🎀

25 | just a girl reading to fall asleep

[wisteria-blooms]

P A R A D I S E // P O T I O N S!

PAIRING: Bill Weasley & You  WARNINGS: smut!! so much smut!!, oral (giving, receiving), piv, sex pollen trope, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, creampies, all the makings of a bad porn plot **MINORS DNI** SUMMARY: As per Percy’s recommendation to his mother, you’re tasked to house-sit the Burrow while the family is away for the Quidditch World Cup. You’re Percy's closest friend and much like him, you are more than wary of his mischievous twin brothers, Fred and George. But what if their machinations lead you to something you’ve always dreamt of coming true? (8.0k words)

A/N: Been going through a bit of writer’s block recently, so hopefully a load of debauchery (as big as Bill's) breaks down that wall. I’ve been mad at how my sentences are coming out—they sound so redundant and boring. Also, I’m not great at editing my smut scenes because I get embarrassed reading them, so enjoy at your own risk. ;)

PARADISE POTIONS!

There was an undeniable feeling of late summer that nestled in the morning air, a pleasant marriage of warmth and wind. As you trekked up a tall, grassy hill, you breathed it all in. You were in disbelief that August had snuck up on you so suddenly. That meant only two weeks left of freedom before you were confined to a cubicle in the Ministry of Magic, wasting your life away.

‘It won’t be so bad’, you reminded yourself. After all, Percy Weasley would be there alongside you in the same department. He was your most supportive and reliable friend, contrary to popular opinion. And it’d been him that pitched the idea that you house sit the Burrow while he and his family were away at the Quidditch World Cup. Apparently, he’d told Molly that you were mature, responsible, and ‘very much like him.’ You had to tease him about the compliment he threw in about himself. 

Molly would provide you room and board for the next week. Your tasks mainly included upkeep of the garden, feeding the animals, and ensuring the home didn’t seem completely empty as the whole family vacationed. Molly simply hated to keep an empty house. 

“Good morning, Perce!” you greeted with a wave when you reached the tip of the hill.

He waved back from the main entrance. Then, he motioned for your luggage. 

“How was your journey?”

“Uneventful,” you affirmed. “Though the walk up was great exercise. I feel very much awake now.”

“It’s quite the trek,” he agreed.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the orientation at the Ministry we had last week,” you gushed. “I’m so excited to start work.”

“Me too,” Percy agreed with a nod. 

“Mum would like to have you in for a spot of breakfast,” Percy said.

“I’d be delighted.” You heard excellent things about Molly Weasley’s breakfasts. 

Percy held the door open for you. The windchimes sounded from above you, signaling your entrance. You brushed past a fluttery overhead curtain. When the material unveiled itself, you came face to face with a long dining table. There were only six occupants: Ginny, Ron, the infamous Harry Potter, Hermione, Charlie, and Bill. You gave a small wave to the younger kids. They nodded wordlessly. You reckoned that in their eyes, any friend of Percy’s must be some masochist deviant. 

To the side, Arthur was chatting with who you supposed was Amos Diggory, combing through their plans. 

“Good morning, (Y/N) dear,” Molly greeted. You were glad she thought of you just as prim and proper and organized as her third-eldest son. 

You took a seat with Percy. He sat where his newspaper and coffee mug laid, right in front of Charlie. With a nervous smile, you sat to his right and…

Your eyes immediately landed on Bill. He was Percy’s eldest brother, and by far the most handsome. You were embarrassed to admit that you’d always fancied him. Not in the soul-crushing-adult-love kind of way, but in a silly schoolgirl way. He was so tall, so subtly muscly from sports. And he was a little more fun than Percy, though you’d never tell him that. 

But given that you were so young, there was no viable chance of anything happening. So, you chose to admire him from afar in the two years you overlapped schooling. You were now eighteen like Percy, but you maintained the fact Bill still saw you as a child, nothing else. It was an infatuation that would hurt no one, so you just let it be. 

“Good morning, (Y/N).”

You suppressed a smile as he acknowledged you. 

“Good morning, Bill.”

“Good morning, (Y/N),” sang Charlie. 

You smiled. “Hi, Charlie.” Charlie was quite the handful. You preferred Bill’s calmness than Charlie’s calamity. 

“I see it’s you who was tasked with watching our house,” Bill said. “I couldn’t have chosen better myself.”

“Thank you, Bill.” That compliment was going into your pocket for a rainy day. 

Bill was still ever so handsome, appearances aging like fine wine, with his soft ginger locks that framed his sharp cheekbones. His blue eyes glinted in the morning sun. You peeked at his chiselled jaw and his—dare you say—kissable lips. His t-shirt barely hid the muscles in his arms. He might’ve been tall and predisposed to being lankier compared to Charlie, but you knew he had his own ways to keep fit. 

You were so busy being entranced by Bill that you’d lost track of time and space. All you knew was that it was the best morning ever, sitting in front of him, surrounded by faint windchimes and the chirping birds outside to the window. Breakfast hadn’t even been served and you were already salivating thinking about Bill doing push-ups under the hot Egyptian sun, and that wasn’t even that deep in the gutter where most of your thoughts laid, in fact—

Suddenly, a large explosion reverberated through the house and shook the table. It jolted you and Percy. You yelped and ducked. When you regained your sense of place, you looked up. No one else besides you and Percy were fazed. 

“What was that?” you asked Percy, trying to settle your heart. 

“Fred! George!” Molly cried, walking over to the stairs with her spatula still in hand. “What have I told you about your experiments?”

“Sorry, mum,” George said, running down the stairs, a smidge of ash on his face. “That’s it for today, I promise.”

“I don’t want to hear this again, ever!” Molly shrieked. Then, she calmed down when she realised she was in front of guests. “Well, if that’s it, then help out a little bit, won’t you? We have to get going in less than an hour.”

“Sure thing,” George said with a smile. He ran over to the table and to the coffee pot. He gave it a jiggle, letting the remaining liquid slosh around. “Anyone need a top up of their coffee?”

“Mum made that pot, you can trust it,” Percy advised.

“Thank you,” you whispered back, and then looked up at George, “I wouldn’t mind a cup.”

George sauntered over and poured you a cup. “Coffee, Bill?” he asked. 

“That sounds good,” Bill responded.

“You’ll have to wait another ten minutes then,” George said with a frown. He tapped the empty glass container. “I’ve just run out. If only (Y/N) didn’t drink for two.”

“Quit it,” Percy warned his brother with a low tone. 

“I’m sorry,” you said. You were about to offer Bill your cup when Percy held out a hand to stop you. 

“Keep it,” Percy countered as she shoved the white mug back to your side. “I wouldn’t trust anything they put out. I’m glad it’s you that took the last of what mum made.”

You kept your voice quiet and giggled. “I hope Bill has an iron stomach, then.”

Percy nodded. 

While Percy could be harsh on his siblings, you were grateful for his looking out for you. To be fair, you were also skittish around Fred and George. They weren’t as easy to read as other people. A friendly smile often meant something sinister. 

“Would anyone like some liqueur in your morning beverage?” Fred asked, skipping three steps as he ran down the stairs. He reached underneath his coat as if selling contraband. “I have whatever tickles your fancy. In fact, Georgie and I have been working on something we reckon will be extremely profitable.”

Molly shot him a glare. You shook your head politely. 

“Don’t feel like you have to respond to his foolishness,” advised Percy. “He doesn’t deserve your time of day.”

“Loosen up, (Y/N),” Fred commanded. “If you hang around Percy all day and refuse any fun, you’ll both die virgins.”

You went beet red immediately. It was a shade that rivalled Percy’s in speed and depth. You prayed that Bill wasn’t paying attention to you. 

“That is ENOUGH!” bellowed Molly who whipped around so quickly that she nearly decapitated George with her wooden spoon. She’d reached her boiling point. “I won’t have you ruining our morning with your distasteful conversations, especially with all our guests presents.” She charged over to Fred and handed him a stack of plates. “Go on, make yourself useful and set the table.”

“(Y/N), darling,” Molly said, her sudden change in tone a little frightening. “I’ve cleared out Bill’s old room for you. Since he’s heading back to Egypt right after the World Cup, he’ll share Charlie’s room for the time for the last night. There are fresh sheets and towels and a change of clothes if you need. You are welcome to use the bath right next to the room.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley.” Fred’s comment about your virginity went through one of Molly’s ears and out the other. Thank Merlin. 

“Coffee’s ready, dear brother,” George sang. “How do you take it?”

“Just black,” Bill responded. “Thank you, George.”

You peered at Bill through a sip of coffee. Your heart fluttered again. Summers were really the best. It was the only chance to see him again for a flicker of time, an hour or two, before he travelled halfway across the world again. In this case, in a week. As the meal went on, you stared at him so intently during breakfast that your fork speared your cheek instead of your mouth multiple times.

When breakfast concluded, you assured Molly that you’d take care of the dishes and ushered her to the door.

“I hope you have a nice time,” you said to Ron and his friends. He mumbled a thanks. You smiled at him, happy that you were making some progress with Percy’s younger brother. Your peace was ruined by Fred and George murmuring amongst themselves excitedly. You hoped it was about the World Cup and nothing else. 

Arthur was doing a routine headcount when he asked: “Where’s Bill?”

“He said he had some emergency work to finish up for the bank,” Charlie said. “Keep the portkey open for him for another hour, and he’ll be sure to make it by then.”

“If you need anything,” Percy said, placing a hand on your shoulder. “You know where to find me.”

You nodded.

After the Weasleys left, you locked the door and headed back into the house. Knowing Bill was upstairs working, you got to tidying the kitchen in the quietest manner you could. You hoped the running water and the occasional clinking of dishes wasn’t bothering him. It would be really embarrassing if he came down to complain about the noise. 

After the kitchen was cleaned, you went outside to trim the shrubs, water the plants, and feed the cows. You forced yourself not to peek at the front door to see if Bill had left. He probably had, and it hurt a bit that he’d gone without saying goodbye. 

The temperature had risen dramatically since you arrived in the morning, and by the time you were done, you were a sweaty mess. Bill had likely gone which meant you’d have the house to yourself. You caved into the idea of a long bath to wipe the mud and grime off your body. You dashed up to the main washroom Molly offered you and began running the water. 

When you were finished with your bath, you wrapped a clean towel around you and proceeded to your room. Maybe you could do some reading and take a nap before deciding on dinner, Your chest tingled when you realised it was Bill’s old room—how lucky were you?  The first thing you noticed when you entered was that Bill’s room was clean and sparse. Molly had left a window cracked open to allow for a gentle breeze, and placed your clothes on the bed. You took a couple steps forward and let your towel drop on the floor to reach for your tank top when suddenly…

Your hand met a tuft of hair. Hair that was attached to a pale, sweaty head. 

You screamed as you tumbled back, your bare bum hitting the wooden floor. Oh, where the heck was your wand when you needed it? You grabbed a pair of slippers in self-defence. 

“Who’s there?” you said in the bravest voice you could muster. “You need to get out of here, now!”

The thing in the bed just groaned weakly. You saw a pale, shaking arm stick out of the covers. Whatever it was, it was at least human, hopefully. 

Your hand grappled the top of the desk for your wand. Once you found it, you rose cautiously from the floor with the intent to peel away the covers. You’d dealt with Boggarts; you’d seen your worst nightmares in person. You treaded cautiously because the creature could rise at any moment. But it didn’t, forcing you to get closer. 

Your heart almost stopped when your hands grasped the hem of the covers. Your life flashed before your eyes. You needed to survive. You needed to live to work with Percy at the Ministry come September. You needed to live for your family. You needed to live for the off chance Bill Weasley shared the same feelings as you—oh, you were about to die, what was the point of thinking about Bill?

With your wand in an offensive position, you ripped the sheets off. 

But there was nothing.

Nothing at all.

What?

It took you a few seconds to process it, but this… thing wasn’t a creature at all. In fact, it was Bill Weasley. Well, an apparition of him of sorts. He looked extremely pale and sickly, his skin the shade of paper. His ginger hair stuck to his face, his sweat binding it like it was wet glue. There was an intense warmth radiating from his skin, and his body jostled slightly as the cold air hit him.

“Bill? You called out in complete disbelief. “Are—are you okay?”

He groaned in response. Slowly, he turned his head towards you. He looked even worse up close, or as worse as Bill Weasley could possibly look. His eyebrows were intensely furrowed, his breathing laboured, and he could barely open those pretty eyes of his—oh, not this again! Bill looked to be on death’s bed and all you were thinking about was how handsome he was. 

“I don’t know what happened,” Bill breathed out. His voice was a mere rasp. “I was feeling fine this morning. I can hardly get up now. And I can’t talk,” he coughed as if to prove a point, “above a whisper.”

“Are you running a fever?” you inquired, concern thick in your voice. 

“No, I don’t think—,” Bill mustered the strength to open his eyes. He looked startled. “(Y/N)?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“Where…”

You looked at Bill intently.

“Where are your clothes?”

“Huh?”

You looked down. Your mouth went slack. You were barer than the day you were born. 

“Shit!” you exclaimed. “I’m sorry, don’t look, don’t look, sorry, sorry!” So caught up in the heat of things, you’d haphazardly abandoned your towel in exchange for your life. You scampered back to retrieve it and tied it back on yourself. When you looked up, Bill was, fortunately, turned away, and only a sliver of his naked back was visible to you. 

“Is there anything I can help with?” you asked in a state of panic. ‘Besides giving you a show?’ On the inside, you had to laugh at the thought of a striptease benefiting Bill’s health.

Bill was looking worse for wear with every passing second, and you were just prancing around without clothes. “Your mother keeps potions in the cabinet, doesn’t she? I’ll go find an antipyretic--”

Bill swiped at his forehead with his palm. “I don’t think it’s a fever, well, to the best of my knowledge.”

“Then perhaps some water?” you offered. “Or some soup?”

“(Y/N),” Bill called. Your name rolled off like velvet from his lips. “Come here, please.”

Your eyes widened. Your heart was beating erratically and whether it was out of fear or anticipation, you didn’t know. Still, you complied and began walking over. The floor felt like pricks underneath your feet. 

“Could you please take these sheets off?” Bill asked. “I might try to cool down.”

You nodded. “S-sure.” You pinched the hem of the bedsheet with your forefinger and thumb and carefully stripped the sheet off. Every second that passed unveiled a new, delicious sight: Bill’s toned chest, the crevice between his chest and abdominal muscles, the veins running down his forearms, and the shapely twin creases that led straight down to his briefs. A chill of disappointment ran through your body when you realised he was still clothed. 

‘Stay focussed’, you pleaded with yourself. You were here to help Bill, not to take advantage of him.

“Is that better?” you asked Bill, but your eyes weren’t on his face. They were instead fixated on the centre of his body and namely, the very present bulge at the apex of his black briefs. His manhood had tented so viciously that it stretched the black fabric until it was translucent. Was that a spot of pink flesh or were you just seeing things? You gulped and tried to reign in your imagination. 

Bill breathed out as the cool air kissed his skin. “Marginally.”

“I can bring the fan inside the room,” you suggested so quickly you almost toppled off the bed. 

“Wait.” Bill’s hand grabbed your wrist before you could get anywhere. Your skin scorched. “Can you help me with one more thing?”

You were about to explode. “Sure, Bill.” 

“Could you help me remove my briefs too?”

Your jaw had, at this point, permanently detached from your face. “What?”

“Just one last thing and my temperature should regulate itself.”

Was stripping really a remedy to Bill’s ailment? Shaking your head, you decided to help him in any way possible before running back to the bathroom to splash cold water on your face to ascertain that you weren’t dreaming. This definitely had to be a dream. Today probably hadn’t even started yet. Any minute now, your alarm would ring and you would wake up so disappointed. 

“Alright.”

Slowly, you hooked your fingers underneath the elastic waistband of Bill’s briefs. His blue eyes fluttered close and his face twisted in relief. You suppressed a groan at the sight of Bill like this, pleasured by your every touch.

You’d never admit that Fred was right in his observation this morning, but it was true that you’d never seen a… penis in the flesh. But there was no turning away now as your hands worked to expose every inch of pink flesh hiding underneath Bill’s undergarments. It was deliciously lewd, the way his long cock sprang out from the confines of his boxers and nearly slapping you in the face. A tad closer, and the appendage would’ve swiped your cheek. Just inches in front you pulsed a swelling, oozing pink tip that was connected to a thick shaft that only seemed to grow slightly in girth as you stripped him. 

You had nothing but anatomical pictures and the circumference of your wrist to compare him to, but even you knew he was bigger than average. Bill had, truly, the prettiest cock to ever exist. Pale, smooth, pink, but an angrier shade coloured the head. He was thick, but even thicker near the base. Veins painted his manhood like art. You almost had to wonder how he’d feel inside you, splitting your virgin pussy open. It would kill you.

Holy shit. You had to stop thinking, because you were getting yourself wet. 

Bill raised his hips up to help you bring the last bit of his briefs down from underneath him. Your hand grazed the back of his thigh. The unintended action elicited a not-so-subtle moan from Bill. 

“I’m sorry, I—,” Bill said, pushing himself up on the bed. His neck was flushed crimson and his breathing heavy. You had plummeted into the ocean with the saltwater flooding your ears; you could barely hear. You gulped as a bead of wetness suddenly spurted out of the tip of his cock and threatened to run down the length of it. “I reckon I was cursed or hexed by someone,” he surmised. “It’s not like me to require such things of you, or anyone for that matter.”

“It’s okay,” you whispered. Your hand was turning white with the deathgrip on your towel. “But Bill, did that… help?”

The smartest thing to do was to remove yourself from this conversation and call for help, but you kept pressing the topic. You planted your palms on the mattress and looked on in awe. Bill was well-endowed beyond your wildest dreams. You couldn’t stop admiring him.

Forgetting he was naked, Bill sat up. His cock curled closer to his navel as a result. “What?”

You ripped your eyes away from the bead of precum that’d captivated your attention. “When we touched. It seemed to bring some colour to your face.”

“Come to think of it, I reckon it did, yeah,” Bill responded. He furrowed his brows, his words dying on his lips. There was only one direction this conversation was going to go and you had steered it off the overpass and down the cliff. 

You spoke up first. “Have you tried touching…”

“Myself?” Bill finished with a chuckle.

You blushed. “Yes, well,” you countered. “It’s not entirely unreasonable, and—”

“I have.”

You tilted your head. “And?”

Bill attempted to lift his hands, but they gravitated down to the bed. “Well, I’ve… tried,” he admitted sheepishly, “but it’s made it worse.” He chuckled and shook his head at the state he was in. “And now I can’t even manage to move my arm.”

“Oh.” You frowned. “But when I touched you, you felt better?”

Bill blew out some air which tickled the wet hair on his forehead. He gestured to his raging erection. “Can you… would you mind? You’re right, it might help.”

Would you mind?

Of course you wouldn’t. 

“I’ve never, erm,” you countered. A blaze of heat rushed to your cheeks. You didn’t want to admit to Bill that Fred was right when he clocked you as a virgin, though it didn’t take a deep understanding of your person to come to that conclusion. You and Percy both looked down on dalliances as prefects back in school, even busting students in the act and sending them to be reprimanded. You reckoned Bill was going to find it uncool but it was better to be truthful. “I’ve never done this with anyone.”

He chuckled. “I figured.”

You wanted to shrivel up and die. 

“But it’s absolutely fine,” Bill correctly quickly, knowing he’d offended you slightly. “You don’t need to have done it to know how to do it. I’ll guide you.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

He did his best to motion to the base of him with his hands. “Grip me firmly down here.” 

You obliged, holding him at the base with your right hand as you clutched your towel in the other. For an usually flaccid body part, Bill was very, very hard and warm. All the blood in his body was concentrated into one area, so it made sense. You were grateful when your thumb still managed to touch the tips of your fingers because, well, he was quite big and you weren’t confident he was going to fit in your hand. 

“Move up and down,” Bill instructed in between heavy pants. You nodded. When you started shifting your hand from the base to the head and back, he let out a low groan. His skin felt like velvet in your hands; he felt so good. “Yeah, just like that.” Precum dribbled from Bill and onto from the side of your fingers as you moved faster and covered more ground. Bill’s eyes alternated from open to close in erratic intervals as you began to adjust your speed and the tightness of your fingers around him. When Bill stopped talking, you reckoned you were doing a pretty damn good job. 

Bill was powerless underneath you and you relinquished the feeling. But you wanted more. 

So, you shifted from the edge of the bed towards the end of it, squeezing yourself in between his long legs. You never took your hands off him in the process so Bill was none the wiser about your mischievous movements. So, it was only when Bill heard the creaking of the bed that he looked up in surprise. By then, it was too late. You had already stopped pumping his shaft and leaned in to inhale the sweet musk instead.

“Can I?” you asked, batting your eyelashes.

Bill inhaled sharply, his cock duking out his brain for once the last shred of modesty. Oh, fuck modesty. “Only if you want to.”

In one swift motion, you leaned in and kissed the red and leaking tip. Clearly, it was you who really wanted to do this. When the soft skin of your lips met the soft skin of his head, Bill let out an audible gasp that was immediately swallowed by a throaty moan. He was not expecting you to be so brazen, so generous in your help. Little did he know you’d do anything for him at this point, his own affliction long forgotten. 

“How does that feel?” you asked.

“Amazing,” he rasped.

You licked the precum—salty, a little tingly, you noted—off his slit with the tip of your tongue. He tasted so good. Bill threw his head back. The ridges of his abs crinkled as he tried to hold himself upright with his elbows on the bed. He wanted to see you. You smacked your lips, unable to wait patiently to devour your meal. Then, in a moment of pure deviousness and sheer horniness, you enveloped Bill’s tip around your mouth.

“Shit!” 

This was the last thing Bill said before he fell back onto the bed. You took that as a sign of surrender; what you were doing felt too good for him to keep his defences up. He’d long stopped giving you instructions and let you take reign. Emboldened, you licked the slit with your tongue with Bill still nestled in your mouth. You then began to take him in further, as far as you could before he reached a natural stopping point at the back of your throat. Your mouth tensed—he was too big to fit comfortably inside. You sucked in your cheeks, hypothesising that a tighter fit would feel better for Bill. Sure, you were inexperienced, but you weren’t stupid or ignorant on the subject of what was pleasurable. 

“Yes, that’s it, (Y/N), just like that.”

You forewent your towel in favour of holding onto Bill’s thighs, placing one hand on the side of each of his legs. Still, you pressed your breasts down on the bed to hide your nipples to preserve what little was left for Bill to still see. Then again, what was the point of dignity when his dick was in your mouth?

Bill’s hands quietly crept along the bedsheets and floated towards your head. From there, his long fingers wove and nestled themselves in your hair so deeply that it wouldn’t be easy for you to untangle yourself. Clever of him. His fingernails glided across your scalp, slowly, tenderly, like a predator circling their prey before the attack. Bill then started guiding your head up and down slowly, his patience clearly wearing thin and needing to take matters into his own hands--literally. 

“Feeling okay?” he asked.

You nodded, unable to speak. Bill noted this and chuckled. You gave him a pointed look. 

“Hard to look intimidating with my cock in your mouth, love,” he said, tightening his fingers around your hair. You grumbled something unintelligible. The wetness leaking out of your core spoke volumes for you. 

Bill’s hands were fully entangled in your hair as he continued to lift you up and down. Slow at first, but he could hardly contain himself after the first minute. The way his big cock pulsed in your mouth, gods… The faster he commanded you to move, the more his visage grew streaked from the tears in your eyes. You tightened your grip on his thighs every time his cock glided across your palate and pushed itself down your throat. You did everything in your power to not gag or choke, but when he did strike particularly deep, you pulled off of him immediately. 

“I’m sorry,” Bill quickly said. “Was that too much?”

You shook your head, wiped a wet line of tears from your face, coughed, and responded, “No, I’m fine.”

You crawled back to him and engulfed him without another word.

“Ah,” Bill breathed out. “Fuck, (Y/N). You feel so good.”

You shouldn’t be enjoying being used so much, but you loved it. Loved it especially when Bill held you in place and began thrusting into your mouth instead as a means to conserve effort and increase his speed. You were growing wetter and wetter with every compliment he spoke. You imagined Bill’s big hands gripping your hips, stilling you, as he thrust repeatedly into your pussy. You wanted to be used everywhere. 

“Shit,” he growled, lazy eyes hovering on you. Deliciously lazy and so hazy. “I’m close.”

He stopped thrusting, but you hadn’t stopped bobbing your head up and down. You were so far gone in your quest to make Bill come that you’d thrown your own needs aside. 

“Hold on, (Y/N),” Bill commanded. “Don’t you want to—ah—!”

You knew he’d reached his climax when his hips ascended and stilled above the bed. A deep moan left his mouth. Bill’s cock twitched heavily with every rope of cum that shot its way into your mouth. He didn’t quit until every crevice of your mouth was sloshing with his seed; he was a never-ending faucet of cum. 

After a minute, you finally detached yourself from him, careful to keep the fruits of your labour in your mouth and not on the bed sheets that Bill’s mother had laundered so well. You swallowed all the cum in your mouth. It wasn’t as pleasant as the books and films had made it out to be—it was warm and slightly bitter, but it was Bill’s and heaven knew you’d do anything for him.

Bill threw himself back on the bed, his head meeting the pillow with a soft thud. He was still breathing heavily as he reposed. Though his hair stuck wildly to his cheeks—which were slowly regaining colour—his face expressed newfound calm. 

Bill patted the pillow beside him, on the spot in between the wall and his body. “Come here,” he rasped, his eyes still closed. 

You obliged and scooted upwards. Bill splayed his arm on the pillow to give you a makeshift headrest. You settled into the nook of his bicep. Through the corner of your eye, you stole little glances at Bill and the rise and fall of his chest. A warm, midday breeze fluttered through the open windows, the red curtains billowing out. Everything was so serene, so tranquil, so…Holy shit, what had you just done? 

Just three hours ago, you were wistfully staring at Bill at breakfast, grateful to have seen him at all this year to feed your starving crush on him. Now, you were laying naked in his bed with him after giving him what you hoped was an acceptable blowjob. It was both great and terrible that you wouldn’t see him after today. How would you explain this to anyone if you couldn’t even believe it yourself? You needed to bolt and never see Bill again. 

Bill snapped you out of your trance. “(Y/N)?” 

“Yes, Bill?”

You turned around to find yourself reflected in his crystal blue eyes. 

“Would you like to finish, too?”

“Oh, uhm!” Well, you hadn’t expected him to ask you that. “No, I’m okay.” An utter lie. Your pussy was pleading to be fucked. You sat up, preparing yourself to go. “I should finish up with my chores. You should get going before the portkey closes.” 

Bill grasped your wrist again. “I don’t want to go.” He sat up with you and looked you straight in the eye. 

He was serious. The intensity of his gaze was so overwhelming that you looked down. You sucked a quiet breath in. 

“I want to make you feel good,” he said, placing a hand on your cheek. “Let me, please.”

You choked. Was Bill Weasley begging to go down on you? The resolute look on his face definitely extinguished any fight you had left in you. A fraction of a second after you nodded, Bill turned you over and kissed you. One hand remained on your cheek while the other wrapped itself around your naked waist to pull you closer until your chest was flush against his. If you weren’t focussed on how hard his lips were pressed on yours, you would’ve been more embarrassed about how your pert nipples were pressed against his chest. Bill obviously didn’t mind, in fact, he was trying to pull you in as close as possible, closing the last sliver of space between your bodies. 

Bill tilted his head to deepen the kiss. His lips felt like hard silk—a walking contradiction— against you and now you wished to feel them everywhere: on your neck, on your breasts, on your stomach and in between your legs. You reckoned he should kiss heavily in between your legs. 

Bill was all lean muscle and long limbs. He couldn’t splay out on the bed as easily as you could. He landed on his knees, then shifted you upwards until your head was resting against the baseboard of the bed. He spread your legs with his hands—so big that they absolutely swallowed you—using his thumb as anchors. 

He looked back up at you. His eyes had darkened significantly, like a sudden storm that had broken through a clear day. Whatever drug was flowing through his veins, it was only growing more potent. “You’re so wet.” 

You made an attempt to shut your legs. You were cycling through moments of confidence and embarrassment, and his words made you want to curl up and die.

“Don’t,” Bill said. “You turn me on so much. Who knew that behind such an innocent facade was a girl begging to be fucked?”

And just like that, your legs fell open in one buttery smooth motion. 

”That’s it, such a good girl for me,” Bill praised. He leaned in and ran his tongue flat over your folds. You squirmed but his iron-clad hold on you prohibited any movement. You tried so very hard to quiet yourself as his tongue painted you in oscillating strokes. You gasped whenever he landed briefly on your clitoris. He hummed, pleased, and let the vibrations rock your body. Your breathing was dangerously unsteady as Bill pulled you closer to him and increased the intensity of his tongue. He unlatched one hand from your thigh and shifted them near your drooling entrance. Gently, he inserted a finger. Before you could jump upwards at the intrusion, he brought his tongue back to your clit to massage away any pain. “So sweet,” he hummed again. Bill kept his finger steady inside you until your squirming stopped. 

“You’re so tight,” Bill whispered. He added another finger to your already taut hole. “I can barely fit two fingers in here. How do you suppose you’ll take my cock, hm?” 

A rhetorical question. Instead of waiting for an answer, Bill began moving his fingers back and forth. You let out a small whine that you buried into the pillow. “Sh, it’s okay, just relax, darling,” Bill assured. In a matter of moments, Bill had gone from shallow little thrusts to burying his fingers to the hilt. The motion of his fingers curling inside you elicited a load moan from your lips, and your legs parted further in response. It was over when his stupid tongue found its way back to your clit; you nearly screamed. He flicked your sensitive bud over and over, building the pressure in the region. Between that, and Bill’s face buried between your legs and the wet sounds of his fingers inside you, you were just one thrust away from coming undone.

“Bill, Bill—” you tried to stop him, too scared to be thrown over the edge. But Bill showed no sign of stopping. When he sucked on your clit, you knew it was over. He had pushed you off the cliff. “Bill!” 

You clamped down on his hand, but Bill hadn’t stopped moving; he was intending to fuck you through it. Waves of pleasure, sweetly punctuated by Bill’s nimble fingers, washed over you until you had no coherent thought left. You laid there for a minute, until your heart rate had finally settled back to normal. 

“I’m getting impatient,” Bill chuckled. “Seeing you writhe around like that, coming on all over my hand, Merlin..”

You tightened your lips. “Me too.”

“What was that?” he teased, pretending not to hear. 

“I’m getting impatient.”

“For what?”

“You know what for.”

He shot you a cocky grin. “I won’t know until you tell me.”

“Fuck me, Bill,” you almost screamed. “Fuck me, please.” It was killing you. You looked down at Bill’s manhood. He looked even harder and fuller than how you found him, if that were even possible. His cock twitched to stand at full attention when you shuffled back to him. You wanted to feel him, so warm and engorged, inside you, splitting you open with how big he was. 

“You’re so needy, (Y/N),” Bill teased. He laid down. “Get on top of me, I want to see you.” 

You clambered over immediately. You splayed a leg on each side of him and propped yourself up with your knees. Wordlessly, Bill pulled you in and your body listened. He met your lips for another kiss that showed no signs of being broken. Well, not until he decided to latch onto one of your nipples instead. His lips covered the circumference of your areola and sucked gently. 

“Bill,” you whimpered, succumbing once again to his dexterous tongue. He swirled around your sensitive bud, flicking it back and forth, and sending little electric shocks down to your toes. You were getting so, so wet for him.

One of Bill’s hands trailed down to his cock and gave it a couple of strokes before he aimed it towards your core. You moaned every time he pressed against your throbbing clit before moving back to your opening and repeating the motion. You needed to come again, and Bill was intent on bringing you there. He rubbed the head back and forth, concentrating the slick to where he eventually wanted to be. He was showing great restraint; it was taking everything not to just thrust into you. 

“You already feel so good,” he praised. “So wet, so tight, love, all for me. I can’t wait to fuck this tight pussy.”

Bill piled on the words and continued to ravish your breasts as a distraction of what was to come. The head of his cock was directly aligned with your opening that was weeping at the thought of him inside you. But the largest thing you’d taken ever were Bill’s fingers; he couldn’t possibly fit without absolutely destroying you. The universe couldn’t have gifted you with a warm-up, could it? Instead, it gifted you the girth of Bill. Still, you remained in place, readying yourself as he began to enter you. 

You gasped at the first intrusion. You clenched Bill’s forearms in retaliation, your mouth parting in shock. You wanted him badly, but your anatomy wasn’t letting your desires take the front seat. 

Bill placed a hand on your back. Stiff. “You’re tense,” he noted, kissing up on your neck. “Just relax. It’ll feel good, I promise.” You nodded, trusting him. 

“Hngh—!” was all you let out when he pushed deeper. Your breathing fell out of sync as you tried to calm yourself. Maybe this was it, and all of him was already inside of it. 

“That’s just my head inside you, love,” Bill stated, as if reading your mind.  

You paled. “How are you so big?”

Bill chuckled in agreement before swallowing you in a kiss. His tongue found its way into your mouth, and you could taste the pure need radiating off him. He gave little shallow thrusts, trying to ease himself into you. Though it still burned heavily, a ring of pain, as he stretched you out, Bill’s pace was making it much more tolerable and frankly, more erotic. 

When he was halfway in, Bill’s eyes fell shut in utter bliss. His hands gripped your ass cheeks, pulling them apart, as if it would help you sink further down on him. 

“You take me so well,” he said as he continued impaling your poor little pussy. He never stopped littering you with kisses, whether it was on your lips, cheeks, neck, or breasts. He suckled your tits again when he rammed the thickest part of him inside you in one thrust. 

You stifled a cry into the crook of his neck and tightened your arms around him. “Bill!”

“Give it a minute, (Y/N),” he assured, but his voice sounded garbled, so far away. “I promise, it’s going to feel so good.”

When he felt you relax a little, Bill began to increase the length of his thrusts, breaking into your pussy a little more each time. You fell onto him, the pleasure beginning to overwrite the pain. 

Bill moaned as he sped up the slightest. “You’re so tight, (Y/N), tighter than I could’ve ever imagined.” His words only added fuel to the fire. “I can’t believe it’s me that gets to break into your pussy.”

“Then break me, Bill,” you pleaded. “Please. Harder.”

He chuckled. “You don’t have to ask twice.”

Bill looped his arms around you to hold you in place. From there, he began to drive himself into you faster, harder, just like a hole to be used for his pleasure, just like you had asked.

“Oh!” 

You could hardly keep your eyes open as he assaulted your body. He tested different depths and angles, watching your facial expressions for the perfect one. His long, deep strokes were landing on the perfect place - a place that had you seeing stars. So pleasurable but just millimetres away from being too much, too painful. There was so much of him inside you. Your legs stiffened, almost cramping, as the heat increased in pitches in your core. Your hands went wild, trying to find a place to stabilise your body. They found refuge on the top of the headboard. In one particularly hard thrust, he sheathed himself completely inside you, the widest part of him spearing you open. 

That was the precise moment you came undone, screaming. White obfuscated your vision as you lost control of your body. You convulsed on him, your pussy contracting around his cock like a vice. Bill continued to fuck you through your orgasm, bottoming out in you repeatedly,  letting you ride out the pleasure for as long as humanely possible. You fell onto him like a rag doll, limp, worn out from your second orgasm. Bill could only smile at a job well done. He withdrew himself from you and flipped you over. He nestled his manhood back between your legs. You watched with excitement as his cock, covered in your cream, sprang to his navel. You felt so hollow without him inside you, and you were about to beg for him again, but he moved quickly. He leaned towards you, placing the head of his cock to your opening once again. But instead of delving into you like you had hoped, he rubbed himself against you, occasionally pushing into you the slightest.  

Confused, you raised your hips up, trying to align yourself perfectly with his cock and push him back in. But your attempts were futile. 

“Don’t do that,” you chastised when you realised he was doing this on purpose. 

“Do what?” Bill asked innocently. 

“Tease me like this.”

He smirked. “Who said I was teasing you?” 

Just as you were about to retort, Bill drove himself into you when you were least expecting it, burying himself entirely into you. Your body shivered in pleasure, legs straightening and stiffening. You screamed when he quickened his pace, pounding into you with deep, full thrusts. His hands gripped your bouncing breasts, keeping them in place and occasionally pinching your nipples. Bill pushed himself to the hilt, then almost withdrew completely, before filling you up again as hard as he could. At certain points, he would hit a bundle of nerves that caused your toes to curl. At some point, you couldn’t tell the difference between pain and pleasure—it all felt so overwhelmingly good. 

The lewd sound of his balls hitting your skin was heaven to your ears. In this moment, you wanted nothing more than to be filled with his seed. 

“Come inside me,” you near screamed. 

Your little request was enough to break Bill out of his trance. “What?”

“Come inside me,” you repeated. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” 

With no reason to ask you to clarify again, Bill obliged. He gave a couple more thrusts, so powerful it forced your body to slide up over the bedsheets and your head to almost slam into the headboard. Then, he let out a loud, choked grunt, his eyes screwing shut. You could feel his cock twitch heavily inside you as he deposited his seed, filling your pussy. He hovered over you, exhausted, draining every last bit of him inside you. Both of you shared the same laboured respiration. You reached up and pushed back the ginger hair that was strewn across his forehead.

Bill began to soften inside you, but refused to pull out just yet. If you stayed here like this any longer, there was no doubt you’d meld together into one.

With a heavy almost regretful breath, Bill reluctantly removed himself out of you. You felt his cum trickling rapidly out of you and onto the bed sheets. You sat up to look. There was so much. it was smeared all over your sex, all over your inner thighs, and all over the sheets. There was no doubt there was more deep inside you. 

You looked up at Bill. Much to your disappointment, he looked to be back to his usual, happy self. Your services were no longer required. And much to your disappointment, he was looking around for his briefs. Well, it wasn’t like you could stay in paradise forever. 

“Thank you, (Y/N),” he said. 

“Of course,” you responded.

Bill gave you a small peck on the lips which made you smile. Then, it all went downhill from there, as he returned not more than a second later for another kiss. This time, deeper, thick with more lust. The next kiss, he had you pinned you on the bed by the arms. Unexpectedly, you felt him harden against you once more. His cock was back its previous stiffness and trying to find its way back to your cunt. 

He paused. “I’m not sure what’s gotten into me,” Bill admitted sheepishly.

“You mean you’re not usually like this?” you questioned with a smile. You didn’t mind it, not one bit. 

He contemplated it. “It has been a while, but it’s highly unlikely for me to go twice, let alone three times a day.”

“Really?” You cocked your head. “Is that not—”

Before you could speak, Bill plunged himself into you once more. Your mouth went slack. It was quite an effective way to shut you up. Most of his spend was still either deep inside you or running down your inner thighs, but he was intent on pumping you full of him even more. 

You had no complaints. Instead, you succumbed to the wet sloshes of his thrusts and messy kisses once again.

…..

In a tent one long Portkey away from the Burrow, a very different conversation was taking place.

“How do you reckon our Paradise Potions did?” 

“Considering that Bill hasn’t joined us, I’d say pretty well.”

END!

Part 2

[smgespn]

Not So Much

Masterlist

Pairing: Thor Odinson X Reader

Summary: He was your teammate but also the person you disliked the most in the universe. He was always loud, he thrived on impulsive decisions, and he loved annoying you. You were the opposite, you moved through shadows quietly, analyzed every move before you made them. And now? They were sending you on a mission with him. Just the two of you. As husband and wife.

Content: Fake Marriage, Enemies To Lovers, Forced Proximity, Yearning, Tension, Slow Burn, Angst, Infinity War-Endgame Thor, King Thor, Protective Thor, Jealous Thor, Possessive Thor, Jealous Reader, They Are Touching Each Other Every Chance They Get, Bickering Final Boss, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Explicit SMUT (It starts from '—', and ends with it so you can skip it if you want)

Word Count: 40k

Note: I live for annoying but sweet Thor 😭 His most dominant personality traits i swear and the way he gets angry FAST😛 My mannn fr (took me a whole month to write this, not proofread sorry for any typos or mistakes)

Minors Do Not Interact

—

You wanted to kill him.

You wanted, with every fiber of your being, to wrap your hands around his thick, infuriating neck and choke the life out of him right there on the polished marble floor of the Avengers Compound kitchen. It was a beautiful, violent fantasy that played in your mind in vivid detail—but unfortunately for you, the man was a damn god, and your fingers would probably snap before his airway even constricted.

“I said no, Thor. I got here first,” you hissed, your voice a sharp, venomous whisper as you slammed your shoulder into his side, trying to forcefully shove his massive frame away from the espresso machine.

The sleek chrome appliance sat on the counter like a holy grail, reflecting the harsh morning light. At this ungodly hour, that single machine was the only thing bonding your soul to the realm of the living. You just loved your morning coffee too much. It was the one ritual that made your life feel somewhat normal. And he, as always, was standing squarely in the way—demanding, with all the unearned arrogance of Asgardian royalty, that he be the first one to use it.

“Stop pushing me away, will you? It does nothing but tickle me, Little Flame,” he grumbled, a deep sound that came from somewhere deep in his broad chest.

He didn't even look at you, his eyes fixed on the digital screen of the machine as his large hands came down to carelessly pry your fingers off his waist. Your eyes narrowed into lethal slits, the heat rising in your cheeks at the sound of the ridiculous nickname and the casual condescension dripping from his tone.

“I have been telling you for years, Thor, stop calling me that,” you snapped, pulling your hands back and crossing them over your chest in a furious, protective stance. “And what is that supposed to mean? Are you implying that I’m weak?”

Thor finally turned his head, his short, textured blonde hair catching the fluorescent lights. A lazy, incredibly punchable smirk broke across his handsome face. He held his massive, heavily muscled arm out horizontally, creating an unbreakable physical barrier that completely blocked you from reaching the coffee pods.

“Why? I think it rather suits you. Feisty little—”

Before he could finish the sentence, you slapped his forearm with a loud, resounding smack, grabbing his wrist with both hands and pulling down with all your weight, trying to rip his arm away from the machine. It was like trying to move a mountain with a piece of string.

“Weaker than me, surely,” he said, his smirk widening as he easily kept his arm locked in place against your full-body strain.

Okay, fine. He was stating a cold, unyielding fact. He was a cosmic entity. He was objectively, biologically stronger than you. Your cell structure had been locked in a permanent, un-aging loop by a rogue lab experiment, giving you endless youth and an unbreakable healing factor—not the brute strength to wrestle the God of Thunder. But you would rather walk barefoot on needles than ever admit his physical superiority to his face.

“What are you two bickering about again?”

Natasha’s exhausted, monotone voice sliced through the tension. She walked into the kitchen, holding an empty mug, her green eyes fixed on the two of you with the heavy, soul-deep weariness of a woman who was entirely done with you being at each other's throats every five minutes.

That was the true tragedy of your existence. Outside the reinforced walls of this compound, Thor was a global icon. He was the golden savior, a benevolent, charming god who was nice to every single human being he encountered. If you went to the press and told them how much he absolutely loved to torment, provoke, and annoy you on a daily basis, not a single soul on Earth would believe you. To the rest of the universe, he was a god. To you, he was a giant, golden-retriever-brained nuisance.

Your left eye literally twitched with fury as you whipped your head around to face Nat. “He’s being a child again!”

“I am only in need of my morning beverage—” Thor protested smoothly.

“I got here first!” You spun back toward him, throwing your hands up in the air, your eyes wide with erratic anger.

“And I will be drinking my coffee, first,” he replied with a smug tilt of his chin.

Before you could lunge forward to block him, his large fingers immediately darted past your face and pushed the start button. The machine whirred to life, a dark stream of espresso pouring directly into the ceramic cup you had painstakingly selected and placed there a minute ago.

Thor watched the liquid fill the mug, leaning his hip against the counter as he grabbed the handle. “See? Easy as that,” he mumbled, grinning straight into the steam as he took a slow, loud, deliberate sip right in front of your face.

Your face went a furious, burning red. Your breath hitched, your vision blurring with a wave of pure, chaotic rage. You wanted to grab that hot mug straight out of his hand and throw the boiling liquid right over his clean grey t-shirt. You wanted to watch the stain spread across his chest while you laughed in his face.

Honestly? That was a damn good idea. Your muscles coiled, your fingers twitching as you prepared to lunge at him and commit a felony.

But just as your sneakers gripped the tile, Natasha let out a sharp, interrupting sigh. “The team is waiting for you in the briefing room,” she said, turning on her heel and gesturing toward the sliding glass doors of the hallway. “Let’s go, lovebirds.”

The words cut through the kitchen like a sudden frost. You and Thor both froze instantly, the childish hostility evaporating into a stunned, icy paralysis.

“What?” you said in perfect unison. The word tore from your throats at the exact same second, your voices blending together as you both whipped your heads around to look at Natasha. But she didn't stop to explain—she simply walked down the corridor toward the war room, a wicked, knowing smirk playing on the corner of her lips as she left the two of you standing in the quiet kitchen, completely blindsided by the ominous weight of her words.

“Fucking weirdos everywhere,” you grumbled under your breath.

Before he could even swallow his next stolen sip, you forcefully jammed your palms right into the center of his chest. You used every single ounce of strength your muscles could muster up, throwing your entire body weight into the strike. You needed that damn coffee, and you would get that damn coffee.

Thor actually stumbled back a step, a booming chuckle ripping from his throat at the absolute volatility of your expression. You were completely furious. He honestly had no idea why annoying you brought him such immense satisfaction, but it did. It was an addiction at this point.

In his eyes, you were just absolutely no fun. From the very first day he met you, you had done nothing but jab at him for being too loud and obvious. You were always rolling your eyes, saying things like, “You only know how to smash things and be reckless, Thor,” and “Stealth is an actual concept, you know?”

Now, Thor didn't dislike a lot of people. He was a damn lovable person—the golden boy of the Nine Realms, and now, an absolutely attentive king. But when it came to you? He couldn't help it. You rubbed him the wrong way all the damn time, your sharp tongue grating on his nerves. He could say with absolute, unyielding certainty that he disliked you. A lot.

You were still grumbling under your breath about him stealing your favorite ceramic mug when you noticed his massive shadow was still hovering directly over you.

“Why are you still here?” you asked, your voice coming out far more irritated than it should have. You internally cursed yourself; you were giving him way too much power over your emotions.

“I simply want to watch you sip on your beverage after me,” he said, flashing you a brilliant, smug smile.

You huffed, grabbing your freshly poured cup from the machine. “Thor, just call it coffee. Calling it a beverage does not make it sound any fancier.”

You slid past his broad shoulder, taking a deliberate, aggressive sip of your drink before making your way toward the sliding glass doors of the briefing room. He immediately fell into step behind you, his massive, sweeping strides matching yours in a pure, frustrating rhythm.

“It does sound better when I call it a beverage,” he argued, his heavy leather boots thudding loudly against the floorboards as if he could make his statement more convincing by physical force.

“Sure, lord of thunder,” you murmured, a wicked, knowing smirk pulling at your lips. You knew exactly which buttons to push, and that specific title was your absolute favorite weapon.

“I am the god of thunder!” he hissed from behind you, his voice dropping into a defensive, offended rumble. “You know what? I know you are doing this on purpose—you are intentionally trying to—”

You pushed through the glass doors, entering the sleek, high-tech briefing room with the God of Thunder hot on your heels, still fiercely grumbling about the distinct theological differences between a lord and a god.

“Ah, our favorite couple, arguing again,” Tony said loudly, opening his arms wide in a dramatic, welcoming gesture from the head of the conference table. He leaned back in his chair, a classic, mischievous glint in his eyes. “Still not able to decide whether they want to kill each other or fuck—“

Before the final, crude word could even leave his mouth, your reflexes took over. Your hand blurred. You snatched a thick, heavy tactical folder from the edge of the table and launched it through the air with lethal, pinpoint precision.

Smack. The folder hit Tony squarely across the bridge of his nose, the papers scattering in a neat halo around his chair.

“Ow! Okay, there was absolutely no need for that,” Tony muttered, wincing as he gingerly adjusted his tinted glasses, though the smirk never truly left his face. He looked over at Natasha and Steve, who were already seated, completely unfazed by the morning violence.

“You talk too much, Stark,” Thor grumbled, pulling out a chair and dropping his massive frame into it with a loud thud that resonated through the room.

Your eyebrows shot up instantly as you sat down yourself. “Says you?” you retorted, gesturing toward his broad chest with your coffee mug. “You literally haven't shut up since the kitchen.”

“Let’s just focus on our objective, okay, guys?” Steve said, running a tired palm over his face, completely done with your collective energy so early in the morning. He pushed himself up from his seat next to Tony, leaning his broad shoulders over the holographic table to command the room.

Steve tapped the digital console, and the lights in the briefing room dimmed instantly, replaced by a glowing, three-dimensional blueprint of an ultra-private luxury island floating in the Mediterranean.

“Our focus is here: The Sanctuary,” Steve began, his voice dropping into his serious captain tone. “On paper, it’s an exclusive, hyper-secure resort for the world's billionaires, corrupt politicians, and elite criminals. But over the last forty-eight hours, our satellites intercepted an unencrypted dark-web signal bouncing from the island’s lower levels. A rogue faction has managed to smuggle a massive cache of volatile, leftover Dark Elf technology onto the premises. They’re hosting a private, black-market auction to sell it off to the highest bidder.”

You leaned forward, your brain instantly analyzing the island's perimeter. “So we drop in, neutralize the buyers, and secure the tech. Sounds like a standard Tuesday. Why are we all sitting here?”

“Because it’s a hostage situation waiting to happen if we go in loud,” Natasha spoke up from the corner, her fingers tapping against her tablet. “The entire island is rigged with a quantum-fission failsafe connected to the central vault. If the resort’s biometric security detects a frontal assault, a breach, or a single Quinjet on their radar, the system will instantly detonate the alien cache. It’ll vaporize the island and take half of Western Europe out with the blast wave. It requires a ghost to dismantle the failsafe from the inside.”

“A ghost?” you repeated, a slow, dark smile creeping onto your face. “Perfect. I’ll go in undercover as a maid, slip into the server room, kill the signal, and leave before anyone even finishes their champagne.”

“You’re half right,” Tony cut in, tapping his pen against his cheek. “You are going undercover. But you’re not going as a maid, Shadow. The resort has a strict, biometric-level verification system for all service staff, but their guest list is curated entirely by the billionaire owner—an eccentric, power-obsessed arms dealer named Moretti. He has a strict ‘No Media, Couples Only’ policy for his guests to protect their privacy.”

Tony smirked, leaning forward and typing a command into his console. The holographic display shifted from the island to a digital invitation, written in gold lettering, making your eyes go wide. No.

“Moretti is obsessed with power, gods, and mythology,” Tony explained, his eyes darting between you and the blonde King sitting across from you. “He doesn't just want money; he wants prestige. So, we gave him exactly what he wanted. We leaked a carefully staged, ‘top-secret’ paparazzi photo to the press this morning. The official narrative? The newly crowned King of Asgard has secretly retired from his bachelor days and eloped with a fierce, mysterious warrior woman.”

Your breath hitched violently in your throat. The coffee in your mug suddenly felt like acid.

“What?” you whispered, your heart stopping. You were an Avenger; you were known to the world, but you operated mostly in the quiet, precise darkness. To be thrust into the center of attention like this was your worst nightmare.

Thor froze, his hand stopping mid-air as he went to scratch his short blonde beard. His blue eyes went incredibly wide as he stared at the holographic invitation. “Stark—what madness are you speaking of?”

“It’s simple, lovebirds,” Natasha said, her voice laced with an infuriatingly calm amusement. “Moretti swallowed the bait hook, line, and sinker. The moment he saw the news that the King Of Asgard was on a secret honeymoon, he personally sent out an exclusive, all-access VIP invitation to the royal couple. You two are the ultimate distraction.”

Steve looked at the two of you, his expression sympathetic but unyielding. “Thor keeps all eyes on him by playing the loud, boastful, larger-than-life husband, giving you the perfect cover to move through the high-society crowds, slip into the shadows, and quietly dismantle the failsafe without triggering the biometric alarms. You need his status to get through the front door, and he needs your precision to make sure the island doesn't explode.”

“You expect me,” you said slowly, your voice dropping into a lethal, dangerous sound as you pointed a finger across the table, “to pretend to be blissfully, passionately in love with him? For how long exactly?”

“Not a soul here but you said passionately—“ Thor grumbled but was cut off by you, “Shut up, will you?”

Thor’s hands twitched, like he was holding himself from doing something irrational. He sighed a long breath, trying to compose himself, he didn’t think he could do this. Why did it have to be you, of all people?

But your skills in being a ghost were too good—too fucking perfect for your own good. So he knew the reason why it had to be you, but he protested anyway, he turned to Steve, “I do not see why she should be the one coming with me—“

You didn’t let him finish, rolling your eyes as you said “I’m not loving the idea either—“

“Depends on you, really. Could just be two days or a whole week.“ Steve said cutting both of you off as he looked at the both of you, clearly distressed at your brewing argument, again. “An entire week?” you said, your voice dripping with irritation, your jaw locking at the mere thought of it.

“Hey, it’s a tough gig, but someone’s gotta do it,” Tony chuckled, completely ignoring the murderous look you were throwing him across the table. “Congratulations, kids. Pack your bags. You’re going on a honeymoon.”

—

You were huffing and puffing as you aggressively packed your suitcases—yes, suitcases, plural.

You were practically tearing through your wardrobe, shoving in dresses, hats, sunglasses, and anything else you could get your hands on, entirely leaving the burden of actually coordinating an outfit for later. The second you had escaped the briefing room, you had fled to your quarters. The news was still pouring over you like boiling water, making your skin burn with a restless, defensive heat just thinking about it.

How the hell were you going to pretend to be his wife?

The only thing you were biologically capable of doing near that man was yelling at him, throwing files at his head, or arguing until you were blue in the face. He got on your nerves every single second of the day, provoking you with that smug arrogance of his, making you want to literally peel your own skin off your bones just to escape his proximity. And now you were supposed to look into his blue eyes and play the part of a blushing, smitten bride on a Mediterranean honeymoon. It was sick. It was a comedy of errors written by a cruel universe.

As you slammed another folded gown into the suitcase, your movements suddenly slowed. Your eyes caught sight of the faint, jagged scars marring the skin over your forearms and stomach.

A sudden, heavy wave of insecurity bubbled up inside your chest, overtaking the rage. The thought of being forced into revealing resort wear—of being paraded around an island full of hyper-critical, judgmental billionaires who you knew would dissect your every flaw—infiltrated your mind.

Usually, you were secure in your own skin. You were an Avenger, for God's sake. You were a lethal weapon, and honestly, you did wear dresses when the occasion called for it. But in this context? Under the blinding, global spotlight? You felt like a fraud. You felt like every single pair of eyes on that island would be glued to you, the judgmental, elitist sneers of high society cutting right through you simply because you were Thor’s goddamn wife. You were the woman who had supposedly tamed the King of Asgard, and they would be looking for any reason to tear you apart.

The scars were a permanent, physical gift from your torturers. The monsters who had turned you immortal years ago.

You could not die of age. You could not fall succumb to diseases. Even lethal wounds healed seamlessly within hours if properly attended to. You were stuck living like this forever, the terrifying nightmares from those months in the lab still playing in your mind night after night, making your throat go completely sore as you woke up screaming for them to stop. The experiments had broken your human limitations, locking your cellular structure in a permanent, un-aging loop.

You sharply rubbed at your eyes with the palms of your hands, trying to force the horrific memories to flee from your mind. The ghosts of your past loved to haunt you wherever you went, but you couldn't afford a breakdown today. Not with a flight to catch.

Letting out a heavy, defeated sigh, you declared yourself done with the chaotic packing. You bit your lip anxiously as you got ready for the travel day, pulling a simple, breezy white summer dress over your frame. The fabric flared gently around your knees, and you slid your feet into a pair of modest kitten heels. Finally, you pulled a soft white cardigan over your shoulders, fastening a few buttons, strictly wanting to ensure you wouldn't freeze before you reached your destination. You took one last look in the mirror, masking the assassin, masking the scars, and preparing to face your fate.

As you opened the door, struggling to maneuver your suitcases out of the room, you immediately heard his voice booming down the corridor.

“How are you going to carry those by yourself?” Thor asked, leaning against the wall with a wicked, entirely too handsome smile plastered across his face.

He was obviously going to help you. If the King of Asgard was anything, he was a gentleman down to his very bones—but he didn't just want to be helpful. He wanted to hear the words come out of your mouth. He wanted you to look him in the eye and actively admit that you needed his help. He knew you would absolutely hate doing it, which only made him crave it more.

“I can handle myself just fine,” you breathed out defensively. You leaned your weight back, using the rolling wheels of the suitcases to your advantage. Your pride was still firmly intact because you could easily drag them behind you on a flat surface, but you knew deep down that you couldn't physically lift both of these giant, overpacked cases at the same time down a flight of stairs. But he most definitely did not need to know that.

“Oh? So you don’t need any assistance at all?” he remarked smoothly. He was casually carrying his own massive tactical suitcase in one hand by the handle, his arm barely flexing. It was probably like holding a mosquito between his fingers for him.

“No. Especially not from you,” you huffed, your heels clicking sharply against the tile as you tried to wheel past him, clearly getting irritated by his mere existence.

“Hm,” he just mumbled, a deeply amused sound vibrating in his throat as he turned and watched you walk over to the elevator banks.

You aggressively pressed the down button, silently begging the universe for the doors to open as fast as humanly possible. You could feel Thor’s massive presence looming right behind you, practically radiating an eager energy, just waiting for another opportunity to prod at you.

“What are you waiting for?” you asked, your voice incredibly tight from pure annoyance.

He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling. “For the elevator, Little Flame. Same as you.”

You could feel his massive, broad frame standing directly behind your back. Even though there were a few inches of space separating you, he was like a literal furnace, a heavy, intoxicating heat radiating off his body and wrapping around your shoulders.

You rolled your eyes at the ceiling. “You can carry your own suitcase. I don't see why—” You abruptly cut yourself off, closing your eyes tightly, your face scrunching up in disdain.

Fuck. You had just walked right into his trap.

“Oh, so you cannot carry yours?” he prodded instantly, his tone dripping with sheer amusement. Your eyes opened back up immediately.

Where was this fucking elevator?!

Realizing the lift was taking too long, you sharply turned around to face him. Your bruised, stubborn ego completely hijacked your brain, making you snap at him before you could stop yourself. “I very much can!”

Thor looked down at you, his blue eyes sparkling with a level of amusement that was bordering on infuriating. “Oh, please, be my guest, will you?” He dramatically extended his free hand, gesturing toward the grand concrete staircase at the end of the hall. You huffed a sharp breath through your nose, your jaw locking. “Fine.”

You spun on your heels, deliberately dragging your heavy suitcases over to the very edge of the stairs, desperately delaying the exact moment you would actually have to lift them. When you finally reached the top step, you stopped and stared down at the luggage, your brain going into overdrive as you calculated the weight distribution.

Thor followed you, enjoying every single second of this entirely too much. Even his stance—weight shifted to one hip, a smirk playing on his lips—radiated absolute satisfaction.

“Struggling there?” he asked, taking a deliberate step closer to you.

“Not at all,” you lied through your teeth. Your eyes narrowed into lethal slits as you stared at him, and out of pure, stubborn stupidity, you grabbed the handles of both massive suitcases.

Bracing yourself in your goddamn kitten heels, you attempted to lift them both off the ground at the exact same time.

But the second your muscles tensed and you yanked them up, the combined, brutal weight of the luggage completely threw off your center of gravity. Your body violently swung forward toward the edge of the stairs, the momentum dragging you directly downward. A sharp, terrified yelp tore from your throat as your foot slipped on the smooth edge. You closed your eyes, waiting for the inevitable impact.

You were definitely going down. You were going to roll down a flight of concrete stairs in a white summer dress, become the laughing stock of the entire Avengers Compound, and probably severely injure yourself—meaning you'd have to hobble around the island waiting for your powers to slowly knit your bones back together. Amazing. Brilliant execution, babe, bravo.

But just as those thoughts raced through your mind, they disappeared entirely.

A massive, incredibly solid arm suddenly wrapped like an iron band around your waist. With one effortless, powerful pull, he caught your entire body weight, dragging you firmly back from the edge of the abyss and slamming your back flush against his broad, solid chest.

You opened your eyes—which you hadn't even realized you'd squeezed shut—and let out a shaky, breathless sigh of pure relief. Your heart was hammering like a drum against your ribs.

“Perhaps now, you will admit that you need me to carry them for you,” he mumbled. His voice was a gravelly rasp right against the back of your ear, his warm breath fanning across your skin and causing a shiver of goosebumps to erupt down your neck and arms.

Your breath caught. You quickly huffed, using your hands to pry his heavy arm away from your waist. The skin beneath your dress was practically burning from his touch, but you absolutely did not have the mental capacity to dwell on that right now.

You turned around to face him, your cheeks flushed, your expression a mixture of distress and absolute fury that you had just proven him entirely right.

“Fine,” you said, your voice tight and defeated.

Thor didn't move an inch out of your personal space. He looked down at you, his eyes slowly tracing over your flushed face and your white dress, a smug, triumphant look in his gaze.

“Fine, what?” he challenged softly, wanting every single syllable of his victory.

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, your pride fiercely battling against the cold reality of the situation. You darted a desperate look toward the elevator, but the glowing digital screen indicated it was still stuck on a lower floor. Frustrated and completely cornered, you aggressively slammed your right foot down against the tile floor like a spoiled child. He always brought that irritating, uncharacteristic side out of you.

“Okay,” you snapped, completely averting your gaze from his face as you mumbled, “Ineedyoutocarrymyluggageforme.”

The words tumbled out of your mouth in a single, rushed, completely unintelligible breath, your eyes locked onto the center of his chest.

“What?” Thor chuckled again, the hilarious sight of you stomping your foot and speaking at supersonic speed catching him entirely off guard. A deep, rumble of laughter shook his chest. “I did not quite get that, Little Flame. Can you say it again?” He was enjoying this far too much for his own good, the smug triumph radiating off him in waves.

“I need you to carry my luggage for me,” you enunciated sharply, every word dripping with pure annoyance.

Instead of just taking the win, Thor brought a thick finger to his chin, tapping it as if he were lost in deep thought. He scrunched up his handsome face, tilting his head. “I don’t think that was a really nice way of asking someone to carry your ginormous suitcases for you.”

“Ugh!” You let out a loud, frustrated yell, throwing your hands down to your sides as you forced yourself to look him dead in his sparkling blue eyes. “Will you please carry my luggage for me?”

He smiled triumphantly, his entire face lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning. He finally stepped forward and grabbed your two bags, arranging them in perfect order back-to-back so their elongated handles lined up close together. Then, with a single, massive hand, he closed his fingers over both handles at once. With his own tactical suitcase in his other hand, he effortlessly lifted all three massive bags off the floor without a single hint of strain.

The elevator suddenly dinged, the doors sliding open just as he hoisted the luggage into the air. Ordinarily, you would have completely lost your temper at timing like that. You would have cursed the universe out loud for making you beg for help only for the elevator to arrive a second later.

But the words died in your throat.

The sight of him carrying all three heavy suitcases at once made you breathe in a sharp, sudden gasp. Your pulse skipped a beat in your chest, and your eyes involuntarily roamed all over his frame. He had changed out of his grey t-shirt before coming to your door; he was now wearing a tight black t-shirt that hugged the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders, paired with tailored charcoal linen pants and black loafers.

He looked good. So fucking hot, in fact, that it sent an unexpected, electric tingle shooting straight through your core and settling deep in your stomach. The sight of his veins popping and his massive biceps bulging as he easily carried the weight of your entire life in one hand was—

What the fuck? What the hell was wrong with you?

You were fully aware that the King of Asgard possessed heart-stoppingly good looks—the entire planet was aware of it—but his infuriating behaviour toward you usually stopped you from ever enjoying the sight. You were supposed to dislike him. You were rivals. But what the fuck had just happened to your brain?

You sharply cleared your throat, forcefully tearing your eyes away from his arms as your cheeks burned a bright, furious crimson. Desperate to hide your sudden fluster, you quickly turned and marched past him, going down the staird in a fastened pace.

Thor smoothly followed behind you, his loafers making zero noise on the concrete, while your heels clicked loudly and rapidly down the steps, echoing your erratic, racing heartbeat.

Thor was watching you walk down the stairs before him, still visibly fuming that he had managed to break your stubborn streak and force a please out of your mouth. He was utterly relishing the victory, a brilliant, smug smile that practically screamed he had won etched across his handsome features while he effortlessly balanced your massive luggage in his grip.

But his smugness didn't last long.

You huffed, stopping for a brief second on the landing. With a fluid, deliberate motion, you slid your white cardigan off your shoulders, pooling the fabric into one hand. The sudden movement exposed the sharp, elegant lines of your collarbones in the strapless white dress. You flipped your hair to one side, completely baring the smooth expanse of your neck to the air—and to him. Then, as if you couldn't quite decide what kind of sensory torture you wanted to execute on the King of Asgard, you started heading down the remaining stairs, your hips swaying with a natural, intoxicating rhythm.

Thor took a sudden, sharp breath at the sight before him. His blue eyes went wide, running over your frame, completely unable to decide where to look. His gaze got hopelessly caught on the soft curve of your shoulders, the narrow dip of your waist, the hypnotic roll of your hips.

A hot rush of blood surged to his head. His breath caught violently in his chest, and for the first time in his immortal life, the God of Thunder actually stumbled on a concrete step. His black loafer clipped the edge, his chest heaving as he quickly caught himself.

What the actual hell was happening? He was well aware that you were breathtaking; he had seen the way people’s heads turned whenever you walked into a room without you even trying. But this? This reaction was entirely uncalled for. He disliked you. He disliked your sharp tongue and the way you always had a quip ready to jab at him. He shouldn't be admiring you, yet his heart was currently hammering against his ribs like a war drum.

Hearing his sudden, heavy stumble, you paused and turned your head back to see what was wrong. You found him standing a few steps above you, his jaw slightly slack. A wicked smile slowly bloomed across your face.

“What was that, Your Majesty? Are they too much for you to carry?” you taunted, shifting your body so your chest was fully turned toward him.

Thor’s eyes helplessly drifted downward to your now fully visible chest, his breath catching for a second time that day. The flush on his neck deepened. He aggressively cleared his throat, forcing his eyes up to meet your smirking face.

“Hah! I can move literal mountains, Little Flame. These trinkets are nothing to me,” he mumbled defensively, his voice a bit more rushed than usual. “I simply lost my balance is all.”

Desperate to escape your mocking gaze, he practically ran down the remaining stairs, his loafers squeaking slightly against the polished concrete as he hurried into the main lobby with all three suitcases clutched tightly in his hands.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you watched him go, continuing your descent. The discarded cardigan remained clutched in your hand; you felt entirely too hot, your own racing thoughts making your skin flush. You gulped, trying to aggressively shoo the bizarre tension out of your mind. You hated him. You needed to get a grip.

When you finally reached the expansive glass entrance of the compound, Thor was already standing there, deep in a heated discussion with Tony.

“Why spend hours traveling in one of your metal birds when we can get there in seconds?” Thor was arguing, his brow furrowed in genuine, godly confusion.

Tony turned toward you as you approached, a wicked, entirely too amused smirk lighting up his face. “Ah, perfect timing, Shadow. Point Break here is staging a mutiny. He says you two don't need to board a plane or take a Quinjet.”

“How come?” you asked, your blood suddenly running cold. An ominous weight dropped into your stomach because you could already guess exactly what the god of thunder had in mind.

“Stormbreaker can take us across the world in seconds,” Thor said, turning his massive frame toward you, completely serious.

“But—” you started, your mind frantically grasping for any viable excuse to avoid being that physically close to him for a cosmic teleportation ride. “But how will you carry the luggage while we traverse realms? It’s impossible.”

“You just hold onto me, and I will handle the rest,” he said easily, dismissively, as if he were explaining the most simple, mundane task in the world. You swallowed hard, your heart doing a strange flip. “But Thor, you have to hold Stormbreaker in one hand, and the luggage in the other. What about me? Where am I supposed to go?”

Thor let out a sharp, irritated huff, clearly done with you dragging out the inevitable. “I said I will handle it. Now, let us go.”

He turned away, marching through the sliding glass doors into the bright morning air. He dropped his own suitcase onto the concrete pavement and extended his right hand toward the sky. Within a split second, a loud, crackling boom echoed through the compound as the massive, heavy blade of Stormbreaker flew from his room straight into his waiting palm.

With practiced, terrifying strength, he gathered the handles of all three massive suitcases into his other hand, hoisting them up effortlessly. He turned his head, his short blonde hair catching the sunlight, and motioned sharply with his chin for you to come closer.

You narrowed your eyes at him stubbornly, crossing your arms over your chest. “What if I don’t want to—” Before you could even finish your protest, Thor’s patience snapped. In one swift, blur of a movement, his massive hand shot out and grabbed you firmly by the wrist.

You let out a sharp yelp as he effortlessly yanked you forward into his personal space, his strength completely overriding your balance. He forcefully guided your arms around his thick middle, pulling you so close that your cheek was muffled right against the hard, solid muscle of his chest.

You could feel his heavy pectoral muscles instantly tighten at the sudden contact, a wave of intense, radiating heat washing over you. Before you could even open your mouth to yell at him for handling you so roughly, his deep, rumbling voice vibrated right through his chest wall against your ear. “Hold on tight.” And with a sudden, blinding flash of blue electricity, he raised Stormbreaker high into the sky.

A blinding burst of color erupted all around you as the Bifrost engulfed you both. The roaring force of the cosmic energy threatened to rip you away, and you instinctively closed your eyes tightly, holding yourself steady by gluing your body entirely to his. Your fingers dug firmly into the fabric of his shirt, pulling yourself so close that there wasn’t a single millimeter of space left between your chest and his.

Then, just as quickly as it had begun, the rushing roar vanished.

You felt your heels solidly touch the ground, arriving at your destination in a second. For a moment, your hands remained tightly locked around his middle and your face was still pressed right against the warm, hard muscle of his chest, you could hear his heartbeat thudding against his ribs.

Slowly, you forced your eyes open and pulled your face back, blinking against the sudden, brilliant glare of the Mediterranean sun.

The Sanctuary stretched out before you, you were standing on a private, pristine white-stone terrace that overlooked a sprawling, crescent-shaped bay. The water below was a blinding, translucent turquoise, so clear that you could see the dark, shifting shadows of coral reefs deep beneath the surface. Sleek, multi-million-dollar superyachts were anchored in the distance, polished and gleaming under the midday sun.

The resort itself was built directly into the towering, sun-bleached cliffs of the island. It was a marvel of modern, minimalist design blended with ancient luxury—all clean white concrete, floor-to-ceiling glass panels, and cascading infinity pools that seemed to spill directly into the ocean below. Lavish, vibrant pink bougainvillea and lush green palms draped over stone walkways, softening the sharp lines of the villas.

Your nostrills filled with the scent of saltwater, expensive citrus perfume, and blooming jasmine. In the distance, you could hear the faint, muted clinking of crystal glasses and the smooth, ambient lounge music drifting from an exclusive beachfront pavilion. It was entirely peaceful, completely hidden from the rest of the world, and crawling with some of the most dangerous, corrupt elite on the planet.

You let out a slow breath, your eyes immediately mapping out the security cameras hidden in the palm trees and the heavily armed guards dressed in casual, matching resort linen suits.

“You can let go of me now, Little Flame,” Thor’s deep voice murmured directly above you, a distinct trace of that familiar, smug amusement vibrating right against your hands. “Unless, of course, you are already enjoying the perks of marriage.”

You blinked, sharply pushing yourself away from his broad chest. “You wish,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes as you aggressively smoothed down the wrinkled fabric of your white summer dress. “I’m not exactly into lords, anyway. I prefer a much stronger title.”

“Good thing I am not a lord, then,” he replied smoothly. For the first time, he didn't get defensive or angry at the jab. Instead, he just stood there, smiling down at you with a gaze so wicked that you could practically feel the blood rushing straight to your head.

You internally groaned, chastising yourself. Stupid girl. You really should have thought beforehand that he would turn your own words right back on you like that. But before your scrambled brain could piece together a proper, biting retort, the heavy footsteps of the resort's security staff cut you off.

“Are you invited, sir?”

A burly bodyguard in a pristine, light-blue linen suit approached the two of you. His voice was laced with a deep, unmistakable tone of respect; he clearly recognized the King of Asgard, but he was trying to maintain the island's strict protocol.

“Yes,” you intervened seamlessly, sliding in front of Thor. Your training kicked in instantly, and a perfected, dazzling smile etched itself onto your face. You held up your phone, displaying the exclusive, gold-rimmed digital invitation Tony had intercepted.

The bodyguard scanned the screen, nodding, but his cautious gaze quickly drifted down to the massive, terrifying axe gripped firmly in Thor's left hand. “We... do not allow weapons on the resort grounds, sir. If you could leave it with security—”

“Ah, that is easily remedied,” Thor interrupted cheerfully. With a casual flick of his wrist, the massive, razor-sharp blade of Stormbreaker melted away, shrinking down until it transformed into a simple, polished black umbrella. You whipped your head around to look at the object, completely deadpan. “An umbrella? In this weather?” you muttered, gesturing to the cloudless, blazing mediterranean sky.

Thor’s eyebrows furrowed at you, his jaw tightening in annoyance at your public critique. “Well, there is something called a summer rain, sweetheart,” he said, faking an incredibly sweet, doting smile for the sake of the watchibg guard, though his blue eyes promised absolute murder.

“I don’t think it’s going to rain anytime soon, honey,” you shot back, your voice dripping with a deep, sickeningly fake sugary sweetness as your own plastic smile widened. Before you could take another breath, Thor’s massive arm suddenly shot out, wrapping securely around your waist and forcefully dragging you flush into his side for a tight, suffocating hug.

A sharp, undignified yelp tore from your throat at the sudden impact, but you quickly cleared your throat, masking your shock as you gripped his forearm. He was absolutely enjoying torturing you, using the doting husband act as the perfect excuse to handle you however he pleased. You were going to kill him.

“I can make it rain anytime I wish,” he murmured, his tone biting at you in a dangerous, playful whisper that sent an involuntary shiver down your spine. He flashed one last dazzling smile at the bewildered bodyguard. “Now, let us go to our room, yeah?”

After that, the guard politely led you both through the sweeping glass doors toward the main lobby, where a receptionist stood behind a white marble desk, a bright, welcoming smile on her face.

“Welcome to The Sanctuary. Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Odinson,” she said smoothly, but the moment the words left her mouth, you saw her cringe a bit, her eyes darting between the digital registry and your face as she thought the names over. You noticed the hesitation instantly, Odinson did sound incredibly weird when referring to a woman.

“Is that your last name now, madam? Should I call you that?” she genuinely asked, looking a bit flustered, as if she were desperately trying to avoid making a mistake.

A massive grin broke across your face while Thor’s expression instantly soured. Oh, you liked this receptionist already.

“I genuinely have no idea. It does sound completely off when you say it like that, doesn't it?” you said, leaning against the marble desk. Then, you slowly turned your head to look up at him, your eyes wide with mock innocence. “Honey, is my last name Odinson now? Wouldn't that literally just mean I’m a son of Odin? I mea—”

He cut you off instantly, his jaw clenching as he growled under his breath, clearly pissed. “Well, we are in Midgard, darling. So your last name is now Odinson here, no? It is how things are done on this realm.” He forced out a tight, blindingly fake smile, trying his absolute best not to throw off the receptionist standing inches away.

You smiled right back, utterly loving the fact that you had managed to piss him off so quickly. You turned back to the receptionist, giving her a conspiratorial look. “Or you could just call me by my former last na—”

“No.” Thor cut you off again, his deep voice dropping an octave, completely unyielding as his blue eyes threw literal daggers down at you. “She will be referred to as Mrs. Odinson.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, your smile faltering for a split second. That was a remarkably quick, fiercely defensive reaction from him. Why the hell did he care so much about a fake human registry?

Recovering quickly, you huffed out a light, airy fake laugh for the receptionist's benefit, gesturing toward the rigid King beside you. “He gets incredibly defensive in situations like this,” you told her. Then, leaning in slightly, you whispered in a stage-whisper, “Male ego, am I right?” The receptionist let out a quiet, knowing chuckle and nodded her head in absolute agreement, clearly understanding exactly what you meant.

“I will show you to your room then, Mrs. Odinson,” she said, stepping out from behind the marble desk and motioning toward a glass elevator that overlooked the turquoise bay, while waving over a bellboy to take the three giant suitcases from Thor's hands.

Thor let the bellboy take the suitcases, his hands finally free as he followed the two of you toward the glass lift. The receptionist held the elevator doors open, gesturing politely with an extended hand, and once you and Thor stepped inside, she followed, pressing the button for the upper residential levels.

The elevator began its smooth ascent. Thor looked around the glass enclosure, his massive arms folding tightly over his broad chest. The movement made his biceps bulge prominently against the fabric of his t-shirt, and your traitorous eyes immediately darted downward, following the sharp lines of his muscles before you could even stop yourself.

“I like this Midgardian facility,” Thor remarked, his deep voice echoing in the enclosed space as he looked out at the view. “It is quite nice.”

“Me too. Love the design, honestly.” you said smoothly, flashing a perfect, effortless hand gesture, but as your eyes finally flicked away from Thor’s arm, you caught something out of the corner of your eye. A sudden, entirely unknown feeling brewed in the pit of your stomach.

The receptionist was staring at Thor’s arms. And she wasn't just glancing; she was so goddamn focused, her eyes tracing the thick veins of his biceps, that she didn't even notice your lethal gaze cutting right through her.

You were definitely taking it back—you did not like this girl at all.

Before your brain could even process the irrational spike of possessiveness, you acted on pure instinct. You stepped right into his space, cleared your throat sharply, and forcefully reached up to uncross his arms.

“What are—” Thor started, entirely caught off guard by the unexpected intrusion.

He was completely silenced as you forcefully dragged his broad frame down into a tight side hug. Your arm slid securely over his back, anchoring him to you, and you felt his breath hitch violently at the sudden contact. He froze for a second, his chest heaving, before he cleared his throat and let his massive hand find the curve of your waist, pulling you securely against his hip.

You kept your eyes locked dead on the receptionist, claiming your territory with absolute, unyielding dominance. You flashed her a wicked, razor-sharp smile. The girl's cheeks instantly flushed crimson, and she averted her eyes toward the floor, clearly mortified that she had been caught staring at a married man, beside his wife at that.

The second the threat was neutralized, your actions crashed down on you. You had absolutely no idea what had just come over you, or why the fuck you would ever do something like that over Thor. Okay, you probably—definitely did that because the thought of another woman disrespecting you by looking at your husband made you want to commit murder. Correction, supposed husband. Still he was your fucking husband for now and she was looking at him and— It’s all about you really, all good. Nothing to worry about.

Your face burned with a furious heat as you forced your gaze straight ahead, refusing to look at him, but you could feel the immense weight of his blue eyes staring down at the side of your face—burning you, fucking scorching you with an intense, questioning gaze.

Thankfully, the elevator dinged, saving you from the embarrassment.

The doors slid open, and you caught your first breathtaking sight of the upper facility. It wasn't a standard, enclosed hotel corridor. Instead, the elevator opened directly into the brilliant, open air of the cliffside. It was designed like an exclusive luxury resort enclave; the elevator connected the lower main lobby directly to an expansive, sun-drenched outdoor terrace that led to the private villa section of the property.

Stone pathways winded through lush, manicured tropical gardens, flanked by cascading water features and private infinity pools that looked like they hung off the edge of the world. The ocean breeze hit your face instantly, lifting the hem of your white dress, but the burning weight of Thor’s hand still resting firmly on your waist made it impossible to feel the cold.

You followed the receptionist, her eyes now glued strictly forward as she walked, her posture stiff with the embarrassment of the whole situation.

You tried to subtly peel yourself away from Thor’s side, but the moment you moved, the heavy grip of his hand on your waist tightened significantly. Your eyes instinctively glanced upward to him, ready to snap, but he was simply looking around at the passing scenery, appearing completely unbothered by the situation. Why wouldn't he let go? You wondered why the hell he would keep you tethered to his side like this, as if he actively wanted you there.

Then, doing something you thought you would absolutely never do, you let him. You quietly surrendered, allowing him to hold you tight against his hip as you both walked down the sun-drenched stone path.

Other elite couples passed you by, their judgmental eyes scanning you up and down as they noted the stunning, mysterious woman on the arm of the Asgardian King. This is exactly why he is keeping you glued to him, a strict, grounding voice echoed in your mind. Do not forget the objective, or the fact that you both could never, ever like each other like that. You swallowed hard, your own hand involuntarily tightening around his side for a split second. Why the fuck would you even think otherwise?

The receptionist finally approached a secluded, breathtaking cliffside villa. She opened the heavy timber door for you, stepping aside to hand you the room keycards.

The moment you stepped across the threshold, your eyes widened at the sight before you. Your blood ran completely cold. You let go of his waist immediately, and this time he actually let you.

Your hands were slightly shaking as you looked around the massive, sunlit room. Why hadn't you thought of this earlier? Ofcourse. It was painfully obvious. You were pretending to be a married couple on a honeymoon, after all.

You looked beside you only to see Thor standing entirely frozen, his lips slightly agape and his breathing turning shallow and fast as you both simultaneously realized how profoundly fucked up this mission actually was.

There was only one fucking bed.

It was a massive, ultra-luxurious king-sized bed, draped in crisp white linens and pushed directly against the center of the room, facing the glass walls that looked out over the ocean. Thor couldn't believe his own stupidity; how could he have thought he wouldn't have to share a bed with you on a mission where you were supposed to be blissfully in love? This mission was officially going to be the absolute death of him.

He slowly turned his head to look down at you, only to find you already staring up at him with completely bewildered, panicked eyes.

“I hope you like your room. Have a wonderful stay, Mr. and Mrs. Odinson,” the receptionist said, her voice finally breaking the tense silence that had descended upon the room.

The sound of her talking jolted you both out of your shared panic. You didn't even look at her fully, only giving a stiff side-eye and a tight nod before she quickly scrambled out of the room, shutting the heavy door behind her.

The second the click of the lock echoed through the villa, you spun on your heels to face him. Your voice was sharp, defensive, and entirely determined as you pointed a finger at him. “I will sleep in the bed.”

His eyes narrowed at you instantly. “No, I will,” he counter-attacked, and with two long, authoritative strides, he walked over to the bed and sat down heavily on the mattress, trying to claim the territory by physical force. You scoffed loudly, refusing to back down. You marched right over to the edge of the bed and sat down forcefully beside him, turning your body to face him dead-on. “I will,” you repeated stubbornly, your jaw locking.

Thor snorted, a challenge dancing in his blue eyes. “Okay, then. You will simply be sleeping next to me.”

Your eyes widened in sudden panic as you huffed out a sharp breath. “What?” you said, utterly bewildered by the casualness of his suggestion.

He rolled his eyes, gesturing broadly to the sprawling mattress behind him. “This is a massive bed, love. We both can fit, clearly.”

The moment the casual pet name slipped from his tongue, Thor internally bit down on it, desperately trying to maintain his stoic composure. What the fuck is my problem? he wondered, a silent storm raging in his mind as he stared at your flushed face. There was no one here to perform for. The door was locked. Yet his brain was completely short-circuiting.

Your breath hitched in your throat. Why the hell would he call you that when there wasn't a single soul around to witness it? You swallowed hard, trying to inject some of your usual venom back into your voice to hide your racing pulse. “You are ginormous, Thor. You would probably just roll over in the middle of the night and crush me to death or something—”

“I would never,” he said softly, cutting you off. He looked directly at you, his gaze suddenly changing into an intensity so deeply serious, that it made your heart give a treacherous flutter against your ribs.

You gulped, your mind going entirely blank. You tried to grasp for another excuse, another biting retort, but the gravity of his presence was making you forget everything else besides him.

Thor’s eyes roamed all over your face, desperately trying to dissect whatever panicked thoughts were racing through your mind. But as his gaze drifted downward, your bare arms caught his eye.

His breath hitched violently. His eyebrows furrowed into a deep, troubled line as his vision focused entirely on your skin.

How the hell had he never noticed them before?

Faint, jagged scars were littered all over your arms, disrupting your otherwise flawless skin. They were the unmistakable, ghostly remnants of... what? How could you have possibly acquired them? He knew you possessed an advanced healing factor—he had seen you bounce back from lethal battle wounds within hours—so if these marks remained, the trauma that caused them must have been unfathomable. It must have happened before you ever gained your abilities. But how did you even get your powers?

Thor realized, with a jarring pang in his chest, that he knew absolutely nothing about your history. He knew nothing of what had happened to you, where you had come from, or how you had earned those marks. A dark, protective rage began to brew in his chest, his breathing turning ragged as he stared at the faint lines.

You noticed the exact second his eyes shifted. A cold, suffocating dread pooled in your stomach.

Nobody outside of Tony, Steve, Natasha, and Bucky knew what had happened to you. Tony and Steve knew because they were the ones who had found you, breaking into that dark Hydra facility to save your life. Natasha knew because she was your absolute closest friend, the person who held you through the worst of the night terrors. Bucky knew only because you had trusted him with the truth, knowing he was the only one who truly understood the agony of being a broken, unwilling assassin.

But Thor? Thor hadn't been there when you were saved. He had been worlds away, dealing with the high-stakes matters of Asgard. And you, of course, had never told him. How could you? When he had finally returned to Earth and met you for the very first time, he had simply looked at you deadpan and muttered, “She looks gloomy.”

The comment had broken you. Before he had ever spoken to you, you had thought him absolutely extraordinary. The exact second you had caught sight of his legendary, powerful frame, an intense, quiet attraction had sparked inside you. But he had broken all of that in a single second by calling you gloomy, bruising your defensive ego and forcing you to react in the absolute worst way possible—yelling at him and starting a years-long war of petty arguments. He was the only person on the team who could ever get you to react with such unhinged irritation.

Now, your heart dropped straight to your stomach at the horrifying thought of him having another piece of leverage over you. He could never know the truth. You couldn't let him see your vulnerability.

As you watched his eyes frantically trace the lines on your skin, his massive left hand slowly ascended, his fingers instinctively reaching out to gently touch your arm.

The impending contact made you take a sharp, terrified breath. Your fight-or-flight response slammed into overdrive, and you abruptly stammered out a quick, “I have to pee!” Before he could even respond, you bolted off the mattress, practically running toward the privacy of the bathroom.

You rubbed your face as you gulped, staring at your reflection in the mirror.

I have to pee? Seriously? You couldn’t have found anything better to say?

The faster we are done with this, the better, you thought to yourself, anxiously pacing around the marble bathroom. Steve had said the mission could take anywhere from two days to an entire week. You were strictly determined to wrap this up in two days max—because if you didn't, so help you God, you were going to go completely insane.

You splashed ice-cold water on your face, breathing out a long, shaky exhale. You could do this. You could endure this. This was absolutely nothing compared to the horrors you had survived in your past, but for some reason, why did it feel like this was even worse?

Steeling your nerves, you finally walked out of the bathroom, only to see Thor standing outside on the terrace, his massive back turned to you. Your eyes involuntarily roamed over his broad figure, and you breathed out a long breath to calm your racing heart.

He heard you step into the room—of course he did. He turned back toward you, locking his blue eyes onto your face as he made his way back inside. “I like it here,” he mumbled, looking around the room before his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Where are our things? That servant took—”

Your eyebrows shot up instantly. “Servant?”

“Yes. The one who took our bags.”

You let out an involuntary, nervous giggle as you sat back down on the edge of the bed, rolling your eyes. “Thor, he’s not a servant. He’s a bellboy.” His brow furrowed even deeper. “Bellboy?”

“Yes. People who carry luggage to the rooms in hotels are called bellboys.”

“So... they are servants?” he repeated stubbornly. You huffed, deeply annoyed by his royal dense-headedness. “Thor, do not call anyone a servant to their face. It’s incredibly belittling and—” Right as the lecture was leaving your mouth, a sharp knock echoed from the front door.

“Ah! The servant is here,” Thor declared triumphantly, immediately striding toward the entryway to open it.

“Thor, no—” you gasped, scrambling up from the bed. You were desperately trying to intercept him, wanting to avoid a catastrophic conversation where he would inevitably embarrass the poor resort worker.

But Thor was too fast. He swung the door open and casually leaned his massive shoulder against the wall, watching the bellboy roll your three giant suitcases into the villa’s foyer. However, instead of ignoring you, Thor’s blue eyes were suddenly gleaming with pure mischief as he looked across the room at your panicked face.

Your eyes narrowed into lethal slits. You fiercely mouthed a very deliberate, aggressive 'No' to him.

But seeing your panic only made his smug smile widen. The exact second he opened his annoying, beautiful mouth to speak, your instincts slammed into overdrive. Your brain completely short-circuited. You scrambled over to him in a blind, chaotic rush. Before he could utter a single syllable, you threw yourself into his personal space, your arms wrapping securely around his thick neck as you hopped completely on top of him, forcefully pressing his face right into the crook of your neck to physically muffle his mouth against your skin.

Thor froze dead in his tracks. The sudden impact of your body would have knocked any human man flat on his back, but he didn't even sway. His breath hitched sharply, and his massive hands instinctively shot down, grabbing the back of your thighs to hold you up without breaking a single sweat.

The bellboy’s eyes went completely wide at the unexpected, intensely passionate display.

Your face burned a scorching, furious red as you awkwardly tilted your head back, your arms still locked around Thor's neck. “Just... love my husband so much, you know? Can’t help myself,” you breathed out, your voice strained as you forced a bright, desperately in love smile.

The bellboy nodded quickly, his eyes still dinner-plate wide as he awkwardly parked the luggage.

Thor’s head had been pinned right against your neck, but he suddenly lifted his head up forcefully, his godlike strength easily overriding your desperate attempt to hold him still.

“Cannot keep her hands to herself, this one,” Thor told the bellboy, a deep, rumbling chuckle vibrating through his chest. He was smiling brightly, clearly enjoying every single second of this absolute ordeal.

You literally could not believe you had just done that. You were just trying to spare the poor worker’s feelings, and—okay, fine, you absolutely did not need to jump on top of him like a koala. But in that split second of panic, your brain had completely ruled out kissing him as an option—obviously, because why were you even thinking of it in the first place?—, leaving you with no choice but to launch yourself at him to take him off guard.

The mortified bellboy practically scrambled out of the villa, quickly wishing you both a good day before slamming the door shut.

You let out a massive sigh of relief, your forehead dropping against Thor's shoulder. You hadn't even been able to give the poor guy a tip. You shook your head in deep disapproval, your gaze finally snapping back up to look at Thor.

And that’s when your brain finally caught up to the reality of your physical situation.

The room was dead silent. Thor was staring down at you with an incredibly intense, dark, and unreadable gaze. He was still holding you entirely aloft in his arms. Your legs were circled tightly around his broad waist, his heavy hands were gripping the bare skin under your thighs, and your goddamn summer dress had completely ridden up your legs. The direct, calloused touch of his palms against your skin was burning you like liquid fire.

Your breathing suddenly grew shallow and fast. Oh god. You needed to get off of him right now.

You swallowed hard, subtly shifting your weight to slide down, but his grip remained like iron bands. You couldn't move.

“You can let go now, you know?” you whispered, your voice lacking its usual bite as you stared into his intense blue eyes.

Thor aggressively cleared his throat, looking momentarily startled by how close your lips were to his. But within a fraction of a second, that goddamn smug, teasing smile started slow-burning across his face. You knew that exact expression, and it never meant anything good for your sanity.

“Why?” he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling rasp that sent a wave of heat straight to your core. “You willingly hopped into my arms, Little Flame. I might as well enjoy the embrace.”

You gasped in absolute outrage, sharply slapping his broad chest with your palm as you desperately tried to wrench yourself out of his grip. He was being annoying, cruel, and completely, fucking insufferable.

“Just let go of me, you pervert!” you snapped, your right hand desperately attempting to peel his iron grip off your bare leg.

He finally let go of you with a low, rumbling chuckle, clearly enjoying annoying you far too much for his own good. “Pervert? I am not the one who jumped blindly into your arms, Little Flame.”

You flushed a furious crimson, sharply turning your back to him to hide the heat on your face. “Let's just fucking get ready and try to find some info on our objective,” you muttered tightly. You grabbed one of your massive suitcases, plopping it down onto the luggage rack with a heavy thud, and unzipped it. Behind you, his quiet, amused chuckles continued to bounce off the walls, making your blood boil with pure anger, but you forced your mouth shut.

You aggressively rummaged through your clothes, grabbing a white, high-cut skimpy monokini and a breezy dress to wear over it. Clucthing the fabric to your chest, you marched straight back into the bathroom to get ready.

You locked the door, taking a few ragged breaths to settle your racing pulse. You fixed your hair, and carefully slipped into the monokini and the dress. Standing in front of the mirror, you let out a long exhale, though your face was still burning with a deep, stubborn embarrassment. You could do this. It was just a mission.

You emerged from the bathroom, deliberately looking anywhere but at Thor as he smoothly stepped past you to go get changed himself. You walked over to the vanity, but a few moments later, his booming, deeply confused voice echoed from the other side of the door.

“This just looks like underwear.”

The bathroom door swung open, and Thor walked out, looking down at himself with a bewildered expression. The second your eyes landed on him, you literally choked on your own spit.

He was wearing a pair of simple navy swimming trunks—and absolutely nothing else. No shirt, no linen button-down, nothing to cover the massive expanse of his upper body.

