force of her wanting could make them reopen.

For a few seconds she didn’t move at all. She just stood in the middle of that hallway with the imprint of your hand still in hers and an immense, unbearable weight settling in her chest. It was too much feeling at once, too many things trying to occupy the same space in her body. Love so fierce it hurt. Fear so sharp it had made her hands shake. Desperation, because the doors were closed now and you were behind them and she could no longer see for herself whether you were all right. Her whole body felt wrong, wound too tight and suddenly abandoned by action. On the ice there had at least been things to do—run, kneel, hold, speak, follow. Here there was just waiting, and Alysa had never been good at waiting when it came to you. She could feel her pulse in her throat, in her temples, in the tight corners of her jaw. Her breathing came a little too fast, each inhale catching against something sore and brittle in her chest.

She might have stayed suspended in that terrible, helpless stillness a while longer if not for the voices off to the side. At first they were just another blur of sound in the corridor, low enough to disappear beneath the general bustle of medical staff moving in and out. Then one phrase cut cleanly enough through the noise that Alysa turned her head without meaning to. Elena and Martin had cornered another medical officer near the wall, not close enough to seem aggressive, just close enough to make sure their version got spoken early. And what they were saying—Alysa only caught pieces at first, but the pieces were enough.

“We told her to rest…” Elena was saying, her voice pitched into something practiced and concerned.

“She gets anxious before big events, and sometimes she overdoes it on her own. She’s been taking some caffeine pills because she gets nervous and wants extra energy…” Martin added something lower, calmer, more insidious because of how reasonable he sounded. “…appetite’s been off too, likely nerves. This first official practice is a lot, but she was fine before. There really hasn’t been an issue.”

Alysa went so still it felt unnatural. Then all at once she felt cold from head to toe. Not the normal cold of a rink hallway, not the stale chill of air conditioning against damp skin. Something deeper and sharper than that, like ice had been dropped straight into her bloodstream. Her fists closed so hard her nails bit into her palms. She could feel the skin there protesting and didn’t care. Her lip twitched once. Then her eye. It wasn’t dramatic from the outside, probably—just tiny movements in a face gone frighteningly blank—but inside her, something was building so fast and violently it was almost hard to track. Because Alysa knew what they had been doing to you. She knew it in the accumulation of bruises and the exhaustion you wore at night and the meals you stopped coming to and the way your body had felt too light in her arms for weeks now. She knew it in that text message still burned into her vision. She knew it in the scale, the water restrictions, the relentless practice, the lies they’d fed you until your own voice started echoing theirs back at her. And now, standing not twenty feet from the doors you had just disappeared through on a stretcher, they were lying. Not just lying to save themselves, but shifting it onto you. Making you sound careless, unstable, self-destructive by choice. Playing the part of concerned adults trying to manage a nervous athlete who had gone rogue with stimulants and stress.

Alysa hated them so suddenly and completely it felt almost animal. She was not a person who lived in anger. She had fought too hard to stop giving ugly people power over her mood, over her body, over her peace. She had learned how to laugh things off, how to shrug, how to stay light. Most of the time anger slid off her before it could root. But this wasn’t irritation. It wasn’t even normal fury. It was hatred with sharp teeth. It rose through her so fast it made her vision pulse at the edges. For one raw second she genuinely thought she could kill them.

She turned toward them slowly, but only because the force of what she felt had to gather itself somewhere before it could move. Elena was still talking, still wearing that awful polished expression—the controlled frown, the hand lightly touching her own wrist as if she were burdened by concern. Martin stood beside her in his usual measured way, solemn and careful and every bit as false. If you didn’t know them, if you hadn’t seen what they did to you when no one else mattered, they might even have looked convincing. That was what made it worse. They were playing victim now, or close enough to it. They were the responsible coaches. The people caught in a difficult situation because their athlete had, tragically, pushed herself too hard.

Alysa’s body moved before her coaches could fully stop it. One second she was standing there rigid with rage and the next she was launching forward, all that cold fury tipping into motion so abruptly it startled even her. Philip was on her almost instantly, clearly having read the shift in her posture a beat before anyone else did. His hands caught her shoulders hard enough to jolt her back. “Hey, hey—” he was saying, voice low and urgent, trying to anchor her. “It’s okay, she’s going to be okay.” But Alysa didn’t hear him. Or maybe she heard the shape of the words and they simply couldn’t compete with the blood rushing in her ears. She jerked against his hold anyway, trying to get at them, and that was when Massimo came in too, grabbing at her forearms, helping keep her from actually making contact. Elena had gone wide-eyed now, Martin stepping half in front of her with that same infuriatingly calm expression as though he were the aggrieved party here. That almost made Alysa lose it worse.

