Uh so my younger sister asked me to play roblox with her and I just got BULLIED
It was a kpop game and someone started talking about enhypen in global and when I said I cried a bit over jungwon's message this BITCH started clowning me
I was so mad that roblox tags shit because i had brilliant comebacks to her being such a fucking ASSHOLE. She was actually evil and insufferable. Calling me sensitive, corny, and unwilling to admit it was ot6. BITCH BACK THE FUCK UP
I hate roblox trolls. I hope she goes to hell and stays there. she isn't even an enhypen stan. get your fucking fugly, big, ass nose out of this and stop clowning me for missing the way my favorite group was. FUCKING HATE YOU
I'll be so honest. I'm still ot7 and I always will be. I will always stand by the opinion that Heeseung leaving with a halfbaked reason was a choice heavily influenced by their shitty ass company.
But. Heeseung's gone. I accepted that a while ago, especially after he released his solo debut- which are amazing songs. And it sucks. As 'parasocial' as it sounds, I still feel so sad whenever I think about him gone. Because like thousands of other fans, it was enhypen that got me through so many sad times.
As people still say- which is so bullshit by the way it actually shocks me- no one is this upset because it was heeseung in specific. I am so done with this bullshit saying 'you're only mad because it's heeseung!' or 'you hate the other members!'
STFU
No. that's the most fucking idiotic thing I see. I am not upset because it was specifically heeseung, i am upset because a member of my favorite group is being mistreated and undermined. If it was sunoo, jake, sunghoon, ni-ki, jungwon, or jay I would be just as pissed. Heeseung isn't even in my bias line. But I love them all.
So while I still support anything ot7, I do agree that we should back off when it comes to direct contact with the members. Memes, posts, I don't have a problem with those. But I'm seeing now after Jungwon's statement that it makes sense to just give them some space. He made it clear they're sick of it. And if you do love them, you'll accept his words. I had trouble accepting the ot6 fanchants literally up until I saw this twenty minutes ago. But if it's a member making himself clear and expressing they're tired of it- I'll change my mindset in support of the group i love.
if you're a monstiez who normalizes and defends the sexualization of making them twerk 24/7 you're fucked up and need to fix everything about yourself
because why are people saying fuck ass shit like 'chiquita likes twerking'
what the fuck is wrong with you. no one is calling it out enough and i'm disgusted by every single one of you who overlooks it. i'm not even a monstiez and i think it's so fucking perverted
burn out loser (pt2): âyou're paired with riki nishimura as your lab partner. otherwise known as the stoner freak that everyone knew to avoid. you only have one focus, well two. get an a in the class then get as far from him as possible. but now that he's met you, riki wants nothing else but you. and riki always gets what he wants. â pt1
󦈤pairing: stoner(artist)!riki x meangirl!reader
󦈤genre: smut. college au
󦈤tw: smut (mdni!) hentai (description of nude drawings), slow burn, obsession, sexual tension, "will they won't they", riki is a yearnerrrr, mild marijuana use, suggestive themes, very slight emotional manipulation, explicit language, jealous riki nishimura.
󦈤wc: 18.5k
an: i started writing what's now the third part before this and desperately wanted to show the progression of their relationship & the moments where their feelings start to grow for each other!! the scenes take place over 2-3 wks, which is why this is sooo long (omg) this was very very very fun to write & i hope u like it, please let me know what you think i love delving into the minds of the characters and the storyline! part three is in the works xo
the first few times you ask, riki ignores you completely without thinking twice about it. a blank stare set on his features as you spoke only to turn his attention back to his notes when you finished. not sparing a single word, just deciding that what you were asking him didn't deserve an answer. you can glare at him with that entitled little scowl all you wanted. he had grown accustomed to ignoring that too.
his eyes gravitate toward you before you've even fully entered the room wednesday afternoon. you're cooing obnoxiously with one of your friends, blowing kisses and promising to meet up for lunch; acting as if you were going off to war or something. he watches as you smile, fingers twirling the loose curl that rests against your cheek as you make your way to your shared desk. he's sure to keep his sketchbook tucked beneath his forearm as you inch closer, anticipating what you're planning on saying to him.
he's got his hood pulled over his sandy blonde hair, an earbud tucked neatly in his left ear. you're plopping down in the seat on his right, eyes drifting to the dramatic way he covered up his work â as if you gave a damn what he was doodling. you don't bother to mask your scoff, eyes rolling at how extra he was being over his stupid sketchbook. like you were planning on snatching it from him at any moment, so he had to guard it with his life. news flash, no one, especially not you, cared.
riki doesn't look up as you settle beside him, he's too focused on whatever he's drawing. long fingers moving lazily across the page, pencil scratching in quick, confident strokes that he never lets anyone see. and each brush of the pencil has your eyes flickering over, despite the fact you've decided you didn't care. and every time your eyes lift, riki is tilting his sketch book away. every single time.
your patience is snapping the fourth time he does it, an annoyed huff leaving your lips. âare you secretly bad at drawing or something?â you're hissing out in a whisper, eyes narrowed in his direction with your chin propped on the palm of your head.
he feels the way his mouth twitches involuntarily, amusement flashing across his features. the expression is quickly masked by his normal 'too bored' one, shoulders lifting in a shrug. âmaybe,â anyone else would take that as a sign to stop pushing, but you weren't just anyone. your body turns in your chair, long legs folded at the knee as you stare him down.
âthen why are you always drawing?â there's bite in your tone, the same way that there always is. because even though you were gearing up to ask him for something â you still had to keep up with that attitude of yours. riki doesn't even bother to look up at you before he's answering. âwhy are you always talking?â he says, voice even, bored. but you don't miss the smirk that lifts the corners of his lips.
you're rolling your eyes so hard he can hear it and that only has his grin growing wider, eyes staying fixed on his page. despite how rude he's being, you press on, because you were curious now, especially with how secretive he always was with that stupid book. and him telling you no so easily triggered your obsession with always getting your way, there was no way you'd let up now. you found it hard to believe that no one has ever seen one of his drawings so you didn't understand why you couldn't too.
riki was constantly drawing. during lectures, through lunch, in the halls when he should be in study hall. so many times you've seen him with his back pressed against a wall, his legs pulled toward to his chest, sketchbook resting in his lap and a blunt tucked behind his ear. and you also noticed that the book was hardly ever the same, that meant pages of pages of his drawings existed and he refused to show you a single one. it didn't seem the least bit fair to you.
you've caught glimpses before. dark shading, eyes, hands, strange twisting lines... but it's never enough to make out a full picture. and that drives you insane. especially because you could tell that his drawings were actually good. it was obvious from the little bits that you've seen and how confidently his hands moved across the page. there was no way he wasn't a good artist, so why was he gatekeeping it!?
âyou're such an idiot,â the insult doesn't phase him in the slightest, after the weeks spent together â he's grown used to the way you were constantly slighting him. silence falls over the two of you just as the professor is stepping into the room and you move as if you've given up. flipping your laptop open and scrolling through your word doc until you find your last page of notes, straightening in your chair and turning your attention to the front of the room.
riki doesn't move. just keeps on drawing as if class wasn't about to start, as if he didn't need this information in order to pass, let alone be useful for your assignments. nine full minutes pass of rhythmic typing and the unmistakable drag of riki's pencil against his page, each swipe carrying an irritating amount of skill and you can't help but stare. eyes locked on the movement of his fingers. they were long, ridiculously long. silver rings wrapped around his index and middle. you were shocked to see how clean his nails were, neatly trimmed with a light shine like he actually went and got them done. intriguing.
long veins twist from his bony knuckles up the length of his arm and your eyes follow them until your gaze is dragging up to his face, shocked to see he was already staring at you. âone of us needs to be paying attention,â he says, eyes shifting to the front of the room where the professor drones on about molecular bonds or whatever. you ignore his words, had already learned that he didn't need to pay attention to know what was being taught. he'd repeated entire lectures on days you were sure he was fully dissociated. he didn't even need to take notes, that annoyed you too.
you're letting out another dramatic huff, shifting in your seat so you're facing him again. âokay, i don't care if you want to be all weird and mysterious.â you lie, arms crossed over your chest and subconsciously you angle your head just enough to peek over his arms in hopes of catching a glimpse of what he's working on. he has his book flipped over like he knew you'd never stop trying.
âyou sound like you care,â his words come out through a laugh. he doesn't even bother hiding how funny he thinks all of this is, the fact that you're practically throwing a fit because he told you no. arms crossed and glossed lips stuck in a cute little pout, he's committing the expression to memory â the dozens of scenarios he could draw up flooding his thoughts.
his mind drifts, picturing how you'd look with that same pout except knelt down in front of him, cum smeared on your cheeks as you silently begged for more. he's making a mental note to start working on that as soon as he got home. âcan you at least draw me something i can see?â it takes a second for riki to register what you're asking, his mind reeling with images of you. and when he does fully hear you, he doesn't answer right away, tossing the idea around in his head.
draw you something you could see. there would be no harm in that, right? it's not like riki wasn't capable of creating something neutral, as a matter of fact, the drawing he was hiding from you was the least bit sexual. it was a box of cigarettes, a girl hidden within the pack, smoking one. so he could draw you something tame, something that you could see just so you'd stop asking.
the only problem was riki considered each and every one of his drawings personal. they were sacred. showing you one would be the same as taking a magnify glass into the inner, darkest corners of his mind. but, looking at you now, riki was clearly seeing the reason why you always got your way. why everyone found it so hard to say no to you, because not only were you annoyingly persistent... you were also cute as hell.
his eyes bore into yours as the classroom hums quietly around you. keyboards clicking, chairs squeaking as the minutes tick by, soft chatter fills the room as the class is instructed to discuss today's notes with their partners, something you and riki never took part in. entirely his fault. somebody laughs too loud near the windows but neither of you look their way, riki is too busy sizing you up and you're daring him to say no again. your eyes never leave his for a second and staring at him so long, you can't help but notice the details that make him up.
long lashes guard his pretty dark eyes, the sharp line of his jaw that disappears beneath the collar of his faded gray hoodie. thick pink lips that you're only now realizing never appear chapped. beauty marks scattered all over his otherwise flawless skin. he looks calm, seemingly unaffected by the expectant look on your face. like he couldn't care less if rejecting your offer would disappoint you and that annoyed you, mainly because the expression looked so pretty on him.
his shoulder lifts after what feels like hours, that same smirk resting on his lips. âmaybe,â you don't even give his words room to breathe before you're responding. âthat's not an answer,â you scoff under your breath, kicking at his shoe lightly under the desk. he doesn't even flinch, shoulders lifting in another shrug as his lips purse to the side. âwell, it's the one you got,â he says, watching the way you huff and roll your eyes before turning your attention back to your laptop.
riki doesn't miss the way you're pulling your lips back into that pout, long manicured fingers toying with the tiny heart charm hanging from your necklace. your lashes flutter while you read through the notes from the last few lectures on your computer, lips moving as your eyes scan over the words. your soft curls are pulled back in a complicated looking bun today instead of framing your face the way it usually does. you're not looking at him but he can still see the exact moment your face is relaxing, pretty features no longer scrunched up. and that has him rolling his eyes, flipping to a clean page of his sketchbook before reaching for his pencil.
he had fully intended to ignore your request. that was usually the best option when it came to you. if he ignored you long enough, you'd eventually start entertaining yourself and he could go back to doing whatever he was before you came up with your demands. the second the tip of his pencil is hitting the page though, his thoughts are proven wrong. his pencil slides easily across the paper, the familiar heat raising up the back of his neck.
the professor says something at the front of the room, calling attention back to him, but riki doesn't hear a single word. he's too focused on the version of you he was creating against this paper. his hands move faster than his thoughts, he's drawn and redrawn the lines of your face so much that he basically has them memorized. he's careful with drawing the curve of your jaw, the gentle slope of your nose and the permanent annoyed pout of your lips.
you're chewing absentmindedly at the edge of your thumb, brows pinched while you tried to keep up with the experiment that was being demonstrated in front of you. riki shades carefully beneath your lashes, jaw tightening slightly when you're laughing at something that's being said before your gaze drops to your laptop again, quickly typing a few sentences with your lower lip tucked between your teeth. you don't release it even when you're looking back up.
riki tries not too look too hard at you. he doesn't even need to. he's sure to keep his expression neutral as to not give anything away, but no matter how calm he looked â he was spiraling internally. because mapping out the details of your face forced honestly out of him. and riki hated the obvious truth that stared back at him. the things that he wasn't entirely ready to admit. like the fact he found your side profile especially beautiful, how he knew exactly the lines and dimples that appeared when you were scowling at him.
he especially hates how he's memorized your face enough to recreate it without effort.
the end of class rolls around before either of you know it and you had forgotten all about your denied request. mostly because riki had gone silent after rejecting you, scribbling in that stupid sketchbook and not sparing you a second's glance. not that he's ever had much to say before, but you can't help but notice that he was being quieter than usual. there was no teasing when you were raising your hand to answer every question, no sarcastic remark when you're reminding him of the reading required to finish the lab. not even a smirk when you're handed back last week's individual assignments and he received a perfect score.
he just draws. consistently.
it's the type of focus you're sure he saved only for his drawings, because you've never seen him this concentrated before. it's a world different from the lazy expression he normally wore as he pretended to study or sped through assignments. it was unsettling to witness. especially for an hour straight without any breaks.
the professor dismisses the class and you're pushing your laptop closed, easily shoving it into your purse as you stand. students flood noisily to the door and your eyes flicker to riki who has barely moved in the last hour. âdid you even take notes?â his eyes lift to find yours after a second, hand gliding over the paper, adding his signature you're assuming, his eyes stayed on you.
âno,â he says simply, lifting his bag onto his shoulder as he stands from his chair. you're letting out another scoff. it's honestly becoming the only sound you're capable of making around him. âyou're going to fail. and the last thing i need is for your lazy ass to drag me down with you,â you warn, shocked by the loud laugh that leaves his lips. âi'm smarter than you, princess. did you forget?â there's an unmistakable teasing to his tone that has you snorting softly, eyes rolling as he lifts his sketchbook from the table.
without a word he's ripping out the page he had been working on so secretly all class, extending his arm to hold it out to you. you're reaching for it wearily, surprised that he didn't snatch it back at the last second. your eyes are focusing on the image and you have to blink a few times in order to take in what you're looking at. even though it was embarrassingly clear what he had drawn. it's you. and it wasn't vague either. it was you. your exact side profile staring back at you on this sheet of paper that the boy you referred to as a brain dead loser handed to you.
âriki, this is...â you start, but the second your eyes are lifting you're being met with the slam of the door. âwait!â you call after him, despite the fact he can no longer hear you. you're scrambling to snatch up all your belongings, careful not to bend the drawing as you follow behind him, catching his tall frame turning the corner just as you're prying the door open. âare you serious...â you grumble, legs moving before you can think to chase after him, but you don't get very far before you're knocking right into someone.
soft hands keep you from hitting the floor, but your purse and all it's contents spill onto the tiles along with riki's picture. âwhoa! slow down,â your best friend, isis is saying through a laugh, eyes scanning over the flustered expression on your face. âno need to rush, i'm right here.â she grins, ready to joke before her eyes are taking in your scattered belongings on the floor, gaze landing on the very obvious self portrait that lays among the mess.
âwhat's this?â she's bending down before you have the chance to react, plucking the picture up between her fingers and inspecting it like there was some secret code hidden within the lines. âit's nothing, i-â you start but she's shooting you a wide eyed expression that has your words catching. âis this you!?â she eyes the drawing carefully before doing the same to you, even going as far as to reach out to turn your head to the side, comparing the side profile of the photo with yours.
âoh my god. this is you. did riki draw this?â it's easy to guess, mainly because you spent so much time complaining about how his grades never suffered yet he spent all of his free time scribbling in his sketchbook. they all thought it was funny, how worked up you'd get when realizing he got a higher score than you without needing to put in any effort. but this photo was no joke, there was seriousness within each pencil stroke that just couldn't be ignored. âhello? riki gave this to you?â isis repeats when too long has passed of you not saying anything.
your shoulders are lifting in a shrug, reaching for the picture but she's just barely holding it out of your reach. you're huffing, bending down to pick up the rest of your stuff off of the floor. âyes, he did.â you say finally with a roll of your eyes, ânow give it back before you-â she's cutting you off with a gasp, eyes wide and glued to the drawing. âthe other girls need to see this,â she's saying, darting off before you can fully register what's going on. once you do, you're rushing behind her. âisis! oh my god, no.â your bodies weave through the students, turning quick corners and barely avoiding colliding with anyone.
isis is fast, you don't catch up with her until she's already outside rushing toward the table your friends always occupied at this time of day. and just your luck, they were all out there. clover sat with an expression entirely too focused for what she was doing, gluing press-on nails to the tips of her fingers. viki was typing away at her computer, eyes flashing between the screen and her written notes beside her working on the essay that was due at the end of the month. and like always, emmy was in her own little world â cuddling close to her boyfriend, jay, his arm set on her shoulders as he pressed kisses against her skin. loving every last giggle he's able to pull from her.
their eyes all slowly snap up when isis is reaching the table, slapping the drawing down in the center. for a second, no one says anything. isis is pointing dramatically across the table with one arm while holding you back with the other. âviki, you owe me fifty bucks. i was right!â brows raise at her words, everyone leaning forward to take a look at the piece of paper on the table.
viki is letting out a gasp, large eyes lifting up to look between you two. âoh my god. riki drew this?â isis is nodding, a proud smile on her face as if she were the one that drew it. âmhm!â she's extending her arm out toward viki, as you give up fighting against her, arms crossed over your chest. âpay up.â your eyes narrow, their words fully processing now.
âwait.â you're pointing between the two of them. âyou bet that he'd draw me?â isis snorts, plopping down into the empty bench space, scooting over to make room for you to sit beside her. âno, of course not.â viki says as she reaches into her purse, to grab her wallet â counting out fifty dollars before sliding the cash across the table. her eyes flicker back over to you once isis takes it. âwe bet that he's in love with you,â
your jaw drops, eyes blinking as snickers erupt around the table. âwhat?â you say, though you heard them loud and clear. âriki isn't in love with me,â your head shakes violently, hands waving in front of you like you're physically trying to reject their words. âhe so is,â viki says with a laugh, gesturing toward the image that still rests on the table. âlook at all the detailing, oh my god.â
emmy reaches for the drawing carefully, she lifts it by the edges oohing and ahhing like she's handling museum grade artwork instead of a normal sketch from some random college boy. âoh, he's head over heels in love.â she says with a gasp, which has jay leaning over to peek at the drawing himself. his brow raises slightly a soft scoff falling from his lips. âehh, i could do that.â he says with a shrug.
clover is rolling her eyes at his words, âyou couldn't, shut up.â she waves him off, extending her hand toward emmy. âlet me see.â the drawing is handed across the table and clover holds it the same delicate way emmy had been, viki is leaning over too to get a better look at it. âwait! he even added that heart gem you sometimes put on your cheek.â her eyes snap up to inspect your features. âyou're not even wearing one today,â she points out with a grin. âthat means he's always paying attention to you. he's so in love, fuck.â
the drawing gets passed from clover to viki, back to emmy over to isis and that's when you're able to grab it, quickly tucking it between the pages of your textbook. âokay, that's enough.â you grumble, paying too much attention to carefully putting the photo away â sure not to bend any edges. it's tucked away safely, your book is closed over it and the conversation had moved on from you.
yet you could still see the drawing each time you blinked, how focused he looked while he was making it and the unmistakable redness at the tip of his ears when he was handing it to you. and the way your friends sounded so sure just by seeing the way he drew you, it didn't make sense. they were being ridiculous, obviously they were. completely and uttering ridiculous.
riki wasn't in love with you. he couldn't be. he was annoying, arrogant, lazy, impossible to work with. why would he be in love with you? the same boy that spent entire lectures spaced out in his sketchbook, showed up to study sessions high and never paid attention when he needed to. and you were the complete opposite of that, there was absolutely no reason for him to be in love with you.
the rest of the week rolls by like it normally would, long lectures, classes with your friends, arguing with riki over assignments, extra credit work. everything was seemingly normal, yet you felt different each time you were flipping open your notebook â being met with the drawing given to you mere days ago. it shouldn't effect you as much as it does. and for this long either, it had been days since riki had torn a page from his sketchbook, holding it out and walking away without any explanation. and he hadn't mentioned it since then, so why were you still replaying the moment like it was some type of profound development in your relationship?
nothing had changed, he was still annoying. still lazy. still attached to your chemistry grade in the most frustrating way. there was no reason why he was flooding your thoughts every few hours like he was anything more than a nuisance. you realize sometime saturday morning that the real problem wasn't the portrait, or the gross attention to detail, it was your friends. they had gotten in your head with that whole 'he's in love with you', nonsense and now you couldn't shake the possibility of that actually being true.
and how it could effect your grade in the future. no matter how many times you explained that riki was an artist and artists noticed things, they never let up. viki had even started referring to him as your 'future husband' each time you brought him up to complain. emmy and isis had somehow constructed an entire relationship timeline based solely on delusion. no wonder you couldn't get him out of your head, your friends made sure it was impossible.
the weekend passes in a blur, more studying, cramming. avoiding pointless hangouts with an excuse of needing to get your work done. in reality, you just needed to spend some time alone â get your feelings in order before you had to start up the school week again. and by monday morning you're more confused than you had been on wednesday when all of this started. you had texted riki twice this weekend, nothing major, everything to do with being lab partners, but you found yourself reading into his responses more than you normally would.
there was your first message friday night, it had taken him four hours to respond and you couldn't help but wonder what he was doing in the time that he wasn't answering you. more curious than anything, because you could only assume that he was focused on drawing â like he always was. and you couldn't help but wonder what he could possibly be drawing and if it had anything to do with you. even thinking that felt delusional. it was one portrait that you basically begged for, why would you spend hours drawing you after that?
anyway, the exchange went like this:
yn. (lab freak) | 21:36
did you take notes this morning?
i feel like im missing smth.
riki nishimura | 01:17
no.
and that was it. no follow up, no question on what you could possibly be missing. just two letters. two letters that took him four hours to type out by the way. you didn't see the message until the next day and it had you in a sour mood all morning, hence your sudden saturday realization of why you were feeling like this over a loser you really couldn't care less about. your damn friends and their teasing, to reiterate.
the next message was midday on sunday. he answered much faster this time, but still with the same level of dryness that you hadn't realized until now was in most of his messages.
yn. (lab freak) | 15:22
we need to be in class early tmrw.
idk what im missing
riki nishimura | 15:24
got u
again, that was it. and you spend much longer than you're willing to admit staring at your message log. eyes rolling with a scoff after a few minutes of staring had passed. yeah right, he was in love with you. he couldn't even hold a proper conversation with you, your friends were just chatting shit like they always did. you were repeating that thought all throughout your classes on monday, reminding yourself each time you caught a glimpse of him in the halls and it was working.
by the afternoon, the possibility was so far from your head it's almost laughable that you had even been considering it in the first place. it's six minutes before you should be meeting riki to go over the notes that you didn't have. you had every intention to be there on time, early even. but the vending machine in the left corner of the dining hall clearly had other plans for you.
âare you kidding me!?â you're grumbling, fingers punching against the numbers aggressively.
riki spots you the moment he's rounding the corner, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he takes lazy steps toward the chemistry lab. his head tilts as he watches you, taking in the annoyed expression on your features and the way you push the buttons of the vending machine repeatedly. you look hot, like you always do and he's not ashamed of the way his eyes travel over your body.
your shirt is simple. just a plain white short sleeved top, nothing flashy about it. but the way the fabric stretched tight over your frame, fitted enough to look intentional without making it seem like you tried too hard has him staring harder than he should be. the shirt stops several inches above your waist, highlighting the dip that he's imagined tracing with his hands more times than he can count. gold chains drape across your hips and stomach, glinting whenever you move.
the skirt you wear is even worse. its tiny, faded denim that looked a bit worn. and it rides up slightly higher on one thigh as you shift your weight, growing impatient with the machine you're fighting. it's becoming annoying how badly he wants to just bend you over and the fact that he can't, can only sketch the moment but he'd never know exactly how you felt beneath him.
honestly, everything about you had been annoying him lately. the way you glared at him, the pretty smiles you saved only for your friends, how close you sat without even realizing it, the sweet smell of your perfume. how you'd always appear in every face he drew â no matter how many times he swore he was done drawing you. yet he couldn't stop his brain from cataloging every last detail about you, storing them away for later. he's already mentally saving the annoyed expression you're wearing right now to use tonight.
âugh seriously,â you groan, bending down to push the flap of the vending machine back, checking if any of your food had dropped out without you noticing. it hadn't. riki can't help the chuckle that falls from his lips, head shaking from side to side as he makes his way toward you.
you feel his warmth before you fully realize that it's him. one second you're fighting with a vending machine that clearly has some type of vendetta against you, and the next a hand is appearing beside your shoulder. long fingers bracing against glass and effectively enveloping you in his bubble. riki's hip bumps yours lightly, just enough to push you out of the way and you're suddenly aware of how close he is to you. his chest pressed to your shoulder, you can feel the rumble of his voice as he speaks.