Your eyes involuntarily danced over his frame, your mouth falling slightly agape as you took him in. The midday sun streaming through the glass walls caught every single ridge of his body. Your gaze traced the thick, prominent veins running over his forearms and bulging biceps, moving up to the broad, heavy expanse of his chest, and dropping down to his rock-hard, perfectly sculpted abs.

Oh, fuck. You felt a sharp, electric flutter ignite deep down in your stomach.

“We Asgardians just go into the waters naked to swim, you know,” he stated proudly, adjusting the waistband of the trunks. “This Earth clothing feels ridiculous.”

He was probably referring to times back home when he did exactly that—swimming freely in royal Asgardian lakes, likely with beautiful women. But the sudden, intrusive mental image of going swimming with a completely naked Thor made you gulp harshly, your eyes widening in panic.

And that was the exact moment he caught the state of your face.

Thor froze. His breath hitched in his throat as his blue eyes locked onto you. Your beautiful eyes had darkened with an intense, raw heat, your gaze completely fixed on his bare chest while your sinful lips remained slightly parted. As he watched, your tongue subtly darted out to lick your lower lip, your breathing turning shallow.

The God of Thunder felt his entire frame go completely rigid in the middle of the room.

You were not thinking what he thought you were... were you? For the first time, a heavy, pounding tension that had nothing to do with anger or bickering flooded the air around you. Thor felt his heart skip a beat against his ribs at the terrifying, intoxicating thought of you actually looking at him like that, willing him to step closer.

You closed your eyes then, and the sudden, intrusive thought of him being completely naked with other women infiltrated your mind. It filled you with a strange, unexplainable feeling—a sharp, poisonous ache that you had felt before in your life but couldn't quite put your finger on. Your stomach actively churned at the mental image, a dark wave of possessiveness and frustration twisting tight inside your core mkaing you open your eyes back.

The lung-burning silence broke when you abruptly gulped, tearing your gaze away from his abdomen as your cheeks flared a bright, defensive red.

“Put a shirt on, will you?” you muttered breathlessly.

Without waiting for a response, you spun on your heel and practically bolted out onto the sun-drenched balcony, desperately needing the breeze to help you catch your breath before you completely lost your mind.

Inside, Thor’s eyebrows furrowed deeply. He stood entirely frozen in the center of the room, his heart dropping straight to his stomach at the words you had just thrown at him.

Of course.

Why the hell would he ever think you wanted him? What was he thinking? You obviously were not attracted to him in the slightest. In fact, it was the exact opposite—you clearly disliked him so much that you couldn't even bear to see a glimpse of his bare upper body, which was why you had breathlessly demanded he cover himself up.

Thor let out a low, frustrated groan, bringing his massive hands up to aggressively palm his face. Why did he even care so much? Why did your rejection sting like needles on his skin?

Steeling his posture, he marched back over to his suitcase, snatched up a matching navy t-shirt, and harshly yanked it down over his head, hiding his chest from view. He desperately needed a fucking drink. He was entirely certain there wasn’t a single alcoholic beverage on this entire planet that could properly numb his brain right now. Not even heavy Asgardian ale could get him drunk enough at this point. He actually was fucking sure there wasn't a single drink in the entire universe that could make him drunk enough to forget about you, your angelic face, these unexplainable feelings, and the damning fact that you absolutely hated him.

“Let’s go,” his deep voice boomed behind you.

Startled out of your thoughts on the balcony, you turned around and walked back inside the air-conditioned room. You quietly followed him as he strode over to the heavy front door, swinging it open and standing firmly in the entryway as he waited for you to walk past.

You went out, your wedge sandals clicking softly on the stone path as you took a deep breath of the humid air, trying to reset your frayed nerves. As you made your way down toward the main infinity pool with Thor by your side, you suddenly felt a firm, sudden tug on your hand.

Because you had left the villa first, you had been walking a few paces ahead of him, but with one effortless pull, he brought you right back next to his side. His massive palm slid against yours, his fingers wrapping around your hand and engulfing it completely.

Your pulse gave a wild, treacherous flutter. Your eyes filled with immediate, defensive questions as you snapped your head up to look at him. Your hand felt like it was on fire, your skin practically melting under the direct heat of his touch. But before you could snap at him, Thor simply gestured with a subtle tilt of his chin toward a few couples who were walking past, watching you closely.

Right. Real couples walked hand-in-hand. You were supposed to be blissfully married, so this was completely ordinary. You forced yourself to nod, your fingers slowly sliding into his, intertwining with his firmly to sell the act.

Before heading over to the pool deck, you stopped by the wooden towel stand. You grabbed two plush beach towels, offering a polite, dazzling smile and a quiet thank you to the young worker who handed them over. As you began walking toward two vacant, prime sunbeds you had spotted near the edge of the water, Thor leaned down significantly to get right on your level.

His warm breath brushed against your ear as he whispered, “Lots of servants here.”

You immediately looked up at him, your eyes boring holes into his face. “Thor, they are resort employees. Stop it,” you hissed under your breath.

A smug, infuriating smile broke across his face. He was clearly enjoying the easy way he could piss you off. Still, his hand didn't release yours; his fingers remained tightly engulfed around your hand as you finally settled right next to the vacant sunbeds.

He finally let go of your hand, though his blue eyes remained highly alert, scanning the perimeter. He took in the entire scene—the crowded pool bar, the glittering water, and the exclusive guests. Upbeat lounge music pulsed quietly from the hidden outdoor speakers as his gaze tracked the crowd.

His eyes locked onto a specific target sitting near the bar: a man with a distinct scar slicing through his left eyebrow, short black hair, and deeply bronzed skin. The stool next to the man was vacant, and he was casually sipping on a dark amber liquor—what Thor recognized as whiskey, a Midgardian drink he had tried during his time with the Avengers.

Thor turned his head back to tell you he had spotted their mark, but the words got caught in his throat.

You had already slid your dress off, leaving it pooled on the side of the chair. You were now sitting down comfortably on the sunbed, your bare legs stretched out in front of you.

The sight of your exposed skin and the incredibly skimpy, high-cut beachwear made a sudden rush of blood boil furiously through Thor's veins. His gaze darkened instantly, his eyes helplessly mapping the smooth expanse of your collarbones, your chest, and your fucking perfect legs. Oh, fuck. He literally couldn't breathe. The air vanished from his lungs, and he averted his eyes toward the sea, his heart hammering so wildly against his ribs he thought it might actually beat its way straight out of his chest.

Desperate to cool down, he aggressively cleared his throat and grabbed the hem of his t-shirt, yanking it off his body.

Your eyes remained glued strictly ahead of you, stubbornly refusing to spare him a single glance. You heard the rustle of fabric and the distinct sound of him tossing the shirt onto the table, but you refused to face him. You unfortunately felt far too many weird, dangerous things flipping in your stomach whenever you looked at his bare chest, and you weren't about to risk your sanity now. Fuck this entire operation, really, you thought bitterly.

You heard the sunbed creak as his massive weight sat down on the lounge chair right next to yours. Your positions were exactly identical, your legs laid out parallel to each other on the matching cushions. You were close—entirely too close.

Needing to ground yourself and focus on the mission, you leaned over toward him, lowering your voice to a sharp, determined whisper. “We either finish this in two days or an entire week. Let’s get this over with quickly, so that I do not have to be your wife for another—” But you had made the catastrophic mistake of turning your head to look at him while you whispered. The words died completely in your throat, and the remaining oxygen was brutally taken right out of your lungs.

Thor had laid back against the cushion, his massive, bare arms raised up next to his head to support the back of his neck. The position made his biceps and shoulders bulge spectacularly under the sunlight, the lines of his chest stretching taut.

“...second,” you trailed off breathlessly, your voice dropping to a faint whisper as you quickly snapped your head back to stare blindly at the water in front of you.

“I agree,” Thor said simply, his deep voice carrying a gravelly, tight edge as he stared straight ahead, too. “This whole ordeal is ridiculous, I’ll tell you that. There is absolutely no need to drag it out.”

You laid perfectly still on the sunbed, the intense heat baking your skin, but it was nothing compared to the suffocating tension radiating from the man lying right next to you.

What’s happening to me? you wondered frantically in your mind, trying to ground yourself as you looked around the bustling pool area. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed the man with the scarred eyebrow, and a cold jolt of recognition hit you. He looked familiar because he was your target. Valentin Moretti, the spoiled, arrogant playboy of the family who handled the high-society entertainment and smuggling logistics at the resort. He was the only middleman who held the digital decryption keys to the Dark Elf tech you and Thor were trying to locate.

And right now, he was staring right at you.

The second his eyes hit you, his posture shifted. His dark eyes narrowed, deliberately burning their way down the length of your body, lingering heavily on the high-cut lines of your white monokini and your bare legs. A smooth, predatory smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. He raised his whiskey glass in a silent, incredibly bold toast directly toward you.

“I was just about to tell you I spotted our target, but it seems like he spotted you,” Thor grumbled. He glared over at Valentin, his blue eyes darkening to a stormy hue as his hands clenched into massive, white-knuckled fists behind his head. “Why the fuck is he staring at you like that?” he muttered, every single muscle in his broad frame clenching tight as he fought a losing battle to keep himself from doing something stupid. Like striking the fucker with a stray bolt of lightning.

“Thor, keep your eyes straight ahead,” you hissed back under your breath, stubbornly refusing to look at him. “Tony said he runs the security and digital access keys for the entire compound. If he’s interested, it means we have an opening.”

“An opening to what?” Thor muttered, his tone sharply biting. “He is vile. Look at how he comports himself.”

“An opening for me to get to know hi—”

“Absolutely not,” he interrupted, his voice cutting through the humid air like a sharpened blade.

Your eyebrows furrowed deeply. “What do you mean? We need him, Thor!” you whisper-shouted, sharply turning your body toward him.

He was staring literal daggers across the pool deck, his biceps bulging prominently as he breathed. He looked absolutely furious. You scoffed internally. Did the mere thought of another man being interested in you anger him this much? Did he despise you so profoundly that he couldn't even entertain the thought that a man could actually find you attractive? You breathed sharply through your nose like an enraged bull; you absolutely could not let his fragile ego fuck up this entire operation.

“I am going to the ladies room,” you announced abruptly.

You sat up, your hips shifting with a natural, subtle sway as you swung your legs off the lounge chair. The movement drew Thor’s intense gaze straight to your back, his eyes tracking you with the exact same heavy focus as a certain someone across the pool deck. Thor’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He knew exactly what you were doing; he was not fucking stupid. You were trying to get away from him to corner the target alone. And he was absolutely not going to let you.

You marched into the restroom, deliberately waiting inside for two full minutes to give Valentin time to notice your absence. When you finally emerged back into the bright sunshine, your eyes instantly scanned the area for Thor, but you couldn't find his giant frame anywhere near the sunbeds. Your brows knitted in concern. Where the fuck is he? You shook your head, dismissing the thought.

Continuing your way, your strides remained purposeful, your hips swaying with an intoxicating rhythm as you confidently made your way over to the open-air pool bar. You stopped right next to two stols away from Valentin, placing your hands flat on the polished marble counter.

“A cosmopolitan, please,” you told the bartender, flashing a polite smile.

Beside you, Valentin smirked and got up, sliding onto the stool right next to you. “Good afternoon,” he smoothed, his voice dripping with an arrogant, upper-class accent as he looked down at your frame. His smirk widened. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I haven't seen your face at the Sanctuary before. I am Valentin.”

You immediately forced your perfected, dazzling smile onto your face, tilting your head up to look at him. “Hello,” you said, your voice smooth, breathy, and entirely welcoming as you deliberately played the part.

Valentin’s dark eyes flashed with deep approval at your response. But just as he opened his mouth to speak, a heavy, solid weight crashed into your side.

A massive, bare arm wrapped securely around your waist, his fingers gripping your skin so tightly that your breath instantly hitched in your throat.

“Here you are, darling,” Thor muttered, leaning down so close his lips practically brushed your ear, though his icy gaze remained dead-locked onto Valentin.

“Here I am,” you said through your teeth. You forced out a light, airy giggle for appearance's sake, but underneath the counter, you aggressively pinched the skin of his arm. Just what did he think he was doing?

In response, his grip only tightened, anchoring you flush against his solid hip.

Valentin looked between the two of you, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise, though his arrogant smirk remained firmly in place. “Your companion didn't seem to care you were there just minutes ago,” Valentin noted smoothly, turning his attention entirely back to you and deliberately stepping a fraction closer to your space. “If you ever find yourself bored with the company, cara, I am always hosting private tastings in the VIP lounge upstairs. A woman of your taste shouldn't be left to just bake in the sun.”

Valentin finally flicked a dismissive, incredibly brief glance toward Thor, taking in his towering height, his bare chest, and his silent, murderous expression. Valentin chuckled softly under his breath, entirely assuming Thor was just some brainless, handsome trophy husband you kept around for arm candy.

You felt your eyes briefly close in pure panic as Thor tried to keep his mouth shut. The tension radiating off him was terrifying; he pulled you even harder against his side, his thumb digging into your waist. Didn't this mortal idiot know who he was dealing with? The God of Thunder looked like he was about to rip Valentin’s head off his shoulders and toss it directly into the infinity pool.

“My husband,” you intervened quickly, emphasizing the word heavily while throwing Thor a sharp, lethal warning glare, “is just enjoying the peace. But thank you for the invitation, Valentin. We might just take you up on that.”

“I look forward to it,” Valentin murmured, his eyes giving your body one last, shameless scan down to your bare legs. He gave a polite nod and turned back toward the bar, entirely unaware of how close he had just come to an early grave.

Thor practically dragged you out of there, his heavy grip guiding you back toward the sunbeds.

The second Valentin was out of earshot, you let out a sharp breath, turning your head to hiss at him. “What do you think you're doing?!”

Thor didn't even spare you a glance, his jaw set in a rigid line as he kept on walking, dragging you right along by his side. “I am not doing anything.” You huffed, sharply slapping his bare arm. “Thor, you're going to ruin everything!” He acted completely deaf, ignoring your slap as he kept his heavy strides forward.

“Tomorrow,” you whispered fiercely, leaning in closer to his side so none of the passing guests could overhear. “I am going to have to flirt with him to get those access codes, and you will not do things like what you just did!”

Thor’s head snapped toward you so fast your breath caught harshly in your chest. His blue eyes were burning, fucking scorching into yours with an unhinged look.

“You will not,” he growled.

You scoffed loudly, throwing your head back. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said flatly. He finally let go of your waist, sitting back down heavily on his sunbed.

You remained standing over him, your hands flying up in pure frustration. “Is the concept of a man finding me attractive such a foreign concept to you?!” you whisper-shouted, your chest heaving.

He didn't respond as he kept looking at Valentin, his jaw locking into a tight, defensive line. Ofcourse he did not, and that was the exact problem. Any man who set their eyes on you would find you attractive and he could not fucking stand it.

It's because you cannot stand her, his mind echoed, but he knew something was desperately wron g with him.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Valentin was still watching the two of you from the bar, clearly reveling in the fact that he had caused a little disagreement between the stunning woman and her brute of a husband. Thor’s eyes darkened even further as he tracked Valentin's amused expression.

Your gaze followed Thor's, landing right on the smug target.

“Are you serious?” you muttered to Thor. Then, turning your head toward the bar, you deliberately forced a sweet smile and gave Valentin a little, subtle wave.

You turned back to Thor, sitting down forcefully on your own sunbed. “I will do what I have to do, Thor,” you said coldly, snatching up a glossy fashion magazine from the side table—one of the resort’s complimentary services.

“We’ll see about that,” Thor muttered back, his voice dangerous.

You didn't respond, your own jaw locking in a fury so intense you wanted to wrap your hands around his thick neck and strangle him.

So yeah, your day was going exactly the same. You had wanted to strangle him in the morning, and you wanted to strangle him right now. Not a single thing had changed, other than the fact that he was now your supposed husband.

You aggressively kept on turning the glossy pages of the magazine, but your gaze followed Valentin precisely. Between the articles, your sharp eyes roamed over every single person on the pool deck, dissecting them and their behaviors, mapping out the security hierarchy of the resort. But you got bored after a while, the heat and the tension becoming too much to sit through. Deciding you needed a distraction, you stood up from your sunbed to go into the pool.

The moment you stood, Thor’s intense gaze focused directly in on your stomach. The air left his lungs. There, cutting across your midriff, were the exact same faint, jagged scars. His blood ran entirely cold. Just how many of those did you have hidden across your body? He felt his stomach churn painfully, his hands going completely cold despite the blistering sun. But just as he watched you walk down the shallow steps into the water, he fucking saw Valentin look at you again.

Just why did this guy not give up?

Thor felt something violent biting at him inside—something so utterly convincing and overwhelming that his face hardened into stone. He got up immediately, his towering frame casting a shadow over the lounge chairs as he followed you straight into the water.

You were already in the pool, the cold water instantly relieving your burning skin. You swam smoothly toward the far edge, propping your elbows up on the smooth marble so you could lay your head on your hands and finally relax.

Just as you were settling in, a calm expression finally washing over your face, the entire pool rattled with the force of someone jumping in.

You whipped your head around, your eyes wide with irritation. Thor emerged from underwater a split second later, a smug, breathless smile on his face as he broke the surface just inches away from you.

“Can I not relax in peace now?” you snapped between your teeth.

But the remaining words were brutally taken right out of your lungs. Before you could slide away, Thor wrapped his massive hands securely around the back of your bare thighs, effortlessly lifting your body up in the water. The sudden momentum left you with no choice but to instinctively circle your legs around his broad waist to keep from slipping.

“What are you doing?” you whispered into his ear, completely breathless. Despite the panic racing through your veins, you forced a bright, blinding honeymoon smile for the sake of the couples swimming near you, whose bewildered, intrigued expressions were already focused entirely on the two of you.

“I am enjoying the cold water with my wife,” he murmured back. His warm breath fanned heavily over the sensitive skin of your neck as he intentionally cornered you, crowding your front while your back was pressed against the marble edge of the pool you had been relaxing on seconds ago.

Your hands instinctively found his neck, your fingers gripping his shoulders while your thumbs lightly played with the short hairs at the nape of his neck. You looked at him, your lips dangling a mere inch away from his. You could feel his steady breath fanning over your mouth, making your lips tingle with soul-burning want.

Why the hell were your lips tingling with want? Oh, god. Your face burned with a furious, internal heat as your eyes helplessly locked onto his mouth. Both of your chests heaved, brushing against one another in the water.

“I am not your real wife, Thor,” you breathed out, trying desperately to ground yourself. “I don’t need you touching me every five seconds—”

“I don’t need anyone here thinking you are available.”

“What?” you whispered, your heart giving a massive flutter against your ribs.

“Fake or not, Little Flame,” he growled softly, his blue eyes turning incredibly dark as his grip on your thighs tightened. “I am your fucking husband, and every man on this island will know it. I will make sure of it.”

He smirked, and before you could even process his words, he leaned in and pressed a firm, lingering kiss directly to your flushed cheek. You gasped in absolute shock, your skin scorching where his lips met your face. As he pulled back just a fraction, your noses brushed. You looked directly into his eyes, feeling yourself grow hotter and hotter and hotter—

“My honorary guests! You made it!”

A booming, boisterous voice suddenly erupted from above you. You both snapped your heads up, startled out of the suffocating bubble, and saw Alejandro Moretti himself standing on the pool deck. He was smiling down at the two of you, his arms spread wide in a grand, welcoming gesture.

You aggressively cleared your throat, your training forcing you to seamlessly recover. “Hello, Mr. Moretti. It's a pleasure to meet you,” you said, forcing a dazzling smile as you introduced yourself and extended a wet hand up toward the him.

He immediately took it, bowing his head slightly. “It is my absolute pleasure,” he said warmly. “You are the wife of the mighty Thor, after all!” He chuckled loudly, before turning his glowing gaze entirely back to Thor. “Big fan, man. Big fan.”

Moretti extended his hand toward him, and Thor took it, a wide, proud smile immediately breaking across his face because he was being praised. God, he absolutely loved being praised, didn't he?

Moretti started talking rapidly, listing off Thor’s various accomplishments while keeping a firm, enthusiastic grip on his hand. Rolling your eyes privately, you used the distraction to unwrap your legs from Thor's waist, pulling yourself off his torso and slipping back into the water.

The moment you detached yourself, Thor's hand snapped out, tightening firmly around your wrist. He immediately tore his attention away from Moretti, looking down at you. “Where are you going, sweetheart?”

The casual nickname made your entire stomach flutter dangerously.

“Gonna go dry off, honey,” you said, matching his energy as you pulled yourself up slightly to plant a swift, fake peck on his cheek. “Just a bit cold.”

“I will come with you,” Thor insisted immediately, his cheek burninh as his eyes tracking your movement.

“Ah, newlyweds,” Moretti chuckled fondly at the display, shaking his head. “Always so full of love, am I right?”

You gave him a dry, polite chuckle and quickly swam toward the pool steps to get out. As you and Thor stepped onto the stone deck, grabbing your towels, Moretti walked right alongside you, refusing to leave Thor’s side for even a single second. It was like he wanted Thor all to himself.

How can someone not want him, though? the thought involuntarily slipped into your mind.

You froze dead in your tracks, your towel clutched tightly in your hands as your own mind echoed back to you.

No. You did not want him. Certainly not. You didn't, you couldn't—

You closed your eyes, letting out a long, defeated sigh.

You fucking wanted him. And he could never know.

—

You were getting ready, painting a sharp, precise wing of black eyeliner over your eyelid as you desperately tried to keep yourself intact.

Moretti had invited the both of you to the exclusive resort party taking place tonight. Well, you were going to go either way for the sake of the mission, but he had explicitly invited you as his honorary guests.

After the you realizedthat you actually wanted Thor, you had started to see him in an entirely different light. You had felt physically nauseous by the fact that you wanted him, wanting nothing more than to run back to the villa to self-reflect and figure out exactly where your life had gone wrong. But he had not left you alone for a single second. The moment you had said you were going to the room, he had immediately gotten up and followed you back to the room. He had looked so genuinely caring while doing it, which only made an unwelcome swarm of butterflies erupt in your stomach. And the fact that he looked so so good—

Ugh, you were doing it again.

“Are you ready, Little Flame?” came Thor’s deep voice from behind the bathroom door.

You took one good look at yourself in the mirror, your gaze traveling down from your flawless makeup to the white midi dress that hugged your curves perfectly, down to your elegant heeled sandals. You looked hot. Absolutely lethal.

You swung the bathroom door open, only to be hit dead-on with the sight of him waiting in the foyer.

His lips parted, falling slightly agape as his eyes traveled over you, taking you in. His towering, formidable frame was clad in tailored cream linen trousers and a crisp white linen shirt, finished with beige loafers.

Your heart stopped dead in your chest. Was he actively trying to kill you? He was already breathtakingly handsome on a regular day, but the fact that he was dressing like that was doing completely unspeakable things to your sanity.

Thor felt the air brutally ripped from his lungs the exact second you emerged. His blue eyes aggressively roamed over your face, your sharp eyeliner, and the way the white dress accentuated your flawless form. Now, why the hell did you have to look like this and still have the absolute audacity to hate him?

His breathing became distinctly ragged, his eyes darkening to a stormy, dangerous hue as the possessive thought of other men witnessing your beauty tonight overtook his mind. But he forced his muscles to relax as he reminded himself that this hotel was strictly full of wealthy couples. It was fine. You were anchored to him. Right?

“Let’s go, big guy,” you said, averting your gaze in absolute panic as you brushed past his broad shoulder and made your way out of the villa.

Thor’s eyebrows shot up in utter bewilderment. He stood frozen for a second before turning to follow you out onto the stone path closing the door behind him, his voice clearly dripping with a deep, rumbling amusement. “Big guy?”

Your face burned a scorching, furious hot at your own slip of the tongue. You usually never called him anything other than petty names specifically engineered to irritate him, so what the fuck was that now?

“You... are massive. And a man?” you stammered out, desperately trying to make light of the situation as you walked ahead of him, your heels clicking sharply.

“Hm,” Thor just grunted behind you. You couldn't see his face, but you could hear the triumphant smile in his voice as the two of you made your way down toward dinner.

The revelation that you were actually attracted to him was making you go completely crazy, and you were already fucking it all up. Your brain was entirely short-circuiting over how mind-numbingly handsome he looked in that white linen shirt, and calling him big guy of all things was proof that you were losing your edge. All through dinner, you were on high alert, desperately trying to hide your lingering glimpses toward his muscular arms and his stupidly handsome face, praying he wouldn't notice the sudden shift in your behavior.

Dinner itself had been an exercise in damage control. Thor had absolutely loved the food, boisterously shouting “Another!” to the waitstaff every time he finished a plate, leaving you to look at the waiters with highly apologetic eyes. You had quickly smoothed it over, telling them with a charming laugh how incredibly enthusiastic your husband was about their exquisite cuisine. Far from being offended, the staff had been completely fascinated by Thor, even asking for his signature—though the poor guys couldn't take any pictures due to the resort's strict high-society privacy policy.

Once dinner was finally over, you made your way to the actual party.

The bass from the music blasted your ears off the second you walked through the entrance. Thor’s heavy hand was firmly circled around your waist, gluing you to his side as you looked around the crowded open-air venue. You bit your lip, doing everything in your power to mask your fastened heartbeat and the slight panic tracing your expression. To maintain the doting newlyweds facade, your own arm was stretched across Thor’s broad back.

And god, how magnificent that back was. Through the thin linen of his shirt, you could feel the solid, dangerous planes of his muscles right beneath your palm. It made you wonder, in a rogue, intrusive thought, if you could paint that flawless skin red with your nails, leaving little scratches down his—

oh my god, shut up, girl, you fiercely scolded yourself in your mind, your face flashing a blistering hot.

As you walked deeper into the VIP section toward Alejandro Moretti’s table, you spotted Valentin right next to him.

The exact millisecond Valentin came into view, you could feel every single muscle in Thor’s body tense up beneath your hand. Pure instinct took over, you gave the small of his back a soft, deliberate little squeeze, a silent warning to stay grounded.

The touch made Thor instantly look down at you, his blue eyes full of an intense, sweeping emotion you couldn't quite name. Your mind raced. Why the fuck were you trying to calm him down? And why the hell was he getting so intensely tense in the first place?

“Don’t make a scene,” you whispered fiercely up to him, looking at him through your lashes as you kept your voice strictly beneath the thumping bass.

“Do not make me make a scene,” he grumbled back, his deep voice heavily unpleased as his grip on your waist tightened.

Alejandro Moretti immediately got up from his leather booth the moment he saw you approach. “Ah! Here they are!” he announced loudly, his arms thrown wide open in a grand greeting.

Thor smiled brightly, his deep, booming laugh filling your ears as he stepped forward to enthusiastically embrace the billionaire, playing the part of the larger-than-life husband a little too well. You let out a bright, airy laugh right on cue, looking up at them as you seamlessly executed the role of the loving, supportive wife.

From across the table, Valentin was staring directly at you, a confident, knowing smirk pulling at his lips.

Alejandro turned proudly to his younger brother, gesturing toward the two of you. “My guests of honor, Valentin! This is Thor, and his lovely wife.”

Valentin’s dark eyebrows furrowed in immediate confusion. “Thor?”

“Yes! The God of Thunder!” Alejandro chuckled heartily, totally oblivious to the shift in the air as he gestured for everyone to sit down.

The arrogant smirk was instantly wiped entirely off Valentin’s face. He stood frozen, likely wondering how the hell he hadn't recognized the literal Avenger at the pool bar earlier.

“Ah,” Valentin cleared his throat, cautiously extending his hand across the table, even as Thor threw absolute, unyielding daggers at him with his icy gaze. “My pleasure.”

Thor’s lips pulled into a wide, bright smile as he reached out and took Valentin’s hand. But you knew that exact smile entirely too well—it was the predatory, sharp-edged smile he regularly threw at you whenever you managed to annoy him to death in public. It was the smile of a Thor who was profoundly angry, masking his rage with a lethally graceful diplomacy.

His godlike grip must have tightened a fraction too much around Valentin’s fingers, because the smug playboy’s face instantly grimaced in pain, his knuckles turning white under the force of the god’s hand.

You tapped lightly on Thor’s elbow, giving him a subtle, pointed signal to let go before he completely pulverized the man's hand. He finally released his grip, though his blue eyes continued to burn right through Valentin, his other arm instantly wrapping tight around your waist again to pull you back into his orbit.

You went to sit down in the plush leather booth, but Thor deliberately shuffled his massive frame, placing himself directly between you and Valentin to completely block the playboy's line of sight. You rolled your eyes privately. He was obviously being this intensely possessive because the entire resort had to believe you were blissfully married, but he was playing the part a little too well for your sanity.

Alejandro, ever the fanboy, was visibly disappointed by the seating arrangement—he was now sitting on your other side instead of right next to the God of Thunder—but he stopped himself from saying anything to avoid offending his royal guest.

So began the endless praises for Thor.

“I must say, King Thor, having you here at the Sanctuary is a historic honor!” Alejandro beamed, gesturing for a waiter to pour more whiskey. “The stories of your victories on Earth, the Battle of New York, the triumph over Malekith... truly spectacular! A god walking among mortals!”

Thor smiled brightly, his booming laugh easily cutting through the lounge music as his arm remained locked securely around your waist, his thumb lazily stroking your side through the fabric of your dress. “Ah, you are too kind, Alejandro! But a King must protect the realms. The battle against the Dark Elves was indeed a fierce one, requiring absolute precision and power.”

As he spoke the word precision, Thor casually leaned back, his icy gaze flicking past you to check if Valentin was looking at you. Finding Valentin’s eyes darting toward your bare shoulders, Thor’s grip on your waist tightened possessively, his jaw clenching as he seamlessly continued his story. “We had to secure ancient, dangerous technologies to ensure they never fell into the wrong hands. It takes a truly formidable force to handle such secrets.”

“Incredible,” Alejandro said, hanging on his every word. “And to manage such cosmic feats while keeping a beautiful wife by your side!”

“She is my greatest anchor,” Thor murmured, his deep voice dropping into a low tone as he turned his head to look down at you. His eyes searched your face with a burning, unreadable intensity that made your heart skip a violent beat. “No matter how chaotic the universe becomes, she is the only one who can truly command my attention.”

You gulped, your eyes helplessly searching his face, desperately trying to read the heavy gravity in his expression. But before you could decipher it, a question cut through the air—one you should have anticipated much sooner.

“So, how did you two meet?” Valentin asked, his voice smooth as he leaned forward. His dark eyes actively tried to find your frame past Thor's broad shoulders, but Thor was absolutely wiping you from his sight, shifting his weight to keep you entirely hidden.

Your blood ran cold. A sudden wave of panic rushed through you, and as you snapped your eyes to Thor, you saw the exact same flash of panic mirrored in his blue eyes. You had never rehearsed a backstory.

“I saw him—” you began hastily, just as Thor started, “We saw each other—”

Your voices mixed awkwardly over the thumping bass of the music. Alejandro looked between the two of you expectantly, his eyebrows raised.

You quickly forced a light, melodic laugh, covering the slip-up as you spoke over each other. Tilting your head up, you offered Thor a brilliant, adoring smile. “My husband should tell you about this one. He’s a real good storyteller, aren't you, darling?” You squeezed his shoulder, your fingers digging into his shirt.

Thor’s hold tightened around your waist, his thumb pressing firmly into your side. “I must let you take over this one, my dear. Your perspective is far more enchanting.”

“I insist,” you said, your voice dripping sweet as honey, though you locked eyes with him in a silent, lethal challenge. You knew pushing the spotlight onto him annoyed him to his absolute core.

“Very well,” he grumbled under his breath, leaning back into the booth. He cleared his throat, his posture shifting into something commanding. Valentin had slid over a bit to the side of the table, desperate to finally see you both, his sharp eyes intensely dissecting the two of you for any cracks in the facade.

“We met years ago, when she was first recruited to the team,” Thor began, his deep baritone rumbling through his chest. He paused, his blue eyes dropping down to look at you, the heavy lounge music suddenly fading into absolute background noise. “I saw her walk into the room. A beautiful woman. Truly, the most breathtaking creature I had ever laid my eyes upon.”

You looked up at him, fully expecting to see a detached, calculated look in his eyes—the face of a soldier executing a calculated lie. But your heart slammed against your ribs. You were shaken to your core at the raw, truthful look in his gaze. Your breath hitched, turning ragged in your chest.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and intimate, as if he had completely forgotten Alejandro and Valentin were even sitting across from them. “But she looked like she had dark, stormy clouds swarming all over her. She was so heavily guarded. So, my brain short-circuited, and I called her gloomy.”

Alejandro’s eyes widened, a grin breaking across his face. “No way!”

Your jaw clenched as the vivid memory made your blood boil all over again. Why the fuck was he telling them what actually happened?

“I know, I shouldn't have,” Thor murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. His gaze was burning into you, scorching you with a look that made your skin prickle. “But seeing her face... my mind simply stopped working. That was the only thing I could utter. And do you know what she did?” He looked over at Alejandro, a genuine, fond smile pulling at his lips. “She didn't cower. She didn't stay silent. She yelled at me. She marched right up to my face and screamed about what a massive, insufferable asshole I was.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in deep, defensive confusion. Wht was he chuckling about that? He had hated you for it.

“She was the first woman to ever yell at me like that, without a single shred of fear, without holding back an ounce of her fire,” Thor said, his voice a raspy register, thick with a devotion that felt terrifyingly real. He reached down, his large hand gently cupping the side of your face, his thumb softly tracing your cheekbone. The tender touch sent a violent jolt of electricity straight down your spine. “That’s when I realized... right there, in the middle of her fury. That’s when I realized she was the love of my life.”

You gulped, your hands clenching into tight fists against your lap. The air was brutally ripped from your lungs. You literally couldn't breathe under the sheer weight of his stare. He was looking down at you as if you were the most precious, sacred thing he had ever been allowed to hold.

“Then, I chased her for years,” Thor continued smoothly, finally tearing his gaze away from your frozen face to smile at Alejandro. “Trying to get her to agree to a single date. I brought flowers to her quarters every single day, trying to melt the ice. She finally caved in after a while... and here we are.”

Thor cleared his throat letting go of your face and adjusting his shirt as Alejandro let out a captivated sigh.

Your gaze remained completely stuck on the line of Thor's neck, your mind spinning in absolute confusion. He had sounded so entirely sincere when he described your beauty. The way he explained falling in love with your fire, it sounded like poetry.

He isn't in love with you, a harsh, grounding voice violently intervened in your mind. He is lying through his teeth to save the mission. He made it all up. You desperately tried to pull yourself together, reciting the mantra over and over: He hates you. He has hated you for years.

But as you sat there, enveloped in the heat of his massive body, a sharp ache bloomed deep in your chest at the reminder of his hatred.

Why did your chest ache at his hatred towards you? And why did it hurt so bad?

“That is just beautiful,” Alejandro breathed, raising his glass in a toast. “A match made in the heavens, truly.”

You swallowed the thick lump in your throat, forcefully shaking the daze out of your head. Forcing your muscles to relax, you put on a flawless, dazzling smile for show, leaning deeper into your fake husband's side while your heart shattered quietly into a million pieces.

The subject changed then, Alejandro and Thor talking about other things while Thor gave you occasional little pecks on your cheek, his lips lingering just enough to keep your heart beating frantically in your mouth.

“Why haven't you two kissed?” Valentin asked suddenly, his voice sharply cutting through the conversation of the two men. His dark eyes roamed all over your face, calculating and deeply skeptical.

What?

Thor turned toward him immediately, his posture shifting into something lethal. “What do you mean, mortal? I’ve been doing nothing but kiss her since we sat down.” His blue eyes narrowed into dangerous slits at Valentin.

“You keep kissing her on her cheeks. Why not on the lips?” Valentin pushed, his gaze sharp and dissecting.

Thor’s gaze darkened to absolute midnight. “It is not your place to ask such questions.”

The playboy had been watching you far too closely; you should’ve seen this one coming. Valentin leaned back, a smug, accusatory grin slowly returning to his face. “You’re acting like you’re pretending—”

Your heart stopped dead in your chest.

“Do not speak one more word, mortal,” Thor spoke, his deep voice dropping an octave as he raised a single, threatening finger.

Alejandro’s expression changed instantly. He looked at his brother with sudden seriousness, his tone sharp. “Leave our guests alone, Val.” But then, Alejandro’s eyes dropped down to the floor for a split second, as if he were mentally calculating something. He turned back toward you, his brow furrowing. “But... he is right. Why haven't you kissed her?”

Your heart started beating faster and faster, a wave of ice-cold panic rushing to your fingertips. Your cover was about to be completely blown right here in the VIP section. Thor’s gaze darkened even further, clearly unpleased and deeply tense at being questioned. This was not good. You had to do something, and you had to do it right now.

“She is my wife—” Thor started angrily, but you smoothly interfered.

With an effortless, confident laugh, you dismissed the two brothers with a casual wave of your hand, acting as if they were nothing more than little, annoying flies. Your left hand found Thor’s massive bicep as you elegantly crossed your legs, slanting them directly over his thick thighs.

Responding to the sudden contact, Thor's arm instinctively wrapped around your back, his eyes snapping down to look at you immediately. What were you doing?

“My husband and I are very passionate,” you said, your voice dripping with a sultry, unbothered confidence as your hand trailed seductively over the broad expanse of his chest. “We try to keep the PDA to a minimum so we don't make people uncomfortable. Should we show them, honey?”

You looked completely unshakable, but inside, your heart was threatening to leap straight out of your chest. The skin of your legs burned where your thighs were glued to his.

Thor’s chest heaved tightly beneath your fingers as you looked up at him through your lashes. His heart missed a beat at the breathtaking sight of you in his lap. Fuck. You both knew exactly what had to be done right now, or the entire mission was over.

Thor’s large hand found the back of your neck, his fingers tightening securely. “Music to my fucking ears, darling,” he growled.

And then, he claimed your lips in an instant. The force of the impact took the remaining breath right out of your lungs. Your left hand instinctively grabbed the back of his neck, your fingers anchoring into his skin, while your other hand remained flat against his heaving chest. Your mouths moved in tandem, a low, helpless sigh of contentment pouring from your throat straight into the kiss. Your head tilted to the side, completely surrendering to the heat.

His right hand on your back slid downward to your waist, grabbing you with an iron, desperate tightness, as if he never intended to let you go for the rest of his immortal life. His other hand moved from the back of your neck up to your head, his thick fingers tangling aggressively through your hair, tilting your face up by giving a firm, sudden tug on your hair. You gasped into his mouth, your teeth sharply biting his lower lip in response. Thor let out a low grunt, his kisses instantly becoming more fervent, deeper, and completely unhinged. You were drowning in him.

Next to you, Alejandro and Valentin looked at each other, their faces flushing as they clearly regretted ever opening their mouths. They were visibly uncomfortable—good. They deserved to be, so they would never question a single thing about the two of you again.

He was entirely consuming you, and gods, was he liking it. He felt the soft circle of your thumb over the nape of his neck, sending a violent wave of chills straight down his spine. You tasted sweet—sweeter than any other lips he had ever tasted in his thousand years of life. Thor licked at the seam of your lips once, a non-verbal command motioning for you to open up for him. You tried to fight it for a split second, a last shred of self-preservation, but he forcefully made you part them by giving your lower lip another sharp bite and executing a firm tug on your hair.

You gasped, your chest heaving against his as he glided his tongue over yours. He was so good at this. So fucking good that you completely forgot where you were, forgot the mission, forgot anyone else existed besides him. He tugged tightly on your waist, trying to pull your body even closer into his mass, but you were already entirely glued to him, his radiating heat burning straight through your side.

Alejandro loudly cleared his throat, but you both kept on going like there was no tomorrow, still kissing him with a desperate, hidden hunger, as if you knew you would never get the chance to hold him like this ever again.

“Okay. We get it,” Valentin muttered, his voice clearly irritated and completely full of deep regret.

Thor let out a heavy grunt, finally parting his lips from yours. A thin, glistening string of saliva formed between your lips before breaking in the dim light. You looked up at him, your eyes completely dazed over, your hair beautifully messed up from his heavy hand, and your lips visibly swollen and red. He stared down at you, his own lips flushed and his pupils blown incredibly wide as his chest rose and fell in ragged breaths.

Taking a shallow breath, you slowly turned your head toward the other two men, a wicked, victorious smile pulling at your lips. “See?” you said.

You tried not to give away how much his kiss had affected you, but you knew you were a fucking mess. Your heart was threatening to leap out of your chest, your lungs heaving fast as you gulped, desperately trying to calm yourself down. How the hell did he affect you this much?

And he was still holding you, his arm wrapped incredibly tight around your waist as he kept looking down at you. His own broad chest was heaving hard as he fought a losing battle to get himself back under control.

It was just a damn kiss for the mission. He shouldn't be this completely unhinged by it. But he felt his pulse fasten more and more the longer he sat there. You had kissed him. You—the bane of his very existence, the woman who had spent years yelling at him and riling him up—had kissed him, and he had liked it. He had liked it so much that a dark, primitive part of his mind wanted nothing more than to drag you right back to his lips, to kiss you heavily until you were breathless, and to roam his hands all over your bare skin, thats all—nothing big really.

He fucking wanted you, and it was nothing big—who was he kidding? It was probably the biggest newsflash in his entire thousand-year lifetime. He wanted you so much that he felt it shaking the very foundations of his immortal soul.

I want her, his mind echoed fiercely. I want her, I want to consume her, I want to be completely consumed by her.

Thor averted his eyes toward the table, his jaw locking. Fuck. How the hell did this happen?

“Yes, we get it, damn,” Alejandro said, breaking the heavy silence with a loud laugh, holding his hands up in surrender.

Valentin, however, was a completely different story. His dark, calculating gaze was still locked dead on your face, intensely trying to decipher the lingering daze in your eyes, trying to see if there was still a crack in the armor—if he could keep on pursuing you.

You noticed his stare immediately, your eyes locking onto his. A sharp jolt of reality hit you. You were sitting in Thor's lap, your thighs crossed over his, kissed by him so thoroughly that your mind had gone entirely blank. You had completely forgotten about your objective.

The codes. You needed the damn digital decryption keys.

You had told Thor earlier that you would handle Valentin tomorrow, but after the possessive display he had just put on, he would clearly find a way to interfere if you tried to flirt with the man tomorrow. It had to be tonight. It had to happen right now under the cover of this party.

Your mind rapidly formulated a plan: you had to first find a way to get away from Thor, corner Valentin alone at the bar, seduce him, and slip a few drops of truth serum into his whiskey glass to extract the server access codes.

It was a perfect, textbook assassin execution. But as you sat there, feeling the heavy, protective weight of Thor's hand on your hip, you realized something. You didn't want to leave the comfort of Thor's embrace.

Oh, how thoroughly, hopelessly fucked you were.

You had to get it together. Bracing yourself, you tried lifting your legs off Thor’s lap, but the exact second you shifted, his iron hold on your waist tightened. His eyebrows furrowed into a hard line, and his questioning, blazing blue gaze snapped up to lock onto yours. He didn’t say a word, but the look in his eyes was loudly demanding to know exactly where the hell you thought you were going.

Why was he acting like this? Why was he looking at you as if that kiss had completely unhinged him just as much as it had affected you?

You helplessly looked into his eyes, your gaze involuntarily dropping down to his swollen lips before snapping back up to his stare. “I’m just going to the bar,” you murmured.

“I’ll come with you,” he said immediately. His deep voice carried a rough, unyielding edge, his instincts focusing entirely on one single objective: keep that vile mortal fucker as far away from you as humanly possible.

“No!—” you scrambled out, a little too desperately, before quickly forcing a soft, reassuring smile to maintain the act. “I’ll be back in a second, honey. It’s okay.”

This felt devastatingly real. He looked genuinely jealous, his possessive aura radiating off him in suffocating waves.

“She can go alone, my friend. I own this entire establishment; nothing could possibly happen to her here,” Alejandro intervened with a booming laugh, reassuring the tense god.

Taking the opening, you carefully slipped out of Thor’s tight grip and stood up. The sudden lack of his heavy hands and burning heat against your skin left you feeling instantly cold, a sudden pang of withdrawal hitting you in the chest. You stubbornly ignored it. Catching Valentin’s eye across the table, you held his gaze for a few seconds longer than any happily married woman ever should, throwing him a subtle, inviting tilt of your head before turning on your heel and making your way toward the crowded bar—finally out of Thor’s direct line of sight.

You knew Valentin would make up a pathetic excuse to follow you within minutes. Arriving at the bar, you caught the bartender’s attention. “A virgin mojito, please,” you ordered smoothly. You were a professional; you were absolutely not going to consume a single drop of alcohol while on an active extraction mission.

You waited for a few minutes, slowly sipping on your refreshing mocktail while keeping your perimeter scan active. Right on cue, a smooth, arrogant voice slithered in next to your ear.

“I take it you didn’t look at me like that back there just to have a drink all by yourself?”

Valentin slid onto the barstool right next to you, his eyes brimming with a smug, predatory confidence.

A slow, practiced smirk pulled at your lips as you gracefully turned your upper body toward him, leaning one elbow against the counter. “I don’t think I get what you mean, Valentin.”

“Don’t play innocent. It’s not a good look on you,” he murmured, his eyes boldly dropping down to the neckline of your dress before rising back to your face. “Though, I must admit... I really like this whole going-around-his-back thing. A dangerous woman gets me thrilled.”

“Hm,” you mumbled, your smile becoming as beautiful and lethal as a viper's. You leaned in a fraction closer into his personal space, letting your voice drop into a sultry, confidential whisper. “Are you just going to stand there talking, or are you gonna have a drink with me?”

Valentin’s smirk widened, completely intoxicated by the sudden green light. “I could never say no to a woman like you.” He immediately raised a hand to the bartender. “Get me a double Macallan, neat.”

As the bartender turned around to pour the amber liquor, you covertly slid your right hand into the small, hidden pocket built into the lining of your white midi dress. Your fingertips brushed against the tiny, cold glass vial containing S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued truth serum—colorless, odorless, and fast-acting.

The bartender placed the heavy crystal whiskey glass right in front of Valentin.

“You know,” you purred, deliberately reaching across Valentin's chest to grab a small bowl of nuts from the opposite side of his stool. The intentional movement forced your bare shoulder to brush heavily against his chest, completely breaking his concentration as his eyes locked onto your neck.

With a fluid, invisible grace, your thumb flicked the cap off the vial. As your arm crossed over his open whiskey glass, you seamlessly dropped three drops of the serum directly into the amber liquid.

You pulled back, placing the bowl between you with an innocent, dazzling smile. “A toast. To private tastings.”

“To private tastings,” Valentin echoed darkly, completely oblivious. He picked up the crystal glass and took a massive, confident gulp of the whiskey, swallowing the serum down in one smooth motion.

You counted the seconds in your head. Three. Two. One.

Almost instantly, Valentin’s posture relaxed a fraction too much. The sharp, predatory spark in his eyes suddenly dulled into a slight, hazy glaze, his blinking slowing down as the neural inhibitors rapidly flooded his system, forcing his vocal cords to lose all capacity for deception.

Your smirk turned razor-sharp. It was time to get to work.

“Valentin,” you whispered, leaning in so close your breath brushed his ear, masking your interrogation beneath the thumping bass of the party. “Let’s talk about your brother’s collection. Where are the digital decryption keys for the Dark Elf technology stored?”

Valentin’s jaw loosened, his voice coming out completely flat, devoid of its previous arrogant inflection. “The main encryption drive stays locked in the master server vault... sub-level two of the main villa compound. Hold on why are you asking me th—”

“And how do I bypass the biometric firewall?” you cut him off before he could think.

“The security bypass code changes every twelve hours,” Valentin droned automatically, his hand resting limply against the counter.

“Mhm, and what is it lets say... tomorrow night?” you pushed seamlessly, your eyes locked onto his dazed face.

“Tomorrow night's terminal override sequence for the vault is... Alpha-Niner-Seven-X-Ray-Delta.”

Bingo.

Your brain instantly memorized the alphanumeric sequence, a cold, triumphant rush of adrenaline flooding your veins. You had the codes for tomorrow. The entire mission could be wrapped up in less than three days, just like you wanted. You could finally leave this godforsaken resort, get away from this cover, and most importantly—get away from the dangerous, addictive pull of the God of Thunder.

Valentin pouted as he looked at you, his eyes glassy and confused under the weight of the serum. "But why are you asking me all th—"

“I have to go, dear,” you cut him off quickly, placing a hand on his bicep and giving it a soothing squeeze to keep him compliant.

But his hand snapped up, gripping your arm to keep you from pulling away. “No, you can't leave. I had plans for us tonight...”

“No plans for us today,” you cooed, lowering your voice to a soft, hypnotic purr as you playfully booped his nose. He pouted even more at the gesture. You mentally rolled your eyes, already looking back toward the crowded VIP booth to check on Thor.

“But I wanted to fuck you—“

You whipped your head back toward Valentin so fast you thought you were going to get whiplash. But before you could even react to his crude words, he was brutally cut off.

A massive hand descended from the shadows like a falling meteor, wrapping entirely around the back of Valentin’s head and fiercely slamming his face straight down onto the marble counter.

Crack.

You gasped, your eyes blowing wide. Nearby guests screamed and immediately scrambled away, completely shocked by the sudden, violent ordeal. Valentin let out a pathetic, muffled groan as a dark stream of red instantly started dripping down his nostrils, pooling on the counter.

Thor held him pinned there, his massive hand basically covering most of Valentin's skull. You were so damn sure that if he applied just a fraction more pressure, he would crush the man's head like a ripe grape.

“You do not talk to my wife like that,” Thor growled, his voice a vibrating rumble that shook the very foundation of the bar.

“Thor, stop it!” you panicked, your hands desperately finding his rigid bicep, trying to pull his arm back.

Muffled against the stone, Valentin let out a wet, dizzy chuckle, the serum making him completely reckless. “Well, god-man... your wife lured me here—“

Slam.

Thor violently cracked his head against the counter a second time.

“I told you not to make a scene, didn't I?!”you yelled at the top of your lungs over the blasting music, frantically pulling at his arm to stop him from committing murder.

Thor slowly turned his head to look down at you. His blue eyes were completely blown with an unhinged, primitive rage. “I told you not to make me make one, did I not?!” he yelled back, his booming voice completely overriding the bass of the blasting lounge music.

You involuntarily flinched at the volume and raw power of his voice. You let out a sharp, furious huff, tore your hands off his arm, and turned around to bolt.

“Where do you think you're going?!” he demanded loudly.

He finally let go of Valentin, leaving theman to groan and slump heavily against the bar as you made your way out of the party. Every single eye of the high-society couples was locked onto you, whispering in terror as you stormed past.

“Stop!” Thor yelled after you, his heavy footsteps echoing right behind you, but your steps only fastened into a dead sprint.

You practically flew down the dark, stone paths of the resort, making your way back to the secluded villa. There wasn't a single soul around out here.

“I told you to stop!” he yelled again, his massive strides easily closing the distance as he caught up to you just as you reached the front door.

“And I told you to behave!” you screamed back, throwing the door open and slamming it behind you, desperately trying to force the heavy wood to lock on his face.

But you failed miserably.

“And I told you to stay away from him!” Thor yelled, forcing the door open without a single shred of effort—it was probably like flicking away a fly for him—before he aggressively slammed it shut behind him, sealing the two of you inside the tense silence of the villa.

“Why do you care?!” you yelled, throwing your arms up in the air as you spun around to face him, your face burning hot from rage.

“Why did you defy what I told you?” he pushed, stepping heavily into your personal space, his towering chest heaving.

“Because you are my mission partner, not my superior!”you shrieked, the built-up frustration of the last few hours completely boiling over. “God! You and your insufferable superiority complex!” You yelled again, aggressively turning your back to him to get away from his presence, making a beeline toward the open balcony doors.

“Do not walk away from me!” Thor roared.

In two quick strides, he crossed the room. His hand locked firmly around your wrist, his grip unyielding but careful not to break you, as he yanked you back and turned you around to face him dead-on.

You opened your mouth to say something, but all words completely left you as you noticed how your noses were inches away, your breathing fastening to a panicked, ragged rhythm as you looked up at him. His chest was heaving just like yours, the sheer mass of him completely crowding you into the balcony's door. You just gulped, your eyes helplessly finding his lips again before you forced your gaze up to meet his intense stare.

“Why are you acting like you actually care?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly, your eyes filled with deep questioning. His eyes, which were locked onto your lips, finally flicked up to look directly into your eyes. He gulped, a muscle tightening in his jaw as he flatly lied, “I don’t.” He averted his eyes immediately after.

He cared. He fucking cared so much, but he could not let you know.

You scoffed loudly at his terrible deflection. “What’s all this then? You’ve been acting so strange since we got here—” His eyes snapped right back to yours, flashing with a sudden heat. “Oh, like you haven’t!” he said, his iron grip on your wrist tightening just a bit.

“What?” you gaped, your mouth forming a perfect 'O' shape at his audacity. “The nerve of you! I have been acting completely normal!” You aggressively tried to push against his heavy chest to create some distance, but it was like trying to shove a solid brick wall; it was not working.

“Have you, though?” he challenged. His head tilted slightly to the side as he looked down at you, his towering frame completely casting you in shadow. “You’ve been trying to avoid me ever since we arrived. Mind you, we are supposed to be husband and wife here, and instead of me, you kept throwing yourself into the arms of that bastard—”

“Excuse me for acting exactly like I should while we are on a high-stakes mission—”

“Is this how you act while you are on a mission?” he fiercely cut you off. He took a heavy, deliberate step forward, crowding you so completely that you were forced to push your back straight into the balcony door, the glass cool against your skin. His expression morphed into one of deep distaste—like the mere thought of you acting exactly like this on other operations disturbed him to his very bone.

“Not at all, Thor,” you muttered, finally averting your eyes as a wave of genuine discomfort washed over your face. “But I occasionally do have to seduce men here and there. It’s not a big deal—”

His thick eyebrows furrowed deeply. Before you could turn your face away completely, his large hand came up, his fingers gently but firmly catching your chin to force you to look at him. “Not a big deal? Is someone making you seduce them? There are other ways to extract information—” he started, his deep tone initially angry but quickly softening with a rare, unexpected touch of sympathy.

You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat. “Thor, I have been trained this way. And your ways are always too loud—”

“Who the fuck trained you like this?” he growled, the symapthy instantly vanishing into a dark, protective fury. “How many times have you done this, huh?”

Your own eyebrows furrowed in a defensive shield. His entire ftame was looming over you, completely clouding your thoughts and making it hard to think straight. You reached up, removing his hand from your face. “That is absolutely none of your business—”

His entire posture changed as the anger morphed into a heavy gravity. His eyes dropped to your arms first then followed to your midriff before snapping back to your face. “Who gave you those scars?”

“What?” Your eyes widened in pure horror, the air instantly taken right out of your lungs. This cannot be happening, your voice echoed inside your mind. He could not know. You could not let him see that vulnerable, broken piece of your past. “Thor, this is ridiculous. Let me go—”

You tried pushing him away again, your chest heaving in absolute desperation to break free from his hold. But he only used his mass to pin you into the door even more, his gaze intensely determined as his hand found your jaw once again, holding you still.

He was going to find out who those fuckers were, and he was going to make them pay. He didn't fully understand why he had this overwhelming, primitive urge to protect you, but he did, and he was going to deliver on it.

“Please, Little Flame,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a desperate plea. “Are they the same people who trained you?—”

“Why do you even want to know?!” you cried out, your voice finally cracking with deep pain. Tears instantly began brewing in your eyes, blurring his handsome face. He couldn't know. If he found out, he was going to use that knowledge against you. He was going to taunt you with it during your next argument, break you with your own nightmare of a history. He was going to make sure he hurt you, just like he did every single time he managed to get a glimpse of something personal about you. He was going to break your heart completely in half and toss it away.

He was going to, because he was the only person in the universe who actually had the power to do it.

“So you can torture me more?” you whispered, your voice shaking as a single tear escaped down your cheek.

Thor’s breath got caught in his throat. A sudden, physical pain pierced his chest, wrapping around his heart so tightly that he let out a sharp huff of air. It was a pain so great, so profoundly agonizing, that it started burning through his lungs before radiating all the way out to his fingertips.

Is this truly what you thought of him?

He knew he taunted you. He knew he did everything in his being to annoy you on a daily basis. He knew he wasn't your friend, and that you both claimed to dislike each other. But he had never, in his wildest dreams, thought you could actually think him capable of causing you real, deep-rooted pain.

A fierce, protective fire burned brightly behind his blue eyes as he leaned down, his lips practically brushing your temple as he spoke.

“So that I can torture them first as they did you,” he vowed, his voice low, terrifyingly dark promise that vibrated against your skin. “And then permanently remove them from existence.”

Your angelic face twisted into a look of deep, utter confusion. What the hell was he talking about? Why on Earth would he want to do something like that for you?

Thor’s hand softened on your jaw, his thumb gently wiping away the tear on your cheek with a heartbreaking amount of tenderness. He looked down at you, his pupils blown wide with an unyielding devotion. “No... I have a better idea. I am going to tear down whatever sanctuary they think they have, drag them to the deepest pits of Hel myself, and hand-deliver a punishment that will last for eternity. No one touches you, Little Flame. Never again.”

Your heart stuttered at his words, newfound tears completely blocking your vision now at being on the receiving end of them. He sounded so profoundly sincere, so entirely full of devotion that it made your stomach flutter wildly and your heart sing with a bittersweet ecstasy.

Why was he being this protective over you? Was it just because of your mission? Has he started to actually believe the lie, to believe you were truly his wife? And why did you believe every single word he said without an ounce of your usual skepticism?

How was he making your heart soar like this? Why did he have so much power over you, over your poor, guarded heart? Why did he have to be this perfect?

Why did you love him so much?

You gasped aloud as the intrusive thought took the remaining breath away from your lungs. You loved him. You were completely, undeniably in love with him. You were in love with the man who mocked you, annoyed you, tortured you with his words. You were in love with the man you claimed to dislike for all these years.

And that realization only made you cry harder, the tears spilling over your lashes because you were entirely convinced he was never going to love you back.

“I—” you started, trying to find your voice, but a heavy, broken sob ripped through your chest instead.

Thor's face immediately fell into an expression of deep, agonizing concern. His blue eyes searched your face frantically as he wrapped his massive arms around you, pulling you securely against his broad chest.

“Please do not cry, honey,” he murmured, his deep baritone cracking in pain.

He called you honey. He called you honey in private, in the quiet safety of your shared room, while holding you as if you were made of glass. It was so sweet, so tender, so full of an unprompted meaning. What on earth had happened to the two of you? Just hours ago, you were bitterly bickering about your morning coffee, but now you were collapsed in his arms, crying simply because he wanted to protect you.

Nobody did that for you. Nobody had ever said they would protect you, because they always expected you to handle it yourself. They knew what you were capable of; they knew you were lethal.

Nobody ever thought you would need someone else to do your bidding for you.

His large hand moved to the back of your head, his thick fingers gently stroking through your hair as he spoke, his voice dropping into a raspy whisper. “Darling, are you crying because of me?” He swallowed hard, his voice cracking again. “Do you truly think I mean to harm you? Do you think so little of me?”

You sobbed, your fingers clutching desperately onto the fabric of his shirt, burying your face into his chest.

“I’m begging you, do not cry,” he gulped, his own chest heaving as he held you tighter. “It... it hurts me.”

“I had been nothing but a laboratory experiment to them,” you finally choked out, the confession tearing out of your throat.

Thor froze instantly, his entire muscular body stiffening beneath your touch.

Slowly, you tilted your head up, your chin resting against his chest. Your lashes were damp with heavy tears that still kept falling silently down your cheeks. Thor’s hand gently cupped your face, his thumb catching the moisture, his eyes entirely locked onto yours as he listened with a quiet focus.

“They didn’t see a young woman,” you whispered, your throat tightening painfully as your grip on his shirt tightened. “They only saw a lab rat. A nameless object to be broken, tested, and rebuilt. I remember the cold steel of the table. I remember begging and begging... crying until my eyes bled, but they just kept on going.”

Thor’s blue eyes darkened into a midnight so black it looked like a brewing storm. A terrifying rage formed deep within him—a rage so massive and destructive that he felt he could destroy all of humanity just to see the lingering pain disappear from your eyes.

“Who are they?” He demanded, and your eyes closed in despair.

Should you tell him? Should you let him be a part of the darkest corners of your past?

Should you trust him?

“Darling, please tell me,” he begged, his voice trembling with a restrained fury as he looked down at you. “Who did this to you?”

Your throat tightened, your pulse fluttering at his gentle words and protective tone. You sighed opening your eyes, “They were a faction I later discovered to be the vile, lingering remnants of Hydra.”

Thor saw pure red. His throat tightened to the point of suffocation at the horrific image of you at the mercy of those monsters—being tortured, crying, entirely helpless.

“I need names,” he growled softly, the air in the room turning heavy with static.

“I don’t have names—”

“I will find names.”

“I don't know if you can, Thor, it was years—”

“I will,” he cut you off, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. He brought his other hand to your cheek, tilting your face up just a fraction. “Keep going, honey.” His voice was incredibly gentle for you, even as the undercurrent of his rage thrummed through his veins. He could barely bear to listen to the atrocities you had survived, but he had to. You were finally opening up to him, and he would listen to you until the end of time.

You gulped, trying to steady your breathing. “At the time, they were desperate, trying to replicate the lost Super Soldier serum using volatile cosmic energy signatures they barely understood.” You let out another shaky sob, and Thor immediately rubbed your back in slow, soothing circles, offering you every ounce of comfort his massive frame could provide. “More needles inserted into my skin... more radiation pumped into my veins, all for the sake of a twisted immortality.”

You held him tighter, closing your eyes against the memories. “And once they realized what they had created, they turned me into a ghost. An assassin. They forced me—forced me to do horrific, bloody things, Thor. I hurt so many people.” You opened your eyes, looking up at him with an unbearable vulnerability. “I did horrible, horrible things.”

The tears came faster now, the weight of your past crushing you as you sobbed uncontrollably against him. “I never wanted to do any of those things... they made me, I swear they made me, and they hurt me to make me do it—”

“Shh, sweetheart,” Thor interrupted softly, his voice thick with emotion as he clutched you even tighter against his heart, burying his face into your hair, his nose nudging your scalp as he did so. “None of this is your fault. Look at me.” He pulled back just enough to cup your face with both of his massive hands, gently forcing you to look up into his striking blue eyes. “None of it is your fault.”

“I am the one who did all of it—” Your voice cut off as another wave of tears streamed down your cheeks. It was like a dam had permanently broken in your chest, and there was absolutely no stopping it now. You were crying for the stolen years, crying for the innocent lives your hands had been forced to take, crying because you felt completely stripped bare and vulnerable—but most of all, you were crying because you loved him.

“I told you it is not your fault, sweetheart,” he said, his tone turning fiercely stern, leaving no room for you to argue with him. “You were kidnapped. Tortured.” He gulped like it was a great pain to say these words, “Your whole life was altered by monsters. You were made to do all of it.” His own voice grew heavy with sadness as he looked at your tears. “You did nothing wrong. You were just trying to survive, honey.”

“I’m so glad Steve and Tony saved me,” you whispered, your throat burning. “I... I don’t know what I’d do if it wasn't for them.”

At the mention of their names, Thor felt his chest tighten with a sharp, unexpected pang. Who else on the team knew the full extent of this? Steve and Tony, definitely. Natasha? You two were close; you would have told her. Bucky? Bruce? Clint? Was he truly the only person who had been left completely in the dark?

And to think he had called you gloomy.

A heavy cloak of regret settled over his shoulders. It was all true—everything he had confessed to Alejandro and Valentin at the table. He had thought you were the most breathtakingly beautiful woman he had ever seen the moment you walked into the compound years ago. But he had fucked it all up by opening his mouth and saying you looked gloomy. Would the two of you be any different right now if he hadn't used that stupid word?

“I am sorry,” he mumbled, the unexpected words catching your attention through the haze of your crying. He looked down at you, his eyes pained. “So fucking sorry I called you gloomy. Truly sorry. Can you—” He gulped hard, his chest heaving. “Can you forgive me?”

“I...” You trailed off, staring up at him in utter disbelief. Where the hell was this coming from? The walls around your heart instantly tried to slam back up. “Do you pity me now? Is that it?” you asked, your tone shifting into something sharp and defensive.

Thor’s eyes widened in immediate panic. “No—not pity. Towards you at least, never. I pity myself.”

“What does that even mean—”

“I meant every single word I said back there at the table,” he said softly, his thumbs tenderly grazing your cheeks to wipe away the fresh tears.

Your heart gave a violent flutter against your ribs, but it felt entirely too good to be true. You couldn't let yourself fall for a beautiful lie. “Do not mock me, Thor—”

“I would never.”

Your eyebrows went straight up, your expression clearly stating the obvious. He loved mocking you. He made it his absolute daily mission to get under your skin and irritate you to death.

Thor scrunched his face up at your look, a soft, self-deprecating sigh escaping his lips. “On this matter, I mean. I would never, ever mock you on a matter such as this, Little Flame.”

You scoffed, quickly averting your eyes from the intensity of his gaze. “Now you're just being cruel, big guy—“you tried to pry yourself off him, but one of his hands holding your face descended to your waist and circled it tightly.

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met in my thousands of years alive.”

Your eyes widened with shock as they snapped back to meet his. Your heart dropped straight to your stomach with a violent jolt of excitement—of pure happiness.

“I am?” you whispered, the words coming out small and fragile, like a secret you were almost too afraid to speak aloud. It felt entirely unbelievable.

“You are,” he said, nodding firmly as he looked down at you.

There was something profoundly pure swirling in his deep blue eyes. It was a look you dared not name, because if you did, the only thing you could possibly call it would be adoration. He looked at you as if he completely and utterly adored you.

As you stared up at him, it hit you: that look was familiar.

He had always looked at you this way. Back at the compound, during your worst arguments, across the briefing table—his pupils would blow wide, a hidden mirth would dance behind his eyes, mixed with this exact same heavy, unyielding intensity. All these years, you had defensively rewritten that look as dislike, as a god looking down on an annoying mortal. Has he always looked at you with adoration in his eyes? Or were you just desperately lying to yourself now because your own walls were crumbling?

Either way, your breath was completely knocked out of you. Panic, cold and sharp, flooded your veins. You had to get away from him. You had to protect your heart, your soul, whatever was left of your sanity. You had already bared your darkest, most painful secret to him—the one thing you had specifically kept hidden from him out of fear—and you were terrified of what else you might reveal the longer you spent wrapped up in his arms.

“I—“You panicked even more as his gaze softened with that heartbreakingly tender look. You planted your palms against his chest and pushed. “I think it would be better if you let go of me now.” Thor’s expression changed, the vulnerability vanished, his eyes darkening to a stormy, dangerous hue. He had just laid his soul bare, admitting he found you more beautiful than anything in the cosmos, and now you were demanding he let you go?

“No,” he rumbled, his grip on your waist tightening rather than loosening. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I want you to—I need you to—“

“Why would you need me to do that?” he demanded, his voice dropping dangerously. “Are you that disgusted by me?”

Before you could even process the question, his expression shifted again. The anger twisted into something entirely unhinged as the green-eyed monster clawed ruthlessly at his insides, blinding him with an irrational fury.

“So you will gladly get close to that bastard at the bar, let his filthy hands touch your skin, but you cannot bear to have me hold you?”

Your mouth parted as you looked at him with pure, unyielding disbelief. “What on earth are you on about? Why do you keep talking about him like I'm actually into him—“

“Are you?” he fiercely cut you off.

He leaned down further, his eyes agressively scanning every inch of your face, his hot breath fanning across your lips. It made your breath hitch painfully in your throat. His completely irrational, wild behavior was forcing you to consider a reality you shouldn't. Something you would have never dared to think of just moments ago. Was he jealous?

Was he actually fucking jealous?

A dangerous spark of defiance flared up inside your chest. “What if I am?” you pushed, tilting your chin up to challenge him. “You cannot be,” he said, a flash of pure, territorial anger burning hot behind his eyes. “I will not let you. You are—you—“ He stammered, his usual booming eloquence completely deserting him as his gaze furiously swept over your face, desperately trying to decipher if you actually harbored any feelings for that fucker.

You smiled daringly up at him. You knew you probably looked absolutely wicked right now, with your smudged mascara, your flushed cheeks, and that fierce, determined look in your eyes.

“Are you jealous, big guy?” you whispered.

Your hands, which had been resting on his chest, began trailing upwards to his neck seductively. You didn't even have control over your own body anymore; it was like some primal instinct had taken over and you had to do this. You had to break him. You had to get him to confess. You felt entirely insane—just seconds ago, you were panicking and trying to push him away, and now you were mindlessly feeling him up, loving the power you had over him. Fuck.

Thor felt his heartbeat fasten against his ribs. His arm around your waist constricted, pulling you so close that there wasn't a single shred of air left between your bodies, his jaw locking hard in place. He knew exactly what you were doing. You were playing with fire on purpose. He made a ‘pfft’ sound, “I am not—“ he tried, desperately attempting to lie straight to your face.

“I think you are, honey,” you purred, leaning in until your breath fanned directly over his lips, your thumb lazily circling the heated skin at the nape of his neck. Even his neck was hot, for god's sake. It was thick and masculine. He was so masculine. His eyes immediately drifted down to your lips again, his resolve crumbling. “I am not. I simply... I wish to protect you because you are my teammate—“

“Oh, so I should just go back down to the bar and find him, then?” you pushed ruthlessly. You tilted your head, feigning complete innocence with your wide, tear-bright eyes.

He huffed, utterly furious at the mere suggestion. “Absolutely not. You are not leaving this damn room without me by your side.”

Your wicked smile widened. “Why not?” you purred, your face moving a fraction closer until your lips almost brushed his jaw. “I could touch him like this...” Your hands drifted down from his neck, sliding over the heavy planes of his chest down to his massive biceps, making his muscles instantly twitch under your fingertips. “I could kiss him like I did you, just minutes ago—“

Thor couldn't take it a single second longer.

His lips slanted over yours, ruthlessly cutting your sentence and your breath off. He pulled you even closer toward him, holding you like you were his absolute lifeline, pressing you so tight against his broad, muscular frame that it felt like your bodies were becoming one. You kissed him back passionately, completely losing yourself in the intoxicating heat of it. Your hands flew up to find his rough cheeks, and you pushed yourself up on your tiptoes, pressing your lips hungrily onto his.

He bit your lower lip with a sudden, needy sharpness, then stopped. He reluctantly moved his head away just a few inches, his breathing heavy and ragged as he whispered against your mouth, “You are not to kiss anyone but me.” His thumb came up, grazing over your throbbing lower lip. “Stop it, alright?” he whispered, then pecked your lips.

“Why—“

He pecked your lips again, roughly cutting you off, and then growled the confession right into your mouth: “Because I am fucking jealous, okay honey?”

He kissed you again, and you actually smirked straight into the kiss. The absolute victory of making a literal god admit defeat made your heart soar into the stratosphere. You pulled back though your lips were still grazing his, whispering wickedly against his mouth, “What was that?”

He pecked your lips again, desperate, heavy, and completely surrendered to you. “I have been burning with jealousy since I saw him lay his filthy eyes on you. I do not know what is wrong with me, but I—” He gulped hard, his large thumb slowly gliding over your flushed cheek. “I am consumed by it.”

A breathless, giddy giggle escaped your lips then. “Okay, big guy.”

He was jealous. The King of Asgard was completely, undeniably jealous, and he had just admitted it to you in the dark of your room. Oh god, you were losing your mind—and you never wanted to find it again.

But one question prodded at your mind before he made it all disappear with a fierce kiss, why was he jealous in the first place?

But you were not in your right mind. Because Thor wasn’t kissing you like a normal kiss. He was inhaling you, and it was already lighting you on fire.

The height difference was clearly bothering him as much as it was bothering you. Feeling the strain, Thor lowered himself just a bit before sliding his hands under your thighs, effortlessly lifting you completely off the floor, making your dress ride up. Your arms immediately circled around his thick neck—the very same neck you had been dying to strangle just hours ago—and you let out a soft moan directly into his mouth as his hands slipped up from your thighs to find your ass, squeezing your cheeks tightly as he pinned you securely against his massive frame. You moaned into his mouth, not being able to help it.

A hand left your ass and wrapped around your neck, while the other moved back to your waist to securely hold you, angling your face to kiss you as deeply as he wanted. His tongue pressed over yours as he walked himself backward into the bedroom. The kiss was heated, so full of passion you felt your insides burn with it. His kisses descended to your jaw, then to your neck as he hummed in deep appreciation. What were you doing kissing Thor, of all people? What were you doing letting Thor take you to bed, of all people?

But the thought couldn't even fully form as he bit down on your neck, making you whine in pain.

“Thor—” you begged, without knowing what it was you were begging for.

— “Yes?” he rumbled against your skin as he licked the sensitive spot on your neck, then he laid you over the mattress, settling his heavy body over you. He massaged your hips as he settled himself deeply between your legs. You spread them wide to accommodate him, and felt it poking hard against your thigh.

His cock, thick and hard, was somehow bigger than you had imagined—and you hadn’t been thinking small.

“Guess we don't have to fight over who gets the bed anymore,” you quipped, your voice breathless, trying to find a defense in your usual wit.

It made him chuckle, a low vibration against your chest. “I guess not,” he whispered, then took your lips again. This kiss was softer than before, slowly dismantling you as his lips glided over yours. Then he pressed his hips heavily against your core, making you whine out loud.

“Do you feel that?” He pulled your upper lip between his teeth, smiling slightly into the heat of your face. “It’s what you do to me. Ever since we landed here, I’ve be walking around so hard I was worried you’d see it. But no.” He kissed one corner of your mouth, then the other. “You’re oblivious, aren’t you, honey?”

He found you that attractive?

You hummed, tipping your head back in complete surrender. Thor groaned, dragging his lips over a throbbing pulse point, letting his tongue flick against the sensitive skin of your throat. “You like that too,” he grunted, his breath hot in your ear. “You like being the one person that gets me going, that makes me lose it. No one else, my Little Flame.”

He held your hips again and pushed your ass forward, locking you in place so your clit was pushed tightly against the thick hardness of him through the fabric. A long moan escaped your lips, and you dropped your face into his shoulder, completely undone.

Thor grunted, rutting forward, and it was so fucking hot you couldn't think past it. The deep drawl of his voice in your ear, the impossible strength of him around you—it was intoxicating. The clothing added a desperate, heavy extra friction, his fingers digging into your hips.

“Just you,” he thrusted forward against your core, squeezing your ass tightly with his other hand. “Only you, sweetheart. So beautiful and sassy, driving me insane—“

You whimpered as Thor made a low, ragged sound, taking a deep, shaky breath against your hair. His hand then slipped into your panties, his deft fingers dragging down to tease right against the already damp drip of your pussy. His fingers started circling your clit, a thick dampness forming immediately down there under his torturously perfect touch. “Please—” you cried out, your hips bucking up instinctively against his hand, begging for him to end this perfect torture.

“Please what, honey?i Thor rasped, his touch growing heavier, more demanding as he felt your walls slick and trembling for him. “Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you”

“I want you,” you gasped out as he inserted his middle finger inside you—and fuck, even his finger was incredibly large.

“Not enough, sweetheart,” he grumbled, pressing his thumb firmly down onto your clit, making you squirm and twitch helplessly in place beneath his weight.

“What do I have to say—“

“I said tell me exactly what you want, did I not?” he rumbled, suddenly moving his finger deep inside you, rhythmically fucking you with it. You whined loudly at the overwhelming friction, your hands locking onto his massive biceps and squeezing hard enough to leave marks. “I want you to—“ you gasped, your vision blurring. “I want you to fuck me... no, I need you to fuck me. Please.”

You were completely reduced to begging him. In response, his fingers slicked deeper as he added his ring finger into your heat, stretching you beautifully, but then he stopped abruptly.

There was simply too much extra fabric from your midi dress crumpled up in his way.

Your eyebrows furrowed, the sudden loss of momentum leaving you aching and confused. “What is it?”

He didn't respond with words. Instead, his large hands slid down to your lower back, his knuckles brushing your bare skin as his fingers found the zipper of your dress.

Your blood ran completely cold in an instant. Your whole body stiffened up beneath him, every single muscle locking tight.

Your scars.

Other people, other agents, had seen them on the battlefield or during training, and you had never felt bad about it. But this was Thor. You knew he had caught a fleeting glimpse of them at the pool earlier, but he hadn't truly seen all of them. He hadn't seen the worst of them. And this was not a public pool, was it? This was intimate. This was completely private. Which meant he would have all the time in the world to analyze them with his eyes, more time to realize how broken your body really was, more time to get disgusted by them—

The heavy weight of his hand cupped your jaw, covering it completely and instantly grounding you, cutting your spiraling thoughts short. “What is it?” he asked softly, his blue eyes searching yours in the dim light. “What's wrong, Little Flame?”

You gulped hard, helplessly averting your eyes from his intense stare. “I—I don't know about this...”

“Do you want to stop?” he asked immediately, completely freezing, his hand instantly lifting away from the zipper of your dress without hesitation.

“No!” you scrambled out desperately. Your eyes snapped back to find his, and you saw deep confusion in them.

How could he not be confused? You probably looked completely insane to him right now. First you were kissing him like there was no tomorrow, then you were begging him to take you, then you were voicing a doubt, but you were still fiercely refusing to stop. You were goddamn confusing.

You closed your eyes, a wave of shame washing over you. “It's just that I...” You swallowed hard. “I don't think I should remove my dress.”

His eyebrows furrowed deeply. “But I want to feel you. I do not understand,” he said, getting more perplexed by the second.

You huffed, unable to meet his eyes. “My scars... they are not pleasant to look at, Thor.”

“You do not know what is pleasant to my eyes or not,” he countered instantly, his deep voice carrying an unyielding certainty that took you completely aback.

“But—“

“I find you attractive. I find your scars attractive. I find every single part of you breathtakingly attractive,” he said, his tone dropping into a fierce vow as his hand found the track of your zipper once again. He didn't pull it, he just waited, asking for your trust. “Please let me see you, darling,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over yours, his warm breath intoxicating. “So that I can witness your beauty. So that I can show you exactly how much I love your scars, how much I love every part of you.”

Your eyes were wide, your heart beating so fast and hard against your ribs it felt painful. Should you actually let him?

This was Thor, for god's sake. He was never the nicest person to you—

But was he not?

A sudden rush of memories flooded your brain, completely reframing the last few years. He always looked out for you on dangerous missions, shielding your blind spots. Even though he irritated you daily, he always helped you carry heavy equipment crates—though not before he smugly made you cave in and admit you couldn't do it yourself, just like he did with your suitcases. He had caught you by the waist every single time you tripped. His eyes had always, always been tracked onto you in every room. And tonight, he had called you the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his thousands of years of life, before literally threatening to crush a man's skull for disrespecting you.

So no. He had never been rude to you. He had always been good to you. He annoyed you, sure, but he was so goddamn protective and sweet to you in his own annoying and loud way, and you had somehow just noticed it. How the hell did you just notice it?

Your chest was heaving heavily as you made your final decision, the remaining walls around your heart completely collapsing.

“Okay,” you whispered, nodding your head against the pillow.

Thor smiled then—a soft, blindingly beautiful smile that made him look younger, happier. His lips easily found yours again in a deep, reassuring kiss as his hand slowly, smoothly slid the zipper all the way down, gently removing the white dress from your body and leaving nothing between you but the heat of his skin.

You were now left in your white bra and panties, his gaze burning your skin as he looked all over you. His heart soared at the sight of you, but he felt a sharp pang of pain in his chest at the scars littering your skin. They were a lot more than he thought, but gods, they only made you more attractive to him. A strong woman, with the face of an angel and the body of a goddess—you were always meant to be his undoing.

His fingers grazed a thin line along your ribs as his mind echoed fiercely, She is beautiful, and I am going to make them pay for hurting her, all of them.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you squirmed, a faint trace of your old discomfort resurfacing. Instead of drawing back, he leaned over your body, his face level with your stomach as his large hands gently grabbed your sides, anchoring you. And then, he lowered his head and kissed one of the most visible, ragged scars you had near your hip.

“You are beautiful. Truly a goddess... one fit for me,” he muttered against your skin, before kissing the mark again.

Your breath hitched, your head spinning into a daze. That specific scar was from the most lethal trauma you had ever endured. You had almost died that day; in fact, you had hoped to die that day just to escape. But your captives had found a way to keep you alive, using brutal, advanced procedures to permanently bind your altered biology together. Tears welled up in your eyes, your vision blurring for the second time that night. To see him kiss it like that—so tenderly, with so much reverence—made something warm and heavy fill your chest. It was like a fractured part of you was finally feeling whole again.

I love him, your mind screamed at you for the second time that day. Your right hand instinctively found his rough cheek, your fingers tangling in his beard as he kept kissing your scars. One left from needles being inserted into the exact same place dozens of times; one left from a failed escape attempt on a mission they sent you on, a punishment for not obeying... He was kissing every single one of them.

And while his lips hovered over the worst one near your hip again, you finally whispered, “I almost died when I got that one.”

His head immediately whipped up, his heart tightening painfully in his chest at your words. “What?” he asked, his throat closing in, his blue eyes blazing with an intense, dark focus.

“They used a plasma blade to slice me open during a combat stress-test,” you whispered, the memory making your voice shake. “They wanted to see how fast the cosmic energy in my blood would knit the flesh back together while I was conscious. I begged them to just let me bleed out.”

Thor’s hold on your sides violently tightened, his knuckles turning white and his jaw locking so hard a muscle strove in his cheek. “I am going to make them pay, Little Flame." he said his voice determined, "I am going to avenge you. They are going to feel the wrath of the God of Thunder, be sure of that. No one, and I mean no one, gets away with hurting you.”

He turned his head toward the hand holding his cheek, shifting slightly to press a deep, lingering kiss against the inside of your wrist, right over your pulsing vein, like he wanted to be sure you were alive. Like he needed reassurance of your well being after your confession. He could not bear the thought of you in pain, but death? You on the brink of death? His poor heart could not take it. “I do not know what you did to me, sweetheart, but you—” he gulped, his eyes locked on yours, “you have a hold on me that no one else ever did. That no one else ever could.”

He leaned up, his chest heaving against yours. “I cannot help it. I cannot help but be jealous, I cannot help but be protective, possessive... I just can't help it. You have completely bewitched me.”

Your breathing fastened as your heart fluttered wildly in your chest at his words. What did he mean? How was he talking like this? He couldn't love you, you knew that—you were just deeply flawed partners on a mission—but a part of your soul soared at the fact that he harbored these intense, desperate urges for you. Even if it wasn't love, he felt for you with a terrifying depth.

When his large hands moved down to remove your white bra, you reached up and caught his wrists, tsking him with a breathless smirk. “Don't you think you're being a bit unfair, big guy? It's your turn.”

Your hands found his collar, pulling his heavy frame down to your lips. You kissed him deeply, pouring all your hidden, aching feelings into it, while your shaky fingers began working on the unbuttoning of his shirt. Your hands were trembling with excitement and the weight of your feelings for him. When you finally removed your lips from his, you let out a frustrated huff, looking down at the fabric because your frantic fingers couldn't unbutton them fast enough.

Thor just chuckled, a rumbling sound against your chest. He took matters into his own hands, gripping the shirt and casually pulling it over his head with one smooth motion, tossing it blindly across the room.

“Oh fuck... you honestly are a god,” you whispered, taking him in fully. His biceps were literally the size of your head, his pecs perfectly sculpted, his abs defined and casting shadows in the dim light—he was going to be the absolute death of you.

He chuckled again, clearly enjoying your completely awestruck expression, and immediately took it to his advantage. His large hand slid behind your back, and with a single, practiced flick of his fingers, he unclasped your bra in a second.

You gasped in bewilderment, snapping your eyes up to meet his. “You sly fox,” you said, a wicked smirk returning to your lips.

He just held your bra up for a brief second like a captured banner of war, a triumphant smile lighting up his handsome face, before he tossed it away. Turning all of his massive, heavy attention back to you, his mouth immediately latched onto your right breast, his tongue swirling hot against your skin while his large hand slid down past your stomach to find your crotch.

“Ohmygod,” you gasped out in one breath.

His fingers hooked into the edge of your panties, sliding them down your hips before giving a firm, playful slap against your inner thigh. “Get your legs up for me, honey, so I can get these off,” he grunted against your skin. You quickly complied, lifting your hips and helping him slide the remaining lace down your legs until you were completely bared for him.

He let go of your nipple for a second, his large hands sliding down to grip your thighs with an iron hold, settling himself deeply between them again. He spread them wide open, his gaze dropping down to your glistening center. His tongue darted out in anticipation, his eyes dark with an intense, heavy hunger.

“You look so sweet, honey. Bet you taste as sweet as you look, don't you?” he murmured to himself, his deep baritone sending a thrill straight down your spine as he kept his gaze locked between your legs.

You whined in agonizing anticipation, your hips twitching on the mattress. “Do something—oh!”

You were cut off as his thumb pressed hard against your clit, slowly dragging all the way down your slick slit, catching your juices on his skin. He lifted his hand, looking down at his wet thumb before putting it directly between his lips, sucking the moisture off as he closed his eyes.

“Oh, yes you do taste sweet. Better than I ever imagined,” he rumbled, his voice rough. He leaned down and gave your pussy a light, playful slap, the stinging heat making you whine out loud.

“Thooor—”

He hovered back over your body, his mouth immediately returning to suckle hungrily on your right nipple. At the same time, his hand slid back between your thighs, inserting his middle finger deep inside you, quickly followed by his ring finger. His thumb began circling your clit in rhythmic patterns. Your mouth fell agape, your head tossing from side to side as you moaned and moaned, your body beautifully stretched by his incredibly large fingers.

Your hands locked onto his broad shoulders, squeezing tight, the slick friction of his touch rapidly driving you toward the edge, pulling you closer to that blissful, impending high.

“'M close,” you murmured, your eyes completely dazed. You pulled his head closer, biting down on the thick skin of his neck and suckling fiercely, making the god let out a deep, gravelly groan of pleasure.

“You’re driving me insane,” he growled against your skin, his fingers moving faster, driving deep inside your tight heat. “Come on, pretty girl, make a mess on my fingers.”

The pressure kept building and building in your lower stomach until it was entirely unbearable. “I—” you gasped, your toes curling into the sheets. “I’m gonna—”

“Come on, let it go, baby,” he commanded darkly.

And then you snapped. You came hard, whining and moaning loudly as wave after wave of intense pleasure rippled through your core, your walls clamping down violently around his fingers. Thor grunted, keeping his fingers moving through your contractions, forcing every last drop of pleasure out of you until you were breathlessly begging him to stop.

Before you could even catch your breath, Thor shifted. He reached down to his waist, lowering his trousers and boxers in a single, aggressive movement. Because he was already on his knees, the fabric simply bunched up around his knees, freeing his lower half.

Your eyes widened in absolute awe at the sight. He was big. Just as you had thought, but seeing him fully bare made him look even bigger. “Oh god,” you whispered.

Thor gave his length a slow, heavy pump of his hand, precum glistening at the tip as he smeared the moisture down his thick shaft. He looked down at you, his chest heaving.

“Do we need protection? Because I don't have any—” he asked, his voice thick with restraint. “No, we don't,” you said eagerly, you were on the pill.

Pushing yourself up onto your elbows, you looked his naked torso and heavy length over with a predatory hunger. “You’re so fucking handsome it’s annoying, do you know that?” you said, biting your lower lip.

He chuckled, a smug, low sound as he settled his weight back in between your open legs. “Why, thank you, Little Flame—”

Your hand shot out, planting firmly against his massive shoulder. “Can I ride you?” Thor stopped dead in his tracks, his chest heaving, his pupils blown wide. “What?”

“Can I ride you?” you asked again, your voice completely determined.

Taking full advantage of his momentary shock, you wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, using your core to pull him down as you deftly flipped your positions. Within a second, you were sitting squarely on top of his hard stomach. His defined abs twitched beneath you, the movement grazing directly against your freshly sensitive clit, making you take a sharp breath.

“You wanna do all the work, honey?” he asked, his eyebrows furrowing as a lazy, amused smirk tugged at his lips.

“Mhm,” you hummed, your eyes dazed and hooded as you looked down at his towering chest. He chuckled, his large hands rising to rest loosely on your hips. “Are you sure? You are well aware I possess the stamina of a god.”

You rolled your eyes at his typical Asgardian arrogance. “I am aware. Can you just stop talking and—”

“Are you getting on, or not?” he interrupted, his smirk widening as he tilted his hips up just a fraction, the warm tip of his cock brushing against your entrance.

For a split second, the temptation to be difficult returned. “I am definitely reconsidering it now,” you pouted, crossing your arms over your bare chest and throwing him a defiant look.

But Thor just snorted, rolling his eyes at your stubbornness. Before you could even blink, his hands gripped your hips with terrifying strength and he lifted you up. You didn't even get a second to think before he downwardly forced your hips straight onto his thick dick, burying himself inside you all the way to the hilt.

The air was knocked completely from your lungs. Thor was so deep in you it was pushing all the thoughts out of your brain. You gaped down at him, making weak, breathless noises as your pussy pulsed and stretched beautifully around his thickness. His fingers dug deeply into your hips, the only sign that he was struggling to hold himself back from taking over completely.

“Much as I enjoy you trying to take control,” he muttered, his large hands sliding down to massage your ass with a heavy, grounding pressure, “I'd rather keep you full of me so you stop thinking.”

He reached up slowly, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. You bit your bottom lip, whining at the unbearable fullness, and he chuckled, settling his upper body fully into the pillows. Your hands found his chest, your fingers grabbing firmly onto his broad pectorals for balance. “Ride it, baby,” he ordered, his voice a low, gravelly command.

And god help you, you tried. You caught your breath after a long moment that felt like an eternity and started to roll your hips. Thor groaned, his heavy eyelids fluttering as your tight heat dragged over his length, but he deliberately didn't help you yet. His hands remained firm on your body, forcing you to use every ounce of your strength to grind down onto his dick.

Your movements accidentally pushed him right against that sensitive, gooey spot inside of you, and you faltered with a long, broken moan. You shifted, forcing his thick head right against it again, and he let out a sharp breath, though he still didn't take the reins. “Uhh—” you whined, your head spinning.

“Feels good, does it not?” he cooed, his cock throbbing heavily inside you. “Nice and big, filling up your pussy so good.”

You moaned, your hips bucking instinctively. Thor grunted, thrusting up just slightly to meet you, and you tipped your head back as a shiver ran down your spine. The friction was incredible. For a second, back arched and thighs aching, you actually managed to find a rhythm. It started slow, rolling and pushing Thor’s cock right where you wanted it.

You looked down at him, sweaty and utterly adoring beneath you. His hands wandered over your skin, his breathing ragged and his lips parted as he watched you take him.

“That's a good girl,” he muttered, his blue eyes blown wide. “There you go, My Star.” He continued, “My beautiful fucking Star, so good for me are you not?”

You keened at the praise, your pace moving faster. Your knees were growing weak from the exertion, but the desperate need inside you was so much stronger. You bounced on Thor’s dick, grabbing at his chest and gasping for air as his sheer size split you open over and over again.

Looking down at his bare chest, his defined pecs looked absolutely delicious in the dim light. You had to take a bite, didn't you? Lowering your upper body flat against his chest, you leaned down and bit down on his left breast, hard. Thor groaned loudly, his abs flexing hard beneath you. “What are you—” he gasped.

You didn't answer, simply licking over the damp mark you had just left before kissing over it mindlessly. Pushing yourself back up, your hands found their place on his heaving chest again, meeting his eyes which were burning with an unhinged desire.

But it wasn't enough. You didn't possess the extra stamina or strength of a god, and he was just too big. You were so overwhelmed by pleasure that your body was starting to forget how to move properly. Every wet, obscene sound echoing in the room made you glance down at where he was disappearing inside of you—the way your slick was heavily coating his cock when you pulled up, and the heavy weight of his balls slapping against your ass every time you dropped back down.

You only got hornier, wanting nothing more than to just let go and allow your eyes to cross and toes to curl, but you couldn't find the pace to get over the edge. You couldn't cum. The frustration built up until pathetic, fat tears started streaming down your cheeks.

”Aw, baby, why are you crying?” Thor murmured, his voice laced with a gentle mockery. Fully aware of the fact that you couldn't reach the finish line by yourself, he reached up, brushing your tears away with his thumb while a tiny, knowing smirk played on his lips.

You let out a frustrated sob, shaking violently above him as your legs finally grew too weak to sustain the weight. You collapsed forward, just squirming uselessly against his lap now, blinking through wet lashes at his teasing, lazy smile. “You can't get there all alone, can you?” he purred, gripping your waist tightly and slamming his hips up into you.

You made a choked, high-pitched sound as the sudden force rattled your entire frame. “That's right, pretty girl. Just a total mess on my cock."

“Ple—please—“ you blubbered, completely spent, your upper body collapsing weakly over Thor’s broad chest. “God, Thor—please—“

“Aw. Begging so pretty.” He leaned up and pressed a tender, lingering kiss to your wet forehead. “How could I ever say no to you, huh?”

Without another word, Thor gripped your hips and effortlessly lifted you off his cock, twisting you onto your back as he sat up. You were shoved down into the mattress, your head pressed deeply into the cushions. His massive hands locked onto your hips, dragging you down the bed toward him, completely manhandling you. His right hand moved to the inside of your left thigh, pushing it wide open to expose your dripping core to the cool air of the room.

“Such a mess,” Thor rumbled, his eyes dark as he ran the thick head of his cock between the lips of your pussy, letting it press heavily against your swollen clit before lining it right back up at your entrance.