“This is your fault!” she screamed. The sound ripped out of her throat so hard it hurt. She was not elegant when she was this angry. Not controlled. Her voice shook and broke and still she kept going, straining forward against Philip and Massimo as they held her back. “You did this to her! You pushed her, you kept pushing her, you made her do all this and now she’s hurt and it’s your fault!” The words were loud enough to turn heads all down the corridor. Alysa didn’t care. If anything, some vicious part of her wanted people to hear. Wanted the nice, professional little story Elena and Martin were spinning to be shattered publicly. “How dare you lie?” she shouted, her face hot now, tears stinging unexpectedly at the backs of her eyes from the force of everything in her. “How dare you stand here and act like she did this to herself? You know exactly what you’ve been doing to her!” Elena opened her mouth—whether to deny it, deflect it, or tell Alysa she was being inappropriate, Alysa never found out, because the second she saw Elena trying to form another lie she surged forward again with enough force that Philip had to actually haul her back against him.

“Don’t,” he warned, breathless himself now from the effort of holding her, but Alysa was beyond hearing warnings. Her whole body had become one line of desperate, shaking fury aimed at the two people standing there pretending innocence while you were behind those doors being examined for damage they had caused.

“She collapsed!” Alysa yelled, voice gone ragged. “She collapsed because of you! Because you wouldn’t leave her alone, because you kept starving her and pushing her and drugging her so she could stay on her feet for you—”

“Alysa,” Massimo cut in sharply, not because he disagreed but because she was close to ripping herself apart trying to get through them. “Enough. Come on.”

“No!” she snapped, twisting again, but the word came out thinner than before, already fraying under the strain. Philip’s hold on her shifted from restraint into something more protective as the fight started bleeding out of her all at once.

That was the thing about anger that big—it burned brutally, but it didn’t hold forever, not when the person carrying it was already exhausted, terrified, and running on nothing but adrenaline. The second the immediate chance to get at them was truly gone, the whole force of it folded in on itself and left Alysa shaking. Her breaths turned uneven. The scream in her chest changed shape. She gave one last, useless jerk against Philip’s grip and then just… gave up. Her knees didn’t fully buckle, but the tension holding her upright did. She sagged back into Philip’s chest like her strings had been cut, one hand fisting in the front of his jacket because she needed something to hold and because if she didn’t grip something she thought she might fall apart right there on the floor. Philip’s hands moved immediately, one flattening between her shoulder blades, the other firm at the back of her head for a second in that grounding, almost parental way he had when she was too far gone to steady herself.

“Shh,” he murmured, softer now, his mouth near her hair. “It’s okay. Come on. Breathe.” Massimo was there too, one hand rubbing down her arm, the other briefly touching her shoulder, all his earlier sharpness gone because now this wasn’t about management, it was about keeping her from imploding. Alysa pressed her face into Philip’s chest and felt how badly her whole body was trembling now that the rage had nowhere to go.

When she spoke, it came out in broken, desperate little fragments she probably would have been embarrassed by any other day. “I’m scared,” she mumbled into the fabric of his jacket, voice so small compared to how loud she had just been. “I just want her to be okay. I just—” The rest dissolved. Philip kept rubbing slow circles into her back like she was something frightened he was trying not to startle more.

“She’s getting help,” he said quietly. “She’s getting help now.” Alysa clung to the words because there was nothing else to cling to.

By then she was too tired to keep fighting anyone. Too wrung out from days of alertness, from the collapse, from the helplessness of those closed doors, from the hatred that had just ripped through her so violently it left her hollow. So when Philip and Massimo steered her gently away down the corridor, she went. Not because she wanted to leave the doors that separated her from you, but because there was no strength left in her to protest. Her steps felt strange, unsteady, like she was moving through water. She glanced back once, just once, at the double doors, and the sight of them still shut made something ache so sharply in her chest she had to look away again. Behind her, Elena and Martin were still there somewhere, still playing whatever role they thought might save them. Alysa couldn’t deal with that again right now. She let her coaches guide her toward the locker room, one on either side like they were escorting someone barely keeping it together, which, at that point, they were. The anger was still in her, yes, simmering hot and poisonous beneath everything else, but it was drowned for the moment by fear and by the awful emptiness of not knowing.