âthis machine eats bills. you have to use your card,â he's learned that one the hard way, hundreds of dollars wasted before he was putting two and two together. his words barely reach you at first, lips parting slightly as your head tilts up to look at him. and unfortunately seeing him this close undoes all of the mental preparation you've done all morning. because he looks good, effortlessly. and it was ridiculously annoying.
his red racing jacket hangs off his frame in way that should swallow him whole, but instead it does the opposite. the bright red of the fabric brings out the tan undertones of his skin â the pinkness of his lips. his sleeves are too long, bunched up at the elbow so you're able to see the silver jewelry that adorn his wrists and knuckles. you hate that you've started noticing his hands.
especially now because they seem to be everywhere lately. handing you erasers in the middle of lectures, turning pages in text books during study sessions, dragging through his messy sandy blond hair. resting against your waist in daydreams you refuse to examine too closely.
his baseball cap sits low over his eyes, shadowing the upper half of his face, leaving only the sharp line of his nose and mouth visible as he glances down at the payment screen. he's digging through his pocket with his free hand, pulling his wallet out wordlessly. tapping his heavy black card against the screen without even looking, fingers flying as he presses the same buttons you had been before. only this time the machine actually starts rumbling.
the sandwich falls first, chicken salad. and then your sparkling water. he presses a few more buttons, getting himself a protein bar and that shoots out immediately too. you watch as he crouches down, pushing the flap of the machine back to retrieve your items. he hands both of your things up with this annoying cocky smile, eyes glinting as you take it. âbon appetit,â he grins and you're rolling your eyes out of habit.
âthanks,â you mutter, the world coming out reluctantly. as if you're being physically forced to say it. and it's not like you don't appreciate his help, you would've been here all day if it wasn't for him. it's how annoyingly attractive he looked while helping and the fact that you weren't able to ignore it as easily anymore. âdo you want me to pay you back?â the question barely leaves your mouth before he's letting out a short scoff through his nose.
âit was six bucks,â he says like you've suggested something genuinely ridiculous. you had. who would charge six dollars for anything? especially when he had voluntarily helped you. he could've kept walking, kept his six dollars to himself. of course you didn't need to pay him back. and he found it funny that you would even think that you needed to.
did your friends suck or something? he's tearing into his protein bar, taking a large bite before his head tilts toward the direction of the science hall. âcome on,â he's already starting to walk ahead, back turning toward you like he was sure that you'd follow. âwe need to study and we're already late,â he mocks the tone that you frequently use on him, walking forward and you stand there staring at the back of his head for a second. the thoughts that you had shooed away rushing back.
guys didn't just do favors for random girls out of nowhere, right? maybe your friends weren't so far off, because six dollars wasn't a lot, right â but he could've just kept walking. he saw you fumbling and struggling and decided to stop and help you. that had to mean something in guy world, right?
you've decided to use the time you spent with riki as an opportunity to gather evidence of whether or not your friends' hypothesis of him being in love with you were in fact correct. it started with his rescue at the vending machine, creating a possible yes. he helped you figure out your notes, being way more attentive than you've ever seen him before. another yes. but then he ignored you for the rest of the day, even when you waved at him across the hall. back to no.
tuesday morning you texted him to meet in the quad, you needed his half of the packet in order to perfect yours. he didn't text back, so no. but then he was there waiting before you even got to school, so back to yes. he texted you tuesday night, a funny video that related to a comment you made days ago. big yes. but then he left you on read right after that, so back to no.
and we could never forget each time he rejected your requests to see his sketchbook, those were the biggest no's if you've ever seen them before. so by the time wednesday was rolling around, you were more confused than ever. and it wasn't even like you had feelings for riki, he was still everything that you decided he was when you were first meeting him. you just hated the ambiguity of it all. because why would he draw you with so much detail, but then ignore you immediately after?
it didn't make sense. he didn't make sense.
the two of you occupy your usual table near the back of the room. professor alexander has a video playing at the front of the room about reaction rates, but everyone is mainly doing their own thing. except you, you're taking notes. raising your hand and requesting bits to be replayed as you typed rhythmically. riki is drawing beside you, head bowed and arm guarding his book like it always does.
the fact that he somehow maintains his academic rank despite spending every lecture doodling remains one of the greatest injustices you've ever witnessed and you'd never stop mentioning it for as long as you were forced to know him. still, you take your notes peacefully. gliding the cursor over important sentences to highlight them, adding comments in the margins. these were good notes. maybe some of the best notes you've ever taken, so your annoyance when someone is calling your name is justified.
you're glancing up with furrowed brows riki's head lifting along with yours. jungwon stands at the edge of your desk. you recognize him from your physics class. he was smart, funny, and almost as high strung as you. his dimples pop as he smiles at you, hair swishing to the side as he tilts his head. âa couple of us are going to trivia night friday,â he says it like you're meant to do something with the information, you're nodding slightly.
âokay.â
for a second, his eyes drift to riki and you're following his gaze, missing the way he had been frowning because he's quickly dropping his attention back to his sketchbook. âyou should come,â he offers and you already feel the pull to say no, but you're stuck with the disappointment that you know will come with it. it's not like you didn't want to, just that you saved friday's to go to the gym, catch up on homework... and the fact that you hated trivia. but then again, jungwon was kind enough to invite you. and there had to be a reason why he was thinking of you of all people to join his group.
what could be the harm? you haven't gone out in a while. âsure,â
jungwon's smile brightens, âseriously?â you can't help but laugh at his excitement, head bobbing in a nod. âyeah, it could be fun.â he's nodding along with you in agreement, finger typing away at his phone before he's extending it out to you â the screen prompting you to put your number in. âit will be, i'll text you about it.â a few more words are exchanged between the two of you before he's turning to head back toward his seat.
the moment he's out of earshot, riki is letting out a scoff. you turned to find him sitting there with his nose scrunched as if he just smelled something unpleasant. your brow lifts as you stare at him, âwhat's your problem?â his shoulders lift in a shrug, head dropping back down to shade the edges of his drawing. âthought you didn't like trivia,â he mumbles and you don't miss the pout that forms on his lips. you ignore how cute the expression is, focusing on how he could possibly know you didn't like trivia.
âwhat are you talking about?â
his eyes lift with a huff, wrist quickly flipping his sketchbook closed so he can lean back in his chair. âyou don't like trivia.â the statement falls from his lips with complete certainty. like he's simply informing you of a fact. one plus one is two. the sky is blue. the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell. and you did not like trivia. still, you feel the need to defend yourself. âyes, i do.â
riki's eyes roll immediately. âno you don't,â he counters and his confidence annoys you. âsince when do you know that i like?â you challenge. the expression on his face suggest you're the one being unreasonable. questioning something that the both of you knew to be true. âyou literally told me.â he recalls the conversation perfectly, it hadn't been entirely deep or anything of the sort. but it was a fact. and maybe it was a terrible habit of his, but he could never seem to ignore the facts.
you're blinking up at him. âwhen did i tell you that?â
that has him letting out an annoyed huff. if you wanted to lie in order to go on a stupid date with jungwon, that was one thing. but acting like he didn't know what was true was a different type of annoying. âour second week as partners. like four months ago. one of the options for the lab of that week was to create a trivia game and you said you hated trivia because it was a lame way for dumb people to feel smart. and then you went on an entire rant about how real knowledge was in essays and research,â the conversation slowly comes back to you as he recounts it.
but he's not done. âand then, you went on about how escape rooms were a scam, that rant lasted for thirteen minutes before we were bringing it back to the assignment. i asked you how many escape rooms you had to fail, before you were deciding they were all scams and you yelled at me for going off topic. you. don't. like. trivia.â he slows down his last sentence, figuring you needed to hear it slowly for it to register in your brain. the silence stretches between the two of you as you stare at him with your mouth agape.
every single one of those things sounds exactly like something you would absolutely say. and the issue wasn't even that he proved you wrong, it was the fact that he had remembered something random you had said to him four months ago. you had forgotten literally five minutes after the words left your mouth, but he held onto them for a four full months. and somehow that was turning all your big no's regarding the hypothesis of your friends into absolute yeses.
you decide to keep your findings to yourself until you have real concrete evidence. right now you were working on hypotheticals, that wasn't enough to determine someone's feelings. especially someone as unreliable as riki nishimura. you're calling him that same night without even thinking twice about it, the chemistry assignment that had been given at the end of class was due in a few hours and you needed to make sure he had done his part. that was your excuse. a perfectly reasonable excuse.
the phone rings twice before his face appears on the screen. and immediately something inside of you feels off. because while you've seen riki every single day for the past four months, seeing him through your phone felt different. he was sitting on the floor beside his bed, one knee drawn up toward his chest while the phone was propped awkwardly against something out of frame. the lighting of his room dim and warm, creating pretty shadows along his jaw and cheekbones. his hair is messier than usual, his white tank top hanging loose around his shoulders.
he's staring back at you, glossy eyes scanning over your features and one thing becomes obvious as you watch him. he's smiling, like actually smiling, nothing like the annoying smirk he always seemed to wear. your eyes are narrowing at the sight of it. âwhat's wrong with you?â riki blinks, a soft chuckle falling from his lips as his eyes scan your features. âwhat do you mean?â
you're in your room from what he can tell, laying flat on your stomach with the phone angled just slightly above your head. you look pretty, hair cascading down your shoulders and an accusatory expression directed at him. lips perfectly glossed like they always are and he doesn't try to hide the way his eyes drift down to them. âwhy are you smiling like that?â your lip curls up and nose scrunches like you're disgusted by the idea of him experiencing any type of happiness.
he's laughing. it's such a pretty rare sound and hearing it reminds you instantly how stingy he was with his laughter. there was no way he'd just be giving laughs away right now, especially when there was absolutely nothing funny. realization dawns on you a minute too late. âoh my god,â you're leaning forward, glaring at him through the screen.
riki is leaning back as if you're able to jump through. âare you high?â the smile on his face widens as he nods his head up and down, but his words betray his movements. âmaybe,â you're groaning, positive now that he hadn't even looked at the assignment let alone started it. he was too busy getting doped out on god knows what and you had like three hours before your work was due.
âyou're unbelievable, riki.â he's blowing an obnoxious kiss in your direction before another string of laughter is leaving his lips. âthank you,â he doesn't even flinch at the scowl you send his way, proving just how far gone he was. âno. dude we have work due. did you even start it? what is wrong with you?â he's barely listening as you slip into one of your many lectures. âlike it's one thing if you want to throw your life away, but don't drag me along with you, riki. why can't you just do you work when it's due? why do i always have to remind you, like-â
he's interrupting you before you can finish your next set of insults. âare we partners or are you the boss of me?â his head tilts to the side like he was genuinely curious about the answer to his question and that confuses you. â...what?â he repeats the words harmlessly, like the issue was you just didn't hear him correctly. you're blinking, brows furrowing slightly. âwhat are you talking about? we're partners...â
âokay then,â he says with a nod, âthen relax. if you did your part, assume i did mine. you're not in charge, yn.â he reaches for something off screen, the neckline of his tank top drooping as he leans forward and you're catching a glimpse of the muscles stretched beneath his tanned skin hidden by the fabric of his shirt. your eyes are snapping back up to his face when he's shifting back into frame. âplus aren't you going on a fuck ass trivia date?â his lips wrap around his straw, cheeks hallowing as he sucks back big gulps from his milk tea.
âthat's not until friday. and it's not a date,â he's setting his drink down, leaning against the edge of his bed. âwell, don't take that out on me,â he says with a laugh, tongue running over his lower lip as his eyes trace over you. âi don't know what you're talking about. did you do the assignment or not?â you're ignoring the way his eyes on you makes your head spin, the question coming out sharper than you initially intended.
the smile never leaves his face. his head tilted back, toying with something between his fingers as you stare at him, waiting. it takes a few seconds for you to realize that he has no intention of answering you. âriki.â he hums vaguely, barely focused on the issue at hand. he's just staring at you like a weirdo. you're rolling your eyes, head shaking. âoh my god.â you huff. âit's due in three hours, three.â you hold your fingers up for emphasis and riki's head bobs in a nod.
his gaze shifts lower for a second, lingering below your nose and you watch the way his lashes flutter, teeth tugging at his lower lip as his gaze drags back up to your eyes. you don't dare to delve into what he could be thinking. you stay focused to what's safe. âand did you hear that professor will be taking points off if our formatting is wrong? make sure to double check yours. it needs to be done tonight, you're not going to have time if you're focused on cosplaying as a stoner loser,â
riki's shoulders shake with laughter, âhow much time do you think you spend worrying about me?â he asks with a grin, eyes traveling down the length of your neck noticing the way your tits press against the fabric of your shirt and you're shifting before he can decipher whether or not you're wearing a bra. âi'm not worried about you, riki. you can flunk out of life for all i care, my grade is attached to yours, that's the issue.â he likes the way your head tilts when you feel like you're telling him off.
âshould i kick it into gear then? if i start trying as hard as you do, there's no way you'd be able to keep up.â you know he's talking about grades, but the way his eyes linger on your mouth has you thinking there's something else hidden in his words. you're ignoring that too. âif you just tell me whether or not you're done or almost done, i'll leave you alone,â his lips push out in a pout, heading leaning to the side slightly as he feigns disappointment.
âaw, but you're not killing my high at all,â he fake coos, pout shifting into a grin when he watches the way your face twists. he knew exactly how to push your buttons, he loved how easily he was able to rile you up. it's like everything he did got under your skin in the best way. âugh, do you see how insufferable you are!?â your reaching up to tug your hair back and his eyes are shooting down quickly, peeking at your chest before rushing back up to your face. no bra, hm. he's saving that away for later.
you're taking his silence as your cue to hurl more insults his way, you're three sentences in when you realize that he's definitely not listening to you. just staring absently at your mouth as you speak. that has your words slowing, confusion making it's way into your tone. âokay. what are you looking at?â you snap, earning a line of snickers from him.
âyour lips,â he says it like its the most obvious thing in the world, gesturing vaguely at the screen. âthey're nice.â he decides to keep it tame, because what was actually at the tip of his tongue would've earned him a swift end to the call and a restraining order the next day, he was sure of it. âthat's such a weird thing to say,â you're scoffing but he doesn't miss the soft pink that lifts on your cheeks.
he's nodding easily, âi'm aware.â
âthen why would you even say that?â his gaze hasn't lifted from your lips once actually, it seemed like he was looking at them more intently since he had admitted that he was. âbecause i was thinking it,â he shrugs, tongue tracing over his own lips as he stares at yours. and you feel the heat of his stare even through the screen, it's enough to have you shifting on your bed, trying to soothe some of the tension rising in your stomach.
âyou're high,â you point out, more so for yourself than to him. he's laughing, nodding quickly. âyou're so smart,â he smiles and you're continuing on without missing a bit. âa normal person would've just kept that thought to themselves,â dark eyes roll down at you, his shoulders lifting in a shrug and plump lips puckering out, âoops.â despite yourself, you're letting out a laugh. it's how cute he looks with that expression on his face, like a little kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
and his laughter follows yours, warm and clearly amused. undeniably pleased with himself because for the first time in how ever long he's known you, this was the first time that you looked relax talking to him. although, it only lasted a few seconds â he'd take it. your eyes lift to find his after the laughter had died down and he doesn't look the least bit embarrassed.
he just settles deeper against the side of his bed, a satisfied smirk on his lips as he watches you. âyour turn, compliment me.â he says after a minute. the words catch you off guard, forcing your brows to shoot up. he sounds so casual as he speaks too, as if he was asking you something simple like 'pass the salt'. like he hadn't just spent the last ten minutes openly checking you out and now was asking you to do the same.
but no matter how cute he looked in that one moment, you weren't one to fall for his gimmicks. there was a reason why you were suffering through this phone call in the first place. âdid you finish the assignment or not?â his smile doesn't falter, not for a second. one shoulder lifts, then drops. âmaybe, maybe not.â you're letting out a huff, that he quickly joins already predicting the sounds you make when you're annoyed with him. âriki.â you warn.
âi'll tell you once i get my compliment,â on screen, he's reaching forward again, leaning over lifting slightly to reach the top of the desk beside him. you watch as he gathers supplies slowly, tucking each item in his palm before searching through loose sheets of paper for the next. rolling paper. grinder. lighter. lastly he's grabbing a tray littered with clumps of weed.
riki plops back down onto his butt, being met with your glare. âdo you really think you should be getting more high right now?â there's obvious judgment in your tone that he chooses to ignore. his gaze flicks upward, long fingers plucking up a few pieces of flower before dropping them into the grinder. âi'll definitely take your opinion into consideration,â he grins, twisting his wrists to work the metal between his hands.
you're groaning, flopping backward against the pillow. âwe're so going to fail,â you sigh, hands reaching up to swipe across your face. on the screen, riki looks entirely too comfortable with your distress. you hadn't missed the way his tank top stretches across his chest, his collarbones on full display covered by the silver chains he never seemed to take off. the worst part is how focused he looks rolling another blunt for himself.
you've seen the same look of concentration on his face countless times before, usually saved for when he was drawing. hands steady as always, moving with the same confidence that they always do. his tongue briefly presses against the inside of his cheek as he works and you hate the way your eyes follow the movement of it, watching closely as the tip of his tongue traces his lips.
âcome on,â he says, voice forcing your attention upward. âone compliment,â he's not looking at you, one hundred percent focused on sprinkling the freshly ground weed onto the rolling paper. âam i so bad that you can't even think of one?â your lips twist to the side as you look him over, it wasn't like you couldn't come up with a compliment for him. you weren't blind, everyone on campus knew how attractive riki was. it was his attitude that kept all the girls away, not his face, he was hot. objectively of course. but you'd never say that out loud.
instead, you watch him carefully. the paper rests against his knee while his hands move with practiced ease. his fingers work automatically, rolling and adjusting without needing to look down for more than a second at a time. you find yourself watching him longer than necessary, then for a few more seconds after that just in case. his rings catch the warm glow of his lamp off in the distance each time his wrist twists. his thumb smoothing across the paper before he's bringing it toward his lips.
the tip of his tongue brushes across the edge of the paper and you don't miss the way his eyes flicker up to you as it does, forcing a gasp from your lips. his brow furrows, fake confusion riddling his features as he watches you act like you hadn't been staring. âyou really have nothing for me? don't you want to know if we're going to pass or fail?â he doesn't even care that it feels like he's begging for a compliment, because he was curious. you were so loose with the insults you had for him, but he knew there had to be something else to go along with all of that.
âyou're literally holding my chemistry grade hostage,â you point out and he nods happily, thumb flicking against his lighter before running the fire across the body of his blunt. he's lighting the end without wasting another second, bringing one end to his lips as he does. âso what's it going to be, princess? are we releasing the hostages or is this a suicide mission?â his brow lifts, inhaling deeply with his blunt pressed to his lips.
you're rolling your eyes. âyou're so lame,â you say through an amused sigh. you sit there for a short while, watching him inhale and exhale, his lips puckering as he blows smoke from them. he reaches off screen to shake the ash off every few puffs before sinking back against his bed. riki doesn't take his eyes off of you the entire time, watching you through his long lashes patiently. âugh, fine.â you're finally saying, earning a satisfied grin from him.
âremember last year? when your hair was black, that looked good,â he can't help the laugh that escape his lips, leave it to you to insult and compliment him all at the same time. âthat's not a compliment.â he points out, because you know it's not. but because you're so stubbornly you, you're standing ten toes behind your lame attempt to get your way. âit is,â your arms cross over your chest, jaw set like you were begging for him to challenge you.
and he was never one to back down from a challenge. âno. that's you complimenting a version of me that literally doesn't exist anymore,â your shoulders lift in a quick shrug. âstill counts.â he's snorting, deciding that he was finished with his blunt, he presses the end into the tray by his thigh. âyou're basically saying i looked better a year ago... and why do you even know what i looked like a year ago? we just met,â it's not like it was impossible for you to have seen him before, but you didn't strike him as the type to notice anyone who didn't fall in your immediate circle.
so spotting him, seeing his hair, deciding you liked it and committing to memory seemed very out of character for you. your mouth opens to defend yourself, but you're quickly realizing that you had nothing to say to justify how or why you'd remember what he looked like last year. nothing that wouldn't give away the fact that you thought he was cute the first time you saw him, developed a tiny crush that was quickly snuffed out when you found out how much of a slacker he was.
âshould i pretend this doesn't mean you've been keeping tabs on me?â he teases after you've been quiet for too long and you're groaning, eyes rolling as you pull the phone away from your face. you can hear his laughter through the speaker, body feeling warm enough that he's hunching over to the side as his laughs shake his body. you find him laying on his side when you lift the phone back up, a silly smile on his lips. he's instantly spotting the embarrassed flush of your cheeks.
ârelax, princess. i spotted you the first day of freshmen year,â he confesses, but doesn't give you a moment to react before he's changing the subject. âand i finished my part like an hour after it was assigned. i'll email you,â he's deciding that's the end of the conversation, finger pressing against the red button on the screen before you're able to get a goodbye in.
thursday afternoon you're finding riki sat with his friends in the center of the student union. it's loud enough to make concentrating impossible, chatter from the groups scattered around the building creating a unbalanced hum, someone plays music from a speaker, a group of freshmen argue over a card game by the window. the smell of coffee and french fries sits permanently in the air.
riki leans back comfortably in his chair, scrolling aimlessly through his phone while jake and sunghoon bicker about something or another. the thick review packet you had handed him this morning sits untouched in front of him and it was most likely going to stay that way until he decided that he was running out of time to finish it. jake spots you first, charging into the building with an all too serious expression on your face. his conversation with sunghoon dies as his eyes widen, âoh no.â sunghoon is following his gaze, a grin pulling across his lips. âoh here comes your wife,â he says, jutting his chin out to point in your direction.
it takes a moment before riki is realizing that they're talking to him, he's glancing over his shoulder quickly his eyes instantly finding you. purpose behind each kick of your long legs, your ponytail swings behind you with each step. your eyes are already zeroed on him as you walk, the pleats of your skirt shift around your thighs as you squeeze through tables making a beeline in his direction. a binder tucked beneath one arm, iced coffee gripped in your hand. he doesn't even need to guess why you're heading over to him and he's already bored.
âhi, yn.â he groans as you're setting the binder onto the table, pulling out the empty chair beside him and lowering yourself into it. you ignore his greeting, immediately pointing at the untouched review packet. âwe need to study. i don't care if you think you can wing it,â jake averts his gaze as soon as he hears the sternness in your voice and sunghoon is deciding that his drink is the most fascinating thing in the world. riki stares blankly at you before his eyes are drifting to his friends for some sort of backup, only to realize they're both cowards.
âyou guys are pathetic,â he grumbles. âwe haven't even said anything!â jake defends and riki is scoffing, âthat's the point.â they've heard riki complain about you enough to know to stay out of it. he described you as his personal academic probation officer and the fact that you were a certified ten did very little to take away from how annoying you got when it came to school work. it was funny enough when riki was just complaining about you, but actually witnessing it in person was far more entertaining. they were just smart enough not to get in the way of your line of fire.
you ignore them entirely. âwhen were you planning on studying?â he shrugs. âtomorrow,â he says it like it was a suggestion, because in all reality he hadn't put much thought into it. he figured he'd flip through the text book a few minutes before the test started and call it a day. that's what he did most of the time, but the fact that this test was a joint one â you weren't going to let his lazy efforts slide.
âthe test is tomorrow, riki.â you point out and he nods, lips lifting to show off that stupid grin. âexactly.â he smiles and you're shaking your head, reaching over him to flip open the packet that you had given him. you could tell that he hadn't even bothered to open it since this morning. âthis is a big test, riki. we need to get a good score,â that's what you always said, everything was a big deal. and that just didn't make sense, because if everything was a big deal â then nothing was.
his eyes drift over your features slowly, sliding down the length of your neck to dance over the lace collar of your shirt. a tiny cute bow rests between your breasts against the fabric and he imagines for a second his teeth tugging at it. âhave you eaten anything yet?â his hand expertly shoves the packet aside as he turns fully in his chair to look down at you. your brows raise, âwhat are you talking about?â
âit's lunch time.â his eyes flicker toward your untouched coffee, then back up to your face. âdid you eat?â for a moment you're genuinely confused, his sudden concern for whether or not you've eaten seemed unrelated to the very important matter at hand. âwe need to study. i have no idea where you're at with any of this stuff. i'll worry about my stomach later,â across the table, sunghoon slowly lowers his drink. jake's face is scrunching up in pure confusion, because this interaction looks insane.
riki is pushing the packet away fully now, the thick pages knocking against sunghoon's fist. he quickly gets the hint, pulling the stack of papers from the table and setting it in his lap. riki catches the movement from the corner of his eye, a smirk spreading across his lips. âlet's go eat,â you canât focus on the way theyâre so obviously hiding the packet from you, not when riki is standing from his seat, holding a large hand down to you.