He slid in slowly, filling you back up until your eyes rolled back in your head. Bringing his upper body over yours, his left hand found your right leg, pushing it all the way up to your chest. He was impossibly deeper at this angle, stretching you to your absolute limits.

You tried to press your hand over your mouth to muffle your pathetic, undone sounds, but Thor tutted softly. With his left hand, he firmly wrapped his fingers around your wrist and pulled your hand away, pinning it to the mattress. He bottomed out completely, a deep groan ripping from his chest as he bit your earlobe.

His hand found its way to your thigh and kept your legs pinned high next to your breasts as he began to move, his brutal, unyielding pace making you instantly see stars. Every heavy thrust sent a shockwave through your body, your hips bouncing uncontrollably against the mattress.

Thor moved his head back just a little, looking down at where your bodies joined, and grunted in deep, possessive approval. He caught your jaw in his hand, his fingers anchoring you as he fucked you hard. “Want to see how good we fit, pretty girl?”

You couldn't even catch a goddamn breath, but you nodded frantically. He let go of your jaw, sliding his hand to the back of your head and gently forcing you to look down at your own lap.

It was sinful. So fucking sinful. A white, creamy ring was forming around his shaft as he ruthlessly fucked into you, and he was so goddamn right—you fit together like perfect puzzle pieces. With every single downward stroke, his heavy pelvis hit directly against your engorged, sensitive clit.

You moaned loudly, your eyebrows knitting together in pure pleasure as the visual pushed you right over the edge unexpectedly. You screamed his name as he let go of your head, his thumb brushing over your trembling lips. He didn't stop, keeping up the relentless, pounding pace, grunting your name over and over against your neck.

“Came after just a few seconds of me fucking you?” he mocked breathlessly, but he was in no better shape than you were. He looked completely disheveled, his hair wild, his jaw locked in a tight line of restraint.

He pushed his damp thumb directly into your mouth, and you blindly suckled on it, wrapping your tongue around his skin.

“Fuck,” he grunted, his blue eyes blowing wide as he finally lost his grip on his godly stamina. His hips gave one last, deep, trembling shove, pinning you flat to the bed as he came, throwing thick, hot ropes of cum deep inside you, filling you to the absolute brim. —

“Are you okay?” he whispered, his lips brushing tenderly against your knuckles.

You were having a near-impossible time keeping your eyes open, the aftershocks of the last hour leaving your limbs feeling like heavy lead, but you managed to nod lazily and offer him a soft, sleepy smile.

Thor took your hand, bringing it up to rest against his bare chest. You frowned, your brow furrowing in confusion. “What’re you doin’?” you mumbled, your exhaustion making your words barely intelligible, slurring together into a sleepy hum.

“Have to take care of you, baby,” he said, his voice so gentle it made your heart ache. He didn't wait for an answer, simply scooping you up into his arms, bridal style. Your arms instinctively circled around his thick neck, and you rested your heavy head against his shoulder as he carried you into the bathroom.

After he helped you clean up with a patience that was entirely uncharacteristic of the man you’d known for years, he carried you back to the bed. He kissed your forehead with lingering reverence as he laid you down, then slid under the covers next to you, pulling you into his embrace until your head was pillowed firmly against his chest.

His heart was beating like a war drum against your ear, his large fingers trembling slightly as he pulled the thin, cool sheets up to tuck you in. He stared at the ceiling, lost in the terrifying shift in his own reality.

Why was he feeling like this? What had happened to the cold, arrogant dynamic you two had shared for so long? The question burned in his mind, sharp and insistent: Did you feel the same?

Unable to hold the mounting anxiety back, he mumbled, “Do you hate me?”

The question came out before he could stop it, brittle and desperate. You stiffened slightly against him, your eyes fluttering open for a brief moment. “I never hated you.”

He hummed, a low vibration in his chest. “Hm.” He shifted, his hand moving to smooth a lock of hair away from your face. “Let me phrase it like this then... do you dislike me still?”

You smiled a little bit, your face scrunching up as you looked up at him hazily, your consciousness drifting further away. You were too exhausted to put up your usual defenses, and you told him half the truth.

“Not so much.”

You leaned forward and kissed his chest without thinking, the action small and intimate, before laying your head back down. His fastened heartbeat drummed in your ears, a frantic, steady rhythm that matched your own.

Thor felt his heart give out as he finally understood what he was feeling.

He was in love with you.

He had been for years, and he was absolutely, completely doomed.

—

You woke up, breathing in deeply as you opened your eyes and stretched your arms. Your eyes widened instantly as the vivid rush of last night’s endeavors hit you.

You slept with Thor.

You quickly looked next to you, your heart ready to leap with hopeful excitement, only to see a completely empty bed. Your heart dropped straight to your stomach. A cold, suffocating weight pressed down on your chest.

Where was he? Did he regret it that much? Did he wake up, realized what he had done with someone as broken as you, and left you all alone the first thing in the morning?

Your hands and feet went completely ice-cold. Your eyes tore up, your nose burning and your throat tightening painfully with incoming tears. Regret. It was the only word screaming in your mind.

You scrambled to your feet, desperately trying to swallow down the sob threatening to break out. Moving on pure autopilot, you quickly started getting ready for breakfast, needing a mask to hide behind. Your hands shook violently as you removed the mascara stains from your cheeks and quickly applied your sunscreen. You pulled on a black strapless summer dress with vibrant pink flowers—it hugged your torso tightly before flaring out beautifully from the waist down. You placed a long-brimmed black summer hat over your hair and slid into black kitten heels. Taking a shaky, shallow breath, you made your way down to the resort’s breakfast area.

The moment you stepped into the restaurant, your blood ran cold. You did not like what you were witnessing. At all.

Thor was there, standing by the open buffet, but he wasn’t alone. There she was—the receptionist girl who had been entirely too into your so-called husband since you arrived. Her hand was resting boldly on his right bicep while he looked down at her, his head turned toward her as he smiled lightly. She was actively flirting with him, and he wasn’t pulling back. Not even after everything he had whispered to you last night. What the hell was a receptionist doing there in the first place?

A dangerous rage built inside you, jealousy brewing hot and toxic, completely melting your insides. You couldn’t help it. Even if Thor didn't want you anymore, even if last night meant nothing to him, nobody was allowed to touch him like that as long as he was playing your husband.

You made your way toward them in fast, sharp strides, the click of your kitten heels masked by the ambient chatter. You stopped directly behind the girl, your index finger tapping her shoulder with an icy firmness.

She quickly turned around, a bright, rehearsed smile on her face, but that smile instantly died the second she registered who was standing there. She was much shorter than you; from beneath the brim of your hat, you were looking down at her with pure, unyielding disdain. A wicked, lethal smile played on your lips—a look that silently screamed, 'You are going to die in ten seconds, and not even the God of Thunder can save you from your demise.'

“My love, you’re awake!” Thor boomed, his face lit up with an instant, radiant brightness the very millisecond his eyes landed on you. You flicked your gaze to him, your chest tight. What a spectacular actor, you thought bitterly.

You looked straight back at the girl. Thor’s eyebrows quickly knitted together as he registered the tension radiating from your posture. “I was just on my way to bring you breakfast—”

“Were you now?” you cut him off, your voice dangerously low, though your eyes never left the receptionist. She was already squirming and trembling under your icy glare.

“I was just—” she stammered, backing up half a step. “You were just leaving,” you cut her off ruthlessly. Then, completely unable to hold yourself back through the blinding haze of your jealousy, you coldly added, “My husband does not have a taste for servants, you know?”

Thor’s eyes widened in sheer shock. You had done the exact one thing you had warned him not to do—you had ignored manners and called her a servant.

The girl nodded frantically, her eyes wide with fear, and immediately scrambled away from Thor, nearly tripping over her own feet to escape you.

The moment she was gone, you turned away from him without giving him a second look. “Baby—” Thor started, his hand reaching out.

“Do not baby me,” you snapped, turning your head back sharply, your eyes flashing with a profound, unyielding coldness that made him freeze.

Thor’s heart dropped straight to his stomach. The sudden, icy wall you had thrown up slapper him in the face so hard he felt your finger prints on his cheek. Did you regret it? Was that what this was? Did you wake up wishing last night had never happened?

“What is going on?” he asked, his voice losing its booming confidence, an edge of panic bleeding through.

You scoffed loudly, completely ignoring his question as you moved toward the stack of plates to grab your own food. You weren't going to stand there and look pathetic. Thor quickly followed on your heels, his massive frame completely blocking out the rest of the crowded restaurant as you aggressively snatched a ceramic plate from the stack. The weight of it felt solid in your shaking fingers—a grounding contrast to the chaos roaring inside your head. He didn't care that there were other guests around; his focus was entirely locked onto you.

“Talk to me, please,” he begged again, his deep voice dropping into a whispered, desperate pitch that only you could hear. “What did I do? Why are you looking at me like that?”

You moved down the line of the open buffet, your eyes fixed forward, your jaw locked tight under the long brim of your black summer hat. You didn't even see the food.

“I look at you exactly how I should look at a partner who fails to maintain the perimeter of our cover,” you whispered coldly, your tone clipped and professional—the ultimate shield to protect your bleeding heart. “We are supposed to be happily married, Thor. Yet I walk into the dining room and find you letting the resort staff treat your bicep like a resting post. It’s sloppy. It risks the mission.”

“The mission?” Thor repeated, and you heard the sharp, pained intake of his breath. He stepped in front of you, completely cutting off your path to the pastry section, forcing you to stop. When you tried to look past him, he leaned down into your line of sight, his blue eyes wide and panicked. “You think I care about the cover right now? Honey, look at me.”

The nickname was a mocking echo of the tenderness from last night. Your eyes snapped up to his, flashing with a dangerous, icy heat. “Do not call me that.”

He felt entirely hopeless, his blue eyes burning with a raw, suffocating pain the more you talked. “Last night—“

“Let's not bring up last night. Ever,” you said, sharply turning your head away from him. You were desperate to protect your heart, to pull the shields up before he could break you completely by saying how much he regretted it.

“What?” he asked, his voice entirely breathless. His lungs felt as though they were constricting in on themselves, a pain burning him from the inside out.

But you didn't answer., you just kept walking, your hands trembling so hard that the ceramic plate in your hands shaked in your grasp. You tried to swallow the thick lump of emotion stuck in your throat, but it wouldn't budge. You loved him, and he regretted you. That was the only reality your brain could process.

You had effectively carved his heart out of his chest and stepped on it with the sharp heel of your shoes, leaving his poor heart to bleed out on the cold floor while you kept thumping it with your foot over and over again. Thor’s head was thumping, his chest feeling completely hollow as he stood frozen, looking at your retreating back. To him, the message was loud and clear: you regretted everything you had given him, while he was deeply, hopelessly in love with you.

The rest of the breakfast passed by in a torturously. You didn't speak a single word to him, and he didn't dare speak to you, far too heartbroken to even think of where to begin mending the fracture. You both just sat there at the table in a heavy, complete silence. Thor spent the entire time staring down at his large, empty hands, while you kept your eyes rigidly fixed on your plate.

After breakfast, you returned to the villa to change for the pool, pulling on a black bikini and a sheer black beach dress. You kept the long-brimmed hat firmly on your head, using it as a barrier to keep yourself from looking at him, and to keep him from looking at you to see your pained expression.

Once down at the resort pool, you settled onto your sunbed for a second before immediately scrambling away to the water, needing to escape his suffocating proximity. Your body tensed up at the first splash, but slowly relaxed as your skin got used to the cold.

It's okay, your mind echoed in a desperate chant, trying to soothe your aching heart. You already got the codes. You can get this entire mission over with tonight, and then you won't ever have to sleep in the same room with him again.

From his sunbed, Thor was watching you like a hawk. He lay there with his massive arms crossed behind his head, his jaw locked so tight the muscles in his cheek flexed repeatedly. His hands were formed into rigid fists, the static electricity in his veins making the air around his chair turn faintly heavy.

Then, the tense silence was abruptly interrupted by a woman's voice coming from next to him. “Hello there, handsome.” She was sitting on a sunbed just one row away, looking to be in her late forties with short, styled blonde hair and a sly, predatory smirk on her face.

Thor didn't even turn his torso. He just spared a brief, icy sideway glance at her before immediately snapping his eyes back to the water, tracking your swimming. “Why are you all alone?” she purred, leaning forward to get his attention. “Your spouse left you to fend for yourself like mine did?” Thor finally turned his head fully away from the pool for a brief second. “I am completely fine. Thank you for your concerns, lady,” he grumbled clearly irritated, his baritone rough and entirely uninviting.

He dismissed her instantly, turning back to look toward the deep end of the pool—only to find you staring straight back at him with a lethal, blinding fire burning hot in your eyes.

He gulped, his breath taken away.

—

After your day in the pool ended and you were back in your villa, the silence between you had grown so heavier. You finally broke it, “I am going to secure the tech tonight.” Thor's back visibly stiffened at the sound of your voice. He turned to face you slowly, his blue eyes guarded. “What do you need me to do?” he asked, his voice rough and gravelly.

You gulped, forcing your professional mask back into place. “Distract Alejandro in the VIP section while I slip away. I'll pretend to go to the bathroom, access the private vault down the hall, and once I have the drive, I'll signal you through the comms so we can leave.” He nodded briefly, his jaw flexing. “Okay,” he whispered.

The process of getting ready was done in a tense, rhythmic quiet. Thor threw on a black linen shirt and charcoal linen pants, looking effortlessly devastating. You opted for a flowy, lightweight black dress that gave you maximum mobility, pairing it with flat, elegant leather sandals—you needed to be comfortable and silent on your feet tonight.

You headed down to dinner, the atmosphere of the resort's high-end restaurant buzzing around you while you sat like ghosts. You tried to eat whatever your stomach would allow, but you had absolutely no appetite after the events of the day. Every time your eyes accidentally met his, you both looked away, shielding your wounds. Once dinner was cleared, it was time. You made your way toward the exclusive VIP lounge, immediately spotting Alejandro lounging in a velvet booth surrounded by bodyguards. You and Thor exchanged a quick, imperceptible glance, checked the small clicks of your earpieces, and nodded.

Alejandro boomed with laughter the moment he saw you approach. “My friends! Welcome, welcome!” he cried, throwing his arms wide open in his usual boisterous display.

You both forced tight, practiced smiles onto your faces. Thor stepped forward, giving the man a brief, friendly hug before turning toward the booth to sit down. Before you could even slide onto the leather cushion next to him, Thor’s large hand securely gripped your waist. Your heart instantly went completely haywire as he effortlessly lifted you and pulled you right down onto his lap.

You two had been distant all day. He had to hold you. He needed to make amends, to feel the heat of your skin against his, even if it was just under the guise of the mission. At least, that was the only excuse his desperate mind could construct if you angrly yelled at him about it later.

You smiled tightly for Alejandro's benefit, but your fingers dug with an icy, warning firmness into the back of Thor's thick neck—a silent, furious message for him to let go. But Thor didn't care. He didn't care about the silent threat as long as he got to hold you in his arms for just a second longer before this mission ended and you went back to the compound to avoid him forever. He simply tightened his grip, pulling you flush against his chest, and smiled widely at Alejandro.

Alejandro chuckled deeply at the display of affection. “Always passionate, I see.”

You turned a sickly sweet smile toward the arms dealer, leaning into the cover. “Always,” you cooed, before casually looking around the lounge. “Where is Valentin tonight?” You instantly felt Thor's fingers dig sharply into your waist, his grip turning possessive at the mention of the man he had been burning with jealousy over. Alejandro made a dismissive, ‘don't care’ gesture with his hand. “Ah, he claims he is sick. Staying in his villa tonight.”

“Oh, poor guy,” you purred, feigning deep sympathy. “I hope he gets better soon.” Thor’s fingers dug even deeper into your hip bone, a silent, growling protest that you had to actively ignore.

You endured another twenty minutes of Alejandro’s endless boasting, monitoring the guard rotation out of the corner of your eye. Finally, the hallway leading to the back offices cleared. You lightly tapped Thor’s broad shoulder, signaling him that it was time. "I need to go to the restroom, honey," you said loudly enough for the table to hear, sliding off his lap.

He didn't protest, maintaining his role, but his blue eyes burned holes straight through your frame as you walked away. The moment you turned the corner out of the lounge's line of sight, the sweet smile vanished from your face. Your heart rate spiked, breathing sharpening as you slipped into the dim, restricted corridor. Using the digital master key you had covertly cloned from the resort's mainframe, you bypassed the electronic lock on Alejandro's private office in three seconds flat. The door clicked open with a faint hiss. You slipped inside, closing it silently behind you.

The room was dark, illuminated only by the ambient glow of the resort's outdoor lights filtering through the blinds. You moved like a shadow across the plush carpet, heading straight for the ornate bookshelf on the far wall. Pressing the hidden release mechanism behind a heavy brass statue, the wall ground open to reveal a reinforced titanium safe. Your fingers flew across the keypad, inputting the encryption codes you had painfully secured earlier in the week. BEEP. The safe's heavy bolts retracted. You quickly dismanntled the failsafe and looked inside the safe.

There, resting on a velvet cushion, was a glowing, intricately carved container pulsing with a faint, dark energy—the stolen Dark Elf convergence technology. Beside it lay the encrypted flash drive containing the buyers' manifests. Your breath hitched. This was it. The culmination of hours of putting up with Thor, hours of hiding your heart, hours of surviving. You carefully wrapped the artifact in a specialized containment cloth to mask its energy signature, slipping it and the drive into the secure inner pocket of your dress.

You locked the safe, closed the hidden door, and stepped back out into the hallway, your heart hammering against your ribs. Pressing your finger to your earpiece, “Package secured. Perimeter clear. Let's mo—“ you were cut off as a heavy, sweating hand clamped brutally over your mouth from behind, and the cold steel of a gun barrel pressed hard into the side of your head. Fuck.

Back in the VIP lounge, Thor’s earpiece crackled with your voice. The sound instantly soothed his aching heart, but the relief didn't last long. You were cut off mid-word, your voice muffled into a sharp static gasp. His heart dropped straight to his stomach, cold dread instantly replacing his focus. What the fuck?

He smoothly stood up, cutting Alejandro off mid-sentence with a firm, booming laugh as he patted the man's shoulder, masking the terror roaring in his veins. "It has been an absolute pleasure, Alejandro, but my wife has been feeling quite fatigued from our travels. I must take her back to our quarters," Thor said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. Before Alejandro could even protest, Thor was already walking away, his long strides carrying him down the corridor. “Little Flame? What is happening?” he whispered franticallyy into his comms, his hands trembling with a mix of fear and rising fury.

You didn't respond. The silence on the other end drove him to the edge. The second he stepped into the shadow of the back hallway, out of sight of the guests, he raised his hand. With a crackle, Stormbreaker materialized into his grip, the blue sparks already dancing along the heavy blade.

“So you were here to get to this, all along?” came Valentin's sharp, bitter voice from behind you. Thor's voice crackled instantly in your ear, low and lethal. “Is it him?” Bound by the hand over your mouth, you could only press a tight, affirmative hum into the microphone.

Valentin spoke again, his grip tightening. "The only reason why you were interested in me?" He sounded entirely wrecked, like he couldn't believe his own ego had been brokenby a spy. You gulped, trying to calculate your leverage. Sensing your shift, he cautiously removed his hand from your mouth to let you speak, keeping the gun digging into your temple. “Valentin, calm dow—“ CRACK. He ruthlessly smacked the heavy side of the gun against the side of your head. The force made your head snap to the side, a low, painful grunt ripping from your throat as your vision blurred for a split second. This motherfucker.

“Did he just fucking hit you?” came Thor's roaring voice through the comms, the nger in his tone vibrating so hard it rattled your earpiece. You quickly let out another hum, trying to mask it as a groan of lingering pain so that Valentin wouldn't realize you were on an active channel. “Are you still in the same spot?” Thor demanded, his footsteps shaking the building as he sprinted toward your coordinates. This fucker had absolutely no chance. He was dying tonight.

You hummed again in confirmation, which only served to irritate Valentin further. He grabbed your chin, turning your face toward him, forcing you to look into his wild, unhinged eyes. A crazy, desperate smile spread across his face. “I think you should give me a kiss before you go,” he whispered darkly. He closed his eyes, leaning his face directly into yours. Big mistake.

The second his eyes shut, your training took over. You threw your head back, violently slamming the crown of your skull against his nose. He staggered back with a curse, and you used the momentum to drive a sharp elbow directly into his ribs, successfully hitting the gun away from your head. You spun, sweeping your leg out to take his ankles, but Valentin was fueled by pure adrenaline; he managed to catch his balance, his face twisting in fury as he lunged forward. He slammed you back against the wall, his hand locking tightly around your neck, and pointed the gun straight at your head from the front, yelling directly into your face.

But before he could even pull the trigger—before he could do anything at all—the gun in his hand was struck by a massive, flying axe. Stormbreaker sheared the weapon completely in half, embedding itself deep into the wall with a deafening thud. “I told you to stay away from her, did I not?”

And then came hell. Thor burst through the doorway, a literal storm rolling in behind him. He didn't even use his weapon. He descended on Valentin like an enraged deity, reaching out and grabbing the man by the collar of his expensive suit. “No—“ Valentin scrambled, his face draining of all color as he looked up into the face of a god.

“You hit her, and you tried to kiss her?” Thor rumbled, his voice shaking the light fixtures above. “You are in big trouble, boy.”

With a display of raw strength, Thor hoisted him completely off the floor and slammed him ruthlessly against the concrete wall. Thor's eyes completely turned into a blinding, static blue, the white-hot electricity arcing across his shoulders and down his arms. Valentin desperately pleaded for his life, gasping for air, but Thor was entirely deaf to it.

You slid down to the floor, clutching your throbbing head, watching the entire scene unfold in awe. Thor grabbed Valentin by the neck, lifting him higher, and delivered two brutal, bone-crushing punches straight to his jaw. Then, with a dark, final grunt of fury, he let the lightning loose. A massive burst of pure electricity fried Valentin instantly, dropping his lifeless body to the floor in a smoking heap. Oops.

The room went quiet, save for the faint hum of residual static. Thor immediately spun around, the terrifying god of war instantly vanishing the moment his eyes landed on you. He rushed to his knees at your side, his large hand gently but firmly holding your jaw, tilting your head up to assess the dark bruising swelling near your temple.

You tried to pull away slightly, the intensity of his focus making your chest tighten. “I'm fine,” you muttered. But your heart was beating erratically in your chest, completely overwhelmed by the unhinged protectiveness he had just shown. He had literally killed a man for putting a hand on you. He was fussing over you like you were the most precious thing in the universe. Was he really the same guy you thought regretted everything this morning?

Seeing the deep, pained expression of guilt and fear swirling in his blue eyes, you let out a soft sigh, your voice softening. “I heal fast, remember?” Thor cleared his throat, his thumb lingering against your jaw for one more second before he reluctantly nodded and let you go.

He helped you up and you both quickly slipped out of the room, heading out into the humid night air. You sprinted back to the villa, throwing your clothes into your luggage in a silent rush, before moving stealthily toward the designated extraction point in the cliffs. Once outside in the dark, Thor held Stormbreaker high into the sky, the Bifrost roaring down in a blinding beam of rainbow light, swallowing you both whole.

—

It has been two days since you came back, and you and Thor were completely ignoring each other. It was obvious to everyone else in the compound; it was the exact polar opposite of what you guys were always like. Normally, you kept riling each other up because you secretly loved it. You yelled at each other, threatened each other daily, but you were always together, attached at the hip like some dysfunctional shadow.

Now? He let you have your morning coffee without a single fuss. You let him be whenever he talked like the booming Asgardian he is, not even bothering to roll your eyes. You weren't even in the same room unless it was absolutely necessary to begin with; either you or Thor would leave the second the other walked in. It was an undeniable fact that youwere both desperately staying away from each other.

And you missed him. You missed the way he riled you up, missed the way he smiled down at you with that smug but inexplicably sweet expression on his face... you missed him so much it hurt your very soul. Natasha had quietly asked about it, Tony made a few mocking jokes, Steve only silently analyzed you two with a furrowed brow, and Scott? Well, Scott wasn't really aware of anything going on. But Rocket had literally yelled, “Why the hell are you two not fighting?!” at the both of you in the kitchen yesterday. You had only turned and left the room without a word, while Thor merely grunted, staring miserably into his mug as he sipped his coffee.

You had mandatory team training today. Eager to avoid any confrontation, you woke up at 5:00 AM just to have your coffee and breakfast completely away from him and everyone else, before retreating straight back to your room to get ready into your tight, black gear.

Thor woke up a few hours later and had his coffee as usual, but it felt entirely tasteless without the usual, fiery fight he had with you over who got to pour the first cup. Fuck, he missed you. He missed you so much he felt it aching deep in his bones, his heart, his lungs—everywhere. He hated this distance. He hated the silence.

He quickly made his way down to the training area, his intense blue eyes scanning the perimeter the second he stepped foot on the grass, instantly searching for you. And there you were near the equipment mats, talking to Steve with a quiet familiarity, just like you had been doing for the last two days. The sight of you leaning in slightly to hear what the captain was saying made rage build inside Thor's chest. The static in his veins flared, his jaw locking hard as his fists clenched at his sides.

It cannot be, his mind echoed fiercely, a desperate attempt to talk himself down. You are getting jealous over nothing. He is merely her teammate. But as he watched Steve laugh at something you said, Thor's chest hollowed out with that same burning, possessive fire that had consumed him before. He turned his head away, staring out across the vast, sun-drenched gardens of the compound, trying to force his breathing to steady. He was clearly out of his mind. He was a god, for kingdoms' sake, yet he was ready to throw down with the Captain over a simple conversation.

Meanwhile, out on the grass near the training mats, you and Steve were actually talking about the exact elephant in the room. “Tell me, doll, what happened with you two?” Steve asked, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze shifting between you and the brooding god standing fifty yards away by the glass doors. “Nothing” you said immediately, adjusting the tracking straps on your wrists, trying to deflect. “It's obvious, you know? Don't bother lying.” Steve’s voice was gentle, but persistent.

You looked down at your combat boots, the weight of the secret pressing too heavily on your chest. Looking around to ensure no one else was in earshot, you finally whispered, “We slept together, Steve.” Steve's eyebrows furrowed in deep, pure confusion. “Okay... I know you don't exactly like the guy, but sleeping in the same bed couldn't have caused this much of a disaster—“ You snapped your head up and rolled your eyes, letting out a heavy sigh. Idiots. The whole lot of them were pure idiots. “Steve. Not like that,” you said, slapping your hand against your forehead. He had completely dismissed the actual option because his straight-laced brain simply couldn't believe it.

“What do you mean?” he asked again, completely lost.

You huffed, crossing your arms tightly. “We had sex.”

Steve’s eyes widened to the size of saucers, his arms instantly uncrossing as his brain short-circuited. “You—“ he pointed a finger at you, then pointed vaguely in Thor's direction. “Thor—“ he stammered, blubbering out in total confusion, it was very uncharacteristic of him you admit.

“Yes,” you cut him off, wanting to get the bandage ripped off. “And he regrets it, but me? I'm completely in love with him. Yay!” you said sarcastically, clapping your hands together in a mocking, bitter celebration.

Steve stood there in pure shock. You had never seen the Captain America look so entirely stunned, but then, something passed through his eyes. It was like a veil had been lifted, an entire timeline of events rewriting itself in his mind. “That's why you guys were always together,” he said, realization dawning on him. “You two are completely in love—“

“Whoa! Hold your horses,” you interrupted, your face heating up under the morning sun. “I am the one who's in love. Not him. He couldn't wait to escape the bed the next morning—“

“He is definitely in love with you—“ Steve started to counter, his voice laced with the certainty of a man who had been watching Thor pine from the sidelines for years. But whatever wisdom he was about to drop was loudly cut off by Tony’s voice echoing across the lawn through a megaphone. “We're all here, folks, let's get started! Cap, stop flirting with Shadow, goldilocks looks like he's about to blast you with lightning!” Tony yelled, gesturing toward the center of the field.

You stiffened, your eyes instinctively darting over to Thor, who was already marching onto the grass, his expression promising devastation for whoever had to spar with him today.

Your heart fastened at the sight of him, your eyes darting over his heavy frame, completely unable to control the sudden spike in your pulse. Steve grumbled something under his breath about Tony being incredibly annoying as he stood up and offered you a hand. You took his hand and got up, brushing the grass off your tight athletic pants.

Suddenly, a faint rumble of thunder vibrated through the ground. You paused, your eyebrows furrowing as you looked up at the sky, only to see bright, uninterrupted sunshine. Your eyebrows furrowed deeper. Okay... were you actually going insane?

“Did you hear that?” Steve asked quietly, looking over at you. You nodded, relieved that you weren't the only one losing your mind. But then Steve’s lips twitched into a knowing, subtle smirk. “Not in love with you, you said?” he murmured, giving you a pointed look before he turned and walked toward the center of the lawn.

You stood frozen in place for two more seconds, processing his words, before forcing your feet to move toward the rest of the team. Thor, Steve, Tony, Bruce, Scott, Nat, Clint, and even Rocket—everyone was gathered on the grass.

“Alright, listen up, children,” Tony announced, clapping his hands together. “Today we're doing partner drills. Mixed combat.” Rocket immediately hopped forward, pointing a tiny, clawed finger at you. “Pair me with Shadow! I wanna be her badass partner!”

“Why does this bunny keep yelling?” Tony muttered, rubbing his temples before looking down at the raccoon and pointing a dramatic finger across the yard. “No! Look at pointbreak over there!” He gestured toward Thor, who was standing like a dark, towering statue of menace, the grass practically singeing beneath his boots. “He's going to be her partner or we're all getting barbecued today!”

Your expression soured instantly. Okay, what the hell? Did everyone switch sides? Tony knew Thor despised you so why would he try to pair you up with him? Rocket turned his head to look at Thor, blinked at the glare the god was throwing his way, and made a startled, defensive expression. “Okay, yeah, you're right.” But then Rocket snapped his head back to Tony, baring his teeth. “I'm not a fucking bunny!”

Steve immediately interrupted, his captain instincts kicking in. “Rocket, language!” You rolled your eyes heavily. “Really, Steve?”

“Grandpa,” Tony muttered in agreement, rolling his eyes. “Alright, let's start.”

Your partner was Thor, as Tony had so graciously assigned, and standing across from you on the mats was Steve paired up with Bruce. The strategy was obvious—Bruce was meant to keep Thor occupied. The second the starting signal was given, Hulk lunged straight at Thor.

While Thor was engaged, his massive fists trading heavy blows with the green giant, he kept looking sideways at you. He was completely distracted by how easily you and Steve had slid into perfect synchronization. His blood burned hot in his veins. Focus, his mind echoed fiercely, but every time he saw Steve catch your arm to fling you into a high kick, his vision swam with red. With a roar of frustration, Thor drove a massive punch straight into the Hulk's jaw, sending the massive beast stumbling back a few heavy steps.

Meanwhile, you and Steve were moving seamlessly. You ducked low under Steve's arm, using his shoulder as leverage to drive a brutal spin-kick directly into his abdomen but he caught your foot smiling at you. You retreated yoou foot, vaulted off the ground, twisting mid-air to deliver a kick. But something that shouldn't have happened, happened. As you came down, Steve extended a hand, catching you firmly by the waist to stabilize your landing.

The moment Steve’s hands locked onto your waist, the sky changed. Thick, dark storm clouds suddenly swirled over the compound out of nowhere, completely blocking the sun in a matter of seconds. A massive, deafening rumble of thunder crashed directly overhead, accompanied by a simple, gravelly growl, “No.”

You blinked, looking over just in time to see Thor completely abandon his fight with the Hulk, turning his back on the training exercise entirely as he marched straight toward you.

“No,” he simply repeated, his face a mask of pure fury. Before you or Steve could even register what was happening, Thor reached out, his hands wrapping around your upper arms, and yanked you away from Steve, pulling you flush against his chest.

Your eyes narrowed into lethal slits, the physical contact setting your nerves on fire. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“I am removing you from Steve's arms,” he stated matter-of-factly, his chest heaving heavily against your back, his deep voice carrying a possessive finality.

Every single eye on the field was instantly focused on the two of you. The entire team stood frozen in pure shock—except for Steve. Steve would have been shocked too, if he hadn't just heard your confession three minutes prior.

“Thor, calm down,” Steve said evenly, raising his hands in a placating gesture.

But Thor snapped his head up, his blue eyes blazing with static electricity. “Do not talk, Steve,” he threatened, a rumble vibrating from his throat. Absolute displeasure and violence radiated off his massive frame.

“Don't,” you hissed, struggling fiercely against his iron grip, trying to wrench your arms free. “Don't you dare try to act all possessive now, when you are the one who regrets everything—“

“Regret?” Thor asked, the word cutting through his anger as he stopped, staring down at you. “Me?”

Then, to your utter fury, he let out a dark, breathless chuckle. “You are a hypocrite, Little Flame.”

Natasha took one look at the amount of tension and immediately turned to the rest of the team. “I think we should give them space.” Tony didn't even glance away, his eyes wide as he actively enjoyed the spectacle. It was like he was watching his absolute favorite primetime drama play out live. “Why? We're all outdoors. Shouldn't they be the ones to go inside for privac—“

“Tony,” Natasha said warning him.

“Okay, alright,” Tony caved, raising his hands.

He and the rest of the team quickly retreated toward the compound, but even Natasha couldn't help herself; the second they got inside, the entire lineup of Avengers pressed themselves against the glass doors, watching the drama unfold through the windows.

“What is that supposed to mean?” You countered fiercely, turning fully in his grip to face him, your chest heaving.

“You are the one who regrets everything! Flirting with Steve the second you came back—“

“Excuse me? We were not flirting!” you yelled back, chuckling in pure, broken frustration as you looked away for a split second before snapping your eyes back to his burning gaze. “We were talking, like friends do! Hold on—you don't get to question me on that, seeing as you were clearly comfortable flirting with her!”

Thor huffed, his eyebrows furrowing in genuine confusion. “Who have I flirted with?!”

“Don't play dumb now, Thor! THE RECEPTIONIST!” you screamed, the weight of the last forty-eight hours finally breaking through your defenses. Tears of hot, angry frustration built up rapidly in your eyes, blurring your vision as your voice cracked. “You left me the second the sun rose! You left the bed completely empty! And then you proceeded to go and flirt with her!”

“I was not flirting with her!” he bellowed, the desperation in his voice cracking through the thunder rolling above. “I woke up early because I wanted to surprise you,” he insisted, completely ignoring the venom dripping from your words. “You were sleeping so deeply... you looked so peaceful, and I did not want to wake you. I went down there specifically to get your favorite fruits and coffee to bring back to our quarters. That girl—she just approached me. I did not even hear a word she said, I swear it to you by the All-Father! I was only thinking of you.”

You scoffed, a broken, trembling sound. “And the smiling?” you challenged, your voice shaking despite your best efforts to keep your shields up. “You looked down at her and smiled, Thor. I saw you.”

He shook his head frantically, “I was smiling because I was happy!” he burst out, his massive chest heaving under his athletic shirt. “I was thinking about how you looked in my arms. I was thinking about what you told me before you slept. I was happy because of you, Little Flame. Not her. Never her.”

You stared up at him, your breath hitching sharply in your throat. He sounded so painfully sincere, so desperately eager to clear his name, but the cold dread of your own insecurities was still screaming in the back of your mind.

“You left the bed empty,” you whispered, your professional facade completely shattering as your voice cracked, exposing the raw, bleeding core of your heart. “You weren't there when I woke up.”

Thor froze. His eyebrows knitted together tightly as the realization of what you had been torturing yourself with finally dawned on his mind. His heart dropped straight to his stomach, a weight crushing him as he realized the terror and abandonment he had accidentally put you through.

“Oh, gods,” he breathed, his fierce, possessive expression melting into pure heartbreak. His voice cracked with emotion. “You thought I regretted it? You thought I left you?”

You looked away, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze. “You—“ You tried to speak, but a small, pathetic sniffle escaped you instead. The sound made Thor take a sharp, painful intake of breath. Moving instantly, his large hand came up, his fingers gently but firmly holding your chin to force your face back up so you had to look at him.

“I do not regret it. I could never regret it,” he said, his blue eyes swimming with a matching pain as he looked down at your tear-stained face.

You sniffled again, looking up at him through wet lashes. Your heart was beating frantically against your ribs, a spark of dangerous, beautiful hope flaring to life in your chest. Taking a breath, you asked something you never, in a million years, thought you would ever ask the arrogant god.

“Do you like me?” you whispered, your small hand coming up to hold the thick wrist of the arm holding your chin.

Thor's face immediately scrunched up into a deeply offended, dismissive expression. “Not so much.”

Your heart instantly dropped straight to your stomach, the rejection freezing your blood. “But you—“

Before you could finish the sentence, Thor reached out and grabbed your cheeks with both of his massive hands, tilting your head up as he brought his mouth down on yours. He kissed you deeply, passionately, a bruising, breathless possession that completely wiped all thoughts from your brain. When he finally pulled back just a fraction, his thumbs wiping the fresh tears from your cheeks, he continued his sentence.

“I do not like you. I am completely and utterly in love with you,” he confessed, the words hitting you right in the center of your chest.

A startled, watery laugh bubbled out of your throat. “You dumbass,” you chuckled, your hands moving to grip his forearms as a massive, radiant smile finally broke across your face. “Why would you word it like that?” Thor didn't care about his poor phrasing; his eyes were boring into yours with an intense, desperate seriousness. “Do you?” he asked, looking down at you with adoration.

“Do I what?”

“Regret it,”

“I don't,” you said, shaking your head without a single second of hesitation. “Why would I, when you are the man I am completely in love with?” you whispered, finally letting the confession pass your lips.

Thor’s blue eyes lit up like a blinding flash of lightning. A breathtaking smile split his handsome face, and without waiting another syllable, he slammed his lips back onto yours, kissing you with a ferocious, joyful hunger.

“I do not know what is wrong with me, Little Flame,” he mumbled against your lips between deep, bruising kisses. “I do not know how I did not realize sooner how pathetically in love I am with you.” His large hands slid down from your face, wrapping firmly around your waist and lifting you slightly off the grass to deepen the kiss, completely forgetting they were standing in the middle of a compound training field.

Inside the building, behind the massive glass doors, the entire lineup of Avengers was pressed flat against the window. Tony was rooted completely in place, his mouth agape, his hands raised in bewilderment. “Are you guys seeing what I am seeing, or am I hallucinating? Is Point break currently kissing Shadow?” Natasha stood next to him, a triumphant, knowing smirk spreading across her lips as she crossed her arms. “About damn time.”

Outside, Thor kept kissing you thoroughly, but suddenly, he pulled his face away by a mere inch. Your eyebrows knitted together in immediate irritation at the loss of contact. “What is it?” You asked. Thor hesitated, his jaw flexing as he muttered just one word, the lingering jealousy still clear in his tone: “Steve?”

You rolled your eyes, letting out a breathless laugh as you locked your hands behind his neck and pulled his head right back down to your lips. “Don't piss me off while I'm kissing you,” you murmured against his mouth.

Thor let out a low, vibrating hum of pure compliance against your lips. “You are right, I’m sorry, I love you,” he mumbled onto your mouth, his grip on your waist tightening as he buried his face back into yours.

—

Masterlist

Taglist: @sinceimetyou @awkwardgiraffe726 @midasgard @mediocre-introvert @gurlidkiread @claytaysversion @landocat

I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORK TO BE FED INTO ANY AI BOTS. THIS INCLUDES CHARACTER.AI, JANITOR.AI, ETC. I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED, REPOSTED, REWORKED IN ANY WAY, SHAPE OR FORM.

[cinnalityy]

When you have the perfect fic in ur head but can’t write for shit..

[whalewritr]

Cat out of the bag (Hwa-jin x F!Reader)

GENRE: bickering, drama, fluff, swoon-worthy stuffs

WARNING : use of substance, hint of animal abuse

SUMMARY: You come across a very annoying yet handsome inspector while you are out hunting for a cat. Although he is good-looking, it doesn't overlooks the fact he can get on your nerves. What happens when you both meet again over a mission at a university? Can he be ignored by you or would it be better to know each other better?

You had already thought of the name of your little one, you were waiting for this perfect day to arrive for you to welcome home this cute baby.

Y/N POV

I never imagined getting a kitten would be this exciting. Ever since I first visited her, I knew she was the one I would adopt. Tabby, small, and snuggly? How perfect that is! The moment I had laid eyes on her, the entire morning I had been preparing for this day, I had already booked the necessary cat supplies along with toys she would need. I quickly dismissed myself from the office and hopped along the footpath of the road, which led me to the Centre. Upon arriving, I pushed my way inside, enthusiastically to the centre. The staff greeted me, the lady at the reception instantly recognized me and said, "Welcome, Miss L/N. Are you excited to take home your new kitten?"

"oh obviously, can't you tell?" I laughed as I spoke out. The staff led me the way, but she was hurriedly stopped by another staff member and taken to the corner. I could see the staff whisper something to her agitatedly, and the receptionist kept looking back and forth at me. I didn’t take that whispered conversation as a good sign.

and it wasn't.

A heavy, sinking feeling formed in my stomach as the receptionist walked back over to me, her smile tight and apologetic. "Miss L/N... I am so sorry. There seems to have been a terrible mix-up in our system. The kitten you put a hold on, she is currently in the final stages of being adopted by someone else."

"What?!" My voice cracked, echoing in the quiet lobby. "But I filled out the forms! I already bought a literal fortress and a mountain of treats! Her name is Cookie!"

"Actually, she’s a feline, not a baked good. And legally, her paperwork just cleared under my name," a smooth, drawling voice interrupted from behind me.

I whipped around. Leaning against the doorway was a tall, imposing man. He wore a dark suit, his tie loosely undone, and a slightly chaotic, utterly confident smirk played on his lips. His dark hair fell over his eyes, giving him a dangerously charming look. His familiar frame didn't take me long to recognise who he was. It was Na Hwa-jin from ERPB.

"Excuse me?" I marched over to him, crossing my arms. "I've been waiting for her for weeks. You can't just swoop in and steal my kitten!"

"Steal? I prefer the term 'rescued by a more qualified candidate,'" Hwa-jin replied smoothly, looking down at me with an amused glint in his eyes. "Besides, look at me. Do I look like a man who backs down from a prize? The kitty chose me. She purred when I looked at her."

"She purrs at everyone, you overgrown giraffe!" I snapped, my face flushing with irritation. His eyes widened for a bit, clearly amused. "She’s striped, she’s small, she belongs in my apartment!"

"She’s a fierce predator who deserves a spacious home, shorty," he shot back, leaning in just close enough that I could catch the faint scent of his cologne. "And I have the perfect spot for her."

"I am not short, and you are a thief!"

"Quiet, please!" the receptionist cried out, stepping between us as our bickering escalated into a full-blown verbal war, drawing stares from across the center. "Since both of you are causing a massive public disturbance and refusing to compromise, I am exercising our center's right to deny both of you the adoption. Neither of you is getting the kitten today. Please leave before I call security."

Hwa-jin and I both froze, turning to look at her in absolute shock. He rolled his eyes and mouthed something, most likely accusing me, but I was too sad to fight back.

Ten minutes later, I was stomping down the sidewalk, blinking back tears of sheer frustration. I lost Cookie. And it was all because of that arrogant, suit-wearing menace.

A week passed, and the heartbreak of losing Cookie was reluctantly pushed to the back of my mind when a massive case landed on my desk. I was an investigator, and a disturbing report had surfaced regarding a severe drug abuse ring operating out of Saebom High School.

Next day, I arrived at the school to begin my investigation; the principal’s office was already occupied. My jaw dropped when the door opened, revealing a familiar, lanky figure stepping out.

"Well, well. Look who it is," Hwa-jin purred, his smirk widening the moment his eyes landed on me. "Are you here to audit the school's stray cat population, or are you actually working?"

"You've got to be kidding me," I groaned, rubbing my temples. "What is the Educational Rights Protection Bureau doing here?"

"We protect students, Miss L/N. And right now, there's a nasty rumor about substances on campus," he said, stepping closer. Before I could protest, he leaned down, his voice dropping to a low, velvety murmur near my ear. "Though I must say, you look much prettier when you're not screaming at me over a Kitten."

My heart did a traitorous little flip. I pushed him back by his chest, trying to ignore how firm it felt. "Focus, Inspector. We have a job to do."

As we began looking into the case together, things quickly took a bizarre turn. We monitored the classrooms, checked the lockers, and observed the suspected students.

"This doesn't make any sense," I muttered, flipping through the confiscated delivery logs in an empty classroom. "The sheer volume of illicit substances bought by these students is massive. But look at them; none of them are showing symptoms. No dilated pupils, no erratic behaviour, no withdrawal. They aren't using it."

Hwa-jin’s playful demeanor instantly vanished, replaced by the sharp, calculating gaze of a predator. "If they're buying it but not consuming it, and no trace of distributing it yet. They could use it on something else."

Just then, the door slid open and Bong-Geun Dae rushed inside, holding a tablet. "Chief Hwa-jin! Investigator Y/N! I found something highly disturbing on the main suspect's private cloud account. A student named Han-sol."

We crowded around the screen. My blood ran cold.

There were photos and videos. Han-sol hadn't been using the drugs on humans. He had been adopting animals from various local shelters, including the very center we had visited and using them as test subjects for synthetic substances. And there, locked in a wire cage in a video dated just yesterday, was a small, striped kitten.

Cookie.

A gasp escaped my lips, and my knees went weak. "No... oh my god, no." Tears instantly blurred my vision.

Before I could fall, a strong hand gripped my wrist and shoulder, pulling me securely against a solid frame. Hwa-jin held me tight, his grip unyielding, offering a grounding warmth that stopped my spinning world.

When I looked up at him, the playful, teasing man from before was entirely gone. His eyes were dead, terrifyingly cold, glowing with a dark, dangerous rage.

"Geun Dae," Hwa-jin whispered, his voice dripping with pure venom. "Locate the kid. Right now."

"He's in the old greenhouse behind the sports field, Chief."

Hwa-jin looked down at me. The tenderness of the gesture contrasted sharply with the fury radiating from him. "Stay with me, Y/N. We will go on to make sure he regrets ever being born."

We stormed the greenhouse. The doors burst open to reveal Han-sol holding a syringe, standing over several cages.

What followed was a blur of righteous fury. Han-sol didn't even have time to scream before Hwa-jin closed the distance. With brutal, terrifying efficiency, Hwa-jin systematically dismantled the high school bully, slamming him against the brick wall and ensuring he wouldn't be standing for a very long time. The police, tipped off by Bong-geun dae, arrived minutes later to arrest Han-sol and the older dealers he was buying from.

I didn't care about the chaos. I ran straight to the cages and took all the pet. The very small kitten that I held near to my chest was cookie.

"Cookie," I sobbed, carefully opening the latch. The little striped kitten whimpered, looking up at me with tired, glassy eyes. Right next to her cage was another, a completely snow-white kitten, shaking violently from the trauma.

A few hours later, we were at the 24-hour veterinary clinic. The vet walked out, giving us a reassuring smile. "They're going to be okay. We flushed the toxins out of their systems. Fortunately, the dosages weren't lethal yet. But two of them, the little tabby and the white one—need intensive, round-the-clock love and care to fully recover from the trauma."

I sat on the waiting room bench, exhausted, staring at my hands. A warm paper cup of coffee was suddenly pressed against my cheek. I looked up to see Hwa-jin sitting down beside me.

"You did good today, Investigator," he said softly, his voice devoid of its usual mockery.

"We did," I corrected, offering a weak smile. I looked through the glass at the two kittens sleeping side-by-side in an incubator. "What are we going to do about them? They can't go back to that center."

Hwa-jin looked at the white kitten, a rare, genuinely soft smile gracing his features. "Well... I suppose a certain giraffe has plenty of room in his apartment for a little white snowball."

I let out a breathless laugh, the knot in my chest finally loosening. "And I think a certain short investigator has a fortress of cat treats waiting for Cookie."

"Perfect."

Hwa-jin stood up, throwing his empty cup in the bin, and extended a hand to me. I took it, expecting him to just help me up, but instead, he kept his fingers loosely intertwined with mine, pulling me just a bit closer than necessary.

"So," he murmured, looking down at me with that familiar, heart-stopping smirk returning to his face. "Since our kids are technically survivors of the same trauma, they’re going to need to socialize. I’m thinking... a playdate. This weekend. At my place."

My heart did that frantic flip again, my cheeks warming up. "Are you asking me out on a date, Na Hwa-jin?"

"I'm asking Cookie out. You're just her chauffeur," he teased, though his thumb gently stroked the back of my hand, betraying his confident words. "But I suppose I can feed the chauffeur dinner. What do you say?"

I looked at our joined hands, then up into his dark, mesmerizing eyes, and smiled. "Only if Cookie gets to sit at the table."

"Deal."

-x-

@r-ra-a

@lunaryoongie

(Thank you for waiting! :') I hope you all like it.)

[whalewritr]

Cat out of the bag (Hwa-jin x F!Reader)

GENRE: bickering, drama, fluff, swoon-worthy stuffs

WARNING : use of substance, hint of animal abuse

SUMMARY: You come across a very annoying yet handsome inspector while you are out hunting for a cat. Although he is good-looking, it doesn't overlooks the fact he can get on your nerves. What happens when you both meet again over a mission at a university? Can he be ignored by you or would it be better to know each other better?

You had already thought of the name of your little one, you were waiting for this perfect day to arrive for you to welcome home this cute baby.

Y/N POV

I never imagined getting a kitten would be this exciting. Ever since I first visited her, I knew she was the one I would adopt. Tabby, small, and snuggly? How perfect that is! The moment I had laid eyes on her, the entire morning I had been preparing for this day, I had already booked the necessary cat supplies along with toys she would need. I quickly dismissed myself from the office and hopped along the footpath of the road, which led me to the Centre. Upon arriving, I pushed my way inside, enthusiastically to the centre. The staff greeted me, the lady at the reception instantly recognized me and said, "Welcome, Miss L/N. Are you excited to take home your new kitten?"

"oh obviously, can't you tell?" I laughed as I spoke out. The staff led me the way, but she was hurriedly stopped by another staff member and taken to the corner. I could see the staff whisper something to her agitatedly, and the receptionist kept looking back and forth at me. I didn’t take that whispered conversation as a good sign.

and it wasn't.

A heavy, sinking feeling formed in my stomach as the receptionist walked back over to me, her smile tight and apologetic. "Miss L/N... I am so sorry. There seems to have been a terrible mix-up in our system. The kitten you put a hold on, she is currently in the final stages of being adopted by someone else."

"What?!" My voice cracked, echoing in the quiet lobby. "But I filled out the forms! I already bought a literal fortress and a mountain of treats! Her name is Cookie!"

"Actually, she’s a feline, not a baked good. And legally, her paperwork just cleared under my name," a smooth, drawling voice interrupted from behind me.

I whipped around. Leaning against the doorway was a tall, imposing man. He wore a dark suit, his tie loosely undone, and a slightly chaotic, utterly confident smirk played on his lips. His dark hair fell over his eyes, giving him a dangerously charming look. His familiar frame didn't take me long to recognise who he was. It was Na Hwa-jin from ERPB.

"Excuse me?" I marched over to him, crossing my arms. "I've been waiting for her for weeks. You can't just swoop in and steal my kitten!"

"Steal? I prefer the term 'rescued by a more qualified candidate,'" Hwa-jin replied smoothly, looking down at me with an amused glint in his eyes. "Besides, look at me. Do I look like a man who backs down from a prize? The kitty chose me. She purred when I looked at her."

"She purrs at everyone, you overgrown giraffe!" I snapped, my face flushing with irritation. His eyes widened for a bit, clearly amused. "She’s striped, she’s small, she belongs in my apartment!"

"She’s a fierce predator who deserves a spacious home, shorty," he shot back, leaning in just close enough that I could catch the faint scent of his cologne. "And I have the perfect spot for her."

"I am not short, and you are a thief!"

"Quiet, please!" the receptionist cried out, stepping between us as our bickering escalated into a full-blown verbal war, drawing stares from across the center. "Since both of you are causing a massive public disturbance and refusing to compromise, I am exercising our center's right to deny both of you the adoption. Neither of you is getting the kitten today. Please leave before I call security."

Hwa-jin and I both froze, turning to look at her in absolute shock. He rolled his eyes and mouthed something, most likely accusing me, but I was too sad to fight back.

Ten minutes later, I was stomping down the sidewalk, blinking back tears of sheer frustration. I lost Cookie. And it was all because of that arrogant, suit-wearing menace.

A week passed, and the heartbreak of losing Cookie was reluctantly pushed to the back of my mind when a massive case landed on my desk. I was an investigator, and a disturbing report had surfaced regarding a severe drug abuse ring operating out of Saebom High School.

Next day, I arrived at the school to begin my investigation; the principal’s office was already occupied. My jaw dropped when the door opened, revealing a familiar, lanky figure stepping out.

"Well, well. Look who it is," Hwa-jin purred, his smirk widening the moment his eyes landed on me. "Are you here to audit the school's stray cat population, or are you actually working?"

"You've got to be kidding me," I groaned, rubbing my temples. "What is the Educational Rights Protection Bureau doing here?"

"We protect students, Miss L/N. And right now, there's a nasty rumor about substances on campus," he said, stepping closer. Before I could protest, he leaned down, his voice dropping to a low, velvety murmur near my ear. "Though I must say, you look much prettier when you're not screaming at me over a Kitten."

My heart did a traitorous little flip. I pushed him back by his chest, trying to ignore how firm it felt. "Focus, Inspector. We have a job to do."

As we began looking into the case together, things quickly took a bizarre turn. We monitored the classrooms, checked the lockers, and observed the suspected students.

"This doesn't make any sense," I muttered, flipping through the confiscated delivery logs in an empty classroom. "The sheer volume of illicit substances bought by these students is massive. But look at them; none of them are showing symptoms. No dilated pupils, no erratic behaviour, no withdrawal. They aren't using it."

Hwa-jin’s playful demeanor instantly vanished, replaced by the sharp, calculating gaze of a predator. "If they're buying it but not consuming it, and no trace of distributing it yet. They could use it on something else."

Just then, the door slid open and Bong-Geun Dae rushed inside, holding a tablet. "Chief Hwa-jin! Investigator Y/N! I found something highly disturbing on the main suspect's private cloud account. A student named Han-sol."

We crowded around the screen. My blood ran cold.

There were photos and videos. Han-sol hadn't been using the drugs on humans. He had been adopting animals from various local shelters, including the very center we had visited and using them as test subjects for synthetic substances. And there, locked in a wire cage in a video dated just yesterday, was a small, striped kitten.

Cookie.

A gasp escaped my lips, and my knees went weak. "No... oh my god, no." Tears instantly blurred my vision.

Before I could fall, a strong hand gripped my wrist and shoulder, pulling me securely against a solid frame. Hwa-jin held me tight, his grip unyielding, offering a grounding warmth that stopped my spinning world.

When I looked up at him, the playful, teasing man from before was entirely gone. His eyes were dead, terrifyingly cold, glowing with a dark, dangerous rage.

"Geun Dae," Hwa-jin whispered, his voice dripping with pure venom. "Locate the kid. Right now."

"He's in the old greenhouse behind the sports field, Chief."

Hwa-jin looked down at me. The tenderness of the gesture contrasted sharply with the fury radiating from him. "Stay with me, Y/N. We will go on to make sure he regrets ever being born."

We stormed the greenhouse. The doors burst open to reveal Han-sol holding a syringe, standing over several cages.

What followed was a blur of righteous fury. Han-sol didn't even have time to scream before Hwa-jin closed the distance. With brutal, terrifying efficiency, Hwa-jin systematically dismantled the high school bully, slamming him against the brick wall and ensuring he wouldn't be standing for a very long time. The police, tipped off by Bong-geun dae, arrived minutes later to arrest Han-sol and the older dealers he was buying from.

I didn't care about the chaos. I ran straight to the cages and took all the pet. The very small kitten that I held near to my chest was cookie.

"Cookie," I sobbed, carefully opening the latch. The little striped kitten whimpered, looking up at me with tired, glassy eyes. Right next to her cage was another, a completely snow-white kitten, shaking violently from the trauma.

A few hours later, we were at the 24-hour veterinary clinic. The vet walked out, giving us a reassuring smile. "They're going to be okay. We flushed the toxins out of their systems. Fortunately, the dosages weren't lethal yet. But two of them, the little tabby and the white one—need intensive, round-the-clock love and care to fully recover from the trauma."

I sat on the waiting room bench, exhausted, staring at my hands. A warm paper cup of coffee was suddenly pressed against my cheek. I looked up to see Hwa-jin sitting down beside me.

"You did good today, Investigator," he said softly, his voice devoid of its usual mockery.

"We did," I corrected, offering a weak smile. I looked through the glass at the two kittens sleeping side-by-side in an incubator. "What are we going to do about them? They can't go back to that center."

Hwa-jin looked at the white kitten, a rare, genuinely soft smile gracing his features. "Well... I suppose a certain giraffe has plenty of room in his apartment for a little white snowball."

I let out a breathless laugh, the knot in my chest finally loosening. "And I think a certain short investigator has a fortress of cat treats waiting for Cookie."

"Perfect."

Hwa-jin stood up, throwing his empty cup in the bin, and extended a hand to me. I took it, expecting him to just help me up, but instead, he kept his fingers loosely intertwined with mine, pulling me just a bit closer than necessary.

"So," he murmured, looking down at me with that familiar, heart-stopping smirk returning to his face. "Since our kids are technically survivors of the same trauma, they’re going to need to socialize. I’m thinking... a playdate. This weekend. At my place."

My heart did that frantic flip again, my cheeks warming up. "Are you asking me out on a date, Na Hwa-jin?"

"I'm asking Cookie out. You're just her chauffeur," he teased, though his thumb gently stroked the back of my hand, betraying his confident words. "But I suppose I can feed the chauffeur dinner. What do you say?"

I looked at our joined hands, then up into his dark, mesmerizing eyes, and smiled. "Only if Cookie gets to sit at the table."

"Deal."

-x-

@r-ra-a

@lunaryoongie

(Thank you for waiting! :') I hope you all like it.)

[fireladylisa]

— 𝒸uddles and confessions 𝜗ৎ

໒ྀི 𝖘ynopsis: for as long as you've known him, you've been in love with your bestfriend, zuko. you were good at covering it up, but there was one issue: he won't stop cuddling you! (ft. modern!zuko)

໒ྀི 𝖜ord count: 5.3k

໒ྀི 𝖗ating: 18+, fluff, a little angst, p in v sex, unprotected sex, choking, half of a creampie, oral (fem receiving), smut without plot

Zuko was upset again. 

You could tell just from the way he walked into your apartment, muscles rippling underneath his red number 1 jersey, lips set in a thin line and his messy hair falling from the bun he had put in before he left for his game. 

He slammed the door behind him, sliding his cleats off with an annoyed huff when he couldn't get them undone as fast he wanted. Then he's ripping his jersey off and tossing it across the living room without a care to where it landed. 

You were too sick and tired to yell at him that just because you had given him a key (for emergencies btw) doesn't mean he can just trash the place! Instead you just watched from the couch with a piece of tissue sticking out your left nostril, your favorite fuzzy blanket pulled up to your chest as you lay your head on the arm rest. 

Zuko didn't even say anything when he finally looked at you, just huffed and frowned before moving to you and ripping your blanket off. 

"Hey! I was using- ah!" You yelp when he freefalls onto your body face first, his large frame squishing you deeper into the couch as he nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck and mumbles, his rough voice muffled and vibrating against your skin. 

"I'll keep you warmer."

Your body goes into shock although Zuko cuddling you was nothing new. You two had been best friends since you were in diapers as your dad was best friends with his. You were as thick as thieves and maybe a few years ago this wouldn't have bothered you but now that you were sporting the biggest crush on him, possibly in love with him, it made your heart leap. 

The way his hot breath blew onto your skin left it tingling as goosebumps formed on your arms. Just when you were going to tell him to move, he wraps both arms underneath you and tightly around your waist. He presses his body deeper and you actively have to fight back the urge to moan because his body was in fact warming you better than the blanket could. 

Zuko was always heated like a furnace and you often joked that in another life he must have been able to wield fire. 

"I'm guessing the game didn't go the way you wanted?" You allow a hand to rise, fingers scratching at his head in an effort to comfort him despite your own desperate state.

He simply groans and presses a kiss to your neck and you just about died. Your chest tightened with need, the knot coursing through your body until it landed between your thighs and you were aching with lust. 

You laugh to keep yourself from groaning, spread your legs just a little wider so he could get more comfortable and so you could feel him better. 

"Lost by one point, it's not fair. I carried that team, it was basically me vs eleven people." 

You knew how passionate Zuko was about soccer and how talented he was. You both had been signed up when you were children, though you had switched to gymnastics only a few months later. He was competitive and to lose was a huge blow to his ego. This wasn't the first time he came to your house after and cuddled you.

You knew this was completely platonic, nothing romantic about it but a small part of you couldn't help but grow hopeful because despite the many cuddle sessions you shared, he'd never kissed you before. Was his anger clouding his judgement or was he trying to tell you he felt the same but couldn't say it?

Childhood trauma made it hard for him to communicate his feelings. 

"That's still a win for you, but I get it. Wanna talk about it more?"

You take in a sharp breath when he lifts his head and stares down at you, his huge frame covering yours as he shakes his head no. 

"Can you wash my hair after I shower?" Zuko's golden eyes burn into yours and your stomach is breakdancing, heart skipping a few beats as your pupils widen to truly take him in.

The way his hair fell into his face, half covering the scar on his left eye that he had gotten when you were young, skin tanned and glowing from the summer sun creeping through the curtains. 

He was so beautiful that it was unfair. You wanted him to be yours, to pull his head down and finally kiss his lips, especially when he let his eyes drift to yours. You watched his throat as he swallowed and adjusted his body above you, his hips digging into yours. 

"Yes." You whisper and swallow, annoyed that your cold wasn't letting you fully enjoy this moment, suddenly self conscious of the fact that you had tissue shoved into your nostril and probably looked ridiculous. 

"If you don't squish me to death first."You awkwardly laugh and squirm when he doesn't respond and only tilts his head and smiles. 

"Hmm, deal." Then his body is leaving yours and you regret ever saying anything. 

You washed his hair that night and cried yourself to sleep later when he mentioned he had a date to get to, someone Sokka had introduced him to, but he would text you later to let you know how it went. 

The next "cuddle" session had nearly gone your way and you wanted to curse your friend's entire bloodlines for ruining it. 

It was a month after his game and you were sitting on his kitchen counter, idly scrolling through TikTok as Zuko moved about the room making dinner. You'd occasionally lift your head to sneak a look, pussy throbbing every time your eyes caught the way his compression shirt hugged his chest. 

Zuko wasn't disgustingly ripped, you know, like how some guys were all muscles and veins to the point where it was unattractive. He sported the perfect athletic body thanks to years of soccer, wide shoulders with a narrow waist and his muscles were well defined. 

He was perfect in every way possible. He had even decided to let his hair fall loose when you complained that he always had it up and it would start to knot if he didn’t free it every once in a while. 

Twenty minutes pass with you scrolling and Zuko humming a song while standing over the stove. When a video popped up with that trend of girlfriends seeing if their boyfriends would grunt when lifting them up, you were instantly jumping down and practically skipping to your friend with a devious smile on your face.

"Zuuukooo. Hey, can we try this trend?" You stand to his side and shove the phone up into his face. 

He squinted as he looked at the screen, shaking his head as he smiled and then sighed. He lowered the temperature on the stove and dropped the mixing spoon on the counter, turning to you and before you could process what was happening, you were in the air. 

Zuko had lifted you without grunting and your face burned as you gasped and wrapped your arms around his neck to keep from falling, though his grip on your waist was tight enough. Both hands handling onto each side of you, your feet well off the ground as your legs dangled. 

Zuko hadn't broken a sweat, pulling your body closer and your legs wrapped around him out of pure survival instinct. You pulled your face back to stare at him, words lost as your brain turned into goo. Your friend was a different kind of beast for sure. 

"Now what? Do I get a treat for passing?" He's smirking and you wanted to throttle him, his words vibrating through your body and making your cunt clinch against nothing. 

He had no idea the effect he had on you.

"I don't have anything to give you." You whisper and gulp when his eyes travel to your lips, just as they did last time. Butterflies were clogging your chest and stomach, your brain short-circuiting.

"Hmm." He pulls your body closer, hands moving to grip your ass for better leverage. "I'm sure there's something yo-"

A loud knock came from the front door and was followed by the sound of four giggling voices. Toph yelling for Zuko to open up. The man holding you grunts and rolls his eyes, lowering you and not moving his hands until your feet are back on the ground. 

You were going to kill them violently. 

As your friends all pile into the kitchen and Zuko resumes his cooking, you both can't help but steal secretive looks at each other. Well not that secretive since Katara noticed, because of course she did. You were too flushed, too lost to your thoughts to see the way she'd look between you both with a knowing smile.

You went home beyond horny that night, your rose toy turning on the moment your body hit your bed, a certain 6'2 soccer player on your mind. 

The third cuddle session that changed things between you two was after your date went horribly wrong. The guy was terrible, he only talked about himself and refused to let you get a word in unless you were responding to something he said. 

He was far from your type and when you apologized and told him you didn't think this was going to work, he fumed and told you that you weren't his kind of girl anyways. That hadn't bothered you but what did was the way he stormed out and left you with the bill. 

You covered it but it would hurt your pockets since you were a broke college student with rent to pay and didn't have money to waste on losers like him. When Zuko had picked you up and you told him what happened, he apologized, offered to refund you for the bill and asked if you wanted him to find the man and make him apologize for disrespecting you. 

You were fuming in the passenger seat of his car, arms crossed against your chest as you glared out the window watching the lights and buildings fly by. 

"No, please just take me home." 

Zuko only nods, tightening his hand around the wheel as his own anger burns hot. You could practically feel the heat simmering off his skin, his jaw taut as he focused on the road ahead. You’d think he was the one that was slighted.

When he pulled up outside your place, he killed the engine and looked at you, his eyes full of concern for the girl he had grown up with. "Want me to come in with you? I can stay until you feel better." 

You were nodding without hesitation and thanking the gods that you had your own place outside of campus. 

That's how you ended up with his chest pressed against your back, arm tightening around you as he pulled you close and tangled his leg with yours. Best friends cuddled all the time right? There was no reason for your body to be reacting the way it did, stomach twist as you felt his semi-hard cock press into your ass. 

This was totally normal, even if your face turned into a furnace and your heart told you this was in fact, far from normal. You’d never cuddle with Sokka or Aang like this. 

"You didn't deserve that, I'm sorry love." He breaks through your thoughts.

The way he whispered your nickname sent shivers through your body. It was something he had called you for the twenty plus years you knew each other but now that you were sure you were in love with him, it made the name feel too endearing. 

You flipped in his arms so that you could see his face and the sight of him laying in your bed was so domestic, you could feel your body start to melt. The way he stared at you, mouth slightly open, eyes holding your gaze while his hand moved to your hip and rubbed circles on your exposed skin. 

"Do you think I'm unloveable?" You whisper. The question wasn't because your date didn't think you were his type, more so that he had stormed off and left you sitting there like you meant nothing. 

Zuko glares, seeming annoyed that you were letting some loser ruin your mood this much. It was unlike you but he had no idea that as your feelings grew for him so did your insecurities. 

How could he ever want a girl like you? You didn't seem like someone he'd be attracted to based on his dating history and you hated that it made you question your own looks. 

"How could you be unloveable when I love you?"

Your face flushed and you wiggle an inch away, eyes wide and heart stopping as he pulled you back. 

"You can't just say things like that, plus it doesn't count. We've been friends for so long that you have no choice but to care for me. Don’t tease me, jerk." 

He smirks and reaches down to grab your leg, lifting it over his hip so that he could pull you closer. You were sure your panties were ruined. 

He perched his head onto his hand and stared down at you, a loose strand of hair falling from his bun. He moved his other hand from your leg and used it to feel the skin of your cheek, fingers moving until they gripped your chin.

Had you died? That was the only explanation for this heavenly feeling you were experiencing, your entire body trembling under his stare as you lost yourself to his eyes. 

"Don't say stupid things then (name). It makes me irrationally mad." 

"But it's true. How could someone love me-"

"Shut up." 

The world tilted when he smashed his lips against yours, your body sinking embarrassingly fast into his. You locked your legs around his hips when he pushed you onto your back with his body placed on top of yours. 

You both moan into the kiss, lips parting when his tongue rubs against them asking for permission. Your arms wrap around his neck to pull him closer, neither of you coming up for air until you lifted your hips to grind against his hard cock and he was pulling away to gasp. 

"Fuck- don't do that love. I'm barely controlling myself right now, don't wanna disrespect you." And despite his words, his hips still grind into you and the way his cock rubs against your clothed pussy has you tossing your head back with a moan until he pulls you back. 

"Please? It'll make me feel better, I need you so bad Zuko." 

You blink at him with wide doe eyes and long lashes and his self control snaps as he pushes his lips against yours again, one hand grabbing your leg to keep it around his waist, the other pushed into the bed above your head so he could hold himself up. 

"If I do this, there's no going back. You'll be mine only, I don't share." 

Was this really happening right now? Zuko never showed any signs of being interested in you and while you were happy he shared the same feelings, you were genuinely confused, blinking up at your best friend with furrowed eyebrows. 

"Do you- I didn't think you were interested in that way." 

Zuko's chuckling, leaning down to place a kiss on your brow before pulling back to look at you again, golden eyes shining with amusement and lust. 

"Did you think I was cuddling you for the sake of it? I've been in love with you since I was eleven, I just didn't think you felt the same until that day in my kitchen." 

Tears well up in your ears and when one slips free, Zuko leans forward and kisses it away before taking your lips again, tongues tangling as you lace your fingers into his hair, pulling the hair tie loose and relishing in the way his hair falls free and into your face. 

Zuko's softly cradling your face, kissing you like he had years of lost time to make up for and you let out all the love you had locked away for years. All of it pouring into one kiss, the weight of the world lifting off your shoulder because he loved you back and as more than just a friend. 

He placed one more kiss to your lips before moving to your neck, licking and sucking hard so it bruises, hands moving to grab your covered tits. 

"Quit teasing.. Zuko, s'not.. fair." You managed to say between heavy breaths, chest moving up and down harshly as you fought back the urge to push him back and start riding him without any foreplay. 

"Let me take my time, love. Have so much to make up for." 

And you keep your mouth shut, biting your lip to keep from crying because this was a dream come true. Zuko loved you, he loved you and this wasn't just your imagination, far better than one of the dreams you so often had. 

After another minute he finally moves to sit back on his knees, not wasting any time and pulling your shirt off and then his. You gasp at being so suddenly exposed, not that it was the first time he saw you in a bra but never in this way. Not when he was about to fuck you and truly make you his. 

“Just stay still for me, alright? You can do that for me, right baby?” His voice is low and laced with desire, your eyes growing cloudy and mouth filling with drool at the sight of his bare chest. His sweats were hanging low on his hips and the way his dark happy trail disappeared into his red boxers had you soaked. 

You nod stupidly, spit forming at the corners of your mouth. He was doing something to your brain because you couldn’t speak, just stared at the man like he hung the moon. 

Zuko chuckled, a hand coming down to rub your cheek. “Good girl. Spread your legs for me, love.” 

You do as he says, your head spinning and a lump forming in your throat when he pulls your skirt and panties down at the same time. The way he stared down at you after tossing your clothes aside had you a little self conscious, hands going to cover your body but Zuko was faster than you, grabbing it tightly and tossing it aside with a warning glare. 

“You’re perfect, stop fucking hiding frome me.” 

You almost cry again but swallow your tears and the lump in your throat, choosing instead to focus on the ache between your legs. 

Zuko drops to his stomach and moves until his face is between your legs, grabbing them to place on his shoulders, staring up at you with a lifted brow. “Don’t be shy, wrap your legs around me.” 

Holy shit, there was no way he couldn’t see the slick dripping down your legs and onto the sheets because you were drenched. His words send you into a frenzy as you do as he says, legs tightening around his head as he smirks and places kisses onto your thighs. 

“I’ll show you exactly why I’m much better than those scumbags you keep wasting your time with. Hold onto me, baby.”

He grips your hips and pulls you further down the bed until your cunt was directly on his face. 

Zuko starts by licking a long strip from your creamy hole to your clit, moving the pink muscle in circles around the sensitive nub before taking it into his mouth and sucking hard. 

“Oh fuck! Zuko, haah that f-feels so good.” Your stomach tingles and tightens as you reach a hand down into his hair and move your hips against his tongue. 

You were growing impossibly wetter, your slick covering Zuko’s face as he went to work, groaning against your pussy as he devoured you as though he hadn't eaten in days, all but inhaling you. The way he was so completely lost to you had your stomach tightening all too soon as you cried out, hands tightening around his hair. 

“Don’t stop, m’gonna cum.” You cry, literal tears sliding down your face as you tossed your head to the side, face digging into your pillow. Your chest moving too fast as you tried to catch your breath, trying to stop yourself from cumming too fast. 

Zuko didn’t stop, in fact he added two fingers to prep you further, instantly curling them to hit that spot that had your squishy walls tightening around him. 

You were blindsided by the sudden added pressure and thirty seconds later, you were crying out as sweat beaded on your forehead, pulsing pleasure ripping through you as your orgasm stole your breath. You had never cum so fast in your life, body shaking as you felt every layer of pleasure, Zuko licking and sucking you through it, hand pushing down on your stomach and you swear you came a second time. 

You were in bliss as your legs fell back onto the bed, the dark haired man making his way back up your body. He stared down at you as you attempted to catch your breath, face proudly glistening with your juice as he rubbed at your shaking thigh. 

Your eyes were slowly shutting, brain rattling from the intense orgasm your best friend had just given you. You should have told him sooner, shouldn't have wasted time secretly obsessing over him when you could have been getting your pussy eaten like that. 

“Don’t tell me you’re tapping out already.” His voice was teasing and you opened your eyes to frown at him despite how heavy they felt, still finding it hard to believe that he was above you like this. 

He was so beautiful, reaching to pull down his sweats and boxers, just enough to free himself and holy fuck, your best friend was packing. Drool started to seep from the corners of your mouth at the sight of his hard cock teasing you, the tip red and already leaking pre cum.

When you went to sit up in hopes of tasting him, he pushed you back down and when you went to sit up again, he kept his hand at your shoulder to hold you down while he grabbed his cock with his other hand and started dragging his hand up and down, grip tight as he pleasured himself, thumb rubbing at the tip and using his pre as lube. 

“Not this time, love. Do you have condoms?” 

Your heart dropped. This was really, truly happening. “Y-yes, but you don’t have to wear one. I’m- ahem, I’m clean and I’m on birth control.”

He bites back a smile, chest shaking as he silently laughs. You want to die from embarrassment. 

“Do you want me to wear one, baby?”

You didn't, which was unlike you since you never let a guy sleep with you without one, but this was Zuko and you wanted to feel every inch of him, had waited years too. Something primal settling in your chest at the though of him fucking you raw.   

So you’re shaking your head no and gasping when he rubs the tip against your wet folds. “Thank god. Need to feel how wet you are.” 

You’re nodding like a fool, swallowing hard when he leans down and over you to catch your lips again. It’s soft this time, his lips lightly brushing against yours as he lines himself up with your entrance. 

He slowly starts to push in, giving you a second to breathe with every push you take until all eight inches of his cock is deep inside you, Zuko moving his hips in circles to get deep until he completely bottoms out. 

His lips are over yours as you breath in each other's air, your eyes squeezing from the sting of the stretch. Zuko was not only long but he was thick and it was taking a minute for you to adjust to his size. 

He was patient, littering your faces in sweet, gentle kisses until you bucked against him for more and he was sitting up to grab yours legs, looking down and groaning at the sight of his cock snug in your pussy, walls stretched around him. He pressed your legs to your chest and leaned over you again, slowly moving his hips and fighting the urge to start pounding into you. 

You were gripping him so tight, the first raw pussy Zuko had ever been in and he thought his stomach might explode with the way it was twisting. You looked so beautiful underneath him, taking his cock so well like you were always meant to.  

“Please move.” You whine, hair fanned out across the sheets you were gripping. 

Zuko didn’t waste any more time, already having done that since he first fell for you all those years ago. He was leaning forward again, hands connecting with yours as he placed them above your head. The first thrust he gives is gentle, just enough to prepare you as he holds your stare and slams into you the second time, the bed knocking against the wall as you cry out and close your eyes. 

Zuko would have told you to open your eyes any other time but the way your pussy was gripping felt so good that he was closing his own, mind still trying to process that he was really fucking you right now. 

All those nights he spent jacking off to the thought you were nothing compared to this, to the way you fit so perfectly around him, your pussy creaming and juices sticking to his abdomen as he started to pick up his pace. 

He didn’t want to rush this, but the way you were squirming beneath him, legs pressed to your chest as he pushed deep, had him pounding ruthlessly into you. His anger grew hot at the thought of you wasting your time with those losers, at them having you in this way.

He would show you that he was always the better option and then he’d have you ride him to show him how much better you were than those girls he was never really into. 

He leans further down to capture your lips again, cock dragging between your swollen folds as he takes you deep and hard. You were mumbling incoherently, ecstasy taking root in your body as Zuko gripped your throat and moved his hips in circular motions to rub against your clit. 

You were on cloud nine as you traded spit, the kiss all teeth and tongue. Your hips started to lift to meet his thrusts and the choked groan Zuko gave, boosted your confidence as you fucked each other. 

“So fucking tight, love. Best pussy I ever h-had.” 

You’re lost in each other, the only sounds in the room are your heavy breathing and the sound of the bed creaking and banging against the wall. He takes you like that for a bit, your legs pressed against your chest as he basically folds you in half until he lowers them so he can feel your chest pressed against his. 

He grabs your chin and tilts your head up so he can kiss your lips again, only pulling back to stare at you. 

“Hi, sweetheart.” He huffs out, a groan escaping when you tighten around him at the sound of the endearing pet name.

“Hi.” You whisper back, eyes hooded and your hands in his hair, nails scratching at his scalp. 

“I love you. I always- ngggh, I always have.” Zuko confesses, grinding deep and your bottom lip trembles.

“I love you too, more than you know.”

And his eyes start to burn so he’s picking up his pace again, your jelly-like legs wrapping around his hips and pulling him closer to keep him inside of you. He’s so deep that you feel his tip kissing your cervix, your pussy gripping him tight, sucking up his cock and refusing to let go. He would stay there forever if it was up to you. 

“Not gonna last long, baby. Shit, you feel too g-good.” He kisses you to cover up the embarrassing moan that almost slipped out, eyes rolling back as the coil in his stomach tightened and threatened to snap. He could feel his balls growing heavy with cum, the human instinct to breed you filling his head. 

How beautiful would you look dripping with his seed? The thought had him spiraling, thrust growing erratic. 

Your nails are digging into his back, the burn doing nothing but adding to the pleasure he felt. You had no idea that one his kinks was pain, and the way your fingers left marks on his back had him spilling into you with a deep and long groan before he could stop himself. 

“Fuuuckkk, I’m cumming baby. Shit, I’m filling you so fucking much.” He cried out, hips snapping sloppily into yours, his crude words sending you over the edge.

You cum hard at the feeling of his hot seed dripping down your ass and onto the bed, Zuko never stopping because this was the longest orgasm of his life. His balls pulsed as he shot rope after rope of hot cum into you, sitting up quickly and pulling out when he remembered he wasn't wearing a condom. 

He threw his head back and sang songs of pure lust, gripping his cock and jerking himself as cum spilled from the tip and onto your stomach. It wasn’t a lot as most of it was inside of you, but the sight still left him breathless and hard. 

He collapsed on top of you when he was spent, his sticky cum basically gluing you two together. Neither of you say a word as you catch your breath, the smell of sex filling the moonlit room, the reality of what just happened hitting you. 

You’re frozen under him, heart skipping beats while your mind raced. Was this a spur of the moment kind of thing? He was just comforting you after a date gone wrong, he couldn’t have meant what he said.. Right? 

“Zuko-”

“I love you and I meant it.” He answered every insecure question racing through your head with seven words, knowing you all too well. It made your chest swell with love, the way he always knew what you were going to say before actually saying it as if your souls were connected. 

He was your person and you were his.

He lifts up to look at you again, a devious smile spreading across his face as he reaches a hand down and uses two fingers to rub at your swollen clit, slowly moving to your hole and pushing his cum back inside. 

“Make no mistake (name), you’re mine and I’m gonna fuck you until every ounce of doubt leaves that pretty little head of yours. Got it?”

The next morning you’re standing in the bathroom, body sore and brushing your teeth when Zuko comes in behind, still half asleep and wearing nothing but his boxers, his hair wild on his head. He stood behind you, arms wrapping around your waist, dropping his head to kiss your shoulder where your shirt hung loose. 

“Morning.” Neither of you say another word as he grabs his spare toothbrush he kept at your place, added toothpaste and started brushing his teeth. 

He used his other hand to sneak under your shirt and hold onto your boob, squeezing it tiredly as he stared at you in the mirror with half closed eyes and pulled you closer.

You never wanted him to stop cuddling you.

❦ lisa's note: i'd do crazy things to modern zuko, like I need him real bad.

꒰ as requested by the lovely @kiyara-blues5999 ꒱

art by internet famous, divider by @cursed-carmine ♡

𓂅𓈒 zuko tags: @bibimysoul @getovibesonly @lazylionlady @httpswilloww @itzkawaiix @xpotatoee @rhaewinsdaughter @manayoyo @laceymarch @darkloverfox @adeline5666 @1iluvvocattoss @fireladybliss @bananianii @renamay09 @pepitesingulare @mossmydarling @im-in-lokis-army @llovekats @xoxocelestial @godisitnaptimeyet @betsybetts @mihyas-dieehefrau @katarasdoll @myauraisperrywinkle @nishinoyasusedsock @rhaewinsdaughter @amelliathestar @rizecia17 @mutsu422 @weasleytwins-41 @alex2602 @lilywife @blackheartharv @emeraldpurple @eaturbucky @kissprl @moewzington @sugarxspic3 @pinkpantherrrrss

[deuxiose]

˖ ◜ antise(x)ptic !

യ (p. jackson ) 𓂃 you hate the look of blood on demigods; every drop of the reddish liquid only serves as a bleak reminder of all the grueling work you have to do as a healer. however, an unassuming tuesday makes you realize that sometimes, blood looks oh so good on a certain son of poseidon. alternatively, where you realize you want percy after he shows up to the infirmary bloodied and gashed.

cws. nsfw / smut under the cut , 18+ only ; minors dni ! fem apollo reader. fingering (f! receiving) . oral (m! receiving) . unprotected piv & he cums inside . . . reader is referred to as “pretty girl”, “my girl”. percy and reader are adults. percy is cocky.  implied post-hoo. porn with some plot . lmk if i missed any other warnings !

wc. 4054 words. requested by @myrapottah

sol ‘s note : though this was requested (like MONTHS ago . . . i'm sorry myra babes) , i’d like to dedicate this fic to a special recent achievement of mine: passing nursing school in one of the best schools in my state ! :’) the fic’s quite long, but i had so so so much fun writing her. i hope u all enjoy reading !

tuesdays were always training days.

every tuesday of the week, campers would flock towards the training ground, celestial bronze weapons in hand, picking fights with straw dummies in bronze armor. oftentimes, campers who grew bored of the non-moving, stationary strawmen flocked together and decided to use themselves as their own training dummies. this became a new, innovative method of melee fight teaching, and has carried on to the present day. 

this demigod versus demigod training brawls always happen on tuesdays.

it was an unspoken tradition, written in the minds of these orange-clad campers like it was law. tuesdays were always training days. for the rest of camp, it was a day to hone and develop new skills, to have a better chance at defending themselves against monsters that were prevalent outsidecamp half blood’s borders. it was because of this reasoning that the campers got far too carried away with their training. 

for the apollo cabin, it’s the worst day of the week. 

with the influx of injured campers—all with injuries ranging from pin-sized papercuts to almost amputations—the infirmary was almost always full. more often than not, training days meant that the apollo cabin had to be spread thinner to accommodate the number of people who needed medical attention. 

the apollo cabin holds a mild dislike for tuesdays. you do, especially. 

you often regretted saying yes. after leaving camp half blood years ago, you thought it’d be a nice few years in the mortal world—pursuing your education and bettering your skills away from the world of deadly prophecies and gods and goddesses. it would have been a nice break, until chiron reached out to you privately, asking for a small favor. 

according to him, before you left and for a while after, the tuesdays system was never this bad. apollo could manage it enough; they didn’t need to spread themselves out so thin to treat injured campers.

the system worsened after chiron asked percy jackson to train the campers in swordfighting. this led to a staggering increase in injured demigods. 

you thought it was a false cause—post hoc ergo propter hoc, or whatever. but, after you said yes to chiron’s plea to come back to camp and help apollo manage injuries, you saw with your own eyes that chiron wasn't just incorrectly assuming that because one event followed another, the first event caused the second.

you saw how the poor campers were tripping over themselves and nearly getting mauled because of their efforts in swordfighting. and—upon asking a patient with a finger that almost fell off—it wasn’t because of his methods of teaching. no, it was because the kids wanted to be like him so bad, they went to extremes just to get better, to be like their hero, percy jackson.

the apollo cabin held a mild dislike for tuesdays. you? you loathed them. 

this tuesday, however, is an exception. 

“jackson…” you pause. you have to chastise yourself. healers aren’t supposed to sound this horrified upon seeing their patients, no matter how battered, bloody, or bruised they are. they aren’t supposed to sound horrified at all. you try to mask it with a cough. “what…happened to you?”

threre’s a gash. no, not even that—to call it a gash would be an insult to the mere magnitude of it. it was an ugly, jagged line, the origin at the dead center of his chest. it curls around his pectorals, and you can see it end on a point between his armpit and his bicep. from a blunt weapon, most likely. blood is splattered on his chest like a bad watercolor painting, but thankfully, the wound isn’t gushing out any blood at all.

he’s led to the bed—thank you, you tell his companion—and when he’s sat down, the muscles of his abdomen flex ever so noticeably.

my gods, was his body always this defined? 

a traitorous, unserious voice in your head points that fact out, and heat immediately rushes to your cheeks.

he straightens at your gaze. 

“you should see the other guy,” he tells you, snapping you out of your thoughts. 

your eyebrows furrow, your mouth curls into a wince just thinking of all the healing you’ll have to do to this poor other camper. “i hope i don't get to see the other guy at all.” 

you glance at the pitcher of lukewarm water used to clean wounds. 

percy is the son of poseidon. the pitcher would be an easy way to heal him—you wouldn’t need to spend so much cleaning his large wound and sewing it up. you probably wouldn’t even need to consume the entire pitcher to make the wound disappear.

it’s convenient, the voice in your head says, but it comes at the cost of you not seeing or touching percy’s muscles.

it’s a moral and ethical dilemma.  

you shake your head and turn to the cabinet above you. from there, you pull out sterile gloves, cotton balls, antiseptic, a needle and thread, and some nectar. in the end, the traitorous voice prevails.

after you put the gloves on, you tell him, “i’ll start by cleaning your wound.” you douse the cotton ball in antiseptic. “your wound’s quite big, it might sting.”

he purses his lips and nods, as if steeling himself.

you circle the edges of his wound with antiseptic. once clean, you take a nectar-doused cotton ball and dab it gently against the open wound.

his stomach flexes at the contact. his arms brace against the bed frame, and you can almost see the same arms wrapped around you, same bare torso pressed against your bare back—

“did a kid beat you up this much?” you ask to rid yourself of those thoughts. and oh, how you prayed he couldn’t hear the small tremors in your voice. 

his head snaps around, and he throws a small glare at you. “i’ll have you know, i wasn’t beaten up by a kid.”

“i don’t know who you’re fooling,” you say. “the nymphs, satyrs, and chiron are the only things in camp older than us.”

percy shuts his mouth after, giving you the perfect opportunity to sew the wound closed.

you trace a line around the wound's perimeter.

“i’ll sew around here,” you say. at the look on percy’s face, you reassure him: “there’ll be nectar in the thread, don’t worry. it won’t hurt.”

after you’d sewn the wound closed, you dab over it with nectar for good measure.

“alright, that’s all you’ll need from me.” you hand him a spare camp shirt that—you assume—is his size. “the wound’s all closed up, and i made sure the thread’s fortified enough that the wound won’t open with strenuous activity. you can continue training; just don’t let any kids cut you up that bad, yeah?”

you turn your back to him. you dispose of the antiseptic and nectar cotton balls you used to clean his wound, wrap the needle in tissue and throw it, shelve the bottle of nectar and antiseptic, then tidy up your area. 

when you turn back, percy jackson is still sitting on the infirmary bed. 

he didn’t even put the shirt on. 

“why aren’t you leaving—?”

“you want me,” he says, blunt as the blade that slashed through his—defined, toned, muscled—chest. 

“what?”

shit. 

your heart is beating rapidly in your chest, loud enough that you can hear it roaring in your ears.

“i do not,” you state, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to lower your heart rate. it doesn't slow. 

“do too,” he replies. “weren't you checking me out a while ago?”

this was new. 

“i was assessing you. what’s gotten into you?”

“was it the blood, doc?” he smirks. he didn’t even answer your question. “you're into that?” 

you hate how much he sounds like he’s mocking you. 

and you hate how much he's right. 

“no. i’m not. i treat a lot of bloody demigods. every day of the week. there's no way i get aroused by blood.”

i’m into how the blood looks on you, the traitorous (and truthful) voice in your head says. 

then, you huff. “you lost a lot of blood back there,” you say. “you're delirious, jackson. delusional, even.” 

“y’sure, doc?” and you can see the shadow of a smile that stretches across his face when he says, “why don't we test that theory out, huh?”

suddenly, your lower back meets the wooden table. in one long stride, percy had crossed the distance between the two of you. 

there’s a soft smack as his hands land on the table, just right beside you, caging you in between his arms. he leans in enough that the low timbre of his voice reverberates through your bones and stirs the butterflies lying low. 

“you're soaked, pretty girl.”  

fuck. of course the son of the water god would know that. 

and, from the look on his face, the same son of the water god knew that you’d never be able to deny it. 

percy was hot—objectively, truthfully speaking. you knew this. especially now that you’ve seen his fine, god-esque figure accentuated by the sheen of blood. you doubt it was even the blood. it was just him. 

you won't deny, too, what you’ve been feeling—the warmth in your entire body and the unmistakable dampness in your panties—the moment he entered the infirmary. 

was it so wrong to give in to what you want, just this once? 

when you look back up at him, his sea green eyes are boring into your very soul. 

“have you made up your mind yet, doc?” he asks. 

and fuck it, you have. 

you lean in first, smashing your lips against his. 

and, to your surprise, percy kisses you back with as much vigor—if not more. 

the two of you waste no time in being careful. percy shoves his tongue in your mouth, you run your hands to his hair, tugging at the strands that get caught between your fingers.

you only register hands on you, then the loss of ground, before you’re lifted onto the wooden table. 

he leans in, his kisses sloppy, desperate, and downright greedy as he sucks on your bottom lip. 

he leaves your lips tingling for more as he kisses down, down, down, right at your carotid. he licks that very point, then hollows his cheeks and sucks. 

you let out a sound. it teeters embarrassingly on the edge of a yelp and a drawn-out groan.

immediately, your hand flies to your mouth.  

“don't do that, pretty girl,” he says, peeling your hands away from your mouth. he intertwines them, then presses another kiss there, mumbling against the soft skin: “wanna hear everything.”    

“but they'll hear us, jackson,” you whisper. 

the both of you are silent for a moment, until:

“wanna come over to mine?” he asks. “cabin’s soundproof. no one’s gonna hear a thing.”

the moments to cabin three pass in the blink of an eye. 

when you cross the threshold of the seasalt-scented cabin, none of you linger.  

with a sudden bout of newfound confidence, you pull him in by the hand, the kiss open-mouthed, wet—leagues away from your initial composure at the infirmary. there’s none now; you think you’ve lost it all. 

percy leads you to the bed. he makes himself comfortable, and the hand entwined with yours pulls you onto his lap. 

his one hand is everywhere. it cradles your face and deepens the kiss, it squeezes and grips at your waist, and, the next moment, latches on to it like a vice and pulls you impossibly closer to him.

your limbs are wrapped perfectly around him. one hand clings to his shoulders, locking him in place and feeling every oscillating wave of his muscles at every small movement. the other hand stays locked in his. 

your pussy’s weeping, downright throbbing at the taste of his tongue in your mouth. you couldn't help but think about how it’d feel inside of you—

ankles lock right behind him, trying to bring yourself even closer and closer to where you needed him most. your drenched panties catch on to the tent at the front of his shorts, and you have to hold back a sob. 

you think, in this moment, you’ve finally made up your mind. 

“i want you,” you murmur. “so bad.”

percy lets out a small, mirthful chuckle. “can feel you getting wetter over me, doc. ‘s like a damn waterpark.” 

before you can retort, percy’s hands grip your hips—not rough, not tight, but as if asking for permission—and only slightly lift. your fingers hook under the garter of your waistband and, with his help, you shimmy out of your shorts. 

percy doesn't have to try, and yet, every move of his arm is showing off and flexing his biceps for you to ogle at.

and, as the next piece of fabric comes down, he lets out a guttural groan. both of you watch—percy, transfixed—as a few stringy wads of your slick stick to the front of your panties.

oh, you really were so wet. 

percy continues to stare, a small smile stretching across his face and into a smirk. 