All she could do now was wait. And Alysa hated waiting almost as much as she hated them.

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the cure by olivia rodrigo is sooooo good. it had nothing to do with the making of this story but i love promoting my girl... stream if u want another update from me LOL

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tag list :P

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@eternalcitadeltotem @lyzsaphrodite @mrtwizz

@petrolprettyplease @gaytrashgoblin

@graceeeeeesblog @slippinthrumyfingers @aka-persephone @moltenessencepuppet @sani-sunny @mochi-nugs @yournextdooralien

@bobthegoldfishhere @raiex @internetgurll

@urwavvy @falleo4d @exclusivitymajor

@fruitgirl329 @wintrjen @givewandahugspls

@mannslvr @gimbapab @kozukenapplepi

@blueslashephaim @ririhatesmen @jenxninja

@mixxedup-once

[btskitten7]

Is It Too Late? | Two

ꔫ ship: Idol!Jimin x ex Idol!reader

ꔫ au/genre: slow burn, Pregnancy Angst, redemption

ꔫ rating: M (this fic may explore some darker themes please read at your own discretion. Take care of yourself.)

ꔫ wc: 2.8k

ꔫ warnings: obsessive nature, obsessive nature, SMUT, fighting, Jimin is actually losing his mind, CHEATING (Jimin cheats but he REALLY regrets it :( ) , forgiveness is not going to come easy. JIMIN REALLY IS DOWN BAD FOR YOU. Failed pregnancy attempts mentioned. Taehyung isn't playing any games here and Silent Grace Yoongi and Hobi mentioned! (sorry I miss them)

ꔫ synopsis: You were supposed to surprise your husband with the news that you were finally pregnant after MONTHS of trying and failed attempts. It's supposed to be the happiest day of your lives...

Instead, you surprised him cheating.

Now Park Jimin is the man who ruined the happiest moment of your life—and the same man begging for a chance to prove he still deserves you.

But forgiveness isn’t simple when love and betrayal share the same breath.

Especially when you’re carrying his child.

ꔫ tagss: @shadowyjellyfishfest @baechugff @maunosorioh @shelylamc @princess-sunshyn @scuzmunkie @wanceu @coldcoffee2121 @maunosorioh @massivelyfullenthusiast @kit9doctordreamer dividers (hearts) from @cursed-carmine @whoa-jo @ownthesunshine @crvame @eogiyeongcha 💞

Seeing the man you were hopelessly in love with have intercourse with another woman in your bed while you were carrying your miracle child broke you in ways that you just couldn’t explain. You couldn’t wrap your head around it. 

You almost gaslit yourself into thinking this was a sick dream or something. 

But the way Jimin was texting and calling your phone told you that this?

It wasn't a dream. 

The way you were crying it was honestly a miracle that you made it to your friend’s house in one piece. 

Every text message that flew in was just another stab to the heart. 

“Baby, I promise you. She meant- no she means nothing to me. You mean everything to mean. Pretty, please believe me…” one text read. You hardly got done reading that one before another one came in. 

“I can see you reading them, please say something. Something other than you leaving me…please.” 

You scoffed as warm tears rolled down your face, shaking your head, you typed back. 

“It meant nothing? Is that supposed to make everything okay? Jimin, you slept with another woman in our bed…in our home…after everything we’ve been through. I’ve never looked at another man that wasn’t you let alone sleep with one. Not even because you get too jealous, purely from my love for you. I could never do what you did to me…I’m done. We’re done. Do not come here” 

You had so many misspelled words and broken sentences from crying so much, you doubt Jimin could understand you. 

Jimin’s phone nearly shattered from his grip as he read your text. His entire body went rigid before his hands started shaking and panic started settling in. He tried breathing, he tried counting down from ten or up to five-whatever the hell it went before texting you back. 

“Yn do not speak nonsense to me. Please. I cannot live without you and you know that. We can’t throw away our marriage over a mistake. You can’t decide that after this. You are MY wife and that is MY baby inside of you”

He was sprinting to his car, bypassing all of the staff that worked in his complex. He even ignored Hoseok and Yoongi as they were coming back from the studio. 