âyou want to get lunch?â he's nodding quickly, wiggling his fingers out to you. and you're reluctantly taking his hand, allowing him to pull you up from the seat. he ushers you in front of him, review packet completely forgotten as he leads you down the hall. âwe're studying after,â you warn, a finger pointed in his direction. riki nods simply, hand ghosting over the small of your back as the two of you walk toward the dining hall.
emmy notices you first. one second she's following the others through the dining hall, her plate balanced on one hand while she texts expertly with the other, half listening to clover as she complains about her professor who she was positive was racist and sexist and that's why her grade was suffering. the next, her attention is catching on a familiar ponytail swishing through the crowd.
she almost lifts a hand to wave you over, before she's noticing who's trailing closely behind you. riki. of course. viki is egging clover on while isis and jay look for a good spot to sit, none of them paying attention to the breaking news that just entered the dining hall. âguys,â emmy calls, the hurried tone of her voice making them stop in their tracks. she's gesturing widely over at you, you're mid rant it seems and riki half listens with his hand on your waist â guiding you toward the array of food.
he nods along to what you're saying as if he's actually listening and that's shocking enough for your friends. most people gave up trying to follow your stream of consciousness after about thirty seconds, riki has apparently survived the entire walk across the union and from the looks of it, you weren't even close to wearing him down. they watch as he walks you to the serving line, reaching for the stack of empty plates to hand one over to you. and before you can finish whatever point you're making, riki is picking one of the better looking sandwiches from the selection, setting it down on your plate.
the gesture has your friends gaping. âis he serving her?â viki asks, head tilting to the side as he scoops some salad onto your plate. across the room, you hold your plate out for him, words still flowing from your lips without missing a beat and riki is positive you no longer care if he's listening, you enjoy the sound of your own voice way too much to notice either way.
the two of you are making your way to one of the empty tables hidden in the corner of the room without a second thought, you don't even realize your friends are also in the room as you settle onto the bench. the moment you're settling, you're rummaging through your bag to pull out your notes â spreading them over the table. isis is letting out an amused snort. âof course she would,â she comments, pushing a few fries past her lips.
you flip through highlighted pages, immediately launching into what can only be described as an impromptu study session. you didn't miss the way riki ditched his review packet back with his friends, but that wasn't going to stop you from reviewing. how foolish of him to think you wouldn't have copies of everything you needed to know for the test tomorrow. riki squirts a healthy amount of ketchup on his plate, mindlessly twirling a chicken strip in it before he's tearing a bite off.
he's barely listening as you drone on, his fingers lifting your wrapped straw from the table. riki's carefully tearing the plastic off before dropping it into your lemonade, gently pushing the glass toward you. and your friends eat up the silent gesture, nearly losing their minds when you're reaching for the cup almost immediately, taking a sip out of it like it's the most natural thing in the world. you're right back to reading before you've even set the glass back down and riki is shaking his head.
he says something to you that forces you to glare over at him and his shoulders are lifting in a careless shrug, eyes dropping to his plate as he shoves more food into his mouth. you try to continue reading but he shakes his head, body turning from you with each sentence you try to read. eventually, you're giving up, reaching down to unwrap your sandwich before taking a bite out of it. that has a smile spreading across his features, but he's frowning again when you're turning back to your notes.
the two of you continue like that through the entire hour. riki urging you to eat and ditch the notes while you tried to sneak little facts into your conversation. entirely in your own little bubble, you had no idea how domestic the two of you looked to any outsiders. your friends sat confused at the other side of the room, mini debates erupting on whether or not the two of you were together for real now, because from where they were sitting, you looked exactly like a couple that had no idea they were acting like one yet.
the sky opened up thirty minutes before the start of your first class. the insistent patter of rain hitting against the windows, roaring through every classroom on campus. the weather had apparently changed it's mind since you had checked the app this morning, it wasn't supposed to rain until after six. which is exactly why you dressed the way you had this morning. one of your favorite mini skirts and a leather tube top, you couldn't be more poorly dressed for the weather.
by the time you're stepping out of the library, the sky has turned an ugly gray. water slams against the pavement hard enough to blur the opposite side of campus. even still, you can make out the way students dart between buildings, backpacks lifted over their heads while they sprint through the puddles. youâre stuck in the doorway, staring into the storm knowing at some point you were going to have to suck it up. your class was on the other side of the campus, fifteen minutes away.
the wind blows wet droplets in your directions and you flinch as the cold water hits your skin. yeah, there was no way you'd be able to do this. ârun. you can do it,â you hear from behind you, sarcastically encouraging and you're recognizing the voice before you're even turning around. riki. of course it was. this man was literally everywhere and you genuinely couldn't understand why.
he's stepping to stand beside you, eyes shamelessly dragging over your body. your tiny skirt hung low on your hips, revealing the chains and beads around your waist that he was quickly realizing were permanent. a strapless top that left your shoulders bare and he found it interesting how you were able to make shoulders distracting. gold jewelry hanging from your neck, wrists, fingers and even a cuff around your thigh. you definitely didn't bother to check the weather before leaving your room.
âmaybe you can't do it,â he's taking back his statement, eyes drifting to how hard the rain was falling and how little clothes you were wearing. his doubt had a competitive fire lighting in your chest. âi can make it,â he's laughing at the obnoxiously determined look painting your features. âyou'd make it about ten feet before eating shit,â he predicts, eyes dropping down to the heels that you're wearing. the sound of rain pounding harder against the pavement proves his point.
you stand there eyeing the storm while riki stands there watching you. students continue to rush past, grumbling about you both being in the way, but neither of you bother to move. it's like you're stuck in place, because the image of you attempting to run across campus ends one of three ways. a twisted ankle, a destroyed outfit or and this one came with either option â public humiliation. no thank you.
riki is letting out a sigh like he's accepted some terrible burden, he shifts and for a second you assume he's finally leaving you to figure this out without his scrutinizing stare. but he doesn't go far, just close enough to the building to toss his backpack inside, hands reaching up to tug at the zipper of his hoodie. you watch as he shrugs the garment off, revealing a black tank top that hangs loosely from his shoulders. the muscles of his arms flex as he balls up the sweater in his hands, dropping it onto your head.
âow.â the fabric muffles your voice and riki is rolling his eyes. âit's cotton,â you reach up to yank it off of your head, âyeah, but it still hit me.â you're ready to shoot a glare up at him but he's already started walking away. stepping into the rain without a glance backward. and you have to blink a few times to ensure you were seeing him correctly. within seconds his dark shirt clings to his back, heavy droplets weighing down his once styled hair. he's soaked before he's even a foot away, but he doesn't react. his hands are shoved deep in his pockets as each step grows the distance between you.
oh this was definitely, without a doubt a yes. your eyes drop to the black hoodie in your hands, the entire exchange had to have lasted less than three seconds. he saw that you were in need of something and without asking he was providing it to you. despite the fact that it was a huge disadvantage to him. your friends weren't crazy, you were. and riki too. he better not get sick over this.
by the time you pull the sweater onto your body, he's halfway across the quad. sunghoon is catching up to him with an umbrella and you feel less bad about the warmth of his hoodie. the sleeves extend beyond your fingertips and you have to push them out of the way in order to tug the zipper up. the hem swallows your skirt entirely. you're flipping the hood up before taking a careful step forward, completely enveloped in the scent of him.
it's a mixture of his expensive smelling cologne, laundry detergent and weed. you've spent enough afternoons sat beside him to recognize he always smelled good. but being wrapped in it was entirely different. it was almost intoxicating and you can't help the way your eyes flutter as his scent brings along images of him standing this close, surrounding you instead of his hoodie.
later that day, riki spots you quicker than he's willing to admit. the halls are crowded between classes, students weaving in every direction, headphones covering their ears and coffee cups clutched in their hands. you're across the way, but it's like riki can hear your voice perfectly in his ear the second his eyes are finding you. his hoodie still swallows your frame, you've even rolled up the sleeves to make it more comfortable, as if you planned on keeping it on permanently. it falls almost to the middle of your thighs, turning what should be an over sized sweater to something that looks more like a dress. and he can't get over how good his hoodie looked on your body.
the fact that you could've taken it off hours ago lingers in his mind. the rain had stopped just before noon, the sun was out and you hadn't been outside since this morning. even still, you're walking the halls in something that smells like him. and the realization makes his stomach tighten unexpectedly. riki doesn't realize how hard he's staring until jake's words are coming to a halt, his eyes following his gaze.
a grin slowly spreading across his features. âoh,â riki already knows that tone and he's rolling his eyes before anything else could be said. his eyes drift over to jake who's staring at him with a knowing smirk on his lips, dramatically squinting toward the opposite side of the hall where you and clover are disappearing from view, still deep in conversation.
âisn't that your hoodie?â sunghoon finally looks up from his phone, catching a glimpse of you just before you're disappearing. he recognizes the sweater immediately, he's asked to borrow it about a million times and was met with the same answer every single time. his eyes narrow almost immediately, gaze shifting back to riki. âwhat the hell?â he doesn't even bother to hide how offended he is. âwhy is yn wearing your three-thousand-dollar hoodie?â it's the exact wording riki's used each and every time he's told sunghoon he couldn't borrow it.
âthree thousand two hundred,â the correction leaves his mouth automatically and jake is closing his eyes, hand reaching up to pinch at the bridge of his nose as he shakes his head. âwe have to eat the rich,â he says it like there's no other choice and riki is snorting beside him. âyou say that every other day,â his hand reaches up to push at his hair, it had dried since this morning laying a little too messily at the top of his head so he couldn't stop messing with it.
âbecause every other day you say something insane,â jake is glancing back in the direction that you had just disappeared in and sunghoon is quick to bring them back on track. âanyway. why?â he says with his arms crossed over his chest.
riki is letting out a soft laugh, shoving his hands into his pockets as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. âit was raining. and she was wearing the tiniest skirt... so i let her borrow it,â it made sense at the time and honestly, it still made sense now. you made it to class without having to run and although he did get soaked, he had dried off by now.
no harm, no foul.
the explanation isn't enough to satisfy either of his friends, though. âborrow until when?â sunghoon presses, ready to claim his spot in line after you, if hoodies were just being handed out willy nilly. riki's answer should be immediate, a time frame of when he was going to get his clothes back, but in reality he hadn't given you one and he didn't really care to.
he's shrugging slightly, âi don't know.â the image flashes through his head again before he can manage to stop it. the too long sleeves rolled over your wrists, soft hem brushing your thighs and the way you were laughing with clover seeming undeniably comfortable in what you were wearing. and he beamed at the fact that it belonged to him. and he just loved knowing you were breathing him in each time you took a breath. the thought has a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. âyeah, i don't know... she looks good in it,â
that has sunghoon erupting, his arms thrown up as he lets out a frustrated groan. âyou have got to be kidding me,â he's quickly diving into a rant about fairness and friendship and how sharing was caring, arms flying around as he dated their entire friendship and all of the sacrifices he's made in the past and how this moment was actively shaping their future. riki is only half listening, he's too busy imagining what you'd look like wrapped in his hoodie but on top of him. how easy it would be to push it up to fuck into you. he could picture the way he'd go crazy nuzzling his face in your neck and smelling himself against your skin.
jake can tell how far gone his friend is just by looking, eyes barely focused as sunghoon rants and he knows that heâs somewhere else. it's concerning because in the years he's known riki, he's never seen him this interested in a girl. it's been months of this silent pining after you when the riki he knew would've gotten it done in a day or two. and the slow burn of it all had jake believing that there was something entirely else there.
âi need to smoke,â jake's interrupting act two of sunghoon's speech, reaching behind his ear to pull a pre-roll free. that catches both boys attention better than he had expected. âlet's go out to my car, i have like three i haven't finished.â riki says and the three of them make their way toward the double doors. the sidewalks still glisten beneath the sun, water dripping from the tree branches overhead. jake holds his blunt between his lips, lighting it carefully before inhaling sharply. he lets the smoke hit his lungs, circulating before he's exhaling through his nose. he repeats the action two more times before he's holding his hand out to riki.
who takes it without hesitation and as he's bringing the unlit end to his lips, jake is asking the question they've all been too afraid to say out loud. âdo you have feelings for yn?â the words hit riki deep in his chest, but he doesn't let himself think too deeply on it. instead, he's letting a laugh fall from his lips. a real genuine laugh that only dies when he's fitting the blunt between his lips again, taking a long drag from it. jake and sunghoon exchange a look across him, neither of them cracking the slightest of smiles. because that was answer enough and his silence after just solidified it.
riki doesn't say anything else the entire walk to his car, handing the blunt over to sunghoon and tucking his hand deep into his pocket, jake's words still linger in his mind and the fact that he truly had no other answer besides the one that he gave. and he's not even sure what's funny anymore.
riki has made a skill out of drawing you from memory. his pencil moves the moment he's sat in his room, comfortably slumped at his desk. the familiar lines of your face appearing before he even had the chance to do anything about it. every time he closed his eyes, he can still see exactly how you looked this afternoon, his hoodie covering your body. and he can't keep himself from detailing the exact image, the way the over sized shoulders hung lower than they should've, the sleeves that you had to keep rolling up. how he was fully imagining that you had nothing else underneath and all he had to do was tug a zipper to reveal your body to his greedy eyes.
you're laying back on his bed in the drawing, lip tucked between your teeth, brows knitted as obvious focus takes over your features. your hair is down in the drawing, tangled and messy in a way that it never is but he craved to see. legs spread as you lean back, the tips of your fingers peeking from the too long sleeves to reach between them. his breath hitches as his pencil moves lower, one of your hands holding the hoodie out of the way so he can watch your fingers move between your legs.
he feels the way his jeans tighten as his pencil creates the lines of your pussy, cute and dripping as always. you're making a mess on the sheets below you, arousal dripping from the tip of your fingers and he wanted so desperately to be able to suck it off. his hand reaches below his desk as his phone buzzes, the vibration rattling across the wood. his eyes shift toward it, widening when he sees your name flash on his screen.
yn. (lab freak) | 00:42
ill bring ur hoodie back tmrw
a smile immediately tugs at the corner of his lips. of course you'd be up worrying about returning his things when you should definitely be asleep. he could guess that you just finished studying too. he's typing the next two words before he can talk himself out of it, eyes flickering up to the half finished drawing of you on his desk.
riki nishimura | 00:44
keep it.
yn. (lab freak) | 00:44
are you insane?
this is a three thousand dollar hoodie.
riki laughs quietly to himself. he found it funny how the first thing you'd think of is looking up how much it cost and needing to return it back as quickly as possible now that you knew. he can practically picture you sitting there with your brows pulled together, offended on principle by the existence of a three-thousand-dollar hoodie even existing. he's nudging his drawing to the side slightly, lifting his phone with both hands before leaning back against his chair.
he can hear the way you roll your eyes through the screen and that has him grinning, pleased that he's able to annoy you even through text. he's setting his phone down, deciding that was the end of the conversation as he lifts his pencil from his desk. he's back to outlining the folds of your pussy, the way your fingers hold your lips out of his way. shading carefully to make it obvious how soft he knew you'd be. his phone is buzzing again before he can move onto your thighs.
yn. (lab freak) | 00:59
ill wash it then bring it to u
should i have it dry cleaned?
riki stares at the message for a second before laughing. you really do take everything so seriously. the hoodie had been hanging in his closet next to several others almost exactly like it three days ago. he had dropped it on your head without even thinking twice about it and if you had dropped it in a puddle he probably wouldn't have noticed until next week.
meanwhile here you were researching the specific care instructions for the garment.
riki nishimura | 01:02
why would u dry clean it
yn. (lab freak) | 01:02
bc its THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS!?
riki nishimura | 01:05
relax
i got it so long ago
its prob not even worth that much anymore
yn. (lab freak) | 01:06
easy for u to say
not all of us can spend rent money on sweaters
like its nothing
riki nishimura | 01:07
its a nice sweater???
yn. (lab freak) | 01:08
i genuinely hate talking to u
the grin stays on his face as his eyes drift toward his drawing of you staring back at him on his table. he's not sure when it happened, but conversations with you somehow have become more entertaining than drawing. which is saying something.
riki nishimura | 01:10
just keep it
yn. (lab freak) | 01:11
no
i can't.
riki nishimura | 01:11
yes u can
yn. (lab freak) | 01:13
why?
his mind drifts briefly to the memory that had him sat at his drawing desk in the first place. the reason why he wanted you to keep a hoodie that he wouldn't even let his friends breathe too hard near. it's the image of you walking the hallway, sleeves rolled up and the over sized fit. completely unaware how you looked to him, how it felt to have some sort of claim over you when all he could manage were these midnight drawings.
he liked seeing you wrapped up in something of his. it made the hundreds of drawings of you feel less pathetic, because at least when you were wearing his hoodie it was something real. tangible. there was no denying who it belonged to and he could easily convince himself that you liked the feeling of being wrapped up in him just as much as he liked seeing it. his thumbs hover over the keyboard, teeth tugging over his lower lip as he carefully types out each letter. he's locking his phone as soon as he's pressed send, walking away from it as if it'd detonate at any given moment.
the text comes through your phone immediately and you can't help the tug you feel in your chest. your eyes drift to the mirror perched at the side of the room, taking in the way his hoodie looks on your body, trying to see what you looked like in it to him. what could possibly be making him this persistent and the longer you looked, the scent of him tickling your nose with each turn of your head â his reasoning became extremely apparent. and it was much deeper than the words on your screen.
riki nishimura | 01:15
it looks good on u
the next few days felt different between the two of you. nothing had inherently changed, though. you still sat beside each other in class, still argued about assignments. still exchanged the same sarcastic remarks that had become second nature after months of being lab partners. if anything, the dynamic looked exactly the same from the outside. the problem was you and the fact that you couldn't stop noticing things now. rating everything on a yes/no scale, reading too deep into every one of your interactions, every text, every glance. it was slowly driving you insane.
because whatever research you had been doing on your relationship had shifted from just that, to you just watching him. noticing him. you first realize the shift during one of your study sessions in the library. you're halfway through reviewing practice questions, reading the questions out loud and assuming that the boy beside you was following along. when your gaze shifts to where he sits, you find riki with his sketchbook open over his textbook, pencil moving lazily across the page while he absentmindedly nodded his head to your words.
he looked like he was paying attention, taking notes even, but from a closer view you could see that was so far from the case. he was drawing, of course, and you don't miss the fact he always seemed so calm whenever he drew. you're able to peek over just enough before he's instinctively cupping his right arm around his book â the left not missing a beat. what you did see was pretty, a hand almost identical to his own holding up a shard of glass looking at the reflection. he was actively shading the eye in, but you could tell that it was meant to be him.
you spend longer than you're willing to admit watching his hands, the ease of every stroke, his confidence in every line making each one feel intentional. he switched his rings today, still silver but bulkier. a large cross rests on his middle finger, another one that looks like teeth on his thumb. there's simple bands stacked randomly on either hand and they glint with each twist of his wrists. it takes a moment for you to snap out of it, to realize that there was work that needed to be done and he was neglecting it right now.
âriki. are you even paying attention?â he nods without even looking at you, assuming that you're deep into the reading like you had been just a moment ago. he looks up when you're not saying anything else, brow raising at the annoyed expression on your features. he hadn't even truly done anything this time, but still his face is shifting into a pretty grin. âwhat chapter are we on?â he's asking with a tilt of his head, letting a soft laugh fall from his lips.
âyou're such an idiot,â his laugh echos through the library and you hate how the sound effects you, ever since the facetime call where he was high, he's been laughing more freely around you. so much that you're able to decipher his different types of laughs and whether or not they were genuine.
the library sessions only became worse after that. most days studying no longer feeling as productive as it should. you spent more time rereading the same sentences or trying not to look at him than you did actually absorbing the information. even still, you met up. notes still spread across the tables, creating review packets only to half do them. you still met up consistently, still convinced yourself that the purpose of it was entirely academic. yet every other meeting seemed to end with less and less space between the two of you than when it first started.
there was one afternoon in particular that stuck in your mind for longer than you had intended. you had been reading through the review packet, testing him while he only half listened, his attention deep in his phone but he insisted that he was paying attention. one moment you were deep into your work and before you knew it your bare thigh rested lightly against his beneath the table. which shouldn't be that big of a deal, the two of you sat close together before â but this closeness had your heart hammering.
and every time he lifted his arm, his knuckles brushed your skin. every time he shifted closer to look at something on your screen, you felt his breath brushing against your shoulder and it made you painfully aware of how little distance separated you. and how being this close to him felt so natural that whenever he was deciding to give you some space, you were quick to close the gap once again.
riki never seemed to stop looking at you, either. his eyes shifting to your lips whenever you spoke to him and you don't miss the way they would linger. which wasn't out of the ordinary, but he was done pretending that he wasn't staring. tongue tracing his lower lip as he watches the way yours move. his fingers always seemed to ghost over your skin, whether it was your thighs, your shoulders, or your waist â it was like he was constantly fighting the urge to touch you.
he was testing your boundaries, seeing how much he could push before you were scoffing and pushing him off. but much to his surprise, you hardly ever were. no matter how much space he closed between you two, how close his fingers got to your skin, you were never backing down. in fact, it seemed like you were waiting expectantly for him to do something.
like actually. but the issue was he wasn't sure, so much of your relationship existed inside of his head he couldn't trust the way you sat too close or the subtle tone hidden within your words. he needed concrete proof before he was crossing any lines and he felt his chances were extremely low.
by the end of the week, even ordinary conversations felt different. one morning you spotted him across campus while you were walking toward the dining hall with jungwon. the two of you had been hanging out a lot more since you dominated trivia night, he was actually a lot of fun to be around. the both of you saw life the same and it was nice to talk to someone that you knew was on the same wave length as you. your books are tucked against jungwon's chest, his bag hanging off of his shoulder as you babble on about the physics lecture you just left. and then, without thinking you're lifting your hand to wave riki over.
he had been walking the other way, a hand shoved in his pocket while the other scrolled through the phone. but when his eyes are landing on you, he's changing direction instantly. he falls into step with you naturally as if he'd always been part of the conversation, hip bumping against yours at the three of you walk and you fill him in easily. at first it all seemed so normal and regular, until jungwon started explaining the upcoming project, soft launching his want to work together.
jungwon is in the middle of explaining his idea for it but you're only able to listen with half of your attention, way more focused on the way riki interjects, mostly to correct the older boy an arrogant smirk on his lips. it was like the poor guy couldn't get a sentence out without riki feeling the sudden urge to prove him wrong. to prove that he was the smartest one between you three. eventually jungwon is letting out a laugh, âdude what is your problem?â you notice the frown that immediately takes over riki's features.
âi don't have a problem,â he says but it's so obvious that he does.
jungwon isn't afraid to point it out either, âyou've been arguing with everything i've said for the past ten minutes,â the accusation seemed to catch riki genuinely off guard, so annoyed by the idea of you pairing up with someone else he hadn't even realize that he was actually reacting to it. and for the first time since he walked up to you, he's falling silent with a lame shrug of his shoulders.
a few minutes later jungwon is handing you your books and waving goodbye, spotting some friends once you reach the dining hall and wanting to meet up with them instead. you wave reluctantly, watching as he turns to walk away and almost instantly riki is relaxing beside you. the tension vanished from his shoulders, his mood lifting and he was sparking conversation up with you as if he wasn't just being a dick.
at the time you didn't think too much of it. summed up his behavior with his ridiculous need to feel like he was smarter than everyone without having to try. but later that night when your mind was replaying the memory again and again, details stood out to you that hadn't before. the glare he'd send jungwon's way as he spoke, but the way his gaze would soften when he looked at you. how he seemed almost annoyed at the idea of you working together with someone that wasn't him and he looked almost ready to reject the offer before jungwon even had the chance to extend it.
he was acting extremely out of character for someone who claimed not to care about anything. even though you had waved him over, invited him into the conversation â riki still seemed strangely invested in who you spent your mornings talking to and about what. and sadly that wasn't the sort of observation you could easily forget.
unpopular opinion, you hated the weekend. they dragged for you, not really interested in partying or forced socialization. if you were doing anything it was most likely a sleepover at one of the girls' dorms where you'd binge episodes of vampire diaries. if not, you'd be holed up in your room, perfecting your essays and notes and waiting for monday to roll around again.
this weekend was different, though. clover was dragging you out of your room with the notion that you needed to photosynthesize. leaving your room had been a last minute decision, so you hadn't put much thought into what you were wearing. a short white skirt that stopped a few inches below you behind, a white tube top and riki's over sized hoodie.
choosing it had nothing to do with the fact that it still smelt like him or that it felt close enough to actually having his arms around you. those weren't deciding factors at all, it simply was the first one you could grab when you were rushing out. clover raises her brows when she sees you but doesn't say anything, it had already taken enough effort to get you outside on the weekend â she wasn't going to push her luck. the two of you make your way toward the student union for frozen yogurt, chatting happily as you bounce down the walkway arms linked together.
you're spotting him before he notices you. riki is sitting beneath a tree near the center of the courtyard, one knee drawn toward his chest, laptop resting against his lap as he types quickly â not sparing a second to look down as his fingers fly across the keyboard. students drift around him in scattered groups, but he's entirely unaware of anybody else's existence, completely locked in on whatever assignment he was trying to finish before the due date.
you break away from clover before you can even register why your body is moving, the sleeves of his hoodie falling over your hands as you cross the grass toward him. you had intended on just going over to say hi, see what he's working on before turning around to rejoin your friend. but his sketchbook catches your attention, immediately changing your plans. specifically, the fact that it's sitting unattended by his knee while he's distracted by homework.
terrible idea on his part actually. you don't even hesitate, stride picking up as you rush toward him and by the time he looks up, you've already snatched the book from the ground. wide eyes snap up at you, his laptop being ditched somewhere in the grass as he moves to stand, âyn.â he says carefully, holding his hand out like he's trying to tame you.
a sly grin spreads across your features before you're turning and running from him. the sound that leaves his lips is somewhere between a groan and a laugh. âare you fucking...â he's quick to begin chasing behind you and you're shocked to see how fast he is when you're glancing over your shoulder. âcatch me!â you call, urging yourself to run faster ahead of him.
your mistake becomes apparent almost immediately. because riki was incredibly fast. much faster than you'd assume a person that couldn't give two shits about his lungs would be. you barely make it halfway across the courtyard before you hear footsteps thundering behind you. students turn their heads as you weave through them, careful not to ram into anyone. jake laughs from somewhere in the distance. you nearly knock over a freshman and just as you're turning into the garden, a hand catches your wrist.
his movements are swift, tugging your body toward him before easily backing you against the nearest tree. for a second neither of you moves, your hand clutched beneath his big palm and pinned above your head. the sketchbook is trapped awkwardly between your chest and his and you feel the way his hips shift to trap you in place. his eyes are narrowed, a mean expression on his face as he fights to catch his breath.
you can only imagine how you look to him, flushed cheeks and messy hair caught all in your lip gloss. your breath hitches as he shifts closer to you, half-hard cock grazing your thighs and your eyes go wide. riki's movements are slow, keeping a firm grip above your head as his free hand moves to cup the side of your face. he's gentle despite how irritated he looks, thumb reaching up to swipe the hair from your lips. âyou done?â he asks, brows knitted in completely concentration as he watches the way your mouth moves under his thumb. unfortunately, irritation looked very good on him.
like embarrassingly good.
his thumb stays on your lip despite the fact he's already pushed all of your hair back in place, threatening to dip into your mouth. it's only then that you realize he had asked you a question. your eyes lift to look up at him, peeking at him through your lashes as your head bobs in a nod. âfine, you caught me.â your words come out muffled against his finger and his lips are stretching into the prettiest of smiles.
riki is taking another step forward, eliminating any remaining space between your bodies and pressing you firmly against the tree. you feel the rumble of his voice in your core as he speaks, âno shit,â he's saying with a laugh, grip loosening around your wrist to let your arm lamely fall at your side. he's holding his hand out in between you, brow raised and thumb still pressed to your lips.