“don't–don't get cocky about it.” your legs inch closer together in an attempt to block out the pure intensity of his stare, when—

“dont.”

his middle and ring finger swipe a long, languid stripe up your pussy lips, pooling your slick onto his digits. 

your mouth drops into a little “oh!” as he starts to sink his middle finger into your pussy. and as if in a daze, he’s letting the second of his long fingers in. 

“jackson—you… fuck!” you're trying not to wail, to keep your voice low so other campers can't hear you—but, fuck, do percy’s fingers feel good. 

percy’s brows furrow and crease in the middle just as he watches your cunt swallow up his fingers. he moves them slowly, just a small wriggle side to side, before he feels the slight resistance—“fuck,” he whispers against your neck (he’s never felt so parched). “so tight around me, pretty girl,” 

you whine when he pulls his fingers out. sheeny slick coats them, a line of it keeping you two connected still. 

you miss the feel of percy in you for a few seconds, before he’s pushing his fingers back in, out, in. they were so vicious, so greedy, taking up all the space and swabbing at you. in, then out, then in.

“don't stop, please.”

“why would i?” he murmurs. his eyes aren't on you at all, but down, down, down.

he scissoring your entrance wide open with his roving fingertips to the point where you can feel his fingerprints against your soft insides. you shiver at the way he sinks them in again with a sluurp. 

percy leans in a bit more, pressing a kiss to your carotid, then clavicle. 

in that same moment, his wrist has found a newfound angle, one that somehow pushes his two fingers deeper in. hitting nearly the back of your pussy, pushing back and forth against your gooey walls. 

when you feel it, your eyes widen. 

he smiles. “found it.”

he hooks at your most sensitive gummy bundle of nerves. curves his fingers just right. 

your loose limbs start shaking at percy’s relentless back and forth with your g-spot– “jackson—think ‘m gonna—”

lewd squelches and your mewls of his name ring in the heady room as he speeds up his ministrations. A ruthless pace that has tears stinging your eyes, hitting that spot over and over and—

white-hot pleasure between your eyes. tension curling your toes. 

“cum f’me, pretty girl,” he rasps out. he squeezes in a third finger inside your tight cunt—

and you're seeing stars. 

he’s fucking you through your high, each thump of his fingertips against your g-spot and each glide of his long fingertips easing you down. 

again, and again, and again.  

right as the high bates, you feel an emptiness when percy’s fingers have pulled out of your weeping hole.  

you pull him in by the shoulders, kissing him just to get a taste of his lips and tongue. 

“give me more, jackson,” you mumble against his lips. 

“what?”

“you know what i mean,” you tell him. your hands snake to his belt loops, pawing at them in delirious desperation. “want more of you.”

percy groans. 

his feet land on the ground beside the bed. metal clinks against the floor. clothes ruffle as they're being discarded. 

“been wanting this for so long, pretty girl–” he lugs his boxers down, along with his bottoms, “felt like i was dying.”

his cock springs free and slaps against his abdomen. he was big—so mouthwateringly big; flushed your favorite shade of pink at his leaking tip, pulsing veins glistening in the dim light—every part of him was so unfairly pretty.

and, well, you just couldn't resist a taste. 

beding down in one fluid motion, you press a kiss to his weeping tip, drag your tongue all the way down the vein under his shaft, and his hand immediately flies to your hair.

“shit— hah- you don't have to—”

“shut up, jackson.”

and with that, you’re shoving as much of his throbbing erection down your throat. there’s a slightly salty taste on your tongue as you swipe at the droplets of precum pooling on his tip.

“shit, oh—yes, yes, yes–.” percy lets out a guttural moan. Fingers thread through your hair as he uses it as leverage to fuck himself slowly, deeper and deeper into your heavenly mouth, his hips stuttering and jerking with pleasure.

it was dizzying, the way he was pulsing in your throat, his scent filling your senses. beginning to move up and down in hasty, desperate bobs of your head. pulling such lewd gasps and moans from his lips.

his dick twitches in your mouth and your cunt clenches. you brace yourself, ready for his orgasm, when he stops.

and just pulls his cock out.

there’s a loud, lewd pop! that accompanies it that makes his dick twitch and your pussy ache. you’re about to retort, mouth opening to ask him why— but he beats you to it.

“don’t wanna cum yet,” he tells you. he grabs his cock, tugging it ever so slightly, when he says, “lean back for me, pretty girl.”

and that you don’t argue with.

your legs are spread in front of him, and the look on his sea-green eyes is so carnal, so hungry that you motion to close yourself up. he places your legs above his shoulders, eyes stil trained on your soaked core. 

he drags his reddened tip right through your swollen folds, catching maddeningly on your clit, teasingly pooling your slick on his leaking head. too slow.

you wiggle your hips just so that the tip just slides inside your hole. 

he curses above you, and you feel small spurts of precum lining your walls.

with newfound vigor, percy pushes his hips forward, groaning out your name. 

you could almost sob at the stretch as he presses in inch by inch. 

his cock was long enough that it kissed your cervix, and that the mushroom tip hooked just right against your g-spot. it didn't lack girth, too—it was thick enough that you could feel the veins pressing against your walls. 

deliciously painful, borderline addicting, and something you didn’t know you’d been craving until today.

and it’s almost like percy felt the same, cock hot and throbbing agonizingly inside of you, almost like his second heartbeat. 

he buries himself to the hilt and stays. he bows his body down until his damp forehead meets yours. 

“greedy girl,” he says. “so tight. gripping—hah–gripping me like a damn vice.”

he pulls himself out fully, just ‘til his tip is kissing your sloppy hole. you whine at the loss of contact, only for him to ram his cock all the way back inside your warmth. 

skin on skin, skin on skin. he starts fucking into you, the sheer tightness of your pussy sucking him in so greedily, like she never wanted him to part. 

“yes, yes—oh—just like that,” you moan out. 

“all–all of it‘s ngh—yours, my girl. yours,” percy says, his baritone voice now raspier above the sloppy squelches that immediately start pouring out of your pussy. 

slick gushes out of your cunt with every in and out, dripping down his length and pooling around his balls. they sting against your ass with every thrust in. 

“percy—fuck,”

and you feel percy freeze. the loss of movement makes you cry out. 

“why—?”

“say it again.”

“what? noo, just come on and fuck me—”

he thrusts once, then stills. “c’mon, my girl, please? lemme hear it one more time.”

oh. 

“mmfh—ah—okay, okay.” and one more thrust, harder this time. “oh—! percy, percy, percy! fuuck—”

he keeps the pace constant, rough, kissing your cervix with every in and out of his cock. 

“that’s so right, baby.” he presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the juncture where your neck meets your shoulders. “sounds—hah—sounds nice, right? better than jus’ jackson?” 

you lean away from the bed, hand gripping onto percy’s shoulder for support as you grab his face and kiss him. 

he continues thrusting his cock in and out of your poor walls, a sheeny white ring of fluid gathering around his base. 

you feel him so deep, he’s pushing your eyes to roll allll the way to the back of your head with the crown of his fat tip. 

it was intoxicating, inebriating—from the feeling of his cock throbbing inside you, fucking into you, his lips kissing ever surface he can reach, his teeth biting and marking what’s his. 

“m’ so close, percy,” you sob. 

percy’s large hand trails down where your bodies meet to draw frenzied circles on your puffy clit. “cum with me—please, baby.”

“inside,” you gasp out. “want you inside.”

and this orgasm seems to be stronger than last time, lightning hot pleasure zapping through your body faster. sobs escape your mouth. your back arches so much you fear for your spine. your body flinches every time he brushes against your clit. 

percy’s high comes right alongside yours, and he’s shooting thick, hot, strings of cum, painting your walls white with a low groan of your name. you feel it dripping out of your cunt and into the sheets under you before it's being fucked back in. 

when your highs bate, you flop unceremoniously on percy’s bed.

he lets out a small chuckle, before kissing your forehead. “i’ll be right back, okay?” 

you watch as his figure retreats to his closet and comes back with an armful of clothes. 

the towel in his hands is warm as he cleans going down, passing your stomach, before finally wiping down your inner thighs. he slips his boxers on you, then a shirt. 

when he finishes, he collapses right beside you. he pulls you closer, settling you right over his heart, draping an arm over your back. 

for a moment, both of you just stare. 

“you were amazing, percy,” you say. “i… i liked it. a lot. i'm glad it was you.”

percy presses a soft, chaste kiss to your lips. “i've liked you for so long. still can't believe i managed to kiss you, let alone…”

you let out a small laugh and snuggle closer. 

tuesdays were the worst days of the week, you think.

but maybe, just maybe—you brush a stray lock of percy’s hair behind his ears—tuesdays had a little bit of merit to them.  

( .  .  . )

“told you you wanted me”

you grumble against his chest. “shut up.”

he only presses you closer to him. “i don’t know who you’re fooling, baby. i saw you skip that pitcher of water entirely.”

your eyes widen and snap up to meet his. then, feigned nonchalance. “i didn’t need it.”

“i’d have healed faster with it.” then, he grins down at you, canines and eye crinkles and all. “it’s okay, baby, i’d do the same so i could get in the pants of my hot, muscular, super handsome—”

you smush a pillow over his face.

“you wanted me first,” you protest. “you probably asked a bunch of kids to cut you up so you had an excuse to come see me.”

percy’s lack of retort—and movement—makes you sit up.

“oh my gods.”

“listen—”

“there is no way.”

he groans, burying his face deep into your hair. "you're never gonna let me live this down, are you?"

you only grin in reply, canines and eye crinkles and all. "never."

-> © DEUXIOSE (2025). do not repost, republish, translate, or use any of my works to train AI.

[starlightkyeom]

jaded | kmg (pt 1)

(where mingyu is a little jaded about his relationships until he meets the lead singer in a band that changes it all)

pairing: radio host!mingyu x singer!reader genre: strangers to lovers | fluff, tiny bit of angst, smut rating: 18+ wc: 6.5k (final count tbd) warnings: this is vaguely set in 2008, mingyu works for a satellite radio channel, reader is in a band, mentions of past relationships, mingyu is over relationships, kissing, fingering, protected missionary sex, multiple orgasms, that's kind it there will be more in the second part

a/n: writing has been insanely hard for me lately and i'm not really sure why. i absolutely hate splitting this up but i really didn't have a choice. this is for first time caller hosted by @studiosvt and i'm always so happy to be part of these collabs. thank you to the amazingly talented @joshujin for this banner, i'm obsessed.

a/n 2: this is unedited and i will come back for it so i'm sorry

Mingyu looks at the mic in front of him and sighs. He knows that he needs to put on a smile and get into character, but it feels harder than normal lately. When he first started working for Alt Nation, he knew it would be important to find a way to set himself apart. Satellite radio isn’t like regular radio and people don’t necessarily get to know the DJs because they don’t talk as much. Still, Mingyu wants to make sure people know who he is. That they can talk about him specifically and for more than just playing good music. Besides, the channel has a general list of songs to queue from. So, when he interviewed, he leaned into a version of himself. The eternal optimist. The twentysomething dating in LA that’s going to be willing to share those stories in between playing music. The station actually loved the idea of a guy talking about his relationships because it was clear how much he just loved the idea of love. Something different. It took a little bit to find the right balance when he first started. But, then he settled into a rhythm. Just quick stories placed carefully, like when he first comes on or after a song that ties in. Some people still complain that they don’t want to listen to Alt Nation for any level of chatter, but more people are listening during Mingyu’s time slot than before. Listeners know him by name. Even comment on the channel’s Facebook page in response to stories he tells. It’s a big deal to be known by name on satellite radio.

There aren’t any good stories from people he’s gone out with recently, though. No moments of happiness that he can share. No upbeat stories about what it’s like to date while living in LA. His last girlfriend, if he could even call her that, had seen to that. And it’s starting to get hard not to feel like it’s his fault. He hears it all. Too energetic. Too happy. Too optimistic. That he gets too invested too quickly. It feels like a list of things that people say they want being thrown back in his face. He can’t help but replay the scene from a few nights ago. He hadn’t heard from Carly much during the day, which wasn’t entirely unusual when she was stressed at work. Things had been tense for her lately, so he did what he would do for anyone he cared about. Ordered food from her favorite restaurant by her office to be delivered for lunch and sent her a message to say he’d done that. Then, later, he went to the store to buy the ingredients for her favorite dinner, some wine, and her favorite ice cream so that he could go and help her unwind from a bad week. If he’s being honest, he didn’t necessarily expect anything from it except maybe a thank you. What he got instead was her telling him that it was too much. That he was smothering her. That it was embarrassing to have him doing all these things and then talking about their relationship on his show. 

That last one stings. He’s always very careful when he talks about relationships on his show. The stories are incredibly short and never have any sort of identifiable information. He never uses names. Never includes any other personal information. He’s telling stories in 30 second clips most of the time. So, when Carly says that she needs space and lists all the reasons, well, Mingyu knows what that means too. Has heard the same thing before. Isn’t going to hold out hope this time. Everything just has him feeling jaded.

This isn’t really the most ideal walk down memory lane as he’s preparing to start his segment. 

With a sigh, he puts on a smile, even though nobody listening can see him. Once, he read that people can hear if you’re smiling and it’s stuck with him ever since. It feels a little false this time. And that’s when he makes a split decision that he knows his manager is going to hate. Lets the smile fall, takes a deep breath, and decides instead to just be honest. Instead of the usual upbeat, positivity, he starts his segment by saying that he’s finding it a little hard to be as optimistic lately. That his dating life hasn’t been exactly what he wants and that he’s feeling kind of down about it. A message pops up from his manager immediately on the screen in front of him, but he ignores it. It’s too late for him to change tactics so his manager is going to have to deal with it anyway. Tells a quick story about breakups in general, carefully avoiding making it about Carly specifically, and hopes that it isn’t a mistake.

By the time he finishes queueing up the first songs, and the first one starts – Decode by Paramore – his manager is standing in his door looking stern. The downside to working in the LA studios. His manager is right here to keep an eye on him. Wonwoo crosses his arms and tries to look like a parent about to reprimand his child even though they’re only about a year apart in age. Holding up a hand, Mingyu checks to make sure the songs are queued properly and that his mic is off. Then, he turns to find Wonwoo still standing in the doorway frowning.

“What the hell was that?” 

“Me doing my intro,” Mingyu answers a little more sharply than usual. 

“Is this some kinda weird alternative universe? Do you have a twin you’ve never mentioned?”

Mingyu rolls his eyes. “Bite me.” 

“What’s got you so salty?” 

“Thought you listened to the intro and that was why you were here,” Mingyu says, earning him an unimpressed glare. “Carly broke up with me.” 

Wonwoo softens, blink and you miss it, before stepping into the studio. “Sorry, bro.” 

“It’s fine she was being hella sketchy if I actually think about it,” Mingyu says in an obvious attempt to brush it off. Wonwoo lets him. A mark that they are actually friends beyond working together. 

“Just don’t play all heavy songs.”

“I’m no-”

Another unimpressed glare. “You started with Decode.”

“It’s a good song and it’s on the approved -” 

“Mingyu.”

A sigh, this time from Mingyu. “Fine. Am I in trouble?” 

Wonwoo shrugs. “Probably not. I’ll keep an eye on the Facebook comments and let you know. But people expect you to be all upbeat about dating.” 

“My bad,” Mingyu says and Wonwoo just shakes his head. “Maybe it’ll still be relatable because it’s still about dating, just a different side to it.”

“Worst case, I’ll just post a picture of you so people can see what you look like while you’re depressing them,” Wonwoo shares with a smirk that says he knows he’s being a shithead. 

“Cool story bro,” Mingyu retorts and reaches for a piece of paper. Wads it up. Wonwoo dodges it easily when Mingyu tosses it in his direction, cracking a real smile. 

“We’re deciding on our next in-studio session and just a head’s up, it’s probably gonna be you,” Wonwoo says as he moves towards the door. Something about the way he throws it out like that has Mingyu paying closer attention. 

“I’ve never done one before…”

His manager hesitates when he reaches the door and turns around wearing a smile that Mingyu doesn’t like. A second later his look is neutral again and he shrugs. “They think it would make sense coming from you.”

“Who’re they bringing in?” Mingyu asks skeptically. 

“The Ivy Lips,” Wonwoo says and Mingyu closes his eyes for a second. Of course. “Try not to get too deep the rest of your show!”

Before Mingyu can even open his eyes and form a retort, his manager is gone. The air doesn’t feel any less heavy, though. Getting the chance to handle the in-studio session is huge. Usually one of the more senior DJs takes it. And it’ll probably mean coming in for an extra segment for it. But, Mingyu has been getting a lot more popular, even though he’s still kind of young for this. It’s also one of the biggest segments that the channel does. They invite everyone in from newer artists that are just getting more airplay to groups that have been doing it for years. It’s structured as a more casual conversation. A chance for a band to talk about their recent music, but also just to share pieces of themselves. The bands also usually do a few of their songs stripped down right in the studio and it’s a cool chance for listeners to hear something different. Sometimes the group will even go outside the box and play a cover of something. Since it’s so relaxed, there aren’t really set questions. It’s just kind of up to however it flows. It’s a huge opportunity for Mingyu.

Except, it’s also the last thing he wants with his current headspace.

The Ivy Lips are a new group, at least to the channel. All the DJs have been playing the single off their first studio album and everyone seems to want to hear more from them. Mingyu knows that they first started getting attention a few years ago using MySpace before landing a record deal more recently. Alt Nation had been the first one of the satellite stations to start playing the lead single and Mingyu had definitely been part of that. After hearing their song while he was poking around looking for new music, he shared it with the station and they agreed it fit. Which would definitely make it seem like he’s the obvious choice. He’s listened to the whole album through more times than he can count. He’s told his friends about it. Told dates about it. Talked about what an amazing job the band does at storytelling. Even given really thoughtful intros before playing the song on the channel.

Except…

It’s a whole album about the optimism behind love and relationships. It feels like a love letter to someone the lead singer is either currently dating or dated in the past. Like a whole story from the first time seeing someone to the first conversations to the first time realizing it was love. It’s a very optimistic take. Which is why it initially drew Mingyu in. it felt like someone else with the same outlook as him. Someone that wouldn’t accuse their partner of being too much for showing they care. Now, after yet another failed relationship with that very optimism at the core, it kind of feels like a slap in the face. For the first time since he started at the channel, he actually finds himself hoping that he’ll be passed over for an opportunity. The last thing he wants right now is to try and put that persona on and talk all about how staying positive will always bring the right person to you. It hasn’t brought anyone lasting to Mingyu yet. It’s been the opposite, really. Yet another person told Mingyu that they just wished he’d get mad about things. Wished he’d fight. Wished he’d stop being so damn positive about everything. Someone else saying that there has to be something wrong with him to be that optimistic and supportive. Honestly, it’s enough to make anyone wonder if love actually exists.

Despite his wishes, the in-studio session with The Ivy Lips does fall onto Mingyu. The channel directors have heard his recent segments and they’re not thrilled he’s been so much more pessimistic. The saving grace has been that it doesn’t seem to change the listener counts by much. Some comments on the Facebook page are even asking if he’s okay and sending positive thoughts. And the executives figure that maybe this in-studio session will get Mingyu back on track. For all he knows, they could be right. This just isn’t the way he wanted to get the opportunity. Then again, you can’t always control things like that. He knows that he should just embrace it. Be professional and handle the interview with a band he does actually like when he’s not being difficult. Be thankful that it’s a serious opportunity for growth. 

Like the true traitor he is, Wonwoo also manages to snap a photo of Mingyu in the studio to post to the channel’s Facebook page. Shares that he wants people to know what the guy behind the segment looks like while he’s being a downer. And, okay, the comments are definitely a bit of a temporary boost to his ego. It’s at least entertaining to see the new flood of comments talking about his looks. And even more comments asking if he’s okay or, more entertainingly for Wonwoo, if he’s actually single pour in. The influx of endorphins is short lived, though, because it does remind Mingyu that he is still single and none of it has been enough. 

Heading into the interview, Mingyu tries to take his time to prepare the way that he knows that he should. He listens through the entire album multiple times, reading through lyrics as he goes, despite feeling like he knows it by heart. He pulls up other interviews that he can find to see what you and the group have said, though there aren’t all that many. He scrolls through the MySpace page, though it’s clear it’s getting less active. The band’s Facebook page is a little more active. Despite feeling jaded about love, he can admit there’s obvious talent with The Ivy Lips. It’s almost enough to have him thinking about giving it all a try again. Almost.

By the time the interview comes around, Mingyu is feeling prepared and a little nervous because it’s his first time getting to do something like this for the channel. It’s also something that they air live as they’re recording it. The channel thinks it’s best to make it feel more authentic. It also gives the DJ a chance to chat with the group off air while playing some other songs. It makes sure listeners still get to hear the music they normally tune in for, but gives the DJ and the band a chance to get back on track if things are going in the wrong direction. Mingyu has some questions that he jotted down, but he’s hoping that he’ll be able to rely more on the flow of the conversation. After all, he does like The Ivy Lips, even if his personal life has taken a turn lately. 

Mingyu hears Wonwoo before the door opens, leading the group into the studio while Mingyu makes sure he’s got songs queued up. Or rather, he hears voices responding to his manager. A moment later, Wonwoo steps in, chatting with someone Mingyu recognizes as you, the lead singer of The Ivy Lips, from your MySpace page. It’s surprising to see his normally serious manager laugh at something you say. Mingyu doesn’t quite catch it, yet still feels himself smiling along. There’s something immediately infectious about you. Behind you and Wonwoo, Mingyu notices the drummer, Soonyoung, the bass guitarist, Corey, and the lead guitarist and back up singer, Joshua. Somehow the four of you give the impression of all being very different, yet in a way that compliments each other. Or maybe that’s just because Mingyu feels like he knows the band from the research. 

Wonwoo makes quick introductions and Mingyu shakes hands with everyone in turn. And then Wonwoo is making his exit to leave things in Mingyu’s hands. The band sets down the acoustic guitars they have with them. You look around at the studio, a larger one than Mingyu would normally be in so there’s enough room, before settling down in a seat closest to him. 

“I was surprised when they said you’d be the one doing the interview,” you start, regarding Mingyu. It disarms him, a little, having your gaze on him after a comment he can’t quite discern. 

“Oh, uh, I don’t usually do these but I promise that…” Mingyu starts. 

“No, no,” you say breezily, waving him off. “I just meant that, like, you’ve been different on your segment lately. I wasn’t sure this album would still be your thing.” 

“Ah,” Mingyu says to buy a moment. The guitarist, Joshua, chuckles.

“Don’t mind her. She’s just very direct,” Joshua says. 

“Do you listen to my segment on the channel?” Mingyu wonders, trying to look at the other members. They all nod and look back at you, forcing Mingyu to do the same.

“I mean aside from you being the first one to play our single, I like your segment,” you say with a shrug. 

“Yeah, well, things have been tough lately,” Mingyu says and shakes his head to clear it. “But, we’re not here to talk about me.” 

“Yeah don’t deflect,” Soonyoung says and nudges you, earning a smile out of you. 

You throw up your hands with a smile. “Fine.”

“Did Wonwoo tell you kind of how this all works?” Mingyu asks and there’s a chorus of agreements. “Okay so at the end of this next song, I’m gonna do a little intro and then we’ll get started.”

“Let’s do it,” Joshua agrees. 

Mingyu tries to remind himself that it’s like any other segment. He already talks a little more than most DJs on satellite radio, this is just expanding on that. Sure, he has people in there with him. Still, though, he can do this. He’s prepared and it’s a great opportunity. When the song ends, he falls into his radio voice and goes through the introduction he prepared for The Ivy Lips. And then he turns back to the band with a smile. 

“Thanks again for coming by,” Mingyu says to nobody in particular.

“Thanks for having us,” Joshua says earnestly.

“Yeah, Alt Nation has been great for us. So, we really owe you guys for finding our single so fast and putting it on the channel,” you add on. 

“It’s a great song. The whole album is special, really. When I heard that single, though…” Mingyu starts.

“Was it you that first heard it, then, and decided to play it?” you ask and Mingyu notices the way that Joshua conceals a little bit of a snort. 

Mingyu hesitates, just for a moment. He can’t afford dead air in the middle of an interview. He’s also not sure if he should be completely honest.. Finally just decides to go for it. “Yeah, actually.” 

“Oh, no way!” Soonyoung exclaims excitedly.

“We thought it was just someone behind the scenes or something,” Joshua adds on. 

“No, uh, we’re all always listening to new music and I just thought you had the kind of sound that fits in with what the channel plays,” Mingyu says and chuckles a little. 

“Thanks, bro,” Joshua says. 

“Hey, it’s us that should be thanking you. Our listeners are loving it,” Mingyu says. It feels almost like settling in with friends.

“Yeah we’ve seen more people on our pages so it’s great,” Joshua agrees. 

“Might as well jump right in and ask about the writing process for this album. It feels…very personal. How did the idea for the album come about?” 

You and Joshua look at each other for a moment, a silent kind of conversation, then you look back at Mingyu with a smile. “Thank you, it’s supposed to feel very personal. That’s what we were going for, anyway. Joshua and I write most of our music together.” 

“Yeah, it’s like we just speak our own language at this point,” Joshua agrees with a soft smile.

“I don’t really understand it. Can’t argue with the results, though,” Soonyoung chimes in, earning a laugh. 

“This one came more so from our fearless leader,” Joshua says and nudges you playfully. “I just helped kind of fine tune some of the verses as we went.”

“So, was this album personal for any of you? Maybe drawing from a past or current relationship?” Mingyu asks.

For some reason, that earns a loud, genuine laugh from you and a softer laugh out of Joshua. It feels like missing a joke until you pull yourself together a second later. “No, actually. We write all our songs in first person, but the stories are actually about a couple. Not any of us. Just a couple that’s…entirely made up. They only exist in my head. Well, mine and Joshua’s.”

“Really?” Mingyu asks incredulously before he can stop himself. The band all laugh at that, likely anticipating the reaction. 

“Yeah,” you say easily. “I don’t know. There are all these albums about heartbreak, and I’ve certainly had some experience with that. We all have.” 

“Seriously,” Joshua agrees under his breath, just loud enough for the mic to still pick it up. 

“But, I don’t know, I wanted to play with the idea of writing about a totally made up couple that still felt real and personal and relatable. I listened to a lot of things while we were writing this album. Other music. Shows and movies. Radio stations, even,” you say and give him a slight look. “Songs about relationships are everywhere, but I just thought it would be really interesting to use an album to tell a story like this. In another life, I think I was a writer.” 

“Still could be,” Joshua says with a shrug and you laugh.

“What made you want to write this album instead of one inspired by something one of you had gone through?” Mingyu asks. 

“I think sometimes those kinds of songs can be harder to perform night in and night out,” Joshua says, surprising Mingyu a little at being the one to answer first. 

“Yeah, like they can feel so personal and to really perform them well, you have to put yourself back in that place every time. It almost makes it feel like it’s harder to process and move on, if that makes sense. For me, at least. Some of our earlier songs that came out before our record deal are like that and I don’t love playing them. So I thought, well if we decide to tell an entire story instead of writing about our own love lives, maybe it’ll be easier to perform it,” you add on. 

“Do you think this album reflects the band's thoughts on love and relationships?” Mingyu asks.

Joshua, Soonyoung, and Corey all laugh and say ‘no’ nearly at the same time, looking over at you. For your part, you seem unbothered by it. Only stick your tongue out at your band members and then turn back to Mingyu. “Nope, just mine. The rest of these guys are cynics. But me, I don’t know, I love the idea of love even if I’ve probably had my heart broken more than the rest combined.” 

“It’s a great way to be and we love you for it,” Joshua says and nudges you. 

“It definitely is. We need more of those optimistic takes on love. And it seems that people are loving listening to it,” Mingyu agrees and you give him a curious look. 

“Thank you,” you say, though it’s clear there’s more on your mind. 

Mingyu clears his throat and turns away for a second, addressing just the mic. “Okay, we’re gonna take a quick break and play some songs, but stick around because we’ll have more with The Ivy Lips.” 

As soon as Mingyu flips the switch for the songs in the queue, he finds out what you hadn’t said. “I’m surprised you think it’s a good way to be. The optimism on relationships.”

“There she goes,” Joshua chuckles and sends a sympathetic look to Mingyu.

“Why’s that?” Mingyu asks.

“I listen to your show. You’ve been very…pessismistic about relationships lately,” you say and your bandmates laugh. 

“Ah, well, I’ve had some bad experiences lately,” he says and you go to open your mouth again. Joshua nudges you.

“Let the man breathe,” Joshua says.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Mingyu laughs a little awkwardly. “I kinda opened myself up to that.”  

“Be careful what you wish for,” Soonyoung chimes in. 

You regard Mingyu for a second. “I think we’re kind of alike, you know. I think you still want to be optimistic, you’re just a little hurt over whatever break up you’re dealing with.”

“It hasn’t just been one,” Mingyu says and you shrug.

“We’ve all got shit,” you counter. “It takes more strength to keep being positive about it.” 

“Okay, give him a break,” Joshua says when Mingyu hesitates. 

“Fine,” you concede for the second time.

This is already more interesting than Mingyu could have possibly imagined and he still has a lot of the interview to get through. He can tell it’s the kind of thing that’s going to stick with him for weeks after you and the band leave. 

You end up staying in the studio with Mingyu even after the interview with your band ends and after the rest of them make their excuses to leave. It’s not exactly normal and he should probably tell you that you need to leave. Except, well, he doesn’t really want you to. Hearing all your thoughts on relationships has him intrigued. And, yes, the rest of the interview is great as well. Your voice is even better live and acoustic. The dynamic with you and the rest of the band says how much you all genuinely like each other. There’s somehow a polished easiness about the band and raw emotion all at once. It’s easy to forget this is technically just your debut album.  

Really, though, what sticks out the most is how steadfast you are in defending your thoughts about love and relationships, most of which happens in the breaks while Mingyu plays songs for the listeners. It is more personal, after all. Once the rest of your band leaves, you carry on with more emphasis. Acknowledge that you, like Mingyu, have had your heart broken over things that don’t seem like they should create issues. However, you, unlike Mingyu, are choosing to keep channeling it into something positive. You’re not shy about giving him a hard time over building his show talking about a positive outlook on love, only to turn it all around because things have been a little hard. There is a certain amount of logic in you saying that it’s stronger to keep going when you want to give up. There’s a depth to you. Layers. Something that makes him want to learn more. You happily debate him each time he queues up songs and keep perfectly quiet when he’s on air. (You also laugh when Wonwoo comes in and tries to subtly tell Mingyu that you need to leave, only to give in and let you stay.) 

The rest of his segment passes faster than he can remember it passing in a long time and it’s clear that’s down to you. There’s something that makes Mingyu feel like he’s known you for months rather than hours. Maybe that’s just how you are. Maybe you just make people feel at ease around you and that’s why you can stay so optimistic about love despite the heartbreaks. When you say goodbye and that it was fun to get to hang out after the interview, Mingyu even wonders if he’s going to run into you again. Which is crazy, isn’t it? Yesterday, he didn’t know you personally. Tomorrow, he’ll have something new to distract him. This is just a blip. 

Except, it isn’t. Not really. You’re going to be all Mingyu thinks about for the next few weeks. Either your thoughts on relationships, your approach to the album, or anything else you said without realizing you could turn his whole world upside down.

Of all the ways that Mingyu expects to run into you again, he definitely doesn’t think that it’s going to be at a coffee shop around the corner from the studio. Honestly, he’s not even sure he’s going to run into you again. Not that he’ll admit how much he’s been thinking about you. And there you are, sitting by the window of his favorite coffee shop when he’s sure he’s never seen you there before. You look up as he approaches the counter and smile. Mouth a quick ‘hi’ and then turn back to the book you’re reading. Mingyu orders something to drink and waits at the other end of the counter. Tries not to look over at you. Once he has his drink in hand, he walks over to your table and smiles when you look up again. 

“Hey,” Mingyu says.

“Hey back.”

“Can I sit for a minute?” 

You look up at him before marking a spot in your book and setting it down. “Yeah, sure.” 

He takes the seat opposite you and feels a little nervous. A little awkward. Somehow, it doesn’t feel quite as easy as when he had you in the studio with him. A million conversation starters seem to flash into his mind in rapid succession. None really seem to stick. And that’s when you seem to read his mind and take pity on him. 

“Something on your mind?” you ask. 

“I guess, yeah,” he admits after a moment. You’re patient. “I’ve just been thinking a lot about when you guys were in the studio and everything you said about the album.”

“I could see how that stuck with you.” 

“It’s just…I guess I don’t know how you keep that mindset despite the heartbreak.” 

You study him for a moment. “I think I keep it because of the heartbreak.”

“What?” 

“Your face,” you say with a light laugh. “I just mean I see it all as learning. It sucks and it hurts, but then I also learn who to look out for next time.”

“I guess that makes sense,” he says, though it comes out a little skeptical. 

“Maybe you just need to learn to read the signs a little better and realize who’s not going to match your energy,” you suggest. 

“Easier said than done,” he grumbles and you laugh.

“Maybe you should try asking someone out that you just like hanging out with even when it’s not a date,” you say with a casual air. And that’s when it finally clicks for him.

“Do you want to get dinner some time?” 

A smile from you, so genuine that it lights up your face. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Unlike the start of the conversation in the coffee shop, dinner is much easier. There’s no awkwardness. Not weird pauses. None of those first date jitters. Even though Mingyu doesn’t know you that well yet, he feels comfortable with you. At ease. Like you and him know what you’re getting with the other one and it makes it easier to just focus on the actual conversation. You know enough about how he is in relationships because you’ve heard it on his show. He knows enough about your approach to love because he’s heard it on your album. 

That leads to another thing that Mingyu doesn’t ever do. After dinner, he invites you back to his apartment. A little nervous for the first time, though you agree right away. And the nerves disappear when he sees you in his space. He watches the way you run your fingers over his CD collection or pause to look at pictures of him with his friends. If you’re nervous, he definitely can’t tell. There’s just something about you that puts him at ease. That feels like everything is just natural. 

The next part comes just as naturally. 

You step into his space and run a hand up his neck to rest on his cheek, guiding his lips to yours. And he knows he’s in trouble right away. It’s the kind of kiss that feels like the person already knows you completely. You melt against Mingyu’s body and he’s not sure if he ever wants to let you go. It’s both slow and desperate at the same time. Like you’re showing him that you’re on the same page. That you see him and you like him just the way he is. It’s overwhelming, though not in a bad way. 

Slowly, he leads you back into his bedroom. It’s careful. Like he knows that he can trust you. Knows that you see him. Yet, there’s still a hesitation. Or maybe he’s just not sure how to act with someone who isn’t going to tell him that it’s all too much. You peel your own clothes off and then turn to his while you can feel his eyes on you. Taking you in. Appreciating you before him. There’s something almost powerful about it to you because you already know that he’s always got something to say. And yet, now he’s quiet. Now he can’t seem to do much other than drink you in. 

So, you take the lead. You sit back onto his bed and slide backwards until you hit the pillows. Beckon him forward. And he complies immediately. Almost like he’s following directions that he can’t ignore. He slots his body against yours and kisses you again. Harder this time. Almost possessively. Like you’re finally giving him permission to just be whatever version of himself he wants to be without worrying. It unlocks something in you. You wrap your arms around him to keep him pressed against your body. Let his tongue into your mouth as you continue kissing him. 

When you moan into the kiss, it’s like it finally spurs him on. He snakes a hand down between your bodies and between your legs. Teases your entrance as he collects some of the wetness there. You moan again when his finger slowly runs up you. He teases your clit for a second before returning his fingers to your entrance. Without stopping the kiss, he presses a finger inside your wet cunt. Groans at the feeling of you around his finger. You arch into him as he starts pumping his finger. And then he adds another finger and you know you’re in trouble.

“Mingyu, please,” you whine, breaking the kiss. You’re breathy and a little needy and you don’t really care. 

“Please what?” he asks. His pupils are wide and his eyes are dark with the same need you feel. 

“Please just…I want to feel you. You can take your time later, I want to feel you now,” you say and watch as he swallows hard. All he can do is nod as he rolls slightly off you to reach for his nightstand. You prop yourself on your elbows and watch the way he rips the wrapper open and pumps himself a couple times. Then he’s sliding the condom on and returning to you.

“Are you sure?” he asks and you nod.

“Yes,” is all you say before his lips are on yours again. 

It’s all you manage to say before he lines himself up and presses into you. Pumping shallow for the first few times as you wiggle and adjust. But, then he does just what you ask him. He snaps his hips into you and you break off the kiss with a loud curse. Mingyu props himself over you and sets a steady rhythm thrusting into you. All the while, he looks down at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the world. The only thing tethering him to reality. Maybe you’re looking back at him the same way, you’re not sure. All you know is that this moment is exactly what you need. Exactly what you’ve been thinking about since that interview he did in the studio. Exactly what you’ve been thinking about each time you tuned into his program since then. So, you cling to whatever part of him that you can grab and meet his rhythm. Let yourself get lost in the moment of something that feels easy for once. Let yourself give in to something you wouldn’t normally do like this. 

Entirely too quickly, Mingyu is pushing you over the edge. Making you shake beneath him as he whispers praises into your skin. Keeping up a slower rhythm to allow you to have your high. It takes a second for you to come back down and release he’s still thrusting slowly into you and that he’s still hard. You take another moment to catch your breath and brush his hair off his face.

“You can keep going,” you say. 

“Are you sure?” he asks and you nearly laugh. His face is so cute which is a crazy thing to be thinking at this moment.

“Yes,” you say and he leans forward to kiss you again.

But, then he stops being quite so soft. He picks up the pace again and it’s much faster. Or maybe it feels that way because you’re sensitive. In any case, you don’t really care. Watching this beautiful man come apart on top of you is plenty to make up for anything else. The way he feels inside you keeps you from thinking about anything else. The room is full of the sounds of your skin slapping together mixed with your moans. It’s criminal how quickly you can feel yourself approaching the edge again. Except, this time you can tell that he’s there too.

“Come with me, Mingyu,” you whimper.

“Fuck, yes, I’m going to,” he groans. He moves a hand to start rubbing your clit and it makes you clench around him as you come again. But this time, you can feel him losing it too. Know that he came with you just like he said he was going to. 

Mingyu keeps himself propped over you until the last thrust and then collapses with his weight offset. Not really ready to pull out but not wanting to crush you either. You don’t mind. You’re fine just lying there and running your fingers along his skin. Watching the way goosebumps form under your touch. After another minute, he carefully pulls out and smiles at you. Gives you the gentlest kiss before he gets up to clean himself up. 

It’s hard to stop yourself from watching him as he walks away to the bathroom. Hard not to think about how beautiful he is. Hard not to think about how you both have the same views on love and relationships, even if he’s been a little jaded recently. Hard not to think that nothing could really screw this up. 

taglist: @tinyelfperson @yummyuma @miriamxsworld @hongrizon @gyuminusone @aaniag @straykidswhoo789 @kimseokgen @beomesbabe @metaphorandmoonlight @vanishingboots @harry-the-pottypus @nuttywastelandmentality @writingbarnes @gyuhao365 @jjin-kun @divinityyyy @dibidibidismynameisleeknow @tinkerbell460 @aidanjoon @kaepjjangiya @lostmembrane @thestraybunny @noona-neomu-yeppeo @alicia12345 @too-tired-or-two-tired @livelaughloveseventeen @sourkimchi @haolistic  @asnaxu @justanarchiveforfics @Sejeonggggg @coupsv @riddlerloveb0t @things-for-brie @klecksstorys @babybae-shisui @tomodachiii @taz-97 @veronrica123 @smiileflower @Madebybec @emilliereads @eskoupe @junnhuisworld

[studiosvt]

Please validate your tag by reblogging this fic!

Taglist:

@prettypinkpassport @bobathi @ts19009 @kiiimgyuuu @smiileflower

@kittylover-inbothways @codeinebelle @gyuhao365 @coupsv @zealouscookierebeltrash

@fancypeacepersona @wildcreature @Frayaatiny @Leigh-darling @Ashlinxloves 

@bubble-ten @missthang600 @jenowithjaem @watchanisworld @cheolamor

@haoluver @thestoryofana13 @orpheustae @peaceofni-ki @bramos91

@tranquillitysoul @erireadsstuff @libraryinkuniverse @uhdrienne @missingsarinha

@hongyinujiang @nekkiotine @baobaoexe @isabellah29 @hoshiskimchi

@orbitinghao @babilou-pov @parakissss @eyeshasimps @changbinkisser

@severeanxietyissues @fairwanda @hocidust @nahyuckism

[vetckkie]

girl get off that c.ai and embrace the 'x reader'

[haologram]

caller #9 ⌁ l.jh [m] (i)

↳ part of the 'first time caller' collab!

— synopsis: in a small town, you're bound to hit a few dead ends when you're not exactly the demographic being catered to. when jihoon finally gets a bite at a radio station nine miles out, he's astonished to see a woman in the booth - and the best in the game, at that.** – genre: coworkers to lovers ; angst, fluff, eventually suggestive/smut. — pairing: apprentice!lee jihoon x experienced radio host!fem!reader. – word count: 11k out of ?? — rating: 18+. minors do not interact. – warnings: swearing, mentions of underage drinking/smoking (weed), food/eating, mentions of impaling oneself to get out of radio duties and stitches. — what to listen to: good girls go bad - cobra starship, leighton meester ; jumpin' jumpin' - destiny's child ; hanging by a moment - lifehouse ; my first love - avant, keke wyatt ; never let you go - third eye blind ; (you drive me) crazy - britney spears ; forever and ever, amen - randy travis ; so gone - monica ; sweet and low - agustana ; who's crying now - journey ; kids - mgmt ; crushcrushcrush - paramore. – author's note: **the synopsis was developed before i rewrote this entire thing in two days.** welcome back to haologram & a special thank you to my beloved @studiosvt for yet another amazing collab. i know this is a part one, and this is genuinely just them growing up together but i promise the end result is worth it (even if it's not published for a bit as i get to other projects but it will be finished!) as usual, no beta, we die like men! enjoy! <3

part i. | part ii. | part iii.

"NOW PLAYING GOOD GIRLS GO BAD BY COBRA STARSHIP FEATURING LEIGHTON MEESTER, THIS IS 109.6 RUBY FM. HAPPY HOLIDAYS FROM Y/N HONG AND JIHOON LEE!"

Your voice is distinct through his car radio, and he feels his jaw tight as he tries his best to maneuver the snowy roads. It's the end of December in Minnesota, and you'd think Lake Ruby wouldn't be as snowed in as the Twin Cities — good thing we don't get paid for thinking.

You and Jihoon were relatively new to each other once more — you'd been surprisingly reunited halfway through 2009. He had just graduated college, you'd been out for two years and making a name for yourself in the radio world. Thus far, you've done just that; you made your mark, you had been all over any major radio show event in the last year, you had met countless stars and posed for dozens of cameras. Your latest conquest?

Taking on dying stations and bringing their spark back.

You'd been stationed in Lake Ruby, an hour and a half southeast of Minneapolis. You were becoming bigger than you realized, though, and eventually you needed someone that could help out when you weren't available. Someone reliable and someone who understood the ins and outs of getting the local people their news and Top 40 jams.

That's where Jihoon comes in.

The two of you, despite aforementioned reunion, hadn't exactly grown up together — he was born in St. Cloud to two kindergarten teachers and spent a majority of his elementary school years weaving in and out of the trailer park he called home. He salted tires early in the morning and walked dogs late at night for pocket money, he picked up beer cans tossed around the park and neighboring areas to get cash at Midway Iron. He was a good student and an even better clarinet player, often spending evenings sitting by the local high school's band hall to hear the crash of cymbals and deep baritone of the golden tuba. If he was lucky, he'd catch the choir girls warming up before their bus took off into Minneapolis for competitions.

He wouldn't meet you until his sixth grade year when luck struck both his parents and they got better paying jobs in Bemidji — two and a half hours north of his hometown, and the place you called home. His family packed up everything they could fit into the back of his father's 1995 Chevy G20 and they left — the trailer park disappearing in the rear view and giving Jihoon a stomach ache. He had to start all over, and meet all new people — but his family had moved just at the end of 1998, so he hadn't been too well acquainted with his teachers or his schedule anyhow. You were an eighth grader when he got to the local middle school, and he remembers exactly what you looked like, too, the day that he met you.

You were a bit taller than he was then, and you'd convinced your mother to let you dye your hair a honey blonde with caramel lowlights. You had a permanent zigzag part and wore it in a half-up do with two ponytails that swung when you walked, and you had a purple windbreaker on that he would soon learn to be your favorite piece of your wardrobe — along with several pairs of dark wash Jordache jeans that had no back pockets so you'd eventually clip your Motorola I1000 Plus (a gift from your parents on your fourteenth birthday) to your waistband. You were always all smiles, you wore Victoria's Secret Sweet Talk lipgloss and swapped your tubes with your friends every week — your favorite was the shimmery gold. You also wore metallic silver polish on your fingernails, and he remembers the distinct smell of ethyl acetate every time he walked past the girls' bathroom on the second floor — sometimes even catching a glimpse of you and your friends sitting on the sinks and painting your nails during lunch.

He met you fully when you slammed into him in your rush to get to Home Economics, somehow bursting his clarinet case open and catching the lower joint with your foot. You'd crouched quickly, picking it up (as well as his extra reeds) and grabbing his case before anything else could tumble out with a worried look, "sorry! Are you okay?"

He'd mumbled a yeah, taking his things back from you as your fingers carefully held the case open for him to put them back. You closed it, peering down at him through your lashes that had been smoothly swiped with brown mascara — and he remembers how hot his cheeks and ears felt at the fact that you were now in front of him. He'd seen you, he'd heard you laugh, but he'd mostly heard you speak — strongly and confidently — every morning over the school's PA system during homeroom. You ran the school's radio club, Aurora FM, and that was what you were most known for — even if to Jihoon, you were just a nice girl with a pretty smile for the time being.

He'd know better in due time.

That was your only interaction in middle school. You'd moved onto ninth grade the next year, and he joined the radio club that year. He stayed behind the scenes, quietly gathering information, distributing intel, writing scripts. He'd occasionally fill in if Soonyoung, the president that year, was running late and needed someone to fill his spot. He tried his best — he led the Pledge of Allegiance that he didn't really care for, he congratulated people for their birthdays, he read out the lunch menu and talked about what the school extracurricular teams were getting up to come the following weekend.

Everyone said he was a natural. Smooth, steady, but he wasn't all that sure. He liked hanging back. He liked keeping to himself, not having too many people know who he was or wanting to socialize with him. Nonetheless, he made friends and eventually was made the Vice President of the radio club by the end of the year because Soonyoung wanted him to be President but he didn't want to do the morning announcements unless he absolutely had to. So, VP it was.

His eighth grade year was uneventful. He was the band's first chair clarinet player, he was a straight-A student, he was always saved a seat at a lunch table in the corner closest to the staircase that led up to the library in case he and his friends wanted an escape. Sometimes he went outside with Mingyu and Seokmin, kicked the soccer ball around that Mingyu brought from home — that kept getting confiscated because it was against the rules — but he tended to keep to himself anyhow.

Middle school ended and he left his Vice President position to his good friend Hansol — feeding into the local high school and reuniting with Soonyoung, who was in his sophomore year…

And you, in your junior year. He vividly remembers arriving on his first day, too — he'd been lucky enough that Soonyoung kept in contact and told him that he was guaranteed a spot in the high school's radio club when he came in. He'd told him to meet up with him at the library before getting his schedule so he could get his passes for the year, only to walk into the radio room to see you and Soonyoung yelling at each other. You were both fully teasing, but there were two guys he did not recognize watching the entire ordeal with bitten back grins.

You were still dying your hair honey blonde with caramel lowlights, but it was much longer and even slightly curling in several places. You had sparkly clips everywhere, and your purple windbreaker was draped over the thigh of one of the guys that was sitting back in the desk chairs. You had soft taupe shadow light brushed over your eyelids with gold glitter on the center, your lashes now coated with black mascara and your waterline lined with dark brown. Your lips donned a frosty berry color…the same color stamped onto the cheeks and lips of the boy with your jacket over his thigh.

You had a boyfriend.

"Yah! Can't you see we have company!?" Soonyoung had yelled out when Jihoon's silver clarinet case caught his eye. He'd turned quickly, his hair now sporting frosted tips as he easily embraced Jihoon in a tight hug — and he was barely able to look over Soonyoung's shoulder to see you peering at him, almost like you knew him. Your zigzag part was gone, replaced with a straight one.

Soonyoung had let him go when Jihoon murmured that he couldn't breathe, only to grab his hand and pull him forward, "this is Y/N! You know Y/N, right? We went to middle school together!"

You tilted your head at him, "you're…I bumped into you once, right? You were the new kid back in '98."

Jihoon introduced himself quietly, watching the way his name shaped your lips as you repeated it to yourself. You then turned on your heel, introducing the men sitting in the desk chairs. The lankier guy with long hair was Jeonghan Yoon, treasurer of the radio club — and the boy sitting next to him with the thick brows and stamps of your lipstick was Seungcheol Choi, the secretary.

And the band's first chair clarinet player. And the junior varsity's soccer team captain.

"…and he's also my boyfriend! He's so good that Coach Lowe thinks he could go pro." You'd been all smiles saying that, the boy blushing all the way up to his ears as you slid into his lap. He buried his face into your shoulder, his eyes full of stars as he peeked at the hoop earrings swinging from your lobes, only paired with a small gold S earring snugly tucked into a tragus piercing you'd gotten at some point. He and Jeonghan both also coolly introduced themselves to Jihoon, and eventually the room was full of more people — including Mingyu and Seokmin, who he had managed to coax into joining the club with him. They all started at the bottom again, and Jihoon quickly took initiative — asking all the right questions and Seungcheol had been visibly impressed.

You had also been impressed. You were Vice President of the club, having joined a year before Seungcheol, Jeonghan and Soonyoung even arrived at the high school. Jihoon found it a little endearing how enamored Seungcheol was with you, but even more that the entire radio club liked you far more than they did the actual president — a senior that arrived late, that you gave a mildly annoyed glare at, that smelled like her boyfriend's AXE body spray and the faint ganja smoke. Her letterman jacket boasted the last name LOWE, and she introduced herself to the freshman with low, red eyes as Kathleen.

Freshman year was rather uneventful — he spent his time doing everything he did in middle school, but this time…he was also noticing more about you. You had a car, a 1991 GMC Syclone that often sat you and Seungcheol in the cab. You'd sneak him out for lunch with you, you'd drive around town with him — Jihoon saw the two of you on dates a few times, at the local ice cream parlor where Seungcheol would kiss your temple and wipe the corners of your lips of chocolate with his thumb. He was head over heels for you, Jihoon could see it entirely.

Another thing was that Jihoon often heard you humming Jumpin' Jumpin' by Destiny's Child in the mornings while you made last minute touches to the script while Seungcheol talked numbers and events with Jeonghan. He listened to the stations you'd put on the staticky radio, frowning inwardly as you fiddled with the antenna until Seungcheol eventually gave the radio a quick hit and the music would come out clearly. You liked anything, really — but listened mostly to rock, R&B and the occasional Top 40 station.

The songs that you sang along to the most that year were Hanging By A Moment by Lifehouse, My First Love by Avant & KeKe Wyatt, and Never Let You Go by Third Eye Blind. Sometimes you'd sing (You Drive Me) Crazy by Britney Spears at Seungcheol, making his cheeks tinge bright red as you slowly got louder to embarrass him — only for him to yank you close to him and kiss you all over and get you both told off by faculty.

The radio club was also often at any and every school event, including dances and sports competitions — which meant the eight of you (sometimes seven…if Kathleen was off getting stoned with her boyfriend and their friends instead of tagging along like she was supposed to) were often lumped together. It was on those nights that Jihoon got some one-on-one time with you — seeing as his father's '95 G20 could fit most of you. Kathleen's absence often made it easier, with someone having to sit in someone else's lap so she could have a seat to herself.

That was typically when you and he got conversations in. You'd drive fifteen minutes out to his two-story home (that his parents could now comfortably afford on their new salaries) right before events and greet them warmly. Sometimes you brought freshly baked goods from your own mother, who ran the best bakery in Bemidji; sometimes you'd bring flowers for his mother. You'd be invited in for a drink, or a quick bite — and Jihoon would often stay ducked behind the cracked door of his bedroom that felt too big for him. He'd hear his mother cover for him, saying he was finishing up homework or doing some sort of chore for her — when in reality, he'd confided in her that you made him a little nervous. She'd gotten that warm look in her eye, like she usually does when she knows something is a half-truth, but she went along with it anyway.

Then the two of you would sit in the front and tweak the radio here and there, with two cans of Crush grape soda that his mother had slid your way. You told him once that it was your favorite, the medicinal taste of the grape nowhere to be found in that twelve-ounce can and reminding you of summers with your cousins in Emerald Isle…and he asked his mother to keep a six-pack in stock.

It went untouched unless you were borrowing the van.

He also didn't do much of the talking on the drive back to the school. You talked, and you talked a lot — and quite fast. He'd seen Seungcheol stare at you attentively in order to catch all the little details you'd slip into your stories because you also loved to backtrack later in the week and beat the dead horse. But with Jihoon…the talking seemed to be to fill the silence. He responded carefully, and you seemingly enjoyed his company — but that didn't stop him from shying away from you at all and any opportunity.

"You don't like me much, do you?" You had asked him the night of the junior prom later that year, and you were wearing a beautiful butter yellow dress that made your skin glow, the skirt stopping just below your knees. He blinked at you, holding the camera he'd been given by one of the Yearbook girls to help out.

"I never said that?" "It kind of feels like it. You never really talk to me."

Jihoon must've looked taken aback, but you didn't have much time to respond before Seungcheol carefully whisked you away. The last few radio club meets were canceled by Kathleen, and she signed off a week before school let out because she graduated. Mornings were silent, but there was an email thread going back and forth detailing summer events until several of the public library computers and even Soonyoung's personal home one got hit with the ILOVEYOU malware.

Eventually, school let out for summer and radio club meetings were held at your house — and the first was missing a certain Seungcheol Choi. Your eyes were teary as you carefully scribbled across the cool chalkboard wall your parents let you have, talking business until Soonyoung carefully asked where Seungcheol was.

"Moved to Maine to live with his grandmother because his parents thought he and Y/N were spending too much time together," Jeonghan had replied in a low whisper, but loud enough that your shoulders tensed. Mingyu and Seokmin offered soft apologies, but you just ignored them and kept talking about the summer events. At some point, your voice was far too thick to be intelligible and Jeonghan carefully led you out of your bedroom while Jihoon looked around the room. There was a box with Seungcheol's name and new home address printed on a shipping label, and he dared to peek in — and felt his heart sink at a two-year anniversary present that seemingly went unopened.

Happy two year anniversary, baby! I burned a CD for you, it's in the scrapbook. The tracklist is written on the back but our song is on there! I'll be a radio show host soon, just you wait, and I'll play our song on the radio all the time. For now, I love you. And I can't wait for many more years with you.

Your girl, Y/N <3

Your song with Seungcheol was one he heard over and over that summer. It was a country song from 1987 — Forever and Ever, Amen by Randy Travis. Your Syclone only fit two people, and it still smelled like Seungcheol's cologne according to Jeonghan — so he was in charge of wheels for the summer, driving the group around in a 1993 Audi S4 Avant his father had officially gifted him at the end of the school year. The trunk hauled a bulk of soundboards, amps, microphones and in the backseat — usually piled on top of Mingyu and Seokmin's laps — were coolers and snack bags. Jihoon's mother often piled a french baguette with all the fixings, slicing it into five and wrapping it up individually for each of the club members.

You weren't yourself for a while, either. Summer came and went, and payphones were your best friend. You'd ask around for quarters, often landing on Jihoon before scoring one and sauntering off to see if Seungcheol would be by the phone. He often was, and you only seemed more and more heartbroken as the calls got shorter and shorter. He knew Seungcheol was in tears on the other end if you were rapidly wiping at your eyes and tugging at the skin around them.

Your honey blonde highlights were replaced by chocolate brown box dye a week before school started. You held the last summer radio meeting at Jeonghan's house, because he had recently gotten a computer in his family room. The five of you huddled around for a while as you set up the projects you'd all done so the yearbook would have them for the upcoming school year. Eventually, Mingyu and Seokmin walked home — living only ten minutes from Jeonghan's house. Jeonghan's mother was gracious enough to keep you and Jihoon for dinner, and you saved the project on your thumb drive before hiking your bag over your shoulder.

"May I use your phone to call my parents?" He had asked Mrs. Yoon quietly, before you gave a quick whistle, your keys jingling as Jeonghan hugged you quickly. You gestured at the door, "I can take you home."

It was then, a week before his sophomore year of high school and your senior year, that he was really and truly alone with you in a space you dominated. Your Syclone smelled like expensive cologne, and had a sweatshirt draped over the passenger seat. Seungcheol's penmanship was scribbled all over your glove compartment in silver Sharpie, and a Polaroid of you both was resting over your speedometer. You were smiling the widest he'd ever seen, and it was backdated two years.

"It was hard," you suddenly spoke as you turned the engine over and pulled out of the Yoons' driveway, and he glanced up at you from where he'd been staring at the photo. "The break-up. His parents never really liked me, but apparently I was distracting him. As if he wasn't a straight-A student and in so many extracurriculars…but whatever."

Jihoon opened his mouth, intending an apology to tumble out…

"You changed your hair."

You blinked, glancing at yourself in the rear view mirror as you rolled up at a stop sign, your chipped silver fingernails carding through it.

"Yeah. I needed a change." "You've had highlights as long as I've known you."

You raked your eyes over his face, tilting your head as you flicked on your turn signal, "so you think it's bad?"

"No," he shook his head, nibbling on his lip as you pulled out into the main street. Your hands were calm at ten and two, chunky rings adorning your fingers, "but it's not what you're used to, is it?"

"I think change is good," he admitted, "not seeing Seungcheol at the beginning of the summer was weird, but I know that ultimately…if he could've stayed, he would've. Moving to Bemidji was weird but I'm here now and my parents like it. Going to a new school, moving into a house for the first time…it was hard for me but it was good. It's the same with hair. I can assume highlights are expensive."

You snorted then, "I got them for free. My older sister is my hairdresser….she was mad when I went in with the box dye. Tossed it out and gave me…whatever this is."

"I'd say it's chocolate brown." "Then it's chocolate brown." "I never got to answer your question at the junior prom. About disliking you."

You hummed, braking lightly at a stoplight and turning to look at him, "yeah. What's the verdict?"

"It's not that I don't like you, I'm just…you make me a little nervous." He picked at a woven bracelet Seokmin had given him at the beginning of summer. "I appreciate you from a distance."

"Why?" "Why what?" "Why do I make you nervous?"

"Everyone likes you so much," he shrugs, seeing the corner store down the block from his house appear out of the corner of his eye. "You're very nice and approachable and that means you have constant eyes on you. I don't like to be perceived all that much."

"And yet, you went out for the radio club?" He could hear the smile in your voice, only giving you another shrug in response before sucking his teeth.

"I like the behind the scenes. Confidence is…a little lost on me." "So you never want to be the President?" "I'd sooner impale myself on a sword slathered in cyanide."

You'd laughed then — and a real laugh, one he hadn't heard since the end of the school year. Your eyes were hidden by the thickness of your lashes, your shimmery lips spread across your teeth as you shoved his shoulder lightly.

"You're gonna read the announcements on Monday morning." "I will literally not show up if that's the case."

You sucked your teeth, pulling up to his house just as a familiar song came on the radio. You pursed your lips as the sound of the dobro came through your speakers, quickly turning the volume dial all the way down. Sighing, you turned in your seat slightly, "you can't let fear keep you from being great, Jihoon."

"It's not fear. It's…just common sense. You are built for greatness. Not me, I'm your Average Joe." He stated simply, unbuckling his seatbelt before giving you a quick once over. "I'll see you on Monday. Thank you for the ride."

"No problem." "Drive safe."

He slipped out of the car, carefully shutting your door and following the cobblestone walkway to his front door. He stilled on the front step, turning on his heel and bounding back to your car. Your window was down as you rustled around for something, your eyes flickering up when he spoke again.

"Hey, Y/N?" "Yes?" "I like your hair."

Monday came fast — and his schedule was waiting in your hand when he arrived to the radio room in the library. You were comparing them with Mingyu's and Seokmin's, and Soonyoung was talking shop with Jeonghan at the computer in the back of the room. You were officially a senior and the President of the club, with Jeonghan as your Vice. Seungcheol was a presence that still lingered around you — your ear still donned the gold S earring, you fiddled with the radio before looking around, almost as if waiting for him to come hit it. You did it yourself, lingering at it as Forever and Ever, Amen bled through before you turned it off.

Soonyoung was upped to Secretary, and Jihoon, Seokmin and Mingyu shared any other major responsibilities. You'd closed the radio club to any new members, having told Jeonghan that you wanted your last year with it to be one for the books. Your schedule let you out early, half past one in the afternoon, and you made Jeonghan promise to take them all home after school instead of making them walk. He'd scrunched his nose, plucking a twenty from the money clip shoved in the silver treasury box.

"For gas money," he said as he cracked his gum and shoved it into the pocket of his letterman jacket.

Or…Seungcheol's, rather. His surname was in bold blue letters across the back, a soccer patch ironed onto the sleeve. It had another patch, one seemingly custom made — a set of cherries, with your initial on one and his own on the other.

You grimaced at it, turning away before giving Jihoon his schedule, "you're taking Calculus as a sophomore?"

"I like math." He mumbled, not bothering to mention how he'd been spending the hours before summer meetings studying so he could test out of math before his senior year. Your schedule reflected the same course at the same time as him, "you're taking it first period?"

"We should sit together. Dr. Wade is an ass," you shrugged, pulling your bag over your shoulder before giving him a soft smile. "You sure you won't give the morning announcements? C'mon, Ji. For your good buddy Y/N?"

"Yeah, Hoonie." Mingyu teased from his seat across the room, and Jihoon sighed, rolling his eyes as he moved to step in front of the PA system microphone. He cleared his throat, turning fobs and dials, reaching for the silver triangle that generations past had stolen from the band room downstairs.

"Where's the script?" He muttered, searching for the brass beater as you took the sheet off the printer, still warm. He flipped it, scanning it quickly before flicking the microphone on and playing a three-note count on the triangle, "good morning, Aurora Falls. Today is Monday, August 14th, 2000. Happy birthday to Coach Lowe and Principal Barnaby, and thank you to Principal Barnaby for sixteen years of service with Aurora Falls Independent District. These are your morning announcements, brought you to by Y/N Hong, Jeonghan Yoon, Soonyoung Kwon, Seokmin Lee, Mingyu Kim and Jihoon Lee. Please stand for the Pledge of Allegiance."

You smiled proudly next to him, your hip resting against the counter as he read off the pledge and a few other announcements — the weather forecast, updated lunch menu, when tickets for the Fall Ball would be going on sale and new positions for the sports teams…

And he skipped over Seungcheol's name on the new roster.

You nodded inwardly, listening to him try to keep a bored tone out of his voice as he spoke on and on; he noted the way your thumbnail, painted with a fresh coat of silver polish, ran over his name.

Seungcheol Choi — AF BEARS VARSITY SOCCER JUNIOR CAPTAIN.

The three others dispersed after you took over the rest of the announcements, thanking Jihoon with a squeeze of your fingers against his shoulder.

"Let's walk together," you nudged him with your elbow, your eyes twinkling under the fluorescent lights that gave him headaches. He silently agreed, falling into lockstep with you as you led the both of you out of the radio room. He kept his grip tight on his clarinet case as people talked to you while walking past, before one of the senior football players sidled up to you. A quarterback, he thinks, sporting a letterman jacket like the one Seungcheol used to — last name LOWE, first name Declan.

An offspring of Coach Lowe's, much like Kathleen.

And a disappointment of a leader, just like his sister.

Jihoon has seen the way he plays ball and it's dirty. He's a shit throw and a ball hog, but let the record show that it's not like he hasn' t been called on his bad habits several times — both on and off of the playing field.

"Hey, radio star," he had a smoother drawl than Kathleen, one that reminded him of his grandparents in Tennessee as he threw his arm over your shoulders. You scowled, shoving him off, "get away from me, ugh! As if!"

Jihoon bit back his snort at the Clueless reference, silently opting to skirt around to the other side where he looped his arm with yours. The senior's friends teased him, "oh come on, babe! I'm Captain this year, that's gotta count for something."

"Put it on a resume, I don't care." "Seungcheol's gone, babe. Face the music."

Jihoon felt you tense then, your hand holding his arm tightening slightly as you looked over your shoulder, "Shelby dumped you, babe. Face the music that no one wants your sorry ass."

After that, Jihoon doesn't remember who hit first. All he really remembers is the way his chest felt suddenly hot when the word bitch reached his ears, and the way his clarinet case clattered across the hall. He also remembers the soft scent of your shampoo wafting up his nose when you pulled him off the floor, and the sudden realization that there was a bleeding quarterback clutching his nose in the middle of the hallway.

Jihoon doesn't even think he was tall enough then to hit Declan that easily.

Jihoon also remembers the three-day suspension he was given. Not because he felt bad for what he did, because he didn't — but because his mother would not let him rest. She scolded him the entire drive to the urgent care, in the waiting room to get his eyebrow stitched up, on the drive home, and even all throughout dinner. He couldn't count on all his fingers and toes how many times his mother told him that we don't hit other people, Jihoon Lee.

"He was harassing her and called her a bitch. I think one fight won't kill him." Jihoon had muttered over his bowl of soup that night, his father glancing up at his mother. Jihoon swirled his spoon through the hot broth, the steam wafting up into his face when there was a knock at the door. His father dismissed him to open it, and he hadn't bothered looking through the peephole before opening it — seeing you, Jeonghan, Soonyoung, Seokmin and Mingyu all standing on his front porch.

"Jihoon is not allowed friends over," his father had spoken up behind him, but you held up a stack of papers.

"Just bringing his schoolwork, Mr. Lee." You replied, but your eyes never left the three stitched points across his left brow. Your fingers were holding the paperwork tight, and he took it from you — watching you awkwardly shove your hands into your pockets as his mother skirted behind him.

"You fought that boy over her?" "I didn't fight anyone over anybody. And if it was her, I wasn't going to tell you. Thanks, guys." "Let them join us for dinner."

And for dinner, the five of you joined. They huddled around the dining table, filling all the chairs and Jihoon giving his up for you to sit. He ate alone in the kitchen, making quick work of soup and rice before hearing you offer to move plates to the kitchen. He wanted to step out, but you managed to make it back to the kitchen before he could.

"You didn't have to do that today, Jihoon." You started, running a shaky hand through your mussed hair. Your eyes were a bit swollen, the whites pink from what he assumed to be tears. "You could've been seriously hurt."

"He was being a jerk to you," he replied simply, his thumb fiddling with the tab on his can of soda. He flicked it, "he called you a bitch. And you got tense when he mentioned Seungcheol. I couldn't stand there and do nothing."

"For someone who doesn't talk much, you sure think a lot."

"For someone who talks a lot, you make a lot of excuses. He was a jerk. I hit him. It's over with and I'll be back at school in three days. I should be glad he didn't beat the tar out of me." Jihoon shrugged, but you trilled your lips, "and don't worry. I know you can fend for yourself, it was just..an instinct reaction. One I didn't know I had and one I likely won't ever tap into again, but I'm glad it was for you. If that's of any consolation."

Jihoon also remembers how tightly you hugged him then — how he lightly patted your back as he saw his parents peek into the kitchen with wide eyes. His own screamed that he was just as taken aback, and eventually, he saw you and the rest of the group out of his home. He waved as the five of you piled into Jeonghan's car, and his mother made a quiet comment about you that stuck with him for the rest of the year as she watched through the window.

"She's gonna go far, that girl."

Suspension came and went, and the school year rolled on without much more to be worried about. His clarinet practices ran late sometimes, he started learning how to drive with his father, he went to radio club in the mornings and spent his weekends studying and practicing. Winter break came around and you showed up at his house with a gift on Christmas Day, inviting his family to your mother's New Year's Eve party.

"My mom is always looking for more friends," you'd smiled lightly, the cold wind biting at your skin under your thin coat. It was only then that he learned your mother was raising you alone, and promised he'd get his parents to drive out to your house for the New Year. They did just that, and the radio club was huddled together in the basement of your house and eating while the adults got tipsy upstairs. You kept stealing rice cakes out of Jihoon's bowl, who couldn't stop himself from pinching at the almond cookies Seokmin had brought down in a napkin — until Jeonghan came downstairs with his puffer still on and slightly overstuffed.

"….What do you have, Jeonghan?" You'd asked slowly, blindly stealing a piece of fish cake out of Jihoon's bowl before he pulled it away, "get your own!"

"Only children never share," Mingyu turned his nose up at him, offering his own bowl as the two of you both stuck your tongues out at him — only for Jeonghan to clear his throat and open his puffer jacket to reveal a bottle of homemade makgeolli just as Soonyoung made his way down the stairs with the familiar clink of yet another bottle. They looked at each other, a soft snicker falling from their lips as they both wormed down the stairs and joined the group in the middle of the basement.

"Not only are you late," you smacked the back of Soonyoung's head as you took the clear bottle from his hand, "but you steal from my mother's stash? Have some shame…you could've brought cups."

"We can just share from the bottles!" Jeonghan argued, only for Mingyu to pipe up, "that's indirect kissing. And I'm not kissing any of you boneheads, that's reserved for Nina Jang."

"Nina Jang is never going to look your way," Soonyoung snorted, uncapping the glass bottle and taking a smooth sniff. "Plus, she's seventeen. You're not even sixteen until April."

"Nina Jang would kiss Mingyu," Jihoon piped up, shoving one of the cookies from Seokmin's napkin into his cheek and grabbing his soda off the coffee table in front of him. "But jokes on him, she's also kissing that senior boy, what's his name?"

"Jaehyun Kim," you spoke around a hot dumpling in your mouth, fanning at your face as Jeonghan scrunched his nose at you, "fuck off, it's hot!"

"She is not kissing Jaehyun Kim," Mingyu scoffed, only for Jihoon to shrug and tilt his can at him, "she is so. I saw them behind the bleachers last week."

"Where are you that you know all this stuff anyway, Jihoon?" Jeonghan asked casually, taking a sip of the bottle confidently. Seokmin's eyes were nervous as he offered it, Jeonghan's soft voice assuring he doesn't have to drink any if he doesn't want to as Soonyoung takes the bottle.

"Clarinet practice. And I like to listen to the choir practice sometimes, and you're lazy so I end up scripting the announcements in the mornings. You'd be surprised how early people get to school to make out," Jihoon grimaced, taking the last sip of his can before crushing it and tossing it into the recycling bin a few inches from the door. Mingyu had a pout on his lips, making Jihoon coo as you steal yet another dumpling off the tray in the middle, "it's not the end of the world. You can still kiss Nina Jang."

"Ugh, yeah, but I want my first kiss to be special," Mingyu groaned, sinking down in his spot on the couch. Jihoon glanced over at you, watching the way your shoulders shook with silent laughter as Jeonghan shoved you lightly.

"Quit that, just because you and Seungcheollie—" "I told you that in confidence, Jeonghan Yoon!"

"Told him what in confidence?" Soonyoung hung his head over the arm rest of the brown leather recliner, eyes curious. Jihoon also eyed Jeonghan's blushy face as he fiddled with his bracelet, one he'd seen matching with Seungcheol during last year's club meetings. You rolled your eyes, "that Seungcheol and I had our first kiss and his mom caught us and yelled so loud we fell out of the tree we climbed."

"You can climb a tree?" Mingyu interrupted, and Soonyoung held the bottle of makgeolli out to Jihoon. You slightly turned to face Mingyu, your fingers wrapping around the neck of it and pulling it towards you, "I can do lots of things. Not that you can do half the stuff I can—"

"Can so." "I've kissed Nina Jang, you haven't. So I've got you beat in your biggest goal, anyway."

"Let it be clear that she kissed Nina Jang as a dare," Jeonghan said as you took a sip of the rice wine in front of them all, their eyes wide at the idea of a girl kissing another girl. "It's not a big deal, you'll see worse things in college."

"You're don't even want to go to college, Han," you rolled your eyes, wiping your thumb across your lip of stray liquid. Jeonghan snorted, "probably not, but you'd invite me to all the parties anyway. You love me!"

The night goes on with everyone slowly beginning to overshare things about their lives — Seokmin's first kiss with a girl who moved back to Minneapolis over the summer, Jeonghan's first kiss with Seungcheol of all people (and how he introduced you and Seungcheol the very next day,) how you moved to and grew up in Bemidji after being born in Emerald Isle. Eventually, the bottles of makgeolli made their rounds to every hand in the room — and the taste was sweet and thick in the back of Jihoon's mouth. It was an hour to midnight as Jeonghan shoved you closer to Jihoon to fit on the couch, the television staticky around an old VHS tape of The Little Mermaid and Seokmin was singing along — both beautifully and slightly slurred from the alcohol.

"What about you?" Jeonghan leaned over your lap, his cheeks rosy from the heat of the basement and alcohol in his system. Jihoon raised a brow, his own face probably not faring any better as he gave him a questioning look. "Have you kissed anyone, Jihoon?"

"I'm sixteen?" "Yeah, that's not my question. Have you kissed anyone?" "No, I'm sixteen."

"I had just turned fifteen when I had my first kiss with Seungcheol," you piped up next to him, "and he was fifteen a few weeks later. I don't think it's that crazy to not have kissed anyone by this point. It's silly, anyway."

Jeonghan didn't seem all that convinced, but let the topic go as Seokmin switched out the tape with The Devil's Advocate, "no way are we watching a scary movie on New Year's Eve."

"It's not that scary," you argued, trying to steady your words as you carefully stacked plates up to take back up to the kitchen sink. "It's just…it's a movie. Don't pussy out, Jeonghan. Jihoon, help me go upstairs."

"Can you bring me back a soda? I'm all out, gorgeous," Soonyoung held up his empty orange Crush can, with Jihoon snorting as he took the plates out of your hands before pushing ahead of you up the stairs. Jeonghan was still heard arguing with Seokmin as you opened the door behind him, easily sliding back in front of him. The party with the adults was in full swing, and Jihoon felt suddenly uneasy at the smell of rice wine on his lips as he slipped past his parents — his mother's sharp eyes catching him. He held up the plates and she nodded, turning back to her conversation with who he was introduced to be the pastor at your church.

"You've really never kissed anyone?" You asked quietly as the two of you ducked into the quieter kitchen, with lots of food still left. You glanced out the kitchen doorway before shoving a handful of cookies into a napkin and then into your pocket, making Jihoon snort as he turned the water on lightly to rinse off the plates.

"Why is that so surprising?" "I guess it's really not, it's just…interesting. You're not curious?"

"It's just a kiss. I'll get to it eventually. Maybe tonight, maybe in three months, maybe in two years. Who knows?" He shrugs, and you roll your long sleeves up to wash the plates. The two of you move in tandem, and eventually you're making him keep watch as you sneak another bottle of makgeolli under your shirt and into the waistband of your jeans. He has a thick slice of triple chocolate cake and a stupid can of orange Crush soda for Soonyoung, and he makes for distraction as you quickly worm your way back to the basement. His mother makes him also take a water bottle, but he makes it back to the basement with no issues…

Until he almost slammed into you at the top of the stairs after closing the door behind himself. The makgeolli bottle in your hand is open, the cold liquid spilling over your fingers as you hiss. You're watching the way Mingyu and Soonyoung are wrestling on the ground in front of the television and getting increasingly louder, shaking your wet hand as you wrinkle your nose at him over your shoulder.

"Shit, sorry—" "Did you just say shit?"

"I'm not a baby, you know." Jihoon muttered, making you snicker inwardly as he crouched to see Jeonghan holding a twenty in his hand and yelling that whoever won got it, "Soonyoung's gonna win."

"Nah, Mingyu is." "I'll bet you ten bucks Soonyoung wins." "I don't have ten bucks, but I'll bet…here, I'll bet you a kiss."

Jihoon rolled his eyes, opting to take a seat on the step and pick off pieces of the cake with his fork. You slid a random fast food straw out of your sleeve, pulling the paper off with your teeth and slipping it into the bottle to sip from when Seokmin called that Soonyoung won. Mingyu was scowling as he shoved him off, and Soonyoung happily plucked the bill out of Jeonghan's hand.

"All Mingyu does is disappoint me," you mumbled, almost too close to Jihoon's neck because he jerked away from you. You winced in apology, but Jihoon pointed with his fork, "now you owe me a kiss."

"Ugh, yeah." "Saying ugh when you bet that instead of money is kind of insane on your part." "I'm not saying ugh like gross, I'm saying ugh like…I didn't think I'd lose."

Jihoon laughed aloud, catching the attention of the boys down the stairs. You waved at a beady eyed Jeonghan, turning to Jihoon, "I can kiss you at midnight."

Jihoon shook his head, steadily rising to his feet before turning his nose up, "I'll cash that kiss in when I feel like it."

The night went on, and the six of you rang in the New Year with a tight group hug.

Jihoon and his parents went home at two in the morning, and the promise of a kiss was not out of his mind as he managed to mask the tipsy sway of his body with the excuse of fatigue.

His sophomore year went on without much else to worry about. You became increasingly less available, opting to retake your standardized tests several times for better scores and spending hours at study sessions with Jeonghan. Mingyu and Seokmin ended up in relationships by the end of the year — Mingyu with the Nina Jang, and Seokmin with a sweet girl in the choir. Both girls were curious about radio club, and were easily coaxed in by your cheeky smile and bright personality.

Then, graduation season came for you. Your free time became shorter and shorter, your voice on the morning announcements was missed every so often. Jihoon couldn't remember the smell of your shampoo by the time prom rolled around, and even though he was at the event for the sake of the club, everything was too much of a blur for him to focus. He kept to himself in the corner, watching the way his friends canoodled in the corner with their new girlfriends — only for Jeonghan to tug him aside gently.

"I'm moving this summer," Jeonghan said as quietly as he could with the DJ blaring music, and Jihoon's eyes went wide with surprise. He spotted you across the room, holding a clear cup of punch as you sang along to So Gone by Monica with your friends — your dress was a soft purple, handmade by your mother with a halter neck and sequins shaped like butterflies all over the tulle overlay. You seemed to sense his eyes, because you glanced over just as Jeonghan murmured more, "Y/N doesn't know and I don't want you to tell her. She and I asked Soonyoung to give you the Vice President role for the radio club. You'll be President by your senior year if everything works out."

Instead of going to anyone's house after prom for after parties (read: to get stoned in someone's basement and sneak vodka from someone's parents' liquor cabinet,) you piled everyone into the bed of your truck and drove steadily down to an ice cream parlor that's old as dirt. The owners knew everyone in town, and easily scooped hefty portions of chocolate, vanilla, strawberry and homemade butter pecan ice cream into small waffle bowls for everyone.

They were at your graduation two days later, your gold cap marking you as the valedictorian of the Aurora Falls High School class of 2003. Your speech mentioned all of them, and your eyes scanned all over the entire stadium as you smiled brightly — stopping suddenly when they reached Jeonghan, widening so much that your lashes touched your eyebrows. Jihoon glanced over, seeing Seungcheol inching into the seat with a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

It wasn't about Jihoon, but something in his chest ached as the speech continued to flow out of your mouth — rehearsed, timed, perfect.

Jihoon didn't see you after, much less the rest of the summer if you weren't being driven around by Seungcheol in a pick-up truck he didn't recognize. It had a bench seat, it was bright red with white detailing, and even had balloons tied to the mirrors during the end of the summer to signal your birthday, and his shortly after.

And eventually, that red pick-up truck drove you out to California with all your things packed in boxes. Jihoon learned from sparse meetings with Jeonghan while he packed up his bedroom that Seungcheol had put in double the work to graduate early and follow you wherever you went. Jeonghan and his family were moving back to New York, following his mother's residency program — but Jeonghan left an address, asking for letters.

Jihoon sent them. He received them, and in his final letter to Jeonghan went a ticket to his graduation.

And when Jihoon graduated two years later, donning the same gold cap you had, Jeonghan was in the stands with Soonyoung. You weren't there, and Jihoon had done his best to forget about you — even if he swore he heard your voice on the radio a few times. He kept his achievements quiet, he made his parents proud and he left Minnesota in his rear view, having packed his father's '95 G20 and moving out east. Rutgers welcomed him, as did several beautiful girls — and his first kiss.

His first everything, actually. Her name was Britney, much like the Louisiana pop star, and even in 2005 — she sported honey blonde hair with caramel lowlights that had a zigzag part and was held back into two messy, spiky space buns at the nape of her neck. Her lips were plump and glossy, her eyes were bright, her voice smooth…

But she wasn't you.

Eventually, that relationship developed more. He fell in love with her, entirely; even when honey blonde and zigzag parts turned to jet black and pin straight, even when he took her to her sorority's semi-formals and held her hand during every weekend they managed to drive out to New York City from campus. They were fully dating by the end of his sophomore year of college — talking marriage, a potential kid or two, but a big, big house. Oceanside, per Britney's request; somewhere warm, per Jihoon's…

Until she went home to Florida for the summer and called him two weeks in and asked to break up. He had been back in Minnesota, working alongside his mother for a summer camp program when he got the call — hearing the loud music blaring in the back, and he simply agreed. She'd seemed peeved that he agreed so easily, but she wound up not returning to Rutgers in the fall — leaving Jihoon to cope with the heartbreak in some sort of twisted peace.

He stayed in touch with his friends — Soonyoung was across the country in Seattle, Mingyu ended up at Tufts in Massachusets, and Seokmin was just an hour drive into New York at The Julliard School. Jeonghan was taking community college courses while working in Manhattan, bussing tables and, unbeknownst to Jihoon, keeping the secret that you were graduating and he was going to fly across the country to see it happen.

Jeonghan was also home to the secret that halfway through college, you and Seungcheol had amicably split — him to pursue potentially going pro for soccer, you for the love of radio and how unsure you were at the idea of having a family and settling down before you could get a chance to achieve star potential. You had been eagerly interning at several radio stations, earning praise as a pupil and even networking to build connections in the sports world so you could still be close to Seungcheol — he was your best friend. He was your twin flame, just as hard working as you were…

And he was dating Jeonghan. Long-distance, behind closed doors and the phone bill was a bitch, but they were dating and you were the one who egged them on. You spent your time interning, studying, getting cups of coffee and not bothering to bite your tongue at misogynistic remarks. You stuck up for the underdog, you slowly made a name for yourself and Jihoon stuck to what he knew best — working behind the scenes. Scripts, catalogues, internships to keep his mind off the ache in his chest from his breakup and keep the whole operation afloat.

He heard your voice for the first time on ROCK 105.3 in San Diego — clean, clear, crisp and confident. He'd flown out for an internship opportunity, and was sat in the back of a car sent to pick him up at the airport. It was March 11th, 2009 and he even remembers the way his skin prickled at the smooth, soft tone of your voice that still had that

"That was Journey's Who's Crying Now on ROCK 105.3's 3PM hour of commercial free music. I'm your host, Y/N Hong and up next is Sweet and Low by Augustana. Enjoy your Friday, freaks. Keep on rockin'."

Jihoon attempted to nonchalantly dial up Jeonghan, who knew he would be in San Diego and was cat sitting for him, "I heard Y/N on the radio."

"No shit? What station?" "San Diego's ROCK 105.3. I can't believe one of us actually made it to radio." "You know Y/N. She stops at nothing."

He didn't get a chance to hear you again before he went back home, but not even a week later — he heard you speaking in the Communications Hall of his campus. He followed the sound — only to see your face projected on the wall of the Social Responsibility and Community Wellness course he took last semester. He peeked in, seeing the ROCK 105.3 sign in the background of your web camera. You were smiling brightly, and he saw a flash of honey blonde hair and caramel lowlights when Professor Calla asked if you have any upcoming projects.

"Yes! This is an offer extended only to senior broadcast journalism students, so if you hear something about it, it's confirmed by me. I recently partnered with a few radio stations across the country, going even back to my home, the North Star State of Minnesota, to bring life back to some radio stations that have seen better days. The program is called Caller Number Nine, and each station will get six weeks with me to see if I can successfully bring up ratings, re-engaging local audiences and even holding events to get the people to tune back in. That being said, the only requirements are that you are a senior broadcast journalism student that is eligible to graduate, willing to relocate, and that you are lucky enough to be Caller Number Nine. Professor Calla will give you a paper and send you an email with all the information necessary as well as all the stations that are up to be static shocked! Good luck, future radio stars."

Jihoon waited exactly fifteen minutes for class to let out before worming his way into the lecture hall. He'd been one of Professor Calla's favorite students the semester prior, and even had her personal email in case he ever needed anything — it didn't take more than a quick hello for her to begin rambling about the Caller Number Nine program and handed him a piece of paper.

There were stations all over the country on it — but his eyes zeroed in on Lake Ruby's long-dying radio station, 109.6 RUBY FM. He'd listened to it on trips down to Wisconsin to visit his cousins during the summer and get a Culver's scoop every day for a week — but he hadn't done that since he moved out of St. Cloud and he hadn't heard much about Lake Ruby since.

Lake Ruby was the fifth stop on the hit list, and the program offered all-inclusive housing and a permanent spot at the radio station once the goals were achieved — and you'd be hosting the first call from San Diego on June 15th, 2009. It would be a long distance call, and there was a chance he wouldn't even have a chance to get on his phone — the call slot was at noon in Pacific Standard Time.

Which meant it was at three o'clock his time.

And his graduation was the same day at one in the afternoon…

He could try.

Weeks passed, graduation came and his nerves were absolutely shot.

It wasn't about you.

It was about getting a job. Getting to help bring back something that meant something to him, about making his family proud and achieving his dream.

"You're gonna call the radio station, aren't you?" Jeonghan said the moment he spotted Jihoon fiddling with his phone in the car. Jeonghan, Seokmin and Mingyu had all come down and Soonyoung managed to get a last minute flight out — barely landing in Newark Liberty an hour before the event. Mingyu had picked him up and the older man got dressed in the car — even brushing his teeth a second time with the complimentary water bottle from the airport and swallowing his toothpaste.

It seemed Jihoon wasn't the only one with the idea to call the radio station — amongst his peers, everyone was buzzing with excitement. The ceremony seemed to go on forever, and lunches with family and friends were even longer. He rushedly collected his diploma, thanking a few of the professors up on the stage and even giving a quick salute to his guests in the stands — but by the time they sat down to lunch at a diner Jihoon loved to frequent during late night study sessions, his internal clock started ticking like a bomb.

He could feel sweat start to slowly bead at his hairline as he watched the clock hands move closer to three. The number was already sitting on the tiny screen of his Blackberry, and he could see several other people he'd been in those same broadcasting courses with nibbling their lips and bouncing their legs under their tables.

"You're gonna get it," Jeonghan soothed, patting Jihoon's knee under the table. His parents had been filled in by Mingyu, and they'd been skeptical — but upon hearing that it was you running this contest, they gave soft smiles and wished their son good luck; opting to zero in on thick sandwiches and pickles stacked high on their plates.

Jihoon, much like the time he punched Declan Lowe, cannot remember much of anything. He remembers hearing your voice, he remembers hearing caller number nine, and he remembers the surprise in your laughter when everyone at the table yelled at his name is Jihoon Lee.

Time seemed to move almost too fast for Jihoon after that.

You'd had the winners to your raffle fly out to San Diego for promotions in the last week of June, giving out assignments and letting everyone get better acquainted with each other. Your schedule was put out by that point, too — and Lake Ruby was the fifth stop on the list. You started in Ashland, Oregon in July, only to travel out to Washington, Colorado before your stop in Nebraska was set to end on Christmas Eve that year.

The reunion was also something that seemed to hit you just as hard as it hit him — but you were better at masking it than he was. You were all smiles — but the honey blonde hair was lost once more. It was a chocolate brown again, and he ignored the blush creeping up his neck as he let you pull him into a warm hug. You hugged him far longer than any of the other winners, eventually explaining that you and he were long time friends.

Jihoon wonders how far that friend title can go when you hadn't spoken in years, but he smiles and agrees for appearances.

He spent the summer in Lake Ruby — getting acquainted with the townspeople, easing into the internship at the station. He grew close with the older gentleman running it, his eyes clouded by cataracts and fumbling with the audio consoles and his microphone. His name is Gus, a Greek man who grew up in Lake Ruby after moving across the ocean from one of the Athenian sub-cities. He told Jihoon stories about his yia-yia, who raised him alone after their big move, and often brought big batches of spanakorizo or pastourmadopita made by his wife to share with him. Jihoon eventually met said wife — a small woman named Beryl with many things to say to him, particularly that she had a nice granddaughter around his age.

As for the locale that actually housed 109.6 RUBY FM, Jihoon made it his mission to clean the place up — fixing up overcrowded file cabinets, offering music suggestions more popular with the younger crowd of the town, even going as far as repainting the station inside and out. He bought a nice couch, new chairs, microphones, headsets; he even decorated the lobby area with signed posters and a huge lava lamp in the corner, changing the bright fluorescent ceiling bulbs to softer yellow ones.

And now, he's late. He's running late on your very first day with him, and Good Girls Go Bad is playing in the speakers of his car as he finally pulls into the station. Your car is covered in snow, a 2010 Audi A6 in sparkly cherry red. Your license plate still says California as he skirts past it, forgoing his scarf as he punches in the code to the front door. Warm air hits his face as he shuts it behind him, the sound of MGMT's Kids now bleeding into the end of Good Girls Go Bad.

He can see you through the window — you're in your element. You're easily making conversation with Gus, your coat the same deep purple as that beloved windbreaker he knew to be your favorite. Your hair is still chocolate brown, but there's a zigzag part and Gus is laughing at whatever you're saying while you smile inwardly, holding a half-eaten lokma in your fingers as he skirts into the room after swiping his badge.

"Nice of you to join us, boy." Gus's voice is deep as he acknowledges Jihoon. He winces, earning your eyes as he shucks his coat off, "I'm sorry I'm late."

"Don't be sorry, be better," Gus says gently, before offering the plate of lokma to him. "Help yourself. Beryl said you need to eat more."

"I eat so much with you guys," Jihoon mumbles, plucking a piece off anyway and shoving it into his cheek. "What else did I miss?"

"My arrival," you snort, licking your fingers of honey and cinnamon before clearing your throat. "It's Christmas, Jihoon. You could've been on time."

"Have you seen the roads? You're lucky I'm even alive." "Hi, Y/N. How are you? I've missed you."

He tongues his cheek, and Gus snickers inwardly as he slips into the backroom, "you two get reacquainted. I've gotta call my Beryl and let her know I'll be on my way soon."

Your eyes are expectant, making him sigh, "hi, Y/N. How are you? I missed you."

You beam, "hi! I'm good and I missed you, too! Christmas Eve in Nebraska was a shitshow, but that's neither here nor there. Are you ready to work?"

"Hi, Jihoon. How are you?" "I know you're late." "We've been reunited for seven minutes and you're already pissing me off."

You roll your eyes, pressing the very same button that flashes the bright red ON AIR sign on, "Y/N Hong coming at you live, thank you for tuning in to our 6PM commercial free hour! The temperature outside is twenty-three degrees Fahrenheit, let's be sure to bundle up! Happy holidays from your folks here at 109.6 RUBY FM, and this is Crushcrushcrush by Paramore!"

He's unimpressed, "Y/N."

"Jihoon." "Ask me how I am."

"You're late," you repeat, and Jihoon tries not to let his eyes zero in on the glossy plum color on your lips. "So prove to me that you deserve this opportunity, and get to work."

He pouts, "I've done so much already—"

"And I love what you've done with the place, baby," you interrupt, smoothly sliding your coat off your shoulders and the click of your heels catches his attention as you walk to the hook by the door to hang it up. Your shampoo is the same and he feels his chest tight at the soft tobacco and vanilla scent floating off you as you walk back to your seat. "Prove you've got what it takes. Announce the next segment in fifteen minutes."

"You want me to impale myself on a sword slathered in cyanide." He slumps in his chair next to yours, only to feel you grab the arm of it and yank him closer to you. Your perfume is stronger now, and he glances at your ear to see that same S earring snug in your tragus.

"I want you to be great." You murmur, your hand tight around his chair as he glances at you. "Not the Average Joe. That's not what you're made for and it's not what I'll let you be, either. Friends don't let friends be mediocre."

Friends don't let friends be mediocre.

But friends don't lean in almost too close in a radio station in Lake Ruby, and friends don't almost kiss on Christmas Day 2009.

Good luck, caller number nine.

HAOLOGRAM © 2026 || no translations, reposting or modifications are allowed. do not claim as your own. viewer discretion is advised. your media consumption is your responsibility.

[studiosvt]

Please validate your tag by reblogging this fic!

Taglist: @prettypinkpassport @bobathi @ts19009 @kiiimgyuuu @smiileflower

@kittylover-inbothways @codeinebelle @gyuhao365 @coupsv @zealouscookierebeltrash

@fancypeacepersona @wildcreature @Frayaatiny @Leigh-darling @Ashlinxloves 

@bubble-ten @missthang600 @jenowithjaem @watchanisworld @cheolamor

@haoluver @thestoryofana13 @orpheustae @peaceofni-ki @bramos91

@tranquillitysoul @erireadsstuff @libraryinkuniverse @uhdrienne @missingsarinha

@hongyinujiang @nekkiotine @baobaoexe @isabellah29 @hoshiskimchi

@orbitinghao @babilou-pov @parakissss @hocidust

[joshujin]

series masterlist • part one • part two 🔞 18+, minors DNI 🚨 minors and blank blogs will be blocked

1(800)GO2-H3LL

🎙 Brought to you by @studiosvt's First Time Caller Collab

When the host of the morning show at 99.2 STEP FM announces his retirement, the race to take the coveted, high-traffic primetime slot is on. And after several years maintaining the second highest listenership at the station, that 6 a.m. start time is as good as yours... as long as Lee Chan—the uptight, overrehearsed, pretentious asshole who keeps hunting everything you love for sport—stays away from it, that is. Naturally, he has no plans of affording you that luxury.