“What's his deal?” Yoongi said, looking behind as Jimin bolted through the doors.

“Well he did say that Yn gets crazy when it comes to her favorite ice cream, maybe he ate it all.” Hoseok shrugged before continuing walking. Yoongi chuckled. 

“My blossom is like that too. Especially now since she’s expecting our baby girl.” 

Hoseok chuckled, 

“Two kids under two is pretty insane, Hyung.” 

“Well I can’t stay off her long enough, it’ll be three sooner or later.” 

The banter was light but the burden in Jimin’s chest was heavy. 

This was more than ice cream. 

It was his baby and marriage on the line. 

Jimin was already in the car, the engine roaring to life as he peeled out of the parking garage. He didn’t want for the car to warm up, he didn’t even wait for his seatbelt to click, he was already down the busy streets of Seoul. He fucked up and he knew that. 

But the thought of you actually leaving him?

He wasn’t going to accept that. 

“I’m already on my way. If you think I’m letting you walk away from me, from us, from the life we’ve built for our baby that’s growing inside of you, you are mistaken. I know I made a mistake, but you don’t get to take my child and disappear. We took vows, pretty. For better or worse. Forever.” 

Jimin threw his phone to the passenger seat as he nibbled on his lip nervously. His hands, gripping the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles were turning white from the pressure. The hypocrisy of his words weren’t lost on him, he knew that if a man  had even walked past you a little too close, he would’ve lost his mind. 

But this wasn’t about that. 

This was about realizing that he is so close to losing something that was a constant in his life, an anchor for him and his hidden emotions, something that actually mattered to him. More than life itself.

You didn’t even walk into your friend’s house, she was already walking out, wrapping her robe tighter against the cool night’s air. Her husband happened to see you in the driveway when he had gotten home for work. You were so caught in your emotions that you hadn’t noticed him pull into the driveway and head inside. 

“Yn? Honey? What are you doing out here? It’s so-what’s wrong?” 

She immediately signaled for you to unlock the car door so she could sit with you. 

You couldn’t even bring yourself to tell her at first. 

You were so against telling your friends and family about any argument that you and Jimin had. You knew you and Jimin would fix the problem before they could even form their opinions about whatever little argument that you had. Jimin did the same. He never told his family or friends about arguments that you had either, but this was something you couldn’t keep to yourself. 

It’s not healthy in your current condition and Jimin was the next person in line to speak to,

And that wasn’t something you were ready to do. 

Your friend’s face softened instantly as she slipped into the passenger seat beside you, the scent of her lavender body wash filling the cold silence. She reached for your hand immediately, her thumb brushing against your trembling fingers.

“Talk to me sweet girl. Tell me what’s wrong..”

Your lips parted but nothing came out.

How could you even begin to explain this?

Just hours ago you were in this exact driveway laughing with her, holding back tears of happiness while showing her the positive test hidden in your purse. She had hugged you so tightly you thought your ribs would crack.

Now you could barely breathe.

Your chest tightened violently as another sob climbed its way up your throat. You turned your face away quickly, embarrassed by how broken you sounded.

“Hey, hey…” she whispered gently. “Look at me.”

You shook your head immediately.

“I can’t,” you choked out.

Fear began creeping into her expression now, replacing confusion.

“Is it the baby?” she asked quickly, eyes darting down toward your stomach. “Did something happen?”

The question shattered something inside of you.

Just another reminder of how much it took to get here. 

And just how much this hurts. 

Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks as you covered your mouth, your shoulders shaking violently.

“No—the baby’s okay,” you cried softly. “The baby’s okay…”

Relief flashed across her face briefly before concern took over all over again.

“Then what happened?” she asked carefully.

You stared down at your lap.

At your shaking hands.

At the wedding ring that suddenly felt heavier than it ever had before.

Your voice came out barely above a whisper.

“I was going to tell him tonight.”

Her brows furrowed in confusion.

“What?”

“I…” Your breath hitched painfully. “I had everything set up.”

The tiny socks flashed in your mind instantly.

The white box.

Jimin’s smile you had imagined all day long.

Your stomach twisted so hard you thought you might be sick.

“He came home from Japan and I wanted to surprise him,” you whispered, tears falling faster now. “I thought maybe he didn’t see the box downstairs so I went looking for him and…”

Your voice broke completely.