âhere,â you sigh, wiggling the book from between your bodies to hand it out to him. he takes the sketchbook immediately, tucking it beneath one arm quickly. but he doesn't move, his body remains pressed against yours, dark eyes dropping down the length of your body and for the first time he's taking in the fact that you're wearing his hoodie. his fingers glide down the length of your neck, catching the fabric of the hood before reaching lower to trace the design at the collarbones and you literally see the way his mind wanders.
his mind drifts to his countless drawings of you in this very sketchbook, his hoodie swallowing your frame while your hand reveals parts of your body to his greedy eyes. and the fact that you're standing in front of him now, wearing it has a violent heat pulsing through his veins. his jaw tightens and you watch the movement closely, the purse of his lips intriguing you. he looks especially handsome today, standing this close to him makes it very hard to ignore.
he's still breathing heavily, chest rising and falling beneath the thin black shirt and you make note to tease him about his failing lungs later. the shirt cuts off at his shoulders, arms on full display and you don't miss the way the muscles flex and jump with each movement of his hands; which are covered in his same silver rings, bracelets stacked on his wrists. a few strands of his sandy blond hair has fallen into his eyes, sticking up in every direction from having to chase after you.
you hate how standing this close forces you to notice things that you never have before, the tiny mole on his lash line, how obnoxiously high his cheekbones were, there's a pretty glow to his skin that gives away to the existence of his skincare routine, interrupted only by the light flush on his cheeks, the tip his ears an unmistakable red. you almost sum it up to the chase, until you're feeling his cock jump against your thigh.
your eyes snap up to his face, âriki...â you start but he doesn't hear you, he's too busy curling his fingers around the large zipper resting against your chest. his lip is caught between his teeth and his eyes are glued to his fingers as they slowly drag the zipper of his hoodie down. you're afraid he'd feel the pounding in your chest as his knuckles drag over it, just slightly brushing against the fabric of your shirt â right between your breasts. you're letting out a breathless sound that you don't really understand, but it has a smirk lifting the corners of his lips the dimple on his right cheek making an appearance.
âyou're such a brat,â he's mumbling and you're only just now realizing how deep his voice truly is. it leaves you speechless, like literally you feel like your brain is fried. your lips part to speak but no words come out, all you can do is stare at him. and try desperately to ignore the heat that rises in your chest, the familiar throb between your legs as his hand reaches back up toward the collar of the hoodie. he's easily knocking it off of your shoulders before reaching over to do the same on the other side. the fabric pools at your elbows and he's easily sliding it off of you, tucking the garment beneath his arm with his sketchbook. âbrats don't deserve expensive gifts,â
he's stepping back fully after that and despite the sun beating down on your bodies, you feel freezing. your arms fold over your chest immediately, a pout forming on your lips. âriki, i'll be cold.â he's letting out a short laugh, shoulders lifting in a lazy shrug, already taking steps backward to return to his spot under the tree before you had decided to bother him. âthat's your punishment,â he says through a grin, amusement lacing his tone.
you're not sure how long you stand there watching his back after he turned to walk away, you just know it takes that long for you to regain your composure. your heart can't seem to stop pounding, blush flushing your cheeks and the back of your neck and an uncomfortable wetness between your legs. what the hell was that? when you had stolen his book, which you had no intention to go through really, you had assumed that he'd ignore you or get annoyed, demand for you to give it back.
not trap you against a tree where everyone could see and undress you. yes, he was just taking his hoodie back, but he still undressed you! âoh my god,â your hands lift to cover your cheeks, head shaking from side to side. after all the evaluating and analyzing, over analyzing. you couldn't believe you missed one possible factor. whether or not riki was in love with you aside, you forgot to account for the other potential aspect. the messier side of the hypothesis that required much more digging.
your feelings for riki.
[ i'm obsessed with these two lwk, what did you think? + if u asked to be tagged & aren't turn my notifs on! tumblr didn't let me tag a lot of u :/ ]
so uh maybe i'm psycho but i was watching a jake sully edit and was suddenly possessed with the desire for a delicious riki avatar au... like... i'm not good enough to write it myself but if anyone does... or if there's one out there PLEASEE tag me
so icked out looking at riki tags and seeing so much cheating bullshit... oh my fuck actually get that shit off my screen. that lack of respect people have for relationships and emotions is disgustinggg. being a slut and sleeping around is one thing, but cheating actually makes me lose so much respect for writers. i don't care if it's 'fictional'- you're the one getting off on that bullshit
so uh why am i searching 'marcus lopez arguello' and only getting fuck ass mattheo riddle fics? if thats you !STOPPP! I want deadly class not harry potter
atp yous are just acting blind and deaf. belift lit releasing enhas private dm thing on weverse is them showing their true colours and how they are ABSOLUTELY being affected by the boycott. let me remind you how the members have criticised private wv dms before calling it "too capitalistic". this is not something they want to do and the company is just attempting ANOTHER cheap cash grab because they know yous will succumb w ur borderline obsessive parasocial relationships w the members.
hot take here but antiboycott ot7 is the same as ot6+1 you are not doing anything by just dropping tags or doomposting online. if you are truly ot7 you KNOW the only way that company will listen is if we boycott. they have shown consistently they do not give a shit about our feelings they only care when their money is involved in the matter. you cant take BARELY any action and seriously expect heeseung to be back its delusional. nd yous should be boycotting anyways even if ur ot6 who claim to care abt the members though they look away when enhas being abused and overworked right in front of our eyes? very selective i see
if this is true, call me a fake fan but i would not be able to take anymore. atp, i'd just have to love them from a distance, and stop being so attached.
Summary: Two years into your meticulously structured marriage, an unexpected pregnancy introduces the ultimate unpredictable variable into the quiet sanctuary you share with Jake. As you both navigate the overwhelming sensory challenges of impending parenthood, Jake must step outside his comfort zone to prove he can be the unshakable wall your growing family needs.
Warnings: Autism Spectrum Representation (Level 1/high support needs), Sensory Overload & Meltdowns, Pregnancy & Morning Sickness (Emesis), Childbirth/Medical Anxiety, Panic Attacks, Mild Angst. Very Mild Smut, unprotected sex (due to sensory aversions), sensory-focused intimacy, overstimulation, pregnancy themes.
A/N: after so many requests itâs finally here!!! Thanks to all the readers that gave me ideas to incorporate in here , love yaaa. And truly thank you for all the love for finding where we fit!!đ„čAnyways Like always Please Like, Reblog and Comment! They are very appreciated.
[Masterlist]
The morning sun filtered softly through the edges of the drawn blackout curtains, casting a hazy, warm glow across the bedroom. You lay perfectly still beneath the familiar, heavy comfort of the fifteen-pound grey weighted blanket, anchored to the mattress by your husband.
Jake slept exactly as he had since the very first time you spent the night: like a clinging octopus. His broad chest was pressed flush against your back, his heavy arm slung securely over your waist, and his long legs were tangled inextricably with yours. His breathing was a slow, steady rhythm against your spine.
You carefully brought your left hand up to the edge of the blanket, watching the morning light catch the simple band of polished titanium and lapis lazuli on your ring finger. It had been two years since the quiet, intimately controlled wedding in your backyard. Two years of being Jake Sim's permanent variable.
And exactly one hour since you had locked yourself in the master bathroom, stared at a plastic stick, and watched two pink lines bloom into existence.
"Your heart is beating really fast," a deep, sleep-rough voice rumbled against the nape of your neck.
You jumped slightly, your breath catching. You turned your head to see Jake's face pressed into your pillow, a mess of dark, fluffy curls sticking up in every direction. He blinked his large, dark brown eyes slowly. The sleep-heavy softness of his face completely stripped away the hyper-vigilant tension he carried outside these walls.
"Did you have a bad dream?" he murmured, his voice laced with genuine concern. He pulled you a fraction closer, his large hand flattening against your stomach to offer the deep pressure he knew grounded you both. "The room is quiet, Y/N. Everything's safe."
"No bad dreams, Jakey," you promised, shifting your weight to turn and face him, managing a shaky but genuine smile. "I'm just... thinking about how happy I am."
Jake smiled, a soft, sleepy curve of his lips that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He reached up, his long fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw. "I like that," he whispered, his thumb brushing over your cheek. "I'm happy too. The temperature is right at 68, the blanket feels good, and you're here. It's a perfect morning."
It was a perfect morning, but beneath your ribs, your heart was doing a frantic, terrified flutter.
You were exactly one month pregnant.
You knew without a doubt when it had happened. A month ago, after a quiet, beautiful dinner at home to celebrate your second anniversary, the math of your cycle tracking had apparently failed.
Physical intimacy with Jake had always required an immense level of trust and sensory management. Early in your marriage, you had tried utilizing standard protections. But the introduction of a condom had triggered an immediate, devastating sensory failure for him. You still remembered how his body had gone rigid beneath you. The latex had felt like a suffocating barrier, a synthetic, rubbery texture that created a "secondary friction" completely overwhelming his delicate receptors. He had lost the physical sensation almost immediately, the "noise" of the unnatural texture drowning out the intimacy. He had pulled away midway through, his hands trembling as he stripped it off, his breathing hitched in a sudden wave of panic and overstimulation.
He had been so devastated, so terrified that his neurology was "broken" and ruining the experience for you. You had immediately stopped, wrapped him in his weighted blanket, and held him until the static faded. You promised him right then and there that you would never force a variable that hurt him.
So, you became the gatekeeper. You rigorously researched cycle tracking, charting your basal body temperature and monitoring your fertility windows. It was a highly logical, data-driven system that Jake appreciated immensely. On the safe days, you allowed him the barrier-free, skin-to-skin contact that his sensory processor so desperately cravedâthe only time his mind was truly, beautifully silent.
But biology, it seemed, didn't care about your data.
"Are you ready to get up?" Jake asked, pulling you out of your spiraling thoughts. He bumped his nose affectionately against yours. "It's Tuesday. Grilled cheese day."
"I'm ready," you whispered, leaning in to press a firm, grounding kiss to his lips.
Thirty minutes later, you were fully dressed in your work clothesâcomfortable slacks and, as always, your quiet, rubber-soled Converse sneakers.
The life you had built together over the last two years was a masterpiece of careful adjustments. The transition into marriage had been blissful, but it hadn't been without its growing pains.
The biggest hurdle had come exactly three months after the wedding. That was when Sarah, holding back tears of both pride and sorrow, had officially packed up the rest of her belongings and moved to the bright, sunny condo she had purchased 4.2 miles away. She knew that for you and Jake to truly build a life as husband and wife, you needed the beige house to yourselves.
Jake had understood the logic. He had agreed to the timeline. But the reality of the shift had absolutely devastated him.
For the first two weeks after Sarah left, Jake had experienced a profound system crash. The ambient noise of the house was wrong without her footsteps. The smell of her specific brand of herbal tea was missing from the kitchen. The sudden absence of the woman who had spent twenty-four years shielding him from the world was a massive, gaping void.
He hadn't touched his LEGOs for fourteen days. He had retreated to the bedroom, living under the weighted blanket, the blackout curtains drawn, trapped in a spiral of dysregulation and grief. He didn't speak much. He just rocked, overwhelmed by the missing variable.
You hadn't pushed him. You hadn't tried to force him to be "okay." You had simply climbed under the blanket with him. You provided the deep pressure, the quiet reassurance, and the absolute certainty that while the variables had changed, the sanctuary remained intact. You took over the routines, proving to him day by day that you could keep the world at bay just as well as his mother had. And slowly, the static had cleared. Sarah started coming over for Tuesday dinners, and a new, stable routine had blossomed.
Now, the house operated like a well-oiled machine, supporting both of your new lives.
You had officially left the agency shortly before the wedding. Now, you worked full-time as the program coordinator at a local community center, specializing in designing sensory-friendly recreational programs for neurodivergent teens. It was fulfilling work that utilized your social work degree without the draining bureaucracy of your old job.
And Jake wasn't just sitting idle, either. With your encouragement, he had turned his hyper-fixation into a thriving, quiet career.
He now ran a highly successful online business restoring and selling vintage, discontinued LEGO sets. People from all over the country would mail him boxes of mixed, dirty, incomplete bricks. Jake would meticulously clean them, sort them, source the missing pieces down to the exact molding variants, and reassemble them to ensure structural integrity before selling them to collectors at a premium. He also took on custom architectural commissions, designing incredibly complex scale models for independent firms.
He worked from the safety of his living room, surrounded by his organized bins. He made his own hours, controlled his own environment, and contributed to the household income in a way that made him deeply, visibly proud.
Walking into the kitchen, you found him standing at the round wooden table, bathed in the carefully filtered morning light. He was wearing a dark navy blue hoodie with the sleeves pulled down over his knuckles. In front of him on a blue plate was his breakfast: two uniform yellow scrambled eggs, separated perfectly from three strips of bacon cut into precise one-inch squares.
You stood at the kitchen island, packing your canvas tote bag for the day. You slipped your wallet, your planner, and the positive pregnancy testâwrapped tightly in a tissue and shoved deep into an interior zippered pocketâinside.
Then, you reached into the small, decorative ceramic bowl you kept on the counter. Inside were two distinct pieces of plastic.
One was a solid, red 2x4 LEGO brick.
The other was a translucent blue, polycarbonite "power blast" web piece.
You picked up the blue web piece, rubbing your thumb over the sharp, molded plastic edges. You slipped it into the front pocket of your cardigan, a daily ritual. The red brick, however, you left in the ceramic bowl. It belonged here, in the center of the home.
Jake chewed his bacon rhythmically, swallowed, and took a sip of his water from a clear glass.
"You're taking the web piece today," Jake observed, his keen eyes tracking your movement as he wiped his mouth carefully with a napkin.
"I am," you smiled, walking over to wrap your arms around his shoulders from behind, pressing a kiss to his temple. "I have a big meeting with the city funding board today. I might need a little extra structural support."
Jake leaned his head back against your chest, seeking the deep pressure, his hands coming up to rest over your arms. "Polycarbonite is highly resilient," he reminded you softly. "It won't break. You're going to do great at the meeting. You have all the data prepared."
"Thanks, baby," you replied, though your voice wavered just a fraction at the affectionate nickname.
He didn't catch the slight tremor, too focused on the comfort of your touch. He speared a forkful of eggs. "I have a big project today, too," he told you, chewing carefully. "A collector in Seattle sent me a massive bin of unsorted bricks. They think there's an original 2007 Ultimate Collector's Millennium Falcon in there. I get to sort it all. It's going to be incredibly satisfying."
"That sounds like a perfect Tuesday for you, Jakey," you murmured, smoothing down the soft fabric of his hoodie. "I'll be home at exactly 4:15 PM."
"4:15 PM," he confirmed, his shoulders relaxing completely at the predictable timeline. "I'll make sure the living room is quiet for you when you get back."
You grabbed your tote bag and headed for the front door, the weight of the hidden plastic test feeling heavier than an anvil against your side.
Jake's entire world, his career, his mental health, his beautiful, brilliant mindâit was all built on managed expectations and calculated variables. He thrived on his routines because it was the only way he could survive the overwhelming sensory input of existence.
And in less than nine months, the ultimate unpredictable, loud, messy, chaotic variable was going to be introduced into his carefully controlled sanctuary. You loved him more than anything in the world, but as you started your car, a tear slipped down your cheek. You had absolutely no idea how you were going to tell him without shattering his peace.
The next five days were an agonizing exercise in compartmentalization.
You had always prided yourself on being Jakeâs safe harbor, the one variable in his life that never fluctuated, never lied, and never introduced unnecessary chaos. But now, you were carrying a secret that felt like a ticking time bomb, and hiding it from a man who noticed every micro-shift in your breathing was proving to be nearly impossible. Yet, those same five days also highlighted just how incredibly, breathtakingly intimate your marriage had become.
The intimacy wasn't just in the dark of the bedroom, though the skin-to-skin contact remained his ultimate grounding mechanism. The true intimacy was in the daylight. It was in the way Jake had stopped asking for permission to enter your space. If you were sitting on the couch reading a case file for work, he wouldnât sit on the opposite end anymore; he would slide onto the cushions, drape his long legs over your lap, and pull your free hand down to rest flat against his chest. He needed you the way he needed oxygen.
On Thursday evening, you were standing at the stove, trying to focus on boiling pasta. The smell of the boiling starch, which had never bothered you before, was suddenly turning your stomach into a churning, uneasy knot. Jake walked into the kitchen, his silent footsteps barely registering until you felt his broad chest press firmly against your back. His heavy arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you completely flush against him. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck.
"Your baseline temperature is elevated," he murmured, his breath warm against your pulse point. His large hands flattened against your stomach, spreading his fingers wide. "You are radiating more heat than your standard output. And your skin is slightly clammy."
You froze, the wooden spoon stalling in the pot of water. He was a human thermometer. "I'm just a little warm from the stove, Spidey," you lied smoothly, leaning back into his solid weight to distract him. "The boiling water is creating a lot of steam."
Jake hummed, a deep vibration of thought, but his hands didn't leave your stomach. He pressed slightly harder, offering that deep, soothing pressure. "If the thermal environment is uncomfortable, I can adjust the thermostat. Or I can finish the pasta sequence. You should sit down."
"I'm okay, Jake, really," you promised, turning your head to kiss his cheek.
He didn't argue, but he didn't leave your side, either. He stayed pressed against you for the entire cooking process, his thumb gently, rhythmically stroking the fabric of your shirt right over the exact spot where a new life was currently dividing into cells. The profound, heartbreaking sweetness of his touch made you want to burst into tears right there into the pasta water.
By Sunday, the secret became entirely physical.
It started the moment you opened your eyes. The blackout curtains were drawn, the room was a cool 68 degrees, and Jakeâs heavy leg was thrown over yours beneath the weighted blanket. It was the perfect Sunday morning.
But the moment you shifted, a sudden, violent wave of nausea hit you so hard the room spun.
You slapped a hand over your mouth, practically shoving Jakeâs arm off your waist as you bolted upright. You scrambled out of the bed, your bare feet hitting the hardwood, and sprinted for the master bathroom.
You barely made it to the toilet before your stomach violently emptied itself.
You dropped to your knees on the cold tile, gripping the porcelain as you heaved, coughing and gasping for air. The sound was loud, sudden, and harshâexactly the kind of chaotic, unpredictable noise that usually sent Jakeâs sensory system into an immediate tailspin.
But Jake didn't cover his ears. He didn't hide under the blanket.
Less than five seconds later, the bathroom door was pushed open. Jake dropped to his knees right behind you on the bathmat. He didn't hesitate. He wrapped one arm securely across your collarbone to hold you upright, and placed his other large, warm palm flat against the center of your spine, pressing down with firm, unyielding pressure.
"Deep pressure," he chanted softly, his voice remarkably steady despite the chaotic situation. "I am the wall. Breathe into the wall, Y/N."
You heaved again, a miserable, wet sob tearing from your throat, and leaned your entire weight backward into his chest. He held you flawlessly. He didn't flinch at the smell or the sound. Two years ago, a sick person would have been a massive biological hazard to his rigid need for cleanliness. Today, his only concern was the fact that his permanent variable was in distress. When the nausea finally subsided to a dull, aching throb, you slumped against him, resting your sweaty forehead on your arm.Jake reached up with his free hand, grabbing a towel from the rack. He gently wiped your mouth, his brow furrowed in intense, analytical concern.
"Your system is violently expelling data," he observed, his dark eyes scanning your pale, sweat-dampened face. "Your heart rate is erratic. Are you experiencing acute gastrointestinal distress?"
"I think so," you gasped, letting him pull you backward so you were sitting against his chest on the floor. You closed your eyes, the guilt of what you were about to do sitting heavier in your stomach than the sickness. "I'm so sorry, Jake. I know the sound is loud."
"The sound is irrelevant," he stated firmly, pulling you tighter against him. "You are malfunctioning. We need to identify the variable. Did you ingest a pathogen?"
"It must have been lunch on Friday," you lied, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "I went to that new deli with my coworkers. I had a turkey sandwich. It... the mayonnaise must have been bad."
Jake's eyes narrowed slightly as his internal processor immediately crunched the numbers. "Foodborne illness," he muttered, his fingers drumming a quick, anxious rhythm against your arm. "The incubation period for Salmonella can range from six hours to six days. Staphylococcal food poisoning usually occurs within thirty minutes to eight hours. Given the timeline, a Campylobacter or Salmonella infection is statistically probable."
He was applying logic to your lie, accepting it instantly because it fit a mathematical parameter. And more importantly, he accepted it because you were the one saying it. You never lied to him.
"I just need to lie down," you whispered, feeling a fresh wave of tears prick your eyes.
"Yes. Rest is the optimal recovery protocol," Jake agreed immediately. He stood up, incredibly careful not to jostle you, and then reached down to help you to your feet.
He guided you back to the bed, pulling the sheets and the weighted blanket back so you could slide in. He tucked the heavy grey fabric tightly around your shoulders, cocooning you in safety.
"I will procure hydration," he announced, his face set in a mask of determined focus. "Electrolyte imbalance is a secondary threat to vomiting. I will also eliminate environmental stressors. The house will remain at a volume level of zero."
"You don't have to do all that, Jake," you mumbled into the pillow, utterly exhausted by the physical toll of the morning sickness and the emotional toll of the deception.
"I am the husband," he said simply, as if that explained the fundamental physics of the universe. "It is my protocol to maintain your structural integrity."
He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to your warm forehead, before turning and leaving the room on silent feet.
For the next two hours, you drifted in and out of a restless sleep. True to his word, the house was entirely silent. You didn't hear the clink of dishes or the usual low hum of his LEGO sorting.
In the laundry room down the hall, Jake was executing a new system.
If there was a biological pathogen in the house, his logic dictated that all potential vectors of contamination needed to be sanitized. He had gathered the clothes you had worn over the last days, including the work slacks and the light jacket you had discarded over the back of the armchair in the bedroom.
Jake stood in front of the washing machine. He liked the washing machine. The cyclical rotation of the drum was mathematically soothing, and the detergent smelled clean and predictable.He meticulously checked the pockets of your clothing. It was a strict rule: foreign objects in the washing machine could disrupt the balance of the drum or create catastrophic clanking noises during the spin cycle.He emptied a crumpled receipt and a stray pen from your slacks. Then, he picked up your light jacket.