♫ (You Drive Me) Crazy by Britney Spears

PAIRING: radio hosts chan x fem!reader WC: 5.6K / ??? TAGS: workplace rivals to lovers, set in 2004 CW: workplace romance, adhd, mentions of gender discrimination SMUT: will add when we get to it! A/N: brother. don't even look at me rn. i have SEVEN different drafts of this bc my brain was not cooperating. not proofread so please go easy on me. and bc i struggled with this one so hard, i'm definitely going to take some time to think about the next part so i appreciate your patience. thanks ily enjoy and make sure you check out the other works in this collab! buhbye

OFF SCRIPT WITH Y/N ၊၊||၊ Now spinning: Since U Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson

YOU: Thanks for calling into Off Script on 99.2 STEP FM, where you're always one STEP ahead of the charts! You've reached the Bad Idea Hotline. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?

CALLER: Oh my god! Oh my god! [screams] Kendall, I'm on! Yes I'm on—hey, give me the phone back! [grunting and shuffling] Give it. Okay, sorry! Hi!

YOU: Hi! What's your name?

CALLER: I'm Lexi! [muffled, in the background: And I'm Kendall!] No one cares.

YOU: I care! Who is that?

LEXI: Ugh, it's my sister, Kendall.

YOU: Thanks for calling the Bad Idea Hotline, Lexi slash Kendall. Now let's talk it out before you act it out. What bad idea can I talk you out of today?

LEXI: Okay, so there's this guy at work.

YOU: Mmm. Men continue to be the leading cause of calling into the Bad Idea Hotline.

LEXI: Yes, he's the worst. He and I have been competing for this promotion for, like… months.

YOU: Hmm.

LEXI: There's this huge company event on Friday night, and I just found out he's doing a presentation for some execs visiting from out of town, and I was thinking…

YOU: Dangerous pastime.

LEXI: What if someone accidentally replaced his slideshow with photos of him that someone's sister found on his MySpace of him totally plastered at a concert that he called out sick to attend…?

YOU: Jesus Christ, Lexi.

LEXI: It's not the Good Idea Hotline!

YOU: No, I know, I know. Sorry, absolutely no judgment here. You just scare me, and I respect you for that. Well, Lexi, while I love this level of petty and chaotic, I unfortunately have to tell you that this… [Bad Idea Hotline alarm blares loudly] is a bad idea.

LEXI: Boooo.

YOU: Let's talk logistics. How would you even access his deck? Sneak onto his computer? Then you get caught and what, fired? That just leaves you jobless with zero options for references. And let's just say you do succeed in changing the deck out without getting caught, and he's humiliated in front of everyone, and he gets fired and you receive this promotion. Do you think it will feel good…? Knowing you had to do all that just to get a promotion you knew you deserved anyway?

LEXI: Ugh… I guess not.

YOU: I'm the largest advocate for beating men in every avenue of life. But if we're going to beat a man at something, we're going to do it with our dignity in tact. Right?

LEXI: Right. You're totally right. It was a crazy idea.

YOU: And I love your creativity. But let's redirect it. Because to be frank, if you're spending this much time and energy trying to ruin this guy's life… maybe it means you care a little too much about his opinion of you. Maybe it means it's time to stop focusing on him and more on you.

LEXI: I hate that you're right.

YOU: Callers often do. Can I trust that you won't go destroying your career—or anyone else's—after you hang up?

LEXI: Yes, you can trust me. I will be an upstanding employee.

YOU: Good girl. You're going to get that promotion! I believe it!

LEXI: Thanks, Y/N. By the way, I love your show so much—huh? Okay, get off me! Sorry, my sister and I love your show so much. We're such big fans and I hope you're on STEP FM for a long time!

YOU: Aw, thanks! And don't worry. I will be!

EVERYONE RAISES THEIR FLUTES OF CHAMPAGNE UP FOR KIM SEOKJIN, the room full of smiles, cheering, and tears of happiness save for two people: you and Lee Chan, who is already glaring at you before the toasts even end. You glare right back, slipping your middle finger from around the stem of your glass to discreetly flip him off. His scowl deepens. Seokjin's loud and shrill peel of laughter demands your attention, and you pointedly turn away from your show rival.

"I think I speak for everyone at the station when I say you will be missed dearly, Seokjin," a voice somewhere to your left says. The sheer ambition to absolutely crush Lee Chan blinds you and renders you incapable of registering anything other than the rage fueling your need to win the morning slot Seokjin's retirement will be leaving empty.

By all accounts, you're a better radio show host than Chan. You're funnier, more engaging, more flexible, you don't have a stick up your ass, and most importantly, you have integrity, something a thief like him wouldn't know anything about. You're the clear choice to fill the morning slot.

You just need the executives to stop fucking around and agree that you're the clear choice.

"Cheers!" someone else finally shouts.

"Cheers!" you parrot everyone else, forcing a smile on your mouth as you lean forward to clink your drink against others' in honor of Seokjin.

You bring the glass to your lips, your eyes inevitably straying to Chan, whose glower is still fixed on you. You're not sure it ever left. He empties the flute in one, clean gulp, and your eyes briefly drop to his Adam's apple as it bobs. You sneer at him in disgust, stopping at the one, small sip and setting your champagne down on Seokjin's kitchen island.

"Alcoholic," you mouth at Chan, turning away before he can mouth anything back. You immediately head for Seokjin, who is proving to truly be the most beloved human being you know, already surrounded by several weeping colleagues. "Excuse me. Excuse me. Yeah, hi, coming through."

You finally squeeze through the throng of people, tripping a little as you reach the morning show host. His face lights up at the sight of you, and you can tell he's already drunk. You don't blame him; he's probably been celebrating the public announcement of his retirement all day leading up to this party. You would be too if you were about to sunset a career that singlehandedly made your station the #1 most listened to in the country and had people calling you the Father of Radio. And all in favor of practically owning a cable TV channel. You'd never stop celebrating, actually.

Seokjin bellows your name, throwing his arms out wide and welcoming you into his space. "Just the girl I wanted to see! I listened to your show today!"

"You listen to my show every day," you say, glaring at him and daring him to disagree with you. He doesn't miss a beat.

"Of course I do, but today was 'specially special!" he throws an arm around your shoulders and leads you away from the kitchen and toward the backyard.

The sprawling backyard of a man who made his riches from his morning show. His morning show that better be yours soon.

"And why was that?" you feign ignorance. You spent the last hour of your show playing Seokjin's favorite songs and talking about your favorite memories with him in honor of the announcement. He fixes you with a knowing look that might actually bring you to tears.

Kim Seokjin has been the morning show host at 99.2 STEP FM for 20 years, bringing them to the heights they're at now. He's even the voice behind the annoyingly catch jingle everyone in the country knows. His impact is iconic, indisputable, and inimitable, and he's the only reason you are where you are now.

Ten years ago, the man hired you as his intern, and with his mentorship and guidance (and his incredibly complicated coffee orders), you had your own show within a year. Sure, it was in the middle of the night, and you were forced to give up your social life and love of the sun for a while, but now you have the slot just before the afternoon commute and the second highest listenership right after Seokjin. You don't want to feel entitled because you've worked incredibly hard for everything you have. But this also feels like it belongs to you—a throne being passed down to its rightful owner.

YOU. Not Lee Chan.

"You can put on a brave face all you want, but I know you'll miss me," Seokjin says, snorting before his face settles into a level of seriousness rare for him. He frowns a little, refusing to meet your eyes as he stares at his guests jumping into his massive pool. "I'm sorry about today."

He doesn't have to clarify. There's only one thing anyone could possibly be apologizing to you about, though it's definitely not him who should be apologizing.

When you were brought into the conference room this morning at the ass crack of dawn for a meeting with Seokjin and the station's executives, you were sure it was to be told you were the new morning host. You were so sure of yourself, in fact, that seeing Chan sitting in there didn't even dash your hopes. You just foolishly thought the executives were killing two birds with one stone—giving you your rightful position as morning show host and delivering the news that Chan was a boring loser who wouldn't be getting a promotion. Then, you sat down, the meeting began, and you received the worst possible news.

The executives—for whatever bizarre reason—cannot choose between your show and Chan's, and their brilliant idea is to make you compete. Over the course of the next three months, up until the moment Seokjin goes off air for the last time, your strengths and weaknesses will be tested against Chan's with a mall tour consisting of three stops across the country, all leading to the radio station's annual spring festival, where you two will co-host the concert. And because that cruel and unusual punishment isn't enough, they want to see you each host one morning show to really put the cherry on top of a giant slap to the face.

Five tests stood between you and everything your career has been building toward. Five tests and a stupid radio host whose performance couldn't hold a candle to yours.

"Is it because I'm a woman?" you ask, knowing Seokjin is more privy to the details the executives would never share with you. Plus, he's too kind to ever lie about why this has all come down to a competition when you're the only answer that makes sense.

He shrugs. "Could be. Probably. Not sure, honestly." He takes a deep breath before he admits, "It's the numbers."

You throw him an incredulous look. "The 'numbers'? If we were going by numbers, the slot would be mine."

Like some sick sixth sense, the hairs on the back of your neck stand and you look over to find the devil himself, wandering over to one of Seokjin's lounge chairs by the pool and throwing his towel on it.

"I'm literally the second most listened to show at STEP and I'm not even in a commuter slot!" you point out, narrowing your eyes at Chan.

Seokjin winces. "Right… and if it were just about listeners, there wouldn't have been any questions about who deserved the morning slot."

"What?" you murmur, frowning as Chan kicks his flip-flops off, shoving them out of the way and under the chaise. "What else would it be about?"

He sighs, fully turning to you now. You glance at him briefly, letting your eyes wander away again when you can't take the pity in his eyes. "You bring in listeners… but Chan brings in sponsorships."

The man in question reaches behind him, grabbing the neck of his shirt and pulling it over his head. Your eyes involuntarily bulge as he reveals—to your dismay—washboard abs you could grate a block of cheese on. Nipples—small, brown, and already hard against the cool night air. Grooves so deep between his muscles, you think you could squeeze your finger into them. Two cut lines that lead from his hips straight to the slight bulge in his swimming trunks. The slight bulge in his swimming trunks.

You feel your face growing hot with irritation but you can't look away. He shakes his head once it's free of the shirt and runs a hand through his shaggy, brown hair.

"Ew," you whisper under your breath.

"What are you loo—oh!" Seokjin's eyes follow your gaze, turning over his shoulder to find Chan walking to the edge of his own pool. "Jesus. Does he realize we work in radio? No one knows what we look like. He does not need to have abs."

Rich coming from a man the country has dubbed "Worldwide Handsome," but you don't argue. He's correct. Chan is a dumb radio host who has no right to look the way he does.

Your rival annoyingly rubs his hands together and blows into them like he's cold, even though he knows from the dozens of work parties Seokjin has hosted that the pool is heated. Whatever he's doing works, though, because your eyes fall to his biceps as they flex. Your lip curls in disgust when he dives into the deep end of the pool, cutting through the water perfectly.

"Fucking show off."

Seokjin turns back to you and huffs a laugh. "Okay, sure. Don't forget to wipe your drool when you're done ogling the man."

"'Ogling'?" you bark your own laughter. "Please. I can admit the man is attractive but that's because God made him so insufferable, He had to give him something."

"Yeah. God just had to give him a six-pack. Right."

"I am right."

You turn your full attention back to Seokjin now that Chan seems to be occupied with staying underwater as long as humanly possible. You hope he stays there forever. Or at least for the next three months.

"Sorry, what were you saying?" you ask, annoyed to find your mind completely blank.

Seokjin blinks at you a few times before smirking and shaking his head. "I was saying… you bring in a lot of listeners, but Chan brings in just as many sponsors."

You open your mouth to refute that, but find yourself completely stumped. You've never been overly concerned with securing sponsorships because of how popular your show had grown. The station largely took care of that side of things for you. You never even thought to wonder about Chan's sponsors.

"What?"

He nods solemnly. "His show is the highest money maker right behind mine."

You balk at him. "What?"

There is simply no way that's true. A show with a high number of listeners should naturally be a high earner too.

"That's definitely a mistake."

Seokjin sighs like he knew you would deny this. "It isn't. He's led in earnings for years now."

Your mouth pops open in disbelief. "Off Script is sponsored by Bebe and Baby fucking Phat."

"The Chan Standard has Sony… and he just signed Apple."

"Apple?" you shriek, flinching a little at the volume of your own voice. You look around to see a few people turning toward you. You smile sheepishly before stepping closer to Seokjin and lowering your voice so much, your mouth hardly moves. "What the fuck do you mean he signed Apple?"

"It's only for a few ads on the iPod Mini, but they've added an option to extend if they're happy with performance," he explains. "Ads start running next week."

You're knocked breathless. You thought this was going to be a slam dunk. You thought you were going to wipe the floor with Chan. But if he was bringing in Sony and Apple money… you can't imagine your listenership holding up against dollar signs.

"You have got to be k—"

"Hey guys." You turn toward the voice just to squeeze your eyes shut as you're pelted with the fat drops of pool water Chan violently shakes out of his hair.

You breathe slowly through your nose before opening your eyes and plastering a fake smile on your mouth. You fight to keep your eyes on his as you return his greeting flatly. "Hi."

"Hey, Chan," Seokjin smiles, eyes twinkling with delight at your barely concealed irritation. "What's up? Is the water nice?"

"Yeah!" He nods, smiling his stupid megawatt smile at his senior and completely ignoring you as he reaches up to dry his hair with his towel and gets several more drops on you in the process. "You should take a dip and see for yourself!"

"I think Seokjin knows how his own pool feels like, Chan," you grit through your tight smile. "It is his pool."

"Right!" Seokjin squeaks, laughing as he steps away. "And I am going to go enjoy my pool now. Bye."

"Wait! You—"

"Talk later!" he calls over his shoulder as he practically runs away, grabbing a random flute of champagne off a standing table on the way and claiming it for himself.

Your face settles into the glare it's used to when Chan is around, eyes sliding back to him.

"So," he sighs, smiling at you like he doesn't know that he makes your blood boil just breathing near you. "Are you ready to hit the road?"

You narrow your eyes at him. Chan is your antithesis. He has to dot every i and cross every t, he scripts every last word on his show, and he's utterly incapable of adapting to change. His show is like if TRL was only allowed to air after being clinically sanitized and thoroughly HR-approved. When you really think about it, it makes sense that he's a magnet for money-hungry corporations. He's clean, boring, and happy to do whatever it takes to make the idiots at the top happy.

You cannot let The Chan Standard win over Off Script.

"No" is all you say before you turn around and march away from him and his hard nipples.

99.2 STEP FM Spring Tour Show #1: Sunridge Plaza ၊၊||၊ Now spinning: Toxic by Britney Spears

"That was Toxic by Britney Spears… again," Chan sighs into his handheld mic, obviously tired of hearing the same Top 40 songs.

"And America can't get enough of it, obviously," you say, laughing a little before you quickly shoot a glare at your co-host from where you stand on the opposite side of the small stage. "You know, since it's one of the tops songs in the country right now, regardless of what pretentious indie, alt-rock know-it-alls think about it."

The audience giggles, obviously well aware of how vehemently Chan likes to stay away from any and all things mainstream.

"I—"

"Anyway," you interrupt him before he even really starts, "Welcome back, you're listening to 99.2 STEP FM's 2004 Spring Tour with Y/N from Off Script with Y/N, and I'm at—"

"And Chan from The Chan Standard, and we're—" The man clears his throat and looks at you pointedly, prompting an apathetic shrug from you. "—coming to you live from Sunridge Plaza!" He turns his attention back to the crowd. "We're here, just a bit away from the food court by Limited Too and Quiksilver for anyone listening who wants to join us in person—and trust me, you want to be here!"

You lower your mic enough so that it doesn't pick up the unimpressed scoff you hide in an exhale. You might be able to buy his laidback facade if you were a listener, but you've seen the neurotic way Chan has worked for years. The fact that he forced you to run through his script for hours on end yesterday doesn't help his case. A script, for someone like you, whose radio show is literally called Off Script.

"We're looking for fans who want two free tickets with backstage passes to 99.2 STEP FM's Spring Fest Concert in LA, headlined by none other than the Joshua Hong!" He announces.

The audience erupts into maniacal screams.

"We'll be giving those tickets away in the next hour," you inform the crowd. "But for now, we're going to hear from some of our audience members! How many of you listen to my show, Off Script?"

The cheers are deafening, prompting you to throw Chan a satisfied smirk. He doesn't meet your gaze, focusing on the crowd with that charismatic smile of his on his lips. You suppress the urge to roll your eyes.

"Perfect, you're probably familiar with the Bad Idea Hotline then?" Another round of screams. "Well, instead of taking a caller today, we're going to let one of you run a bad idea by us live! Who has a bad idea to share?"

There are plenty of people shouting, but your attention is drawn to a group of friends in the back all pointing to one woman whose face is buried in her hands in shame.

"Ooo, I think I see the perfect candidate," you think aloud, nodding at the group. Their energy multiplies, shaking their friend's shoulders. She lifts her head, blushing a furious red when she sees you looking right at her. "What do you think? Want to let us know what bad idea you've been ruminating on?"

It takes her only a few more moments of convincing from her friends before she nods and starts making her way to the front of the stage, where the producers allow her through the barricade.

"Hey!" Chan greets her as he helps her up the stage. "What's your name?"

"Hi," she says shyly as she's given her own mic. "I'm Lily."

"Hi, Lily," you both greet her. You explain your own segment to the crowd. "For anyone unfamiliar with Off Script, first of all, what are you doing with your life? Second of all, the Bad Idea Hotline is a segment I have where a listener calls in with a bad idea that I try to talk them out of." You turn toward Lily and smile. "Now let's talk it out before you act it out. What bad idea can I talk you out of today?"

"We," Chan mutters another correction, making some people giggle. You ignore him.

Lily sighs. "So I have a bit of a crush on a coworker..."

"Absolutely not," you say at the same time Chan mutters, "God, no."

Your segments tend to be about crushes and exes and relationships in general, but once in a while, you got someone with a crush in the workplace, and it resulted in nothing other than boiling blood and thoughts of strangling Chan even when he wasn't even in the room. To be subjected to a story about a workplace romance while standing onstage with him is going to be a true rest of your patience.

The crowd laughs at the reaction, and Lily groans, once again burying her face in her hands.

"What do you do for work, Lily?" you ask.

She sighs and looks up at you. "I'm a writer at a local paper."

"And your crush?"

"Another writer."

You make a face of disapproval. Crushing on someone in the same field as you—let alone the same office— is a recipe for disaster, and you would know best, standing next to the man who taught you that lesson so brutally. "Okay, and your bad idea—is it asking this person out?"

She shrugs. "I'm not sure. I actually just started liking him recently even though we've been working together for a few years."

"What changed?" Chan asks.

"I don't really know. We used to seriously hate each other," she reveals, fidgeting a little where she stands. "He always had to one-up me on everything I did, and he constantly wanted to make me look bad. And I don't even know why! I was always nice to him!"

"Perfect, I have experience in this department," Chan says, eyes sliding to you meaningfully.

You tilt your head at him and smile. "Wow, what a crazy coincidence because so do I."

"He was so full of himself, so annoying, so mean," she continues without batting an eye at either of you. The longer she talks about the guy, the more she comes out of her shell, her hands making wild gestures as she speaks. "He really gave the feeling that he was better than everyone, and it drove me crazy."

"These arrogant men truly must be stopped."

Chan scoffs. "Sometimes it's an arrogant woman."

You narrow your eyes at him. "Are you even listening to Lily? She said it's a man."

"I'm just saying."

"But then one day," Lily barrels on, unbothered, "we were at the office working late on a deadline our boss had forced us to work on together." You exchange dirty looks with your co-host at the parallels. "And… I don't know."

Both you and Chan look at her incredulously. He asks, "What do you mean you don't know?"

She shrugs. "It got super late, and we got to talking, and… I don't know!" she repeats, voice rising nervously. "He was actually kind of sweet?"

You frown. "Right. The way honey mixed with borax is sweet to ants, I'm sure."

"I'm thinking I just misunderstood him! After that, he just started remembering everything I told him and would get me my coffee order in the mornings, and it feels like he'd get jealous whenever other male coworkers stopped at my desk to chat."

"That means nothing," you say quickly even as you notice this new piece of information has seemed to thaw Chan's own apprehension with the story.

"Okay, wait, I wouldn't say that means nothing… maybe he does like her," Chan refutes, holding up a hand to slow you down. You roll your eyes because by that logic, the man liked you, having gotten you several coffees early on in his career with 99.2—every single one perfectly made. And he still woke up one day and just decided to make your life at the station unbearable.

"Because he gets her coffee?!" you scoff. "The bar is in hell."

"Agreed, but men are simple. They start with something small like coffee! Maybe this will grow into something more serious. It—"

"No," you insist, nodding your head at the producer to the side. She reluctantly presses the button you need her to, and the Bad Idea Hotline alarm rings loudly. "Bad idea!"

"Oh my god," Chan sighs.

"Listen, Lily," you command her attention, stepping between her and Chan so that she can only see you. "First, you have a harmless crush. You convince yourself that he's sweet and cute and has a smile that could keep you from feeling a single sad feeling in your life ever again."

"Um…"

"Wait, what?" You ignore Chan's confusion behind you.

"Maybe you get to know him more. Sure, maybe he gets you coffee. Maybe you even eat together sometimes, and maybe you start having inside jokes and you start letting your walls down."

Once you start recounting how you remember Chan's first year at the station, you can't stop. You have so much resentment over the fact that from the moment you met him, you were immediately smitten. He was so charming and kind and his smile was so hypnotizing—you were immediately wrapped around his finger. You showed him the ins and outs of the station—telling him where you hid the best snacks away from everyone else, writing down the times office supplies were delivered every month so you could beat everyone else to it, and even coming early to sit through his radio show before yours, even helping with sound levels and mixing in the booth sometimes.

And he was just as kind. He'd sit through your show too, often commenting on how much he admired your improvisation and your innate ability to connect with your callers so quickly. If he couldn't stay around for your show, you'd find sticky notes on the desk with sweet messages of encouragement or promises for lunch the next day. He'd raid the supply closet and make sure to get two of everything for the both of you, leaving it in your locker along with your favorite snacks. By the end of the first year, you were near inseparable and you were having to field off warnings from Seokjin about dating in the workplace.

Just as you were about to really consider whether that was something you even wanted to try, with Chan—dating—he proved exactly why that idea was the dumbest you've ever had. And he ran all your trust into the ground, grinding it into the dirt with the heel of his foot.

"He'll be so nice and cute and sweet, but when you're finally ready to admit to yourself that you like this stupid, pompous idiot, he will betray you in ways you cannot even fathom." Lily's eyebrows rise as she looks at you in bewilderment. You feel a gentle poke to your back—Chan's way of trying to reel you in, probably, but you don't care. "He will maniacally laugh in your face about it, and all your sparkly, whimsical, happy, silly dreams will shatter, and you will be left with nothing but rage so pure, it could wither plants if you stand too close."

"What are you talking about?" Chan hisses, his mic pulled away from his mouth as he tries to play dumb. He had to have known that all his sweet gestures lured you into a crush on him. You fell for it and he used it to get a leg up on you. And now you're here, having to compete with him for your dream come true because you let your guard down.

"Whoa, that's… really intense," Lily murmurs.

"Yeah, Lily, betrayal tends to be," you inform her, nodding. "The second this man sees you rising above him again, he will just revert back to cutting you down. The world is your oyster. Don't let him distract you from completely dominating the station."

"What?"

"The paper. Dominating the paper," you correct yourself. "Okay?"

"I guess—"

"Where did betrayal even come from?!" Chan cuts in, stepping between you and Lily so that his back is completely to the latter. You step back, inhaling sharply as you try not to immediately shove the man away from you. "What kind of betrayal can even happen at a radi—at a newspaper? The man has been nothing but nice to Lily since the beginning."

"Well, no," Lily says, frowning. "I actually said that he—"

"No, Lily has been nothing but nice since the beginning."

"Yes, exactly," she agrees, nodding at your correction.

"And he took advantage of her kindness and stomped all over her hard work and ideas so he could climb up the stupid ladder."

"Okay, again, no," she says, confused. "Not sure where that is coming from. I did not say that."

Chan finally lowers his mic and stares at you hard like he's trying to study your face. "What are you talking about?" he asks quietly and much too softly to keep you angry. It pierces right through your frustration and takes hold of that part of you that immediately grew fond of Chan when you first met him. "Do you think I did something to intentionally hurt you? Is that why you've been so mad all this time?"

You freeze at the question, never thinking he would confront you about your passive aggression in the middle of a live show. "Um," you quickly lower your mic when you hear your voice echo in the mall. "I…"

Music begins playing, and your eyes dart to the producers, who are ushering you both into a music break. Without having to think, you play along.

"We'll dig more into this bad idea after this short break, and don't forget to stick around for a chance to win those free tickets to 99.2 STEP FM's 2004 Spring Festival Concert."

As soon as the music begins playing, the crowd dissipates into a hum of conversation amongst themselves, and you take advantage of the distraction to shove your mic at Chan and leave the stage.

"Um, do I just hold these?" you hear Lily behind you.

You don't bother answering, quickly making your way to the blocked off area the staff made into a break room backstage. Before you can even let out the breath you've been holding, you feel a hand around your elbow.

"What was that?" Chan asks when you meet his eyes. "What were you—"

"Nothing," you say quickly. "I don't want to talk about it."

"You had no problem talking about it live on the radio and in front of hundreds of people," he points out. "Surely, you can talk about it to me in the privacy of this fake ass break room."

You almost crack a smile at that before you bite it back down. "It's nothing. It's dumb and it was a slip-up and I'm over it."

"Over what?" he asks, annoyed. "You say it's nothing and then say cryptic shit like that—it's obviously not nothing."

"Well, I'm saying it is, so." You shrug. "It's nothing."

He pauses, eyes raking over your face as he contemplates what he wants to say next. You gesture for him to say whatever it is he wants to so he can leave you alone.

"You are so…"

"What?" you ask sharply, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Confusing" is the word he lands on before he exhales and turns back around, probably to collect your mics from the poor listener you both abandoned onstage.

Because that's who he is. The epitome of professional—of putting his job before everything and everyone else—even when you wish he would just cut the act for even a moment.

🏷️ JOIN MY PERMANENT TAG LIST

[studiosvt]

Please validate your tag by reblogging this fic!

Taglist:

@prettypinkpassport @bobathi @ts19009 @kiiimgyuuu @smiileflower

@kittylover-inbothways @codeinebelle @gyuhao365 @coupsv @zealouscookierebeltrash

@fancypeacepersona @wildcreature @Frayaatiny @Leigh-darling @Ashlinxloves 

@bubble-ten @missthang600 @jenowithjaem @watchanisworld @cheolamor

@haoluver @thestoryofana13 @orpheustae @peaceofni-ki @bramos91

@tranquillitysoul @erireadsstuff @libraryinkuniverse @uhdrienne @missingsarinha

@hongyinujiang @nekkiotine @baobaoexe @isabellah29 @hoshiskimchi

@orbitinghao @babilou-pov @parakissss @changbinkisser @keenfangchampion

[vernonverse]

OUR FREQUENCY ✶ Boo Seungkwan

SYNOPSIS. Years after fame pulled him apart, Seungkwan finds his way back to his first love: you. Now working as a radio producer, you’re trying to move forward with your life... until he decides to break a few rules to pull you out of a bad relationship and win back your heart.

PARING. Idol!Seungkwan x Radio Producer!reader 

GENRE | TAGS. One-shot, childhood friends to lovers, second chance, mutual pining, slow burn-ish, fluff, comedy, smut.

WC. 30.1k+

RATING. Explicit adult content (MINORS DNI).

WARNINGS. Alcohol consumption, mentions of food, jealousy, small descriptions of a toxic/controlling relationship, explicit language, miscommunication, descriptions of ptsd, longing, miscommunication, angst, hurt/comfort, verbal conflict/argument, cheating undertones, smut, semi-public intimacy, dirty talk, dry humping, oral (f. receiving), fingering, mentions of blood and cuts.

AN. 1. First of all, I’m officially coming out of hiatus with this hehe. 2. Vocal unit are the only ones famous in this, and Seungkwan is retiring. I also changed some things in their debut timeline, etc., so if anything seems strange, that’s why. 3. Fun fact: Don Capri is a real restaurant in my town.

🎧SOUNDTRACK. spring into summer - lizzy mcalpine, too young - louis tomlinson, gimme - got7, crazy in love - seventeen, late night talking - harry styles, perhaps love - howl and j.ae, together - seventeen, this town - niall horan, fresh out the slammer - taylor swift, love is on the radio - mcfly.

— This fic is written for the First Time Caller collab hosted by @studiosvt! I had so much fun writing this, the theme is amazing and it really got me inspired. Please make sure to check out the other amazing fics too! 💗

JUNE 2012

The air in Jeju at five in the morning had a specific smell: a mixture of saltpeter and damp earth. For you, that smell would always mean home. But for Seungkwan, from that day on, that smell would be just a memory stored in a distant compartment of his mind.

You were both sitting on the stone parapet behind Jeju-si High School. It was your spot, a blind one for the security cameras where the school wall meet the precipice overlooking the ocean. Below, the waves crashed against the rocks with rhythmic violence.

A pair of wired headphones connected the two of you, and the music playing was an acoustic demo of Last Love he’d recorded on his phone. His voice, still hoarse from sleep — because he’d woken up in the middle of the night to record it so he wouldn’t forget and you could listen — filled the silence between you.

“You’re not going to need a stage name name,” you finally said, kicking your heels against the stone, the thought occurring to you all at once. “Seungkwan is great. It’s unique. Boo too.”

He let out a nasal laugh, the vapor of his breath condensing in the cold of the early morning, his heels mimicking the same movement as yours. Seungkwan studied your profile, not understating why you gaze was avoiding his.

“Why does it sound like you’re going to cry when you say that?”

You shrugged, sulking internally. “I’m not.”

You did felt like crying, way more than you liked to admit. You were incredibly happy and proud of him, but you couldn’t shake the fear in the pit of your stomach telling you everything was about to change. And as silly as it sounded, you were trying to hold on to that small part of who he was in that moment.

“Then are you already planning my marketing?” He bumped your elbow with his. “I haven’t even stepped through the company gate yet. I could be sent back in the first month if I can’t keep up with the pace of the other trainees.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Don’t talk nonsense.” Below you, the waves began to decrease in intensity as the day began to rise. “I saw you rehearse that choreography until your feet bled at the harvest festival. Pledis doesn’t know what’s coming for them.”

“You should come with me,” he says like if it were the easiest thing in the world, eyes locking with yours with a small sparkle.

You can’t help but laugh at his suggestion, turning to him. The bluish light of pre-dawn sculpted his profile, and you felt a tightness in your chest that you couldn’t name. It was pride, but it was also the anticipatory grief of a loss.

“And do what? I can’t sing or dance for the life of me, Kwanie.”

“You can be my manager.”

“I’m pretty sure they already have people for that,” you argued, like that was the only problem.

“Then you’ll be my producer,” he countered instantly, his voice dropping the playful edge. He shifted his weight, turning his body entirely toward you so that the wire of the headphones tugged slightly between your ears. “It’s only eight months, tokki.”

You want to tell him he’s not coming back in eight months. That there’s no way in hell they’ll let him go without turning him into something bigger than this island could ever hold. But instead, you take a deep breath and watch the waves below.

“Eight months is a long time. There’s time to have had a child in that time.”

He scoffed. “A child with whom?”

“I don’t know! Youngjae is cute.” You shrugged again, pouting just to annoy him before flicking his forehead lightly. “We’re sixteen, dummy.”

Cho Youngjae.

He’s a cool guy. Tall, looks like a baseball player or something equally appealing, even though he’s only a few years older than the two of you. He’s always announcing that he wants to be a surgeon. Seungkwan swears he thinks he’s a good guy. The problem is that everyone at school knows he has a big fat crush on you.

And so does he.

“Why are we suddenly talking about Cho Youngjae?”

“Well…” There you were, avoiding his gaze again. “He invited me to watch him practice and get banana milk after school the other day.”

Seungkwan’s entire posture stiffened, and even though he tried so obviously to hide it, you noticed. The rhythmic kicking of his heels against the stone parapet stopped abruptly, leaving only the sound of the crashing waves and the soft hum of his own voice through the shared earbuds.

“Practice,” he repeated, his voice flat, devoid of the melody it usually carried. “And banana milk. Wow. He really pulled out the big guns, didn’t he?”

He looked away, staring out the horizon where a thin, pale line of orange was beginning to bleed into the indigo sky. The jealousy he felt wasn’t a sharp pain; it was a dull, heavy ache, a realization that while he was moving toward a future with the possibility of bright lights and crowded stages, he was leaving a vacuum behind.

And people like Cho Youngjae—people who didn’t have to leave, people who could stay and buy you a snack after school—were already waiting to take his place beside you.

“He’s just being nice, Kwanie. Don’t be like that,” you mumbled, though you secretly relished the way his jaw tightened.

“I’m not being like anything,” he retorted, though he finally reached up and yanked the earbud out of his ear. The silence of the morning rushed in to fill the space. “It’s just… you don’t even like banana milk that much. You like the strawberry one.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” you countered, crossing your arms over your chest to shield yourself from the dawn chill.

You didn’t even know Seungkwan cared that much about strawberry milk or banana milk.

He turned back to you, and the playfulness was gone. He wanted to tell you not to go with Youngjae. He wanted to ask you to wait the eight months. Or ten. However long it took for him to get settled. He wanted to promise he would call you every night. That he’d send you the demos of every song he learned. That you shouldn’t let some high school baseball player wannabe make you forget about him.

But that wouldn’t be fair to you.

So instead, Seungkwan exhaled deeply and softened his expression as he sat back down beside you, slipping his side of the earbud back in.

“And you?” he asked, changing the subject, as he always did when the conversation was about to get too serious. “Are you going to keep hiding your talent for communication behind the inn counter?”

You sighed, glancing towards the horizon, where the orange line was growing bigger.

“My mother needs me here, you know.” You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the sturdy warmth of him through his jacket. “Since my father passed away, the inn is all we have.”

“But—”

“It’s fine, Kwan,” you breathed, watching the sun finally break over the water. “The women around here don’t retire, they just merge with their work.” You shrugged. “Plus, someone has to carry the sheets and check in the tourists who think the island is an amusement park.”

There was a melancholy in the way you spoke, even though you tried to be humorous about it, and Seungkwan noticed.

“It’s temporary, tokki,” he said, resting his head against yours. “Someday you’re going to be the voice everyone hears on their way to work. I’ll be in the back of a black van on the way to some show, and I’ll turn on the radio, and I’ll hear your voice.”

You smiled, but the smile didn’t reach your eyes. The idea seemed like a perfect fairy tale. A few years back, you would have believed it wholeheartedly. Now, you knew that the distance between Jeju Island and stardom in Seoul was greater than a few kilometers of ocean; it was an abyss of social classes, restrictive contracts, and a lot sleep deprivation.

“Just…” you said suddenly, voice lost its lightness. “Promise me.”

Seungkwan leaned closer, the headphone cord stretching between you. “Promise what?”

“Promise you won’t abandon me.” He looked rather confused, opening his mouth to argue that he wouldn’t, but you didn’t let him finish. “Not physically, I know you have to go. But don’t let whatever is waiting for you there… change you.”

“Tokki…”

“Don’t let them turn you into a product I can’t recognize. I want that, ten years from now, if we meet again, I can still see the boy who used to steal tangerines from the neighbor’s orchard with me.”

He held your hand. His skin was warm against yours, which was frozen by the wind. “I could never forget you, even if I tried. You are my anchor, tokki. Seoul can give me the world, but Jeju is where my heart is.”

Even if that were true, the two of you couldn’t help but laugh when Seungkwan fell silent.

“You’re so dramatic, Boo,” you breathed, watching the sun finally break over the water. “Pledis really is going to love you.”

Silence returned, but now it was different, the sun finally breaking through the sea’s edge and bathing the volcanic rock in gold. It was your signal: Seungkwan will be leaving for the airport in less than three hours.

“It’s time,” you murmured, though you wished you could freeze time. “Your mother must be finishing her coffee. She’ll be furious if you leave on an empty stomach.”

You stood, grabbing his wrist and pulling him along toward the low houses of the neighborhood, your hands brushing against each other but never truly intertwining due the silent fear that the contact would be too painful to break afterward.

“Are you really sure about this?” you asked, voice faltering slightly. You kicked a small stone, eyes fixed on your own feet. “Seoul is… far. Like, really far. It’s not like going to the airport. It’s another world.”

Seungkwan looked out at the sea in the distance. In Jeju, the horizon seemed like the end of everything. In Seoul, he heard the horizon was made of skyscrapers.

He takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

“Okay.”

As you reached his door, the smell of seaweed soup and grilled fish wafted through the cracks. It was his last breakfast as a nobody. Before entering, you paused under the stone portico. You held his shoulders, forcing him to look at you one last time without the distractions of the adult life that awaited you.

“Listen carefully,” you began, voice firm despite the urge to cry. “Don’t look back when you get on that plane, okay?”

“What—”

You covered his mouth with both hands. “Just… let me finish, please.” He nodded, looking between your hands over his mouth and your eyes. “Jeju will be here. I’ll be here. But these… these are your dreams now. They’re no longer our childhood plans, they’re your reality. Go and conquer everything you said you would.”

Seungkwan pulled you into a quick, tight hug. It was the kind of hug meant to hold on to the other person’s scent for long days.

“I’ll go,” he whispered against your hair. “I swear I will.”

You watched him go inside, his silhouette swallowed by the warm light of the kitchen where his family awaited him. You stood there for a minute, alone in the morning chill, knowing that from that moment on, your lives would never be the same.

Then you walked toward your mother’s inn, the battery-powered radio in your pocket weighing like lead. You had a shift to work, sheets to change, and an ordinary life to lead, while he was about to become a constellation.

PRESENT

Studio B at the Jeju City Broadcasting was roughly the size of a walk-in closet—practically a shoebox—and smelled distinctly of stale iced americano, sea salt drifting in from the open window down the hall, and Seungkwan’s ridiculously expensive cedarwood cologne, which had seeped into the walls over the months.

It was a chaotic, cramped little ecosystem, and for the last fifteen years, it had been you’re entire world.

“You’re tapping your pen again,” Seungkwan murmurs, not even looking up from his phone as he lounges in the squeaky host’s chair.

You immediately freeze your hand over the mixing console. “I am not tapping. I am keeping time.”

“You’re tapping,” he insists, casually reaching across the desk to steal the iced Americano you had bought for yourself and yourself only. “And it means you’re stressed about the timing of the transition for the second segment.”

You snatch the coffee back, glaring at him as condensation drips onto your meticulously highlighted run-of-show. You sigh. “I’m stressed because you went off-script yesterday and we had thirty seconds of dead air while you monologued about the emotional depth of a drama you watched in 2018. If you—”

“—miss the cue, Chief will throw a fit,” he finishes, waving a hand dismissively. “I know, I know.” He finally puts his phone down and shoots you a blinding, practiced smile that practically sparkles under the fluorescent studio lights. “Relax, tokki. You’re working with a professional.”

You roll your eyes so hard they actually ache. You hate that damn nickname he gave you when you were eight years old and your front teeth refused to grow no matter how long you waited and wished for them to, giving him endless fuel to tease you until you finally threatened to beat him to death.

After so many years apart, you would have expected Seungkwan to forget that damn nickname. Especially now that you were both already in your thirties. But no. Quite the opposite, actually.

Your phone buzzes against the console, vibrating so violently it nearly rattles off the edge. You don’t have to look at the screen to know who it is, and the familiar knot of dread tightens instantly in your stomach.

[Youngjae - 8:14 PM]: Are you seriously working late again? You told me you’d be done by 6.

You sigh, picking up the device. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, already drafting an apology you didn’t actually owe him.

You didn’t use to work late until six months ago, when Seungkwan arrived and the Chief reassigned you from the Non-stop Nostalgia show to the late-night slot. The workload had doubled now that his co-host had given birth three weeks earlier than expected and you were filling in for her because, of course, you didn’t find a replacement for her sooner.

[You - 8:15 PM]: I’m sorry, babe. The 9:00 PM live slot is still a mess. They still haven’t found anyone to replace Yoona and we’re scrambling. I might not be out until 11.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

[Youngjae - 8:17 PM]: Whatever. You always put that stupid station first. [Youngjae - 8:17 PM]: I don’t even know why I bother making plans with you. You need to figure out your priorities.

You lock the screen and set the phone face down. A heavy, exhausting silence settles over you, and you can feel Seungkwan’s eyes on you, studying you, even though he doesn’t ask anything.

You trace the edge of the promise ring Youngjae had given you six months ago; a silver band that felt more like a shackle than a symbol of affection. You are constantly walking on eggshells, constantly apologizing for having a career, constantly trying to shrink yourself to fit into the “normal, peaceful life” you thought you wanted.

Why were you with him? That was a question you didn’t like to ask yourself.

“Hey. Earth to PD-nim.”

You jolt, snapping your head up to see Chan, the junior writer, waving a hand in front of your face. “Sorry,” you blink, shaking off the lingering guilt. “What is it? Did we secure a backup for tonight?”

Chan’s eyes were wide, a mix of sheer panic and starry-eyed excitement. “Chief Kang is calling for an emergency meeting in the briefing room. Right now. And yes, we secured a backup. Apparently, he pulled off an absolute miracle.”

You push yourself out of your old squeaky chair, grabbing your clipboard and glancing in Seungkwan’s direction, who, for some reason, avoids your gaze.

“A miracle? Who did they get with three hours’ notice?”

“Just get in there,” Chan urges, practically shoving you toward the door and following right behind you.

The small briefing room was buzzing with frantic energy when you walked in. Chief Choi Seungcheol—a notoriously stressed, soft man who practically lives on black coffee —is pacing in the front of the room like he was trying to outrun whatever news he was about to deliver.

The small radio station belonged to his grandparents, and since you were hired after returning from university, you’d seen the ups and downs he’d faced trying to keep this little corner of Jeju running over the years as radio slowly faded for the younger generation. It had basically been on life support, kept alive mostly by the island’s elderly listeners… well, until Seungkwan arrived and the audience grew exponentially.

As soon as you take your seat, Seungcheol slams his hands down on the table.

“Alright, listen up,” he barks, though there’s a triumphant gleam in his eye. “We’re not going to hire someone to replace Yoona.”

Your eyebrows arch in shock as you set your clipboard down on the table. “What? But Seungkwan needs a co-host now!”

He’s smiling almost maniacally at you now. “Yes! And we’re giving him one.”

The sound of the door opening and closing catches your attention, and when you look back, Seungkwan is standing there, his lips wrapped around the straw of your coffee as he stares at you with a mischievous glint in his deliberately wide eyes.

You look between Seungkwan and Seungcheol, taking exactly the amount of time it takes for a breath to pass before realizing what’s going on.

“Okay, no!” you say, immediately getting up from your chair to walk out of the room, but Seungkwan quickly steps toward you and places his hands on your shoulders.

“The listeners want this,” he argues. You grimace, pulling away from him as the condensation from his iced coffee brushes against your skin before sitting back down. “Yesterday Gyeonghee halmoni stopped me on the street just to tell me you should be the permanent co-host.”

Gyeonghee halmoni was the oldest woman in your neighborhood, and you knew she listened to the radio religiously, always insisting she was never too old to take love advice. You knew she was a particular fan of the Time Capsule of Love segment, where you only played very old love songs, mostly because she called almost every night to make a request.

It was at her eighty-ninth birthday party that you and Seungkwan reconnected six months ago.

“Gyeonghee halmoni is biased,” you say, shaking your head. “She watched us grow up.”

Seungkwan doesn’t just sit; he sprawls into the chair next to you, leaning in until the scent of that expensive cedarwood is all you can process.

“My mother said the same thing too,” Chan says from the corner of the room where he’s squeezed in, raising his hand slightly as if he were in a classroom.

“The ratings for the ‘PD-nim interjections’ are higher than the guest segments, and you know it,” Seungkwan adds, his voice dropping into that smooth, persuasive register he usually saves for the microphone. You liked to think you were immune to it.

“I am a producer,” you hiss, ignoring the way Seungcheol is nodding along like Seungkwan is delivering a sermon. “I stay behind the glass. I don’t talk into microphones. I manage the chaos you create, Boo Seungkwan. I don’t join it!”

Especially considering the program’s content: relationship advice and dating reality shows. What did you know about relationships? Nothing. Your own relationship was proof of that. Seungkwan, on the other hand, apparently knew a lot, which was exactly why he was perfect for the job.

You blamed only yourself for being in this situation, for not looking for a replacement for Yoona sooner, for leaving everything to the last minute. Now you were stuck in this position.

“But that’s exactly why it works!” Seungcheol interjects, pacing across the small rug in the center of the room. “Your chemistry, the bickering. It’s nostalgic.” Seungkwan is now the one nodding alone to the nonsense. “It’s Jeju’s childhood friends story, only now you’re both working together. It’s a goldmine. The sponsors are already asking about the girl who rage baites Seungkwan.”

“The girl has a name,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “And she has a boyfriend who is currently one text away from a total meltdown if she gets home any later.”

At the indirect mention of Youngjae, Seungkwan’s expression shifts. The mischievous glint doesn’t disappear, but now he also looks noticeably annoyed. You know his opinion of Youngjae inside and out. It isn’t news to you now, just like it wasn’t news when you were teenagers.

He glances at your phone, still gripped in your hand, and then back at your face. He sees the fatigue you try to hide behind your professional mask and the way your shoulders are slumped not from work, but from the weight of the apology you’re still drafting in your head for later.

“Think about it, Y/N,” Seungcheol insists, looking at you expectantly. “This could double our listeners.”

The room goes quiet as you close your eyes and bury your face in your hands to avoid the three pairs of eyes fixed on you, waiting for you to change your mind. Even Chan looks like he’s about to faint from the drama of it all.

Your phone buzzes again.

[Youngjae - 8:27 PM]: Don’t expect me to wait up. You’re being selfish.

The ring around your finger feels particularly heavy now. You look at Seungkwan. He’s annoying, he’s loud, and he’s currently trying to change your career for God knows what reason. But he’s also the only person in this city who looks at you like you’re the lead character in your own life rather than a supporting role in someone else’s.

You narrow your eyes. “This was your idea.” It’s not a question, it’s an affirmation. It’s clear on his face, because unlike what he tries to convey, Boo Seungkwan is an open book.

He raises his hands to shoulder height in a guilty gesture, but he doesn’t look guilty at all. “You’re perfect for the job, tokki.”

You let out a grunt, throwing your head back. Fucking Boo Seungkwan. Fucking soft spot you still have for him despite everything, especially when he gives you that Boo-Poor-Little-Seungkwan look.

“One week,” you say, after a long sigh, pointing a finger at his chest. “A trial run. If the listeners hate it or if you go off-script about a drama for more than ten seconds, I’m going back behind the glass and you’re finding a new co-host yourself.”

You’re staring at each other, but out of the corner of your eye you can see Seungcheol and Chan celebrating while exchanging a high-five. Seungkwan’s grin is blinding, wide, triumphant, and fucking annoying. He reaches out, not to shake your hand, but to give your ponytail a playful tug, just like he used to when you were ten.

“One week is all I need,” he says, and for a split second, the way he looks at you makes the small, cramped briefing room feel like it’s spinning at a different frequency. “Trust me, PD-nim. We’re going to give them a show they’ll never forget.”

6 MONTHS AGO

The neighborhood recreation center was loud, sweltering, and smelled intensely of freshly fried pajeon. Gyeonghee halmoni’s 89th birthday had essentially become a town festival, and you were already thirty minutes late.

Dodging wandering toddlers and plates of tteokbokki, you immediately spotted the one thing you were dreading: your mother. She was standing by the gift table, deep in conversation with Mrs. Boo.

They were huddled close together, holding paper cups of sweet rice punch, radiating the kind of synchronized, terrifying energy only two mothers who have known each other for over twenty years can possess. You tried to stealthily make you way toward the food buffet first, but your mother’s radar was unparalleled.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” your mother announced loudly, abandoning her hushed conversation to fix you with a pointed glare.

“Hi, mom,” you pratically dragged the word out of you. “Hello, Mrs. Boo,” you greeted, bowing respectfully to Seungkwan’s mother. “I’m sorry I’m late, the afternoon broadcast ran long and traffic was terrible near the—”

“Aigoo, look at you!” Mrs. Boo interrupted, entirely ignoring your excuse as she reached out to pat your arm affectionately. Her eyes crinkled in a warm smile. “You get prettier every time I see you. Are you eating well, sweetheart? You look a little thin.”

“Prettier?” you mother scoffed, though she was secretly pleased. She waved a hand dismissively. “She looks like she hasn’t in a week. All she does is work at that radio station. I tell her she needs to get out, make new friends, but does she listen to me?”

“Mom, please,” you hissed under your breath, feeling your cheeks heat up. “Not here.”

You knew this conversation by heart, but that didn’t mean Mrs. Boo needed to hear it too.

“Ah, let her be, she’s building a career!” Mrs. Boo laughed, though there was a sudden, distinct twinkle in her eye. She leaned in a fraction closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a state secret. “You know... our Seungkwanie is here.”

Your stomach did a strange flip at the mention of his name. “Oh. Really? I thought he was still in Seoul.”

You knew he was back; he’d been the talk of the neighborhood all week. You’d just chosen to ignore the fact, and forget that you could run into him anywhere now, that it was only a matter of time until you did.

“He came back last week. Taking a break,” Mrs. Boo beamed, her pride evident. But then she share a very deliberate, conspiratorial look with your mother. “He was just asking about you the other day, actually. Wondering how his favorite childhood friend was doing.”

Funny, considering he never even bothered to call in the last twelve years, you thought, still holding a polite smile on your face.

Your mother’s eyes lit up with a terrifying gleam. She immediately reached out, grabbing your shoulders and physically turning you away from the buffet table and toward the back of the hall.

“Go say hi,” your mother ordered, giving you a firm push.

“Mom, I literally just walked in. Let me get a plate of food first, I haven’t eaten since—”

“The japchae isn’t going anywhere,” she interrupted, adjusting the collar of your shirt with quick, fussy movements. “He just got here too. He’s standing right over there by the punch bowl looking lonely. Go talk to him.”

“Yes, go catch up!” Mrs. Boo chimed in, shooing you with her hand. “Tell him his mother said to get you a drink.”

Seeing them together like that felt like a childhood flashback; like being forced to stay close to Seungkwan or made to do things with him all over again just because they wanted too. Like being forced to dance together at school events, or serving as ring bearers for the newlywed couple who lived three houses down.

Realizing you had absolutely no way out of this trap, you sighed, offering them both a tight, resigned smile. “Fine. I’m going.”

“Stand up straight!” your mother called out after you in a loud whisper.

You rolled your eyes, smoothing down your outfit as you navigated through the sea of relatives and neighbors until you finally spotted him.

He was standing by the punch bowl, looking both ridiculously handsome and slightly out of place in a crisp, white button-down. Even without the stage makeup and the flash of cameras, Boo Seungkwan had an undeniable glowing aura.

You took a deep breath, trying to push down the sudden spike of nerves caused by the realization that the moment you’d pictured in your head thousands of times was actually happening. Then, quietly, you sidled up beside him.

“Excuse me, sunbaenim,” you said, leaning in just enough to mock a polite bow. “Can I get your autograph?”

Seungkwan turned, a polite, probably practiced smile already forming on his lips, until his eyes met yours for the first time in nearly fifteen years. Then he completely froze.

The plastic cup in his hand halted halfway to his mouth. His eyes went wide, sweeping over your face, your hair, the way you stood there looking at him. You immediately started talking, rattling off a quick string of teasing remarks. He could see your mouth moving, but he wasn’t hearing a single word, almost like he was underwater.

Seungkwan was entirely captivated, his brain short-circuiting as the intoxicating, familiar scent of your perfume hit him. It was scent that instantly bypassed the last twelve years of his life, striking a match directly to the teenage hormones and memories he’d buried long ago.

You stopped talking, waving a hand in front of his face. “Hello? Earth to Sungkwan?”

He blinked rapidly, practically shaking himself out of the stupor. “You… wow. Hi. You look… you look really good.”

You gasped dramatically, clutching your chest. “Oh my God, Boo Seungkwan said I look good. I’m going to write a fanfic about it.”

You could see the moment the shock wore off, instantly replaced by the familiar, comfortable irritation he always fell into when you teased him all those years ago.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Please. I bet you’ve already written several where we end up in love.”

You clicked your tongue as your shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug. “Actually, I think your friend Jeonghan is cuter.” You smiled broadly, watching his jaw drop and his eyes widen again. “He’s so handsome. Is he single?”

You emphasize the word deliberately, watching his face contort as he processes it. But all he says is:

“You think what?” Seungkwan choked out, his competitive streak flaring up in a millisecond. Or at least that was what you thought. Inside, Seungkwan felt a possessive pull toward you that he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

You tried to bite your lip to hold back your laughter, but you simply couldn’t, bursting out laughing as you stepped just a fraction closer to him to let two little boys run past you toward the playground.

“You’re still so easy to mess with, Boo.”

His face morphed into an outraged expression, though you could see a smile forming at the corner of his mouth. “And you’re still crazy, I see.”

“He is, indeed, handsome, they all are.” You paused, clearly enjoying his reaction. Your voice dipped playfully as you tapped your chest in a steady rhythm. “...but my heart still beats for Boo Seungkwan. Boo Seungkwan.” You laughed, eyes crinkling. “Old flame, you know. Right?”

If only you knew.

Seungkwan stared at you, his ears turning a violent shade of red. He tried to scowl, to muster up some kind of witty retort, but the sheer relief and joy of realizing you hadn’t changed at all completely overwhelmed him. He let out a breathless, defeated chuckle, running a hand through his hair before dragging the tips of his fingers down his neck.

“You’re terrible,” he muttered, though his eyes were painfully fond. “A decade without seeing you, and within two minutes you’re already giving me a headache.”

“It’s a gift, really,” you replied, finally grabbing a cup of punch for yourself.

The silence was slightly awkward — but only because it’s been twelve years of radio silence —, not uncomfortable, though. In fact, you had a million questions that could fill it, but since starting with Why haven’t you contacted me in twelve years, you stuck-up idiot? was probably a terrible opener, you settled for something lighter.

“So. You’re really back, huh?” You raised an eyebrow, lifting the glass to your lips mostly to keep yourself from saying anything out of spike. “The neighborhood aunties have been gossiping all week. They said you’re officially retired from the idol life.”

“Taking a very long, very permanent hiatus,” he corrected with a dismissive hand, leaning against the table so he could fully face you. “I needed a break from Seoul. Plus I heard my favorite childhood friend was running the local radio station now.”

You quickly built your defenses back up, raising a skeptical eyebrow. Favorite feels ironic, again. You’re almost certain it doesn’t fit what happened between you two over the past years; if anything, it feels like the opposite.

“Not running it. Producing.” It was your turn to correct him. “The afternoon slot. It’s chaotic, and I practically live in the editing booth. But I love it.”

Seungkwan watched your face light up as you talked about the station. The way your eyes sparked—the genuine passion in your voice—was entirely real. It was the same look you used to get when you figured out a particularly difficult math problem in high school, or when you finally beat him in a volleyball match.

“Producing,” Seungkwan repeated softly, testing the word on his tongue. A small, genuine smile broke through his initial shock. “I’ll be honest. I’ve tuned in a few times since I got back.”

You nearly choked on your rice punch. You lowered the paper cup, staring at him suspiciously. “You did? You listened to my show?”

“Of course I did,” he said, shifting his weight. He looked down at his shoes for a split second before meeting your eyes again, his gaze suddenly much heavier. “I wanted to hear your voice.”

The casual confession hit you right in the chest, entirely unbalancing you. This was the danger of Boo Seungkwan. He could flip the switch from annoying childhood best friend who hadn’t spoken to you in twelve years to a devastatingly sincere, loving man without even trying.

Holding a grudge against someone like that isn’t easy.

“I always knew you’d end up bossing people around for a living,” Seungkwan laughed, the sound warm and effortlessly familiar. One smile, and suddenly the years between you don’t feel so large anymore. You hate that most of all.

“Someone has to keep things in line,” you countered, taking the last sip of your punch. You looked up at him, letting the teasing persona slip away for just a moment, offering him a sincere smile. “But really... it’s good to see you, Boo. I’m glad you’re back.”

And you meant it with all your heart, far more than you’d ever imagined.

Seungkwan’s eyes softened, a profound sense of relief washing over his features. He had been so nervous about how you would react to seeing him after so much time had passed, but standing here, falling right back into your easy, comfortable rhythm, he felt an anchor drop.

“It really has,” he agreed, his voice dropping into a more earnest tone. He glanced around the chaotic recreation center, at the aunties dancing and the kids running around, before his gaze settled back on you. “I missed this. And,” he paused, a fond smile pulling at his lips, “I missed you.”

The words sat on the tip of your tongue, but you weren’t going to ruin this moment by saying them.

You bumped your shoulder playfully against his arm. “Don’t get soft on me now, sunbaenim. You have a reputation to uphold.”

“I’d prefer it if you just called me oppa,” he said playfully, bumping his shoulder against yours in return.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. Back then, it had always been a running joke between the two of you. “Apparently not all your dreams came true.”

Before he could formulate a comeback, a loud voice shattered your comfortable bubble.

“Look at them! Didn’t I tell you?” your mother crowed, suddenly appearing at Seungkwan’s elbow with Mrs. Boo right behind her. Both women looked like cats who had just cornered a very plump canary.“Like no time has passed at all!”

You immediately stood up straighter, shooting a panicked look at Seungkwan. “Mom, please. We’re just catching up.”

“Well, keep catching up!” Mrs. Boo cheered, clapping her hands together. “Seungkwanie, why don’t you get Y/N a plate of food? The poor girl is starving, her mother said she practically lives at that radio station.”

Seungkwan cleared his throat, stepping back into his polite and respectful persona with practiced ease, though he threw a quick amused glance your way. “Of course, Eomma. I’ll take good care of her.”

As the two mothers linked arms and walked away, practically vibrating with matchmaking glee, Seungkwan turned back to you, the smirk firmly back in place.

You let him lead you toward the food, shaking your head even as a smile spread so wide across your face that your cheeks began to ache. In just a few minutes, you realized how effortlessly he could slip back into your life. Boo Seungkwan was home, and suddenly, everything felt a whole lot brighter.

PRESENT

They were right. The number of listeners had increased exponentially in less than a week, and although you hated to admit it, Seungkwan was right. You were happy with what your presence as co-host was doing for the station, more than happy, actually. Even on the street, people stopped you to say how much they loved the show, how they tuned in every night.

Everyone at the station was celebrating the results, and it felt as though everything had come back to life. Besides, you couldn’t deny it: the show really was that good.

Pulled out of your daydream by the sound of someone lazily tapping on the glass, you see the only other person you trust in your control booth: Hansol. He point his indicator at both of you and flashes up three fingers. Thirty seconds to air.

You nod, keeping your eyes locked on the console. The ON AIR sign bleeds neon red across the studio glass, emitting a low, sixty-cycle hum. You push the faders up, and the bright, tropical synth-pop intro of your show, Love Is on the Radio, fills the booth. You slide Seungkwan’s mic fader up first, then bring yours up a second later.

Instantly, the annoying best friend vanishes out of him. His posture straightens, his chin tilts to the perfect angle for a camera that isn’t even there, and he leans into the microphone.

Seungkwan is usually a very confident man, but watching him in his element always feels like seeing a whole new side of the boy you once knew, or the man you found six months ago in his childhood bedroom at his mother’s house, quietly moping and counting the petals on her hydrangeas because he was bored out of his mind.

“I was meditating, not moping,” he defended himself when you brought the subject up two weeks ago, a hand placed over his heart, looking personally wounded.

You were the one who suggested to Seungcheol that he could offer Seungkwan the position after you ran into him at the party. So now, because of your brilliant idea, if the people of Jeju don’t buy into Seungkwan’s “revolutionary ideas” about love and romance, your reputation is going down the drain right along with his.

“Good evening, Jeju! You’re back with your favorite duo,” you say, leaning into your mic with a practiced, bright energy, settling into your radio voice. “I’m your temporary host, Kang Y/N, and sitting across from me is the man who spent forty-five minutes this morning debating whether or not he’s a Taejoon or a Jungwoo: it’s Boo Seungkwan.”

Seungkwan let out a soulful chuckle that rumbles smoothly through your headphones. “Listen, the new season of Single’s Inferno is a sociological study! It’s about the raw human condition! Hello everyone, I’m Seungkwan. And for the record? I’m definitely a Taejoon. I’m loyal, I’m funny, and I look great in a vest.”

When Seungkwan speaks, his voice drops an octave, dripping with the velvety, honeyed charisma that had made him the nation’s beloved vocalist for more than a decade. By now, you’re trained to ignore the things it does to you.

“You’re a Eunseo at best, dramatic and prone to crying in the back of a van,” you retort, checking the monitor. “But we aren’t here to talk about your identity crisis, my friend. We’re here to talk about the Paradise dates. Kwan, as our resident romance expert, what did you think of the bonfire confession?”

You already knew what Seungkwan thought about them, considering the two of you had watched the episodes together on your couch the night before. Your mom and grandmother had spent the entire evening pampering him so much that, at one point, you found yourself wondering whether he was the real member of the family and not you.

“It was amateur hour, Y/N. If you’re going to confess your feelings, you need atmosphere. You need a build-up. You can’t just blurt it out between bites of grilled sea bream!”

You both move like a well-oiled machine. For the first fifteen minutes, it’s a masterclass in broadcasting. The two of you debate the new episodes of the latest season of Single’s Inferno, practically disagreeing with everything the other says for no reason at all, just for the fun of arguing and rage-baiting each other.

“Spoken like a man who has watched exactly three hundred dramas and participated in zero actual dates,” you tease after he describes how perfect one of the dates in Paradise was.

Not that you knew anything about Seungkwan’s love life, considering the two of you hadn’t reached that topic of conversation yet, even if you had already spilled your heart out to him during one drunken night.

Honestly, the less you knew, the better.

“I am a scholar of the heart!” he defends, a hand over his heart, even if you’re the only one who can see him. “Anyway, before we get to our first caller of the night, it’s time for my favorite part of the show. Let’s open our Time Capsule of Love.”

You hit the transition, a nostalgic, grainy vinyl crackle. “Tonight’s request comes from a listener in Aewol who wants to remember their first summer love,” you announce. “Here’s Perhaps Love by HowL & J.ae.”

As the classic track starts playing, you slide the faders down.

“We’re clear for, like, three minutes,” you mutter, stretching your arms as you stand to refill your water bottle and grab a cookie from the box Chan had left earlier, sometime before the show started.

Seungkwan also stretches back in his creaky old chair. You can feel his eyes following you around the room, tracking your movements, and it doesn’t take much to realize he has something sitting right on the tip of his tongue to comment on or ask you.

It was funny how inseparable the two of you had become since reuniting, how effortlessly you’d slipped back into your old rhythm. How well you still knew him and all his mannerisms, like the back of your hand. But there was still one massive elephant in the room: neither of you had said a word about those twelve years of silence.

You wouldn’t say you were exactly okay with it, but at the same time, you were terrified of bringing it up and ruining everything the two of you had rebuilt over the past six months. You could only hope it wouldn’t all come crashing down around you somewhere in the future.

You raise an eyebrow and cross your arms, the water sloshing softly inside the bottle as the music continues to play. “What?”

“Are you going to Youngjae’s place after this?” Seungkwan asks, trying to sound nonchalant as he pretended to examine his fingernails.

“Don’t know yet. Why?”

Seungkwan spins his squeaky chair a half-inch to the left, leaning his elbows on his knees. The playful, broadcast-ready smile he wore just a minute ago completely dissolves, replaced by a tight, familiar, almost sulky frown.

“Just wondering if you’re parking in his driveway tonight,” Seungkwan says, his tone dangerously passive, “or if you’re still relegated to the visitor’s spot three blocks down so his neighbors don’t start asking questions about the mystery woman sneaking in after dark.”

You almost choke on your piece of cookie. You swallow hard, shooting a panicked glare through the glass to make sure Hansol isn’t paying attention to the booth or your conversation, only to find him lost in his own world as always.

“Keep your voice down, tattletale,” you hiss, tossing the rest of the cookie onto a napkin and sitting back down in your chair. “And for your information, he has a very strict building policy. It’s not about me or our relationship. It’s about his privacy.”

That’s a lie, but you won’t give Seungkwan the satisfaction of being right. And he seems to know it, a scoff slipping past his lips.

“Right.” He drags the word out. “The notorious anti-girlfriend bylaws of Jeju real estate,”

“Kwan, don’t start—”

Seungkwan reaches out, tapping the edge of your console. “Are you listening to yourself, Y/N?Privacy is keeping your relationship off Instagram. What he’s doing is hiding you.”

You were past that stage. Past thinking too much about it. Past pretending you didn’t know that Youngjae was hiding your relationship from his friends, family, and even his neighbors. You knew he was. And it was complicated. Or at least, that’s what he’d been telling you ever since you rekindled your relationship a year ago.

Seungkwan, unlike you, had called it what it was the moment you told him you were back with Youngjae, but that only a small number of people knew. At the time, you thought it was just because Seungkwan hadn’t liked him back in your school days. Now, you were starting to have doubts about… well, everything.

But you wouldn’t discuss that here, much less in the middle of a broadcast with Perhaps Love playing as the soundtrack to this conversation.

“We have an arrangement that works for us. He’s a private person, Seungkwan. Not everyone wants their life broadcasted to the masses like you do.”

It’s a low blow, and you know it the second the words leave your mouth. Seungkwan flinches, just barely, but his dark eyes stay locked onto yours. The air in the tiny studio suddenly feels impossibly thick.

You close your eyes, dragging a hand down your face.

It comes and goes. The resentment you feel toward him for never calling or reaching out, for never answering your letters or your calls. It comes and goes.

“I didn’t meant to.”

You see Seungkwan swallow, his lips pouting slightly like he’s choosing his next words.

“I spent ten years hiding every single aspect of my life to survive in the industry, tokki.” His voice drops into a quiet, raw register that makes your chest ache. It’s worse because he calls you that. “So I know exactly what it looks like when someone treats you like a liability instead of a partner.”

“Why do you even care?” you snap, crossing your arms defensively to hide the way your hands are shaking. You really, really want to know why. “You’re my friend, Boo. Not my life coach.”

“I care because it’s pathetic watching you settle for him!” he fires back, leaning closer until his face is just inches from the mic stand. “You sit here every night, teasing me about my expertise on romance, but at least I know how to treat a girl.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the words die in your throat. He’s looking at you with that same fierce, frustrated intensity he had behind the school, in your spot, all those years ago, when Youngjae invited you out for banana milk. And it makes something strange shift inside your chest.

It has been happening a lot ever since Seungkwan came back into your life.

When you look away to avoid meeting his eyes, the digital clock on the monitor catches your attention. 0:15 seconds until the song ends.

“I’m not having this conversation with you right now,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you reach for the faders.

Seungkwan lets out a quiet, nasal laugh that makes it clear he expected you to avoid the subject. You hate that he still knows you so well—just as well as you know him—and you hate even more how easily the two of you slip back into old habits.

“You’re going to have to eventually,” he grumbles, leaning back into his chair as he adjusts his headphones. The hard edge in his eyes softens into something that looks dangerously like pity, and you hate that even more. “Because if he doesn’t figure out how to treat you right, someone else will.”

You want to ask him what he means by that, but there isn’t enough time.

0:03 seconds.

Hansol pops up behind the glass again, pointing a finger again. You take a shaky breath, give him a thumbs-up, and force the lump in your throat down as you slide the faders up and put your headphones back on.

4 MONTHS AGO

It had barely been a month since Seungkwan had reentered your life like a localized hurricane, and the boundaries of your resurrected friendship were still painfully blurry. You had survived the initial shock of his return, the awkwardness of not speaking for so long, and the surreal reality of seeing a former national idol casually drinking cheap instant coffee in the station’s break room.

That night, however, was the first time the two of you had gotten drunk together.

You were both sitting in a small, slightly dingy pojangmacha tucked away in a narrow alley behind the station. Inside, the air smelled of fried pork belly and spicy rice cakes, cut through by the almost clinical smell of spilled soju. Rain lashed relentlessly against the thick orange plastic tarps surrounding the tent, the sound creating a surprisingly cozy bubble that shut out the rest of the city.

“Watch and learn,” Seungkwan slurred slightly, holding up a fresh, condensation slicked green bottle of soju. He grabbed a stainless steel chopstick from the tin cup on the table.

“One of your many new talents?”

He nodded, a smirk tugging at his lips. “They didn’t teach me this in idol training. I had to learn this in the trenches of company dinners.”

With a flick of his wrist that was entirely too aggressive, he brought the chopstick up against the cap of the bottle. Instead of cleanly popping off, the cap flew violently into the air, ricocheting off the plastic tent wall and landing squarely in your bowl of complimentary radish soup.

You stared down at the floating metal cap, and then slowly raised your eyes to look at him.

Seungkwan froze, his hand still suspended in the air, a sheepish, incredibly boyish grin spreading across his flushed face. “Ta-da?”

“You’re paying for my next bowl of soup, Kwan,” you deadpanned, though you couldn’t fight the laugh that bubbled up in your chest. You fished the cap out with your spoon and flicked it at him. “And you’re a menace to society. It’s a miracle you survived Seoul.”

“Seoul was easy,” Seungkwan retorted, pouring the soju into two tiny glass cups, his coordination slightly compromised by the three bottles already sitting empty at the edge of the plastic table. “Jeju is the real battlefield.”

You laughed, arching an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

“Yesterday, an auntie at the market smacked me with a leek because I couldn’t remember her dog’s name,” he said with a laugh.

“To be fair, Dooboo is a local legend. You disrespected an icon,” you pointed out, picking up your glass. “Cheers to Dooboo.”

“Cheers to Dooboo,” Seungkwan echoed, clinking his glass against yours.

You both threw back the clear liquid. The burn was sharp but grounding, loosening the tight, perpetual knot of anxiety that lived at the base of your spine. You set the small glass back down on the table with a soft thud and exhaled sharply.

The alcohol was doing its job. The twelve-year gap between you was dissolving with every shot, the comfortable, relentless bickering of your childhood sliding right back into place.

For the last two hours, you’d been trading war stories. He filled you in on the absurd reality of dorm life, grueling tour schedules, and the bizarre diets the agency forced on him. In return, you regaled him with the unglamorous chaos of university life and local radio with callers determined to debate the existence of sea monsters, power outages during live broadcasts, and the time you accidentally played a funeral dirge instead of the morning weather jingle.

It felt incredibly and dangerously good. You hadn’t felt this seen, this entirely yourself, in a very long time.

And that was exactly why his guard didn’t just come down, it plummeted.

Your phone, sitting face up next to your chopsticks, vibrated violently, the screen lighting up the sticky table. The name Youngjae flashed across the glass.

The comfortable warmth in your chest vanished instantly, replaced by a cold wave of dread. You were supposed to meet Youngjae for dinner tonight. He had canceled an hour before you got off work — a vague text about “overtime” and “not wanting to push it at the hospital” — leaving you stranded.

That was when Seungkwan had popped his head into the editing booth and dragged you out into the rain.

You quickly reached out, flipping he phone face down with a dismissive motion. Then you reached for the soju bottle, carefully avoiding Seungkwan’s eyes.

“Who was that?” Seungkwan asked, his tone casual, though his inquisitive eyes tracked the defensive stiffness in your shoulders.

“No one,” you lied smoothly, pouring yourself another shot. “Just spam.”

“At one in the morning?” Seungkwan arched an eyebrow, skeptic. He reached across the table, his fingers gently tapping the back of your phone case. “You looked like you just saw a ghost. Is it work? Did Chief Choi find out you’re the one who broke the coffee machine?”

“I didn’t break the coffee machine, it was a structural failure,” you protested automatically, knocking the shot back. The alcohol hit your stomach, loosening your tongue just a fraction too much. “And it’s not work. It’s just Youngjae.”

Seungkwan’s hand stilled. He swallowed a laugh, and you noticed it immediately in the silence that followed.

“Youngjae?” Seungkwan repeated, the playful lilt completely draining from his voice. No, he thought, not again. “Cho Youngjae?”

You just nodded, and he simply couldn’t string together a complete sentence anymore. You took a long sip of soju straight from the bottle, and Seungkwan exhaled slowly through his mouth, trying not to let it show anymore that the mention of Youngjae’s name had bothered him. With any luck, you’d be too drunk tomorrow to remember it.

“Why is he texting you at 1 AM?”

You sighed, dragging a hand down your face. The soju was making it incredibly difficult to maintain the unbothered facade you usually wore.

“I didn’t know you two were still together,” Seungkwan said before you could answer, in what he hoped was a casual tone, though he couldn’t quite tell if his expression helped sell it.

Shortly after Seungkwan left, you and Youngjae started dating. At the time, you were still in contact with Seungkwan, trying to keep up with him as much as you could. During your phone calls, he kept insisting that Youngjae wasn’t the right guy for you. But when you finally decided to listen to him and broke up with Youngjae, Seungkwan disappeared from your life not long after.

“We dated, broke up, got back together, broke up again, and then got back together and—”

“Are you together now?” he interrupted.

You nodded. “We’ve been dating for eight months.”

Seungkwan blinked, the information processing slowly through the alcohol haze. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“That’s the thing,” you muttered, staring down at your empty shot glass. “It’s… a secret. He doesn’t want the hospital to find out. He says it could ruin his chances of getting a spot at this big hospital in Seoul next year. So we don’t tell anyone. We just… sneak around.”

The silence that fell over the table was sudden and deafening, save for the rain hitting the tarp.

When you finally looked up, you physically flinched at the expression on Seungkwan’s face. The boyish, flushed, drunken demeanor was entirely gone. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked near his ear, and his dark eyes were blazing with a sudden, terrifying intensity.

“He hides you,” Seungkwan stated. It wasn’t a question. It was a condemnation.

“It’s not like that,” you backpedaled, suddenly overcome by the desperate need to defend a relationship you weren’t even sure you wanted to be in anymore. “It’s just practical.”

A frown creased the middle of his forehead. “Why are you doing this? Why are you letting him treat you like you’re something to be ashamed of?”

Because you were terrified of being left behind again. Because Youngjae, with his cold, distant, and conditional affection, felt safer than risking your heart on someone who could truly break it by leaving.

But you couldn’t say that to him. Not yet. Not ever.

“Drop it, Seungkwan,” you warned, your voice trembling slightly. You grabbed the green bottle and practically slammed it onto the table between you. “I mean it. If we are going to be friends again, you drop it. We are not talking about my pathetic love life. We are getting drunk.”

Seungkwan stared at you for a long, almost agonizing moment. The tension between you crackled, charged and unresolved. He looked at the bottle, then at your fiercely guarded expression. Slowly, he reached out and took the bottle from your hand.

“Fine,” he muttered, his eyes dark. He poured you both a brimming shot. “We’ll drop it. For tonight. Drink up, PD-nim. We’re going to a noraebang.”

By 2:30 AM, the combative emotional atmosphere of the pojangmacha had been thoroughly obliterated by a lethal combination of cheap beer, more soju, and the aggressive, blinding neon lights of the noraebang.

You were currently standing on top of a sticky faux leather sofa, clutching a plastic tambourine. The disco ball above you cast spinning, dizzying patterns of purple and green across the tiny, enclosed room. Below you, standing in the center of the room with the microphone cord wrapped twice around his wrist, Seungkwan was giving you an exclusive performance.

“TEARS!” Seungkwan screamed into the microphone, his head thrown back as he unleashed the impossibly high notes of the song.

His vocal control, even while completely blackout drunk, was infuriatingly perfect. He hit the high note, dropped to his knees on the sticky linoleum floor, and pointed dramatically at you.

“Hit it!” he yelled over the instrumental break.

You aggressively smashed the tambourine against your hip, totally off-beat, screaming the background vocals with zero regard for pitch or human decency.

“You’re pitchy!” Seungkwan shouted, scrambling up from the floor. He grabbed a second microphone off the table, and tossed it to you. “Get down here and sing, you coward!”

“Your stage presence is lacking, Boo!” you yelled back, refusing to step down from the sofa. “Give me some emotion!!”

Seungkwan gasped in mock offense. He tossed his jacket onto the floor, jumped onto the small glass coffee table in the center of the room — the table groaning ominously under his weight — and struck a pose better suited to a sold-out stadium than a fifteen-dollar-an-hour karaoke room.

The track switched. The dramatic synth intro of a classic early 2000s heartbreak ballad filled the room.

Seungkwan closed his eyes, clutching the mic with both hands, and began to sing with such exaggerated and theatrical grief that you immediately doubled over laughing. He sank to his knees on the table, reaching a hand out toward you as if you were a lover drifting away on a life raft.

“Why did you leave me?!” he wailed, completely off-script, making the lyrics up as he went. “I gave you my heart, and you gave me a broken tambourine!”

“It was a metaphor for our friendship!” you shrieked back into your mic, tears of laughter streaming down your face. Suddenly, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed that hard. Probably not in years.

You stepped off the sofa, stumbling slightly as the alcohol hit your equilibrium, and marched right up to the table. You pointed your microphone directly at his chest, looking up at him with a defiant, breathless grin.

“You just don’t appreciate my genius!”

Seungkwan dropped the theatrical act, though he didn’t drop his gaze. He reached down and grabbed your microphone hand, pulling you close

For a second, the ridiculous facade completely shattered. You were suddenly entirely too close. Because he was kneeling on the table, you were perfectly at eye level. His chest was heaving, his hair messy and damp with sweat, flushed cheeks, his eyes completely blown out and dark in the spinning neon lights.

“You’re staring, tokki,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, the smooth tone vibrating right through the microphone and out into the small room.

“You’re in my space, Boo,” you shot back. You tried to sound authoritative, but your voice came out a little breathless, and you made absolutely no move to pull your hand out of his grip.

He tilted his head, a slow, devastating smirk spreading across his lips. His thumb absently stroked the back of your knuckles. “I think you like it.”

“You’re so arrogant, Boo Seungkwan,” you mumbled, stepping a fraction of an inch closer until your knees were practically brushing the edge of the glass table. “You’ve always been arrogant. When we were younger, it drove me absolutely crazy.”

Seungkwan let out a smug, nasal laugh. “Is that why you were always trying to beat me at stuff?” he teased, leaning in a little closer, the scent of soju and expensive cologne suddenly intoxicating. “Because you couldn’t handle the charm?”

“No,” you said, shaking your head, your eyes tracing the elegant line of his jaw. The spinning purple lights caught the flush on his cheeks. “I was trying to beat you because I was overcompensating. I had the biggest, most pathetic crush on you, and you were completely oblivious.”

The words slipped out with the terrifying ease of a drunken confession, made possible only by the fact that you were, in fact, very, very drunk. And maybe a little carried away by the thought that so many years had passed that none of it mattered anymore.

Or maybe still did… a little.

Seungkwan froze. The playful smirk vanished instantly. His fingers tightened around yours, his entire body going completely still on the table. The karaoke track blared on in the background, a saxophone solo filling the silence, but the air between you had turned to a vacuum.

“You... what?” he breathed, his voice barely audible over the music.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” you scoffed, waving your free hand dismissively, though a sudden, hot flush of embarrassment was rising up your neck. “We were fifteen. We spent a lot of time together. It was a statistical inevitability.”

You thought you’d read a article about it somewhere. Or maybe that was just your brain trying to convince itself.

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly, as if the oxygen had just been sucked out of the room. “You had a crush on me. Back then. Before I left.”

“Massive,” you confirmed, leaning back against the edge of the sofa behind you for balance. You let out a self-deprecating laugh, looking down at your boots. “And then you got on a plane and ruined my entire life. Tragic, really.”

You expected him to laugh. You expected him to tease you, to use it as ammunition for his ego, to make a joke about how he had always known he was irresistible.

But Seungkwan didn’t laugh.

When you looked back up, the expression on his face made your breath catch in your throat. He looked absolutely shattered. The boyish amusement was gone, replaced by a profound, agonizing realization that seemed to physically pain him. He slowly scrambled off the table, standing right in front of you, entirely ignoring the microphone he dropped onto the couch.

“Are you seriously telling me you never realized I had a crush on you back then?” you laughed, throwing your head back. “Jesus Christ. And I actually thought all that fame would’ve made you a little less clueless by now.”

Seungkwan stepped into your space, his hands coming up to gently, almost reverently, cup your face. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice thick with an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher, staring down at you with desperate intensity. “If I had known... I swear to God, if I had known...”

Right then, Seungkwan wanted to kiss you. Desperately.

The urge hit him so suddenly, so overwhelmingly, that it stole the oxygen from his lungs. It wasn’t just a passing thought; it was a physical ache. He wanted to close the distance, press his mouth to yours, and prove to you with absolute certainty that if he’d known, everything would have been different.

For years, Seungkwan had learned how to deal with girls. He had lived his life in a boy group, surrounded by beautiful actresses, stunning idols, and thousands of screaming fans. He knew how to flirt. He knew how to charm. But there was something about you that completely paralyzed him.

Maybe he would never be able to do it. The fear of ruining this—of crossing a line he could never uncross—was paralyzing. And maybe, he thought frantically, that was a good thing.

You were friends, weren’t you?

You had just barely managed to salvage this friendship from the wreckage of the last twelve years. He shouldn’t want to ruin that. He shouldn’t risk terrifying you away when you had just finally let him back in. He should just be profoundly grateful that you were willing to let him be a part of your life again.

But his gaze dropped to your lips, the air practically crackling with the electric, terrifying pull between you. He leaned in, the gap between you closing, his breath warm against your skin.

BEEP.

The song ended with an abrupt, jarring electronic shriek. The machine loudly announced your score in a cheerful, computerized voice: 42.

The spell shattered like a broken mirror.

You both jumped, practically flying apart. The sudden silence in the room was deafening. You immediately spun around, grabbing your coat off the back of the sofa, your heart hammering against your ribs so violently you thought you might actually faint.

Seungkwan cleared his throat loudly, busying himself with untangling the microphone cords, though his hands were visibly shaking.

“The machine is rigged,” he declared, his voice rough and uneven. He refused to look at you, staring intently at the plastic tambourine on the floor. “Forty-two? This machine is completely broken.”

“You were flat,” you lied, your own voice breathless as you practically sprinted for the door, desperate for oxygen. “Completely flat."

By the time you stumbled out onto the streets at 4 AM, the rain had stopped, leaving the asphalt slick and reflecting the streetlights. The freezing sea air hit your flushed face, sobering you up just enough to realize the massive, catastrophic mistake you had just made: you had just confessed your teenage feelings to the man who had just came back to your life.

You stood on the curb, waiting for the taxi Seungkwan had hailed, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself. He stood right beside you, a heavy, suffocating silence settling over the sidewalk. He shrugged off his jacket, stepping close enough to drape it over your shoulders without asking. The fabric was warm, heavy, and smelled devastatingly like him.

“Thanks,” you murmured, pulling it together, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I meant what I said,” Seungkwan said quietly into the night air, staring straight ahead at the empty road. “At the tent. Even if you’re mad at me. You deserve better, tokki. You always have.”

You looked up at him, at the profile of the boy who had once broken your heart, who had only just realized he could have had it all those years ago, and who was now systematically trying to win it back, even if you didn’t seem to realize it yet.

“I know,” you whispered, the lie tasting like ash in your mouth.

PRESENT

“I just don’t know,” Chan mutters, running a hand through his hair, turning on his heel to pace back the other way. “Her profile says she likes hiking and eye contact. What does that even mean?”

The lights in the break room hum with that same high-pitched whine that usually drives you crazy. Tonight, though, you barely notice it, drowned out by the sound of Chan pacing a hole into the cheap linoleum floor.

He glances between your faces, not breaking his pacing for a second. “Is she going to stare into my soul while we eat? What if she’s a serial killer who uses dating apps to harvest organs?”

You lean back in the rickety plastic chair, nursing a lukewarm can of vending machine coffee. Across the small table covered with crumbs, Seungkwan is meticulously trying to free a bag of Honey Butter Chips from the machine’s coils, stubbornly jammed.

“I have great kidneys,” Chan continues. “They’re pristine. I drink so much water.”

Your phone, sitting face up next to your coffee can, buzzes violently against the table. The screen lights up, illuminating the dim space with a harsh white glare, and you don’t even have to look to know who it is. You don’t pick it up, but you see them glowing on the screen.

[Youngjae - 9:14 PM]: Where are you? [Youngjae - 9:15 PM]: You ignored my call. [Youngjae - 9:15 PM]: I left my spare keys at my hospital and I’m locked out. Bring me your set ASAP.

Your heart rate skips, a familiar, ugly knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You massage your temples, quickly turning your phone off and pointedly ignoring the messages. He knows you’re at work, for crying out loud. He knows your schedule. He knows you can’t leave right now.

“Are we really having this conversation?” you ask.

“If she harvests your kidneys, I get your green leather jacket,” Hansol chimes in from the corner sofa. He doesn’t even look up from his phone, his thumb lazily scrolling. “Put it in your will.”

“I don’t have a will, hyung!” Chan practically shrikes, stopping his pacing to glare at Hansol. He turns his desperate gaze toward the table. “Look, I’m begging you guys. I haven’t been on a blind date since… well, ever. I don’t know the protocol. I need security.”

Seungkwan finally gives the vending machine a solid hip-check. The coil shudders, and the bag of chips drops with a satisfying crinkle. He scoops it up, tossing a triumphant look your way before turning to Chan.

“Security?” Seungkwan echoes, popping the bag open and immediately offering it to you first, a habit you try not to think too hard about. You take a chip. “What are we supposed to do? Tackle her if she reaches for a steak knife?”

“No! Just… be there,” Chan pleads, pulling up a chair and straddling it backward. “Saturday night. That Italian place near the marina. Don Capri.”

“Wow, that sounds expensive,” you say, entirely off-topic, but not wrong. The restaurant is one of the most expensive in the city. You’ve never been there. Not on a date, anyway. “How much is Seungcheol paying you as a junior writer?”

“It’s dimly lit. Romantic.” Chan throws his hands up in the air. “The point is, if you guys are sitting at the table next to us, I’ll feel safe. If she turns out to be crazy, you swoop in and pretend there’s a work emergency.”

“What if the things go well?” you ask, resting your chin on your fist.

“Then, you just eat your free pasta and leave me alone.”

“Free pasta?” Hansol suddenly looks up, his interest momentarily piqued, before his eyes drops back to his screen. “Actually, never mind. I have plans tomorrow.”

Chan lets out a frustrated groan, dropping his head onto his arms on the back of the chair. He looks up at you through his bangs, deploying a pathetic, puppy-dog pout he knows works on you, because it always does.

“Noona? Please? You’re practically my boss. It’s a liability issue if I get murdered.”

You sigh, taking another sip of the terrible coffee. “Chan, I don’t think—”

“We’ll do it,” Seungkwan interrupts smoothly.

You snap your head to look at him. “Excuse me?”

Seungkwan pops a chip into his mouth, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. He looks ridiculously unfairly handsome in his oversized vintage knit sweater. “We will absolutely do it. It’s perfect. It’s fieldwork.”

“Fieldwork?” you repeat, narrowing your eyes.

“We host a romance advice show, Y/N,” he points out, a mischievous glint in his eye. Hansol suddenly looks very interested in the conversation, and you’re dying to know why.

“And that should justify us going on a date with Chan because…?”

Seungkwan looks at you like the answer is obvious. It’s not. And deep down, you know he’s not saying everything.

“How are we supposed to advise the lonely hearts of Jeju if we aren’t out in the trenches, observing modern dating in its natural habitat?” He chews a chip theatrically and far too loud for your liking. “Besides, you’ve been working too hard. You need a good meal. My treat.”

“I don’t need fieldwork, and I don’t need you to buy me dinner,” you shot back, though your stomach traitorously rumbles at the mention of good meal. “And what if Youngjae—”

You stop yourself, but the name hangs in the air like a bad smell.

Seungkwan’s playful demeanor instantly evaporates. The warmth in his eyes hardens into something piercing and unreadable. He slowly sets the bag of chips down on the table.

“What if Youngjae what?” he asks, an eyebrow raising. “Doesn’t want you going out in public with your friends now?”

Here we go again.

“Shut up, Boo,” you mutter, looking away.

“It’s a favor for Chan, tokki” Seungkwan continues, leaning closer across the table, his voice low enough that Chan and Hansol can’t hear. “A free meal. And you get to spend two hours pretending to be my date. I know you’ve been dreaming of the opportunity.”

If only he knew.

In moments like this you wonder whether he really doesn’t remember the night the two of you got drunk and confessed having crushes on each other when you were younger. That maybe he’s just pretending not to remember, exactly like you are.

You scoff, your cheeks heating up despite your best efforts. You won’t giving him the satisfaction. “In your dreams, and maybe in my nightmares.”

If only you knew.

Contrary to what you believed, Seungkwan remembers that night perfectly. He remembers wanting to kiss you in that moment, and every day that followed. He remembers catching himself wishing, with everything he had, that you still felt the same way, even if he doesn’t believe you do.

And if he had to take you on a fake date under the excuse of keeping an eye on Chan, then hell, he’d do it. He’d do anything to make you feel that way about him again.

“So it’s a yes?” Chan asks, completely oblivious to the sudden tension vibrating between the two of you.

Seungkwan don’t even let you open your mouth. “It’s a yes,” he confirms, his eyes never leaving yours. “We’ll be your security.”

Chan lets out a massive sigh of relief, jumping up to grab Hansol by the shoulders. “You hear that, hyung? I’m going to survive! Now, let me show you her profile.”

As Chan drags a deeply reluctant Hansol toward the corner to inspect the photos on the girl’s profile, you let out a long breath and reach across the table to steal another chip. Seungkwan watches you chew, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he defends himself, throwing his hands up in surrender.

The break room door swings open, and Seungcheol pokes his head in, looking frazzled. “Five minutes to air, you two. Let’s go, the board is already lit up with callers.”

You grab your notes and your phone, practically sprinting out of the break room to escape the look in Seungkwan’s eyes. You make it down the hallway and push through the heavy double doors into the station’s main lobby, heading for Studio B.

But you stop dead in your tracks.

Standing by the reception desk, drenched from the rain and looking absolutely furious, is no one other than Youngjae.

He is wearing an expensive trench coat, his jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle ticks in his cheek. The poor nighttime receptionist looks terrified, shrinking back behind her monitor as Youngjae taps his fingers aggressively on the glass partition.

“Youngjae?” you gasp, your voice echoing slightly in the empty lobby.

He turns, his eyes locking onto you with laser precision. The relief you would normally feel at seeing him is entirely absent, replaced by a cold, sinking dread. He marches across the lobby, closing the distance in seconds, rainwater dripping from his clothes onto your shoes.

“I told you to bring me the keys,” he hisses, keeping his voice low but laced with venom.

“I go on air in five minutes,” you stutter, taking a subconscious half-step back. “I can’t leave the building, Youngjae. Why didn’t you just wait for me to bring them to you after the show?”

“Because I don’t want to sit here for three hours while you play radio host!” he snaps, stepping closer, his imposing frame crowding your space. “This is ridiculous, Y/N. I have a major surgery tomorrow morning. You think your little late night advice segment is more important than my career?”

“It’s not a little segment, it’s my job,” you defend, your voice trembling slightly. “I have responsibilities here.”

“Responsibilities,” Youngjae scoffs loudly, a harsh, dismissive sound. “You play music and talk to lonely housewives.” He holds out his hand, palm up, expectant and demanding. “Give me the keys.”

You reach into your pocket, your fingers brushing against the cold metal of the spare keys, feeling a sudden and overwhelming wave of humiliation. You are the lead producer of the most popular late night show on the island, yet here you are, being scolded like a disobedient child in the middle of your workplace.

Before you can pull the keys out, a solid figure steps up right beside you.

“Is there a problem here?”

Seungkwan’s voice is completely devoid of its usual warmth, the one he usually reserves for you. It’s cold, flat, and carries a quiet authority you’ve rarely heard him use. That’s a side of him you don’t often see. Seungkwan has always been gentle and soft-spoken with everyone, especially you, despite your usual bickering. So for him to speak like that, you know he’s really not having it.

Youngjae blinks, momentarily taken aback, before his expression curls into a sneer. He looks Seungkwan up and down, taking in the knit sweater and the casual stance. “This doesn’t concern you, Boo. Stick to your silly script.”

“It concerns me when you show up at my workplace screaming at my producer five minutes before a live broadcast,” Seungkwan replies, not moving an inch. He shifts his weight, subtly positioning himself so that his shoulder overlaps yours, creating a physical barrier between you and Youngjae. “You’re disrupting the station.”

“I’m talking to my girlfriend,” Youngjae snaps, his voice rising in volume. He tries to step around Seungkwan to get to you, but Seungkwan mirrors the movement, blocking him flawlessly.

“She’s working,” Seungkwan states simply.

“I don’t care if she’s working! She’s my—”

“If you don’t lower your voice,” Seungkwan interrupts, his tone dropping to a whisper, his eyes locked onto Youngjae’s, “I will have security escort you out. And trust me, I know exactly how to get someone thrown out of a building.”