Your friend went still beside you.

And suddenly she knew.

You saw it happen on her face in real time.

The realization.

The horror.

“No…” she whispered quietly.

A sob escaped you before you could stop it.

“He was with another woman.”

The words finally left your mouth and the second they did, the entire world felt different.

Real.

Humiliatingly real.

Your friend inhaled sharply beside you, one hand immediately flying to her mouth.

“What?” she breathed out in disbelief.

You laughed bitterly through your tears, the sound completely broken.

“She was in our bed,” you whispered. “She was sitting on him and I just—”

Your voice collapsed again.

“Oh my God.”

Your friend looked genuinely sick now.

Not just angry.

Heartbroken for you.

“Yn…” she whispered softly.

“I don’t understand,” you cried. “I don’t understand why he would do this to me.”

Your breathing became uneven again as the images replayed mercilessly in your mind.

Jimin smiled.

That woman was touching him.

The sound of her voice.

Your stomach churned violently.

“He wanted this baby so badly,” you whispered shakily, pressing a trembling hand against your stomach. “We both did…”

Your friend’s eyes immediately dropped to the movement before softening all over again.

“Oh honey…”

And that was it.

The sympathy in her voice destroyed the last fragile piece holding you together.

You bent forward with a broken sob as she immediately pulled you into her arms, holding you carefully while you cried against her shoulder.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whispered helplessly. “I don’t know what to do anymore…”

Taehyung was watching from the living room and knew something wasn’t right. When he saw the text message from his wife:

‘He fucking cheated on her’ 

‘She is falling apart! He broke her!’

He pulled his phone out and called Jimin. 

Jimin answered on the first ring.

“Is she there?” he asked immediately, voice rough and breathless. “Taehyung, put her on the phone. Please.”

Taehyung stood near the living room window, staring out toward your car still sitting in the driveway. Through the windshield he could barely make out your silhouette curled into his wife’s side.

His jaw tightened. You are just as close to him as Jimin was. His wife adores you and so did he. They were there for you and Jimin for every negative test, every false hope. Not only did it hurt you but it hurt them as well. 

“She’s here.”

The relief Jimin let out sounded almost painful.

“Thank God,” he breathed shakily. “Is she okay? Did she say anything? Is the baby okay?”

Taehyung closed his eyes briefly at the panic in his voice before speaking again.

“You need to slow down.”

“I can’t fucking slow down right now,” Jimin snapped instantly before catching himself. “I’m sorry—I just—fuck, Tae, I need to see her.”

Taehyung’s grip tightened around his phone.

For a moment, he said nothing.

And somehow the silence felt worse.

Then finally:

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Jimin’s breathing staggered quietly on the other end.

“I wasn’t.”

“That’s your excuse?”

“No,” Jimin answered immediately, voice breaking slightly. “No, there’s no excuse.”

Taehyung shook his head slowly in disbelief.

“You had everything,” he said quietly. “Do you understand that? People spend their whole lives looking for what you had with her.”

Every word felt like a blade sliding deeper into Jimin’s chest.

“I know.”

“No,” Taehyung said sharply. “I don’t think you do.”

Jimin pressed a trembling hand over his mouth as he leaned against his desk, eyes burning.

“I do,” he whispered hoarsely. “I know exactly what I destroyed.”

Taehyung glanced back toward the front door, hearing faint crying from outside, he watched his wife guide you inside and into the kitchen, helping you to calm down. He lowered his tone before speaking again.

His expression darkened immediately.

“She can barely breathe right now.”

The silence on the other end was immediate.

Then:

A broken sound.

Like Jimin physically reacted to the sentence.

Taehyung continued before his anger truly got the better of him.

“She was here earlier today, you know.”

Jimin froze.

“She was happy,” Taehyung said quietly. “The happiest I’ve seen her in months.”

Jimin’s stomach dropped violently.

“She showed us the baby socks. Everyone is excited for you two. Jin hyung and his wife has already started cooking meals for fucking baby growth and Jungkook is already looking for a bigger penthouse cause he already planned out date nights for you two and plans on keeping the baby..”

That did it.

Jimin sank down into his chair like his body suddenly gave out beneath him, one hand gripping the edge of the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.

“Oh God…”

His voice cracked completely.

Taehyung finally let some of his anger slip through.