He reached his long fingers into the deep, zippered interior pocket. He felt something hard, wrapped in a layer of soft tissue paper. Jake pulled it out. He unwrapped the tissue paper carefully, placing it in the wastebasket, and held the plastic object up to the light. It was a white plastic stick, roughly five inches long, with a small digital screen and a square window. Inside the window, there were two distinct, highly saturated pink lines.Jake frowned, tilting his head. His brain immediately began searching its vast databases for a match. It looked like a medical diagnostic tool. He knew what a thermometer looked like; this was not a thermometer. Two pink lines.
He stared at it for a long, quiet minute. He turned it over, looking for a manufacturer label or a model number, but there was only a small logo he didn't immediately recognize.
His chest felt tight. A new, unidentified variable in his house was always a cause for a slight spike in anxiety. But this variable belonged to you. You had hidden it in your interior zipper pocket.Logic dictated that if you were utilizing a medical diagnostic tool, it was related to the systemic failure you had experienced in the bathroom. The food poisoning.Jake didn't panic. He just needed the data. He needed to understand the mechanics of the tool so he could properly assist in your recovery.
He left the laundry room, the plastic stick grasped loosely in his hand, and walked silently down the hallway. You were half-asleep when the bedroom door clicked open. The hinges were perfectly oiledâJake maintained them monthly to prevent squeakingâso the door made no sound. You opened your eyes heavily, blinking against the dim light. Jake was standing at the foot of the bed. His posture wasn't rigid, but he looked deeply confused, his head tilted to the side like a dog trying to understand a new command.
"Hey, Spidey," you rasped, shifting under the weighted blanket. "Did you finish the laundry?"
"I paused the sequence," Jake said softly, keeping his voice pitched low to accommodate your headache. He took a few steps forward, coming to stand beside the mattress. "Is the machine unbalanced?" you asked, rubbing your eyes.
"No. The machine is optimal." Jake looked down at his hand, then looked at you. His large, dark brown eyes were filled with pure, unadulterated innocence and a deep desire to comprehend.
He held his hand out, opening his long fingers to reveal the plastic stick resting in his palm. "Y/N," he began, his voice perfectly calm and inquisitive. "I was executing the pocket-clearing protocol to prevent lint contamination and auditory disruption in the washing machine. I found this in your jacket."
The blood in your veins instantly turned to ice water.
Your entire body went rigid beneath the blanket. The air vanished from your lungs. You stared at the plastic stick in his hand, the two glaring pink lines practically screaming at you in the quiet room.
No. No, no, no. "I do not recognize this diagnostic tool," Jake continued, entirely oblivious to the catastrophic internal explosion happening in your brain. He brought the stick a few inches closer to his face, analyzing the window again. "It has two highly saturated pink lines. I hypothesize that it is a chemical reagent test."
He lowered the stick and looked at you, his brow furrowing in genuine concern.
"Is this for the Salmonella?" he asked innocently. "Does it measure the pathogen load in your system? I did not know they manufactured rapid tests for foodborne illnesses."
You were caught so completely, so devastatingly off guard that your voice simply ceased to exist.You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your heart was hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against your ribsâa rhythm so loud you were certain Jakeâs sensitive ears could pick it up. He saw your panic. His own eyes widened slightly, his internal processor snagging on your sudden, profound distress.
"Y/N?" he murmured, taking a step closer, the plastic stick still held in his hand. "Your breathing just became incredibly shallow. Your pupils are dilated. Did I do something wrong? Was this a private medical variable?"
"Jake..." you choked out, the word barely a whisper. You pushed yourself up on your elbows, your hands shaking violently. He instantly dropped the test onto the nightstand. The sharp clack of the plastic hitting the wood echoed in the quiet room, but he didn't care. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, reaching out to grab both of your trembling hands in his. "Deep pressure," he said immediately, his voice rising in pitch as your panic triggered his own. He squeezed your hands tightly, his brown eyes searching yours frantically. "I'm sorry. I breached your privacy. I just wanted to process the data so I could help you fix the malfunction. Please don't look like that. The static is getting loud, Y/N."
"You didn't do anything wrong," you gasped, pulling one of your hands free to cup his face. His skin was warm, his jaw tense with sudden anxiety. "You didn't breach my privacy, Jakey. I'm not mad at you. I'm not."
"Then why are your hands shaking?" he pleaded, leaning his face heavily into your palm. "Why is your heart beating like you are in danger? The house is safe."
You looked from his beautiful, terrified face to the plastic stick sitting innocently on the nightstand. There was no more compartmentalizing. There was no more waiting for the 'perfect time' to introduce the variable. The data was on the table.
"Jake," you whispered, your voice cracking as the first tear spilled over your eyelashes. "I lied to you."
Jake froze entirely.
The word lied was a massive, system-crashing error code in his brain. People outside the house lied. People in stores, people at the agency, people who didn't understand himâthey lied. But you were the baseline. You were the permanent variable. You did not lie."You... gave me false data?" he asked, his voice dropping to a hollow, devastating whisper. He didn't pull away from your hand, but his entire body went as rigid as a board. "Yes," you sobbed, using your thumb to stroke his cheekbone desperately, trying to keep him grounded. "I didn't have a turkey sandwich on Friday. I don't have Salmonella, Jake." He blinked rapidly, his processor struggling to re-route the information. "Then why did your system violently expel its contents? Why is your temperature elevated? If there is no pathogen..."
He stopped. He slowly turned his head to look at the plastic stick on the nightstand.
He was brilliant. He didn't have the social scripts, but he understood biology, chemistry, and systemic reactions better than anyone. He stared at the two pink lines.
Diagnostic tool. Elevated temperature. Morning nausea.You watched the exact second the realization hit him. Jake's breath hitchedâa sharp, jagged sound that seemed to tear its way out of his throat. His dark eyes went impossibly wide, his pupils expanding until they almost swallowed the brown irises. He slowly, mechanically turned his head back to look at you.
"The barrier," he whispered, his voice trembling so violently it barely sounded like him. "On our anniversary. The sensory failure. We did not... we did not use the barrier."
"We didn't," you confirmed, the tears flowing freely down your face now.
He stared at your stomach. The same stomach he had been pressing his hands against for the last five days to provide deep pressure. "That is not a test for a pathogen," Jake said, his voice entirely devoid of its usual factual cadence. It was raw, breathless, and stripped bare. "That is an hCG test. It measures the human chorionic gonadotropin hormone."
"Yes," you cried softly. Jake slowly pulled his hands out of your grasp. He didn't do it aggressively, but the loss of his deep pressure left you feeling terrifyingly unmoored. He sat back on his heels, his hands hovering uselessly in the air for a moment before he wrapped them tightly around his own torso, applying his own pressure.
He began to rock. It wasn't a violent, meltdown rock. It was a slow, rhythmic sway, forward and backward on his knees. Forward, back. Forward, back. He squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing coming in short, erratic bursts.
"Jake," you pleaded, leaning over the edge of the bed to try and reach for him.
"Too much data," he whimpered, slapping his hands over his ears. He curled his head down toward his chest, hiding his face. "It's too much data. The variable is too big. The volume is at maximum."
Your heart shattered into a million pieces. This was exactly what you had been terrified of. A baby wasn't just a life change for Jake; it was a sensory explosion. It was crying that couldn't be reasoned with, unpredictability that couldn't be scheduled, and a total dismantling of the quiet, controlled environment he needed to survive.
"I'm sorry," you sobbed, sliding off the mattress and dropping to your knees right in front of him. You didn't try to pull his hands away from his ears. You knew better. Instead, you wrapped your arms around his entire curled-up form, burying your face in the soft fabric of his hoodie. You squeezed him with everything you had, becoming the heavy blanket he desperately needed. "I'm so sorry, Jakey. I didn't know how to tell you. I was so scared of breaking your peace."
He rocked against you, the physical momentum jarring your bones, but you held on tighter. "It's going to be okay," you whispered fiercely against his shoulder, hoping he could feel the vibration of your voice even if he couldn't hear the words over his covered ears. "We write our own code, remember? We'll figure it out. I won't let it be too loud. I promise."
For ten agonizing minutes, you sat on the floor of the bedroom, holding your husband as his world tilted violently off its axis.Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the rocking began to decelerate. The frantic, jagged gasps for air smoothed out into deep, shuddering breaths.Jake's hands slowly lowered from his ears.
He uncurled his body, remaining on his knees but straightening his spine. You loosened your grip, leaning back just enough to look at his face. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes wet with tears, and his jaw was clenched tightly as he fought to process the massive system update. He didn't look at you at first. He looked down at your stomach again. He slowly, hesitantly reached out with his right hand. His fingers were trembling. He didn't apply deep pressure this time. For the first time in your entire relationship, his touch was feather-light. His palm barely brushed the fabric of your pajama shirt, resting softly over your womb. "There is a secondary heartbeat in the house," Jake whispered, the awe in his voice cutting through the panic like a laser. "Yes," you breathed, placing your hand gently over his.
He finally looked up at your face. The sheer terror of the unpredictable variables was still there, swimming in the depths of his dark eyes, but it was being rapidly overwritten by something else. A profound, consuming gravity.
"I did not calculate this," he said, his voice thick with tears. "I do not have the manual for how to be a father. The crying... the biological fluids... the disrupted sleep cycles. It is a mathematical nightmare."
"I know," you smiled wetly.
Jake's thumb twitched against your stomach. A single tear slipped down his cheek.
"But," he continued, a watery, blindingly beautiful smile breaking through the fear, "it is our variable. It is a combination of my data and your data. It is fifty percent you."
"And fifty percent you," you whispered back.
He let out a long, shuddering exhale, collapsing forward into your arms. He buried his face in your neck, wrapping you in a crushing, desperate hug that finally restored the deep pressure you both needed.
"We will require a massive restructuring of the schedule," he mumbled into your skin, his logical brain already starting to construct a new system to handle the chaos. "We will need noise-canceling headphones for the infant to protect its own auditory receptors. And we will need to purchase the LEGO Duplo sets. They are structurally appropriate for early motor skill development."
You laughed, a loud, joyous sound that echoed in the quiet room, tangling your fingers in his dark hair.
"We have nine months to build the schedule, Spidey," you promised, holding him as tightly as you could.
"Nine months," he echoed, pulling back just enough to press a firm, deeply intentional kiss to your lips. "That is approximately 274 days. We will optimize the environment. The house will be safe." He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closing in complete surrender. "I love you, Y/N. And I love our anomaly."
The transition into the second trimester hit you like a freight train.
Five months had passed since the morning the two pink lines had rewritten the algorithm of your lives. It was now late October, and the world outside the beige house was a flurry of biting winds and dead, brown leaves. Inside, however, the house was a carefully maintained 69 degrees.You sat heavily on the edge of the living room sofa, staring down at your feet. They didn't even look like your feet anymore. They were swollen, puffy, and aching with a dull, relentless throb that radiated all the way up to your calves. Your belly was undeniably, magnificently large, resting heavily in your lap beneath the oversized fabric of one of Jakeâs vintage Spider-Man hoodies.You had taken an early leave from your job at the community center around month two. The sensory-friendly programs you ran for the teens were fulfilling, but they were also unpredictable. The sudden loud noises, the emotional heavy lifting, and the physical demands had caused a few terrifying stress-spikes early in the pregnancy. Jakeâs processor had essentially red-lined. He had compiled a fifty-page binder of statistical data on maternal stress and fetal development, presented it to you over Tuesday grilled cheese, and firmly requested that you prioritize your structural integrity. You hadn't argued; the exhaustion had already been sinking its claws into you.
So, you were home. You were the permanent, stationary variable.
And right now, you were crying over a vegetable.
"I don't understand," Jake murmured, his voice tight. He was standing by the kitchen island, surrounded by the brown paper bags of your weekly grocery delivery.
He held up a clear plastic clamshell container. Inside were six perfectly uniform, miniature Persian cucumbers.
"You requested the small, green, cylindrical gourds," Jake said, his brow furrowed in deep, anxious confusion. He looked from the container to your face, his dark eyes wide and panicked. "I selected the organic Cucumis sativus. The reviews indicated a high level of structural crunch. They are exactly as requested."
"Jake," you sobbed, burying your face in your hands. The tears were hot, fast, and entirely irrational, fueled by a cocktail of second-trimester hormones and sheer physical exhaustion. "I wanted pickles. I wrote 'baby dills' on the shared list. Pickles."
Jake stared at the cucumbers, his brain rapidly cycling through the data.
"Pickles are cucumbers," he stated, his voice pitching up slightly. "They are cucumbers submerged in an acetic acid solution. The vendor interface did not specify the brining process in the primary search results. I... I procured the base ingredient. I can initiate a brine. It requires vinegar, sodium chloride, and dill weed. The fermentation process will take approximately three to four daysâ"
"I don't want them in three days!" you wailed, the sound escaping you before you could clamp a hand over your mouth. "I want them right now! And my feet hurt, and I can't even see my own toes to put my socks on, and I just wanted a stupid, salty pickle!"
You instantly regretted the volume of your voice. The loud, unpredictable sound of crying was one of Jake's most sensitive triggers. It was chaotic audio data that his brain struggled to categorize. Through the gaps in your fingers, you saw the immediate physical toll your breakdown was taking on him. Jake froze. His broad shoulders hitched up rigidly toward his ears. The clamshell of cucumbers dropped onto the granite counter with a sharp plastic clack. His hands flew up, hovering just an inch over his ears, his fingers twitching violently as he fought the overwhelming, instinctual urge to clamp them down and block out the noise. His breathing hitched, catching in a ragged, shallow gasp. The static was deafening him. You could see it in the terrified, wide-blown look in his eyes. He was on the absolute edge of a system crash. "I'm sorry," you choked out, trying desperately to swallow the sobs, your chest heaving. "I'm so sorry, Jakey. I'm being too loud. Please, go get your headphones. I'm fine. I'm just hormonal."
You hated this. You hated putting this heavy, unpredictable emotional weight on him. He worked so incredibly hard every single day to manage his environment, to be the steady, logical anchor you needed, and here you were, flooding his sanctuary with chaotic noise over a grocery mix-up. The guilt compounded the tears, making them fall even faster. Jake looked at his noise-canceling headphones, which were resting on the edge of the coffee table. They were his shield. They were the emergency exit.
He looked at the headphones, and then he looked at youâweeping, swollen, and miserable on the sofa. He didn't grab the headphones. Jake let out a low, agonizing groan, his hands dropping forcibly from his ears. He curled them into tight fists at his sides, his knuckles turning stark white as he forced himself to physically override his own sensory defense mechanisms. He crossed the living room in three long, stiff strides. He didn't sit beside you. He dropped straight to his knees on the plush rug, right in front of your swollen feet. "You are not fine," Jake said, his voice trembling under the immense strain of remaining present. "You are leaking. Your pain receptors are firing. The volume is... the volume is high, but the variable is you. I am not leaving the variable."
"Jake, your ears," you wept, reaching out to touch his tense shoulder. "It's too loud for you."
"I am the husband," he gritted out, squeezing his eyes shut for a microsecond to re-center himself. "It is my protocol to fix the malfunction." He didn't hesitate. He reached out and wrapped his large, warm hands around your right foot. He applied immediate, intense deep pressure, his thumbs digging firmly into the aching arch of your foot, his fingers wrapping around your heel.
The relief was so sudden and profound that a fresh sob tore from your throat, but this one was a sound of release.Jake flinched slightly at the sound, but his grip didn't falter. He began to systematically massage the swollen tissue, moving with robotic, mathematical precision. Press, hold, release. Press, hold, release. He used his body weight to push the pooling fluid back up your calf, his dark head bowed in absolute concentration. "The edema is severe," he murmured, his voice still tight, but the repetitive physical motion of the massage was beginning to ground him. "The fluid retention is a standard biological response to the second trimester, but the hydrostatic pressure must be incredibly uncomfortable. The deep pressure should stimulate the lymphatic system."
"It feels so good," you breathed, leaning your head back against the sofa cushions, the tears finally beginning to slow. "Jake, it feels amazing. Thank you."
He moved to your left foot, applying the exact same pounds per square inch of pressure. He worked in silence for ten minutes. The only sound in the living room was your gradually steadying breath and the ticking of the wall clock.
Slowly, you felt the rigid tension in Jake's shoulders begin to melt. His breathing synced with yours.
"I'm sorry I cried," you whispered into the quiet room, wiping your damp cheeks with the oversized sleeves of his hoodie. "I know how much you hate it when I'm sad. And I know the noise hurts you. I didn't mean to overload your system."
Jake stopped rubbing your foot. He shifted his weight, moving up so he was kneeling between your knees. He rested his hands flat on your thighs, right just below the heavy curve of your belly. He looked up at you. His eyes were red-rimmed from the strain, but the frantic, panicked static was gone. "I do not hate the noise because it is loud," Jake corrected softly, his thumb brushing a slow, rhythmic pattern against your sweatpants. "I hate the noise because it means my permanent variable is in distress, and my internal processor struggles to locate the correct solution. I procured cucumbers when you required acetic-acid soaked cucumbers. I failed the grocery parameter. That was the source of the overload. I felt... inadequate."
Your heart cracked. You reached down, cupping his beautiful, earnest face in both of your hands.
"You could never be inadequate, Jake Sim," you promised him fiercely. "Never. You are taking care of me perfectly. My hormones are just scrambling my emotional data. It's not your fault."
He leaned into your palms, letting out a long, heavy exhale.
"I will go to the convenience store at the corner," he announced, a sudden, determined spark lighting up his brown eyes. "The crowd density will be negligible at this hour. I will procure a jar of Baby Dills. The sodium content will not help your edema, but it will stabilize your emotional parameters." You let out a watery laugh, running your thumbs over his cheekbones. "You don't have to go out, Spidey. The massage was enough."
"The massage fixed the hydrostatic pressure," he replied logically, turning his head to press a kiss to your palm. "It did not fix the pickle deficit. I will return in precisely fourteen minutes."
True to his word, fourteen minutes later, you were sitting on the couch, crunching happily on a perfectly salty, cold baby dill pickle. Jake was sitting right beside you, his hip pressed flush against yours, watching you eat with a profound sense of satisfaction. "Optimal crunch," he noted, listening to the snap of the pickle.
"Optimal," you agreed, resting your head on his shoulder. "Thank you, baby."
He hummed, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and resting his large hand directly over your belly. The baby was active tonight. The sudden influx of sodium and the cold temperature of the pickle had woken them up. A sharp, distinct kick hit right against Jake's palm. Jake's eyes widened. He stared down at your stomach, a look of absolute, unvarnished awe washing over his face. Even after five months of feeling the baby move, it still short-circuited his brain in the best possible way.
"The kinetic energy is increasing," he whispered, his fingers splaying wider to capture the sensation. "The anomaly is practicing its motor functions. The muscle density is growing."
"They're getting strong," you smiled, covering his hand with yours.
"They require a highly structured environment," Jake said, his tone shifting back into that hyper-focused, factual cadence that meant his brain was locked onto a project. "Which is why the nursery parameters must be finalized before tomorrow."
Ah, yes. The nursery. When you first found out you were pregnant, the idea of a baby had been an abstract, terrifying variable for Jake. But as the months progressed, his logical brain had found a way to cope with the impending chaos: systematic, meticulous preparation. The nursery had become his ultimate hyper-fixation.
"Do you want to show me the progress?" you asked softly.
Jake nodded immediately, a proud, eager energy vibrating in his shoulders. He stood up, offering you both of his hands to help haul your heavy center of gravity off the sofa. You waddled down the hallway together, your hand locked tightly in his.
The door to the spare bedroom was closed. Jake opened it with a soft click, pushing it wide to reveal his masterpiece. It didn't look like a traditional, Pinterest-perfect baby room. There were no bright, overwhelming primary colors. There were no loud, flashing musical mobiles. The room was a sanctuary of controlled sensory input. The walls were painted a muted, soft sage greenâa color Jake had researched extensively, proving it to have the lowest psychological stimulation threshold. The lighting was entirely indirect, utilizing warm-amber smart bulbs that could be dimmed to exact percentage points from his phone to prevent harsh glare on a newborn's sensitive retinas.
Along the baseboards, he had installed subtle acoustic dampening panels to absorb the high-frequency sound waves of crying, ensuring the noise wouldn't echo and multiply within the confined space.
But the centerpiece of the room was the crib.
Jake walked over to it, running his long fingers over the smooth, unfinished birch wood. "I verified the structural integrity of every joint," he told you, his voice filled with quiet pride. "The manufacturer instructions suggested a torque of 15 Newton-meters for the primary bolts. I increased it to 18 to account for micro-vibrations over time. The mattress is organic, hypoallergenic cotton. There are no synthetic off-gassing chemicals to disrupt the infant's olfactory development."
"It's beautiful, Jake," you whispered, walking up beside him and resting your hand on the railing. It didn't wobble even a fraction of a millimeter. It was built like a fortress.
"It is mathematically sound," he agreed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, digital thermometer and hygrometer monitor, placing it perfectly parallel to the edge of the changing table. "And tomorrow, mom is arriving at 10:00 AM."
"She is," you nodded, bracing yourself slightly.
"We are executing the apparel procurement mission," Jake recited, his foot beginning to tap a light, anxious rhythm against the plush carpeting. "We will navigate the baby section of the department store. Mom will provide the neurotypical social buffer. You will provide the emotional baseline. I will verify the textile safety."
You smiled, reaching out to wrap your arm around his waist. "Are you feeling okay about the mission, Spidey? We don't have to go to the store. We can order the clothes online if the crowd density is going to be too much." Jake stopped tapping his foot. He looked down at the perfectly assembled crib, then looked down at your swollen belly. "Online procurement does not allow for tactile verification," he explained seriously, his brow furrowing. "Baby apparel is frequently manufactured with scratchy tags, raised seams, and rigid synthetic blends. I cannot allow the anomaly to experience the 'cobweb' sensation. Their skin will be highly sensitive. I must touch the fabrics. I must ensure the seams are flat."
Your heart melted into a puddle on the floor. He was terrified of the loud, unpredictable department store. He was already anxious about the changing routine. But his protective instinct over this unborn baby was so incredibly fierce that he was willing to willingly walk into a sensory minefield just to make sure his child never had to feel a scratchy tag. "You're going to be the most amazing dad in the world," you told him, tears pricking your eyes againâhappy ones, this time.
Jake blinked, processing the title. Dad. It still sounded foreign, a variable he hadn't fully assimilated yet. But he wrapped his arms tightly around your shoulders, burying his nose in your hair, inhaling the familiar, grounding scent of vanilla and oats.
"I do not have the complete manual," he murmured into your skin, his grip firm and steady. "But I have you. And the crib is secure. We will manage the variables together."
By the time the sixth month of your pregnancy rolled around, the world outside had surrendered entirely to the bitter, biting chill of late November. Frost clung to the windowpanes of the beige house.The end of the second trimester had brought with it a host of new variables. The morning sickness had thankfully evaporated, replaced by an insatiable hunger that had Jake calculating your caloric intake with the dedication of a sports nutritionist. Your belly was no longer just a soft curve; it was a pronounced, hard sphere, the undeniable physical proof of the anomaly growing inside you.
But the most surprising variable of month six was one that neither you nor Jakeâs extensive, fifty-page binder of pregnancy statistics had fully prepared him for.
Your hormones had shifted again. And this time, they had manifested as an intense, almost overwhelming spike in your libido.
It wasn't something you could easily graph on a chart. It was a visceral, heavy heat that seemed to pool in your lower stomach, entirely separate from the fluttering kicks of the baby. It made you acutely, constantly aware of your husband. You found yourself staring at the broad line of his shoulders when he was sorting his LEGOs, or fixating on the elegant, strong span of his hands as he meticulously washed the dishes.Jake, for his part, was always eager to provide the deep, skin-to-skin pressure you both craved. But the sudden frequency and intensity of your desire was pushing the boundaries of his sensory threshold.
It came to a head late on a Friday night. The house was completely dark, save for the faint, amber glow of the bedside lamp. The blackout curtains were drawn tight, sealing out the harsh winter wind. You and Jake were tangled together beneath the heavy grey weighted blanket.You had just finished a deeply intimate, breathless session. Without the barrier of synthetic fabrics or latex, the sensory input for Jake was a massive, consuming wave of data. He had buried himself inside you with that familiar, mathematical rhythm, his hands gripping your hips with bruising, desperate need until the friction had pushed him over the edge. He had shattered with a high, fractured gasp, collapsing against your chest, his heart hammering wildly against your bare skin. Now, ten minutes later, you were lying on your side, facing him. His eyes were closed, his dark, fluffy curls damp with sweat and plastered to his forehead. His breathing was still slightly ragged as his internal processor worked overtime to categorize and store the massive influx of physical pleasure.
But your body hadn't received the memo that the sequence was over.
The heavy, throbbing heat was still there, buzzing under your skin. The single climax hadn't been enough to quiet the hormonal static in your own brain. You shifted closer, your bare leg sliding over his, pressing the soft, swollen curve of your belly against his abdomen.
You reached out, your fingers trailing lightly down the center of his chest, tracing the line of dark hair that trailed past his navel.
"Jakey?" you whispered, your voice thick and slightly raspy in the quiet room.
Jakeâs eyes flew open. At the exact moment your fingers brushed lightly over his skin, his entire body flinched violently.