The silence in the lobby is deafening. The receptionist is staring openly now. You can hear the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.

Youngjae scoffs, trying to mask his intimidation with bravado, but he takes a step back. “You think you’re still a big shot, don’t you? You’re just a retired idol playing host at a local station.”

Seungkwan don’t rise to the bait. He don’t even blink. He just stares Youngjae down with an intensity that makes the air feel thin.

“Youngjae, enough!” You finally find your voice, and it surprises you how steady it sounds. The humiliation burns away, leaving behind a sharp, clean anger at the way he’s speaking to Seungkwan.

You step around Seungkwan, pulling the keys from your pocket. You don’t place them in Youngjae’s waiting hand; instead, you drop them onto the small glass coffee table next to him. They land with a loud, metallic clatter.

“I am at work,” you say, your voice ringing clear and authoritative in the quiet lobby. “You don’t come here and disrespect me. You don’t disrespect my colleagues. And you certainly don’t belittle what I do.”

Youngjae looks at the keys, then back at you, his eyes narrowing. “Are you serious right now? You’re making a scene over this?”

“No,” you correct him. “You made the scene. I am ending it. Take the keys and leave, Youngjae. Now.”

He stares at you, genuinely shocked. You’ve never spoken to him like this before. You’ve never pushed back. But standing here, with Seungkwan’s unyielding presence at your back, you feel a sudden, powerful surge of clarity. You are tired of shrinking.

Youngjae snatches the keys off the table, his face flush with a mix of embarrassment and fury.

He shoots one last, venomous glare at Seungkwan before turning on his heel. “We are talking about this later,” he throws over his shoulder, pushing through the front doors and disappearing into the rain.

The heavy doors swing shut, leaving a ringing silence in their wake.

Your adrenaline spikes, then immediately crashes. Your knees feel a little weak. You let out a shaky exhale, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I am so sorry you had to see that.”

Seungkwan turns to you, and the intimidating aura is gone. What replaces it is soft, immediate concern. He reaches out, his hands hovering around you as if he wants to pull you into his chest, but instead he settles for gripping your shoulders, his thumbs pressing reassuringly against your collarbones.

“Don’t apologize,” he says fiercely, his voice rough. “Don’t you ever apologize for him, Y/N.”

“He was so loud,” you whisper, humiliated tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “Everyone heard.”

“Good,” Seungkwan says stepping closer. His thumb brushes a stray tear from your cheek, the touch shockingly gentle. “Let them see that you don’t let anyone walk all over you. You were incredible just now.”

You look up at him. The lobby lights catch the deep brown of his eyes, turning them into something almost golden with protective pride that makes your chest ache. He isn’t looking at you with pity. He’s looking at you like you hung the moon.

You want him to kiss you.

And normally, you would say it’s because you were feeling vulnerable, but you know that isn’t it. Being with Seungkwan just inches away from you like this makes you feel like the teenage girl who was hopelessly in love with him. Honestly, you’ve been feeling this way ever since he came back into your life.

“Two minutes!” Seungcheol’s voice booms from down the hallway, echoing through the corridor.

Seungkwan lets his hands slide down your arms, giving your hands a quick, firm squeeze before letting go. You just nod to yourself, taking a deep breath, but as you turn toward the studio doors, he caught your elbow.

“Tokki, wait,” he starts, his voice dropping to a serious register. He steps closer, his shadow falling over you. “We need to talk about what just happened. About the way he treated you.”

You pull your arm back, shaking your head so hard your hair whips around your face. “I can’t, Seungkwan. Not now. I have a broadcast to get through.”

“You’re just going to pretend he didn’t try to dictate your entire life in front of your colleagues?”

“Please,” you cut him off, voice cracking. You look at the studio doors, desperate for the sanctuary of the booth. “Just… leave it alone. For tonight. If you care about me, just leave it alone.”

Seungkwan watches you, jaw tight, clearly wanting to push it further. Frustration and aching sympathy flicker across his face. He finally gives a short, stiff nod. “Fine. But we’re talking about this later.”

You don’t answer, just turn and walk toward Studio B, the weight of the night pressing down on you.

FIVE MONTHS AGO

Seungkwan’s house was entirely too quiet when you arrived. Usually, his home was a chaos of neighborhood gossip, the television blaring something, his sisters’ friends coming and going, and the smell of something delicious simmering on the stove. But today, the air felt subdued.

His mother met you at the front door with a deep, exhausted sigh. “He hasn’t left that room in three days. Ever since the official press release about his retirement hit the news cycle on Tuesday, he’s just been lying there. He won’t eat. He barely talks. It’s like all the light just drained right out of him.”

“I’ll handle it,” you promised, offering her reassuring smile. You gripped the manila folder in your hand a little tighter. “He just needs a push.”

You marched up the familiar wooden stairs, your socks padding softly against the floorboards. You knew exactly the kind of existential dread Seungkwan was currently drowning in. For eleven years, his entire identity had been tied to a grueling, relentless schedule. He was an idol, for crying out loud. He was a performer.

Now, standing on the other side of that massive, terrifying decision to walk away, the silence was probably deafening. He had jumped off the cliff, and he was currently waiting to see if the parachute was going to open.

You were here to be the parachute.

You pushed the door to his childhood bedroom open without knocking. The curtains were drawn tight, casting the room a gloomy and artificial twilight despite it being two in the afternoon.

Seungkwan was lying flat on his back in the center of his bed. He was wearing a faded gray sweatshirt and soft sweatpants, his arms resting limply over his stomach. He was staring blankly up at the ceiling, looking so profoundly lost and exhausted that it made your chest physically ache.

“Is this a wake?” you asked, your voice cutting through the stale air. “Because I’m not wearing black.”

Seungkwan jolted slightly, his head snapping toward the door. His eyes were dark, rimmed with the red, puffy evidence of a sleepless night. “Y/N? What are you doing here?”

“Intervention,” you announced simply.

You walked straight past his desk, didn’t bother to take off you oversized cardigan, and threw yourself unceremoniously onto the mattress right next to him.

The bedsprings groaned in protest as you landed flat on your back, your shoulder practically brushing against his. You crossed your ankles, folding your hands over your stomach, and mirrored his exact posture, staring up at the ceiling.

For a long moment, Seungkwan was too stunned to speak. He just turned his head, staring at your profile in absolute bewilderment.

“You’re invading my misery,” he finally muttered, his voice raspy and completely devoid of its usual bright energy.

“Well, misery loves company,” you countered easily, keeping your eyes on the faded, peeling glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to his ceiling. “Besides, we used to do this all the time. Remember? We spent half of our freshman year lying on this exact bed, staring at those stupid plastic stars.”

Seungkwan let out a hollow, humorless breath, turning his gaze back up to the ceiling. “Yeah. Usually because you were having a meltdown about a chemistry exam.”

“We used to lie here for hours,,” you continued softly, the memory bringing a bittersweet tightness to your throat. “Just talking. Planning out how we were going to conquer the world. We had it all figured out.”

“Now I’m almost thirty, unemployed, hiding from the paparazzi in my childhood bedroom, and you’re running a local radio station on an island we swore we’d escape.”

“Hey,” you admonished gently, shifting your weight so you could bump your shoulder against his. “My local radio station happens to be the second highest rated afternoon program in the district. And that is exactly why I’m here."

You reached over, slapping the manila folder onto his chest. He grabbed it instinctively before it slid off.

“What is this?” he asked, his brow furrowing as he looked at the logo on the cover.

“That is a job offer,” you declared, turning your head to look at him. “Yoona’s co-host is transferring to the morning news division next month. We need someone who can talk endlessly, who understands the entertainment industry, and who is incredibly desperate for a distraction.”

He frowned, his nose scrunching slightly in protest. “I wouldn’t call myself desperate.”

“Maybe not,” you shrugged. “But you do need a reason to get out of this bed, Kwan. And I need someone who won’t trip over the microphone cables. Help out your oldest friend, will you?”

Seungkwan stared at the folder, his thumb tracing the edge of the paper. You could see the gears turning in his head, the terrifying prospect of a new routine warring with the safety of his depression.

Before he could overthink it and hand the folder back, you let the tough-love producer persona drop entirely. The anger and the resentment from the past eleven years had been quietly eroding ever since he showed up at the recreation center, and seeing him like this—so broken and unsure—wiped out whatever was left of your pride.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered, the confession tumbling out of you before you could stop it.

You closed the remaining distance between you, turning on your side and resting your head gently against his shoulder. The fabric of his sweatshirt was soft, smelling faintly of fabric softener and the familiar scent that was just him.

Seungkwan froze for a fraction of a second, his breath hitching audibly in his chest, though his voice still sounded playful when he spoke. “Well, don’t go soft on me now.”

“Okay, forget it,” you said, struggling to stand as you pulled the folder off his chest.

But then, Seungkwan’s arm came up. He wrapped it securely around your shoulders, pulling you a fraction closer until you were tucked perfectly against his side. His other hand reached over, his long fingers finding yours in the space between you and grabbing your hand, intertwining your fingers with a desperate, crushing grip.

He leaned his head down, pressing his lips to the top of your head in a long, lingering kiss.

“I missed you every day,” he murmured into your hair. “Every single day, Y/N.”

You squeezed his hand, a sad smile touching your lips. “Liar. You forgot me.”

“And how could I forget you, tokki?” he asked softly, using the childhood nickname that instantly made your heart skip a beat.

You tilted your head up just enough to look at his face. “Are you still calling me that?”

“Always,” Seungkwan replied without a second of hesitation. He finally looked down, his eyes meeting yours in the dim light of the bedroom. The exhaustion was still there, but the absolute, unwavering certainty in his gaze took your breath away.

You stared at him, the weight of the last decade hanging in the six inches of air between your faces. You had spent so long building walls to keep him out, but lying here, tangled up with him in the quiet sanctuary of his room, it felt like no time had passed at all.

“Promise you won’t disappear this time,” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. It was a plea. A genuine, terrifying surrender.

Seungkwan looked into your eyes, tracking the slight tremble of your lower lip, the fearful hope shining in your gaze, and his heart physically violently hammered against his ribs. Swallowing down the desperate, burning need to kiss your lips, Seungkwan tightened his grip on your hand and forced a soft, reassuring smile.

“You’re going to get tired of me,” he said, his voice incredibly gentle. “I promise.”

He leaned down, carefully, deliberately, and kissed you on the forehead again. It was sweet. It was safe. It was the absolute maximum amount of restraint he was capable of mustering.

“I’ll take the job, PD-nim,” he whispered against your skin, closing his eyes as he breathed in the scent of your perfume. “I’m not going anywhere.”

PRESENT

The reservation at Don Capri was for 8:00 p.m. By 8:05, you’re huddled in a corner velvet booth with a perfect line of sight to Chan’s table, holding a leather-bound menu high enough to hide your face but low enough to keep table four in view.

“He’s sweating,” you whisper, adjusting the menu slightly. “I can see a bead of sweat on his temple from here. He’s going to dehydrate before the appetizers arrive.”

Across from you, Seungkwan let out a soft, amused hum. He didn’t bother hiding behind his menu. Instead, he sits perfectly relaxed against the velvet, looking entirely in his element.

“He’s fine, tokki. She just laughed at whatever he said,” Seungkwan observes, taking a slow sip of his water.

The second he shuts his mouth, something metallic crashes to the floor.

Seungkwan’s eyes widen. “Though he just knocked over the salt shaker. Give him ten minutes, if he drops his fork, we trigger the station emergency text.”

“Well, at least she doesn’t look like a serial killer,” you note, peering critically at Chan’s date again. She’s pretty, with an easy smile and, to her credit, she seems genuinely charmed by Chan’s nervousness.

“See? Fieldwork. I told you it would be fine.” Seungkwan reaches across the table, his fingers catching the top edge of your menu and pushing it down, forcing you to look at him. “Now stop spying. We are supposed to be blending in. If you keep staring at them, people are going to think we’re private investigators.”

You scoff, though your voice comes out a little breathless. “Blending in? We are sitting in a romantic Italian restaurant, hiding behind potted ferns. We look ridiculous.”

“We only look ridiculous because you’re acting like a spy,” Seungkwan corrects. “If we want to be convincing, we need to act like we belong here. Like we’re on a actual date. So stop slouching.”

And you don’t know it yet, but Seungkwan is fully intent on turning this into a actual date. Or at the very least, showing you how you deserve to be treated on one.

You straighten up, reflexively pulling your jacket tighter. “I am not slouching. I’m trying to be inconspicuous. Which is hard to do when you’re dressed like that.”

Seungkwan looks impeccable, actually. He’s wearing a navy lightweight sweater layered over a striped button-down, the collar and cuffs peeking out; a look so effortlessly devastating it made at least three women trip over their own feet on his way to the table. Your heart had done much the same when he showed up at your door dressed like that.

Not that you would say that out loud, anyway.

“Like what?” he asks, a playful glint in his eye as he leans back, looking entirely too relaxed for a stakeout.

“Like you’re going to a premiere, not babysitting a blind date,” you counter.

“If we’re going to be security, we have to look the part. If I look like a scrub, they’ll think we’re just two random people loitering. If I look like this,” he gestures to his outfit, “we’re a couple enjoying a nice, expensive dinner.”

You do your best to ignore him referring to the two of you as a couple.

He caught your eye and held it, the playfulness fading into something more deliberate. “Besides, you look beautiful tonight. Even if you are trying to hide behind the menu.”

You roll your eyes, ignoring the way your pulse skips. “Stop flirting with me, Boo Seungkwan.”

“Trust me, tokki,” Seungkwan says, a smirk tugging at his lips. You’ve never seen this side of him. “You’ll know when I’m flirting with you.”

A waiter approaches the table before you can say a word. He glances between the two of you, his gaze lingering on Seungkwan’s polished attire before softening when it lands on you.

“Good evening,” the waiter greets in a hushed tone. “Can I start you two off with a bottle of wine? We have a beautiful Sangiovese that pairs perfectly with the chill in the air tonight. Are we celebrating a special occasion?”

You open your mouth to stammer out a polite refusal, to explain that you were just friends having a quick bite, but Seungkwan beats you to it.

“We aren’t celebrating an anniversary, if that's what you mean,” Seungkwan smiles, the warmth in his expression entirely genuine as he looks at the waiter, and then at you. “But it is a special occasion. I finally convinced her to let me take her to dinner.”

The waiter chuckles. “Well, then, congratulations are in order for the gentleman. And for the lady, I promise the food will make the wait worthwhile. Shall I bring the wine?”

“Please,” Seungkwans nods. He don’t look at the menu; he keeps looking at you, eyes searching. “And we’ll put out food orders in now, too. We’ll start with the burrata, please. And for the main… Tokki, you still love the mushroom risotto, don’t you? With the truffle oil?”

You blink, startled. It’s been years since you mentioned that preference, during a crowded high school lunch, of all things. “I... yes. I do.”

“Two orders of the mushroom risotto,” Seungkwan says, turning back to the waiter. “And please, hold the olives for the lady. She hates them.”

The waiter beams. “Coming right up. A wonderful choice for such a lovely couple. I’ll be right back with your wine.”

As the waiter glides away, you stare at Seungkwan, your mouth slightly parts. Your fingers nervously curls into the heavy linen napkin on your lap. You could probably dwell on the fact that the waiter keeps referring to you as a couple, but only one thing is on your mind right now.

“You remembered that?” you whisper, almost disbelieving. “The mushroom risotto?”

Seungkwan leans his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his fingers. “I remember everything about you,” he says simply, shrugging slightly. “Besides, you always look at the past section first, but you invariably order rice dishes when you’re stressed. And right now, you’re tapping your foot against the table leg.”

You immediately still your foot, a flush of heat rising to your cheeks. He is paying attention. He is always paying an agonizing amount of attention to you.

“You didn’t have to put on the whole performance for the waiter,” you murmur, looking down at the flickering candle to avoid the heat of his gaze. “He probably thinks we’re together now.”

“That’s the point of blending in,” Seungkwan says softly. “But it wasn’t a performance. If I am taking you out to dinner, I’m going to do it right. You deserve to be taken out to a place with real tablecloths and good lighting.”

He doesn’t elaborate more. He simply picks up his water glass, clinks it against yours, and smiles. It’s the closest he has come to referencing your love life all evening, but he doesn’t cross the line. He keeps the focus entirely on the present, on the two of you in this dimly lit booth, slowly forgetting why you came in the first place.

The waiter returns, pouring two glasses of the dark red wine. Seungkwan picks his up, holding it out toward you.

“To fieldwork,” he toasts, a teasing smile playing on his lips.

You pick up your glass, the crystal clinking softly against his. “To Chan keeping both his kidneys.”

You take a sip. The wine is incredible, rich, complex, and warming you from the inside out. For the first time all week, the perpetual knot of anxiety in your chest begins to loosen. You lean back into the velvet booth, allowing yourself to actually look at the man sitting across from you.

“So,” you start, feeling a sudden urge of liquid courage. “If this were a real date, what would the great Boo Seungkwan talk about?”

Seungkwan laughs, a sound that rumbles over the ambient noise of the restaurant. “If you really want the full experience, you have to know the fine print.”

You arch an eyebrow, fighting a smile. “The fine print?”

“Yes. I’m incredibly demanding.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

Seungkwan roll his eyes and leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. The candlelight dances across his features, highlighting the playful glint in his eyes.

“I require a lot of attention, tokki. You should know.” He winks at you. “I’m the guy who wants to know exactly what made you laugh on your dive to work, and why you always steal my pens during per-production eve though you have five of your own.”

“Yours are better and more expensive.” You lift a shoulder in your best you-got-me shrug.

Seungkwan doesn’t care. He’d buy a million pens just for you to steal if it made you happy.

He reaches across the table, his index finger lightly tracing the base of his wine glass. “And if this were a real date, I wouldn’t be looking at Chan right now. I’d probably tell you that the candlelight makes your eyes look absolutely incredible.”

Your breath hitches. The banter had shifted gears so smoothly you almost got whiplash. God, you’re supposed to be here to babysit Chan and his date, but right now the only thing you can think about is Seungkwan. You’ve practically forgotten table four exists.

“And then,” he continues, his voice sending a shiver straight down your spine, “I’d spend the rest of the appetizer course trying to figure out if you’re actually as unaffected by me as you’re pretending to be, or if I’m allowed to hold you hand across the table.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, completely betraying your cool facade. “And what’s your conclusion, Boo?” you challenged, though there’s far less bite in your voice than usual. You can’t believe you’re actually flirting with your best friend right now.

“My conclusion,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before snapping back up to hold you stare, “is that you’re definitely not unaffected. You’ve been shredding your napkin for five minutes.”

You are affected. More than you want to admit, and definitely more than you want him to notice. You’ve been like this ever since Seungkwan came back, maybe even before that, when he existed only through blurry livestreams and phone screens.

You look down. The linen napkin in your lap is indeed thoroughly twisted between your tense fingers. You drop it immediately, clearing your throat, but you refuse to let him win that easily.

“You’re very confident in your methods,” you note, leaning forward so that you are mirroring his posture. You tilt your head, letting a slow smile cross your lips. “But I’m curious. You’ve laid out your entire strategy. What makes you think you’d survive my moves?”

Seungkwan pauses, the confident smirk faltering just a fraction as his eyes widen slightly. “Is that a challenge, tokki? What exactly are your moves?”

“Well,” you start, dropping your voice to match his intimate volume. “If this were a real date, I wouldn’t need to put on a performance. I’d just use what I already know."

You reach across the table, your fingers lightly grazing the cuff of his striped button-down, ostensibly to brush away a piece of invisible lint. You feel him tense under your touch.

“I’d tell you that you don’t need the expensive sweater to impress me, even though navy looks undeniably good on you,” you murmur, looking up through your lashes. “I’d point out that you always rub your thumb against your index finger when you’re trying to play it cool. just like you’re doing right now.”

Seungkwan’s hand stills against the table, his breath catching audibly. You bite your lip without thinking, and immediately watch his eyes drop to the movement.

“And then,” you continue, imitating him and thoroughly enjoying the sudden, flustered darkening of his eyes, “I’d remind you that I know exactly what you sound like when you’re genuinely caught off guard. And I’d make it my mission for the rest of the night to hear it.”

Seungkwan visibly swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. The playful banter vanishes completely, replaced by a heavy, magnetic tension that completely short-circuits his brain. You can practically see the gears jamming as he stares at you, completely charmed and entirely at your mercy.

“You know, I’m just... invested in the mission,” you whisper, pulling your hand back and offering him an innocent, victorious smile.

“Right. The mission,” Seungkwan breathes out, his voice slightly rougher than it was a moment ago. He looks thoroughly wrecked by your counter-attack, and thoroughly entertained by it, too.

He reaches out, his fingers grazing your wrist as you reach for your water glass. The fleeting contact sends a jolt of electricity straight to your heart.

“Well, for the sake of the mission, I think we should keep up at the act. In fact, if the waiter comes back, I might just to lean in a little closer.”

“Don’t push your luck, Boo,” you warn, though a traitorous smile brakes across your face.

The burrata arrives, but neither of you pays any attention to it. The air inside the booth feels electric, every glance and teasing smile tightening the tension between you. The complicated reality of your life outside the restaurant fades into the background, replaced entirely by the thrill of Seungkwan’s undivided attention.

He’s flawlessly attentive, anticipating your needs before you voice them, teasing you gently, looking at you with such unwavering focus that the rest of the restaurant seems to disappear.

Once again, you’re laughing more than you have in months—maybe even years. You feel beautiful, interesting, completely captivating under Seungkwan’s gaze. It feels like you’re on an actual date. A hell of a good one, if you’re being honest.

By the time the waiter brings the check—which Seungkwan immediately snatches up before you can even think about reaching for your purse, shooting you a look that brooks absolutely no argument—you feel like you’re floating.

“Chan survived,” Seungkwan notes as he signs the receipt, subtly gesturing toward table four, where Chan and his date are bundled into their coats, flushed and smiling. “No organs harvested tonight.”

“Mission accomplished,” you agree, sliding out of the velvet booth.

As you stand, Seungkwan is already there, holding your coat open for you. You blink, faintly stunned, but slip your arms into the sleeves anyway. His hands linger lightly on your shoulders for a second longer than necessary, and the weight of his touch steals your breath all over again.

“Thank you,” you whisper, turning to look up at him.

“Anytime, tokki,” he smiles, stepping back to let you lead the way out of the restaurant.

TWO MONTHS AGO

Your mother’s inn was perched on a precipice, a jagged, flat-topped plateau of rock where the wind always smelled of salt. You could hear the waves crashing against the cliffs all night long, a rhythmic, slightly violent lullaby that had soundtracked your entire life.

The inn felt like a stubborn relic by now, while most of the city had sprouted sleek, glass-fronted luxury hotels and neon-lit resorts. It was weathered by the sea spray, its white paint peeling in places to reveal the sturdy, dark stone beneath, but there it stood: strong, and holding on.

You family quarters were tucked away at the back on the ground floor. That night, Seungkwan had insisted on walking you home after the show ended.

It started raining all of a sudden, and your mother was outside taking care of her plants when the two of you reached the door, soaking wet. She immediately insisted Seungkwan stay the night instead of walking home in the rain, even though he lived just down the street.

“Aigoo! Look at you both!” she shrieked, dropping a small trowel. “Y/N! Why didn’t you use an umbrella? And Seungkwanie! You’ll catch a cold and lose that voice of yours!”

“It’s just a little water, Auntie,” Seungkwan panted, trying to wipe his eyes, though he looked like he’d just climbed out of the ocean.

“Absolutely not,” she commanded, grabbing both of your elbows and hauling you inside the kitchen. “You are not walking home in this, Seungkwan. It’s pitch black and the wind is high enough to knock you off the cliff.”

“Mom, he lives five minutes down the street,” you reminded her, shivering as the air conditioning hit your wet skin.

“Five minutes too long! The road is slick, and your mother would kill me if her only son got pneumonia on my doorstep.” She was already rummaging through the linen closet, tossing a thick, oversized towel at Seungkwan’s head. “You’re staying. We have the guest room made up, and I’ll find some of your brother’s old clothes. Go, shower! Both of you!”

Seungkwan caught the towel, peeking out from under the white terry cloth. He looked at you, a hesitant, slightly mischievous glint in his eyes. He knew, as well as you did, that staying the night meant more than just avoiding the rain, it meant being back in the intimate, domestic bubble of your childhood, with sleepovers and everything that came with them.

You just shrugged. “You heard her.”

“I don’t want to be a burden...” he started, though his feet were already moving toward the hallway.

“The only burden is your chattering teeth,” your mother countered, already heading toward the stove to put on a pot of ginger tea.

You stood in the center of the kitchen, watching him. Seungkwan looked so out of place in your home, yet he smiled at your mother and thanked her with an ease that didn’t belong to the image you had of him. You didn’t know it, but he felt more at home there than he ever did in his apartment back in Seoul.

“Well,” you sighed, wringing out the hem of your shirt. “I guess we’re watching something here tonight.”

Seungkwan grinned, the water dripping from the tip of his nose. “Then hurry up, tokki. I’m not starting our study without you.”

Thirty minutes later, you left your room with a towel wrapped around your head, already dressed in your pajamas as walked down the hallway toward the living room, listening to your mother and grandmother’s voices as they talked to Seungkwan.

“Honestly, Seungkwanie, you look so thin. Does Pledis not feed their retirees?” your grandmother clucked, setting down a platter of golden-brown pajeon and a bottle of strawberry milk for him at the coffee table.

“Halmoni, you’re the only one who truly understands my nutritional needs,” Seungkwan chirped, his eyes crinkling into that sweet smile that had weaponized fans for more than a decade. He was already very comfortably settled on the sofa.

“Halmoni, stop,” you protested, placing a hand against her back in an attempt to guide her away. “He’s going to get an ego, and I’m the one who has to work with him tomorrow.”

“Oh, hush,” your mother dismissed you with a wave. She wiped her hands on her apron and sat on the edge of the armchair, fixing Seungkwan hair with a look that was equal parts maternal and deeply intrusive. “Leave the poor boy alone, Y/N.”

You could see it in her eyes as the gears in her head turned at terrifying speed, preparing whatever invasive question she was about to ask next. Your mother rarely believed in delicacy, privacy, or minding her own business. Especially when Boo Seungkwan was involved.

“Now, Seungkwanie, answer your Auntie honestly.” You squeezed your eyes shut the second a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, already bracing yourself. “A handsome, successful man like you, finally back home in Jeju... you must have girls throwing themselves at you. Do you have a girlfriend tucked away somewhere in Seoul?”

Your grandmother nodded enthusiastically, not missing a beat as she sat down next to your mother. “Yes! We were just talking about this in the kitchen while you were showering. You know, when you two were teenagers, constantly attached at the hip, we always used to say it was only a matter of time. We always thought you and Y/N would end up together.”

God, that was worse than you could’ve imagined. Even if you actually agreed with her.

Your jaw practically unhinged. You froze right behind the sofa, your hands tightening their grip on the towel wrapped around your wet hair. “Halmoni! Mom! What is wrong with you?”

Seungkwan, to his credit, didn’t choke on his bite of pajeon. But a slow, blooming red flush crept up the back of his neck, visible even under the collar of the borrowed sweatshirt. He looked up at you over his shoulder, his eyes sparkling with a dangerous amount of amusement, before turning his polite smile back to the two women.

“No girlfriend, Auntie,” Seungkwan said politely, though his voice had dropped into that smooth tone that always made your pulse jump. “The group kept me pretty busy. I never really found anyone who could put up with me.”

He paused, taking a slow sip of his strawberry milk. His gaze drifted back up to catch yours, a thoroughly devastating smirk playing on his lips.

“But...” he continued, his eyes locking onto yours, “I have to admit, Halmoni has excellent intuition. I always thought we made a pretty perfect pair, too.”

You let out a strangled gasp, your face immediately burning hot. You grabbed a small embroidered throw pillow off the back of the sofa and chucked it directly at his head.

“Aigoo!” your mother scolded, though she was trying and failing to hide a massive grin as Seungkwan easily dodged the pillow with a laugh. “Y/N! Where are your manners? You don’t throw things at our guest.”

“He’s not a guest, it’s Seungkwan!” you shot back, completely flustered as you marched around the sofa to grab a piece of pajeon, avoiding Seungkwan’s entirely entirely too-smug expression. “And both of you need to stop encouraging him.”

“We’re just stating the facts,” your grandmother stated placidly, patting Seungkwan’s knee. “It’s nice to have you back, Seungkwanie. It feels like things are finally exactly where they’re supposed to be.”

“You know, Seungkwan,” your mother turned back to Seungkwan, her eyes sparkling with a sudden, mischievous memory. “Y/N was always your biggest supporter. Even when you weren’t here to see it.”

A cold spike of dread shot through your chest. “Mom. No.”

“In fact,” she continued, ignoring your frantic eye signals, “she kept a little... archive. In the back of her closet. It’s still there. All those albums and the rare photocards—”

This had to be a nightmare.

“Mom, I swear to God—”

“Photocards?” Seungkwan’s head whipped toward you again, his eyebrows arching toward his hairline. A slow, smug grin began to spread across his face. “Rare ones?”

“I don’t know what she’s talking about,” you muttered, your face heating to a shade of red that could rival the ON AIR sign back at the station.

“I’ll go get the binder!” you mother chirped, already scurrying toward the hallway.

“Mom! Don’t you dare!”

You scrambled after her, but it was too late. Within seconds, your mother returned, triumphantly hoisting a thick, plastic-sleeved binder and a dusty box. She dropped them onto the coffee table with a heavy thud.

Seungkwan leaned forward, his eyes wide with delight. He flipped the binder open. It was a chronological history of his career: rare photo cards you’d traded for, newspaper clippings from his first win on Music Bank, and even a crumpled receipt from his first fan meeting in Seoul.

“Is this…” Seungkwan traces the edge of a photocard where he's sporting a questionable bowl from his first studio album. “Y/N, even I don’t have this one.”

He looked at the box, pulling out a lightstick that had been carefully preserved, its battery long dead but the diamond inside still gleaming. He looked from the collection to you, his expression shifting from teasing to something much softer, much more complex.

“You kept everything,” he whispered.

You stood by the TV, arms crossed tightly over your chest, feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with radio broadcast. You felt like the teenage girl again, sitting on the parapet, watching the boy you loved walk away toward a life you couldn’t follow.

“It’s just... memorabilia,,” you lied, your voice tight in your throat. “For the history of Jeju’s most famous export.”

Another lie. That entire collection had been your way of staying close to Seungkwan after he cut you out of his life without a single explanation. You didn’t just want to support his career, you wanted to feel close to him somehow, no matter how ridiculous it made you feel.

And honestly, you’d owned far more than what was left in that box. At one point, you even bought a life-size cardboard cutout of Seungkwan. But after one particularly angry night, you threw half of it away. The remaining pieces were only there because your mother had saved them.

Seungkwan stood up, the binder still open to a page of his handwritten lyrics you’d printed out years ago. “Y/N. Why didn’t you ever tell me about this?”

The frustration that had been building for months — of the twelve-year silence, of Seungkwan sliding back into your life as if he hadn’t left a gaping hole behind — suddenly boiled over.

You looked him dead in the eye, your chin trembling just slightly. “Well, you left, didn’t you?”

The silence that followed was terrible. Heavy. Your mother and grandmother, realizing they’d accidentally stepped into a minefield, quietly retread to the kitchen.

Seungkwan flinched as if you’d slapped him. The smugness was gone. His glow was gone. He looked down at the binder, at the version of himself that had been a start while you stayed behind.

He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off before a word could leave his lips. “Let’s just watch, okay?”

PRESENT

The drive back to your house is suspended in silence. It isn’t the uncomfortable, suffocating quiet you’re used to sharing with Youngjae after an argument; it’s a warm stillness. The ambient glow of the dashboard illuminates Seungkwan’s profile as he navigates the winding coastal roads, the faint sound of a lo-fi track humming through the car speakers.

As the tires crunch onto the familiar gravel of the inn’s precipice, the sound of the ocean immediately rushes in to fill the space. Waves crash violently against the rocks below, creating a wild soundtrack for the storm brewing in your chest.

Seungkwan shifts the car into park but leaves the engine idling. The heater blows softly, maintaining the comfortable, intimate bubble you’ve been trapped inside all night. He doesn’t immediately reach to unlock the doors. Instead, he unbuckles his seatbelt and shifts in his seat, turning fully toward you.

You stare out the windshield at the peeling white paint of your mother’s inn, suddenly completely unwilling to open the door. Opening it means the “fieldwork” night is over. It means stepping back into the cold reality where you are the secret girlfriend of a man who doesn’t respect you.

“So…” you start, voice sounding a little smaller than you intended. You turn you head, sinking slightly into the leather set to look at him. “We’re successfully completed the dinner portion of our research.”

Seungkwan rests his arm along the back of your seat, eyes tracing the line of your face in the dim light. “We did. I’d say the data we collected was highly successful.”

And the more e you tried to piece everything together, the more confused you became. Was Seungkwan actively flirting with you? Was he serious about what he confessed that night when you were both drunk? Or was this all just concern disguised as something else, his way of trying to save you from Youngjae?

You couldn’t tell anymore, and that uncertainty was driving your thoughts into complete chaos.

You let out a soft, nervous breath, your eyes dropping to Seungkwan’s mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to his eyes. “What happens now, then? In the spirit of a comprehensive study... what are your moves at the end of a date?”

“My moves?” he echoes, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly tone that sends a shiver straight down your spine.

“Yeah,” you whisper, suddenly hyperaware of the small space between you inside the car. “Do you just... say goodnight and drive away?”

“No,” Seungkwan murmurs, leaning a little closer. The faint scent of expensive wine and cedarwood wraps around you. “If it were a real date, I’d walk her all the way to her door. I’d wait until she got inside safely. And I’d still ask her to text me after, just so I could be absolutely sure.”

“And then?” you press, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird desperate to be set free.

Boo Seungkwan’s gaze drops to your lips. This time, he doesn’t even try to hide it, his tongue darting out to wet his own. “And then, if she were looking at me the way you’re looking at me right now...” His voice lowers even more, rough around the edges. “I’d kiss her goodnight.”

The air in the car vanishes at the same time it does in your lungs.

Every rational thought—the fact that you are still technically dating Youngjae, the fact that you work together, the fact that this could shatter the fragile equilibrium of your friendship—is completely eclipsed by the magnetic pull of the man sitting beside you. Your best friend.

You had spent a year starving in the dark, and Seungkwan was suddenly offering you a feast in the light.

Your gaze drops to his lips, slightly parted, before lifting back to his eyes, darkened and blown wide with anticipation.

“Then kiss me,” you breathe, barely believing the words have left your mouth.

Seungkwan freezes. For a single, agonizing millisecond, he just stares at you, his eyes searching yours frantically, as if trying to confirm he heard you correctly, making sure it isn’t a joke or a mistake.

Whatever he finds in your expression broke the last remaining thread of his restraint.

He closes the distance between you in a heartbeat. His hand rises, long fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, and he pulls you forward just as his lips crash against yours.

There isn’t a hint of hesitation in the way his lips move against yours—only certainty. It’s fifteen years of waiting, of quiet longing, yearning in high school hallways, on parapets, and in agonizingly small radio booths, finally shattering wide open.

His lips are warm and soft against yours, tasting faintly of wine and the chapstick he’d applied before driving you home. The hand on the back of your seat rises to grip your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you gasp against his mouth, a soft, involuntary sound. Seungkwan takes it as permission for his tongue to swipe between your lips.

You melt against him completely, your hands flying up to grip his navy-blue sweater, afraid that if you don’t, you might dissolve into a puddle in his passenger seat. Seungkwan’s kiss is mind-blowing, addictive, and so much more than you ever dreamed it would be when you were a teenager.

The center console digs uncomfortably into your side, but you don’t care. You pull yourself closer, your fingers sliding from his chest up into his soft hair, tugging gently at the strands. Seungkwan groans, a low, incredibly attractive sound that vibrates against your lips as he grows bolder, pulling you over his legs to straddle his lap in the driver’s seat, your skirt riding up considerably.

You don’t hesitate, practically throwing yourself into Seungkwan’s lap, his arm flying to your hips as you giggle when your head lightly hits the car ceiling. Seungkwan likes the sound of your laughter, but he thinks he might have just fallen in love with the little gasp and moan that slip out when he kisses you again.

It’s dizzying, entirely consuming; you feel like your head is spinning. For the first time in months, you don’t feel like you’re shrinking; you feel like you’re the absolute center of the fucking universe.

When you finally pull apart to catch your breath, neither of you moves very far. Seungkwan keeps his forehead resting against yours, your chests rising and falling unevenly in the quiet interior of the car. But when you open your eyes again, his expression isn’t blissful. It’s troubled, worried.

Your stomach drops instantly. Scared of what he might say next, you whisper: “What’s wrong?”

“Y/N,” Seungkwan says softly, his breathing uneven. “I’m not strong enough to pull away from you right now. So if this was just a kiss for research... I need you to be the one to stop this before I—”

You silence him with another kiss, your arms winding around his neck to pull him impossibly closer. Seungkwan make a soft sound against your mouth when you catch his lower lip between yours, your hips rolling against him involuntarily.

Both of you let out shaky groans at the same time when you feel the hard press of him where your bodies meet. Seungkwan’s head tips back instinctively, exposing the long line of his throat, and you immediately take the invitation, kissing your way along his neck while his hands slide down to your exposed thigh.

His fingers give light, lingering squeezes as they slowly travel higher, dangerously close to where you want him the most. The anticipation alone is enough to make you shiver, unsure if you’ll survive the moment his hands finally reach the place you’ve bee aching for him to touch.

You can feel the heat radiating off his body, his scent enveloping you in a dizzying cloud of desire.

Seungkwan’s fingers dance along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, the light touches leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. His touch is electrifying, igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume you entirely. Your hips rock forward involuntarily, seeking more friction, more contact with the hard length pressing insistently against your core.

“Please,” you whimper against his neck, your voice ragged with need. “Touch me, Seungkwan.”

He groans at your words, his fingers inching higher until they brush against the damp fabric of your panties. You gasp at the contact, your head falling back against the steering wheel as he begins to rub slow circles over your clothed sex. The thin barrier of your underwear does little to dull the sensation, and you can feel your arousal soaking through the material, coating Seungkwan’s fingers.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, his eyes dark with desire as he watches you fall apart beneath his touch. “You’re so wet for me already. I can feel you throbbing against my fingers.”

Emboldened by your moans, Seungkwan hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and pulls them aside, exposing your dripping core to the cool air of the car. He wastes no time before running a finger along your slick folds, gathering your arousal before bringing it to his lips. His tongue darts out to taste you, his eyes fluttering shut as he savors your flavor.

“God, you taste divine,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “I could eat you out all night long.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, and you find yourself rocking your hips forward, desperate for more of his touch.

Seungkwan takes the hint and slips a finger inside your heat, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing in slow circles. You cry out at the intrusion, your walls clenching around his digit as he begins to pump it in and out of you slowly.

“Look at you,” Seungkwan growls, his eyes locked on where his finger disappears inside you. “So tight and perfect. I can’t wait to feel you wrapped around my cock.”

The thought of him inside you sends a wave of heat through your body, and you find yourself fisting his hair, tugging him closer as you grind down on his hand. Seungkwan responds by adding a second finger, scissoring them inside you as he continues to stroke your clit with his thumb.

“Seungkwan,” you gasp, your hips bucking wildly as you chase your impending orgasm. “Don’t stop, please.”

He leans forward, capturing your lips in another kiss as his fingers continue to work you over. His tongue delves into your mouth, tangling with yours as he swallows your moans and whimpers. You can feel your release building, your walls fluttering around his fingers as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

With one final thrust of his fingers and a particularly hard press of his thumb against your clit, you come undone. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing as you scream your pleasure into Seungkwan’s mouth. He holds you through it, his fingers continuing to stroke your sensitive flesh as you ride out the aftershocks of your climax.

As you come down from your high, Seungkwan slowly withdraws his fingers from your still-throbbing core. He brings them to his mouth once more, licking them clean of your juice before pulling you into one more kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, the flavor a heady mix of sweet and tangy that has your core clenching with renewed desire.

But as you lose yourself in the kiss, the reality of the situation begins to sink in. You’re still in Seungkwan’s car, parked outside of your mother’s inn. At any moment, someone could come looking for you, catching you in a compromising position with your best friend.

The realization hits you not as a gradual dawning, but as a visceral, physical blow. It starts in your stomach, a sudden, plummeting sensation of nausea. You aren’t just exploring a connection. You are cheating. You are cheating on the man you are still technically tethered to, and in doing so, you are dragging Seungkwan into a mess he doesn’t deserve.

You look at Seungkwan’s face—open, hopeful, glowing with the anticipation of what comes next—and the guilt that floods you is suffocating.

You can’t do this to him. You can offer him a fragment of yourself while you are still tied to someone else. You see the way he shifts, his hand moving down to find yours, his fingers interlacing with your own, a silent offer to take this further, to stay, to bridge the final gap between you.

No.

The word echos in your mind, sharp and final.

You pull your hand away as if you’d been burned.

Panic begins to set in, and you pull away from Seungkwan, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “We can’t... We shouldn’t have done this,” you pant, your eyes wide with fear.

Seungkwan frowns, his brows drawing together in confusion. The warmth in his eyes flickers, replaced by a jagged, sudden uncertainty. “Y/N? What is it?”

“I...” Your voice fails you. You try to speak, but the words stick in your throat. The air in the car suddenly feels too thick to breathe. It feels like the walls are closing in, the tinted windows transforming from a shield into a prison.

“Did I... did I cross a line?” Seungkwan asks, his voice dropping, stripped of its earlier confidence. Hurt is already beginning to cloud his features. “I’m sorry, I just—you asked me to—”

“It’s not you,” you gasp, fumbling for the door handle. Your hands are shaking so violently you can barely get a grip on the lever. “It’s not you, Seungkwan. It’s me. It’s everything.”

“Y/N, wait,” he says, reaching out to grab your arm, his touch gentle but firm, trying to ground you. “Talk to me. You’re scaring me. We don’t have to do anything else. We can just sit here. Just talk.”

You can’t look at him. If you do, you know you’ll shatter. You know you’ll stay. You know you would trade your sanity for the feeling of his lips on yours, for the way his hands roam over your body, touching you in ways you’d only ever dreamed about, and that is the most dangerous part of all.

You jerk your arm back, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The engine is still idling, the low hum vibrating through the floorboards, matching the frantic, uneven thudding of your heart.

“I can’t,” you whisper, the words barely audible. “I can’t do this. I can’t be this person.”

Seungkwan’s expression falls, his brow furrowing in concern and hurt. “Y/N, wait—”

But you don’t give him a chance to finish his sentence. In a moment of sheer panic, you scramble out of the car, not even bothering to fix your skirt as you flee up the path to the inn’s front door. You can hear Seungkwan calling after you, but you don’t dare look back.

Your hands are shaking as you fumble with your keys, finally managing to unlock the door and slip inside. You lean against it, your heart pounding in your chest as you try to process what just happened.

And for hours, you just stand there, trapped in the hallway of your childhood home, the silence pressing in on you from all sides.

A MONTH AGO

It was Seungkwan’s birthday that night. And despite his repeated protests that he wanted a quiet night in with you and his parents, his group members had blatantly ignored him, flying in from Seoul that afternoon and bringing with them a overwhelming wave of noise, expensive gifts, and a decade’s worth of inside jokes you knew nothing about.

You had been invited—or rather, Seungkwan had threatened to drag you out of the radio station by your ankles if you didn’t show up.

“Here, Y/N, you need to try this cut,” Seokmin announced loudly over the sizzling of the grill, leaning across the table to drop a perfectly cooked piece of pork belly onto your plate. “Seungkwan used to burn the meat all the time when the for of us lived together, so I had to learn how to cook to survive.”

“My cooking skills are great!” Seungkwan defended himself immediately, grabbing his tongs and glaring at Seokmin.

You laughed, covering your mouth as you chewed. Sitting there with them felt surreal, you spent years watching these men on television or through a tiny phone screen, but in person, they were just loud, fiercely loyal brothers who clearly adored Seungkwan just as much as you.

“Don’t listen to them, Y/Nie,” a soft voice chimed in from the end of the table.

You looked over to see Jeonghan resting his chin on his hand, offering you a smile that was practically lethal. He was wearing a simple black shirt, but he somehow still look like he belonged on a billboard in Times Square.

“Seungkwan has many talents. Though, he is notoriously bad at sharing.”

You opened your mouth to reply, fully intending to agree with Jeonghan, but before you could even form a syllable, Seungkwan shifted his chair. He moved a full six inches to the left, strategically placing his broad shoulders directly in your line of sight, entirely blocking Jeonghan from your view.

“Okay, hyung, that’s enough,” Seungkwan said, his ears turning a faint shade of pink. He furiously flipped a piece of meat on the grill. “Eat your pork.”

You leaned back, trying to peer around Seungkwan’s arm. “I was just going to say—”

“No, you weren’t,” Seungkwan interrupted, tossing a piece of lettuce onto your plate with entirely too much force. “You don’t need to talk to him.”

You bit your lip to suppress a massive grin.

Ever since they arrived, Seungkwan has been doing everything he can to keep you far away from Jeonghan. All of it because of the comment you made months ago about thinking he was handsome, inflamed by you bring it up a few more times just to annoy him, insisting that Jeonghan’s face belonged in a painting.

An as soon as you were introduced, you didn’t miss the opportunity to announce that Jeonghan was your bias when asked, something the oldest member of the group took full advantage of, delighting in the sight of Seungkwan’s ears burning with jealousy every time he spoke to you.

It was a very, very fun night.

“Funny that it’s not a collection of his you have shoved in the back of your closet,” Seungkwan whispered, just loud enough for you to hear as he squeezed your waist.

You rolled your eyes, slapping his hand away. “Shut up.”

That was another one of those things you hadn’t talked about yet, and you had no intention of discussing it there with his members watching.

“Are you hiding her from me, Kwan-ah?” Jeonghan teased, his voice dancing with amusement as he leaned sideways to catch your eye again. “Y/N, did he tell you I was dangerous?”

“He’s blocking my view of the painting,” you agreed playfully, thoroughly enjoying the way Seungkwan’s jaw clenched, his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek.

“I am going to throw you both into the ocean,” Seungkwan threatened, pouring himself a shot of soju. He pointed his stainless steel chopstick at you. “And you. Stop encouraging him. You’re supposed to be on my side. It’s my birthday.”

“I’m on the side of objective beauty,” you teased, bumping your shoulder against his.

Seungkwan rolled his eyes, but a reluctant, fond smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He was more than happy to see you getting along well with his friends, even if he was quietly sulking for your attention.

He leaned in closer to you, dropping his voice so the others couldn’t hear over the sizzling meat. “You’re terrible. I fly my friends down here to meet you, and you immediately try to run off with the visual.”

“You’re a visual too, Boo,” you whispered back, patting his chin, the playful banter suddenly dipping into something much warmer. “Don’t be so jealous.”

Seungkwan’s eyes darkened, a flash of genuine emotion breaking through the easygoing atmosphere. “I’m not jealous,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second. “I just know what’s mine.”

Your breath hitched, the ambient noise of the restaurant suddenly fading into the background.

After the night you got drunk together and traded teenage confessions, Seungkwan had started being flirty with you more and more. Your mother and grandmother certainly weren’t helping, constantly fueling the idea that the two of you belonged together.

But before you could unpack that, Joshua clapped his hands together from across the table, catching both of yours attention.

“So, Seungkwan,” Joshua said, raising his glass in a toast. “Now that the escrow officially closed on the Gangnam apartment last week, what’s the plan? Are you buying a place here in Jeju?”

You froze, your chopsticks hovering halfway to your mouth. You turned your head slowly, staring at the side of Seungkwan’s face.

He had sold his apartment? The massive, luxury penthouse in Seoul that he had spent the last five years decorating? The apartment that anchored him to the capital, to the industry, to the life he had built away from you?

Seungkwan’s entire body tensed as he slowly lowered his tongs. He didn’t look at Joshua or his members. He only looked at you, reading the absolute shock radiating across your features.

“You... sold your apartment?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, entirely oblivious to the other four men at the table.

“Ah,” Jihoon winced softly from across the table, realizing the sudden, drastic shift in the atmosphere. “He didn’t tell you.”

“I was going to,” Seungkwan said quickly, turning fully toward you. A flash of panic crossed his eyes, clearly bracing himself for you to be angry. “Y/N, I swear I was going to tell you. The paperwork just finalized.”

“You sold it,” you repeated, the reality of the situation settling heavy and absolute in your chest. Selling that apartment wasn’t just a financial decision. It meant his retirement wasn’t a temporary hiatus to clear his head. It meant he was not going back.

It meant he was staying for good. That the boy you loved all those years ago—the one who broke your heart by leaving and not speaking to you for the twelve years that followed—was actually back, and he wasn’t going anywhere, just like he promised while lying beside you in his childhood bedroom.

It was too much to process in a room full of people and five pair of eyes on you.

“Excuse me,” you managed to say, your voice breathless as you pushed your chair back from the table. “I just need to use the restroom.”

You didn’t wait for his response. You slipped out of the private room, the noise of the restaurant hitting you like a physical wall as you navigated the crowded hallway toward the back exit. You didn’t go to the restroom; you pushed through the heavy metal door that led to the quiet, dimly lit alley behind the building.

The cold night air hit your flushed face, but it did nothing to slow the frantic beating of your heart.

He was staying. He was actually, permanently staying.

The heavy metal door creaked open behind you. You didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. You could feel his presence, the familiar, grounding gravity that had always pulled you in.

Seungkwan stepped into the alley, letting the door click shut, cutting off the noise of the restaurant. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his slacks, stopping a few feet away from you.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice apprehensive. “I shouldn’t have let you find out like that. I wanted to tell you properly.”

You turned to face him, leaning back against the brick wall of the restaurant. You let out a long, shaky breath, shaking your head. “I’m not mad, Kwan. I’m just... stunned. That’s a massive deal. Your whole life was in Seoul.”

Seungkwan visibly relaxed, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders when he realized you weren’t upset, just overwhelmed. He took a slow step closer, the faint light from a nearby streetlamp catching the sharp angles of his face.

“My career was in Seoul,” Seungkwan corrected softly. “My life... my life hasn’t been there for a very long time.”

“But why?” you asked, your voice filled with genuine wonder. “You loved that penthouse. You worked so hard for it. Why would you give it all up?”

Seungkwan stopped right in front of you. He didn’t hesitate. He looked down at you with a raw, terrifying honesty that made your knees weak.

“Because I found a reason to stay here,” he said, his voice a vibrating hum that went straight to your bones. “Because everything I have ever actually wanted is right here. On this island.”

He reached out, his warm fingers gently wrapping around your wrist, his thumb brushing over your racing pulse.

“I’m staying for good, tokki,” he promised, his eyes entirely focused on yours. “I told you that you’d get tired of me.”

You shook your head, not understanding why your eyes were suddenly burning, threatening to fill with tears. “I could never.”

A smile spread across Seungkwan’s face. “Well, then, great. Because I plan on keeping you as close as I can.”

A lump formed in your throat, thick and suffocating. You wanted to throw your arms around his neck. You wanted to tell him that you were terrified, but that you wanted him to stay close to you more than you wanted to breathe. That you wanted to close the distance between you right at that moment.

But then, your phone buzzed violently in your pocket, and you flinched as if you’d been burned, the spell cast over you shattering.

Once again, you knew exactly who it was without even looking. Youngjae had texted you ten minutes ago to say he was waiting two blocks down, parked near the pharmacy to reduce the possibility of someone known see his car.

The ugly reality of your secret life came crashing down, entirely ruining the beautiful thing Seungkwan was offering you. You were still trapped in the dark, and you couldn’t drag him down into it with you.

You gently, painfully pulled your wrist out of his grip. “I have to go,” you whispered, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. “My ride is here.”

Seungkwan’s jaw tightened again. He looked down the street, toward the dark corner where he knew, and you knew, Youngjae was hiding. The disappointment flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t argue. He just took a slow step back, giving you space.

“Right,” Seungkwan grumbled, his voice entirely devoid of the warmth it held seconds ago. “Have a good night, Y/N.”

You couldn’t leave him like this. Not on his birthday. Not after he had just implicitly confessed to altering the entire trajectory of his life for you.

You stepped forward, closing the distance he had just created. You placed your hands flat against his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath the fine fabric of his shirt. He froze, his breath catching as you tipped your chin up.

“Happy Birthday, Kwan,” you whispered.

Before he could react, you leaned up and pressed a soft, lingering kiss directly to the tip of his nose. It was an old habit, a childhood gesture of pure, unfiltered affection that you hadn’t used in more than a decade.

He sharply inhaled, his eyes fluttering shut as his hands twitched at his sides, desperate to reach for you.

But you didn’t give him the chance. You pulled away, abandoning the warmth of his orbit, and turned on your heel. You walked back into the restaurant to say goodbye to his members, leaving him standing alone beneath the flickering streetlamp. Then you slipped into the passenger seat of Youngjae’s waiting car and disappeared into the night.

PRESENT

You didn’t show up to work for the two days that followed the events in Seungkwan’s car.

Yesterday, you called Seungcheol, claiming a sudden, violent stomach bug. Today, it was a vague text about a “family emergency,” and Seungkwan knows exactly what the emergency is: you’re hiding from him.

He had sat in his idling car for five minutes that night, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, fighting the overwhelming urge to get out, walk to your door, pound on it, and demand answers to why you ran, what you were thinking, and how he could make you stop worrying.

But he didn’t. Seungkwan had promised himself he would never be the reason you felt cornered, so he stayed in the car a moment longer, than turned the wheel and drove away instead.

Now Seungkwan sits at the desk in Studio B, his hands resting flat against the cool surface as he stares at your empty chair, the digital clock on the monitor blinks relentlessly: 8:45 PM.

Normally, this was the time the tiny broadcast room would be vibrating with frantic, pre-show energy. You would be shuffling through your printed notes, chewing absently on the end of a blue ballpoint pen, and shooting him exasperated looks as he deliberately tried to distract you. The air would be filled with a comfortable banter.

Tonight, the silence is deafening.

He reaches across the console, his fingers brushing lightly over the tape marker that designates your microphone levels.

He misses you. He misses your laugh; he misses the way your eyes crinkle when he finally manages to catch you off guard. He spent twelve years running from his feelings, and now that he has finally stopped running, the object of his affection is sprinting in the opposite direction.

The soundproof door clicks open, breaking him out of his spiraling thoughts.

Hansol and Chan step into the studio, bringing a sudden wave of chaotic energy with them. Hansol looks entirely unfazed, a pair of oversized headphones resting around his neck and a half-empty iced matcha latte in his hand. Chan, on the other hand, looks like he’s walking to his own execution, clutching your production clipboard to his chest like a bulletproof vest.

“Hyung,” Chan starts immediately, his eyes wide with panic as he stares at the massive audio console. “I’m telling you right now, I don’t know what half of these buttons do. If I hit the wrong slider, are we going to accidentally broadcast submarine sonar across the entire island?”

“You’re not going to broadcast sonar, Chan,” Seungkwan sighs, rubbing his temples. “Just touch the faders Hansol marked with the green tape. Don’t touch the red ones. The red ones drop the delay.”

Chan shifts his weight, still staring nervously at Seungkwan. “What if I need to drop the delay?” he presses. “What if a caller starts swearing? What if someone confesses to a crime? Do I hit the red button then?”

Hansol claps a hand down on Chan’s shoulder, unfazed. “If someone confesses to a crime on a local romantic advice show, you let it ride, man. That’s just good ratings.” He shrugs. “Just breathe. You survived a blind date where you thought your organs were going to be harvested. You can survive pressing a plastic button.”

Chan visibly grimaces at the mention of the date, the very date that had been the catalyst for Seungkwan’s entire world tilting off its axis.

The solution Seungcheol had found for your absence was to put Chan in your place, with Hansol supervising him. Yesterday, Seungkwan had tried to manage on his own, but it was clear he didn’t really know what he was doing without you there, aside from talking nonstop, trying to hide that he was lost.

“You guys don’t have to do this,” Seungkwan says, finally looking up at them. His voice lacks its usual bright edge. “I can try run the boards myself again. Cheol hyung said it was fine if we just played an acoustic set for the second hour.”

Hansol takes a slow sip of his matcha, his observant eyes scanning Seungkwan’s face. Hansol is famously quiet, but he misses absolutely nothing. He’s seen the way Seungkwan has been pacing the halls like a caged animal for the past two days without you there, and Seungkwan knows he understands—without needing to ask—that something happened between the two of you, even if he chooses not to intrude.

“We’re doing it,” Hansol says smoothly, pulling out your chair and nudging Chan into it before taking a seat on the tiny sofa against the back wall.

“Hansol, we—”

Buy he shakes his head, raising a hand to make Seungkwan stop talking. “You look like you haven’t slept since Saturday,” Hansol says calmly. “If you try to run the boards and talk at the same time tonight, there’s a high chance of a catastrophe. Just focus on the mic. We’ve got the tech.”

Seungkwan offers a tight, grateful smile. He pulls his headphones over his ears just as the clock hits 09:00 PM.

Seungcheol taps at the glass, giving a thumbs-up, while Chan—holding his breath and looking absolutely terrified—slides the green-taped fader up. The familiar intro of Love on the Airwaves floods Seungkwan’s ears.

He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second, channeling every ounce of his professional training to push the heartbreak down into his chest. He opens them again, leans into the microphone, and forces his smooth, charismatic radio voice to the surface.

“Good evening, Jeju,” Seungkwan purrs into the mic, though the usual playful lilt is tempered by a softer, more melancholic undertone. “Welcome to Love on Airwaves. It’s just me again tonight. Our lovely, brilliant producer and co-host, Y/N, is taking a well-deserved couple of days off. So you’re stuck with just my voice, and a very nervous Lee Chan running the boards behind me. Be gentle with him, folks.”

He pauses, letting the instrumental track swell for a few seconds. “It’s chilly tonight. The kind of night that makes you want to stay inside and think about the people you miss. The lines are open. Talk to me, Jeju.”

The first thirty minutes of the show are a blur of standard calls. A college student stressed about finals, a husband looking for anniversary gift ideas, a girl who can’t decide if she should text her ex. Seungkwan navigates them all with his usual empathy and wit, but it feels hollow.

He keeps instinctively turning his head to his right, waiting for you to chime in with a sarcastic remark or a grounded piece of advice, only to find Chan staring back at him in sheer terror.

“Alright, our next caller is on line four,” Seungkwan prompts, motioning to Chan.

He frantically presses the glowing yellow button. “Let’s welcome Yujin from Seogwipo,” Chan says clicking the mouse to patch the caller through. “Yujin, you’re on the air with Seungkwan.”

“Hi! Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I got through,” a youthful, slightly breathless voice crackles over the studio monitors. “Hi Seungkwan-ssi. I’m a huge fan.”

“Thanks for tuning in, Yujin-ssi,” Seungkwan replies, his tone dripping with honeyed warmth. “What’s on your mind tonight? Is there a boy giving you headache?”

“Actually, I have more of a personal question to you Seungkwan-ssi,” Yujin says, her voice stabilizing.

“Oh? Ask away.”

“Well,” she begins, and there’s a slight pause. “You’re always giving us such amazing advice about love. But you’re so private about your own life! So my friends and I were debating, and we wanted to call in and ask the expert himself.”

Seungkwan feels a slight prickle of apprehension, and he sees Chan freeze, his hand hovering over the equalizer dials, waiting for Seungkwan to give him a signal to cut the call.

But Seungkwan just keeps his voice light. “Yeah?”

“What is your ideal type, Seungkwan-ssi? And don’t give me the standard PR answer about someone with a good heart. We want the details!”

The jazz music in the background suddenly feels very loud, and the timing is almost ironic. It feels like the universe is playing a trick on him. In the corner of the room, Hansol lets out a low chuckle, clearly entertained. Chan looks between Seungkwan and the control board as if wondering which button he could press to save his ass.

It was a softball question. An easy and harmless prompt. The standard protocol was to describe a vague, generalized concept: someone who likes the same music, someone who enjoys long walks, someone kind. It was the answer he had given in a hundred different magazines and a thousand different interviews.

But as Seungkwan looks at your empty chair, at the blue pen abandoned on the desk, his media training completely vanishes. The exhaustion, the longing, and the absolute certainty of his feelings override his filter entirely.

“My ideal type,” Seungkwan repeats softly. The radio-host persona drops away, leaving his voice raw, deep, and devastatingly sincere.

He leans closer to the microphone.

“She’s… stubborn,” Seungkwan starts, his eyes fixed on the tape marker on the desk. “Incredibly stubborn. The kind of stubborn that makes you want to pull your hair out, but also makes you respect her more than anyone else in the world.”

Through the glass, Seungcheol sits up a little straighter. Hansol stops drinking his matcha, his eyes narrowing slightly as he realizes exactly what Seungkwan is doing.

He knew about Seungkwan’s feelings for you. He was the only person, besides Seungkwan himself, who knew. Now you’ll finally know too, or at least now you’d be sure, in case Seungkwan hadn’t made it so painfully obvious on Saturday night.

“She works too hard,” Seungkwan continues, his voice wrapping around the words with a tender reverence. “She’s super tough to the others, but really, she has the softest, most fiercely loyal heart I’ve ever encountered. When she’s stressed, she taps her foot against the table leg and clicks her pens.”

Over the line, Yujin and the room go completely silent.

“She smells like lavender,” Seungkwan murmurs, his eyes glazing over slightly as the memory of the car engulfs him, the heat of your skin, the frantic beat of your pulse beneath his thumb. “She has this laugh she tries to hide behind her hand, but when it slips out, it’s the greatest sound I’ve ever heard. She’s brilliant. She’s so much brighter and more capable than she gives herself credit for. But sometimes… sometimes she forgets her own worth. Sometimes she lets people treat her like she’s ordinary, and it breaks my heart, because there is absolutely nothing ordinary about her.”

The studio is dead silent. Chan’s jaw has practically on the ground, his hand hovering frozen over the faders, his brain still trying to process that Seungkwan is, in fact, talking about you.

“Wow,” Yujin finally breathes over the line, her voice trembling slightly. The playful, gossipy tone is completely gone, replaced by something closer to awe. “Seungkwan-ssi… that doesn’t sound like a type. That sounds like a very specific person. You… you sound like you’re already in love.”

Seungkwan doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t try to backtrack, or laugh it off, or play it as a joke. He stares directly into the microphone, his heart completely exposed to the airwaves. “I am,” he confesses, the two words falling from his lips with staggering, undeniable weight.

Seungcheol stands on the other side of the glass, a smile tugging at his lips, his eyes wide as his hands hover near his head in disbelief. Chan lets out a shocked grunt Seungkwan is certain has just gone out over the broadcast, and Hansol chuckles softly in his corner. Seungkwan already knows he’ll never hear the end of it once the dust settles.

“I’ve been in love with her since we were kids,” Seungkwan says, the emotion finally cracking in his voice, turning it thick and rough. “Since before I even knew what the word meant. I spent twelve years away, and I never—not for a single second—found anyone who could replace her. I came back here for her.”

He swallows hard, his fingers curling into tight fists on the desk.

“I think I pushed too hard recently,” he admits softly, not just to Yujin, but to the thousands of cars, kitchens, and lonely bedrooms tuned in across the island. “I think I scared her. I wanted so badly to pull her into the light that I didn’t realize how blinding it might be. But I just want her to know…”

Seungkwan leans in until his lips are nearly brushing the foam of the mic.

“I just want her to know that I’m not going anywhere. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care how messy it gets. She is the only person I want. And I am just… I am really hoping she’s listening right now.”

He pulls back, his chest heaving slightly. Then he nods at Chan.

Chan, looking as though he had just witnessed a religious awakening, frantically pushes the fader up, cutting the call and flooding the airwaves with the slow, melancholic intro of a piano ballad.

Seungkwan rips his headphones off and buries his face in his hands, the adrenaline crashing out of his system, leaving him completely drained.

From the sofa, Hansol lets out a low, slow whistle. “Well,” he mutters, setting his matcha down. “If she wasn’t listening, half the island is definitely going to text her about it in the next five minutes. You don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

Seungkwan doesn’t answer. He just stares at the glowing dials of the soundboard, the echo of his own confession still ringing in his ears, praying to whatever universe is out there that somewhere, in the safety of your bedroom, you had heard him.

TWENTY YEARS AGO

It was early October, the magical pocket of time on Jeju Island when the humid heat finally broke, replaced by a cool, salty breeze that carried the sweet, earthy smell of impending autumn. The orange groves that defined Seungkwan’s neighborhood were heavy, the green fruit just beginning to tip into shades of sunset, preparing to blaze a golden-orange trail across the island.

But Seungkwan, at ten years old, was currently less interested in the cooperative biology of citrus and more interested in beating you to the stone parapet behind Jeju-si High School.

“Slowpoke!” he yelled over his shoulder, his small legs pumping hard through the deep, black volcanic sand. His feet, caked in wet earth and salt, left flying arcs as he ran. “I’m going to get the best spot!”

You were ten paces behind him, gasping and laughing in equal measure. He always did this. He’d start the race before you even agreed to it. “Seungkwan, stop! We said we were just going to gather shells!”

“Winner decides the game!” he shouted back, and that was when disaster struck.

It happened in slow motion. The sand shifted beneath his feet, right where a small cluster of driftwood lay buried. He tripped. Hard. His center of gravity vanished, his body pitching forward, landing with a heavy thud right where the wet shore began.

The laughter died in your throat. “Seungkwan!” You scrambled toward him, your heart pounding.

When you reached him, he was sitting up, staring down at his knee with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. The fall had split the skin. It wasn’t deep, but it was ugly, the bright red of blood oozing through a coat of dark sand.

Then, the floodgates opened. It wasn’t just a cry; it was a full-blown dramatic event. He gasped for air, his face crumpling, a sound that started as a moan ascending into a loud, wet sob. He wailed. He howled.

“Shh, shh!” You panicked, throwing a glance back toward the street, convinced the entire village would think you were trying to kidnap him. “You’re okay! It just stings. You’re fine!”

He pointed at the knee, his finger shaking, but the only sound he could make was a high-pitched, stuttering breath. The tears were running down his cheeks, mixing with the sand, and he was getting so loud he couldn’t even hear you trying to comfort him.

You tried the logical approach. “Seungkwan, look! I’ll run to your aunt’s cafe. I’ll get a bandage. I’ll get a frozen yogurt! I’ll get two!”

He shook his head violently. He wouldn’t let you leave, and he wouldn’t stop screaming. The sound was slicing right through your nerves.

“Seungkwan, listen to me,” you said, getting closer. “Stop crying. Please.”

His mouth was still wide open, and he was inhaling for another monumental wail when you made an impulsive decision. A split-second, desperate choice to save both of your eardrums and your reputation as his responsible friend.

You grabbed his shoulders, leaned forward, and slammed your mouth over his.

The impact was clumsy. It was sandy, salt-stained, and a little wet. His nose was in the way, and your teeth clicked. But it worked.

His crying stopped instantly. The air rushed out of him in a stunned huff.

You pulled back quickly, your cheeks burning with an intensity that rivaled the mid-summer sun. You didn’t look at his knee. You stared straight at him.

His eyes were wide, round saucers. The tear tracks were still wet on his face, but his wailing was gone, replaced by a stunned, blinking silence. He was staring at you like you’d just manifested wings and turned into a seagull.

For what felt like a lifetime, the only sound was the rhythmic crash of the waves and the faint buzz of a passing Vespa on the road far behind you. The sand felt cold beneath your hands.

“You...” he started, his voice a whisper, the wail having vanished without a trace. “You just...”

You were blushing so hard it felt like your face would catch fire. You grabbed your shorts, jumped up, and immediately started dusting the sand off your knees, incapable of meeting his eyes.

“You were too loud,” you said quickly, your voice unusually high. “I didn’t know how to make you stop.” You pointed toward the main road. “I’m going to get that bandage. Stay here.”

And then you ran. You ran without looking back, away from the beach, away from the confused boy with the scraped knee and the silent stare.

That was the only time you ever spoke about it. When you returned with the bandage, he didn’t mention it. When you walked home, holding two frozen yogurts and not talking, you didn’t mention it. The moment became a shared secret, sweet memory tucked so deep into the closet of your friendship that you eventually convinced yourselves it never really happened.

PRESENT

The static from the radio filled the silence of your bedroom, a low, buzzing hum that mirrored the frantic noise in your own mind. You sat perfectly still on the edge of your bed for several minutes, phone clutched in your hands, its screen glowing with the digital dial of the radio station you had worked at for the last seven years of your life.

He had done it. He had actually done it.

Boo Seungkwan had just broadcasted his heart to the entire island of Jeju, stripping away every ounce of his private life to lay his soul bare on the airwaves. Every word he spoke had been a precise strike against the walls you had spent the last decade building.

A tear slipped free, hot and fast, tracing a path down your cheek before falling onto the screen of your phone. You had spent the last forty-eight hours drowning in guilt and confusion, suffocated by the reality of your secret, toxic relationship with Youngjae, and the terrifying, blinding light Seungkwan was offering.

But hearing his voice crack over the radio, hearing him publicly, fearlessly claim you in a way Youngjae never would, snapped something inside you. It was like waking up from a decade long fever dream. The paralyzing fear evaporated, replaced by a sudden, desperate clarity.

You didn’t even bother changing out of your sweatpants. You grabbed your thickest coat, shoved your feet into your boots, and ran out the door.

The walk to his house was a blur of cobblestones and the erratic rhythm of your own heartbeat. When you reached the door, his mother told you he hadn’t come home yet, that he had called to say he’d be late.

Your chest tightened with a brief spike of panic before instinct took over. You knew exactly where he went when his mind grew too loud. It was the same place you went, too.

You park the car near the edge of the cliffside path and begin the steep descent toward the hidden cove behind the school.

The wind whips your hair across your face, carrying the biting scent of sea salt and freezing rain. As you reach the bottom of the path, moonlight breaks through the clouds, illuminating the jagged volcanic rocks that bordered the crashing ocean.

And there he is.

Seungkwan is sitting near the edge of the water, a solitary silhouette against the dark expanse of the sea. His knees are pulled up to his chest, his coat collar turned up against the wind. Seeing him sitting on those exact rocks sends a violent jolt of memory straight through your system of the morning you said goodbye all those years ago.

You take a deep breath, the freezing air burning your lungs, and pick your way carefully across the uneven terrain. He doesn’t hear you approach over the roar of the waves until you are right beside him. You don’t even hesitate, sitting down on the cold stone next to him, close enough that your shoulders are nearly brushing.

Seungkwan jolts, his head snapping toward you. His eyes are wide and red-rimmed, catching the fractured moonlight. For a moment, he only stares at you, as though afraid you’re a mirage conjured by his own desperate mind.

You don’t let him say anything before you do. “You left.” Your voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the sound of the ocean with absolute precision.

Seungkwan flinches as if he’s been physically struck. He opens his mouth, a panicked apology already forming on his lips, but you hold up a hand to stop him.

“Let me finish,” you plead, your voice trembling but resolute as you pull your legs close to your body and rest your chin on your knees. “Please.”

You look out at the churning black water, unable to meet his eyes yet. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him nodding for you to continue.

“You left. You got on a plane, and you became a star. And I need you to know… I understand that. I know you had a dream, and I know the industry is a meat grinder. I watched you on television, and I was so incredibly proud of you. I am proud because you listened to me, and you didn’t look back. You did everything you said you were going to do.”

You pause, swallowing hard against the tight knot forming in your throat. Right now. This is the moment when everything comes crashing down around you both. You just hope you can put it all back together afterward.

“But understanding it doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t speak to me for twelve years,” you continue, your voice cracking slightly. You finally turn to look at him, letting him see the raw edges of your wound. “You didn’t just move away, Seungkwan. You completely erased me. You made me feel like the years of friendship meant absolutely nothing to you.”

Seungkwan closes his eyes, a tear escaping the corner of his lashes and tracking down his cold cheek. He bites his lip hard, forcing himself to listen, to take the hit he knows he deserves.

“I had whiplash from it,” you confess, wrapping your arms around yourself against the chill. “I developed this horrible… this complex. I spent the rest of high school feeling completely disposable. If the person who knew me best, the person I loved most in the world, could just drop me without a second thought, then I must not be worth keeping.”

You let out a watery, self-deprecating laugh. “I was a ghost. I was so incredibly sad, Seungkwan. I didn’t start breathing again until I went to university in Busan and forced myself to become someone else, someone who didn’t care, someone who didn’t get attached.”

Someone who would settle for a man like Youngjae just because he promised he wouldn’t leave. The unspoken words hang heavily in the air between you, but you don’t need to say them. Seungkwan understands.

“And now you’re back,” you say, seeing that he wants to interrupt, but you can’t stop now. “And it’s like those twelve years never happened. Telling everyone I’m your favorite childhood friend, confessing and kissing me as if you never broke my heart. How am I supposed to react, Seungkwan?”

You shake your head, your lips pressing into a thin line as you fight to hold back more tears. You know he promised you he wasn’t going anywhere, that he’s was back for good. But that doesn’t lessen the fear you felt that night he kissed, much less erase the twelve years of radio silence.

“You can’t blame me for being afraid that one day you’ll wake up and decide that being here isn’t enough again. Because this time, I’m not sure I’ll be able to survive being without you.”

“Y/N,” Seungkwan whispers, his voice shattering on your name.

He shifts, turning his entire body toward you. He reaches out, his hands trembling violently as they hover over yours, terrified to touch you, terrified you’ll run away again. Everything makes sense to him now. He understands it all with painful clarity, he sees that you weren’t running from him, or rejecting his feelings for you; you were just scared.

“I am so sorry,” he chokes out, the devastation in his eyes making your breath hitch. “I am so, so desperately sorry for what I put you through. You were never disposable. You were the only thing that kept me sane.”

“Then why did you stop calling?” you ask, the question that has haunted you for a decade finally tumbling free. “Why did you cut me off?”

Seungkwan lets out a shaky breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “When I first debuted, the attention was… completely unmanageable. The sasaengs were relentless. They hacked our phones within the first three months. The company did a sweep of all our personal belongings, our contacts, everything, to see where our vulnerabilities were.”

He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out a worn, dark leather wallet. His fingers are stiff from the cold as he flips it open.

“They found this,” he says quietly, holding the wallet out toward you.

Tucked into the clear plastic window, its edges frayed and its colors slightly faded, is a photo strip. It’s the two of you in a cheap photo booth at the Jeju summer festival. You’re laughing, your head thrown back, while a fifteen-year-old Seungkwan looks at you with an expression of such pure, unguarded adoration that it makes your heart stop.

“I carried it with me everywhere,” Seungkwan murmurs, his eyes fixed on the photograph. “It was my anchor. But when the management team found it, they panicked. They thought you were my secret girlfriend. They told me that if the fans found out who you were, they’d destroy your life.”

You stare at the photo, your vision blurring with a fresh wave of tears. He hadn’t forgotten you. He had been carrying you in his pocket across every continent, for twelve years.

“They gave me an ultimatum,” Seungkwan went on, his voice hardening with residual anger. “Cut all contact, change my number, and pretend you didn’t exist, or they would pull me from the debut lineup. They told me it was the only way to protect you.”

He looks up from the wallet, his dark eyes locking onto yours.

“I was a terrified kid,” he confesses, the guilt heavy and absolute in his voice. “I believed them. I thought breaking my own heart was the price I had to pay to keep you safe. But I was wrong.”

He reaches out then, his warm hands finally closing over your freezing ones and drawing them into his lap.

“I should have fought for you,” he says, his thumb tracing your knuckles. “I should have fought the company. I should have found a way. I spent a decade completely miserable because I was too much of a coward to demand the one thing I actually wanted. I let you think you didn’t matter to me, and that is the greatest failure of my life.”

The silence returns, but this time it isn’t a chasm. The resentment and anger you’ve carried for so long simply dissolve, washed away by the crushing weight of his confession. He hadn’t abandoned you. He had martyred himself.

You look down at his hands holding yours, the warmth seeping through your skin and thawing the ice that has encased your heart for years.

“I called Youngjae,” you say suddenly.

The words are abrupt, instantly shifting the atmosphere. Seungkwan stops his movements for a second, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes drop to your mouth before darting back up to your face, terrified of what’s coming next.

“I called him from the car on the way here,” you explain, your voice steady now, carrying an absolute, undeniable certainty. “I broke up with him.”

Seungkwan’s grip on your hands tightens slightly, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. “Y/N…”

“I told him I couldn’t do it anymore.” A profound weight lifting from your chest with every word. Your breath turns to white mist in the cold air. “I told him I was done hiding in his shadow. I told him I deserved better.”

You pull your hands from Seungkwan’s grip, but only so you can reach up. You frame his face with your palms, thumbs gently wiping away the dampness on his cheeks. His skin is freezing, but his eyes burn with a desperate, wild hope.

“And I told him,” you whisper, leaning in until your foreheads rest together, “that it has always been you. Even when I was furious with you. Even when I hated you. It was always you, Seungkwan.”

A ragged, beautiful sound escapes Seungkwan’s throat, a cross between a sob and a laugh. The tension that has been holding him together for weeks finally snaps.

His hands fly up to grip your waist, entirely abandoning restraint as he pulls you off the cold stone and practically onto his lap. “Y/N,” he breathes against your lips, your name completely saturated with devotion.

When he kisses you this time, it isn’t the frantic, hot and overwhelming collision of the car. It’s a homecoming. A deliberate, agonizingly slow sealing of a promise.

His lips are soft, warm, tasting of salt and absolute relief. He kisses you like he’s trying to pour eleven years of unspoken love directly into your veins, his fingers tangled in your hair as he holds you against him, as though you are the only thing tethering him to the earth.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him flush against you, melting entirely into the embrace. The cold wind, the crashing ocean, the messy reality of the radio station, and the fallout that will inevitably come tomorrow, all of it fades into insignificance.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless, your faces flushed despite the freezing temperature. Seungkwan keeps his arms locked securely around your waist, resting his chin in the crook of your neck. He lets out a long, heavy exhale, burying his face in your coat.

“I’m never letting you go again,” he murmurs against your skin. “I don’t care who finds out. We’re doing this. We’re doing it in the light.”

You close your eyes, resting your cheek against the top of his head, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart against your chest. For the first time in a decade, the phantom ache of abandonment is entirely gone.

“I know,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his hair. “I know we are.”

# NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAGLIST

Every ask & comment gives me life 💗 If you’re enjoying it, don’t forget to reblog, helps so much and gets the fic out there!!

PERMANENT TAGLIST: @bmo-bri @chromequette @codeinebelle @paradiseoflosers @tinyelfperson @dcrlingyou @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @haaruki @bath1lda @hoshstruck @wubbz05 @jihoonsbbygirl @smiileflower @tastyluvr @gyuguys @christinewithluv @jesauiin @raggedypansexual @caratcak3 @ateez-atiny380 @meowchella @jeonsfries @whoisbaek15 @damnedangel98 @sumzysworld @theidontknowmehn @mingyuuulover @andreethier @sarabencze @weepingsweep @minhui896 @blaycke @miyx-amour @pl4netx1a @ohwowzersthatscool @ahuiahoe @bee-the-loser @im-gemmy @ssamarzi @my-neurodivergent-world @wonsrat @starmy-143 @wonu13 @unlikelysublimekryptonite @nonuverse @gyuhao365 @healingmv @coupsarchive @wenhuihuii

© VERNONVERSE. I do not condone reposting, plagiarizing or translating my work in any form.

[studiosvt]

Please validate your tag by reblogging this fic!

Taglist:

@prettypinkpassport @bobathi @ts19009 @kiiimgyuuu @smiileflower

@kittylover-inbothways @codeinebelle @gyuhao365 @coupsv @zealouscookierebeltrash

@fancypeacepersona @wildcreature @Frayaatiny @Leigh-darling @Ashlinxloves 

@bubble-ten @missthang600 @jenowithjaem @watchanisworld @cheolamor

@haoluver @thestoryofana13 @orpheustae @peaceofni-ki @bramos91

@tranquillitysoul @erireadsstuff @libraryinkuniverse @uhdrienne @missingsarinha

@hongyinujiang @nekkiotine @baobaoexe @isabellah29 @hoshiskimchi

@orbitinghao @babilou-pov @parakissss

[wheeboo]

anonymously yours | wen junhui

SYNOPSIS. When the world falls asleep, a certain radio broadcast goes live—one hosted by none other than you and your best friend Wen Junhui. The two of you host an anonymous love confession segment, where listeners submit their deepest feelings, secrets, and late-night loves they can’t say aloud for you to unravel live on air. However, when a recurring submission starts to feel too familiar, a certain someone finds themselves wondering how long they can stay anonymous… before they are finally heard. PAIRING. radio host!wen junhui x radio host!fem!reader (ft. soonyoung as a comedic device) GENRE. fluff, best friends to lovers, crack/humour, comfort, slight angst, smut (minors dni 🔞) WARNINGS. cursing, mentions of toxic situations in relationships (situationships, cheating, love bombing), yn and jun are dumb asffff no wonder they're besties, jun feeling a lil insecure :(, lots of playful bickering and bullying, terms of endearment, kissing, grinding, fingering, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, they bully each other even while doing the deed 😭 WORD COUNT. 11.3k

notes: hellooo everyoneee, this is my fic for the @studiosvt First Time Caller collab! please don't forget to support all the amazing authors in the collab!! unfort this was so rushed and lowkey not proud of it SDFDS i completely forgot how to write while writing this since it was all during the stress of finals szn and other matters LMAO, but i love writing abt two stupid oblivious idiot besties who are secretly in love with each other 😔 not rlly proofread so i'm sorry for any mistakes !! there is also a skye @etherealyoungk cameo in here hehe

“No, no, no𑁋Wen Junhui, you’re being way too nice about this!” You exclaim mid-laugh, shaking your head as you lean in towards the mic. “If someone’s been stringing you along for six months with nothing but ‘I’m not ready for a relationship yet’ texts, then that’s just straight up terrorism. Not even a situationship, at this point.”

Jun lets out a laugh of his own and throws his head back, almost making his headphones nearly fall off his head. He readjusts quickly, dark hair messily falling over his forehead. The neon red of the bright ON LIVE sign on the wall behind his head casts an almost villain-like glow across his features, sharpening the curve of his already amused smile. 

“Terrorism? Wow, tell us how you really feel, Y/N,” Jun retorts playfully. “But fine. Anon, if they’ve been feeding you breadcrumbs for half a year, that’s basically emotional warfare. Please save yourself and block them on everything𑁋and yes, that includes on Spotify.”

You snort at that, tapping your pen against your script notes that you’ve been barely following anyway. The show had practically devolved from advice to whatever banter you and Jun had cooked up on the spot. “Exactly. Listeners, if your situationship has an expiration date longer than expired milk, it’s time to toss it. Jun is too sweet to say it, so I’ll do it. Run.” 

“I𑁋’too sweet’?!” A dramatic gasp tumbles out of Jun as he spins his chair toward you. “I was the one who told last week’s caller to roast her boyfriend’s dick like a marshmallow because he kept forgetting her birthday!” 

“But you said it with, like, the sweetest voice ever!”

“That man deserved to get emotionally blue-balled! How can you forget your girlfriend’s own birthday for a second year in a row?” 

You roll your eyes so hard it’s basically audible over the mic. “God, Junhui, you have the emotional range of a raccoon.” 

“I’ll take it.” Jun grins at that, thrusting his shoulders back as if he’s trying to appear bigger and more intimidating. “At least raccoons are cute, right?” 

On your laptop, the chat is going crazy.

user: here we go again with their flirty banter 🙄 user: JUST GET MARRIED ALREADY YOU TWO!!!!!!!!! user: i swear this radio show is hosted by 2 delusional idiots user: i think they should kiss idk

“No, we shouldn’t!” You exclaim at the chat like you’re scolding a bunch of twelve-year olds. 

Jun nearly hops out of his seat. “Wait, I agree!” 

“Wen Junhui!”

“What? I was agreeing with you!” 

“That was not you agreeing with me,” You groan. “You agreed to kissing me.” 

“Well, the chat started it, so don’t put all the blame on me,” Jun says with a pout, folding his arms together. “Plus, it would be good for research purposes, wouldn’t it?” 

Your eyes bulge out of your skull, your mind and face flaming up. “You’re such a𑁋we host a radio show, not a damn lab!”

“Chemistry is still relevant! And chemistry is needed for relationships!” 

“We are not in a relationship, oh my, God.”

“Hypothetically, Y/N. Think hypotheticals.” Jun clicks his tongue, letting out playful tsk-tsk-tsk. “I’m telling you our ratings would absolutely skyrocket.”

You fight back the smile threatening to split your face in half, but there’s no point in trying to battle it. After being best friends with Jun for most of your life and witnessing pretty much all the stupid shit he has ever said or done, you’ve long accepted that his brand of chaos is the only thing in this world that can make your chest too tight and too warm at the same time. Especially if it involves the playful flirting you’ve been bouncing on for years. 

“Whatever, to answer your question𑁋raccoons are cute, but they’re also known for making stupid life decisions,” You point out with a victorious smirk. “So, maybe not the best comparison to make. It’s accurate, regardless.”

“Harsh,” he whines, but his eyes𑁋those stupid, unfairly expressive eyes of his𑁋sparkle with teasing delight. “Alright, onto the final submission of the night. Anonymous says…”

Dear Y/N and Jun of Love On Air, I’ve been supporting the show since the very beginning, and now, I think I’m in trouble enough to make a submission.  I’m in love with my best friend. I have been for years and it struck me pretty hard this morning. Is it weird to say when I first met them it felt like love at first sight? We talk every day to the point that everyone assumes we’re together, but we’re not. They’re kind, funny, and sometimes I think they deserve someone better than me. But is it selfish of me to say that I want to keep them in my life forever? Even if that line isn’t crossed?  What should I do??? 🐱

The studio falls silent for a few moments after Jun finishes reading. The shift in the air is immediately noticeable, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. When Jun picks his head back up to look at you after reading the confession, his usual smirk is still in place, but fades just a tad when he catches the contemplative expression on your face.

“Hello? Earth to Y/N?”

“Huh?” You blink back up at him. “Oh, shit. Right, uh…”

You can’t tell if it’s the late night hour getting to you or something else entirely. You’ve received so many similar confessions before𑁋a best friend falling in love with their other half, the slow and torturous ache of unspoken feelings, the fear of messing up something that’s already so beautiful itself. And ultimately, your advice has always stayed the same.

But when you meet eyes with Jun, it’s as if the words have completely cut your tongue off. You finally clear your throat. 

“First of all, welcome cat anon to the club of people who are all vicariously and collectively screwed together,” You say, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “And I wish we hadn’t read yours at the very last minute since we’re about in end in five𑁋”

Jun lifts a brow. “Wait, we have about fifteen𑁋”

“𑁋but I’ll just say that you aren’t selfish for wanting to keep them in your life. But you are doing a disservice keeping it locked away forever. This kind of love doesn’t come around twice. So tell them, even if it scares you. What’s the worst that could happen, you know?” 

You can feel Jun’s heavy gaze linger on the side of your face.

“Exactly, anon,” he jumps in like the professional he is. “Ripping the band-aid off would only hurt temporarily, right? And if it doesn’t work out, we’ll be here next week with some ice cream recommendations to help you cope.” 

“Keep in mind what Jun said, guys,” You say, forcing a small laugh. “Thank you all for turning into Love On Air. Stay honest, stay unhinged, and send that one person a risky text. If you want to submit a confession, please send one to our email. We are live every Saturday on FM 98.7! Goodnight, everyone!” 

You kill your microphone first as the ON LIVE sign on the wall blinks out with a soft click. Jun switches off his microphone right after, and the silence that washes over the studio is louder than anything else. 

For a moment, neither of you moves.

You still feel the ghost of Jun’s gaze warm on your cheek from when you were giving advice just a minute ago. It’s silly, really𑁋how one singular anonymous confession is enough to make you think and contemplate so hard. You’ve given advice to more people than you can count on your hands and toes, but this specific one feels as if it grew limbs, crawled out of the screen, and sat itself between you and him. 

“You rushed that ending,” Jun interrupts your thoughts as he swings his coat over his shoulders. 

You scoff lightly. “I did not.”

“Did too.”

“I literally answered the question,” You shoot back, narrowing your eyes at him. “That’s our job.”

“Exactly,” he hums in response, leaning his elbow on the desk and resting his chin lazily in his palm. “You answered it like it was your first time ever hearing it.” 

A pause.

“When it’s not.”

It’s not. But why𑁋out of all goddamn times you’ve read the same exact fear𑁋did this one feel like someone jabbed a finger at your chest and said: here, this is yours? 

You force a laugh at that, letting out a deprecating shrug. “Maybe I’m just getting sentimental at my big age.” 

“You’re literally younger than me.”

“Only by a few months. Your argument is irrelevant, grandpa.”

Jun tilts his head at your words, pushing himself off the table and invading your personal space as always. He stands only a step away from you, observing the way you’re speedily packing your belongings like some kind of punishment. When you face back up at him, he gives a light flick to your forehead. His touch lingers for a few seconds, before he brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear. It’s playful and casual, but the way your skin tingles after isn’t. 

Your heart does a stupid little flip in your chest. 

“Come on, youngling, I’ll drive you home,” he says with a cheesy smile, dangling his car keys off his finger. 

A groan leaves you as you allow him to drag you by the wrist and out of the studio. 

To be honest, the radio show started off as one big fat joke. 

It started in sophomore year of college, where you and Jun were nothing but a pair of dumb, broke college kids. Then you both decided to sign a quick gig for the campus radio station because you thought it would look good on your resumes. The two of you were supposed to do the boring music hour𑁋basically play whatever indie crap the station manager liked and read weather updates every morning. 

But that didn’t exactly go as planned, as the majority of those sessions were spent with you both roasting each other’s music tastes live on air, and for some reason, the listeners seemed to eat that dynamic up. 

In one particular session, Jun opened up the radio station email box live on air. You both expected for another complaint, which wasn’t uncommon knowing how immature the two of you act sometimes. However, it wasn’t a complaint this time.

It was a confession.

A girl had written about how she’d been in love with her roommate for the past two years and didn’t know how to voice it without ruining their lease together. Jun read it when his microphone was supposed to be switched off, and something in the studio shifted that night. 

“Do… we answer it?” Jun had asked you warily. 

You had hesitated for once, before a sudden surge of determination filled you. Perhaps it’s the delirium of two idiots who believed they could wing it, or the thought that a random person decided to reach out to both of you𑁋out of anyone else𑁋was the reason for the determination. Either way, you looked across at Jun that night and said, “Yeah. Let’s answer it.” 

And that was that. 

The rest of the semester became an absolute rollercoaster of love confessions, messy breakups, love bombers, situationships that made you want to pull your hair out, and the two of you slowly carving a name for yourselves as the unfiltered chaotic duo who gave sarcastic advice that came straight from the heart. The campus station extended their time slot, then the local radio station in the city picked the two of you up. 

Somewhere along the way, and four years later, Love On Air stopped being a joke and became a real thing you and Jun committed together every Saturday at midnight𑁋your own little pocket of chaos in an otherwise normal adult life. For the most part, at least, because pining for your best friend is totally counted as normal. 

Wen Junhui came into your life like a stray cat who decided that your doorstep looked comfortable enough to stay forever. Uninvited and unpredictable, way too pretty for his own good, yet somehow always exactly where you needed him to be. He randomly plopped down right next to you during freshman orientation, snatched the last macaron on your plate, and gave you a look that said you’d be fun to annoy for the next four years before introducing his name. 

You’d never admit how absolutely starstruck you were the first time he smiled at you. Or laughed. You told yourself you were just sleep deprived and lonely being in the city all by yourself, but deep down, the voice in your head at that moment said that you wanted to keep him. 

You should have been annoyed. But instead you laughed and nearly choked on your water, and that was it. Game over. And you became each other’s favourite person without either of you having to put a label on it. Best friend felt too small, and soulmate felt too big and scary for two broke college kids who couldn’t dedicate themselves to a single major. 

So you just… existed together. Thrived together. Grew together through the most stupidest decisions known to mankind. 

And at some point down the road, that stray cat curled up into your chest and refused to leave.

“Listeners, let’s give a full round of applause to user derangedcarat for cutting off their cheating ex-partner,” You announce into the microphone, clapping your hands like a proud mom at a recital. The chat explodes immediately. 

user: 👏👏👏👏 user: FINALLY i’m so proud of u user derangedcarat queen user: anyone who cheats on their partner needs to be put on death row user: ^^^ preach!!!

“And you did the hard part, user derangedcarat,” Jun adds in. “We love growth in this household. Maybe email us a screenshot of the block so we can frame it in the studio here.” 

“Exactly, and please don’t forget to take care of yourself,” You reassure into the microphone. “Block, delete, go touch some grass if you need to. You deserve someone who actually respects you.”

The next confessions run by in a blur over the next hour. Someone sends in a confession asking if it’s weird to still be hung on their high school ex, another person confesses that they’ve been naming their house plants after people who ghosted them, which the two of you undoubtedly praise for creativity. 

To top off the chaos, there’s one submission an anonymous user submits with screenshots of cringe-worthy flirty text messages from a man they’re talking to, with the sender begging for the two of you to rate the messages on a scale of “smooth operator” to “immediate block”.

Jun narrows his eyes toward the screen. “Y/N, listen to this: ‘hey babygirl, how’s your night been? mine was spent thinking about u 😏’. Sent at 2:19 in the morning, left on read for three days.” 