“You made her happiest day become something she’ll never forget for the worst reason possible.”

Jimin couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

All he could picture was you standing there holding that stupid little white box while he—

He squeezed his eyes shut violently.

“I know,” he whispered again, sounding destroyed. “I know.”

Taehyung’s voice lowered dangerously.

“If you come here acting defensive, I’ll throw you back out the door myself.”

“I’m not defensive,” Jimin said immediately. “I just—I need to see my wife.”

The desperation in his voice was ugly now. Barely controlled.

Taehyung exhaled slowly through his nose.

“She doesn’t want to see you right now.”

Jimin looked physically ill.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, Tae.”

“Remember my words, Hyung…” Taehyung started, 

“If you come defensively, I will throw you out.” 

Taehyung lowered the phone slowly, his jaw still tight with restrained anger before slipping the device into his pocket.

His wife looked at him expectantly from beside you, silently asking the question neither of you wanted answered.

“He’s coming,” Taehyung said flatly. “He’s not letting up,”

Your eyes squeezed shut immediately.

Of course he was.

Jimin was many things—overbearing, possessive, obsessive when it came to you—but one thing he would never do was let you disappear after something like this.

Especially not now.

You hated that the one thing you loved the most about him was now turning into a nightmare. 

Your stomach twisted painfully.

“Hey,” your friend whispered softly, immediately crouching in front of you again. “Come inside the kitchen, let’s get warm? You’re freezing.”

Only then did you realize how cold your hands had become.

You nodded weakly.

The second you stepped inside the house, warmth wrapped around you, but it did nothing to stop the violent shaking in your body. Your friend kept one arm looped around you carefully, guiding you toward the kitchen while Taehyung lingered behind for a moment, rubbing a tired hand down his face.

The kitchen lights felt too bright.

Too normal.

You hated it.

The world shouldn’t still be moving right now.

Your friend sat you carefully at the kitchen island before immediately reaching for a glass.

“Water first,” she said gently, slipping into a comforting routine. “Then I’m making tea.”

“I can make it while you sit with Yn…” Taehyung said softly as he placed a soft hand to the middle of his wife's back to move behind her, starting the tea. 

You stared blankly at the marble countertop.

“I don’t want anything right now...”

“I know,” she whispered. “But you need something in your system.”

The mention of your condition made your chest tighten all over again.

Pregnant.

You were pregnant.

A fresh wave of nausea rolled through your stomach so violently you nearly doubled over.

“Oh God—”

Your friend immediately rushed toward you.

“Hey, hey—breathe for me.”

You pressed a trembling hand against your mouth as tears filled your eyes all over again.

“I can still hear her,” you whispered brokenly.

The room went quiet. Taehyung cringed at the sentence. He couldn’t even imagine Jimin doing something like that, not to you. Not the way Jimin always spoke about you in their quiet time together. 

Your friend’s face crumpled instantly.

“She sounded—” Your voice cracked painfully. “She sounded comfortable there.”

That sentence shattered the room.

Because that was the real horror, wasn’t it?

Not just that Jimin cheated.

But it didn’t look unfamiliar.

Your friend moved beside you instantly, gripping your hand tightly.

“Don’t do that to yourself,” she said firmly.

“But what if it wasn’t the first time?” you whispered.

The words finally escaped.

The fear that had been growing quietly in the back of your mind ever since you left the penthouse.

Your breathing became uneven again.

“What if I just never noticed?”

Your friend’s expression hardened immediately but Taehyung spoke first.

“Listen to me carefully,” he said softly but firmly, forcing your eyes toward his. “What he did tonight is on him. Not you. Don’t start tearing yourself apart trying to make sense of someone else’s awful decision.”

Fresh tears slipped down your cheeks.

“I was so happy today,” you whispered shakily. “I was so happy…”

The tiny socks flashed in your mind again.

Jimin’s smile you’d imagined.

The future you thought you were walking toward.

Gone.

Or maybe not gone.

But broken.

Your friend’s eyes filled with tears at your expression before she wrapped her arms around you again carefully.

“You don’t have to figure anything out tonight,” she whispered against your hair. “Okay? Just breathe. One thing at a time.”

But before you could respond—

Headlights flashed across the kitchen windows.

The entire room went still.

Taehyung looked toward the front of the house immediately while your body locked up completely.

And then—

A car door slammed outside.