It wasn't a subtle movement. His chest jerked away from your hand, a sharp, ragged hiss escaping his teeth. He pulled his arms up, crossing them tightly over his own chest in a sudden, defensive posture. His dark eyes were wide, blown-out, and swimming with a frantic, chaotic energy.
"Y/N," he gasped, his voice trembling as he pressed his back firmly against the mattress, trying to put distance between your hands and his skin.
You froze instantly, yanking your hand back as if you had been burned. Your heart dropped into your stomach. "Jake? Baby, whatâs wrong? Did I hurt you?"
"No," he panted, squeezing his eyes shut as he fought to regulate his breathing. "No, you did not cause tissue damage. But the... the texture of your touch. It was too light. It felt like... like an electric shock. Like sparks." You realized your mistake immediately. After the massive, overwhelming neurological load of a climax, Jake's sensory receptors didn't just turn off; they became hyper-sensitized. Every nerve ending in his body was currently dialed to maximum capacity. A light, teasing touchâthe kind of touch that was supposed to be seductiveâfelt like a swarm of angry bees on his raw skin.
"I'm sorry," you whispered, guilt instantly replacing the heavy heat of desire. You pulled your leg back, giving him space. "I'm so sorry, Jake. I didn't mean to overstimulate you." He opened his eyes, his brow furrowing in deep distress as he looked at your face. He saw the way you were pulling away. He saw the lingering flush of arousal on your chest, and his brilliant, analytical brain immediately pieced the data together. "You are still experiencing physical arousal," Jake stated, his voice tight with a sudden, crushing wave of inadequacy. He uncrossed his arms, forcing his hands down to his sides, though his fingers twitched with the effort of remaining still. "Your heart rate is still elevated. The hormonal surge... it requires a secondary sequence."
"It's fine, Jake," you promised quickly, pulling the edge of the weighted blanket up to cover yourself. "It's just the pregnancy hormones. I'm okay. We don't have to do anything."
"I am the husband," Jake insisted, his voice cracking slightly. He forced himself to roll toward you, though you could see the rigid tension in his shoulders. He reached out with a trembling hand, aiming for your waist. "It is my protocol to ensure your needs are met. I can... I can restart the sequence. I can provide the friction."
"Jake, stop," you said firmly, reaching out to catch his wrist before his hand could make contact with your skin. You didn't use a light touch. You wrapped your fingers entirely around his wrist, applying immediate, unyielding deep pressure. You squeezed his joint tightly, anchoring him to the mattress. He let out a shaky, relieved breath at the heavy pressure, but his eyes were still frantic. "I am failing the parameter," he whispered, a tear pricking the corner of his eye. "You requested a secondary round of intimacy. Normal husbands can provide multiple rounds. But my capacity is full. The static is too loud. If I experience that level of input again right now, my system will crash. I am defective."
"Look at me," you commanded softly, moving your face closer until you occupied his entire field of vision. He blinked, a tear slipping down his cheek to soak into the pillowcase. "You are not defective," you told him, pouring every ounce of love and absolute certainty into your voice. "You are Jake. Your nervous system processes the world differently, and that includes how you process pleasure. You gave me everything you had ten minutes ago, and it was beautiful. I am not going to let you push yourself into a sensory meltdown just because my hormones are acting crazy."
"But you are still in distress," he argued weakly, his eyes dropping to your lips.
"I am not in distress," you corrected, offering him a warm, reassuring smile. "I'm just a little horny. There's a massive difference. And I would rather be a little frustrated for one night than watch you suffer through an overload."
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in the dim light. "You are certain? You are not angry with the limitations of my processor?"
"I love your processor," you whispered, lifting his heavy hand and bringing it to your lips. You pressed a firm, deliberate kiss to his knuckles. "I love exactly how you are built. Now, what does your system need right now to quiet the static? Tell me."
Jake closed his eyes, running a quick internal diagnostic. "The light touch is painful," he mumbled, his voice dropping back to its soothing baritone. "The air currents on my skin are distracting. I require compression. Heavy, stationary compression."
"Okay. Come here."
You shifted onto your back, opening your arms. Jake didn't hesitate. He practically dove across the few inches separating you. He laid his head squarely on your chest, right over your heart, and threw his heavy arm and leg across your body. He didn't move. He didn't stroke your skin. He just locked himself against you, his absolute dead weight pressing you firmly into the mattress. You wrapped your arms around his broad, sweat-dampened back, applying as much squeezing pressure as you could muster, holding him together while his overloaded nerves slowly began to cool down.
"Is this better?" you murmured into his hair.
"Yes," he let out a long, shuddering sigh, the rigid tension finally melting out of his muscles. "The static is decreasing. The heavy pressure is optimal. You are my favorite variable, Y/N."
"And you're mine, Spidey," you smiled, the lingering heat of your libido fading away, replaced by a profound, overwhelming wave of tender affection. You didn't need a second round. Holding your husband while he found his peace was the best feeling in the world.
A week later, the highly anticipated twenty-four-week anatomy scan arrived.
The clinic was a sensory minefield, but Jake had perfected his navigation protocols. He walked through the brightly lit, sterile-smelling waiting room wearing his polarized sunglasses to cut the fluorescent glare, his noise-canceling headphones resting securely over his ears. He held your hand in a vice grip, his thumb pressing rhythmically into your knucklesâhis physical tether to reality.
When the ultrasound technician called your name, he followed you into the small, dimly lit examination room. He only took off the sunglasses when the lights were turned off, and he slid the headphones down around his neck so he could hear the technician's instructions. You lay back on the crinkly paper of the examination table, pulling your shirt up to expose your swollen belly. Jake pulled a chair up immediately beside the bed. He didn't sit back; he perched on the edge of the seat, his knees pressed against the side of the table, his eyes locked onto the black-and-white monitor.
"Alright, let's take a look at this little one," the technician smiled, squirting a generous amount of warm gel onto your stomach.
You hissed slightly at the texture, but Jake didn't look at you. His dark eyes were wide, reflecting the glowing light of the ultrasound screen.
The wand pressed into your skin, and suddenly, the static snow on the monitor resolved into a clear, distinct image. A perfect, miniature spine. A tiny, beating heart that fluttered rapidly like a hummingbird's wings.
"The heart rate is 142 beats per minute," Jake announced before the technician even had a chance to measure it, his voice hushed and reverent. "It is mathematically strong."
"Spot on, Dad," the technician laughed, clicking her mouse to take a few measurements. "Everything looks completely healthy. All the organs are developing beautifully. The femur length is in the 85th percentile. You're going to have a tall one."
Jake's chest puffed out just a fraction. He reached out blindly, finding your hand on the table and gripping it tightly. "Now," the technician said, angling the wand slightly. "I know it's in your file that you wanted to know the sex today. Are you both still ready for that?"
You looked at Jake. He hadn't expressed a preference either way. His logical brain maintained that biological sex was simply a chromosomal reality, not a measure of the child's value. But as he stared at the screen, you could see a rapid, fluttering anticipation in his jaw. "We're ready," you confirmed softly.
The technician clicked a button, zooming in on the lower half of the tiny, curled-up body on the screen. "Well," she smiled, pointing to a distinct set of shapes on the monitor. "There's absolutely no mistaking that. You've got yourselves a healthy baby boy." The room went entirely silent. Jake stopped breathing. He stared at the screen, his dark eyes locked onto the image. His mouth opened slightly, a tiny gasp caught in the back of his throat.A boy.
"Jake?" you whispered, squeezing his hand. "Spidey, did you hear that?"
Jake slowly turned his head to look at you. The clinical, protective mask he wore in public spaces had completely vanished. His eyes were shining with a bright, glassy layer of unshed tears. The corners of his mouth were trembling as a massive, uncontrollable smile broke across his face. "XY chromosomes," he whispered, his voice cracking with pure, unfiltered joy. "The genetic data has been confirmed. It is a male."
"It's a boy, baby," you laughed, tears of your own spilling over your cheeks.
Jake looked back at the screen, his free hand coming up to cover his mouth as if he couldn't contain the sheer volume of his happiness. His leg started to bounce rapidly against the side of the examination tableâa massive, joyful stim.
"He is a boy," Jake repeated, the reality of it settling into his bones. He leaned forward, his face inches from the monitor. "He will require the Spider-Man pajamas. The tagless ones. I must procure the correct sizes for his developmental stages. He will have my genetic markers. Y/N... we are manufacturing a miniature version."
"We are," you sobbed happily, bringing his hand up to kiss his knuckles. The technician handed you a long strip of glossy ultrasound photos, grinning from ear to ear. Jake practically vibrated out of his chair as he helped you wipe the gel off your stomach. He was so overwhelmed with positive data that he didn't even need to put his headphones back on when you walked out through the waiting room.
He just held your hand, his chest puffed out, walking with the undeniable pride of a man who had just solved the greatest equation in the universe.
The news of a grandson sent Sarah into an absolute tailspin of joy.
The very next day, a Saturday, she arrived at your front door at exactly 10:00 AM. She didn't just bring her usual Tupperware of leftover roast; she brought two massive canvas bags overflowing with baby name books, printouts of statistical popularity charts, and a box of non-toxic, hypoallergenic markers."I couldn't sleep," Sarah announced, dropping the bags onto the kitchen island with a heavy thud. She pulled off her coat, her dark eyesâso much like Jake'sâsparkling with manic excitement. "I spent all night on the Social Security Administration's database. We have to be strategic."
Jake was sitting at the round wooden table, a brand-new, unopened LEGO Architecture set resting in front of him. But he wasn't looking at the box. He had his laptop open, an incredibly complex Excel spreadsheet illuminating his face.
"I have already initiated a database," Jake informed his mother, his tone incredibly serious. "I have categorized potential names by origin, syllable count, and phonetic clarity. A name is a primary identifier. It cannot be ambiguous." You sat at the island, nursing a cup of decaf tea, watching the two of them with a heart so full it physically ached. "Okay, let's hear the parameters," Sarah said, pulling out a stool and flipping open a heavy book titled 100,000 Baby Names for the Modern Parent.
Jake adjusted his glasses, peering at the screen. "The name must have a strong phonetic structure," he dictated, his fingers resting lightly on the keyboard. "It cannot contain soft, trailing vowels that are easily misheard in loud environments. It must be easily spelled to prevent bureaucratic errors. And it cannot be within the top ten most popular names of the current decade. Anomaly designation requires a unique identifier, but not one that is socially isolating."
"So, 'Liam' is out," Sarah noted, crossing a line through a piece of paper. "It's number one."
"Liam is highly inefficient," Jake agreed, shaking his head. "There are statistically three Liams in every kindergarten class. The auditory confusion would be overwhelming for the child."
"What about Arthur?" you suggested, resting your chin on your hand. "It's classic. Easy to spell."
Jake's eyes darted across his spreadsheet. He typed the name into a search bar. "Arthur. Meaning: Bear. Origin: Celtic. Two syllables. The 'th' fricative consonant provides a solid phonetic center." He paused, his brow furrowing as he processed the data. He looked at you, a soft smile playing on his lips. "It is structurally sound. I approve of Arthur."
"Arthur Sim," Sarah tested the name, her eyes watering instantly. She slapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh my god, it sounds so distinguished. Like a little professor."
"He will be highly intelligent," Jake stated matter-of-factly, closing his laptop slightly. "He has Y/N's neural pathways. She fixes the leaky pipes."
You laughed, reaching across the space to playfully swat at his arm. "He's going to have your brain, Jake. He's going to be building scale models of the Brooklyn Bridge by the time he's four."
Jake looked down at his hands, his thumb rubbing absentmindedly against the side of his laptop. The analytical mask slipped for a moment, revealing the profound, raw vulnerability beneath. "I hope he has your brain," Jake whispered, his voice dropping so low it was almost lost in the quiet kitchen. He didn't look at his mother; he looked directly at you. "I hope his volume dial works correctly. I do not want him to feel the static." The kitchen went still. Sarah lowered her book, her expression softening into a look of fierce, protective love for her son.
You stood up from your stool. You walked around the island, your heavy belly preceding you, and stood beside his chair. You ran your fingers through his dark, fluffy hair, applying the gentle, rhythmic pressure he loved. "Jake," you said softly, making sure he met your eyes. "If he has your brain, he is going to be the luckiest boy in the world. He'll see the colors in the soap bubbles. He'll notice the Fibonacci sequence in the flowers. And if the world ever gets too loud for him..." You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "...he will have the best dad in the entire universe to teach him how to build a safe room."
Jake let out a shaky breath, leaning his face against your stomach, right where his son was currently sleeping. "I will build him the strongest walls," Jake promised into the fabric of your sweater, his arms coming up to wrap securely around your waist. "The structural integrity will be flawless." Sarah sniffled loudly from the island, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Well," she managed a watery laugh, picking up her pen again. "Arthur is definitely going on the shortlist. But we still need a middle name. Something with a good consonant-to-vowel ratio."
Jake lifted his head, his dark eyes shining with absolute clarity and a deep, overwhelming love. "The middle name is a secondary variable," Jake told his mother, his hand resting flat against your belly. "The primary variable is already perfect."
By the time the calendar flipped to February, marking the eighth month of your pregnancy, the beige house felt less like a building and more like a heavily fortified bunker. Winter was raging outside, dumping feet of snow onto the driveway and howling against the windowpanes. Month eight was entirely different from month six. The romantic, hormone-fueled haze had been thoroughly replaced by sheer, undeniable physical exhaustion. Your belly was a massive, taut drum that dictated every movement you made. Rolling over in bed was a multi-step sequence that required strategic planning and leveraged momentum. Your center of gravity was so far skewed that Jake hovered behind you whenever you walked down the hallway, his hands raised two inches from your hips, ready to initiate a physical catch protocol if your balance failed.The anomalyânow regularly referred to as Arthurâwas running out of room. His movements were no longer gentle flutters; they were sharp, visible protrusions of a heel or an elbow against your skin. Jake found this biological reality both fascinating and deeply alarming.It was a Thursday evening. You were seated on your designated side of the living room sofa, propped up by a meticulously engineered mountain of pillows. Jake was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table.But he wasn't sorting LEGOs. He hadn't touched a plastic brick in three weeks. Instead, the coffee table was covered in sterile, organized piles of items. Jake was conducting his daily audit of the "Hospital Protocol" bag.
He had a clipboard. He was wearing his glasses, his dark brown eyes narrowed in intense, frantic concentration as he checked off items with a black pen.
"The receiving blankets," Jake muttered, his voice tight and clipped. He picked up a stack of soft, washed cotton cloths. He rubbed his thumb over the edge of the fabric, verifying the texture. "100% organic cotton. Washed twice in the unscented detergent. The seams are flat. The structural integrity is intact. Check."
He placed the blankets into the grey duffel bag with robotic precision, then looked back at his clipboard."The infant's external garments," he continued, picking up a tiny, dark blue onesie. He turned it inside out, meticulously inspecting the tagless collar. "No synthetic fibers. No localized friction points. Check." You watched him from the sofa, your heart aching with a mixture of overwhelming love and a creeping, heavy guilt.Jake had been like this for weeks. As the due date loomed closer, the abstract concept of a baby had solidified into an impending, unavoidable collision with the outside world. To give birth, you had to go to the hospital. The hospital was Jake's ultimate nightmare. It was a chaotic environment filled with unpredictable variables. Fluorescent lights operating on a 60-hertz flicker cycle. The sharp, random beeping of heart monitors. The smell of harsh antiseptic chemicals that burned his olfactory receptors. And, worst of all, a building full of strangers who would be touching his permanent variable while she was in severe physical distress.
He couldn't control the hospital. So, he was over-controlling what he could: the bag, the route, and the exact inventory of the nursery."Jake," you said softly, shifting your heavy weight against the pillows. "You checked the bag yesterday. And the day before. The inventory hasn't changed, baby. It's perfectly packed."
Jake froze. His hand hovered over a pair of tiny socks. His shoulders were rigid, hitched up toward his ears in a permanent state of defensive tension."The variables must be continuously verified," Jake replied, not looking up at you. His voice was entirely devoid of its usual warmth; it was hollow, flat, and vibrating with an undercurrent of barely suppressed panic. "Human error is a statistical probability. If I do not audit the inventory, a scratchy fabric could be introduced. The anomalyâArthurâcannot experience the cobweb sensation upon entry into the environment. I must be precise."
"Spidey, look at me," you tried again, reaching a hand out toward him.
He flinched slightly, but he didn't turn his head. He dropped the socks into the bag, his fingers trembling as he gripped the edges of his clipboard."I cannot look right now," he whispered, his breathing growing shallow and fast. "If I lose my visual focus on the inventory, the sequence breaks. If the sequence breaks, the protocol fails. The hospital is exactly 12.4 miles away. The snow accumulation is currently at four inches. The friction coefficient of the tiresâ"
"Jake," you interrupted, the volume of your voice rising just a fraction out of desperation.
Suddenly, your body hijacked the conversation.It started low in your back, a dull ache that rapidly, violently wrapped around your abdomen. Your stomach tightened with a fierce, crushing pressure that literally drove the breath from your lungs. It was a Braxton Hicks contraction, but it was the strongest one you had felt yet.You gasped, your hands flying down to clutch the underside of your belly. A sharp, pained hiss escaped your lips before you could stop it. "Ahâ" The sound was a bomb detonating in the quiet living room. Jakeâs clipboard clattered to the floor. The sharp crack of the plastic hitting the hardwood echoed sharply.He whipped around to face you, his eyes wide, terrified, and blown completely black. He saw you gripping your stomach, your face pale and contorted in a grimace.The fragile, meticulously maintained dam in his brain shattered instantly. "The timeline is incorrect!" Jake shouted, the sheer volume of his own voice startling him. He scrambled backward, his hands flying up to grip the sides of his head. "It is month eight. The gestational parameter is 40 weeks. We are at 34 weeks and 2 days. It is too early! The protocol is not finished!"
"Jake, wait," you gasped, trying to breathe through the tightening of your uterus. "It's just aâ"
"I have not calculated the winter storm variable into an emergency transit!" he continued, his breathing spiraling into full-blown hyperventilation. He wasn't looking at you; he was looking through you, trapped in the terrifying, deafening static of his own mind. He scrambled to his feet, pacing frantically behind the coffee table. "The bag is incomplete. The car is cold. You are in distress. Your pain receptors are firing. I have to fix the malfunction. I am the husband, I have to fix it, but I cannot stop the biological sequence!" He grabbed a handful of his own hair, pulling hard, a physical manifestation of his internal overload.
"Make it stop," he whimpered, his voice cracking into a jagged sob. "I can't compute the noise. The hospital is too loud. They are going to hurt you. The machines are going to beep, and you are going to scream, and I will not be able to apply deep pressure to stop the pain! I am failing! I am a defective variable!"
The sheer, agonizing devastation in his voice cut through your physical discomfort like a hot knife.The contraction was already beginning to fade, the muscles in your abdomen slowly releasing their iron grip, but the emotional damage in the room was catastrophic. Jake was in the red zone. He was drowning in his own inadequacy, convinced that his sensory limitations made him incapable of protecting you during the most vulnerable moment of your life.You didn't care about the heaviness of your body. You didn't care about the lingering ache in your back. You pushed yourself off the sofa, ignoring the clumsy, unbalanced sway of your center of gravity. "Jake!" you called out, your voice firm and authoritative. He didn't hear you. He was rocking back and forth on his heels, his hands clamped over his ears now, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as the tears streamed down his flushed cheeks. He was completely disconnected from the room, swallowed whole by the system crash.
You crossed the living room. You didn't hesitate. You stepped right over the spilled hospital bag, ignoring the meticulously folded organic blankets on the floor.
You reached him. You grabbed his wrists, your fingers locking around his forearms with a desperate, unyielding strength.
He jerked violently, a choked gasp tearing from his throat at the unexpected contact, but you didn't let go. "Deep pressure," you commanded, stepping into his space until your swollen belly brushed against his tense abdomen. "Jake, listen to my voice. Feel my hands. I am applying deep pressure. You are in the living room. I am Y/N. You are Jake. The static is a lie."He fought you for a second, his muscles rigid and trembling like a strained cable, his head shaking back and forth. "Failing," he choked out, keeping his eyes squeezed shut. "I am failing the protocol. It hurts you."
"Open your eyes," you ordered, squeezing his wrists harder, anchoring him to the physical reality of the moment. "Look at my face. Now."
Slowly, agonizingly, his dark eyes fluttered open. They were wild, bloodshot, and completely shattered."Look at me," you softened your voice, shifting from command to comfort. "I am not in pain. The contraction is gone. It was a false alarm. A Braxton Hicks. The anomaly is just flexing his muscles. He is staying exactly where he is. We have six weeks left. The timeline is perfectly intact."
Jake stared at you, his chest heaving as his processor struggled to parse the new data. "False... alarm?"
"Yes," you promised, releasing one of his wrists to reach up and cup his cheek. His skin was incredibly hot, radiating the heat of his adrenaline spike. You stroked your thumb firmly under his eye, wiping away a tear. "The sequence did not break."
He let out a ragged, tearing breath, his knees buckling slightly. You held onto him, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders as he slumped forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
He didn't wrap his arms around you. They hung uselessly at his sides as he wept against your collarbone, the emotional exhaustion of his panic attack hitting him like a physical blow."I am terrified, Y/N," Jake confessed into your skin, his voice so fragile it broke your heart entirely. "I have built the crib. I have audited the fabrics. I have mapped the route. But I cannot control the birth. It is a massive, violent biological variable. I read the medical journals. The paing you will experience is statistically severe. And I cannot take it from you." You squeezed your eyes shut, resting your cheek against his dark, messy curls. "And the hospital," he continued, a shudder running through his heavy frame. "The fluorescent lights burn my retinas. The noise of the machinery disrupts my cognitive function. What if the static gets so loud that I shut down? What if you need me, and I cannot move because I am trapped in the noise? I cannot fail you. I cannot let you be alone in a room full of strangers."
He was terrified of his own neurology. He was terrified that his autism, the very thing that made him so beautifully, meticulously attentive to you, would be the thing that ultimately abandoned you when you needed him most.t"Jake, baby, listen to me," you whispered fiercely, your hands rubbing firm, rhythmic circles into his tense back. "You have never, ever failed me. Do you hear me? Never."
He sniffled, his breath hot against your neck. "But the dataâ"
"Screw the data," you interrupted, pulling back just enough to force him to look at you again. You held his face in both of your hands, making sure he saw the absolute, unwavering conviction in your eyes. "I don't care about the statistics. I don't care about the medical journals. I care about you."
He blinked, another tear slipping down his cheek."The hospital is going to be loud," you validated his fear, keeping your voice steady and calm. "It is going to be chaotic. But we are going to manage the variables together. Sarah is going to be there to buffer the doctors. You are going to wear your noise-canceling headphones. You are going to bring the weighted blanket. And you are not going to leave my side."
"But your pain," he whimpered, his eyes dropping to your stomach.
"You are going to help me through the pain," you promised him. "Because you are my anchor, Jake. When I am hurting, you are going to hold my hand, and you are going to apply deep pressure. You are going to count my breaths for me, because you have the best internal clock in the world. You are the only person who can keep me grounded." Jake stared at you, his internal processor rapidly analyzing the new role you had just assigned him.He wasn't powerless. He had a protocol. Apply deep pressure. Count the breaths. Ground the variable."I can count," Jake whispered, his voice gaining a fraction of its usual factual cadence. "I can track the duration and frequency of the contractions. I can provide stationary compression."
"Exactly," you smiled, a few tears of your own finally spilling over. "You are not a defective variable, Spidey. You are the only math that makes sense to me. I need you in that room. Not a 'normal' husband. I need you."
Jake took a deep, shuddering breath. The frantic, chaotic energy that had been vibrating under his skin finally, completely dissipated. He brought his hands up, wrapping them securely around your waist, pulling your heavy belly flush against his abdomen.He didn't just hold you; he anchored you."I will not shut down," Jake vowed, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a fierce, profound intensity that took your breath away. "I will wear the headphones, but my eyes will be on you. I will track the data. I will not let the static win. I am your permanent variable."
"I know you are," you breathed.
You didn't wait for him to close the distance. You leaned up, pressing your lips firmly against his.It wasn't a gentle, reassuring peck. It was a deep, desperate, grounding kiss. It was the physical manifestation of all the love, trust, and absolute certainty you held for him.Jake responded instantly. The fear melted out of his posture, replaced by the overwhelming, consuming gravity of his love for you. He kissed you back with a fierce, meticulous passion, his hands sliding up your back to tangle in your hair. He tasted like salt and adrenaline, but his lips were incredibly soft, moving against yours with a deliberate, rhythmic pressure that chased the last lingering shadows of his panic out of the room.He poured everything he had into the kiss, anchoring himself to the taste of your mouth, the heat of your skin, and the solid, heavy reality of your body against his.When you finally broke apart, gasping softly for air, Jake kept his forehead pressed against yours. His eyes were closed, his breathing perfectly synced with yours."The thermal transfer is optimal," he murmured, a tiny, genuine smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
You laughed, a wet, joyous sound, resting your hands flat against his broad chest. "It always is."Jake opened his eyes. He looked down at the floor, at the scattered piles of baby clothes and the dropped clipboard. The chaos that had caused his meltdown ten minutes ago was still there, but it didn't look like a systemic failure anymore. It just looked like a task."I need to repack the inventory," Jake stated, his voice calm, returning to its comfortable, logical baseline. "The organic receiving blankets are currently touching the hardwood floor. They must be re-washed to ensure sterility."