You burst out laughing, cheeks puffing out to the point it hurts. “Oh, my God. Solid negative five. That’s a biohazard right there.”

“That’s way too generous,” Jun snorts while spinning in his chair. “Anon, this man is serving nothing but expired milk. Please save yourself a headache and block his number.” 

Heartbreak, confessions, and ridiculous stories𑁋you and Jun tag-team them over the next hour like strong duo you are, with the chatting eating up every particularly brutal line that leaves either of your mouths. This is what seems to happen when you give two nocturnal people a cup of bitter tar coffee and the free will to say whatever they please. 

By the time the final minutes of the session comes, you and Jun decide to read out one last confession. 

“...Cat anon is back with a follow-up confession.”

You perk up curiously at that. “Really? What does it say?” 

Jun hesitates briefly, before clearing his throat. 

Dear Y/N and Jun of Love On Air, Hi, it’s me again. The one who wrote the other week. Thank you both so much for responding to me. I listened to every word you guys said, and I think you’re right. I was almost brave the other night𑁋had this whole stupid mental speech planned to tell them when we were hanging out together. But I… chickened out. Again. Really dumb of me, I know.  And I know that I look like a coward who needs a weekly pep talk, but this show feels like the only safe space I’m able to confess this. I do have a question for the two of you to answer and discuss. Do you think there’s such a thing as ‘perfect love’?  I think that’s my dilemma right now. I want to be perfect for them. I want to give them that perfect love that they deserve. But how can I do that, knowing who I am? 🐱

The studio falls into a gentle kind of quiet after Jun finishes reading. The words are still processing deeply through your mind when he warily lifts his eyes back up at you, lingering on your concentrated expression. Then his heart stutters in his chest when you meet his eyes as if he got caught doing something wrong. 

“Jun, why don’t you answer it first?” 

Jun blinks, before shaking his head like he’s trying to clear away fog. He leans back in his chair and stretches his long arms up with a thoughtful sigh, enough for his hoodie to ride up just slightly for you to catch a sliver of skin. You try (and fail) not to notice, muting your microphone briefly to let out a cough into your hand. 

“I mean, ‘perfect’ love is that type of stuff you read about in books or watch in movies, right?” He shrugs, letting his arms fall back down as his chair creaks softly beneath him. “Like no miscommunication, no timing issues, no one being stupid… which already disqualifies most of humanity, honestly.” 

You lean back in to unmute your microphone. “Are you saying you’re part of that disqualification?” 

“Absolutely, I’m the poster child for it,” he claims with that mischievous glint in his eyes. “I constantly forget shit, I’m nocturnal as hell, and sometimes I make objectively terrible decisions. Who would want to date me?” 

The question lands a little too easily, maybe even familiar, sending an uncomfortable ripple you feel all the way down to your toes. Something about the way it left his mouth without any hesitation sends a painful grip to your heartstrings. Jun has always had this kind of self-deprecating humour, tossing it out like it was nothing at times. It makes you want to one: shake reality into him, or two: kiss him to prove him wrong. 

You force out an awkward laugh, higher than it needs to be. 

“Someone with terrible taste, clearly,” You answer, keeping your voice teasing despite the heaviness in your chest. “But luckily for you, the world is full of people with terrible taste.”

Jun chuckles, spinning his chair so he could study you properly. 

“Yeah?” He tilts his head. “You think so?”

The chat is moving so fast now it’s basically a complete blur.

user: bro really asked who would date him while staring at his wife user: why is he so boyfriend coded still tho user: y/n should answer the question too!!! user: PERFECT LOVE IS WHEN YOU LOOK AT EACH OTHER STOPPP RNN

“Chat is right,” Jun quips. “What’s your answer to the question too, Y/N?”

The second the question leaves him, you can feel every pair of invisible eyes staring at you through the screen and your pulse kicking up loudly in your ears. Jun is still leaning back in his chair, relaxed as ever, his curious gaze fixed solely on you. 

Finally, you clear your throat.

“Well, I’ve seen couples break up because their relationship isn’t ‘perfect’,” You begin. “But the ones that last? They’re the ones where both sides are a little flawed, a little messy, and a little scared, but they choose each other anyway. That’s what you would call an imperfect love, and… I think that’s the most beautiful kind of love that can exist.” 

Suddenly, the tiny studio feels almost suffocating to sit in. Your eyes flick up to Jun. He isn’t laughing anymore, or even smiling. He’s just staring at you with an expression so open𑁋almost surprised, like he didn’t expect you to be so serious𑁋it steals the rest of your answer out of your throat. 

You refuse to look at the chat; you already know what they’re saying.

“You really thought about it a lot, huh?” Jun asks, scratching at the back of his neck. 

You could only manage a small, somewhat self-conscious nod, bringing your eyes down to the ground. “Yeah. Guess I have.” 

A wave of silence washes over the studio for a minute.

“...it’s a really good answer,” he murmurs.

A pleased smile crosses over your face. “Well, I am kinda a professional at this.”

“Mm,” he hums absentmindedly in response. 

You pretend to busy yourself with your laptop, trying to read over the chat that has now morphed into just meaningless spams of screaming text and heart emojis. Your cursor lingers over nothing, while your heartbeat is running a full blown marathon of panic. 

But when you glance back at Jun, the panic seems to strengthen even more.

“Cat anon, we really appreciate your trust in us,” You finish softly. “And I really hope that our advice tonight resonates with you. At the end of day, we’re all just a bunch of flawed humans looking for love, right? Don’t drive yourself to be perfect, because you’re already perfectly imperfect just as you are. And if your best friend reciprocates these feelings…”

Your eyes flit back up to Jun.

“...then take the leap, because they’re probably already waiting for you.” 

After a pause, you lightly kick Jun’s foot underneath the table. He jolts in his seat like you shocked him, before recovering with a nervous, boyish chuckle, sounding not even close to his usual, bright and effortless laugh. For once, he appears almost rattled, with his pupils wide and his ears pink that even the dim studio lights can hardly hide. 

On the wall, the ON LIVE sign flickers in and out of its glow. 

“She’s, um… Y/N is right, cat anon,” Jun agrees quietly. “You don’t have to become someone else to prove yourself worthy for someone. If they’re your person, then… who you are already is why they stayed this long.” 

From that, the chat practically combusts.

user: WEN JUNHUI???? IS THERE SOMETHING U WANNA SHARE W THE CLASS??? user: why did this suddenly get so intense lmao is it hot in here or is it just me? user: i’ve been on this ship since the beginning of the show!!!!

“Alright, that’s all the time we have for tonight,” You interrupt quickly, instinctively switching back to host mode. “Thank you to everyone who sent in your confessions tonight. Stay safe, stay honest, and please don’t respond to someone who sends you a babygirl text at ungodly hours.”

Jun reaches for the switch. “Goodnight, everyone!”

Click. The ON LIVE sign dies. 

Jun slides the headphones off his head and shuts down his laptop. You do the same. The two of you pack up belongings in that familiar and companionable silence that always spills into the room after a session. When you swing your bag over your shoulder, Jun glances up in your direction worriedly.

“You okay?” he asks. 

You nod, offering him a small, sleepy smile. “Take me home?”

Jun swallows down the lump in his throat.

“Yeah.” He’s already opening the door for you. “Always.”

Jun remembers one of the first discussions the two of you had on the show together.

Love at first sight. 

Back then, the studio was smaller, scrappier, and the chairs squeaked each time either of you moved even a centimetre. The world had fallen asleep long enough that honesty slipped through the cracks of your voices so easily. You both were running on nothing but instant noodles and caffeine, way different than the semi-functional adult routine you have established now. 

He remembers the beautiful laugh that left you when the question came in halfway through a song neither of you remembered choosing. 

He laughed with you too. Rolled his eyes and called it nonsense, all while pretending to not notice how your smile had gone a little soft when you answered it with that amused lilt to your voice. 

“I think it exists,” You had said. “Not like movie magic, though. But… you just meet someone and your brain clicks into place, you know? Like it says, ‘Oh. It’s you.’”

“That sounds like you’re trying to make shit up to justify bad decisions,” Jun argued back with a smirk. 

You gasped at that and slapped his wrist, causing him to laugh. “Excuse me? That was uncalled for.” 

And the segment moved on after that. 

But Jun continues to carry that sentence with him like a permanent scar. 

Oh. It’s you.

“What are the chances that a confession we’ve read out is from someone we know?” Jun asks while plopping a chip in his mouth, adjusting his body from where he had been sprawled across your couch for the past few hours. 

You don’t bother to spare a glance up from your laptop, but a grin crosses your features. “Pretty high, to be honest. Soonyoung once told me he submitted something to the show one time.” 

Jun nearly chokes on the chip scratching at his throat. “Soonyoung? As in Kwon Soonyoung? Never shuts up, Soonyoung?” He sits up so fast he accidentally knicks his socked foot under the coffee table. “Ow! I𑁋What the hell did he confess? Was it about that girl in his dance class that was drooling over him?”

You finally look over at him, chuckling at the way his eyes have grown comically wide. “He didn’t say. Just that he sent it under a funny username and almost died when we read it out. Apparently, we just straight up told him to stop being a coward and talk to her. They went on one date together. He found out she was allergic to cats and broke her heart by saying they were incompatible. End of story.”

Jun stares at you for a full blown three seconds, before he throws his head back into the couch with a laugh so genuine you would think his soul left his body completely. 

“That’s insane,” he says breathlessly. “Literally the most Soonyoung thing to do.”

“Actually, he’s not,” You chime back in. “I think he’s dating this new girl named… Skye, I think?”

“Sky?”

“Skye, but with an e at the end.” 

“Wow,” Jun mutters, crunching down on another chip and sarcastically adds, “Character development. We love to see it.” 

You roll your eyes, shutting down your laptop with a click and leaning back into the couch with Jun right next to you. You curl your knees up to your chest. “People change, Jun. Miracles happen.” 

Jun offers you the bag of chips. You take one, crunching absentmindedly as your gaze travels somewhere past the TV, past the wall, past everything. He notices. Of course he does. A nudge to your leg awakens you quickly. 

“Where’d you go just now?” he asks.

“Nowhere.”

Jun huffs. “Liar.”

You flick a crumb at him. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” he retorts with a lazy grin, sticking his tongue out.

You shoot a glare at him and snatch the bag of chips from his hand before he can react. A scandalised look splits his face as he lunges to grab it back from your grasp, but you manage to twist your body away and dodge his reach.

“Hey!” he exclaims, attempting to grab the back once more but you clutch it tightly to your chest. “Give that back to me!”

You yelp and scramble further into the arm of the couch, shoulders shaking with laughter as you hug the back tight enough to crush some of the chips inside. “You stole this from my pantry!”

When his fingers brush the corner of the bag, you only yank it away again. Jun narrows his eyes at you, lips twitching upwards like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Y/N.”

“No.”

“Y/N.”

“Junhui.”

“You’re being annoying on purpose.”

“And you love me for it,” You remark, sticking your tongue at him back mockingly.

That does it.

As he makes a dive for it again, you twist a little too far. The next thing you know, you’re collapsing back against the couch cushions with a soft oof, and Jun is falling down with you. Very much ungracefully.

Because one second he’s reaching, the next he finds himself tumbling down over you in a tangle of limbs and laughter, somehow managing to catch himself just beside your head before he can actually crush you into the couch. And he’s way too close.

His knee presses into the cushion in between your legs, while his hand is planted by the side of your head. His dark hair has fallen slightly into his eyes, and his breath comes out unevenly from the laughing.

Your own breathing isn’t exactly steady either. 

Jun looks down at you. You look back up at him. Your apartment suddenly feels fifty times smaller, and the laughter dies instantly, replaced by a familiar heaviness in the air whenever the two of you are alone together. His eyes drop down to your lips for a singular second before flicking back up to your face, and you catch the way his ears redden in slight guilt. 

You swallow down a lump in your throat. “Jun…”

And from that split second of vulnerability, he uses that opportunity to snatch the bag of chips right off your hands, catching you completely off-guard. The warmth in the air still lingers even as he pulls away from you and flops back down on the couch.

“Aha!” he exclaims triumphantly. “Victory is mine!”

You stare at him in disbelief before letting out the loudest, most offended noise imaginable as you smack his shoulder. 

“Wen Junhui!”

“Hm? Sorry, I can’t hear you over the savoury taste of victory,” he quips with a grin, face beaming with pride. 

“You’re such a little thief𑁋”

“You hesitated!” he argues smugly. “So that’s on you!”

“Because you were staring at me all weird!” 

That makes him shut up, the smugness fading off his face so abruptly as if you accidentally powered something in his system off. The apartment goes quiet enough for you to only hear the soft buzz of the refrigerator and the honk of a car outside. You didn’t mean to say it out loud. Or maybe you did, you don’t know. 

“I…” You utter weakly, trying to brush it away with a nervous chuckle. “Can we just pretend I spontaneously combusted instead?”

A soft, disbelieving laugh leaves him. “I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“For… looking at you all weird.”

“Jun𑁋”

“I think I’ll get going. It’s getting late,” he mutters, immediately standing up a little too fast. He grabs the bag of chips instinctively, realises it’s still in his hands, and sets it back down on your coffee table awkwardly. 

He doesn’t look at you as he grabs his hoodie and keys, moving with a surprising speed that even your own brain can barely process what to say. When he’s scrambling to the door, you move before you think, and you grab him by the wrist before he can unlock your door. 

Jun feels his pulse jump harder under your fingertips. Twisting himself back around, he’s met with your soft yet worried gaze, before flicking down to where your hand is still wrapped around his wrist. You release him immediately like you accidentally touched fire.

“Sorry,” You murmur, taking a small step back. “Just… text me when you get home, okay?” 

He nods solemnly. “Yeah. Of course.” A sheepish smile graces his lips for a moment. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Jun.”

You close the door with a quiet click that somehow is louder than it should be. Now, you’re all alone in your apartment, yet the warmth of his presence still lingers through every part of your place. He’s been in here a thousand times𑁋hell, you both have slept in the same bed together a plentiful amount during all the times he’s trespassed in your space𑁋but tonight it feels like there’s a literal dent in the air itself. 

The two of you have shared many awkward moments together. He’s accidentally walked in on you changing a few times; you’ve seen him stress-eat an entire family-sized bag of shrimp chips at four in the morning. You both have seen each other at some of your lowest points, but why, out of all nights, does it hit harder than anything else?

You sink back into the couch with a groan. Your phone burns a hole in your pocket. Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Then𑁋

Buzz.

[12:55am | menace (affectionate)] i just got home you okay?

You stare at his message for a long moment.

[12:57am | y/n] good and yeah, i’m fine. you?

[12:58am | menace (affectionate)] splendid! and … tired

[12:58am | y/n] go sleep then dumbass

[12:59am | menace (affectionate)] alright mother calm down i’m brushing my teeth

A low giggle leaves you at his response. A few minutes pass before a new text from him lights up your phone. 

[01:05am | menace (affectionate)] can i ask you something really random?

[01:05am | y/n] of course

The typing bubble appears, disappears, then reappears again.

[01:07am | menace (affectionate)] do you think cat anon is okay?

A sinking feeling opens a pit in your stomach, thumb frozen over your keyboard. You stare at the screen until the words begin to blur. God, of all the questions he had to ask tonight…

[01:10am | y/n] i don’t know i hope so and that they learn it’s okay to be brave

[01:12am | menace (affectionate)] yeah. me too

You’re hardly able to think when his next text comes in quicker than you expected.

[01:12am | menace (affectionate)] goodnight y/n don’t overthink in your sleep

You smile faintly.

[01:13am | y/n] no promises goodnight jun

You lock your phone after that with a tired sigh, tossing it onto the couch cushion besides you like it might bite you back if you hold it for too long. And somewhere on the other side of the city, another phone is tossed away like a shameful piece of evidence. 

As you stare blankly at your dark television and feel the exhaustion of the day weighing between your bones, you know that sleep won’t come easy tonight. It becomes even more challenging even after you brush your teeth, wash your face, doomscroll on your phone for a while, and face plant onto the bed like you just came home from a wounded battle. 

“Pathetic,” You mumble into your pillow to absolutely nobody. “I’m so pathetic.” 

On the other hand, Jun is… doing the exact same thing. 

His ceiling fan spins lazily overhead while his phone screen dims beside him. The last text message you sent to him spirals through the air around him. He doesn’t even know what to do but let out a muffled incredulous laugh into his pillow, sighs, before abruptly sitting up in bed and realising how much of a loser he’s acting right now. 

“I should’ve…” Jun groans, running a hand over his face. “I should’ve just told her… I’m such a coward.” 

Because the thing about running a late-night show where love is the main topic and advice is given, is that it’s painfully easy to tell strangers to be brave when your own heart isn’t on the line, when you’re not the aforementioned person in the story who is being pined over. It’s easy to take the leap when you aren’t standing at the edge yourself. Yet for some reason, it’s only harder to take the leap when you don’t even follow the advice you give to others. 

The irony is quite laughable, to be honest. 

Jun grabs his laptop and forces it open, the bright screen nearly blinding him in the darkness of his bedroom, but he doesn’t care. He finds himself navigating to his email, switching to his second account, and gets greeted by a particular message that had already been forwarded to the radio show. A message that had already been read, answered, and sent under a certain pseudonym.

Dear Y/N and Jun of Love On Air…

Biting down on his bottom lip, he opens up a fresh draft and begins typing. 

“Take the leap, cat anon,” he repeats to himself over and over again. “Take the leap, Wen Junhui.” 

Jun texted you two hours before the show that he was sick along with a selfie of him buried in a hoodie he threw on, somehow contracting a stomach bug which he blamed on some expired convenience store gimbap. He insisted that he could still come in, yet you reassured him with a string of sobbing emojis that it’s probably in his best interest to stay home to rest, and that you could handle hosting the show on your own, even if… you’ve never really done it before. 

The show must go on, after all. 

So when you find yourself sitting alone within the quiet studio just mere minutes from going live, you definitely sense both the physical and mental emptiness of his presence in the room a little too sharply. His headphones are still left the way he always leaves them, and his chair is facing the wrong wrong because he spins in it so much that he never bothers to put it back properly. 

A small, fond chuckle leaves you at the thought of him, and you have to chase those thoughts away the second the clock strikes midnight. From there, you roll your shoulders back to shake away any residual nerves, clear your throat, and reach over to the switch. 

Taking one last deep breath, you flip it on. The ON LIVE sign sparks to life on the wall.

“Good evening to all our fellow lonely and emotionally volatile listeners,” You greet warmly into the microphone. “Welcome back to everyone’s favourite unhinged radio show, Love On Air, live at midnight every Saturday on FM 98.7.” 

Your eyes can barely keep track of the live chat box being spammed with incoming messages. You read a couple of messages out of people describing their day, but it isn’t long until the elephant in the room is acknowledged.

You snort lightly. “I regret to inform you all that Jun has passed away due to… alleged food poisoning.” Some comments following your words make you laugh. “Yes, yes, you’re all invited to the funeral, don’t worry.”

user: i commence a ritual to bring him back or we riot 🙏🙏 user: bro probably slept through his alarm honestly user: WAIT BUT THIS FEELS SO WRONG W/O HIM 😭😭 user: rip… guess no husband and wife arguments for now… 😔

“He offered to join while sick, by the way,” You add in quickly. “But I personally vetoed it. I’m not letting a man who ate expired gimbap shit his way into a session. He’s probably listening in right now, so hi, Jun. Hope you’re still intact, buddy.” 

After a few minutes of more interactions, you finally pull up the radio show’s inbox and begin to organise through the confessions that were received recently. That weird feeling creeps back up your spine once again as you scroll𑁋not about the confessions specifically, just the thought about doing this alone. Your eyes flick to the empty chair right next to you once more. 

You read a few confessions and answer two callers𑁋there’s one from someone who felt bad for ghosting someone they actually liked, another person confesses they’re having a hard time with their partner wanting to open up their relationship, and one with expressing their fears of having their first time with the wrong person. You offer your own thoughtful answers and advice as best as you can, yet it feels so lackluster and flat without Jun’s playful interjections whenever you get too sappy on air. 

“Your first time should be with someone who makes you feel safe, not just wanted,” You say gently into the microphone. “You deserve that. Don’t settle for anything less. It’s okay to wait until that safety feels undeniable.”

The chat floods with hearts and supportive messages. A few people send their thank yous for the advice. Some latecomers ask questions about Jun’s whereabouts.You smile gratefully, but it feels a little fragile tonight, not quite reaching up to your eyes. 

As the final music break of the session ends, you unmute your microphone to speak.

“Alright, listeners, we’ve reached the final thirty minutes of tonight’s session. I want to thank you as always for staying up and listening into the show,” You announce confidently. “We’ve got time for… maybe a few more confessions and a possible lucky caller, so let’s see what we have left.”

Scrolling silently through the inbox, it isn’t long until your cursor hovers a familiar username once again. Your heart spikes at the sight, hesitating for a slow second.”

“Everyone, let’s welcome cat anon back to the stage with another follow-up confession.” You click the confession, take in a deep breath you’re sure the viewers can hear, and start to read it aloud.

Dear Y/N of Love On Air… Hi, it’s me again. To be honest, I don’t really know why I keep sending these, but somehow I always end up back here again. You truly have a way of words, and I really want to thank you for that. I thought about what you said about imperfect love. I used to think that if I fix every flaw about myself, then maybe I’ll be worthy of them, but now I know that love is someone seeing every fractured version of you, and staying anyway. There’s something else I want to confess too. I think I’ve been waiting so long for the “perfect” moment that I accidentally passed a thousand “imperfect” ones. It makes me terrified that they’ll meet someone more braver than me, so I’ll use this chance now to be brave for once.  I’ll be ready on the line for this session and use this chance to finally face whatever happens next. I hope you’re able to answer my call whenever that may be. I have an important message to send. 🐱

Your voice comes out almost too quiet by the end you finish reading. You flit a quick glance to the ever-exploding live chat box.

user: HOLY SHITTT CAT ANON VOICE REVEAL??? user: answer the call! answer the call! user: IM GONNA THROW UP WHY AM I SO NERVOUS user: we’re witnessing a cinematic moment in history wtff

Suddenly, the blink of the call line makes your throat tighten. Your fingers hover over the console as if it might suddenly jump out and bite you. God, you don’t understand why you’re unexpectedly so nervous𑁋you’ve talked to many callers, and yet, speaking with cat anon has you on complete edge. 

“Okay,” You stammer shakily into the microphone, covering up your nerves with a faint smile. “Let’s… let’s take this final call of the night, everyone.”

When you answer the line, it’s as if the world goes entirely mute, except for the intense pounding your chest. Nothing but static fills your headphones as the line struggles to connect for a few torturous moments.

Then, a quiet breath reverberates into your ears. The kind of breath that sounded like it had to claw its way out of someone’s chest. 

“...hello?”

The voice is slightly distorted through the line, unmistakably low𑁋clearly a male voice𑁋and trembling slightly around the edges. It’s more of a whisper, if anything. Perhaps he’s just as nervous as you. 

“Hi,” You greet warmly, slipping back into your professional radio voice. “You’re live on air with Love On Air. Is this… the one and only cat anon?” 

A small, embarrassed huff of air crosses the line. He sounds a bit closer this time as he replies, “...yeah, it’s me.” 

“Well, I’m giving you the floor now,” You assure firmly. “Whatever you need to say… we’re listening.”

Another shaky breath crackles through the line. You can practically touch the contemplation that’s buzzing through the call with your fingertips if that’s even possible, and even within the studio itself. 

When the seconds of silence turn into a full-blown minute of consideration, the line crackles once more.

“I’m in love with you, Y/N.”

Your heart stops. Your mind draws a complete and utter blank. The abrupt clarity of his voice cuts through any lingering distortion and static and hits you like a wave. The world itself feels as if it’s tilted on its axis. 

“Jun𑁋?”

“I love you,” he repeats more firmly this time, voice raw and full of everything he’s been holding back. “and I told you I was sick tonight because I couldn’t sit right next to you while you gave advice I was too scared to take. I just𑁋holy shit, I love you…”

Your mouth parts open in shock, then closes. The chat is going absolutely feral right now and you can barely read through all the comments without having this unusual urge to just slam your hand onto the console and pretend that you’re suffering from pure delirium. 

On the wall, the ON AIR still glows stubbornly. 

user: I FREAKING KNEW THAT CAT ANON WAS JUN user: may i find this kind of love one day what the helly 🙏 user: Y/N ARE YOU BREATHING RIGHT NOW ???? user: our stupid oblivious hosts are in love. I CALLED it

You feel as if you almost have to squeeze your voice just to get it out. “Jun…”

On the other hand, he inhales sharply.

“...yeah?”

“You’re such an idiot,” You sputter out. “Do you have any idea how… how insane this is? Confessing on our show… using a pseudonym I gave advice to𑁋”

“I know.”

“𑁋after lying about being sick𑁋”

“I know.”

“𑁋and letting me sit here and talk about love like you weren’t the one I was talking to the whole time?” You ramble on out of a sheer mix of pure disbelief and relief, tightening your grip on the microphone. “Like all the advice I said wasn’t about… us?” 

You hear some rapid shuffling on the other side, and you could almost imagine Jun sitting up in bed as if he’s received the most shocking news of his entire life. Then you hear his dazed laugh flowing into your ears.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “It was.”

Your breath catches embarrassingly hard and your face is completely on fire. The chat combusts once again, and you have to keep mentally reminding yourself that this entire interaction is live and half the city is probably listening in at this very second. 

“From the first moment I saw you back in college,” Jun continues softly. “My heart and brain did the thing, you know? That you said before𑁋where you meet someone and all you can think is: Oh, it’s you. The second I saw you, I just… I knew I wanted to keep seeing you.” 

You feel your eyes start to burn.

“I should’ve said it years ago, but I’m… I’m a coward. I know I am,” he mutters helplessly. “I know it’s stupid pretending to be cat anon because it was safer than telling my best friend I’m in love with her. Stupid that I… used to remind myself that I never deserved someone as bright as you. But anytime you told someone to suck it up and take the leap, I had to do it now or else I’d lose the chance and probably explode.”

He lets out a soft, breathless, disbelieving laugh of relief at the very end. Tears are streaming down your face at this point, but you don’t care. 

user: IM PASSING TISSUES DOES ANYONE ELSE NEED ONE??? user: jun confessing his undying devoted love to y/n life is worth living again!!!! user: i feel like a successful marriage counselor WTF user: the solomon paradox is REAL

“Gosh, you’re…” You wipe a tear from your eye, murmuring weakly, “Your timing really needs to be studied, Jun.” 

“Wait, wait, are you crying?” Jun asks worriedly in a fit of panic. “I didn’t mean to make you cry on air𑁋oh, my God, I can take it back, I can𑁋”

“You cannot ‘take this back’, you idiot!” You cut in immediately. “I’m crying because I’m in love with your stupid ass too! And if you don’t get here and finish the show with me, I’m absolutely going to lose the rest of my dignity.”

There’s a very long, suspicious beat of silence that passes. It’s enough to have you feel like you’re going through all the stages of grief in just a matter of seconds. And you swear on Jun’s life that if he doesn’t say something in the next minute, you might actually crash out and let the world witness your breakdown. 

But reality snaps back in when you hear the sound of him nearly tripping on the other end of the line. 

“I’m coming,” he reassures you. “I’m sprinting as fast as I can. Stay there for me, okay? Don’t finish the show without me.” 

The line goes dead.

The night is quietly young as you and Jun step back into your apartment, the door clicking shut behind to finally cut out the rest of the world.

You still can barely process what just happened. First, Jun had texted you that he was quite literally shitting bricks for the entire day (which was a lie, thank goodness), then you somehow managed to host an entire segment all on your own without losing your sanity, and now the man you’ve been secretly in love for years had confessed to you𑁋live on air, alongside an entire audience of fellow love drunk listeners𑁋and is currently standing directly in front of you, wearing a hoodie he probably put on right before sprinting to the studio and a pair of pyjama sweatpants.

Jun doesn’t waste a single second. He steps up close to you and carefully wraps his long arms around you, the comforting scent of him quickly filling all your senses. He lets his forehead rest against yours, the two of you shutting your eyes together as you simply bask in each other’s presence. 

“You’re real,” he murmurs, his hands trembling where they rest on your back. “I swear I thought I hallucinated the entire night. I need someone to pinch me if𑁋hey!”

You giggle at the way his face dramatically contorts with a pout, soothing his side with a gentle squeeze. You tilt your head enough to brush your nose against his. 

“Then kiss me like I’m real, you idiot.”

For a moment, he just blinks like you spoke complete gibberish. Then he cups your face and presses his lips to yours, sending immediate shivers that make your knees weak. You let out a soft sigh into his mouth as the kiss deepens ever so slightly, your hands slowly sliding up his chest. You feel him chuckle against your lips. 

As you kiss, you find yourself backing up in the direction of the couch. Jun follows without breaking contact with your mouth. When the backs of his knees hit the cushions, you both tumble down together in a clumsy, giggly heap with you on top of him, straddling him.

You brace your hands on his shoulders, and Jun’s arms lock around your waist instantly, holding you flush against him. And for a second, you both just… stare at each other. 

Jun is the first to break, his eyes flitting back and forth between your eyes and lips as he doesn’t know where to look. “What?”

You bite your lip to keep from smiling too wide at how ridiculously cute and disheveled he looks right now, tilting your head at him like you’re pretending to study him. You lean in a little just to tease, and instinctively, he puckers his lips together, chasing after yours when you pull back away. 

“I can’t believe how stupid we are,” You whisper, brushing his lips briefly in a feather-light peck. “Giving advice to everyone but ourselves. We wasted literal years.” 

Jun chases after your mouth again, capturing it properly this time and pulling away with a satisfied hum. “Mhm. Absolute morons.” His hands find their way under your shirt, tenderly mapping the bare skin of your waist. “But I’m done wasting time now.” 

You chuckle into the next kiss, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably as he tries to deepen it. God, his lips are so eagerly soft, but he’s smiling so hard you momentarily knock your teeth against his.

“Mm, wait,” You mumble against his mouth as you draw back to readjust your position, causing him to suck in a breath. “Are you trying to eat my face? Where’s the technique?”

He blinks up at you dazedly, mouth parted in playful offense. His hands tighten around your waist. “I𑁋excuse me?”

“Zero finesse. One star. I expected more from cat anon.”

Jun sits up suddenly so that you’re basically pressed chest-to-chest with each other. 

“You’re too cute, that’s the problem,” he says, voice deep yet still a little rough around the edges. “How am I supposed to kiss you if I short-circuit and all I could think, holy shit, she’s mine?” 

Your heart does a stupid little flip from his words. “Flattery won’t save your shitty technique.”

“Oh, yeah?” He cups your face with both hands, thumbs caressing your cheeks. “Watch this.” 

The next kiss is messier𑁋heated, giggly, and clumsy because you both can’t stop smiling. You feel your toes curl as he nips lightly at your bottom lip. You sigh into it, threading your hands through his hair, the heat of it enough to make you rock your hips against his growing hardness. 

You feel the heat dancing up your skin and pooling into your belly as you continue your lazy grinding against him, swallowing down the broken sigh and groans that fall out of his mouth. When his mouth begins its descent down your jaw and to a particular sensitive spot behind your ear, he smirks against your warm skin. 

“Fuck𑁋you like that?” he breathes out, his fingertips brushing the underside of your breast underneath your shirt. 

A shaky laugh leaves you, but it melts quickly into a soft moan when his thumb brushes your already-hardened nipple. “Don’t get cocky. Still𑁋mmh𑁋mediocre at best.”

Jun lifts his brow, mouth curved into a stupidly fond grin. “Mediocrity, huh?” He pinches your nipple gently, causing you to jerk your hips into his. “Your body is saying something different, baby.”

“Ignore her. She’s… a traitor,” You croak out, grinding against the hard line of his cock through his sweatpants. 

Jun merely chuckles, tugging your shirt up enough to expose your chest. He unclips your bra without any hesitation, pushing the straps off your shoulders then letting it fall uselessly to the floor. His eyes widen as he takes a few seconds to drink you in completely.

“God, you’re so beautiful…” 

Then his mouth is back on you. He sucks one nipple between his lips while his hand affectionately palms the other. A crude moan slips out of you this time; it heightens his confidence even more. 

As his mouth lavishes attention to your other breast, he drags his hand down your side, teasingly sliding under the waistband of your pants to cup you over your pants. He can feel how warm you are already. 

“Rating?” he requests with a firm suck. 

“Like a solid𑁋shit𑁋two-point-five out of five…”

Jun pulls off your breast with a wet pop, grin turning wicked. “But you’re soaked, and you’re still calling me below average? I think your pussy disagrees.”

You open your mouth to retort, but then he slides his hand into your panties, fingers circling over your slick folds, and nothing but a breathy gasp escapes you. Your hips roll down to meet his hand as he inserts a finger inside of you, curling into that spot that makes your back arch and he has to use his other hand to hold you in place. 

“What’s the rating now?” he asks, watching the way your face is beautifully twisting with pleasure as a second finger slides inside. 

You shoot him a death glare as you clench around his hand. “Three𑁋fuck, right there𑁋three-point-eight𑁋”

“Getting better already,” he hums in approval, leaning back down to worship your breasts once more. The dual sensation has your head falling down into the crook of his neck, your moans caressing his skin.

“Four𑁋Jun, you asshole𑁋four-point-five𑁋”

He pulls his fingers out of you unexpectedly, making you whine at the loss. Before you can complain, you find yourself being flipped on the couch as he settles in between your thighs, looking up at you with that mischievous, hungry, adoring look. He gives another tug to the waistband of your pants.

“Final rating before I eat you out?” 

Your chest heaves, though you try to keep your tone light and teasing. “Four-point-seven. Don’t get lazy down there or I’m docking points, smartass.”

Jun’s eyes sparkle with challenge as he helps you out of the rest of your clothes. When you’re fully bare in front of him, he spreads your thighs even further, letting his mouth hover tantalisingly where you need him most.

“Four-point-seven,” he repeats to himself, pressing a trail of kisses to your inner thigh. “I can work with that. Watch me get that perfect five.” 

Then he leans in and drags his tongue up your soaked pussy in one long stripe, a groan leaving him as he tastes you for the first time. Your hips jolt against his face, a sharp moan tumbling out of you and bouncing off the walls of your quiet apartment.

“Oh𑁋Jun𑁋”

“Hmm?” He circles your clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking it gently into his mouth, eyes flicking up to watch your face. Two fingers slide back inside of you, curling into that spot that makes your vision glassy. “God, you taste even better than I imagined…”

You slap a hand over your mouth as the pleasure starts to bloom its way out of you, but he reaches up and pulls it away, lacing your fingers together.

“Don’t do that, please,” he murmurs against your pussy. “Let me hear you, baby…”

The way he eats you out has your head spinning. It’s dizzying, a little messy, and entirely devoted to you. The wet sounds of his mouth and fingers echo and your moans and gasps travel throughout the room, only making him double down even harder to bring you over the edge.

“Five𑁋five stars𑁋ah, please𑁋”

You cum with a cry of his name, the pleasure crashing into you in waves. He continues to lazily lap at you before you start trying to push his head away, the two of you giggling breathlessly in the aftermath.

When he pulls away, his lips are shiny and he looks foolishly pleased with himself. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and crawls his way back up your body, meeting you for a deep kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, and the thought that this absolute klutz of a man just gave you the best orgasm of your life sends another shaky giggle rolling out of you. 

“You okay?” he breathes against your mouth, chuckling softly of you barely controlling your laughter. “I… what the hell just happened?”

“That was me letting go after holding back for years,” he answers without diffidence, tracing soothing circles over your bare thigh. “Do I get a final rating now?”

“Hmm, solid five-point-five. An extra half point for your enthusiasm and those cute noises you made down there.” You run your fingers through his messy hair, making him lean into your touch like a baby kitten. “But I’ll let you try for a six if you fuck me right now.”

Jun’s eyes darken instantly. “Say less.”

The two of you battle over taking off the rest of his clothes. Jun attempts to smoothly yank his hoodie off in one go, but it gets snug on something, causing him to laugh when it gets caught on his shoulders.

“Oh, my God𑁋stay still so I can take it off, you dummy!” You exclaim in frustration. 

“Help me then, smartass!” His laughter is muffled into the fabric. 

When you finally unsnag the hoodie and toss it somewhere on the floor, you both immediately reach for his pants at the same time, elbows bumping into each other. Rolling your eyes, you lightly smack his hand away so you can push it down his hips with borderline desperation. He kicks it off the rest of the way, his boxers following quickly.

The second he’s fully bare in front of you for the first time, he cages you into the couch right above you, littering soft kisses over your flushed cheeks. His cock rests heavily against your stomach as he stares down at you, chest rising and falling heavily.

“Hi,” he whispers stupidly, like he’s just remembered how to speak.

“Hi,” You reply with a bashful smile, reaching up to cradle his face, pinching his cheeks together. “Still waiting for my six-star performance.”

“Give me a break, I’m nervous!” he gasps defensively, grinding the underside of his dick along your slickness unconsciously. “I’ve only pictured this every single night for, like, the past four years!”

“Poor baby,” You coo impishly, reaching down to stroke him softly. “You’ve been jerking off to the thought of me for four years?”

Jun whines needily, burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. “Stop bullying me when I’m trying hard not to embarrass myself right now.”

“Then embarrass yourself. I’ve waited just as long, you idiot,” You urge, bringing him closer until there’s physically no more space between your bodies. 

With a sly smirk, he reaches down, lines himself up with you, and slowly pushes inside. He groans lowly as he sinks inside you until his hips are pressed against yours. For a second, he doesn’t move at all, only trembling with his forehead leaning onto yours. 

“Oh fuck𑁋I think I died a little,” he grunts pitifully into your neck. “You’re so warm. And tight. Think I-I short-circuited again.”

You give his shoulder a tight squeeze. “Move, Jun. Please.”

He obeys right away, thrusting into you experimentally and drawing a collective moan out from both of you. When he snaps himself into you again, again, and again, he sets a slow, deep rhythm that has the couch creaking softly beneath you.

“Shit, Jun𑁋” Your nails rake down his back as he hits that spot perfectly inside you again and again, wrapping your legs around his waist. “You… You feel so good.” 

“Yeah? You look so pretty falling apart on my cock, baby,” he praises heavily, voice sounding absolutely wrecked. “Still rating me? Am I passing?”

Your laugh dissolves into a moan when a particular thrust punches the air out of your lungs. 

“You’re at…” You bite down harshly on your bottom lip, glancing down to where you’re joined together. “Five-point… seven𑁋shit, keep going like that, I’m so close…”

“I’m so close too, not gonna last,” he pants, his breath molten on your neck. “God, I love you, I love you, I love you…”

You grab him by the nape of his neck to collapse his mouth back onto yours, swallowing all his desperate little grunts and sighs as the kiss turns heated fast. His rhythm stutters for the briefest second before he regains himself swiftly, the wet slap of your bodies meeting over and over again flooding the room, with your own hips rolling to meet with each of his thrusts. 

The heat of it all invades through all your nerves, that familiar coil tightening in your belly. The rating game is completely out of the window now. There’s only nothing but the drag of his cock kissing your walls and this thumb dipping in between your legs to caress your clit, encouraging you to let go.

When your orgasm finally crashes, it’s much more intense than the last. Your nails imprint sharp crescents down his back as one final broken cry rips out from your throat, stars bursting behind your ears. Your walls squeeze around him so tightly he curses, the drive of his hips faltering sloppily. 

“Baby, I can’t𑁋I’m gonna𑁋where𑁋?” 

“Inside,” You beg gravelly, wrapping your arms around him even tighter. “Lose yourself in me, Jun, please.”

That’s all it takes for his own orgasm to hit him. With one final thrust, he spills inside of you with a deep, guttural groan. His face drops into the crook of your sweaty neck as shaky little whimpers continue to leave him𑁋your name, I love you, fuck I love you𑁋repeatedly until he’s completely spent and melted into your arms. 

For a few moments of stillness, the only sounds travelling throughout the room is your ragged breathing and the sudden hum of your refrigerator. Eventually, Jun lifts his head from where it’s been resting comfortably on your chest. His dark hair is sticking out in all sorts of places, a few strands even matted to his forehead. And his eyes are half-lidded, yet so soft and full of love that you almost want to sob.

“So…” he starts hoarsely, kissing the tip of your nose. “Final rating?”

You let out a tired, contented laugh, brushing damp strands of his hair off his face.

“Mmmh… six-point-five,” You decide sleepily, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

A bright, boyish grin unleashes across his face. “I’ll take it. Room for improvement for the next round.”

“I𑁋next round?!”

“I aim to achieve ten stars. Or maybe more than that.”

“God, you’re so insatiable,” You groan, shaking your head despite the smile breaking through your expression. “Later on, maybe… for now, I just want to hold you.”

Jun swears he feels himself literally melt into a puddle at that, because how could he ever deny a request like that from you? Despite the little space on your creaky couch, he pulls out of you with a wince, grabs the throw blanket that has unknowingly dropped to the floor before shifting himself more deeper into your arms. The soft fabric wraps around your bare bodies together in a warm, messy nest, one of his legs slotting in between your legs. 

“Better?” he mumbles hopefully, letting his eyes fall to a close so he could listen to your heartbeat.

“Mhm. Much,” You hum in response, nosing through his hair. “I love you, you menace.”

You feel his lips meet the soft skin above your breast, right over your heartbeat.

“I love you too, dummy.”

Remember that stray cat that landed on your doorstep at the very beginning and refused to leave?

Yeah, he’s right where he wants to be now.

perm taglist (open) ʚɞ

@sn4psh00t @slytherinshua @seungkw1 @etherealyoungk @bananabubble

@parakissss @eskoupe @gent1es3xy @cherryophile @jaja-salute

@mellow-wishes @eternalse7en @hongyinujiang

[studiosvt]

Please validate your tag by reblogging this fic!

Taglist:

@prettypinkpassport @bobathi @ts19009 @kiiimgyuuu @smiileflower

@kittylover-inbothways @codeinebelle @gyuhao365 @coupsv @zealouscookierebeltrash

@fancypeacepersona @wildcreature @Frayaatiny @Leigh-darling @Ashlinxloves 

@bubble-ten @missthang600 @jenowithjaem @watchanisworld @cheolamor

@haoluver @thestoryofana13 @orpheustae @peaceofni-ki @bramos91

@tranquillitysoul @erireadsstuff @libraryinkuniverse @uhdrienne @missingsarinha

@hongyinujiang @nekkiotine @baobaoexe @isabellah29 @hoshiskimchi

@orbitinghao @babilou-pov @parakissss @severeanxietyissues

[bluehoodiewoozi]

Hate Me, (Please) Date Me [PART I]

radio host!Choi Seungcheol x radio host!fem!Reader

Word Count: 7.7k

Content Warnings: food and alcohol mentions. adult language and themes. men (and women, but mostly men) being cringey and off-putting. a toxic ex-boyfriend.

[First Time Caller Collab] When the middle-aged mothers calling his show start getting a little too comfortable on the line, Seungcheol finds himself in need of a quick solution to throw them off. He needs a girlfriend. And who better to ask than his one and only public rival working at the same station?

♡ I'M BACKK!! And this fic is part of @studiosvt's First Time Caller collab! Don’t forget to check out the other writers’ works!! ♡

The urge to slap Seungcheol's hand off your waist was overwhelming. If there ever was an award for most self-control exhibited, you should have been shortlisted for it, possibly one of the top three contenders.

Your cheeks hurt from faking smiles all day, your feet were sore, and you were pretty sure your make-up resembled that of a raccoon. Or maybe a clown with heat stroke. As if that wasn't enough, your eyes were actually starting to ache from all the times you had rolled them in the past two hours alone.

Whoever had decided to pair you up with Seungcheol to host the station's annual charity fair needed to get demoted back to desk work (and you weren't only thinking it because it had, in fact, been your dear partner of the day that had suggested this). Why a radio station needed to organise so many social events every year was beyond your comprehension and yet you had drawn the short end of the stick once again.

Seungcheol's fingers pinched your side a little too hard to be a sign of affection. When you turned to glare at him, he offered you a mocking smile that someone further away might have mistaken for an affectionate one. "Why the long face, honey?"

A shiver of disgust ran up your spine and almost made you nauseous. If there wasn't a group of grandmas watching the two of you with the eyes of gossip-hungry eagles, you might have fake gagged just to get your point across. Instead, you were stuck forcing a sugary sweet smile of your own and threatening him under your breath: "Remove your hands or I will break them the next time you try to hold mine."

Perhaps you had lost your edge because Seungcheol only responded with a noise infuriatingly similar to the one he made when someone introduced him to their Pomeranian puppy two hours ago. And then, as if to annoy you even further and test the reliability of your threats, he let his thumb trail up and down across your skin. You racked your brain but couldn't remember agreeing to skin-to-skin contact, so you glared at him some more for good measure.

"I'm serious, Choi," you told him, hand reaching for his to twist one of his fingers backwards just enough for him to get the message.

He hissed in pain and withdrew his hand. Now it was his turn to glare and you only replied with a victorious smile before turning back to the task at hand. Another teenager had strolled to the booth, eager to sign up for the big giveaway (rumour had it that this year's grand prize was a car; you knew better than to trust the rumour mills), and you helped him while Seungcheol tried his hardest to not look like his ego or finger was in pain.

"Be sure to tune in three hours from now to see if you won," you called out after the kid when he handed you the now filled ticket. "May the odds ever be in your favour." (Quoting the Hunger Games was, unfortunately, one of the few joys you still had today).

The teen offered you a wide smile at that — perhaps he had picked up on the reference? Maybe the youth isn't doomed after all? Then, as if the universe had a grudge against you, you watched him reach over to fist pump Seungcheol. There was a certain sparkle in his eyes, his smirk just a little too wolfish. You threw your head back and sighed.

"Here's a tip, oh darling boyfriend of mine," the B-word still felt foreign to your tongue but you supposed it was high time you got used to it; you side-eyed him, "when a random man comes up and treats me like a prize you've somehow won, you should be pissed, not proud."

Seungcheol blinked, not a single coherent thought bouncing around in his peanut shell of a brain. "What do you mean?"

You felt your eyebrows rise and gestured widely. "That kid! He was eyeing me like I'm a piece of meat. And he congratulated you while staring at my tits!"

He shrugged. "I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it."

"Neither did the last twelve guys who did the same, no doubt," you mumbled under your breath and adjusted the stack of blank giveaway tickets with newfound fury.

"Besides," he drawled, leaning his hip against the table, all suave until the flimsy thing nearly toppled over and nulled all of your previous efforts, "why am I not allowed to be proud? You're hot."

There was something in the way he said it that almost made it sound like an insult to your ears. Then again, perhaps you were too filled with hatred to interpret any of his words as anything but deliberate jabs at your person. That's what your friends said anyway when you discussed this scheme with them.

Hastily, Seungcheol fixed and adjusted the table. Further down the lot, someone was laughing — hopefully at him. He made a half-hearted attempt at fixing the stack of tickets; it looked like a proper mess. You sighed and reached to fix it again.

Maybe this whole arrangement was a colossal mistake. Maybe you were in over your head. Maybe your shared hatred was too far down in the dark side to ever be mistaken for adoration even by someone legally blind.

"Because this isn't real," you reminded him now. "Even if I was a prize — which I am not —, you haven't won me. You have nothing to be proud of."

Nothing about this was real, after all. It was all just a big scheme he had come up with in desperation to keep his afternoon show and fat paycheck. And you were the sorry fool who had agreed to it because — as much as it hurt to admit — you, too, were desperate.

In a way, you were different sides of the same dingy copper coin. One needed to get meddling grandmothers and flirty (and definitely not PG-13) mothers off his back. The other needed her ex to take a hint and leave her alone.

And so when Seungcheol came to you one evening after your daily request show — eyes downcast and brows furrowed in dismay after one of the executives threatened to halve his pay if he didn't make his show family friendly again — suggesting an unthinkable scheme, you agreed a little too readily. (Even if you did take a whole week to consider the pros and cons and spent one whole evening getting drunk while ranting to your friends.)

"I know you hate me," he told you back then, two weeks ago, his hair in disarray from tugging on it in frustration, his brown eyes for once full of something other than disgust at the sight of you, "but please pretend to date me."

The whole thing was supposed to be simple and effective. Fake some smiles, talk about each other on your shows, maybe dedicate a song to one another every once in a while, go on a walk during lunch break — easy enough that a toddler could do it. It should have been just the bare minimum to fake a relationship.

At first, you hadn't even thought anyone would actually buy it.

Your rivalry was well-known — two star hosts of the biggest radio station in the country, in a fierce battle for the prime time slots and special events. There were TikTok and Youtube compilations of you trading insults during your respective shows. More than a few gossip magazines had increased their sales by reporting on the "new developments" of your disagreements. The station executives couldn't decide whether they wanted you to tone down or go all in on the rivalry; avoiding questions about a hostile work environment hardly seemed the better option over rapidly increasing ratings.

But apparently the people's longing for a tale of enemies turning lovers was not limited to romantasy novels.

It had taken exactly one walk through a public parking lot on the evening of your first negotiations and suddenly the rumour mills were working overtime. It was utterly ridiculous, and it was also more effective than anything you could have come up with. There were blurry, poorly lit photos in the gossip magazines. There were pop culture specialists spewing video essay after video essay about the thin line between hatred, and body language experts analysing the way your fingers seemed to be reaching for his in one of the fifteen photos "if you just looked closely enough".

Even if your negotiations that night had ended on a negative note, there was no way you could have talked your way out of this supposed relationship. And now here you were, at the annual spring charity fair, hosting the giveaway and the special radio show from a little booth under an ancient oak tree with your biggest foe, putting on the best act of your life.

"You know, no one's going to believe we're actually dating if you look like you'd rather let the ground swallow you whole than be seen beside me," he pointed out with an infuriating smile, leaning closer as if to provoke you some more.

Under different circumstances you might have had to sigh and admit that he was right. But unfortunately for him…

"I think I'd have to slap you for anyone to believe we're not together at this point," you reminded him and nodded towards the gaggle of teenagers taking photos of the two of you, no doubt sharing them on social media with #OTP. You dreaded to think what your mentions would look like by the end of the day. Your phone had already overheated twice from all of the notifications.

Seungcheol's lips stretched into a smirk, his eyebrows waggling. "Didn't take you for the kinky type."

You could think of a kink or two to make him suffer the way he deserved. But alas.

A little girl ran up to the booth, flowers in her dark curly hair. Her lack of height did not deter her from grinning you from over the edge of the table. "Hi."

"Hi," you greeted her and felt your anger melt away just a little. "Did you want to sign up for the giveaway too?"

"No." She shook her head resolutely. "I'm too little for a car."

(You could practically hear the crack in his neck as Seungcheol's head tilted in confusion, his breath coming out in a sigh. He mumbled something vaguely like "why does everyone think it's a car?".)

The little girl didn't respond to questions, only staring up at you earnestly as if you were a Disney princess and she couldn't believe she had actually run into you at this event. You offered a little wave and this one she returned with one of her own. About to give up on making conversation with the tiny fan, you turned to look at what your "boyfriend" was doing, and — like a sleeper agent who had heard the code word — she lit up.

"You guys are so cute together," she declared and it was the loudest she had been all minute. You felt your eyes widen and desperately avoided eye contact, heat crawling up your neck all of a sudden. "My mommy says you used to hate each other."

"Still do," you mumbled under your breath but faked a smile once you were sure you no longer looked like a startled owl.

"I used to think she was insufferable," Seungcheol was happy to tell her and the look in his eyes told you he meant it in the present tense. "Drove me absolutely nuts. Stole my show, you know."

He'd been sure to bring that little tid-bit up every single day. If you weren't deep under cover as his girlfriend, you might have stomped on his foot and reminded him that he only lost the show because he kept flirting with the horny single mothers and grandmothers that called his show. All you had done was possess a bit of talent for hosting radio shows. But your lack of responsibility for his problems did not seem to deter him from blaming you for everything anyway.

The little girl gasped and looked at you like you had just admitted to arson. It was impossible to ignore the urge to defend yourself. "I didn't do it on purpose."

"That's what she likes to tell everyone," Seungcheol didn't let up and you felt his hand reach for your waist again, the familiar irritating warmth back on your skin. Clearly your earlier threats of violence had been of no use. Pulling you closer, he feigned a smile that almost looked smitten. "But I don't mind because now she's mine."

Not that you wanted to be. Not that you had any choice now.

You slapped his hand away as soon as the little girl was out of sight.

The weekly meetings were held every Monday at 10 am sharp. They were the closest thing this establishment had to proper order, complete with a whiteboard on wheels and dried-up markers, charts and slideshows. The manager of the station even put in the effort of replacing his usual colourful sweaters and mismatching bright coloured pants with a proper suit. He even wore a tie.

Most weeks, the topic of conversation was the ratings and the planning of new events. Reminders of radio etiquette. Tips and introductions for new bright-eyed interns. Sometimes the manager just rolled around the open office space on a desk chair and encouraged everyone to reveal their most recent work-related frustrations as if it was a big group therapy session. You used to think those were annoying.

Now you suddenly wished this was one of those sessions instead of whatever the hell it had become today.

The manager had pulled up a slideshow of the recent ratings by the minute. He was analysing the spikes in audiences tuning into the station, his eyes twinkling as possibilities upon possibilities appeared in his mind. Your colleagues were offering knowing smiles and not-so-subtly cranking their necks to look back at you.

You tried to make yourself smaller in your chair, pulling your jacket closer to your body as you side-eyed Seungcheol's form standing proud and happy right next to you (he had insisted staying in close proximity was vital to your scheme's success; you begged to differ). His thigh was close enough to gently sway your chair every time he adjusted his posture, his arms crossed over his chest in a way that had you hoping it was his arms the others were staring at and not your flustered face.

"—and if you look here, it's another spike!" The man in front of the whiteboard was practically vibrating with excitement. You wished radio ratings got you going as much as they did this guy; it would have made your life a lot more tolerable. "And if we play back the broadcast, this is when Seungcheol said he was turning the studio over to his girlfriend. Every time he mentioned her, the ratings went up!"

The social media manager of the station raised her hand, looking back at you with a smirk while she waited for the manager to finish his thought. And when he did and called upon her, she was more than happy to declare: "Our social media mentions spike during Seungcheol's segment as well, especially around those same minutes you pointed out. I think the people really want more Seungcheol and (Y/n)."

You grabbed your pen and scribbled another name into the list of traitors you had started five minutes into the meeting. It held the names of every colleague who was a little too enthusiastic about your new "relationship". Nayeon's name was the newest addition, underlined, with three exclamation points.

"The spring fair broadcast was a complete success as well," the manager continued with even more enthusiasm. At any minute now, he might burst. "The people loved our two star hosts, judging by the ratings. Look at those things!" He was staring at his own slideshow in absolute awe. Somewhere out there a data analysis company was mourning their loss of an enthusiast they didn't know existed. "This is the highest any of our special events have rated in a decade. It's a renaissance of the radio!"

"I'm not sure I'd go that far," Seungcheol mumbled, apparently finally cracking. Were his ears more red than usual?

When the manager looked like he might start crying from hope and excitement, Nayeon stood up to take over the presentation. She clicked a button and a new slide appeared, stuffed from edge to edge to edge with mentions of your name and… Your eyes had to be deceiving you.

You leaned closer just to make sure you weren't hallucinating. "Is that… a ship name?"

Nayeon smiled so bright she could have outshone the sun. "Yes, it is! You guys officially have a ship name! The listeners love you; the whole enemies to lovers thing is really in right now and you are the new face of it."

The chair whined under the weight of you slumping back. Had it been sentient, it might have whimpered at the way your nails sank into the plastic of the arm rests. Seungcheol reached down to pat the back of your hand, unable to hide his victorious smile as he did so. You countered by sinking your nails into the space between his fingers. His hand was promptly removed but the smile remained.

One of the older hosts squinted at the screen and raised her hand. "What does OTP mean?"

"Ah! Great question, Seunghwa." Turns out Nayeon had prepared a whole slide explaining all of the slang related to your newfound suffering. What great joy.

You added another two exclamation marks behind her name and underlined her name once more.

"You know," Seungkwan, one of the three hosts of the morning show, made sure to make eye contact with you as he suggested, "Seungcheol and (Y/n) should host together more often. I bet the ratings would spike to the heavens."

Another name for your traitors' list. You held his gaze as you wrote his name down letter by letter, raising your eyebrow in challenge. He didn't seem very bothered, more engaged in nodding along with Soonyoung who had very enthusiastically joined the conversation to make, more or less, the same point. Finally, he offered you a knowing smirk — one that said he knew your secret — and turned back to the slideshow.

The torture went on for another fifteen minutes. By the time it was done, you were far more exhausted than anyone who had been up for only two hours ever should feel.

As the people dispersed, eager to get back to their daily duties around the office or running errands somewhere else, Seungcheol remained at your side. He acted as a reminder of the mess of a soup the two of you had found yourself in. You couldn't even find the energy to shoo him away or glare at him. And so he stayed, arms still crossed over his chest as he looked over the office space like a guard dog on watch.

Soonyoung seemed to find it an invitation for more commentary, sidling up to the two of you with a warm smile. "You guys are seriously cute together. I always did think you'd make a great couple, but, wow! I mean, wow!" It seemed that even if Seungkwan had spotted a flaw in your begrudging scheme, Soonyoung was none the wiser to any of it. He turned to Seungcheol and patted his shoulder. "The way you talk about her during your shows is just so… I mean, you must be really in love."

"Must be," was all that Seungcheol said but he made no effort to hide his proud grin. Even his chest seemed to puff up a little with every word the morning show host spoke.

You wanted to make fun of him for it when Soonyoung finally walked away. You wanted to tease and bully him for being so full of himself and eager for compliments. Hell, a few brain cells of yours were halfway done coming up with a joke about how he must have only stayed in this spot to gain some more praise, like a puppy showing off his newest trick for some treats. But a jarring thought of another kind startled the jokes right out of your mind.

"You talk about me on your show?"

He startled at the sound of your voice. Then, as fast as he had lost his composure, he got it back and raised a brow. "Of course. That's the whole point. What else am I supposed to talk about when someone calls to request my phone number or asks if I'm planning on starting an OnlyFans?"

There were few things you hated more than admitting that a man was right. Your lips parted in preparation to spew some insults and arguments. Unfortunately, you had no choice but to admit defeat this time and closed your mouth with a huff.

"Exactly," he teased and reached to pat your head. You slapped it away and rolled your chair further away from him with a pointed glare. It only seemed to make him happier. "If you were a good girlfriend, you would listen to my show sometimes."

All of the gold in the world wouldn't have been enough to pay you to do that. That's what you told yourself as you put on your headphones and tuned him out to the sound of your music.

(But when the clock struck 2 pm and the studio door closed behind Seungcheol, your finger lingered over the station's app on your phone. Listening in just once couldn't hurt, right? He would never have to know. It was just for research. Right.)

[You are listening to Words of Wisdom on Station SVT, 171.7 MHz]

"Hello and thank you for calling the Words of Wisdom show. My name's Seungcheol and what can I help you with today?"

"Oh my god, are you Choi Seungcheol?!"

"That's me, ma'am."

"You sound even hotter on the phone."

"… Thank you. I'm sure my girlfriend would agree. So, what can I and your fellow listeners offer you advice on today?"

"…"

"Ma'am?"

The jokes practically wrote themselves. You were but a vehicle by which they presented themselves in this reality. You were a humble servant of jokes at Seungcheol's pride.

Smiling, you leaned against the studio's desk while he packed up his things. "Talked about your girlfriend on your show, did you?"

He barely hummed in response. "Glad you've caught up with the news, sweetheart."

"I just find it funny, you know," you continued regardless, giddy from the opportunity to tease him for once. He always seemed to have the upper hand. It was a glorious moment. Maybe you needed to listen to his shows more often just for more material. "You're just so bad at lying."

Glaring, he looked up from his bag. "At least I'm trying. You've barely mentioned me on your show. Really, you're making me look desperate."

"Are you not?" You blinked at him, full of both innocence and mischief. "I'm just saying."

Lowering your voice to match his, you mocked the way he spoke on the broadcast, perfect down to the deadpan and entirely awkward tone: "I'm sure my girlfriend would agree." You pretended to throw up under the desk. "I hope you’re not applying for an acting job any time soon.”

That seemed to touch a nerve. Seungcheol's arms crossed over his chest again, a defensive stance rather than an arrogant one this time. "Yeah? I'd like to see you do better. Oh wait!" He pursed his lips into a sorry pout. "You don't even mention me on your show."

"You want me to talk about you?" You laughed. "What's there to talk about? Give me a reason to."

"Wow," he deadpanned. "You must be really in love."

"Absolutely smitten, really."

The clock above the door told you the next show was supposed to start in mere seconds. An idea formed in your head as you took your place at the desk, adjusting the large headphones and setting the microphone to your height. The screen displayed a countdown of seconds — somewhere in another room, a poor sound engineering intern had been set in charge of bringing you on air in time.

Seungcheol still remained in the room, fumbling to pack his bag and the notes it contained. There was a red hue to the skin on the back of his neck and ears, his hands shook imperceptibly. It only got worse when you tapped the ON AIR button and started your show.

"Good afternoon, dear listeners. It's time for your favourite show — it's time for Well Wishes. I'm your host for the next hour and a half, so be sure to call in or drop your song requests and well wishes in an email," you went through your introductions with practised grace, not a single syllable stuttered or strained, your eyes on Seungcheol. While speaking, you queued up the first song of your session.

When his gaze, fiery and annoyed and challenging, met yours, you let your smile widen and declared, "To start us off while we wait for your requests, I'm going to play a special song dedicated to my boyfriend. Honey, if you're listening right now, I hope you're driving home safe, love you. Enjoy your favourite song."

If the B-word had felt uncomfortably wrong at the spring fair, it sure didn't sound like it this time. Not to you, not to him, and certainly not to the listeners. It was definitely miles more natural than Seungcheol's strained efforts of referring to you on his own broadcast and he seemed to realise it just the same, his eyes rolling as he flipped you off and trudged out of the studio.

He was almost at the door when Apink's "Mr Chu" started playing. His entire body shuddered, cringing wholeheartedly. The door shut behind him seconds later (but not before he could show you his middle finger one last time).

As peace and Apink filled the studio, you leaned back in your chair, basking in the afternoon sun. Finally victorious. It was the little victories that mattered the most.

It felt like you had achieved your greatest goal, or were at least one large step closer to it, at least. The sun felt warmer and brighter than it had all spring. There was not a single cloud in the bright blue sky, only white birds passing by. Even the cushioning of the chair seemed nicer than usual. It's a miracle what changes a small victory and a happy mood can bring.

You greeted the first caller of the day with a bright smile and all the joy in the world. "What song can I play for you today?"

The universe was on your side. Great music all around, happy people calling your show, lovely greetings in the emails. A part of you started wondering if this was the right day to buy a lottery ticket.

But all good things must come to an end, some sooner than others.

"Hello, thank you for calling Well Wishes," you greeted yet another caller, still high off your win. "Who are we greeting and what are we listening to?"

There was silence for a while. And then you heard a familiar voice. "…(Y/n)?"

It felt as if rain clouds had appeared out of thin air and covered the sun. Dark, stormy clouds full of nothing but heart ache and hail.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly seeming to swell up. Your body was taken over by an emotion you knew far too well and had hoped to forget.

It shouldn't have been a surprise by this point; Youngjae seemed to call the show every day like clockwork — at least he had until the photos from the parking lot came out. And yet your heart threatened to seize up every time you heard his voice on the broadcast. Once, his voice had brought you warmth and happiness and made you feel so, so in love. Now it only served to remind you of all the things you could have had. If only he hadn't revealed himself to be such an ass hole.

"Hello," you forced yourself to speak. "What can I play for you today?"

"I've missed you," he spoke.

And the cycle repeated again, chewing through the process you had made like it was nothing.

There were few things you hated more than admitting that a man was right. It seemed that you might have won a battle but Seungcheol had the strategy to win the war. You steeled your aching heart. If mentioning your "boyfriend" at every possibility was the solution, you were going to use the hell out of it.

The next time someone requested a love song, you made sure to say it reminded you of Seungcheol and his pretty brown eyes. Whatever it took to fight for the space to let your heart heal. Whatever it took to end the cycle.

But the heart is a fickle thing and it rarely does what you tell it to. You could pretend it was made of steel and cold ice all you wanted, but deep inside it still ached. And the cycle repeated again.

"You talked about me on your show," was the first thing Seungcheol said when you walked into the studio the next day. Clad in an oversized white hoodie that made him look almost huggable, he was spinning around in the chair — your chair — and practically giggling with glee. "And here I thought you were too cool to talk about your boyfriend."

You rolled your eyes and glanced at the clock. "Figured I might as well make use of you."

"Was it because your ex called?" His smile said he knew the answer all too well. "Be honest: if you had to choose between your ex and me…?"

Now he was just fishing for compliments. But you hadn't slept all that well last night and falling into his silly traps felt like the least of your worries. "I'm dating you, aren't I?"

The words came out almost on autopilot while you stared at the chair he had occupied. That nice, comfy chair, practically moulded to fit your bottom from a year of wear. But Seungcheol didn't look like he had any plans of leaving it any time soon. You offered the chair one last contemplative look.

"Don't make me leave," he whined but there was little sincerity in his voice, only teasing, "I'm so comfy."

On another day, you might have grabbed the chair by the arm rests and swung it out the door, relishing in the hollering and cheers of your co-workers. But something had broken within you on the broadcast yesterday.

With a sigh, you walked to the other side of the room and grabbed one of the spare chairs meant for the guests. One of its wheels squeaked every once in a while and another one was clearly slanted from years of abuse. It would have to do.

Seungcheol stared at you, eyes wide and jaw hanging open. There was something like concern in his gaze. He didn't make a sound, didn't even move while you set up for the show, watching you like you were a wild animal he had stumbled upon on a hiking trail.

Finally, you couldn't take it anymore. "What?"

"You're not going to make me leave?" He looked like he was just about ready to banish himself if you just so much as nodded. You shrugged and he slumped in his seat. "Are you okay?"

"I will be," you told him with a sigh and pulled on your headphones, "one day."

He didn't say anything else but he stayed for the entire show. His presence was quiet. You half-expected to get annoyed with anything about him — his breathing, his little chuckles, the tapping of his fingers when a particularly good song came on. But to your surprise, he seemed to have the opposite effect for once.

It was odd. You had grown so used to constantly being irritated by him but now that you were stuck in a small room with him — just the two of you in creaky office chairs and nothing but short phone calls to keep you company —, his presence was comforting instead. A calming paperweight on top of the troubles that were threatening to fly around the room and suffocate you. A familiar character by your side no matter what went on in your life.

"I love that song!" he made sure to shout when a teen called in to request an older R'n'B track. Instead of glaring at him, you found yourself leaning away from the mic so he could lean closer and converse with the youngster. "Kid, you've got great taste. You need to call in more often."

Before you knew it, he was co-hosting, his chair pressed against yours, his hand on the mouse to guide the cursor through the playlists and emails. Between requests, he offered you smiles and glances that looked almost… kind. Warm. Gentle. Like he was trying to comfort you in his own way. And for some god-forsaken reason it actually worked.

You found yourself laughing and smiling and dancing along to songs in your chairs, your hand in his as he twirled you around like a record player. Just for this moment of time, he was not your work rival, not your enemy; he was just an old friend who had showed up when you needed him. And you let yourself get lost in that feeling. A break in the cycle.

It reminded you of the old days — your first months at the station under his guidance. It felt like a different lifetime now, your friendship had turned into a rivalry. This was a glimpse of what might have been if things had been different: if you hadn't been favoured by the executives, if you hadn't earned those high ratings and been awarded your first prime time slot show at his expense.

When a commercial break rolled in, he sighed and tilted his head as he studied you. "I didn't realise that man had that much of a hold on you still."

"Neither did I." And he didn't. He hadn't. But something about his call, about him requesting one of your favourite songs, about his voice sounding so full of love when he said your name — it had messed with your mind. It was a whole day later and you were only just starting to feel like yourself again.

"I think it's just because he hadn't called in a while. When we started, you know," you cleared your throat, "dating… He stopped calling. I thought it was done. Guess he was just taking a break."

He hummed in thought. "Yeah, that explains it. He's an ass hole for that, by the way."

"I don't disagree."

"Good," he smiled, "at least you have standards."

A familiar spark returned to you. Normalcy was returning, bit by bit. You offered him a playful pout. "Not very high ones if I'm dating you."

"Oh!" He gasped and clutched his chest. "My poor, poor heart. How ever will I survive this insult?"

"You can always leave," you reminded him with a helpful motion towards the door.

Seungcheol spun around in his chair. "No chance. I haven't filled my daily 'annoying (Y/n)' quota yet."

"Well, if you won't leave," you nodded towards the computer screens, "at least make yourself useful. Pick our next caller."

He smiled a little to bright when the commercial break ended. A few sentences later, he had the next call ready to go; one click and the familiar static filled your headphones.

"You're live on Well Wishes," you spoke, beating him to the mic with a short laugh. "What are you thinking and what can we play for you today?"

"Oh! (Y/n), I almost thought I called the wrong show," the familiar voice spoke.

Two days in a row. The universe had given you one small victory and decided to match it with an array of bad luck. You glared at the screen displaying the calls — tens of people currently on the line, waiting to get picked, and somehow the stars had aligned to remind you what suffering felt like.

Your one-sided staring contest with the computer screen was broken by the sound of fake gagging from your right side. Seungcheol was cringing and shaking his head and crossing his arms in an X motion as if to ward off an evil spirit. There seemed to be at least one thing the two of you could agree on.

"Sir, state your song choice," he interrupted your ex's soulful monologue. "The line is very, very busy today. I don't think we have the time to listen to your story right now."

Silence in the static. The sweet sound of a victory you hadn't expected. He was speechless and your heart was not aching this time.

Seungcheol smirked.

"Would you look at that," he silently mouthed at you, proud of himself like he had never been before. Out loud, he spoke again, "What song can we play for you?"

The only thing that sounded was the end-of-call tone. Tears of relief welled up in your eyes. You could have cheered and danced in joy.

"Oh, well, that's a shame," Seungcheol continued the broadcast as if he hadn't just intimidated your ex-boyfriend into hanging up on live radio. "Let's pick our next caller. Hopefully they have a good song ready to request."

Perhaps fake dating your enemy wasn't the worst decision you had ever made. Perhaps, you dared to think, it was turning out to be one of the better ones. Even if he was hogging your broadcast.

[You are listening to Words of Wisdom on Station SVT, 171.7 MHz]

"And that was the freshest hit of IU. What a great song. Hm. I see we don't have a lot of callers today, so how about we switch things up just for this one show? This time I am the one in need of advice.

"Say, there's this woman — you know this already; I haven't shut up about her all week, I think—, and we're doing fine— I just saw that concerned email you sent, KnittingRocks69; I promise we haven't broken up— Anyways. Everything's great but I just… feel like I should do better. I don't think I'm all that great at this entire boyfriend-thing. And I'm sure there are many listeners who are in a similar situation. So what can we do to be better boyfriends?

"Feel free to call in with your advice or send it via email. And, oh, we already have our first caller! Hello, what advice do you have for me today?"

Your desk was pink and yellow. It fluttered in the draft blowing in from the window. You were fairly certain it wasn't supposed to do that and you already knew who to blame for this.

"Choi Seungcheol!" you yelled out without even thinking about it for a second. He was the obvious culprit. And the bright grin he wore while pretending to enjoy the late morning view with his cold water was all the proof you needed.

Your glare only served to make him light up more. "Yes, darling?"

Infuriated, you gestured widely while he leisurely approached. "Why is my desk covered in sticky notes?"

Lips pursing into a pout, he contemplated and blinked as if he hadn't even noticed before. The corner of his mouth was twitching. "I figured you decorated it last night."

"Yeah? You thought I got bored after my broadcast and decided to cover the entire surface of my work space with neon sticky notes? That's what happened here?"

"It must have," he told you and this time he didn't even bother to pretend he wasn't smirking. "I only placed, what? Three hundred of these? Four, maybe? The rest of them were already here."

You felt your heart rate rocket as annoyance slowly started to give way to burning rage. A desk covered in paper cuts waiting to happen was never something you wanted to deal with. "Remove them."

"Why?"

"Because I would like to use my desk?" You knew you were playing right into his hand, fulfilling that sick prank-loving streak of his with your reactions. But getting irritated was so much easier than meditating and taking everything in stride. Besides, someone needed to yell at this man every once in a while lest his ego grew too big.

Seungcheol gave your desk another thoughtful look. Then he reached forward. He reached forward and made eye contact with you as he plucked a singular pink note off the desk and held it out for you to take like it was a gift. You snapped it from his fingers and threw it at his face in a crumpled ball. A perfect forehead shot.

"I'm going to go get some water," you told him slowly, eyes on him like a predator ready to pounce on a hare for being in the wrong spot, fingers pointing at the desk stiffly as you brushed past him, "and when I come back, this desk better be empty."

Immediately regret caught up with you and you turned on your heel to glare at him. "Scratch that. I want those sticky notes gone."

"Aw," he pouted and tapped your keyboard like it was a toy, "I already had the perfect place to hide your plant."

Your fingers were itching to grab the collar of his t-shirt and choke him with it. You found yourself stepping closer to him as you reiterated your point: "I didn't mean empty my desk—"

"If you're planning on kissing, could you do it someplace else?" a voice interrupted.

As if someone had poured a bucket of ice cold water over you, you sobered from your anger. Even Seungcheol looked a bit more flustered than usual. As you breathed, your chest just about brushed against his — a clear sign that you had gotten too close.

Your startled eyes met his and— Had there always been so many shades of brown in his eyes? Was that a speck of gold near the edge of his left iris? Had his lips always been so full and tempting? You had never seen him this up close before; that had to be the reason for the sudden thundering of your heart.

The silence stretched, seconds feeling like entire minutes until finally you jerked out his magnetic field, your gaze hardening as you stepped back and crossed your arms over your chest.

"And you did say you wanted the desk empty," Seokmin helpfully provided from his spot right next to your desk just then. He barely looked up from his magazine to offer a smile before turning back to it like he hadn't just provoked you. It seemed the list of traitors had a new member for a multitude of reasons.

"Fine," Seungcheol finally relented under your hardening glare.

Slowly, like a kid trying to get out of chores by doing them poorly, he began removing the notes. One from here, one from there, a third one from a completely different spot. There was no rhyme or reason to his work and it only served to annoy you further. His movements were stiff and almost unnatural as he gathered the notes in his left hand.

Now that he was further away, you could think properly again and the annoyance was back at full force. You rubbed the bridge of your nose, resisting the urge to throw something at him again. "It's going to take you hours at that rate."

The reply you earned started with a dramatic (theatrical, really) sigh. "I know. I'm really such a good boyfriend for sacrificing my time to help you, aren't I?"

"How noble of you."

"I know."

"Truly, I cannot thank you enough for your charitable nature," you deadpanned and walked towards the break room.

You needed space between yourself and this infuriating man. Because he irritated you. Drove you nuts. Made you unable to figure out whether you wanted to punch him or kiss his lips. Because he irritated you. Right. That was it.

There was not a single bone in your body that felt anything like attraction towards this man. When you looked at him just then, it was just pure objective observation. Choi Seungcheol was an attractive man by most standards; you clearly weren't entirely unsusceptible to his charms. None of it was romantic. None of it meant anything.

You gulped a glass of cold water and the world shifted back into place.

There was nothing romantic about the way he had kept you company at your show and scared your ex. Nor about the way he spoke of you on his show. Nor the way he kept you near in public, his arm always casually resting on your waist or hip, his presence a shield against the disbelieving stares of everyone that knew you.

No, you had not almost kissed Seungcheol. You did not want to kiss Seungcheol. The whole fake dating scheme had simply clouded your judgement and blended the boundaries of your hatred.

Satisfied with your conclusion, you smoothed your clothes and fixed your hair before walked back into the office space, fully expecting to find the devil himself still painfully plucking sticky notes off your desk.

Thankfully, he was not there. He was nowhere to be found, in fact. And neither were the three to four hundred sticky notes. Your desk was as clean as it had been when you left it last night.

Not entirely clean, actually, now that you looked at it closer. There was a singular obnoxiously pink note still on the desk. And next to it: a take-away cup from the coffee shop across the street and a paper bag lumpy with pastries, still warm from the oven.

"What's this?" you found yourself asking as you picked up the cup. It smelled like your favourite drink. A cautiously taken short sip confirmed that hypothesis.

You grabbed the note, scoffed in disbelief at the writing on it and stuffed the paper into your drawer.

'Don't let this fool you — I still don't like you much'

No, there was absolutely nothing romantic about any of this.

[studiosvt]

Please validate your tag by reblogging this fic!

Taglist:

@prettypinkpassport @bobathi @ts19009 @kiiimgyuuu @smiileflower

@kittylover-inbothways @codeinebelle @gyuhao365 @coupsv @zealouscookierebeltrash

@fancypeacepersona @wildcreature @Frayaatiny @Leigh-darling @Ashlinxloves 

@bubble-ten @missthang600 @jenowithjaem @watchanisworld @cheolamor

@haoluver @thestoryofana13 @orpheustae @peaceofni-ki @bramos91

@tranquillitysoul @erireadsstuff @libraryinkuniverse @uhdrienne @missingsarinha

@hongyinujiang @nekkiotine @baobaoexe @isabellah29 @hoshiskimchi

@orbitinghao @babilou-pov @parakissss

@fairwanda @nahyuckism @hocidust @changbinkisser @eyeshasimps

[seungkw1]

vinyl, punk rock, and a little bit of love — yjh

💿🎧 playlist

PAIRING: campus DJ!jeonghan x f!reader GENRE: friends to lovers, college au, 2000s au WC: 16,816 WARNINGS: weed/alcohol consumption, discussion of mental illness, bit o jealousy, angst, idiots in love, semi-public sex but like barely, dry humping, fingering, oral, multiple orgasms, petnames (baby), cum swallowing, lots of whimpering u already know!!!!!, jun cameo and he's real weird again!! (/pos), i made up a bunch of terrible fake band names enjoy A/N: written for @studiosvt's First Time Caller collab! be sure to check out all the other banger fics on the masterlist! i had a blast writing this, loser emo boi jeonghan was not something i knew i needed but i fear i am now in love with him. btw, this fic is set in 2003! peak era for this genre of music if u ask me :) shoutout to the homie @haologram for beta reading, u da best fr ily <3

SYNOPSIS: You met Jeonghan freshman year of college — he seemed a bit strange at first, shy and a bit elusive, but you two instantly became friends when you bonded over your love of alternative music and record stores. You wouldn't necessarily call him your best friend, but as friendships and relationships came and went over the years, Jeonghan was always a constant in your life. It's junior year now, and you're trying to convince him to apply for the open DJ position at the campus radio station. WFVC 90.5 is known for being the hotspot for underground punk music, and with Jeonghan majoring in communications studies you know it's the perfect role for him. He gets the job, and you figure you'd be seeing a lot less of him now that he's busy working the late night shift at the station. But it's quite the opposite — you're spending more time with Jeonghan than ever before, and you start to realize there might be something more than friendship on the horizon for you two.

[ONE]

Filtered sunlight beaming through the treetops hits your eyes as you step out into the quad, making you squint in the sudden brightness that starkly contrasts the dim interior of the Literature Hall you were just in. The air is crisp — not yet chilly, but fresh and invigorating, a tell-tale sign of fall being right around the corner. The quad is buzzing with life, students chattering as they stroll to class, bikes zipping past you on the sidewalk, every bench and shaded spot under a tree occupied with people laughing, reading, relaxing. You leisurely make your way over to your usual spot, but as you approach the small oak near the Communications Building you see two girls you don't recognize sitting in the grass beneath its low branches. Puzzled, you look around, but then you spot a familiar lanky figure standing outside the Comms building. His back is turned to you, so all you can see is the mess of long dark hair upon his head, but the baggy flannel shirt and the black backpack adorned with various pins and patches slung over one shoulder are a dead giveaway. As you head in his direction, you see he appears to be staring straight ahead at a lamppost.

"Hey dork, I was looking for you," you call out playfully as you walk toward him, but he doesn't seem to hear you. Getting closer, you spot the pair of headphones on his head, the wire plugged into the portable CD player in his hand — the loud, raucous sounds of Linkin Park blaring in his ears tinnily resonating through the air from halfway across the sidewalk. When you get within arm's reach you tug on the handle of his backpack. He nearly jumps out of his skin, whipping around and yanking the headphones off his head with a startled expression on his face. When he sees it's you, he relaxes, but not without majorly rolling his eyes.

"Jesus, you fucking scared me," he sighs. He lifts the CD player in his hand and pauses the song, the banging melody ringing through the foam-covered headphones ceasing.

"Sorry," you apologize, but a wide grin spreads on your face. "I didn't think you'd react that much. What are you doing, anyway?" you ask, looking over to the lamppost.

"Nothing," he says quickly, but a flier with bold text catches your eye.

Do you like punk music? Do you like radio? WFVC 90.5 is HIRING for a DJ position! No experience necessary, Communications majors preferred. APPLY NOW at the station (Comms Building 2nd Floor)

"Oh my god, Jeonghan this is perfect!" you exclaim, but your friend shakes his head.

"I was just looking."

"Dude, you HAVE to apply. This is literally your dream job!"

Jeonghan frowns. "I doubt they would hire me."

"What the hell are you talking about? You're exactly the person they're looking for," you tell him. And it's true — Foxville College's singular radio station may be a local joint, but it's famous across all of Wisconsin for being the station for underground grunge, punk, and alternative rock. You've been listening to it since you were a kid, and its where your love of the genres originated. Jeonghan happens to share the exact same music taste — it's how you became friends in the first place back in Freshman year.

"Hey!" Jeonghan calls after you as you both exit the same building. You had just came from the same class, Intro to Poetry, but it's the very first day of school, so he doesn't know your name. But he saw your notebook fall out of your half-open backpack, and you didn't notice it.

He picks up the small, black leather notebook and quickly zips after you. "Excuse me," he tries again, but you're wearing headphones. Your music is loud, and familiar. He taps on your shoulder, startling you slightly.

"Hi, sorry," Jeonghan tells you as you turn to face him, shifting the headphones off one ear so you can hear. "You dropped this." You look at his hands as he extends the notebook to you.

"Oh! That is mine," you remark, taking your headphones off fully now and pausing your music.

"Yeah, your backpack was open."

You look over your shoulder, and sure enough, the bag is half-unzipped.

"Whoops," you tell him with a lighthearted laugh, taking the notebook and putting it back in the bag, making sure to close it all the way this time. "Well, thank you, I appreciate it," you say with a friendly smile. You go to put your headphones back on and walk away, but before you can do so he points at your portable CD player.

"Are you listening to Green Day?" he asks.

"Oh, yeah! I am!" you reply excitedly. "It's the Dookie album, one of my faves."

"That album is so good," he agrees with a smile. "I don't mean this in a rude way or anything," he says shyly. "But you I wouldn't have guessed you'd be into punk music."

"Yeah, I get that a lot," you say with a laugh. "I don't particularly dress very edgy or anything. Maybe I should start dressing the part."

"Wear whatever you want," he responds with a shrug. "The most punk rock thing you can do is be yourself."

"That's very true," you grin back at him. "I'm y/n, by the way."

"I'm Jeonghan," he replies with a soft smile. "It's nice to meet you."

And so you and Jeonghan quickly became friends. He's a pretty quiet guy, very much the opposite of your bubbly, sociable self; but despite your differences you get along well. He's also pretty much the only person you know who likes the same type of music as you, so you definitely share a close bond over that.

"Besides," you say to Jeonghan. "You really should get a job anyway."

"Hey!" he pouts. "Are you calling me broke?"

"Yes. Because you are."

The left corner of his mouth lifts slightly, giving you a half-grin. "So are you, moron."

You playfully give him a light punch in the arm. "Takes one to know one."

"I'll think about it," he concedes.

"You better. If not then I'll submit the application for you."

"Pretty sure that's not allowed," he replies, raising a brow at you.

"Like that's gonna stop me," you inform him.

"Unfortunately, I believe that," he chuckles, rolling his eyes again. "Anyway, c'mon," he says to as he starts walking off. "I have a surprise for you."

"Oh god, what have you done now?" you pretend to complain as you follow after him.

"No no, you're gonna like this one," he grins. "I promise."

"Okay, well now I know where we're going," you say as Jeonghan turns onto Harton Street. The street boasts a Dead End sign, and it's path is winding. You can't see much past the trees, but you know there is only one reason to come down this way.

"I was here over the weekend," you inform him. "I don't need to buy anything else."

"Oh please, like you'd pass up the opportunity to get some new vinyl," he grins.

"Dude, I'm already living off ramen."

"Just trust me."

"Okaaay," you reply, feigning skepticism. "If you say so."

The tires of Jeonghan's 1991 Mercury Tracer crunch as he turns off the main road onto a white gravel drive. A humble building comes into view, its exterior painted pastel yellow with a giant sign reading TURNPIKE RECORDS in a large, swirling font that looks straight out of the 1970s. A neon sign resides in the window, flickering slightly but advertising that the shop is open. There's only one other car in the small lot: a pristine, hot red Chevy Camaro also straight out of the 70s, belonging to the shop's owner.

Jeonghan parks the car and the two of you head into the store. The front door squeaks as you open it, an assortment of small bronze bells hanging above the door ringing out to announce your entry. The familiar, slightly-musty scent of the used record store fills your nose as you walk down the three steps taking you to the shop floor. Aside from the natural light from the window, the place is pretty dim, lit mainly by a couple of bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling and a variety of glowing lava lamps of all shapes, sizes, and colors placed throughout the room. Nearly every inch of wall is covered in a hodge-podge of framed posters and photographs, giving the whole place a chaotic but vibrant feel. Without a doubt, this is your favorite spot in town.

"I wonder if they have the new Muse album yet," you comment, meandering through the empty shop over to the Rock section.

"Not yet," Jeonghan replies as he starts flipping through a nearby discount bin. "I checked already."

You hear a faint swoosh come from behind you. You turn around to see a tall, heavily-tattooed man carrying a large box emerging from the thick velvet curtain that leads to the back of the store — none other than the shop's owner, Tripp. He's in his mid-40s, bald except for a long goatee on his chin, and he has more earrings than you can even count.

"Hey hey, I thought I heard my favorite customers out here!" Tripp says cheerfully when he sees you and Jeonghan. He sets the box on top of the counter, brushing his hands off and coming out to greet you on the floor.

"Oh please, you say that to everyone," you grin at the man.

"Definitely not," he shakes his head. "Besides, between the both of you you guys are keeping me in business. Speaking of," he says as he suddenly snaps and points at you. "I got something for ya."

He quickly returns to the counter and retrieves something from the shelves beneath the register. He walks back to you and hands you an album, light gray in color. You flip it over, and your jaw drops. It's a Japanese edition of Led Zeppelin IV — your favorite album of all time.

"Your friend told me you've been looking for this one," he tells you, nodding his head in Jeonghan's direction. "He convinced me to set it aside for you."

"Wow, that's so nice thank you!!" you tell Tripp excitedly. "How much?"

"Don't worry about it. It's already paid for."

"What?!"

You look over at Jeonghan, but he just smiles back at you sheepishly.

"What the hell, thank you," you grin at him. "You did not have to do that though."

"Actually, I did," Jeonghan admits. "Tripp made me."

Tripp lets out a hearty laugh. "Well regardless, I'm glad it's in the hands of someone I know will really appreciate it."

"Let me pay you back," you say to Jeonghan as Tripp returns to restocking, but he just shakes his head.

"Don't worry about it, really," he tells you warmly.

"Okay, fine. But you're gonna come over and listen to this with me," you insist, poking him in the chest. "We can smoke and I'll order pizza."

Jeonghan's face lights up. "Sounds like a deal to me," he grins.

brrrrrrr

brrrrrrr

The dull trill of the phone rings in your ear as you wait for the call to connect. You've only hit the bong once, but your head already feels like you're floating in the clouds. You mindlessly twirl the cord around your index finger, and you're halfway zoned out by the time the other line picks up.

"Arthur's Pizzeria," a cheerful voice suddenly speaks into your ear. "How can I help you?"

"Yeah hi!" you blurt out in your mildly startled state. "Can I order one large pepperoni pizza with extra cheese for delivery?"

"You got it! What's the address?"

"22 Elmwood Street, Unit 201."

"Great! It'll be about 20 minutes."

With a click you set the handset back onto the hook, returning to the living room. Your roommate won't be back until later, so you two have the place to yourselves — perfect for getting high and lazing around without judgment. Jeonghan sits on the couch, sinking into the cushions already and staring off into space. It takes him a moment to register that you're back; when he notices you, he tries to sit up, but the effort required for it currently seems monumental.

"Pizza ordered?" he asks, peering at you through lazy eyelids.

"Yup," you reply as you plop onto the other end of the couch. "Be here in 20."

"Sweet," he grins. You reach for the bong, grabbing the lighter next to it and lighting a bit more of the bowl. After a decently fat rip and a few solid coughs, you extend it out to Jeonghan.

"Man, I'm so high already," he groans, but he takes the colorful swirled glass from your hand anyway. "Where'd you get this grass?"

"Got it from Joshua," you reply, lifting your feet up onto the couch and tucking them beside you.

"Oh," Jeonghan replies, giving you a look as he exhales a cloud of smoke and hands the bong back over.

"What's your deal with Joshua?" you question, raising your brow at him.

"What? Nothing," he says quickly. "We should open a window."

He gets to his feet and walks across the room, lifting the nearest window up as far as it will go. It's a nice evening — the crisp air from earlier has gotten cooler, but it feels delightful as it begins to drift into the apartment in the light breeze.

"I know you don't like him," you continue, not letting Jeonghan ignore your question. "But I've never known why."

"I never said I didn't like him," he denies, flopping back onto the couch.

"You didn't have to," you point out. "Your face says it all."

He grimaces, rolling his eyes. "Curse my expressive nature. Anyway, I dunno, he just always seems like he's trying to make a move on you."

"Oh, he's like that with everyone," you reply matter-of-factly.

"Right."

"He is," you affirm. "And besides, so what if he was?"

"Huh?" Jeonghan pipes up, seemingly surprised by your question. "Oh, I just mean… I just don't trust guys who are always talking to girls that. Seems sleazy."

"No, really," you reiterate. "He's like that with everyone."

"Okay," he concedes skeptically. "If you say so."

"Should we play some Zeppelin?" you ask, getting up to go grab the record. Jeonghan's face lights up.

"Fuck yeah," he grins.

You put the album on, the signature bold, heavy sounds of the band greeting your ears as you crank up the volume. As you sit there listening, you finish off the bowl with Jeonghan, the air of your apartment now completely overtaken by smoke despite the open window.

"When's that damn pizza gonna get here?" he mumbles, but before you can even respond you hear a knock coming from the front door.

"Whoa, you summoned it," you giggle, rising to your feet a bit too quickly and stumbling slightly on your way over to the door. You answer, having a quick conversation with the usual delivery boy before paying and scurrying back over to the couch, the heavenly smell of hot, greasy pepperoni pizza joining the weed aroma in the room. You don't even bother with plates, instead simply picking up the slices and shoveling them directly into your hungry mouths. The conversation remains paused for a few minutes; you zone out, letting yourself get lost in the music, but eventually your conversation with Jeonghan earlier pops back into your head.

"You really should apply to that DJ job," you say, turning to him, but he just shrugs.

"Eh, I don't think I'd get it."

"Not with that attitude you won't."

"You always say that," he rolls his eyes.

"It's true!" you insist. "Jeonghan, come on. This is basically your dream job, and you're literally the perfect guy for it. Just apply and see what happens!"

"Maybe, I dunno."

"Besides," you add. "You need the money to fund your poor spending habits."

"Hey!" he balks. "I do not have poor spending habits."

You pick up the vinyl sleeve, tapping the little yellow sticker on the cover with a messy $40 scribbled on it in black ink.

"Yeah, you do."

He groans, letting his head fall back into the couch. "You're so annoying," he says to you with a grin.

"Takes one to know one," you tease back. He grabs the nearest throw pillow, lobbing it at you and hitting you in the arm.

"Okay, I probably earned that," you admit with a laugh.

The current song ends, the gentle guitar strums of "Stairway to Heaven" filling your ears as the iconic song begins.

"Oh shit, shut up," you tell Jeonghan, launching the pillow right back at him. He jumps slightly as the unexpected pillow hits him in the chest with a soft thump. "I fucking love this song."

He is about to tell you that duh, everybody with a brain loves this song — but your eyes are closed already, bobbing your head slightly to the beat, clearly already lost in it; so he just shakes his head, chuckling silently to himself.

The both of you feel like you're drifting to a higher plane as the song progresses, fully immersed in the grand crescendo you've both heard so many times yet have never tired of. When it ends, your eyes flutter open again, finding Jeonghan fully sunk into the other end of the couch. You start to wonder if he actually fell asleep, but then he lifts his head, opening his eyes to look at you.

"You know how some people say a hot dog is a sandwich?" he asks. You stare at him for a moment, trying to comprehend in your inebriated state what it was he just said.

"Who the fuck says that?" you inquire once you finally process his question.

"I dunno. People."

"Stupid people, maybe."

"I mean, yeah," he agrees. "But like… do you think pizza is a sandwich?"

You stare at him for a moment. "What?"

"I don't know, it's got bread and cheese and meat and tomatoes, right? Those things go on sandwiches."

"You're high as shit, dumbass," you tell him.

"Okay, well watch this!" He reaches over to the pizza box and picks up a new slice. Turning to show it to you, he slowly folds it in half. "See? That's a sandwich!"