"We can wash them tomorrow, baby," you suggested gently, running a hand down his arm. "Let's just go to bed. The anomaly is asleep, and I'm exhausted."
Jake considered this. He looked at the bag, then looked at your tired face.
"Optimal recovery requires sleep," he agreed, wrapping his arm around your waist to support your center of gravity. "The protocol can wait until 0800 hours. Come, Y/N. Let's go to the quiet room." You walked down the hallway together, incredibly slow, his hand providing the constant, deep pressure that held your entire world together. The unpredictable variables of the future were still looming, but as Jake pulled the heavy grey weighted blanket over both of you in the dark, you knew without a shadow of a doubt that your structural integrity was flawless.
The final weeks of your pregnancy felt like existing in a state of suspended animation.
It was late February. The world outside was still locked in the icy grip of winter, but inside the beige two-story house, time seemed to have slowed to a thick, agonizing crawl. You were thirty-eight weeks pregnant. The hospital bag, after being audited by Jake no less than forty-two times, was sitting fully packed by the front door.
It was a Tuesday afternoon. The house was quiet, save for the faint, rhythmic sound of Jake moving around in the nursery down the hall.You were standing at the kitchen island, a task you could only manage for about ten minutes before your swollen, aching feet demanded you sit down. Your parents, who lived three cities away, had sent a massive, gorgeous bouquet of flowers to celebrate the impending arrival of their grandson.You had filled a glass vase with lukewarm water and were methodically trimming the stems and stripping the excess leaves. Snip. Snip. The scent of eucalyptus and blooming lilies was strong, but pleasant. It was a grounding, repetitive sensory task.Down the hall, you could hear the soft hum of Jakeâs voice. He wasn't talking to you; he was talking to the room. "The ambient light from the streetlamp will filter through the primary window at an angle of 45 degrees," Jake was murmuring to himself, likely adjusting the blackout curtains for the hundredth time. "The secondary acoustic panels are secure. The friction coefficient of the rug is optimal for crawling, though that biological milestone is currently months away. The inventory is stable."You smiled, tossing a handful of trimmed leaves into the compost bin. He was trying so hard to control the environment, trying to build a fortress strong enough to withstand the chaotic, unpredictable variable of childbirth.
You reached for a heavy, dark pink peony. You clamped the floral shears around the thick stem.
Snip.Simultaneously, a distinct, bizarre pop echoed low in your pelvis.
You froze. The floral shears slipped from your fingers, clattering loudly onto the granite countertop.
For a microsecond, there was no pain. There was only a sudden, overwhelming rush of warm fluid flooding down your thighs, soaking instantly through your maternity leggings and splashing onto the kitchen linoleum. "Oh," you gasped, your hands flying down to brace yourself against the edge of the island. Before your brain could even process the reality of your water breaking, the first contraction hit.
It didn't build slowly like the books had promised. It didn't start as a dull, menstrual-like ache. It hit you with the force of a high-speed collisionâa massive, crushing band of iron clamping down around your abdomen and your lower spine with violent, breathless intensity. Your knees instantly buckled.You went down hard, catching yourself on your hands and knees right in the middle of the kitchen floor, surrounded by fallen leaves and the expanding puddle of amniotic fluid. A raw, guttural cry tore from your throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated shock and agony.
"Ahâ! Jake! Jake!"
The sound of your scream shattered the quiet peace of the house.
The heavy, rapid thud of Jakeâs footsteps echoed down the hallway instantly. He didn't just walk into the kitchen; he skidded into it, his socks slipping slightly on the hardwood before he caught himself on the doorframe. "Y/N?" Jake gasped, his chest heaving.He saw you on the floor. He saw the sheer, contorted agony on your face. And then, his eyes dropped to the puddle of fluid on the linoleum.
The biological variable. The system failure.Jakeâs entire body went rigid. The color completely drained from his face, leaving him deathly pale. His hands flew up, hovering frantically around his chest as if he didn't know what to do with his own limbs.
"The... the timeline," Jake stammered, his voice jumping an entire octave, thin and panicked. "It is week thirty-eight. The statistical average is forty weeks. The fluid... your amniotic sac has ruptured. The sequence has initiated prematurely!"
"Jake," you sobbed, squeezing your eyes shut as the contraction refused to let go. It was blinding, a white-hot agony that made your entire body shake. "Jake, it hurts. It hurts so bad." That sentence broke him.Jake had spent the last two years dedicating every ounce of his massive, beautiful brain to keeping you safe. He audited your environment. He maintained the climate control. He massaged the fluid out of your swollen feet. You were his permanent variable, the only thing in the universe that made the static quiet. And now, you were writhing on the floor in a level of physical agony he had never, ever witnessed. A sharp, ragged whimper tore from Jakeâs throat. He dropped to his knees right into the puddle of fluid, completely ignoring the sensory nightmare of the wet linoleum soaking through his jeans.He reached out, his large hands hovering over your back, trembling violently. He was terrified to touch you, terrified that his pressure would somehow exacerbate the pain.
T"You are in distress," Jake cried, the tears spilling instantly over his eyelashes, tracking fast and hot down his pale cheeks. "Your pain receptors are overloading. The volume is too high. I can see it. You are shaking. Y/N, I don't know how to fix it! I don't have the protocol to stop the biology!"
He pulled his hands back, grabbing fistfuls of his own dark hair, his breathing spiraling into rapid, shallow gasps. The sensory overload of your screaming, the visual trauma of your pain, and his own overwhelming, suffocating helplessness were crashing his system all at once. "Jake, no, don't pull away," you gasped, managing to lift one shaking hand to reach blindly for him. "Deep pressure. Please. My hips. Squeeze my hips."He heard the command. Apply deep pressure.
He let go of his hair. He crawled forward, positioning himself behind you. He placed his large, warm hands firmly on either side of your hips and squeezed with everything he had. "I am compressing the joints," Jake wept, his tears falling freely onto the back of your shirt. His chest heaved against your spine, his entire heavy frame shaking with the force of his sobs. "I am applying pressure. But you are still crying. It is not fixing the malfunction. Y/N, please, I cannot watch you hurt. It is too loud in my chest. It is tearing my data apart."
"You're helping," you panted, the contraction finally, agonizingly beginning to peak and slowly recede. "You are... anchoring me. Just hold me."
He slumped forward, wrapping his arms securely around your heavy belly, burying his wet face in the crook of your neck. He was sobbing openly now, the sound broken and terrified. He hated this. He hated the lack of control. He hated that his safe harbor was in pain."I have to initiate the transit sequence," Jake choked out, trying to force his logical brain back online through the haze of his tears. "The hospital bag is at the door. The car... I have to warm up the car. But I cannot leave you on the floor. If another contraction hits, you will lack compression."
You were both trapped. You couldn't walk, and he couldn't leave you to get the car ready without risking a massive panic attack for both of you.
And then, the front door unlocked.
"Y/N? Jakey? I let myself in!"
It was Sarah. It was Tuesday. She was arriving for your weekly Tuesday dinner, carrying two bags of groceries because you couldn't stand at the stove anymore.
Sarah walked into the kitchen, a smile on her face, and immediately dropped both bags of groceries onto the floor. Tomatoes and boxes of pasta spilled out, rolling across the hardwood, but she didn't even look at them. She took in the scene in a fraction of a second. The water on the floor. You on your hands and knees. Her son, weeping hysterically, wrapped around you like a human shield.
"Oh, my god," Sarah breathed. The mother-bear instinct, honed over twenty-six years of managing crises, snapped into place instantly.She crossed the kitchen in three strides. She didn't yell, knowing the volume would shatter Jake further. She dropped to her knees right beside the two of you, placing a firm, grounding hand on Jakeâs shaking shoulder.
"Jake," Sarah said, her voice dropping into that calm, authoritative, unshakable register she used when he was a child having a meltdown. "Look at me, honey."
Jake lifted his head from your neck. His face was a mess of tears and raw, unfiltered terror. "Mom," he gasped, his voice cracking. "The sequence initiated early. The pain variable is extreme. I cannot stop her pain."
"You aren't supposed to stop it, Jakey," Sarah promised him fiercely, brushing a sweaty curl off his forehead. "You are just supposed to hold her. And you are doing a perfect job. But we need to move the environment to the hospital. Right now."
"I cannot leave her to start the car," he wept, his grip tightening around your waist. "She requires deep pressure."
"You don't have to leave her," Sarah commanded, already pulling her car keys back out of her pocket. "My car is running. It's warm. It's parked right at the bottom of the driveway. I am driving. You are going to stay right beside her the entire time."
Another wave of tightness began to coil low in your back. The interval was impossibly short."Sarah," you whimpered, bracing your hands against the floor again. "Another one. It's coming fast."
"Okay, Jake, on three, we are going to lift her," Sarah instructed, moving to your other side. "We are going to get her to the backseat of my car. You will provide the physical support. Can you execute the lift?"
Jakeâs jaw clenched. The tears were still streaming down his face, his chest still heaving with panicked sobs, but the presence of his mother and a clear, defined set of instructions offered a tiny foothold in the chaos.
"I can execute the lift," Jake confirmed, his voice vibrating with absolute determination.
"One. Two. Three."
Jake hauled you up, taking almost your entire weight against his own body. He practically carried you down the hallway. He didn't even stop to grab his coat. He just grabbed the grey hospital bag by the door with his free hand and pushed out into the biting, freezing February air.Sarah had the backseat door of her SUV open. Jake maneuvered you inside, laying you across the seats, and instantly climbed in right beside you. He didn't sit in the seatbelt; he wedged himself onto the floorboard, kneeling so his face was level with yours and his hands could maintain their vice-grip on your hips.Sarah slammed the door, threw the hospital bag into the front, and jumped into the driver's seat. "I'm putting the hazards on," Sarah announced, throwing the car into drive and accelerating hard out of the suburban neighborhood. "We will be there in twelve minutes."The small, confined space of the backseat felt like a pressure cooker.The second contraction hit its peak just as Sarah took a sharp turn. You screamed, a loud, ragged sound that bounced off the windows. You couldn't help it. The pain was an all-consuming fire.Jake flinched violently at the sound, a fresh sob tearing from his own throat. He was crying just as hard as you were, his face buried in the heavy wool of your maternity sweater."I'm sorry," he wept, his thumbs pressing brutally hard into your hipbones, trying to force the deep pressure through the agony. "I'm so sorry, Y/N. Please, I want to take it. I want to swap the data. Give it to me."
"You're... doing it," you panted, your fingers tangling desperately in his dark hair, pulling his head up so you could see his face. "Jake, look at me. Count. Remember the protocol? Count my breaths."He stared at you, his brown eyes wide and shattered, swimming in tears. He took a massive, shuddering breath, forcing his analytical brain to latch onto the numbers."Inhale," Jake choked out, his voice shaking. "One... two... three... four. Exhale."You blew the air out through your teeth, your eyes locked onto his."Inhale," he wept, keeping the rhythm steady even as his own body shook with terror. "One... two... three... four. The interval is approximately ninety seconds. The duration of the peak is forty-five seconds. You have fifteen seconds of peak physical trauma remaining."
"I love you," you groaned, squeezing your eyes shut as the pain finally began to recede. "I love you, Spidey."
"I love you," he cried, leaning forward to press his wet, salty forehead against yours. "I am right here. I am the wall."
"Jake," Sarah called from the front seat, her voice tight but remarkably steady as she navigated the icy roads. "Your headphones. Put them on. The hospital emergency entrance is going to be loud, and I need you grounded."Jake reached blindly into the front pocket of his hoodie. He pulled out the heavy Sony noise-canceling headphones. His hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped them, but he managed to slide them over his ears.
He didn't turn the noise-canceling feature all the way up. He left it at 50%. He needed to hear the ambient noise dampened, but he absolutely refused to block out the sound of your voice. If you needed him, he had to hear the data.Sarah pulled the SUV sharply into the red-lit emergency bay of the hospital. She laid on the horn, a long, aggressive blast that signaled an incoming emergency.
Nurses were outside with a wheelchair in seconds.The transition from the safe, insulated bubble of the car to the blinding, chaotic reality of the hospital was an assault on the senses. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with that aggressive 60-hertz cycle. The air smelled of sharp alcohol and sterile bleach. Radios were crackling, and people were shouting orders.
It was Jake's personal hell.As they helped you into the wheelchair, another contraction ripped through your body. You folded forward, crying out.
Jake stood frozen by the car door for exactly two seconds. His hands flew up to the sides of his headphones, his shoulders hiking up to his ears, his body desperately trying to fold inward to escape the sensory attack of the emergency room bay. The static in his head was a roaring, deafening tidal wave.
System crash imminent.
But then he looked at you. He saw you gripping the armrests of the wheelchair, your knuckles white, your face pale and twisted in pain.
His permanent variable.Jake let out a low, guttural growlâa sound of sheer, absolute defiance against his own neurology. He dropped his hands from his headphones. He closed the distance, grabbed the handles of your wheelchair from the nurse, and shoved it forward himself.
"Do not touch her," Jake snapped at an orderly who tried to assist, his voice taking on a cold, flat, entirely robotic toneâhis ultimate defense mechanism. "She requires deep pressure. I am the husband. I am the primary support. Direct me to the labor and delivery ward. Now." The nurses, taking one look at the massive, fiercely protective man with tears streaming down his face and headphones over his ears, didn't argue. They led the way.Sarah ran right beside you, carrying the grey duffel bag, her hand resting on Jakeâs back to guide him through the harsh, echoing corridors.When they finally got you into a delivery room, the chaos only intensified. Machines were hooked up. Wires were taped to your belly. The monitors began to beepâa sharp, high-pitched ping that measured the baby's heart rate and the intensity of your contractions.Jake stood rigidly beside the bed. He had pulled his dark blue hoodie up over his head, the hood layered over his headphones to create an additional sensory barrier. He looked terrified. He was still crying, silent tears tracking steadily down his pale face, but his hands were locked onto yours.
"The biological anomaly is arriving," Jake whispered to you, his thumb stroking your knuckles frantically as the nurse adjusted the IV in your arm. "The data is overwhelming. But the heart rate monitor indicates 140 beats per minute. Arthur is stable. You are stable."
"I need you to stay with me," you panted, the exhaustion beginning to blur the edges of your vision.
"I am stationary," Jake promised fiercely, leaning down so his face was inches from yours. "I am not leaving the coordinates. I will count every breath. I will audit every variable."And he did.
For the next six hours, Jake Sim endured the most profoundly overstimulating environment of his entire life, and he did it without shutting down.When the pain grew too intense for you to speak, he became your voice. He utilized his incredibly clinical vocabulary to communicate exactly what you were experiencing to the nurses, leaving no room for medical ambiguity. When the fluorescent lights became too much for him, he didn't leave the room; he simply closed his eyes and buried his face in the blankets beside your hip, maintaining the heavy, deep pressure you required.
Sarah sat in the corner, managing the logistics, answering the doctors' questions, and watching her son perform miracles.When it was finally time to push, the room filled with doctors. The noise level spiked. The clinical smell of iodine and blood filled the air.Jake stood right by your shoulder. He pushed one side of his headphones back, exposing his ear so he could hear you perfectly. He slid his arm behind your back, supporting your entire weight as you curled forward."The friction is massive," Jake wept with you, his face pressed against your sweaty cheek. "You are structurally incredible, Y/N. The output is almost complete. Keep pushing. One... two... three... four." You gave one final, agonizing, earth-shattering push, screaming his name into the chaotic room. And then, a new sound pierced the air.
It wasn't a beep. It wasn't the buzz of a fluorescent light. It was a loud, wet, furious wail.
You collapsed back against the pillows, gasping for air, your chest heaving.
"Time of birth, 11:42 PM," the doctor announced, placing a tiny, squalling, incredibly messy bundle directly onto your bare chest.
Jake completely froze.
He stared at the tiny, red, screaming infant resting on your chest. The baby's fists were clenched, his eyes squeezed shut against the harsh hospital lights. He was loud. He was unpredictable. He was covered in biological fluids. He was a sensory nightmare.Jake slowly reached up and pulled his headphones completely off his head, letting them drop around his neck.He didn't flinch at the crying. He didn't pull away from the mess.He leaned down, his broad shoulders shaking with fresh, overwhelming sobs, and rested his large, trembling hand gently over the baby's tiny, frantic back. The contrast between his massive hand and the tiny infant was staggering.
"Arthur," Jake whispered, his voice cracking with a love so profound it seemed to pull the gravity out of the room. "The variable is complete."
The baby, feeling the sudden, firm warmth of his father's hand, let out one last shuddering cry and slowly began to quiet down, settling into the familiar rhythm of your heartbeat."He's here, Jakey," you wept, turning your head to press a kiss to Jake's tear-soaked cheek. "He's perfect." Jake looked from the baby to you. He leaned his forehead against yours, his dark eyes shining with absolute, unvarnished awe. He had survived the noise. He had survived the chaos.
"The data was correct," Jake murmured into your skin, a wet, beautiful smile breaking across his face. "Fifty percent you. Fifty percent me. He is mathematically perfect."
Three days in the maternity ward felt less like a medical recovery and more like a prolonged sensory endurance test. For seventy-two hours, the world had been reduced to a small, starkly white room. It was a chaotic environment dictated by the hum of fluorescent bulbs, the sharp scent of antiseptic wipes, and the unpredictable, revolving door of nurses who came in at all hours to check vitals, administer pain medication, and press on your bruised, aching abdomen.For you, the exhaustion was absolute. Your body felt as though it had been put through a commercial-grade compactor. Every muscle ached, walking was a slow, shuffling physical trial, and your center of gravity had completely shifted, leaving you feeling hollowed out and incredibly fragile. Yet, beneath the crushing fatigue and the physical soreness, there was a profound, intoxicating euphoria.
You were a mother. Arthur was perfect. He was tiny, warm, and entirely reliant on you. He had a mop of dark, fluffy hair that mirrored his fatherâs, and a pair of dark, observant eyes that he opened just long enough to study the blurred shapes of the world before falling back into a deep, milk-drunk sleep.
For Jake, the three days in the hospital had been an exercise in sheer, unadulterated willpower. He had not left the room once. Not to get coffee, not to go to the cafeteria, not to step outside for fresh air. He had established a perimeter around your bed and Arthur's clear plastic bassinet, and he guarded it with the hyper-vigilant dedication of a sentry.
He wore his noise-canceling headphones almost the entire time, keeping the volume dial just low enough to hear your voice or Arthurâs cries, but high enough to drown out the beeping monitors and the hallway chatter. He tracked the nursesâ shifts in a small notebook. He memorized your medication schedule, reminding the staff exactly three minutes before your ibuprofen was due.But most importantly, he was your anchor. When Arthur cried in the middle of the night and the hormones and exhaustion made you weep, Jake was there. He would carefully lift the baby, applying the perfect, broad-handed deep pressure that Arthur seemed to inherently crave, and then sit on the edge of your hospital bed, wrapping his free arm around your shoulders to ground you both.Now, it was Friday morning. Discharge day.You were sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, dressed in soft, loose sweatpants and a maternity sweater. You watched as Jake executed the final packing protocol.He was standing by the small bassinet, his brow furrowed in absolute, laser-focused concentration. Arthur was dressed in his going-home outfit: a soft, dark blue, organic cotton onesie with the seams sewn on the outside to prevent localized friction.
Jake was currently securing the infant into the portable car seat.
"The chest clip must be aligned precisely with the armpit axis," Jake murmured to himself, his long fingers gently but firmly adjusting the plastic buckle over Arthurâs tiny sternum. "If it is too low, it compromises the skeletal restraint system in the event of sudden deceleration. If it is too high, it introduces an asphyxiation variable."
"It looks perfect, Spidey," you said softly, your voice raspy from fatigue.
Jake didn't look up until he had pulled the tightening strap at the bottom of the seat. He inserted two fingers beneath the shoulder harness, verifying the tension with mathematical precision. "The slack is eliminated. He is secured."
Jake finally turned to look at you. His dark eyes were shadowed with heavy bags, the physical toll of his hyper-vigilance evident in the pale, tight lines of his face. The hospital had drained his battery down to a critical one percent. He desperately needed his sanctuary."Are you ready to initiate the transit sequence?" he asked, walking over to you."I'm so ready to go home, Jake," you breathed, reaching your hands out.He leaned down, wrapping his arms around your waist, and carefully hauled you to your feet. He didn't let go of you immediately. He pressed you flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply.
"You still smell like the hospital," he mumbled into your skin, his nose wrinkling slightly. "The iodine and the synthetic linens. I need to recalibrate your olfactory baseline. I need you to smell like vanilla and oats again."
"I'll take a shower as soon as we get home," you promised, rubbing his back. "Just get us to the quiet room."
A sharp knock on the door made Jake flinch, his shoulders instantly hiking up defensively.A cheerful nurse walked in, pushing a wheelchair. "Alright, Mom and Dad! Itâs policy that we wheel you down to the exit. Is your ride here?"
"My mother is parked in the designated loading zone at the East Entrance," Jake stated, his voice flattening into its protective cadence. He stepped back from you, picking up the heavy car seat with one hand and grabbing the grey duffel bag with the other. "We are prepared for extraction." The nurse blinked, slightly taken aback by his terminology, but she smiled politely. "Great. Have a seat, Y/N." The journey through the hospital corridors felt like running a gauntlet. The fluorescent lights buzzed violently overhead. The wheels of the chair squeaked against the linoleum. Jake walked exactly half a step behind your left shoulder, his jaw clenched so tightly you could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. He was staring straight ahead, refusing to look at the other patients, his headphones securely clamped over his ears.When the automatic sliding doors finally parted, the rush of cold, crisp February air was like a physical blow of relief.Sarahâs SUV was idling by the curb. She leaped out the moment she saw you, a massive, tearful smile on her face.
"Oh, my babies," Sarah cooed, rushing over. She hugged you first, carefully avoiding your tender abdomen, before turning to her son.
Jake didn't hug her back. He couldn't. His hands were full, and his sensory capacity was entirely maxed out. "The external environment is 34 degrees," he stated abruptly, dodging her embrace to move toward the backseat of the car. "The infant will experience a rapid thermal drop. I must initiate the docking procedure."
Sarah didn't take it personally. She knew the signs of an impending system crash better than anyone. She stepped back, her smile softening into profound understanding. "The car is warm, Jakey. Go ahead."Jake clicked the car seat perfectly into the pre-installed base. Click. Clack. He tested the structural integrity by pulling aggressively on the handle. It didn't budge a millimeter.
He then helped you into the backseat, sliding in right beside you. He pulled his door shut, sealing out the noise of the hospital traffic.The silence inside the SUV was sudden and heavy. Sarah had turned the radio completely off. The only sound was the low, steady hum of the heater and the rhythmic sound of Arthurâs tiny, snuffling breaths.Jake let out a long, shuddering exhale. His head fell back against the headrest, his eyes sliding shut. His hands, which had been clenched into tight fists, slowly uncurled on his thighs."Deep breaths, Spidey," you whispered, shifting your weight painfully to lean your head against his broad shoulder.
Jake shifted instantly, bringing his arm up to wrap securely around your shoulders, tucking you against his side. He opened his eyes, his gaze locking onto the car seat in front of him.
"The hospital is a chaotic variable," Jake murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion. "But the data collection was successful. We entered as two. We are exiting as three."
"We did it," you smiled, closing your eyes.The drive back to the house took exactly twenty minutes. Sarah drove with excruciating care, avoiding every pothole and taking the turns at a glacial pace. Jake spent the entire transit staring at Arthurâs chest, visually tracking the rise and fall of the babyâs breathing.When the SUV finally turned into your familiar driveway, the snow piled high on the lawns, your heart did a massive, relieved flutter."We're home," Sarah announced softly, putting the car in park.She got out, grabbing the duffel bags from the front, and hurried to the front door to unlock it and turn on the lights.Jake didn't rush. He opened his door, stepping out into the cold air. He unclicked the car seat with practiced ease, lifting Arthur out. Then, he offered you his free arm, providing the deep, stable pressure you needed to hoist yourself out of the low seat.Together, you walked up the front steps.
The moment Jake crossed the threshold into the house, you physically felt the shift in his energy.The front door clicked shut behind you, and the chaotic noise of the outside world vanished entirely. The house was bathed in the soft, warm glow of the amber lamps. The air smelled faintly of cedar and the clean, unscented laundry detergent he used."The temperature is exactly 69 degrees," Jake whispered, his chest expanding as he took his first real, deep breath in three days. He looked around the living room, his eyes scanning the perfectly aligned sofa cushions, the blackout curtains, and the neat rows of his LEGO bins.
The baseline had been restored.
"Welcome home, boys," you smiled, tears pricking your eyes at the sheer, overwhelming peace of the space.Sarah came walking out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "I stocked the fridge," she told you, keeping her voice pitched to a soft, soothing volume. "There's a massive batch of the organic chicken soup Y/N likes, and all the ingredients for Tuesday grilled cheese are prepped and sorted in the crisper drawer."
"Thank you, Mom," Jake said. He was still holding the car seat, standing in the entryway, processing the sensory relief.Sarah walked over. She didn't try to hug him again. She just reached out and gently smoothed down the collar of his hoodie. "You did so good, Jake. I am so incredibly proud of you. You protected them."
Jakeâs jaw tightened. He looked down at the sleeping infant, then looked at you."They are my permanent variables. It is my primary function."
"I know it is," Sarah smiled, a tear slipping down her cheek. She picked up her purse from the entryway table. "Now, I am going to leave. You three need to establish your new routines. The static is gone, honey. Youâve got the manual now."
"I have the manual," Jake agreed softly.
Sarah blew you a kiss and slipped out the front door, locking it securely behind her.
And then, there were three."Let's get him out of the restraint system," Jake said, his focus immediately shifting back to the baby. "Prolonged containment in the car seat can restrict diaphragmatic expansion."
"To the nursery," you agreed, shuffling slowly down the hallway.
The nursery was exactly as Jake had built itâa masterpiece of sensory control. The walls were that soft, calming sage green. The lighting was dimmed to a mere twenty percent capacity. The acoustic panels absorbed the sound of your footsteps, making the room feel like a quiet, insulated cocoon.Jake set the car seat gently on the rug. He unbuckled the harness, his large hands incredibly gentle as he scooped the tiny infant into his arms.Arthur let out a small, disgruntled squeak at being moved, his tiny arms flailing out in a sudden startle reflex. His face scrunched up, the precursor to a loud, chaotic cry.Before the hospital, a sudden, unpredictable noise from a baby would have sent Jakeâs nervous system into an immediate tailspin.
But not now.Jake didn't flinch. He didn't look for his headphones. He immediately pulled Arthur against his chest, tucking the baby's head beneath his chin. He spread his large hand over Arthur's entire back, applying a firm, steady, continuous deep pressure."Sensory overload," Jake murmured to the baby, his voice dropping into a low, resonant baritone that vibrated through his chest cavity. "The transition from the restraint system to the open air caused a proprioceptive disruption. I understand, Arthur. The world is too big right now. I am providing the boundary."
Jake began to rock. It wasn't the frantic, erratic rocking of a meltdown. It was a slow, deeply mathematical sway. Forward, two, three. Back, two, three. He calculated the momentum, keeping the rhythm flawless.Arthurâs scrunching face instantly smoothed out. The impending cry died in his throat. He felt the deep pressure. He felt the heavy, rhythmic vibration of his fatherâs voice. He let out a tiny, contented sigh, his little fists relaxing against Jakeâs hoodie.You stood in the doorway, leaning heavily against the frame, watching your husband work his magic."You're a natural, Spidey," you whispered, your heart swelling until you thought it might burst through your ribs.
Jake looked up at you as he rocked. "His nervous system is essentially a blank hard drive," he explained, though his eyes were incredibly soft. "He does not know how to self-regulate yet. He requires external compression to find his physical coordinates. It is highly logical."
"It's beautiful," you corrected him.
Jake walked over to the cribâthe structurally flawless, birch wood fortress he had built. He lowered Arthur into the bassinet, keeping his hand flat against the baby's chest until the very last second, ensuring a smooth transition to the mattress.
Arthur didn't even twitch. He was out cold.Jake stood over the crib for a long moment, verifying the rise and fall of the tiny chest. He checked the digital thermometer on the changing table."The environment is stable," Jake announced quietly.He turned away from the crib and walked over to you. He didn't stop a foot away. He stepped directly into your space, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling your tired, aching body flush against his."Your turn," Jake whispered into your hair."My turn for what?" you asked, melting against his solid warmth, letting him support your weight.
"Maintenance," he stated factually. "You have undergone massive biological trauma. The fluid loss, the muscle exertion, the sleep deprivation. Your structural integrity is compromised. I must initiate the recovery protocol." He didn't wait for you to argue. He swept one arm under your knees and the other around your back, lifting you entirely off your feet. You let out a startled laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Jake! I'm heavy!"
"Your mass is irrelevant. I have calculated the load-bearing capacity of my skeletal structure," he replied, carrying you out of the nursery and down the hall toward the master bedroom. "You are not to walk anymore today. It introduces unnecessary friction to your healing tissues."He carried you into the master bedroom. The blackout curtains were drawn tight. The bed was freshly made, the sheets crisp and smelling of his unscented detergent.He set you down gently on the edge of the mattress. He knelt in front of you, carefully untying your sneakers and sliding them off your swollen feet. He pulled your socks off, his thumbs instinctively pressing into your arches to offer that deep, soothing pressure."The swelling is already decreasing," he noted, analyzing your ankles. "But you require hydration and horizontal rest."
He stood up, pulling the heavy, fifteen-pound grey weighted blanket back. "Get in."
You didn't need to be told twice. You slid under the sheets, groaning in absolute bliss as the familiar, heavy weight of the blanket settled over your exhausted body. It was like sinking into a cloud of pure safetyJake didn't immediately join you. He went into the master bathroom, returning a minute later with a large glass of ice waterâno, room temperature water, because ice clinked and the cold shocked the system.
He set it on the nightstand, then walked around to his side of the bed.
He stripped off his hoodie, leaving him in his soft, tagless t-shirt, and climbed under the weighted blanket beside you.The moment his body settled against the mattress, the final piece of the algorithm locked into place. He pulled you flush against his side, his heavy arm slinging over your waist, his long legs tangling with yours.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting over your collarbone.
"The static is entirely gone," Jake whispered, his voice incredibly thick.
"Me too," you murmured, your eyes already drifting shut, anchored by his heavy, beautiful weight. "I love you, Jake."
"I love you, Y/N," he replied, his hand resting flat against your stomach, which was now soft and empty. "And I love Arthur. The variables are perfect."
The house was completely silent. The temperature was exactly 69 degrees. Down the hall, the anomaly slept peacefully in his mathematically sound crib. And in the quiet dark of the bedroom, Jake Sim finally allowed his hyper-vigilant processor to power down. He had built the perimeter. He had survived the noise. And as he held you in the safety of the beige house, he knew with absolute certainty that no matter how loud the world outside got, he would always be the wall that kept you safe.
The first few weeks of parenthood were exactly what Jake had calculated they would be: a massive, systemic disruption of their previous baseline. Sleep was fragmented into two-hour intervals. The laundry machine ran almost constantly, cycling through organic cotton burp cloths and tagless onesies. The pristine quiet of the beige two-story house was frequently punctuated by the sharp, demanding cries of a newborn who had not yet learned how to exist in a world with gravity and cold air.
But miraculously, the system didn't crash.Jake had adapted with the fierce, hyper-focused dedication he usually reserved for three-thousand-piece architectural models. He had built a schedule so airtight it left no room for the paralyzing anxiety of the unknown. He tracked Arthurâs ounces of milk intake on his iPad spreadsheet. He mapped out the exact times to dim the smart bulbs to promote melatonin production. He became an absolute master of the swaddle, folding the organic receiving blankets around Arthur with the precise tension required to simulate the deep pressure of the womb.It was exactly 3:14 AM on a Tuesday, roughly three weeks after you had brought Arthur home. You woke up with a slow, heavy blink, the phantom echo of a babyâs cry pulling you out of a deep sleep. You reached your hand out instinctively across the mattress.Your fingers met cool, empty sheets.You pushed yourself up, the heavy grey weighted blanket sliding off your shoulders. The house was utterly silent. The ambient temperature was locked at 69 degrees.
You slid your feet into your quiet, rubber-soled slippers and walked softly out of the master bedroom, the acoustic dampening of the hallway absorbing the sound of your steps.A soft, warm amber glow was spilling out from the open doorway of the nursery.
You didn't walk in right away. You stopped just behind the doorframe, peeking into the room.The scene inside made your breath catch in your throat.Jake was sitting in the wide, upholstered rocking chair in the corner of the room. He wasn't wearing his noise-canceling headphones. He was dressed in his soft, worn-in navy hoodie, the hood pushed down, his fluffy dark curls sleep-mussed and sticking up in every direction.Arthur was fully awake, resting against Jakeâs chest, swaddled perfectly into a tight, dark blue burrito. The babyâs large, dark eyesâan exact mirror of his fatherâsâwere wide open, staring up at Jakeâs face in the dim light.
Jake was rocking the chair. Forward, two, three. Back, two, three. The momentum was perfectly calculated.He was talking to his son. His voice was pitched to that low, resonant baritone, a steady, vibrating hum that you knew provided Arthur with immense tactile comfort."The light you are currently observing is a wavelength of approximately 590 nanometers," Jake was whispering, his long, elegant fingers gently stroking the soft peach fuzz on the top of Arthur's head. "It is the color amber. It is statistically proven to be the least disruptive to your circadian rhythm. That means it is safe for your eyes."
Arthur let out a tiny, soft coo, a bubble of spit forming on his lips.
Jakeâs expression softened into a look of such absolute, unvarnished adoration that it made your heart physically ache. He didn't pull a tissue. He just used the soft sleeve Pof his hoodie to gently wipe the baby's chin. "You are experiencing rapid neurological growth," Jake continued, his tone factual but completely laced with wonder. "Every time you blink, your synapses are forming new pathways. It must be very overwhelming. The data input is massive. But you do not need to process it all at once, Arthur. I have optimized the perimeter."Jake leaned his head back against the chair, keeping the baby securely anchored to his chest."When I was your age," Jake murmured, his voice growing incredibly quiet, "the world was very loud. The lights were too sharp. The tags on my clothes felt like sandpaper. My processor did not know how to filter the noise. I was very afraid, very often."You leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, tears pricking your eyes. You had never heard him talk about his infancy this way."But you will not have to be afraid," Jake promised his son, his hand flattening against Arthurâs tiny back, providing that essential deep pressure. "I have audited the textiles. I have sealed the windows. And when the variables become too unpredictable, I will be the wall. Just as your mother is the wall for me. You are fifty percent her, which means you are structurally flawless."
Arthur blinked slowly, his heavy eyelids finally beginning to droop under the soothing cadence of his fatherâs voice and the rhythmic math of the rocking chair.
"You are my favorite anomaly," Jake whispered, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the baby's forehead. "Now, initiate sleep mode. The environment is stable."
You stepped into the room, unable to stay hidden any longer.
"You're amazing with him," you whispered, walking over to the rocking chair.
Jake looked up, his dark eyes instantly finding yours. The hyper-vigilant tension he carried in the outside world was entirely absent. Here, in the amber light, holding his son, he just looked like a man perfectly at peace."His distress vocalizations woke me at exactly 3:02 AM," Jake reported softly, not stopping the rocking motion. "He required a diaper change and an additional two ounces of formula. He is now entering the final stages of the sleep cycle. You did not need to break your REM sleep, Y/N. The sequence was under control."
"I know it was," you smiled, reaching out to run your fingers through Jake's messy curls. You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his warm cheek. "I just woke up and missed my permanent variable. Both of them."Jake hummed, a deep sound of profound satisfaction, and leaned his face against your stomach as you stood beside him. "The volume of my love for you is mathematically incalculable," he murmured into your shirt.
"I love you too, Jakey," you whispered, watching Arthur's eyes flutter entirely shut. "Let's put him down and go back to sleep. We have a lot of variables to conquer tomorrow."
Two Years Later
"Dada! Bwock!"
The joyful, demanding shout echoed through the sunlit living room of the house.
It was a Saturday morning. The world outside had thawed into a beautiful, vibrant spring, but inside, the climate control was, as always, locked at a comfortable 69 degrees.You were standing at the kitchen island, a mug of hot coffee in your hands, watching the scene unfolding on the plush living room rug with a heart so full it felt like it might burst.Arthur was now two years old.
He was a whirlwind of kinetic energy, a miniature clone of his father with the same fluffy, dark curls and enormous brown eyes. But unlike Jakeâs historically cautious approach to the world, Arthur attacked his environment with fearless enthusiasm, entirely confident that his parents had made the world perfectly safe for him to explore.Jake was sitting cross-legged on the floor.He was wearing his favorite vintage Spider-Man pajama setâthe soft, tagless ones with the flat seams. Sitting exactly opposite him, mirroring his posture with striking accuracy, was Arthur, wearing an exact, miniature replica of the same tagless Spider-Man pajamas. Between them sat a massive plastic bin of vibrant, primary-colored LEGO Duplo blocks.
Jake had originally planned to introduce standard LEGO sets when Arthur's fine motor skills developed, but he quickly realized that the larger, safer Duplo blocks were mathematically perfect for a toddler's grip. "Bwock, Dada!" Arthur demanded again, slapping his small, chubby hand against the carpet.Jake picked up a bright red 2x4 Duplo brick. He didn't just hand it to his son; he held it up, examining it with the same intense, analytical focus he used for his architectural commissions.
"This is a fundamental structural component," Jake explained to the two-year-old, his tone perfectly serious and respectful. He never used 'baby talk'. He spoke to Arthur as if he were a colleague. "The clutch power of the interlocking tubes underneath will allow us to build a stable foundation. You must align the studs precisely."
He handed the red block to Arthur.Arthur grabbed it with both hands. He picked up a blue block from the carpet and, with a look of intense concentration that mirrored Jakeâs exactly, mashed the two blocks together.
Click.
"I did it!" Arthur cheered, throwing his hands in the air."Your spatial awareness is developing flawlessly," Jake praised, a massive, brilliant smile breaking across his face. He leaned forward and ruffled Arthur's dark curls. "You have achieved a successful connection. Now, we must reinforce the lateral stability." You took a sip of your coffee, leaning against the counter. Watching Jake as a father was the greatest privilege of your life. All the fears he had harbored during your pregnancyâthat his sensory limitations would make him inadequate, that he wouldn't be able to handle the noise of a childâhad been completely dismantled. He hadn't stopped being autistic. The world outside the house was still too loud, the grocery store still required noise-canceling headphones, and unexpected changes to his schedule still caused his anxiety to spike. But with Arthur, Jake had rewritten his own algorithm.
If Arthur cried loudly because he scraped his knee, Jake didn't cover his ears. He immediately recognized the sound as 'distress data' rather than 'chaotic noise', and his protective instinct completely overrode his sensory defenses. He would scoop Arthur up, apply the deep pressure his son loved, and calmly assess the "malfunction."
He was the most patient, attentive, and deeply affectionate father you had ever seen. He was, in every sense of the word, a puppy husbandâutterly devoted, deeply loving, and profoundly safe. "Mama! Look!" Arthur shrieked, spotting you in the kitchen. He scrambled to his feet, abandoning his Duplo tower, and ran across the living room on his sturdy little legs. "I see it, my brave little spider!" you laughed, putting your coffee down just in time to catch him as he crashed into your knees. You scooped him up, settling his warm, solid weight onto your hip. You pressed a loud, exaggerated kiss to his cheek, making him giggle uncontrollably. Jake stood up from the carpet. He uncrossed his long legs with fluid grace and walked over to the kitchen island, his eyes locked onto the two of you. He stepped directly into your space, wrapping his long arms around both you and Arthur, pulling his entire family into a massive, encompassing hug. He pressed his face against the side of your head, inhaling your scent, then leaned down to bump his nose affectionately against Arthurâs. "The tower is incomplete," Jake informed his son, his eyes crinkling with warmth. "But Mama required morning compression. We will resume the construction sequence in approximately five minutes."
"Okay, Dada," Arthur chirped, resting his head on your shoulder and immediately beginning to play with the zipper of your cardigan. You looked up at Jake, running your free hand up his chest to rest flat against his heart. It was beating in a slow, steady, perfect rhythm. "Are you happy, Spidey?" you asked softly, the morning sun catching the lapis lazuli in his wedding band as he held you.
Jake didn't need to run an internal diagnostic to answer the question. The data was glaringly obvious.He looked around the house. He looked at the Duplo blocks scattered on the rug. He looked at the acoustic panels on the walls that kept the world at bay. And then, he looked at youâthe woman who had walked into his life three years ago with a crooked diploma and a willingness to understand the math of his mind."Before you arrived, my brain was filled with static," Jake said, his voice dropping into that deep, resonant octave reserved only for you. "I spent all my energy building walls to keep the unpredictable variables out."
He lifted his hand, gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light and incredibly tender."But you did not break my walls," he continued, his dark brown eyes shining with absolute, unfiltered devotion. "You walked inside them. You helped me reinforce the foundation. And then, we built Arthur."
He looked at the toddler currently trying to put your zipper in his mouth, pulling it gently away.
"I am not just happy, Y/N," Jake stated, leaning down until his forehead rested flush against yours. "The static isn't entirely gone but it feels like it is. The variables are perfect. My life is... it is no longer an equation to be solved. It is a masterpiece."
You smiled, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. He kissed you back immediately, a deep, grounding pressure that anchored you to the earth. "Ew! Kisses!" Arthur protested loudly, squirming against your hip. Jake pulled back, a genuine, hearty laugh escaping his chestâa sound that still felt like a victory every time you heard it. He reached out and scooped Arthur out of your arms, tossing the squealing toddler slightly in the air before settling him securely against his chest.
"Kisses are highly optimal for maintaining the parental bond, Arthur," Jake informed his giggling son, turning back toward the living room rug. "Now, we must finish the tower. The structural integrity depends on us."
You stood in the kitchen, picking your coffee mug back up, and watched your two Spider-Men sit back down on the carpet. Jake picked up a blue piece of plastic. It wasn't a Duplo block. It was the translucent blue, polycarbonite "power blast" web piece that he had given you on that rainy afternoon three years ago. The one you still kept in the ceramic bowl on the counter.
He held it up for Arthur to see. "This," Jake told his son, his voice thick with meaning, "is a web. It connects things. It holds things together when they are falling." He looked over his shoulder, catching your eye across the room, and flashed you a smile so bright it outshined the morning sun. "And it never breaks."
You took a sip of your coffee, the warmth spreading through your chest, settling deep in your bones. The diploma was still hanging in your office at the community center. You had plenty of real-world experience now. But your greatest achievement wasn't a file folder or a caseload.
It was right here. In this perfectly controlled, 69-degree sanctuary, watching the man who had once been terrified of the world teach his son how to build a beautiful, indestructible life, one plastic brick at a time.
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You lot are insufferable omg. how could they have planned it if he didnât wanna renew the contract like the 6 others already have? Theyâre going on a world tour where they supposed to just wait around for heeseung? And donât come with that overworked shit cause they literally been off tour for 7 months this may. And all these kpop groups usually do the same setlists for every tour they only take out Max 10 songs and add a few new ones from their new albums which means they do the same choreography plus the majority of the songs they lip sync
7 months isnt a break bby they lit had a whole comeback between that too lets not lie to ourselves i need the anons to stop going into my inbox nd saying stupid shi idk why yall r so dependant on driding that company its insane lmaoo. if he didnt wanna renew the contract they wldve yk waited till it was up nd not kick him out in a random day the company litch said it was an extremely thought out decision (which it clearly wasnt) ++ enha havent even renewed their contracts yet?? idk where u got that info from js making stuff up atp to appeal to ur narrative embarassing afđđ
bullshit that belift has put enhypen through ever since their debut
1. sept 2020
during enhypen's first appearance at an airport they were heavily mobbed. ni-ki (a child at that time) was separated from the rest, jake reportedly cried and heeseung had to protect sunoo.
people found out their flight details, sasaengs booked the same flight.
2. jan 2020
the members were literally shivering from cold at an outdoor fansign. during winter, by the way. easily avoidable if belift cared, by the way.
sometime later the month jake faced backlash after wearing a necklace with the word "allah". stylists were blamed yet no apology came.
3. october 2022
sunghoon fainted at jfk from exhaustion. sunghoon, someone who has been practicing physically for years before debuting fainted from physical exertion... i think that says a lot about the insane schedule theyve been putting them through.
4. july 2023
another airport situation (incheon after madrid i believe). not enough security, members were pushed, separatedâsomething that should never happen in this line of work.
5. jul 30 2023
jake literally cried while performing due to the demanding and continuous choreographies.
later on live he said that he didn't even realize hed cried as he was too exhausted and in pain to do so until his makeup got messed up.
6. january 2024
there was a situation with a sasaeng literally stalking jake, booking the same flights, taking pictures of him sleeping. fans were deeply concerned and yet no action was taken.
7. june 14 2024
another airport mobbing situation, the members couldnt even pass through because of the amount of people pushing them.
need i say that its absolutely unacceptable?
8. july 2024
fans started being concerned about how staff treats sunoo. there are multiple videos of the staff grabbing him harshly by the arm, practically manhandling him etc.
but of course, no apology was issued, no action was taken.
9. june 2024
the company confirmed that jay had suffered a knee injury during their japan tour, he was seen wearing a knee supporter while performing later.
due to the tour's tight schedule he didn't even have time to recover properly and had to do so with an injury.
10. august 2024 fate+
heeseung was criticized for a lazy performance when in reality he could clearly be seen stumbling on stage due to exhaustion and the overly demanding schedule.
an extension of the tour was announced soon after.
11. september 2024
another sasaeng situation, the members privacy constantly being violated, people getting their flight information etc. and the company doing nothing to protect them.
12. december 2024
both jay and jungwon had dating rumors which they had to address themselves as no official statement was made by belift. jungwon had to deny the rumors on live by himself while the company did nothing.
13. december 27 2024
yet another airport mobbing situation.
members were seen pushed, lack of security and protection. yet after all the years of the same thing happening over and over again no action was taken.
14. february 27 2025
heeseung was called multiple times on his weverse live, looking visibly upset (as he should).
question is, how did his personal information got leaked and why the company did nothing to help?
15. june 30 2025
sasaengs reportedly broke into enhypen's dorm and tried to film them while asleep. the situation was reported to the police, but it still made it clear that better security is necessary.
16. july 4 2025
heeseung's home address was leaked.
17. jan 2026
sunghoon was sent on a solo schedule to china (i believe) with no security. he was forced to run through the airport as there were people literally chasing him.
18. march 2026
a few weeks ago we also found out that people were harassing heeseung on kkt ever since january. sending him explicit pictures, adding him to groupchats to harass him.
his phone number was also being sold for money.
im sure there were more situations like that, but those are just the ones that one can easily find. it is just unacceptable for a company to treat their idols like this.
no proofs attached because they can easily be found and not many details im lazy.
boycott hybe!
despite concerns, it doesnt hurt the boys. if anything, what the company has been putting them through hurts them more than anything right now.
we want to financially boycott the company to the point where theyll be forced to listen to the fans concerns. thats all it isâit is not sabotaging enhypen's career in any way and people need to understand that.
theyre human too, and they deserve a break instead of continuous tours and performances. stop treating them like your own personal entertainment instead of actual human beings.
this wont blow up, im typing all this out to remember.
I think, at this point in the situation with Hee- because I'll always be thinking about it- I'm just sad.
And the thing that pains me the most is that I'm sure they're never going to truly be able to interact; maybe off camera, but we won't get to see the other six interact with Hee anymore. I doubt they'll be able to talk about the other, and I can't see them doing promotional videos together.
And it just sucks to know that we won't be able to see nearly decade long friendships anymore, but I do hope everyone is happy where they're at, and I hope they're all healthy.
another controversial opinion (has to do with hee this time)
I just saw a post by someone and it lowk made me angry as hell but my laptop refreshed and I couldn't respond. It was talking about how it was Heeseung's choice (that's not my main problem) and how engenes are so emotional and ridiculous for talking about boycotting the other guys.
This was a post from like the twenty third of march or something, but right now, I'm going to use both old and new things to counter it.
Using what we knew on the twenty third, we all knew enhypen was overworked as fuck. disgustingly so. and we all fucking know that beshit won't do anything about it. So this person and all the people in the comments whining about how a boycott won't do anything need to stfu for real. Because beshit isn't going to do SHIT about the overworking if there isn't a boycott. boycotts and changes in income do significantly impact things. So fuck yes, a boycott is necessary
And using what we know now, there's a DIGUSTINGLY long tour. You're telling me there's an 11 month tour right after all of this? And we know how it works, there's going to promotions and an album dropping and so much overworking the members will be scarily unhealthy. But 'engenes' will overlook it after acting concerned for two minutes because they want to see the boys. Be so fucking for real. This tour is going to push them so hard as tours have before. I already know that a boycott for the tour won't work because everyone's pissy and doesn't think it's a good idea, but I hope you understand YOU. ARE. THE. FUCKING. PROBLEM
You idiots fueling their overworked schedules with your money are the dumbasses making belift think this is okay and that engenes are okay with it.
And to anyone saying that boycotting a tour would harm contract extensions- I personally think that they should leave belift the second they can. That's just me, and I know this will ruffle a lot of feathers, but I don't give a shit. I pray that they don't renew their contract because these are the guys that helped me through tough times. And I don't want to watch them suffer and get overworked and get dizzy on stage because other fans are letting it happen.
Get your heads out of your fucking asses.