"Oh shut the fuck up," you reply, but you can't help but laugh.

Jeonghan munches on his pizza-sandwich while you reach for your stash, refilling the bowl and lighting up again. When he finishes, you hand the bong over.

"Not like either of us needs it, but whatever man," you say with a pleased grin.

With heavy, banging drum beats, the last song on the album begins to play. This one has always been Jeonghan's favorite, you recall despite being astronomically faded. You glance over at him, finding him staring out the open window into the now-dark night. Certainly not out of the ordinary, but something about him in this moment seems… sad, almost. He notices you watching him, but he seems to have become self-conscious, averting your gaze.

"What's on your mind?"

Jeonghan continues staring out the window, but he lets out a small sigh.

"Do you ever think about how big the universe is?" he asks. "And then it makes you realize how small and meaningless we really are?"

You pause for a minute, considering the gravity of his question.

"No, not really," you finally answer gently. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he answers instinctively; but after thinking about it for a moment, he adds: "But sometimes I wonder if I'm not."

"In what way?"

"Just… the whole entire world feels impossibly huge, yet Earth is just a tiny pale blue dot compared to the whole galaxy. In the grand scheme of things, we're nothing. Nothing we do matters."

"I don't think that's true at all."

Jeonghan finally looks over to you, staring at you curiously.

"But how? How can anything have any meaning if we are so tiny?"

"I think that makes everything all that much more meaningful," you reply. "Like… the universe is so huge and vast and yet here we are, chillin' together, existing at just the right time to eat pizza and listen to Zepp. I just think that's a really nice thought."

"Hmm," he mumbles, opening his mouth to say something else — but his words never come. At this point he is so physically relaxed that he seems fused to the couch.

"You're fuckin' blasted, dude," you giggle, reaching over and shaking him playfully.

"Am nottttt," he pouts, but moments later he starts giggling too. "Okay, fine, I am. But, I guess I've just never thought of it that way before."

The album ends, the room falling silent. You get up, casually shuffling over to your ever-growing collection of records that is now taking up the entire corner of the small living room.

"What next?" you ask Jeonghan over your shoulder.

"Surprise me."

You peruse through your titles, not sure exactly what you're looking for; but then one catches your eye.

"Ooh, got it," you say with a grin. You replace the vinyl on the turntable and set the needle in position, the sounds of Dookie by Green Day playing aloud in the room, making Jeonghan smile too.

[TWO]

You stroll through the library, exiting the stacks to make your way to your next class. On your way out, you're surprised to spot Jeonghan, sitting alone at one of the tables. Unexpected — as he usually spends most of his free time out in the quad or in the Comms Building's study space; if he's in the library, it's usually just to take a nap. He has a book on the desk beside him, but it's closed, and he instead seems to be intensely focused on a piece of paper, brow furrowed and deep in thought. You walk over to him, but he doesn't notice you approaching. As you near the desk you can see the word APPLICATION in bold font at the top of the paper.

"Yay, you're doing it!!" you say to him as you appear beside him, shaking him by the shoulder excitedly and making him nearly fly out of his seat.

"Jesus Christ you have got to stop sneaking up on me!" he yelps quietly, but it still earns him a glare from a nearby librarian. She raises her finger to her lips, shushing the two of you before going back to re-shelving books. You sit down in the chair next to him, scooting in close enough so you can whisper.

"This is so exciting!" you tell him in a hushed voice, but he sighs, shaking his head.

"I'm not even sure if I'm gonna turn it in," he admits.

"What? Dude, you're halfway there, just finish and go turn it in!"

"I don't know," he frowns. "They're probably just gonna laugh at me."

You raise your brow at him. "Why on earth would you think they'd do that?"

"Most people do," he shrugs.

"Well, even if they do — which they won't — who cares?" you question. "Just follow your dreams, don't let other people get in the way."

The librarian turns around again, her displeased glare telling you you're still being too loud for her liking.

"C'mon," you say to Jeonghan. "Finish up your application and let's get out of here."

He quickly fills out the rest of the form and you ditch the library together. Jeonghan is done with classes for the day, but he accompanies you across the quad to your next class.

"What are you up to tonight?" he asks. He kicks a pebble along the sidewalk as he walks; you watch his dingy old converse scuff against the ground as he does, noticing the small hole forming in the toe of his right shoe.

"I'm getting dinner with Mark," you reply casually. You see his face drop slightly out of the corner of your eye.

"Basketball team Mark?"

"Yep! We have History of Feminist Literature together, though he's a Economics major so he's just taking it for an elective."

"Hm," Jeonghan says out loud without meaning to.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. You just hardly ever go on dates, that's all."

"Oh, it's not a date," you say plainly, but you see him roll his eyes. "It's not!!" you insist. "We're just friends."

"I doubt he sees it that way."

"And how would you know that?"

"Because dudes only think with their dicks."

"Are you speaking from experience?" you inquire teasingly.

"This is not about me," he mutters, looking mildly embarrassed as he avoids eye contact. Luckily for him, you've arrived at the Literature Hall, giving him an excuse to change the subject.

"Hope you have a good class," he tells you warmly.

"Thanks," you reply with a smile. "Now you go turn in that job application or I'm going to kick your ass."

"I will," he laughs.

"Pinky promise?" you ask, extending your hand. He chuckles, but he connects pinkies with you.

"I promise."

"Good!" you tell him with a grin. "See ya later!"

"See ya," he smiles back.

You unlock your front door quietly, trying not to make noise and wake up your roommate considering how late it is by now. But as you enter the apartment you see her sitting at the computer, back turned to you as she is absorbed in whatever is on the screen.

"Hey, I didn't think you'd still be up," you say as you shut the door and kick your shoes off.

"Oh hey," Mina replies as she turns around to greet you. She lifts her wrist to peer at her watch. "Damn, I didn't realize how late it was."

"What are you doing on the computer?" you inquire, walking over to the desk out of curiosity.

"It's this new MySpace website Irene told me about," she replies, turning back around and double-clicking on something. "It's so sick, I've been here all night making my profile."

"Oh yeah, I've heard of that," you tell her as you watch her scroll through her profile. "Seems pretty cool."

"You should make one!" she tells you. "I can add you to my Top 8 friends."

"Oh, maybe. I'm still getting used to this whole Internet thing, honestly," you laugh.

"Soooo," Mina starts, shutting down the computer and heading into the kitchen. "How was your date with Mark?"

"It wasn't a date," you tell her. "I don't know why everyone keeps saying that."

"Okay, whatever," she responds, browsing through the snack cabinet for a minute before deciding on the bag of Cheeto Puffs. "How was your not-date?"

"It was… good."

"You don't sound so sure about that."

"No, it was!" you assure her. "It's just that… I don't know, he kinda just talked about basketball the whole time."

"Ugh. Typical guy shit," Mina rolls her eyes.

"He's really nice, though…" you say, though you're not sure if you're trying to convince her or yourself more.

"Nice enough to go on a second date — sorry, not-date with?" she raises her brow at you.

"Well, I don't know about that…"

You sigh, feeling a bit dejected suddenly. It's not like you're trying to date or anything, but you can't deny that it would be kinda nice to have at least a little bit more success.

"Maybe I should just give up on dating," you grimace.

Mina pops another Cheeto in her mouth. "I mean, I don't know why you bother. You basically already have a BF."

"What?" you ask, puzzled. "No I don't?"

"C'mon, you're literally hanging out with what's-his-name all the time. The metalhead."

"Jeonghan?? He's not into metal."

"Okay, whatever noise it is you guys listen to."

"It's called punk, and it's cool."

"Riiight."

"Anyway, he's just my friend," you tell her. Her lips curve into a slight grin, and she gives you a look.

"Sure he is."

"I can be friends with dudes!"

"Dudes only think with their dicks," she retorts, echoing Jeonghan's exact words from earlier.

"He's not like that," you assure her.

"Well that's rare, if true. Maybe you should date him."

You roll your eyes, but you're tired. Mina means well, but you don't really feel like having this conversation right now. Luckily, she's already putting her snack away, and then heads off to her room.

"Anyway, I'm off to bed. Goodnight!"

You too head off to bed, but as you brush your teeth you start to think about what Mina said. What if Jeonghan does see me as more than a friend? you wonder to yourself. After all, he did say the exact same thing earlier, too. You don't think he meant it in that way, but now you're beginning to second-guess your intuition…

You go straight to bed, deciding not to think about it anymore tonight.

[THREE]

You have some time between classes, so you take up residence in your usual spot in the quad, sitting on the ground reclined against your usual tree. Fall is officially here now, and it's a bit cold out, but you're perfectly comfortable in your thick sweater and windbreaker. Out of the corner of your eye, you suddenly see something in the distance charging directly at you. Looking up from your book, you see Jeonghan, forgoing the sidewalks and sprinting across the grass straight toward you, waving and flailing his arms like a maniac.

"You look like a psychopath," you call to him as he approaches.

"I got it!!!"

"Got wha— wait, the DJ job?!" you perk up excitedly.

"YES!!"

He plops down on the ground next to you, out of breath from running, but he doesn't seem to notice or care.

"Holy shit, congrats!!" you tell him enthusiastically. "See, I told you you'd get it!"

"I can't believe I almost ripped up the application and threw it in the trash."

"Jeonghan!" you blurt out, hitting him playfully in the arm, but he just shakes his head and laughs.

"I didn't though! You made me pinky promise."

"This is amazing! When do you start?"

"Tonight, actually," he answers. "Unfortunately, I'm stuck on the late night shift since I'm a newbie — 10pm–4am."

"Oh, yikes," you reply concernedly, but he shrugs it off.

"It's fine," he smiles. "I don't sleep anyway."

"Damn, I guess I'm never gonna see you again," you say jokingly, but an unexpected wave of sadness washes over you as your own words sink in.

"No way," he shakes his head resolutely. "We're still gonna hang out. I'll find a way to make it happen."

A fluttering sensation hits your stomach. You hang out with Jeonghan all the time, so you're not sure why you'd have this reaction. But something about the way he said it — "I'll find a way"— feels… different. But, regardless, you're just glad you're still going to be able to see your friend.

"What are you doing until then?" you inquire.

"I was just gonna go grab a bite at the dining hall and then go nap in the library."

"Wanna go to Jacq's instead?" you ask. "My treat."

Jeonghan's face lights up. "Hell yeah," he grins. "That sounds like a way better idea."

The low hum of neon lights buzzes gently through the tune of the usual rotation of 1960s hits as you and Jeonghan sit in the corner booth, chatting and giggling over your meal. Jacqueline's Diner is an old-fashioned joint, and the majority of its clientele is over the age of 60 — but the food is cheap, greasy, and delicious, so the two of you are practically regulars. Jeonghan ordered his usual, chicken tenders and a Cherry Coke float; you opted for a grilled cheese and chocolate milkshake, and you ordered a basket of fries to share.

"You heard about this MySpace?" Jeonghan asks, dipping three large, salty fries in ketchup and shoving them all into his mouth at once.

"Oh yeah," you say, picking the maraschino cherry off the top of the whipped cream and eating it one bite. "Mina's on there, she told me about it. Seems pretty cool."

"I think it sounds lame," he shrugs indifferently.

"What? Why?"

"I dunno, the whole Top 8 friends is kinda weird. Just sounds like one big popularity contest if you ask me."

"Yeah, I guess so," you agree.

"Besides, I don't even have eight friends."

"Oh shut up," you retort. "That's not true!"

"It's okay," Jeonghan chuckles. "I'm just not the kind of guy who has a lot of friends."

"We'll I'd put you in my Top 8," you tell him, but he rolls his eyes. "It's true, I would!"

"C'mon, y/n," he laughs. "You have so many friends."

"Mmm, not really," you reply. "Not ones I hang out with on the regular, anyway. It's mostly you and Mina these days."

"Well, thanks for hanging out with me," he says sheepishly.

"You say that like it's a charity case," you tease him. "I hang out with you because I like you, moron."

Jeonghan says nothing, sipping on his float instead, but the big grin creeping across his face is undeniable.

"So," you ask after a bite of grilled cheese. "Are you excited?"

"For the job?"

"No, for Christmas," you reply jokingly. "Yes, the job!!"

"I guess so," he shrugs. "Mostly I'm just nervous."

"Why?"

"Because what if I'm bad at it and they fire me?"

"Jeonghan, that is not going to happen."

"But I don't know what I'm doing!" he frowns.

"Dude, nobody knows what they're doing when they start a new job," you remind him. "Besides, they're going to train you! You'll learn the ropes in no time."

"What if I don't?"

"I find that hard to believe. You're smarter than you give yourself credit for, Hannie. Stop being so hard on yourself."

"Easier said than done," he replies lightheartedly, but his lack of confidence still shows.

"Why is that?" you inquire.

He thinks for a moment. "I don't know," he eventually answers. "Sometimes it just feels like there's a little voice in my head telling me I suck at everything and that I should just give up."

"I worry about you sometimes."

"I'm okay, I promise," he smiles softly at you. "Sorry for being sad so much."

"You don't have to apologize for that," you tell him firmly. "You're my friend and I'm here for you no matter what."

A couple remaining fries sit at the bottom of the basket, calling to you from the red-and-white checkered paper lining. You reach for them, but Jeonghan does too, your hands colliding over the table.

"Ope, sorry," he says timidly, retracting his hand. "You can have it."

"No, you take it," you insist, sliding the basket toward him. "You've got a long night ahead of you, you need the fuel. Speaking of, want another float?"

"No, it's oka—"

But you're already signaling to the waitress across the restaurant, pointing to Jeonghan's empty glass.

"I don't know why I asked," you tell him. "I already knew the answer."

The waitress quickly brings him a refill in a fresh glass, complete with his usual order of an extra cherry on top.

"Thanks, y/n," he smiles. "You're the best."

After you finish your meal and pay, Jeonghan drives you home. He pulls up next to the curb outside your apartment, putting the car into park and turning to face you.

"Thanks again for dinner," he smiles.

"Of course," you smile back. "I got ya. And I'll make sure to tune into WFVC tonight!"

Jeonghan chuckles, shaking his head. "I don't think I'm going to be on the air just yet. I think I gotta be less of a noob first."

"Well, I'll be thinking of you anyway," you tell him with a nod. He drops his head slightly, trying to hide his face behind his long hair.

"Besides, I wanna support the station — and maybe I'll find some new bands I like." You playfully give him a punch him in the arm. "Jut remember to relax, you're gonna crush it."

"I'll do my best," he promises.

"Good!" you nod, opening the passenger door and hopping out of the car. "Later skater," you smile at him, giving him a wave before shutting the door. He waves back, watching you walk toward your building, waiting until you've made it safely inside before shifting the car into gear and driving off.

[FOUR]

Jeonghan stands in the hallway, staring at the windowless, red door in front of him. He pulls a crumpled sticky note out of his jacket pocket, flattening it to reveal C-302 written in smudged pen. Looking up, he triple-checks the room number on the small metal plaque next to the door, but just as the first two times, it still reads C-302. The dozens of band stickers all over the door, some that look like they have been there for decades, are also a dead giveaway — this is it: the campus radio station. He takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly, then reaches for the door handle.

As the door swings open, a small, hectic room comes into view. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line every bit of wall, overflowing with endless stacks of CD cases; the rest of the room is crammed full of all sorts of audio and mixing equipment — some he recognizes, some he doesn't — and it seems that every bit of exposed surface is covered in show posters and even more band stickers. A too-small desk pushed against the far wall houses two computers, and at one of them sits a tough-looking man with a ponytail, seemingly older than himself, but not by much — perhaps a graduate student. The man peers up as Jeonghan enters the room.

"Hi, I'm Jeonghan," he says timidly. "I'm the new student employee, I was told to meet here at 9:45—"

"Yes, hello!" the man says cheerfully, hopping out of his seat and strutting across the room to give Jeonghan a very firm handshake. "I'm A.J., I'm the one running this joint for the most part — aside from Professor Sampson, of course. You're in undergrad, yeah?"

"Yes," Jeonghan replies politely, relieved that the man doesn't have the tough-guy demeanor he initially expected. "I'm a Junior."

"Awesome, well welcome to the team bro! Johnny's almost wrapped in the booth, and then you're on," he says, pointing his thumb back at the small window in the far wall; Jeonghan tries to peer through it, but all he can see is the top of the current DJ's head, clad with chunky headphones. "But don't worry — tonight I'll be showing you the ropes, so you just have to follow my lead. Cool?"

"Yeah, cool," Jeonghan nods in agreement.

"Excellent! Well, for starters, obviously we want to keep the volume to a minimum so there's no background noises when we're on air, but the soundproofing in the booth is good enough that you can talk at a regular volume out here and nobody's gonna hear ya. Just no screaming or anything crazy. As you can see over here," he says, pointing to the packed shelves. "We have quite a number of CDs on file. Now, I assume you're familiar with the station's catalogue?" Jeonghan nods, and A.J. continues. "Good. So you know we don't play anything that's even remotely popular — and if it's ever been on the radio, forget it. Most of our inventory is underground artists, garage bands, et cetera; the purpose of this station is to put a spotlight on new or small groups, show them some love and appreciation. So unless you're big into the local scene, you probably won't have heard of most of these bands."

Jeonghan skims over the nearest shelf, sure enough finding nothing familiar. Instead he finds jewel cases boasting all sorts of unheard-of band names — plunk!, Blister, Pisswizard, The Underwater Grandmas, and Groob, to name a few.

"Anyway, few ground rules. First, if the ON AIR sign is lit, you are live. Don't go saying anything you don't want hundreds of strangers to hear. Second, keep up with the queue, but also clean up after yourself. Don't leave loose CDs laying around, and make sure they go back into their actual cases — makes everyone's jobs easier."

Jeonghan nods attentively, trying not to seem nervous, but he feels like he's not doing a very good job. A.J. seems to notice too, but he claps Jeonghan on the shoulder and gives him a grin.

"Third, and this one's the most important if you ask me: just have fun. As long as you're doing a good job, just be yourself. Nothin' to stress over, I promise."

Jeonghan hears the booth door swing open; peering over A.J.'s shoulder, he sees a tall, dark-haired student stepping out into the main room.

"Ope, looks like we're on," A.J. says to him. "Johnny, this is Jeonghan, our new night shift guy."

Johnny walks over, shaking Jeonghan's hand enthusiastically. "Welcome! Nice to meet you, bro!"

"Thanks," Jeonghan replies, slightly intimidated by how friendly everyone is being, but he smiles politely at his new coworkers.

"Catch you guys 'round!" Johnny says as he takes off, giving the other two men a cheerful salute.

"Alright, the queue will be running for another 10 minutes or so," A.J. says as he enters the booth, pointing at the unlit ON AIR sign. "So in the meantime I can show you the basics…"

As promised, A.J. gives him the rundown, going over the master audio mixer controls, how to queue up songs, how to check the logs to see what's already been played, and a few different generic scripts for radio announcements.

"Like I said, you won't be talking on air just yet. But it's good for practice — and the more you practice the more natural it'll feel," he assures him. "Alright, we're coming up on the end of the queue. Grab some discs from that stack over there — doesn't matter which ones, really — and get them ready, I'll make the announcement." He places the bulky headphones on, pulling the mic in front of him and waiting for the song's outro begin to fade. He signals to Jeonghan as he goes live, the ON AIR sign lighting up bright red above their heads.

"That was 'Bitchcraft' by the Lipstick Dollz, and you're listening to WFVC 90.5 — the hottest place for underground punk and badass rock n' roll," A.J. speaks effortlessly into the mic. "Coming up next for you this hour, we've got some more Doomcock, a few from Spaceshuttle, and The Mary Jane Planes with their newest track, "Reefer Renegade" — only here on WFVC 90.5. Don't you dare touch that fuckin' tuner!"

The ON AIR sign shuts off, its red glow disappearing as the next song begins to play.

"See? Pretty easy," A.J. grins.

"Damn, that sounds so cool when you do it," Jeonghan tells him shyly.

"Don't sweat it, man. You'll get the hang of it in no time!"

Jeonghan isn't so sure, but he tries not to let the negative thoughts win. A.J. has him running the broadcast mixer, learning how to fade in and out and how to balance everything just right. He picks up on it faster than he expected, and the rest of the late-night shift seems to fly by. The job isn't the most exciting thing, but it's fun and interesting — and Jeonghan finds he enjoys even the monotony of mindlessly shelving CDs back into their places. But it seems that as soon as there's a lull in the job, you pop into his mind. By the time it's the middle of the night, he's certain you must have gone to bed by now — but he wonders if you were actually listening earlier. Did she like the music? he muses. Did she think of me at all?

He doesn't know the answer, but he really hopes you did.

The next day, Jeonghan doesn't show up to class.

You don't actually have any classes with him this semester, but after your Advanced Creative Writing class you always meet him in the quad underneath the usual tree. He's usually there first, so you waited for him for about 10 minutes — but he never showed.

Fortunately, his apartment is within walking distance from campus, so you make your way there. You knock on his door, but no response. You try again, a bit louder; after a few moments you hear footsteps from within the unit, shuffling their way toward the front door. The door swings open, revealing a messy-haired Jeonghan wearing pajamas, looking very much like you just woke him up.

"Have you been sleeping all day??" you ask with a grin.

"I guess so," he answers, placing his hand over his mouth as he yawns. "What time even is it?"

"3:23pm," you read from your wristwatch.

"Holy shit," he grumbles. "I slept through everything."

"You must've been exhausted," you point out. "Sorry for waking you up, I just wanted to make sure you were alive."

"No, no — don't apologize," he shakes his head. "Here, come on in," he says as he swings the door open, traipsing back into the apartment. "I'll make us some coffee."

You follow your sleepy friend into his kitchen, where he locates a bag of coffee grounds and starts to brew a fresh pot.

"Soooo," you say eagerly, sitting down at the kitchen table. It's stacked with books, CDs, piles of mail, and one very ripe-looking banana sitting atop a toppled box of Lucky Charms — but you're able to clear off enough space for two coffee mugs. "How was it? Tell me everything!"

"It was actually really good!" he responds enthusiastically, leaning against the counter. The warm aroma of hot coffee drifts across the room as the dark liquid begins to drip into the carafe. "Nothing particularly exciting, since I was just training. But it's all super cool, I think I'm really going to like it."

You haven't seen Jeonghan this excited about something since he scored tickets to the blink-182 concert last summer. He's become one of your closest friends, so you know that he's generally a bit of a melancholy guy — but seeing him so passionate about something really warms your heart. Happiness is a good look on him, you think to yourself.

"What's that look for?" he inquires, raising his brow at you.

"Nothing! I'm just really excited for you," you smile at him. "I was listening last night, you know."

His face lights up. "You were?" he asks eagerly The pot begins to sputter as the coffee finishes brewing; he grabs two mugs, filling them with the beverage: one cup black, for himself, and one with a tablespoon of sugar, for you.

"Of course! I said I was going to, didn't I?"

"You did," he smiles, bringing the mugs to the table and setting yours in front of you. You take a sip — it's piping hot, but it's delicious. "Didja hear any new songs you liked?"

"Yeah, I really liked all of it! There was one band called something weird that I enjoyed, I think it was 'Beenis'?"

Jeonghan laughs. "Yeah, I recall seeing a Beenis in the mix. Hey, speaking of new bands…"

He gets up, fetching his backpack and pulling a slightly-bent bright yellow piece of paper from it. He hands it to you, and you see that it's a flier for a show down at Dizzy's Tavern, a local dive bar known for it's cheap beer and loud, live rock music. The two bands listed are Fuckwagon and The Flagstaff Arizonas — names you've certainly never heard of before, but then again you're not too acquainted with the local music scene.

"My boss told me about this show tonight, apparently Fuckwagon are a pretty well-known name around the station. Said they're always bringing in new demos and singles for us to play," he explains. "I don't work tonight, and I don't know what you're up to, but I thought maybe we could go check it out."

"I'm down! I have nothing else going on today, and that sounds fun!"

"Sweet," Jeonghan replies casually, trying to contain his excitement, but his face is positively beaming. "I'll pick you up at 7:45, then?"

"Sounds like a plan," you grin back at him.

[FIVE]

Dizzy's Tavern is, for lack of better words, a shithole. As you step through the front door you are immediately hit with a wall of cigarette smoke that is somehow both stale and fresh. It's dark inside, the only source of lighting being the red lights above the bar and neon signs of various beer brands hanging around the walls; despite the dim environment, the dinginess of the establishment is still glaringly obvious. The place is a decent size, but it's packed — there are people of all ages, most of whom seem to be clad in leather jackets, and many with hair dyed unnatural colors or a multitude of piercings. The vibe of the place certainly screams punk.

"Holy shit, it's crowded," you remark to Jeonghan as you both shuffle into the crowded bar area.

"We don't have to stay if it's too much—" he quickly offers.

"No, it's okay!" you assure him. "I just think this will be more fun once I have a drink or two in me," you say lightheartedly.

"What do you want to drink?" he asks, grabbing onto your arm gently as you meander through the throng of bodies as not to get separated.

"Jack and Coke," you answer. He raises a brow at you.

"Oh so we're drinking drinking tonight," he smirks.

"Hey, you get whatever you want," you tell him, poking him in the chest. "You don't have to drink just because of me."

"Maybe I want to."

"Okay, just be careful though. I know how much of a lightweight you are."

"Hey!" he protests.

"Well, you are! Am I wrong?"

"No, you're right," he concedes with a smile. "As usual."

He finally gets the bartender's attention, ordering a Jack and Coke for the both of you. You sip it as you make your way through the crowd, holding onto Jeonghan as you head toward the small stage at the back of the bar. The band isn't on yet; according to the flier they should be on any minute now, but you have a feeling that being precisely punctual perhaps isn't very punk rock.

"Let's hang out here," you say, spotting a tiny, unoccupied high-top table off to the side. It's less crowded over here, and not too close to the stage. "I'm sure we will be able to hear just fine."

You're in the middle of a very non-serious debate about Halloween costumes when you spot a familiar face emerging from the nearby hall that leads to the bathrooms. It's Joshua, your weed dealer, and you unintentionally make eye contact with him. His face lights up with recognition, and he waves at you, heading in your direction. Jeonghan looks over his shoulder, doing a poor job of hiding his grimace when he realizes who it is.

"Hey hey!" Joshua says cheerfully as he approaches your table. "What's up you guys?"

"Hi Joshua!" you tell him cheerfully. "We're here to see the show," you explain, nudging your head toward the still-empty stage. You want to ask him what exactly he's doing here, considering that this doesn't seem to be his scene in the slightest, but you figure that might be a bit rude.

"Oh, cool!" he nods eagerly. "Hey, by the way," he says, leaning in to the both of you. "I got some new school supplies coming my way soon, if you catch my drift." He winks at Jeonghan, nudging him playfully with his elbow. "I'll make sure to save the good stuff for you."

Jeonghan stands there frozen with awkwardness at Joshua's directness. "Um," he finally manages to reply. "Yeah, uh, that sounds cool. Thanks."

"Awesome!" Joshua smiles at him sweetly. Turning back to you, he gives you a casual salute.

"Well, I gotta bounce," he excuses himself. "Catch you guys on the flip side."

Once he's out of earshot, you turn to Jeonghan, giving him a knowing look.

"Told you," you tease. "He's like that with everyone."

"Okay, okay, fine," he huffs, raising his hands defeatedly, but a smile spreads across his face. "I believe you now."

Several minutes later, the band finally comes out on stage, eliciting drunken cheering and whooping from the crowd of bar-goers.

"What the fuck is up!!!" the lead singer screams into the microphone. "We're Fuckwagon, and here's some fucking music!"

A screeching guitar riff begins, joined momentarily by crashing drums and a bassline that somehow already seems out of sync with the song. The lead singer appears to be playing the shrill guitar, and the bass player also has a mic; they start singing in tandem — sort of. You're not sure if the sounds coming from either of them can even be considered singing, but they proceed regardless, wailing into the mics as the drummer is already flailing crazily at the drum set. You nod your head to the beat as best you can; turning to Jeonghan, you see he also wears a stunned expression, staring blankly at the raucous scene on the stage.

"Is this the same song or a new one?" you ask him a few minutes later, leaning in to speak into his ear.

"Fuck if I know," he shrugs. He tosses back the rest of his drink, picking up your empty glass as well. "Want another one?"

"Yeah, definitely."

He returns a few minutes later with two fresh Jack and Cokes in hand. The lead singer has somehow already taken his shirt off, revealing a plethora of tattoos that you personally would consider hideous. You and Jeonghan down the drinks fast — unintentionally, but anything to make the music more tolerable. There seems to be no distinction from one song to the next, the night going by in a non-stop cacophony of hard, grungy rock sounds. You don't pay too much attention to the music though, instead talking and laughing with Jeonghan the whole time.

"That's not even the weirdest part," Jeonghan continues his story, resting his elbow on your shoulder as he leans in close to your face. "The next week, I get home and the apartment is filled with boxes of potatoes. Turns out, Jun had built a potato cannon, and he thought he had placed an order for a hundred potatoes — but he had accidentally ordered a hundred ten-pound bags."

"Oh my god," you laugh in disbelief. "How did he not notice, wasn't it expensive??"

"I have genuinely no idea," Jeonghan shakes his head, also laughing. "He just does things like that sometimes."

"I think he has to be the strangest guy I've ever met," you respond. "I can't believe you live with him."

"Hey, he's a great roommate. He's clean, quiet, and half the time he's not even there — off doing god knows what."

"And that was our last song!!!" the lead singer screams into the mic over the drummer continuing his solo despite the song having ended. "Goodnight motherfuckaaaas!!!"

The band exits the stage, the next band already setting up their instruments.

"Thank god," you say to Jeonghan, who is all but fully leaning on you at this point. You pick his drink up off the table, finishing it off before he can drink any more; he doesn't seem to notice.

"You think the next band will be any better?" he asks you, his face mere inches from yours, heavy eyelids blinking slowly in his drunken state.

"There's no way they can possibly be worse than that."

You were wrong. Despite it being harsh and grating, the first band at least had upbeat rock music; the new band consists of six people, one of whom plays the trumpet, and all of whom barely fit on the stage — and their music is dull, drawn-out, and extremely repetitive. You're not sure if lead singer is drunk or if he just sounds like he is, but either way, it's borderline insufferable.

You turn to Jeonghan, about to suggest you call it a night, but he clearly has the exact same thought.

"Should we… leave?"

"Yeeaaaah," you nod eagerly in agreement. "We should leave."

It's even colder now as you step out of the bar, but despite the chilly autumn wind the fresh, smoke-free air feels delightful.

"So," Jeonghan asks as you stroll down the sidewalk together. He drove you to the bar, but neither one of you seem to recall that detail — but you're both too drunk to drive, anyway. "What did you think of… that?"

"I think it sucked shit," you reply honestly. Jeonghan bursts out laughing, making you start giggling too.

"Yeah, that was pretty terrible," he agrees. "Sorry I dragged you to this."

"Don't be!" you insist. "I still had a good time."

"Good," Jeonghan replies, a smile lighting up his face. "I did too."

Though your apartment is further than his, he walks you home first. The alcohol in your system has kept you warm all night, but the cold nighttime breeze is starting to get to you. You shiver, tugging the sleeves of your sweater down over your hands and tucking them into you as you cross your arms to try and stay warm.

"Here," Jeonghan tells you as soon as he notices, immediately taking his jacket off.

"No, I'll be fine—" you start, but he's already wrapping it around your shoulders. The jacket is warm, both from its thick leather and Jeonghan's body heat. You accept it graciously, slipping your arms into the baggy sleeves and zipping it all the way up.

"Thanks," you tell him sincerely. "You're the best."

In the dim orange-y glow of the incandescent streetlamps it's hard to tell, but Jeonghan blushes, his face turning even pinker than the alcohol made him.

You arrive outside your apartment a few minutes later.

"Well, goodnight," Jeonghan smiles at you. To his surprise, you suddenly throw your arms around him, leaning your head against his shoulder as you hug him. He tenses up slightly as his inebriated brain tries to process what's happening, but slowly he wraps his arms around you too, sinking into your embrace. It only lasts a few seconds, but the moment simultaneously feels hours long and also over way too fast.

"Goodnight," you reply as you let go, waving as you turn toward the sidewalk to head home. "Get home safe, okay?"

"I will," he nods softly. He watches until you've made it inside, then turns to head back to his own apartment, wondering if you knew that you just completely flipped his world upside down.

[SIX]

You wake up the next day uncomfortably hot.

Prying your eyes open, you see that you're in your living room. Apparently, you were too tired to make it all the way to your bedroom, so you just crashed on the couch, still wearing your shoes and Jeonghan's jacket. Your arm feels like lead as you try to lift it, peering at your watch: 12:16pm.

"Holy shit," you grumble as you hoist yourself up into a sitting position, your head pounding with a killer hangover. A few seconds later, Mina walks into the room.

"Jesus Christ, you're a mess," she tells you bluntly. "What the hell did you do last night?"

"Um, went to a shitty bar and saw a shitty band," you answer, rubbing your aching eyes. "Scratch that — two shitty bands."

"With your boyfriend, I assume?" she asks, glancing at the oversized leather jacket with its many pins and buttons.

"He's not my boyfriend," you mumble through a yawn, shimmying out of the jacket and neatly placing on the armrest next to you.

"Well, you knew who I was talking about without me even saying his name, soooo…"

"Shut uppp," you groan, flopping your tired head onto the back of the couch. With a pleased grin, she heads into the kitchen. You close your eyes, nodding off again, but soon you start to smell fresh coffee, and hear the sound of a sizzling skillet. A few minutes later, Mina returns, carrying a large mug of steaming coffee and a plate of fried eggs and pancakes.

"Here, eat," she says firmly, setting the plate and mug in front of you on the coffee table.

"Thanks, Mina," you smile at her.

After devouring your breakfast, you hop in the shower, standing there under the hot stream of water for far too long — but, you feel a million times better afterward. You toss on some sweats and decide to work on some homework from your bed. After a surprisingly productive afternoon, make your way back to the kitchen to find some dinner. On your way there, you pass by the couch, spotting Jeonghan's jacket still laying there. You feel bad that you didn't remember to give it back last night — after all, this is quite literally his only jacket. You're figure you should just take it over to him after you eat dinner. But, you're pretty sure he mentioned that he was working tonight; and since it's getting late and campus is a closer walk for you anyway, you figure you'll just try and drop it off at the station.

Your walk to campus is eerily empty. You've never seen this few people around, but it is Saturday night, after all. Most people are probably either at home or partying off-campus by this point. You approach the Comms building, suddenly worried that the door might be locked at this hour; but its swings right open when you pull it, and you let yourself inside. You've only had a couple classes in this building before, so you're not familiar with its layout, and you realize you have no idea where the radio station is actually located. You're about to start wandering down the halls in a random direction when you spot a directory by the staircase. The station appears to be on the top floor, so you head up the stairs.

There's no signage for the station, but you figure the bright red door with all the stickers all over it is probably the one you need. You knock at the door quietly, just now realizing that maybe this was a bad idea and that you shouldn't be here. You consider turning around and leaving before you can bother anybody, but then the door swings open. A tough-looking man with long hair and a beard pokes his head out.

"Hi, so sorry to bother you," you tell him apologetically. "But I was wondering if Jeonghan was working tonight? I just wanted to drop off his jacket."

"Oh!" the man replies with a smile, looking suddenly much less intimidating. "Yeah, he's here, come on in!"

You're not sure what exactly you thought a college radio station that plays punk music would look like, but this place seems to fit the bill. You don't see Jeonghan, but then the man points his thumb back to the small window in the far wall.

"He's in the booth right now, but I'll go grab him once we cut to commercial," he tells you. "I'm A.J., by the way," he adds, extending his hand to you.

"Y/n," you introduce yourself.

"Oh, so you're y/n!" A.J. responds amicably. "I've heard all about you.""

"Oh," you reply, feeling your face turn hot suddenly. "Really?"

"Yeah, Jeonghan talks about you all the time. All good things, though, I promise," he smiles. "Hey, I gotta go fax something real quick — just hang out in here for a sec, I'll be right back."

He exits the room, and you walk over to the window, peering into the booth. There's a lot of equipment in the way, but you spot the back of Jeonghan's head, clad with headphones and bobbing his head to whatever must be playing on the radio right now. You can't see his face, but you get the sense that he really is enjoying the job.

A.J. returns in a couple minutes. He waits outside the booth door, glancing at the lit-up ON AIR sign overhead.

"I'll go grab him as soon we're not on air," he tells you. Sure enough, it shuts off a few seconds later, and he slips into the booth. Watching through the window, you see Jeonghan turn around to greet his boss; A.J. points to you through the window, and Jeonghan turns, his face lighting up when he sees it's you.

"Hey!" he says cheerfully as he comes out to greet you. "What are you doing here?"

"Just returning your jacket I accidentally stole from you," you say, extending the garment to him.

"Oh yeah," he chuckles, taking the jacket from you. "I didn't even realize until I was almost home, I was wondering why I was so cold."

"Sorry," you smile apologetically.

"Don't even worry about it," he smiles back at you. "Thanks for bringing it to me, you didn't have to do that."

"Yes I did. I know for a fact that you don't own any other jackets," you tease.

"Okay, you got me there," he grins.

"How's the job going?" you ask.

"It's great!" he answers with more enthusiasm than you're used to from him. "I'm can officially run the show and be on air by myself now, no more supervision required."

"That's so cool," you beam at him. "You seem like you're really liking it so far."

"Yeah," he nods. "I definitely am."

"Well, I should let you get back to work now," you tell him. "Hope you have a good rest of your shift."

"Thanks, y/n," Jeonghan smiles warmly. "See ya later."

The end credits to Law & Order: Special Victims Unit begin to play as you lay on the couch, eating potato chips straight from the bag. It's not particularly the most exciting Saturday night you could be having, but you're enjoying the relaxing night in. You're not really in the mood to keep watching TV, so you grab the remote and shut it off. Mina isn't home yet, so you figure you'd take this opportunity to play your music out loud without wearing headphones. You get up and shuffle over to the boombox perched on the bookshelf, turning it on; it's tuned to the local pop station — clearly Mina used it last. You enjoy this station too, but your mind flashed back to Jeonghan in the booth. Maybe I'll hear him on the air, you think to yourself excitedly. You change the tuner to 90.5 and are greeted by the heavy tune of an unfamiliar but grungy-sounding song.

Plopping back on the couch you reach for your bag of chips again — but over the crinkling of the bag as you stick your hand in it, a very familiar voice comes through on the radio.

"You're listening to WFVC 90.5, the hottest place for underground punk and badass rock n' roll. The track you just heard was "Beautiful Monster" by Meatglove, one of their earliest and most iconic releases. Up next — we've got some Death Day Party for you, as well as a classic from Wunderguts; but first, some local flavor from Z-41 with their newest track "Hell Highway."

You're a bit taken aback by the confidence and air which he delivered his spiel. You can tell he's still getting used to it, but you swear you've never heard him sound so self-assured. The crashing drums of the next song begin; you're getting a bit sleepy, but you're comfy — so you end up laying on the couch for another hour or so, zoned out as you enjoy the music. You're halfway asleep when Mina returns home, so out of it that you don't even hear her come in; but you do hear Jeonghan's voice over the speakers, making you smile as your eyes start to drift close.

"I assume that's your boyfriend on the radio?"

Your eyes shoot open again at the sudden sound of Mina's voice. Looking up, you see her looming above you as she stands beside the armrest.

"I didn't even hear you come in," you tell her, rubbing your tired eyes.

"Yeah, I can tell," she teases. "You wouldn't be swooning and gushing over him like that if you knew I was here."

"I was not," you roll your eyes. "I was like half-asleep."

"Mhmm. Well, I'm going right to bed — goodnight!"

And with that, you're alone with the radio again.

While the commercials play, an idea pops into your head. You remember Jeonghan making an off-hand comment about how the station does take requests — it's just that hardly anyone ever calls them in. You consider for a minute, and then decide, fuck it.

You get up again, quietly heading over to the landline. You're don't actually know the number, so you flip through the phone book, perusing the thin yellow pages for the station. Eventually, you spot it: Foxville College Communications Department, WFVC 90.5 — 555-1004.

You dial the number, the line ringing as you wait for it to connect. You realize you're not even sure what exactly it is you planned to request, considering that the station only plays underground stuff. Anything you would normally request on the radio is off the table.

Before you can think of something, the line picks up.

"WFVC 90.5, we have a caller live on the air," you hear Jeonghan answer the call. "Hi there, whatcha calling for?"

Your stomach drops a bit — you weren't expecting him to actually pick up live on the air. You're not a shy person, but the thought that a bunch of random strangers can hear you right now does make you at least a little bit nervous.

"Hi!" you say cheerfully, careful not to be to so loud as to wake Mina. "Um, I was hoping I could call in a request."

"Of course you can!" he answers. You were wondering if Jeonghan would recognize your voice, but the slight pause and the upward shift in his voice tells you he definitely does. "What are you looking for?"

Thinking on the fly, you say the first thing that pops into your head.

"Well, I don't actually have a specific song in mind," you reply. " Can you play me something upbeat and happy? A song I'd play if I was just chilling with my friend or something."

"I sure can," Jeonghan responds, and you swear you can hear the smile in his voice. "What's your name?" he remembers to ask at the last second — of course, he already knows, but he makes sure he sticks to the script.

"Y/n," you tell him.

"Well, y/n, thanks for calling in — we appreciate ya. Got a special one just for you coming up right now: this one's called 'Heart Attack', by good friends of the station, Fever Baby — right here on WFVC 90.5!"

The call ends, the flat tone humming in your ear. You put the receiver back, heading back into the living room. You're not entirely sure how radio requests work, but you assume there's some sort of slight delay. Sure enough, right as you return the end of your call plays, followed by a light and rhythmic guitar strumming — the song he chose for you. You sit down as you listen, the melody picking up with a bright atmosphere. The song is exactly the vibe you were looking for, and you like it a lot. Turns out the band has a female lead too, something you always love, especially in this genre of music. You must've said that once a long time ago, in some off-hand comment, but Jeonghan remembered. That's the thing about Jeonghan, though — he always does.

[SEVEN]

The semester passes by, days getting shorter and temperatures getting lower as the final weeks of fall come to a close. School has kept you plenty busy, with midterms and papers taking up the majority of your time. You haven't been able to have as much of a social life as you would like, which isn't particularly unusual for this time of year; but Jeonghan especially has been busy — late nights at the station have caused his sleep schedule to shift significantly, rendering your schedules largely incompatible. You miss him, and you really hope you can find a way to hang out with him soon.

You're sitting in your apartment studying one night when the phone rings. The phone doesn't have caller ID, but you expect it's one of Mina's friends calling, as she likes to chat on the phone more often than you do. She's not home right now, so you could easily just let it go to voicemail, but something in you feels the urge to answer.

"Hello?" you answer as you pick up, grabbing the nearby stack of sticky notes and a pen in case you need to take a message.

"Hey y/n," you hear Jeonghan say softly through the line.

"Hannie!" you say, surprised but excited to be hearing his voice. "How's it going? I feel like I haven't seen you in ages!"

"I know, I've been so busy," he concurs. "I'm tired as hell, but I'm okay. How are you?"

"Same, I'm exhausted but I'm getting by. How's the DJ life treating you?"

"It's good!" he answers eagerly. "I mean, that's why I'm so tired. But in a way it also kinda gives me an energy boost. I know that probably sounds crazy…"

"Not at all," you smile. "That means you really like it! I'm so glad it ended up being a great fit for you."

"Me too," he agrees. "I've been so happy lately. Except for the fact that we haven't hung out like, at all. That part sucks."

"We gotta find some time to hang," you say assertively.

"Actually, that's why I'm calling," he replies. "The Comms Department is having this social thing on Friday night. I wasn't really planning to go, but guests are allowed if you'd wanna come with me. There's gonna be free food."

"Hell yeah, I'm always down for free food," you grin — though, you're much more excited about getting to see Jeonghan finally.

"Cool! It starts at 7, I'll drop by your place around then and we can walk to campus together."

"Sounds good," you say excitedly. "Is this like, a formal event?"

"Um, I don't think so? But like, maybe a little?"

"I'll dress up at least a little, then," you tell him. "I'd rather be overdressed than underdressed."

"Good idea, I'll do the same. Well, I gotta head to work in a few minutes, so I gotta go."

"Have a good shift!" you tell him. "See ya on Friday."

"See ya then, y/n."

Friday afternoon you start rummaging through your closet, looking for something to wear to the social later. You have a few hours until you need to be ready, but you figured you'd give yourself a little extra time to make yourself look at least a little bit nice. It's been a while since you've had an excuse to dress up anyway, so what the hell, why not.

Nothing is particularly catching your eye as you flip through the hangers, until you get to the end and spot a brand new skirt you had completely forgotten about. You pull it out to look at it; it's a black pinstripe pleated mini skirt, brandishing a built-in belt, and it still has the tags on. A bit on the casual side, but you figure if you pair it with a nice sweater and tights that don't have any holes in them the outfit will look just the right amount of sophisticated for the occasion.

Digging through your dresser drawer, you take a look at your sweaters. Most are a bit too tattered, and about half of them are just sweatshirts featuring a band logo, but you do find a deep maroon sweater that you rarely wear. You lay it on your bed above the skirt and grab a pair of tights to lay out as well; all put together, it actually looks pretty nice.

You throw your outfit on and spend a little bit longer than usual putting makeup on, adding some shimmery eyeshadow and some tinted lip gloss to your usual routine of eyeliner and mascara. When you're done styling your hair, you take a look at yourself in the mirror. It's not that you usually look bad, but you definitely tend to dress more on the casual side, so you're pleasantly surprised by how put-together you look right now. Turns out, a little extra effort can go a long way.

You're reading your book a couple hours later when you hear a light knocking at your door. Hopping up off the couch you flutter over to answer it, opening the door to reveal Jeonghan looking the fanciest you've ever seen him. He's still in his leather jacket, of course — but underneath he wears a maroon button-down shirt and crisp black dress pants, and you've never seen his long hair so neat and styled.

"Holy shit, since when do you own dress pants?" you ask with a playful smirk.

"Hey, shut up," he pouts. "I know they look stupid."

"They do not!" you insist. "You look really nice, Jeonghan. I've just never seen you so dressed up. And we even matched on accident!" you chuckle.

"Looks like we did," he smiles. "You look really nice as well," he says, staring at your outfit for a moment but quickly averting his gaze. You typically wear clothes that are at least a little bit baggy, but this sweater fits you snugly, its thin knit fabric accentuating your every curve very flatteringly. Jeonghan tries not to think about it.

"Thanks! Here, let me put my shoes on and then we can bounce."

He steps inside as you grab your Doc Martens, leaning down to slip your feet into them and tighten the laces. Your back is to him as you bend over, and while your skirt isn't super short it does ride up a bit in the process, your thighs on full display through the sheer black tights. He ogles you as you tie the boots up, feeling his face grow hot. He knows you don't notice, but he forces himself to turn away before you do, prying his eyes off of you, but it's too late.

"Um, I'm gonna go pee real quick," he tells you, scurrying off to your bathroom.

"Okie dokie," you reply.

Jeonghan doesn't actually have to pee, but he locks himself in the bathroom anyway. He stares at himself in the mirror, still thrown off by how different he looks all cleaned up.

"Get it together man," he grumbles to himself.

A couple minutes later he returns.

"Ready?" you ask, grabbing your coat.

"Yep!" he says with a smile.

The walk to campus is cold, but there's no wind, so it's surprisingly pleasant. On your way there it begins to snow, huge flakes falling gently through the air and starting to accumulate on the ground. You arrive to the Comms Building, brushing the snow off your jacket before you step through its doors to the warm interior.

"You've got some in your hair, too," Jeonghan points out. You ruffle your hair lightly, shaking the snow off.

"So do you," you tell him, reaching up and brushing your fingers across his hair, brushing the stark white snow out of his long, dark locks. Jeonghan freezes up slightly, grateful that his cheeks are already pink from the cold so you can't see him blushing like an idiot.

"Thanks," he says softly.

You make your way to the end of the hall, where two doors propped open lead you into the event space. Immediately you see that despite your efforts, you are both still noticeably underdressed.

"Welp," he mumbles to you quietly. "Guess I didn't get the memo that this was actually fancy."

"It's okay," you reply reassuringly. "We still look nice." And it's true, but amongst all the suits and heels you still feel a bit out of place.

You make your way over to the food table together, grabbing plates and piling them high with the assortment of hors d'oeuvres on display. It earns you a few judgmental glares from a group of older adults standing nearby, but you're both broke college kids, so you don't really give a fuck.

"Let's go over there," Jeonghan says after you each grab a glass of wine, nudging his head toward the back of the room. You meander through the groups of professors and whomever else standing around and chatting, claiming the two chairs in the corner.

"So, what exactly is this event supposed to be again?" you ask him as you pop a fancy cracker with cheese on it into your mouth.

"Um, I don't actually know," he admits as he sips at wine, glancing around the room. "I thought it was for students and professors to meet each other, but I don't think any of these people are actually students…"

You look around too, and he seems to be right. Everyone is significantly older and distinguished-looking — very clearly not undergraduates.

"Oops," you say, trying not to smile too big. "Does that mean we just walked in here and stole their food?"

A grin starts to spread across his face. "Um, yeah. Looks like it."

He starts to giggle out loud, prompting you to subtly whack him in the leg.

"Shhh, people are gonna notice!" you whisper, but you feel the urge to start laughing too. A voice rings out over the speaker system as somebody starts talking into a microphone. The attendees all turn and face the small stage, where a woman in a sequined navy dress starts to speak.

"Should we go?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah, definitely," you reply, tossing back the rest of your wine. "But let's grab some more food on the way out."

Jeonghan grins. "I like the way you think."

After piling the small plastic plates with as much food as you possibly can and grabbing another glass of wine each, you sneak out the back door of the room, quickly making your way towards the building's exit.

"Holy shit," Jeonghan laughs as you burst through the door returning you to the quad. "That was awesome."

"I love to steal free food," you giggle. The falling snow has picked up, blustering around calmly but shrouding everything in a sea of white. "C'mon," you say to him, zipping off toward your usual spot under the small oak tree. "Let's go over here."

You stand together beneath the branches, accepting their humble offering of any sort of cover as you scarf down the rest of the food on your plates.

"I guess we also technically stole these wine glasses," Jeonghan comments as he stares at the remaining red liquid in the bowl. "I didn't even realize they were real."

"Me neither," you say, finishing your drink. "Whoops."

Hors d'oeuvres and wine now gone, you toss the plates in a nearby trashcan, leaving the glasses sitting on the steps to the Comms Building and zooming off before somebody catches you. When you get off campus you slow your pace, strolling casually down the block through the deluge of snow.

"Maybe I should've driven," Jeonghan chuckles. "But also who wants to drive in this weather."

"True," you smile. "But I don't mind the snow. It's nice."

"Me neither."

You chat the whole walk home, taking and laughing about anything and everything and nothing at all. By the time you make it to your building, your cheeks hurt — not only from the cold but from smiling nonstop the whole night.

"Tonight was really fun — even if it wasn't what we expected," you say, turning to face Jeonghan.

"Same here," he smiles softly. "I'm glad I finally got to see you."

"Me too," you beam back. You're thinking about inviting him up, maybe to smoke a J or something, when suddenly his lips are on yours.

Your whole body freezes. His lips are soft, the kiss is sweet, but you were not prepared for it. Quickly he pulls his face back, his eyes widening with fear like a deer in the headlights.

"Sorry," he stammers, then takes off.

"Wait!" you call out after him. "Jeonghan!" But he's gone in the blink of an eye, running off down the street into the snowy night.

[EIGHT]

Almost an entire week passes, and you don't see or hear from Jeonghan once.

You tried calling him, but you just kept getting Jun, who seemed to be confused but didn't ask any questions. You tried to meet him after several of his classes, but he either wasn't there or managed to completely evade you. You even tried e-mailing him, but as you expected, no response.

So you gave up for the time being. You knew he wasn't going to avoid you forever, that eventually he would come back. But damn, you hated waiting for it.

It's now Thursday night. Six nights have gone by, and still radio silence from Jeonghan. You're not even upset with him, you just want to talk to him. There's too many questions swimming around in your brain right now — you can hardly think about anything else.

Why did you kiss me?

Why did you run away?

Why have you been so scared to talk to me?

Do you love me?

The living room boom box softly plays the local classic rock channel as you lay at the couch, staring at the ceiling and thinking too much. For reasons you can't explain, you suddenly get up and go change the tuner to 90.5. You lay back down, unsure what exactly the point of that was, but also you don't really care. You're not even sure if Jeonghan is working tonight, and even if he is it's too early for him to be on — but the radio station is enough to remind you of him. You feel tears begin to well in your eyes, blinking them away quickly.

The DJ eventually comes back on the air; as expected, it's not Jeonghan, but that doesn't make you any less sad about the whole situation. The next song that comes on sounds vaguely familiar, and awful; it occurs to you about two minutes into the song that this sounds like that terrible band you saw at that bar — Fuckwagon or whatever. The one you saw with Jeonghan.

Tears begin to stream down your cheeks. Unable to shut them down, you just let them flow, softly sobbing into the couch.

This is so fucking stupid, you tell yourself. I'm crying to a Fuckwagon song right now. You let out a laugh through your tears, in disbelief of how utterly stupid this scenario is. After crying for a few more minutes, you eventually calm back down. Your mind is a bit clearer now, and you come to the realization that there's nothing stopping you from marching over there right this instant and putting an end to this nonsense.

Fifteen minutes later, you're standing outside Jeonghan's apartment. All that's left is to knock, but now that you're here that part feels daunting. You take a deep breath, slowly raising your hand to the door, then you knock. It comes out a bit more aggressive than you meant it, but you hope that means he'll hear you right away. You hear footsteps trodding toward the door, and then it opens.

"Oh, hi y/n," Jun greets you. He looks frazzled, like you just woke him from a thousand-year slumber.

"Hey, Jun. Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," you tell him apologetically.

"Oh, I wasn't asleep," he replies nonchalantly. You're about to ask him what the hell he was doing then, but you decide some questions don't need to be answered. Besides, that's not why you're here.

"Is Jeonghan here?" you cut to the chase. "I was hoping to talk to him."

"Sorry, no," he shakes his head. "You just missed him — he left for work about ten minutes ago."

"Dammit," you mutter.

"Has he still not talked to you since he kissed you?"

You look up at Jun, a perplexed expression coloring your face. "You know about that?"

"Yes," he replies matter-of-factly. "He came home right after that and was freaking out about it. He wasn't exactly very coherent, but through his ramblings I got the general picture."

"Did he say why he was freaking out?" you try.

"He was scared that it was a mistake, that he fucked it all up."

"Fucked what all up?" you ask, furrowing your brow. "Our friendship?"

Jun lets out a gentle sigh. "So you didn't know, then," he says softly. "Jeonghan is in love with you, y/n. Has been since the day he met you."

You make it to campus in record time, speed-walking as fast as you can, zooming across the quad directly toward the Comms Building. You're out of breath as you enter, groaning as you spot the three flights of stairs you now have to climb. But you move quickly anyway, your body seemingly unable to slow down for anything.

This time you don't even bother knocking on the red door. You fling it open, expected to have to come up with some sort of explanation on the fly with his boss, but you are greeted by an empty office. The door slowly closes behind you as you walk over to the booth window. Peering in, sure enough you can see the top of his head as he sits at the broadcast mixer. The ON AIR sign above you is lit; you wait for the red light to shut off, then you knock on the booth door. Jeonghan turns around slowly, looking confused, but then he sees you standing outside the window. His eyes widen, and he leaps out out of his chair, bolting to the door and swinging it open.

"What are you doing here??" he asks, looking genuinely surprised.

"I don't want to get you in trouble, but we have to talk."

"Nobody else is here tonight," he replies. "Here, come inside."

He shuts the door behind you as you enter, but as soon as he does you grab him by the arm and spin him around to face you.

"What the—"

"Why did you run away?"

"I—" He pauses for a moment. "That's… not what I thought you were going to ask," he admits.

"What? Why?"

"Well, I just thought you were going to ask me why I kissed you first."

"Okay," you reply. "Then why did you kiss me?"

Jeonghan sighs, dropping his head slightly; but a moment later he lifts it again, looking you directly in the eyes.

"I kissed you because I love you, y/n. I ran away because I was scared you didn't love me back, and I wasn't prepared to face that reality."

His gaze is locked onto yours so intensely that you feel like you might burst into flames. He looks like he's experiencing every emotion at once, anxiously waiting for you to say something, anything. But you don't know what to say, so you do what only feels right — you throw your arms around him, pulling him into your embrace.

He gasps softly as you squeeze him tight, burying your face into his chest; you can feel the accelerating pace of his heart, thumping against your cheek. He instinctively wraps his arms around you, leaning his head on top of yours.

"I love you too," you say softly. "I didn't realize it for a while — but it's so obvious to me now."

He kisses the top of your head, rubbing your back as you nuzzle your face deeper into his sweater.

"That's the best news I've ever heard."

You could stay here in his embrace indefinitely, but eventually you lift your head, looking deeply into his eyes.

"Kiss me — but for real this time."

Slowly, Jeonghan grabs your face with both hands, eyeing you hungrily before pulling you into a kiss. This time it's slow, sweet; you slip your hands around his waist, clinging to him as you savor it. Your heart pounds in your chest as your lips tug at each other, refusing to let go, pressing your body into his and pushing him up against the door. A soft, involuntarily moan emanates from his throat, and you feel the stiff, growing bulge in his pants against your stomach.

Eventually your lips part, lingering near each other as he presses his forehead into yours.

"Holy shit," he mutters. "I can't believe this is really happening."

He drops his hands from their grasp on your head, unzipping your coat and taking it off of you; tossing it on a nearby desk, he hurriedly slips his hands around your waist, kneading at the soft flesh and holding your body tightly against him. He feels slightly embarrassed by how quickly he got a full-fledged boner, but he's too aroused to care — besides, judging by the burning desire in your eyes, you're feeling the exact same thing right now.

"You're perfect," he tells you, cracking a smile and blushing as the words leave his lips. You grin back, giving him another soft kiss before taking hold of his hands.

"C'mere," you say to him, dragging him over to the sound mixer.

"What are you—oh." You cut him off by giving him a slight push, sitting him down into the thick, sturdy chair. You straddle his lap, pressing your core against his bulge, rubbing yourself against it through both of your jeans.

"Fuck," Jeonghan gasps as your weight presses against his cock; you lean your head down to kiss him again, locking lips as you start to make out, mouths crashing and tongues eagerly dancing against each other. Eventually you begin to sway your hips, unable to contain your excitement. You gasp as your mouths part, tossing your head back as you grind against him harder; his arms around you squeeze tighter, pulling you in as close as physically possible. His face presses against your tits as he rubs his hands over your ass, guiding you as you rock back and forth on top of him.

"Oh my god…" he sighs. He tosses his head back, and you swoop in, kissing the delicate flesh of his neck, making him let out the most pathetic-sounding groan. You moan as you grind your heat against him, getting the both of you off at once.

"F-fuck, that's so hot," his voice wavers.

"If I keep doing this it's gonna make me cum," you tell him, starting to sound whiny and frantic.

"Oh my god, please do."

You increase your pace, pressing your aching clit against his clothed cock. It feels incredible — you simply can't help the soft little cries escaping your lips.

"Can I…" Jeonghan asks, tugging at the button of your jeans.

"Please," you say breathily as you eagerly nod your head. He unfastens the button, tugging down your zipper and opening your pants enough for him to slip his fingers beneath your underwear. You let out a whimper as his fingertips dip into your folds, his lips parting lustfully as he discovers the absolute pool of wetness in your panties right now.

"Fuck," you whine, rubbing your clit against his fingers with fervor. A burning fire builds in your gut, your whole body tensing in anticipation of your release. It washes over you in bursting waves, your body trembling atop Jeonghan as you ride out your orgasm. As your movement slows, you catch your breath, lifting your head to kiss him on the lips. As you open your eyes you get a glimpse at him, you find him looking utterly desperate, and ready to bust at any given moment. You let out a giggle, still in a daze from your high; but you slip off the chair, kneeling down before him between his legs.

"Oh my god, you're gonna kill me," he half-laughs, half-whines. He raises his drenched fingers to his mouth, lapping your juices up feverously, eyes rolling back as he savors the taste of you. You slowly unbuckle the studded leather belt around his waist, unbuttoning his jeans painfully slowly; he wriggles in his seat, silently pleading for you to take his cock out, for you to put your mouth over it…

Finally, you do — reaching into his boxers, you tug them down, wrapping your hand around his hard, thick cock and pulling it out.

"Holy shit," you blurt out, glancing up at him and giving him a giddy smile. "You've been packing this the whole time?!"

He bursts out laughing, cradling your cheek in his hand, slowly guiding your lips to his cock. You lightly circle the tip with your tongue, teasing him; he lets out a sigh, licking his lips as he watches you taste his cock. Slowly you take the head between your lips, suckling it lightly before you start to slide your mouth down his length. You're not even halfway down when it reaches the back of your mouth; you push down further, taking him in your throat, gagging audibly on his size.

"Ohhh, wow," he mumbles as his eyelids flutter back. "That's so good…"

His hips gently push upward as you bob your head up and down, feeding you more of his length as you slide it in and out of your mouth. Your noises escalate, pathetic whining growing louder as you start to increase your pace. He can't help himself — he starts to fuck his cock into your mouth, sliding deep into your throat. Tears well in your eyes, but you continue to stare up at him; the sight is enough to send him over the edge.

"Baby, 'm gonna cum," he groans. A few thrusts later, you feel ropes of hot cum shooting down your throat, his cock pulsing in your mouth as he releases. Soft whimpers escape his trembling lips as he cums hard in your mouth, relishing every moment of the delicious sensation. He strokes your head gently as he finishes; you swallow all his cum, slowly dragging your lips off his spent cock.

"Fuck," he sighs, melting into the chair. Opening his eyes, he looks down at you sweetly, his head still spinning from the orgasm. "Thank you."

"For sucking your dick?" you ask, starting to giggle.

"Yeah," he says with a stupid grin. "That was awesome."

He helps to you your feet, tucking his cock back inside his pants and zipping them up again. He pulls you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around you and kissing you again.

"Sorry I kissed you and ran away like an idiot," he tells you, holding you snugly against him. "That was really stupid and embarrassing."

"You're not an idiot," you reply, playfully thumping him in the chest. "I like you just the way you are."

Jeonghan smiles. In the few years you've known him, you've never seen him radiating with genuine happiness like this — you decide it looks great on him.

[EPILOGUE]

You gasp for air as your head falls back into the pillows, chest heaving in the aftermath of your orgasm. Jeonghan remains parked between your legs, lazily lapping at your soaked pussy — his new favorite place to be.

"Fuck," you sigh, dragging your fingers through his hair. "That was so good."

He lifts his head, his mouth and chin glistening with your juices.

"Good," he replies, grinning at you proudly.

"Kiss me," you plead softly; he crawls up the bed to greet your lips with his, planting a deep kiss onto your mouth. A sudden knocking at your bedroom door makes the both of you jump.

"Hey lovebirds," Mina calls out through the door. "Your take-out just got here. I already paid for it, so you owe me $20."

"It was only $15!" you shout back.

"Service fee. For me," she responds cheekily, already walking away. You roll your eyes, laughing it off. Jeonghan starts kissing your cheeks, pecking gently as the soft skin.

"Hey, that tickles!" you giggle.

"But you look so pretty when you laugh," he replies, continuing to kiss you.

"You're ridiculous."

"I just love you, that's all."

He lifts his head, smiling at you sweetly.

"I love you too," you reply, beaming back at him. "We should go get our food before it gets cold—" you say, starting to try and sit up, but Jeonghan holds you pinned against the bed.

"Hey!" you protest, but he's already sliding back down the bed.

"You have a microwave," he says matter-of-factly, taking hold of your thighs as he positions his face right in front of your dripping core again.

"Besides, I'm not done here yet…"

thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed this fic, don't forget to REBLOG and COMMENT — your feedback is greatly valued ♡

taglist: @miniseokminnies @kyeomiis @hannieween @smiileflower  @hanniebub

@luvseungcheol @escoupsue @shininghoshstar @coupsv  @coupsarchive

[studiosvt]

Please validate your tag by reblogging this fic

Taglist:

@prettypinkpassport @bobathi @ts19009 @kiiimgyuuu @smiileflower

@kittylover-inbothways @codeinebelle @gyuhao365 @coupsv @zealouscookierebeltrash

@fancypeacepersona @wildcreature @Frayaatiny @Leigh-darling @Ashlinxloves 

@bubble-ten @missthang600 @jenowithjaem @watchanisworld @cheolamor

@haoluver @thestoryofana13 @orpheustae @peaceofni-ki @bramos91

@tranquillitysoul @erireadsstuff @libraryinkuniverse @uhdrienne @missingsarinha

@hongyinujiang @nekkiotine @baobaoexe @isabellah29 @hoshiskimchi

@orbitinghao @babilou-pov @parakissss @severeanxietyissues @fairwanda

[defwoodz]

Dead Air, Still Live

radio host!wonwoo x reader (f, no use of yn) / romance, mystery?, demon/ghost au / wc: 2k / warnings: eerie town vibes, mentions of living alone, wonwoo is a heavy music snob, heavy making out / r: 18+

summary: Wonwoo's late radio show boasts of knowing the most underground bands and playing only the uncut gems. Every night, the final call is from her, and she's not impressed. Also, every night, after the show is supposed to end, the call keeps going.

isa´s note: this is my entry for @studiosvt First Time Caller collab! I wish I had expanded this by a lot but there´s a lot in my head/schedule right now and despite being short, I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. Please don´t forget to check out the another entires on this collab, and thanks to the admins for letting me be apart of it (:

ON AIR

The neon sign turned on inside the soundproof booth while Wonwoo selected the records he had planned to play that night. Out of habit, he adjusted his round-framed glasses back and spoke lowly into the microphone.

“You're now tuned to CARAT FM. I'm Jeon Wonwoo, your host for the next few hours. Join me again on this foggy night to relive some of the greatest sounds, most of them recorded in places you've never heard of.”

If you were to choose a word to describe Jeon Wonwoo’s late-night radio show, it would definitely be melancholic.

Despite being still very young, Wonwoo despised digital media. Ironically, it was precisely digital spaces that had made his small-town radio show into the cult phenomenon it was amongst college kids around the country. 

Mingyu, Wonwoo's best friend who still lived in the city, often sent him pictures of college students wearing CARAT FM hoodies and laptops covered in the radio logo stickers. One time, while going through a blog Mingyu had sent, Wonwoo realized he was called “The Mountain Hermit” and that people curated the show's lives to preserve it.

“These b-sides shouldn't exist! Where does he find them?” one comment said. “If he hadn't played it, it didn't exist,” said another.

Wonwoo had left Seoul after finishing college. Like fate, though he wasn’t fond of people who believed in destiny, he got an offer to take care of the small local station at the jagged peak of Blackmountain, a sprawling structure of wood and copper rods far from the center of town and from everything else Wonwoo was familiar with.

Exactly what he was looking for.

It was both his studio and sanctuary. The top floor was filled with vintage records from his personal collection, and gems left behind by the people who ran the station before him, now more years than he’s been alive. It was both his studio and his sanctuary.

Wonwoo rarely left his forte, which added to the local lore, since he was rarely seen outside and there were no pictures of him online. The couple of pictures on Mingyu's social media were from the early days of school, so he was mostly a mystery to all his followers. And Wonwoo liked it that way. They admired him for the curated music he played for them, not for himself. That was all this was about.

However, there were days when he did venture into the local scene, mostly to restock groceries, in his rusted-out Volvo, also left at the station; perfectly functioning, Wonwoo just had to remove the dust and clean the leather; and whenever he did, the town reacted as if a foreign creature had landed in their town square.

He'd be standing in line to pay for something, or filling up the gas tank, and the conversations would stop. At first, he thought it was just a normal small-town quirk; he was pretty young, and most people in town were no less than fifty, with all the younger people leaving as soon as they were of college age. But when the eerie looks and dead silence persisted every time he showed up, Wonwoo knew something about him, specifically, was the cause.

To the people online, he was a vibe; for the people in Blackmountain, he was a ticking clock.

Wonwoo never noticed how people walked wide circles around him, or how the local police always pulled over to watch him pass. He didn't realize they weren't admiring his youth, or that he was a loner in a town where everyone knew each other's names. They were looking for his shadow, which was still attached, looking at his ears to see if they'd started bleeding yet.

“... And that was a B-side, recorded in 1973, in West Berlin,” He leaned back into his leather chair, boots over the switchboard, microphone really close to his mouth. “They only played 3 shows, and two of them were inside a laundromat. If you listen closely on the two-minute mark, there’s the faint sound of someone dropping coins just in the right moment of dead silence… that’s as raw as it gets. Anyway, I'll take some calls now. Please do not ask for any movie soundtrack.”

The line 1 blinked immediately. 

This surprised him, usually the first caller was way past into the first hour of the show. 

“That was very good, Wonwoo,” your soft voice said on the other side of the line. It was melodic and surprisingly clear, cutting through the usual hiss of the station. “But the pressing you’re playing is from that one show that wasn’t done at a laundromat. The mastering is far too bright, there’s none of the gray vibe we were starting with, don’t you think?” 

Wonwoo blinked, sititng up straight. “I- well, the original pressing is nearly impossible to find, I suppose there could be a mixing in the recordings for this particular one… What’s your name?” He stuttered a little, feeling a bit taken aback. 

“Before I tell you my name, let me tell you about pure raw remasters. Have you heard BSS? They were an experimental trio based in Seoul in the late fifties. Fun fact, they used tuned light bulbs as percussion.” 

Wonwoo’s brows furrowed. He knew everything about the experimental scene of Seoul of the fifties like his own name… nothing in his brain clicked when it came to an experimental trio named BSS. 

“Check the return slot in the mail bin; delivery should have arrived already,” you said. Wonwoo stood up hurriedly, and at the same time, he replied that the lobby was already locked. He had the station open for everyone in case someone decided to visit. That had never happened so far, but he was sure to lock it when he was inside the booth. 

He sprinted out of the booth into the lobby, finding a 7-inch record encased in a sleeve of hand-pressed paper inside the mail slot. No name, no address. Just a small, hand-drawn map of the stars on the center ring. 

He hurried back into the booth, heart thumping loudly inside. “I found the record. How did you send it here? Who are you?”

“A fan of deep cuts, Wonwoo. Play it, let’s see if you can really appreciate curated music as you claim.” 

As he lowered the needle, a sound so fragile and crystalline played. Hauntingly beautiful. He sat there looking straight into the record spinning for a good minute, defining what he was hearing as a color he didn’t know existed yet. He was captivated, but more than that, flustered that he had been out-snobbed. 

“This is incredible. Where did you find this?” 

There was no answer, just the faint rhythmic hum of the dial tone. 

Wonwoo stared at the record, unable to know what to play next for the rest of the night, except this. Mesmerized by the music, he had no way of knowing the entire town of Blackmountain had stopped on its tracks, and was now looking up towards the faint lights emerging from the radio tower. The red neon light ON AIR wasn’t red anymore; it was a pulsing violet. 

Everyone except Jeon Wonwoo realized that the music meant the guest was coming. 

The next few weeks were a slow-motion collapse of Wonwoo’s carefully structured world. He stopped preparing playlists or reading his vintage music magazines. He became possessed, sitting in the booth, staring at the console's flickering lights, waiting for the phone to ring.

Each night you called. And each night, you humbled him.

“Oh, you’re playing an unreleased bass solo from The8?” Your voice sounded close, as if you were sitting right beside him. “Anyhow, that record you can still find on any vintage curated music store in Haicheng, a little bit commercial, don’t you think?”

“Commercial?” Wonwoo replied. Adjusting his glasses and straightening up in the chair. “This is one of the only fifty copies ever made, not even The8 himself knew these were being recorded.”

You sighed. “Right. But have you heard about the five copies made of his record-breaking solo in the monastery in Shanghai, I believe from 1965, the one he got banned from the city for?”

“Of course.” He replied bitterly. “That’s impossible to find, only five tapes, all lost to the authorities who kicked him out.”

“Look under the turntable platter, the one that’s been wobbling for ages…”

Wonwoo lifted the heavy rubber mat of the Technics SL-1200, and tucked in the spindle was a strip of magnetic tape, and there it was.

“How..?” his hands were shaking as he placed the record into the reel-to-reel. When he hit play, what came out was the exact moment when The8, the most prominent bass player of China, made his fingers bleed with a bass solo of more than 10 minutes. Every sound was there. From the bass strings to the wind, and people amazed by this artist rebelling against the authorities that wanted to ban music all those years back. The sound of officials taking him down and telling him to leave the monastery. It was all there until it got cut off the recording, and it was something Wonwoo never imagined to be playing on his small town radio show.

“God. That was…” He leaned into the mic, forgetting thousands of people were listening, and only speaking to you. “You are ruining me. Now my collection seems so… thin.”

“Wonwoo,” you said softly. “We’ve been flirting with frequency for weeks, don’t you think it’s time we met?”

Wonwoo felt a jolt. He muttered something into the mic, remembering there were people listening.

“No one else is listening, it´s only you and me tonight,” you assured him.

“You want to come to the station? It´s like 2 in the morning…”

“I´m already at the gate.”.

Wonwoo didn’t hesitate. He ran to the front door, his heart hammering inside his chest as he rang the buzzer of the gate to open it. It was against all logic. How did you get here so fast? How did you manage to get him the records from places inside the station? None of it made sense… yet that was the last of his worries right now.

He adjusted his glasses, straightened his sweater, and pushed the hair over his face back. The signal strength meter on the wall was now blinking red, and it vibrated so hard that it cracked. The clock on the wall started clicking backward.

He then saw you getting closer. You were exactly like he expected, yet nothing like he imagined. You were covered by a coat that seemed to absorb the surrounding light. Your shiny hair brings light to your face.

“You are real.” He breathed. The snob persona vanishes completely at the sight of you.

You smiled, getting even closer until you could trace soft lines across his sharp jawline. Your fingers felt cold, yet they sent waves of heat across his skin.

“I don’t even know your name,” Wonwoo breathed again, placing both hands across your waist, cautiously but firmly.

You leaned in, lips brushing against his. “What am I to you?”

Wonwoo replied almost instantly. “My muse.”

You then kissed him, lips brushing at first, then embracing his mouth and tongue slowly, savoring every second you were connected. He kissed you back eagerly, as if he hadn’t kissed anyone else before you, but had all the experience in the world.

His hands roamed up and down from your back to your hips, and you threw your arms across his neck. Soon you were back at the booth. Lost in the heat, he reached for the master fader to lower the volume, but your hand caught his, pinning it to the desk.

“Hmm,” you hummed against his lips. “Leave it up. Let them hear what happens next.”

Outside the radio tower, the people of Blackmountain were engulfed by the flickering lights. Their shadows had left their bodies and were now dancing out on their porch, to the rhythmic pulse coming from the station. They knew what Wonwoo didn’t. That he was about to become one with the static, the sound, and the waves he loved to play for others.

Right now, CARAT FM is broadcasting the news that he had accepted her invitation.

[studiosvt]

Please validate your tag by reblogging this fic!

Taglist:

@prettypinkpassport @bobathi @ts19009 @kiiimgyuuu @smiileflower

@kittylover-inbothways @codeinebelle @gyuhao365 @coupsv @zealouscookierebeltrash

@fancypeacepersona @wildcreature @Frayaatiny @Leigh-darling @Ashlinxloves 

@bubble-ten @missthang600 @jenowithjaem @watchanisworld @cheolamor

@haoluver @thestoryofana13 @orpheustae @peaceofni-ki @bramos91

@tranquillitysoul @erireadsstuff @libraryinkuniverse @uhdrienne @missingsarinha

@hongyinujiang @nekkiotine @baobaoexe @isabellah29 @hoshiskimchi

@orbitinghao @babilou-pov @parakissss @fairwanda @nahyuckism

[nerdycheol]

Out of Sync || H.J.S

SUMMARY: On air, you and Joshua sound perfectly in sync—easy banter, soft laughter, the kind of chemistry listeners love. Off air, however, you can barely stand him. Unfortunately, work has a funny way of pushing you two together… and lately, avoiding Joshua is becoming impossible.

PAIRING: radio host!joshua x f!reader

GENRE: enemies2lovers, crack(?), workplace romance, one-sided love, future smut

WC: 8.5k (part 1 of ??)

A/N: written for First Time Caller collab by @studiosvt. i loveddd this collab theme, so i reaallyy hope i did justice to it. pleaseee tell me if you like it (also if you don't so i can improve next time :)) thankyouuu kay @orbitondgtl for beta reading this for me 🥹💗 do consider commenting and reblogging it means a lot to me.

"Good evening darlings! Welcome to The Love Line, this is your host Joshua. And I'm here with—"

You say your name into the mic, softly, cutting of Joshua. "The sun is setting, most of you might be just getting off work. A day with back-to-back meetings, deadlines, and managers sitting on your head—" you click your tongue sympathetically, "—you all did so great today."

Joshua lets out a soft, breathy chuckle beside you that melts straight through the headphones.

"They really did," he adds warmly, voice dipping into that smooth, honeyed tone he reserves for moments like this. "And if no one told you yet—hey, we're proud of you. Surviving the day is no small thing."

You glance at him through the glass reflection of the console, catching the small smile already waiting there.

"Look at you," you murmur, teasing lightly, "stealing my lines again."

"Occupational hazard of working with you," he shoots back easily. "You say all the good stuff first."

You hum, pretending to consider it. "Mm. I am very generous like that."

"Clearly," his lips twitch.

A soft instrumental hum swells beneath your voices—the signature opening of the show. The studio lights dim just slightly, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. You reach out absentmindedly, adjusting the angle of your mic, fingertips brushing against the metal before settling back.

You lean in closer.

"Joshua," you start, your voice slower, as if you're easing into something.

He turns his head just a little, resting his chin lightly against his knuckles, eyes flicking toward you.

"Mm?"

"You know that feeling…" you trail off, eyes dropping briefly to the console as your fingers tap lightly against it. "When you're not even doing anything special—just sitting next to someone, or maybe talking about nothing—and it still feels like the nicest part of your day?"

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Like… nothing's really happening, but you don't want it to end."

You nod faintly, a small smile forming as you continue.

"It's that kind of love that isn't loud," you exhale softly. "The kind you don't realize you're holding onto until it's not right in front of you anymore."

"Mm," Joshua hums. "Feels like a dream while you're in it."

"Now that you've said it…" you begin, a hint of a grin returning, "I'm going to play the first song of the evening—and I might be a little biased here—"

Joshua lets out a quiet, knowing huff of amusement beside you.

"—but this is one of my absolute favorites. I could listen to it on loop and never get tired of it," you continue, fingers finally pressing lightly against the button.

You lean just a fraction closer to the mic, voice dipping into something more intimate. "Here's 'Dream' by Baekhyun and Suzy."

As the opening notes of the song begins to drift through the studio, you slide back from the mic.

The rest of the show flows easily—songs playing one after another, a few sweet confessions from listeners, and light chatter between you and Joshua that keeps the night warm and relaxed. Before you know it, the final song fades out.

You lean toward the mic again with a small smile. "That's all for tonight, darlings. Thank you for spending your evening with us." Joshua follows with a gentle goodnight, and with a promise to be back tomorrow on The Love Line, the ON AIR light clicks off.

The softness that filled the studio just seconds ago disappears the moment the red light clicks off. Like a switch being flipped, your smile drops into a grim expression. Without another word, you pull your headphones off, pack up your things, and push your chair back. The wheels scrape lightly against the floor as you stand and walk out of the studio.

Joshua just watches you go for a second, lips pressed into a thin line. He lets out a small scoff under his breath and shakes his head, packing up his own things.

From the control room, Jeonghan clicks his tongue, leaning back in his chair. "Talk about being professional. The way they interact on the show, nobody would guess they're literally at each other's throats."

Vernon, who had been sitting behind the console, turns to him curiously. "I've always wondered why they're like this."

Jeonghan exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. "Beats me," he mutters. "Anyway, good job today, intern. You can pack up for tonight." He pats Vernon's back before running out to catch you.

You pull your phone out of your pocket, glancing down at the screen to check your notifications as you walk down the corridor. A voice calls out from behind you. You stop and turn slightly. Jeonghan jogs toward you, a bright smile already spreading across his face. You slip your phone into your back pocket, returning his smile with a curious tilt of your head.

"As expected of my ace," he says, catching his breath. "That episode was so good. Especially when you addressed that last confession—"

"I won't do it." You state.

Jeonghan blinks. Your blunt interruption hangs in the air. His smile falters, eyes flickering away from you as he scratches the back of his head.

"I… don't know what you mean," he says weakly.

You sigh, already half turning away.

"You know how much I hate being on camera, and with this whole documentary thing. I can say goodbye to my privacy."

There's been all this talk about a crew coming in, filming everything—behind the scenes, personal lives, 'the struggle of radio in the age of podcasts and streaming'. Like putting a camera in the room is suddenly going to save it.

All you can picture is lenses pointed at you when you're not ready for it. Boom mics hovering just out of frame. So annoying.

"I don't want to sign up to have someone documenting how I work, how I talk, what I do in between segments—like it's something for people to pick apart later." Your voice dips lower. "I like that this job ends when I walk out of the studio. I like that there's still a line."

"Ah—just this once!" Jeonghan moves too quickly, stepping directly into your path before you can slip past him. You almost walk straight into his chest, forced to stop short as he throws his arms out slightly, like he can physically keep you from leaving if he just tries hard enough.

"You're the perfect one for this. " He says, words coming a little too fast, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he doesn't get them out in time. "Your show is literally the only one doing numbers right now."

Before you can respond, his tone softens, shifting gears as naturally as breathing. He reaches for your hand, clasping it between both of his, warm and insistent, his thumbs pressing lightly like he's trying to anchor you there.

"Do you you really want the company to look bad?" he adds, tilting his head just slightly, eyes searching your face. "Do you want me to be embarrassed?"

You give him a look, pulling your hands back.

"Jeonghan, I love you, but no." You say flatly, your voice carrying none of the softness he's trying to coax out of you. "And working extra hours with Joshua? Pass."

Speaking of the devil. Joshua struts towards the both of you and lazily puts an arm around Jeonghan. He notices the slight tension between the two of you and shakes his head in disapproval.

"Give this old man a break."

Your eyes narrow just a fraction before you roll them, turning your head away like you couldn't care less. "You're literally the same age."

Joshua ignores you entirely and instead looks at Jeonghan. "She bothering you, king?"

Jeonghan blinks. "No, actually I was asking if—"

"You know what?" Your eyes suddenly brighten as you cut him off. You clap your hands together once. "How about you have Joshua and Hana on this one?"

"What? No!" Joshua immediately shoots down the idea as if he knows what you guys are talking about.

"She's just an intern—" Jeonghan says at the exact same time.

Your lips curl into a faint, humorless smile as you fold your arms across your chest.

"Right," you murmur. "Because I'm the only one you can overwork."

You shift your weight, gaze flicking briefly toward Joshua before sliding away again.

"And Hana's not exactly helpless," you add, tone light but pointed. "She's practically glued to the studio anyway."

It’s true.

Hana is always around—hovering near the control room, lingering just a little too long after her shifts, volunteering for things no one asked her to. And more often than not, her eyes aren't on the equipment or the scripts.

They're on Joshua.

She laughs a little too quickly at his jokes, bright and eager. Finds reasons to stand close. To ask questions she already knows the answers to. And somehow, she always ends up near you—because wherever you are, Joshua isn't far behind.

"That's not the point," he says, tone more controlled now.

"Mm," you hum, unconvinced.

You don't push it further. Instead, you straighten slightly, your arms still crossed like a barrier between you and them. "Look I won't do extra hours for something that doesn't even benefit me in any way."

"It's not exactly nothing," Jeonghan starts weakly. "I mean, you will be getting a paid leave for a week."

"We are?" Joshua's head snaps towards him.

Jeonghan looks at you observing your reaction to the enticing information, hoping that this might be enough for you to change your mind.

A paid leave. A whole freaking week.

You could sleep without setting alarms. Stay in bed until the sun shifts across your room and disappears again. You could spend time with your cat—if she even still recognizes you. These days, she's always curled up somewhere by the time you get home, half-asleep, barely lifting her head when you walk in like you're just another passing presence instead of the person who feeds her.

You huff a quiet breath through your nose. A week of that sounds… dangerously tempting.

From the corner of your eye, you can feel Joshua watching you. Not saying anything, not interrupting—just waiting. And you know if you agree, he won't let you forget it. The teasing alone would be unbearable. But still… a week off.

God.

You exhale slowly, like you're forcing the decision out before you can rethink it.

"…Fine."

Jeonghan's face lights up instantly, relief breaking across his features so openly it almost makes you regret saying yes.

"But this is the first and the last time," you add firmly, already turning away and continuing down the hallway without waiting for a response.

"Of course!" Jeonghan calls after you, raising his arms above his head to make a giant heart that you don't see it. "Thank you so much! I love you!"

Joshua watches the empty space for a second longer than necessary, his gaze lingering where you vanished before he exhales quietly through his nose, shaking his head.

"Tch. All that drama just to say yes."

Jeonghan throws him a dirty look, elbowing him on the stomach. "Don't trouble her so much, you idiot."

Joshua doubles down holding his stomach. "Are you my friend or hers?"

"At work, I'm your producer."

When you agreed to the documentary, you hadn't realized it would start this soon.

You'd barely made it home the night before—shoes kicked off somewhere near the door, bag abandoned on the couch—when your phone buzzed with a new email. You remember staring at the screen, eyes still half-lidded with exhaustion, rereading the same line twice just to make sure you weren't hallucinating.

Filming begins tomorrow.

Now, barely twelve hours later, you're seated in a meeting room that feels just a little too bright, a little too cold, with cameras already set up in the corners like silent observers.

The documentary team mills about, adjusting equipment, whispering to one another. Across from you, Jeonghan sits with his usual composure, legs crossed neatly, hands resting on the table. He's smiling wide and bright.

You hadn't realized until this exact moment how deeply that smile could irritate you.

To your right, Joshua looks no different than he usually does—leaned back slightly in his chair, posture relaxed, one hand idly spinning the paperweight on the table like he has all the time in the world.

From the outside, the two of you probably look like the picture of professionalism—calm and composed. What they don't see is the way his shoe presses lightly against your ankle under the table. It is subtle at first, almost easy to dismiss as accidental, but when it happens again, and then again, the pattern becomes impossible to ignore.

You shift your leg back, drawing it closer to your chair in an attempt to create distance, but it barely lasts a second before his foot follows, closing the gap you just made. The repetition grates on your nerves, and you can feel your patience thinning as your fingers curl slightly against the edge of the table. You keep your gaze forward, fixed somewhere ahead, refusing to acknowledge him, refusing to give him the reaction he is clearly trying to provoke. Still, he does it again, pressing just enough this time to make it impossible to ignore without responding, and you feel the irritation rise sharp and immediate in your chest as you prepare to turn and finally snap at him.

Before you can, the door swings open.

"I am so sorry for the delay!" The sudden interruption cuts cleanly through the tension, breaking it apart before it can escalate any further.

A man steps inside, slightly out of breath, one hand pushing his hair back as he straightens himself and offers a quick, apologetic bow that is just a little too hurried to be polished. His tie sits slightly crooked, sleeves pushed up as if he has been rushing from one place to another, and there is a faint flush to his face that suggests he has been moving far faster than he probably should have.

Despite all of that, there is something immediately noticeable about him—an energy that feels bright and open, a little chaotic but undeniably genuine. It settles into the room almost instantly, softening the sharp edges of the moment you were just in and replacing it with something lighter, something easier, as he steps further inside with a breathless laugh and an apologetic smile that does not falter.

"There was so much traffic today," he continues, already moving further into the room. "I brought coffee for everyone—least I could do."

He carries a coffee carton as he goes around the table handing out cups one by one, offering soft apologies with each.

"Oh—" he pauses when he reaches you, the motion so slight it might have gone unnoticed if you weren't already hyper-aware of everything in the room. For a brief second, his hand hovers midair, the coffee cup still extended toward you as his eyes settle on your face.

A flicker of recognition passes his face and the soft smile on his face gets bigger as he places the coffee in your hand. A faint blush creeps up before you can stop it, and when you murmur a soft "thank you," it comes out quieter than you intended, almost betraying the sudden shift in your composure.

If no one else notices, Joshua does.

The movement under the table stops ,and a second later your chair shifts ever so slightly, nudged from the side, just enough to draw your attention without making it obvious. You turn your head, already knowing what you'll find.

He's looking at you.

One eyebrow raised, cup hovering halfway to his lips, his gaze sharp and assessing in a way that feels far more intentional than casual curiosity.

Do you know him?

Of course its his job to be nosy. And if you so much as give him anything to work with, you already know how it ends—with endless teasing, with him bringing it up at the worst possible moments, with that stupid, knowing look every time your name gets mentioned in the same breath as his.

You hold his gaze for a fraction of a second, long enough to acknowledge it but not long enough to answer. Then you look away.

When you turn back toward the front of the room, that small smile hasn't quite left your face, lingering faintly like something you haven't decided what to do with yet.

"Hello everyone," the man says, stepping forward to the head of the table. He straightens, shoulders squaring as his hands come together neatly in front of him. "I'm Lee Seokmin, the producer for this documentary."

Then he bows fully, a clean ninety degrees. A quiet laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, soft and brief, drawn more from familiarity than amusement.

Some things really don't change.

Jeonghan picks up from there without missing a beat, slipping seamlessly into his professional tone as he begins outlining schedules, expectations, and boundaries. His voice is steady, controlled, filling the room with the kind of structure everyone else seems to fall into easily. Around the table, the crew listens attentively, some jotting down notes, others glancing toward the cameras as if already piecing together how this will all look once it's edited.

You try to focus. You really do.

You follow the conversation, nod at the appropriate moments, keep your posture composed and your expression neutral—but your attention doesn't stay where it's supposed to.

Every now and then, your eyes drift.

Seokmin listens with a kind of attentiveness that feels almost deliberate, nodding along as Jeonghan speaks, occasionally adding a thought or asking a question that shows he's already thinking a few steps ahead. But once or twice his gaze shifts toward you.

Each time his gaze lingers just a second longer than it should, warm and familiar in a way that unsettles you, and each time you're the one who breaks first—looking away a little too quickly, a faint blush creeping up before you can stop it.

Across the table, Joshua grows quiet.

The paperweight in front of him sits untouched now, no longer spinning under his fingers. His foot stays still beneath the table, no longer seeking yours. And he doesn't speak unless he absolutely has to, offering nothing extra, nothing unnecessary.

—

You pack slower for someone who's always the first one out of the room the moment a meeting ends. But today, your movements drag just enough to notice. You stack your papers once, then again, aligning the edges more carefully than necessary. Your bag stays open as you pretend to look for something, fingers brushing over items you already know are exactly where they should be.

You don't know what you're waiting for. Maybe waiting to go talk to Seokmin or maybe he—

Oh fuck he's coming this way.

The realization lands all at once, sharp enough to make your stomach tighten, and you immediately drop your gaze, shoulders straightening as you shuffle your things with sudden, unnecessary urgency. You try to look occupied, focused, like you've been doing something important this entire time instead of sitting there waiting without admitting it.

A soft knock against the table pulls your attention up anyway.

He's closer than you expected.

Up close, Seokmin looks almost exactly the same, though there's something more put together about him now—his features a little sharper, his presence a little more grounded, but still carrying that same warmth you remember. His hair is slightly out of place like he's been running his hand through it, and a faint flush to his cheeks. Despite all of that, his smile is steady, easy, the kind that comes naturally without effort

"It's been so long since we met," he says, his expression brightening further as he looks at you properly, like he’s confirming what he already suspects. "How have you been?"

For a brief moment, your mind goes completely blank. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering there as you try to gather your thoughts, to form a response that doesn't sound as thrown off as you suddenly feel.

"I've been—"

"You guys know each other?" Joshua's voice cuts in smoothly, almost lazily, but there's an edge to it that makes you immediately regret not answering faster. When you glance at him, he's already watching the two of you, a wide smile stretched across his face—too interested, too entertained, like he's just found something new to pick apart.

Seokmin lets out a small laugh, glancing briefly in his direction before looking back at you.

“We do have some history,” he says.

"You…dated?" Joshua's brows lift slightly.

"No no," Seokmin laughs, shaking his head, "She's my junior from university. We were in the same club for a while."

You feel your shoulders stiffen slightly.

"She was always running around, making sure everything went smoothly," Seokmin continues, clearly unaware of your growing discomfort. "Super reliable, but also…" he pauses, glancing at you with a grin that feels a little too familiar, "…a little too energetic sometimes."

Why is he saying so much?

Joshua hums softly, clearly enjoying this more than he should.

"Our ace's history in the flesh," he says, voice laced with amusement. "I'd love to hear more about that someday."

The way he says it makes your stomach drop. You know exactly where this is going, and you have no intention of letting it get there. You push your chair back abruptly and stand, the legs scraping loudly against the floor as you cut in before Joshua can say anything else.

"Seokmin—!"

The name comes out sharper than you intend, loud enough to draw both their attention instantly. You force your expression to soften, stepping around the table as you try to recover from the abrupt interruption.

"It's so good to see you," you say, your voice quieter now, more controlled. "I didn't expect to run into you here."

Seokmin looks momentarily surprised before breaking into a warm laugh. He reaches out without thinking and ruffles your hair lightly, the gesture so casual and familiar that it catches you completely off guard.

"You haven't changed at all," he says, fondness clear in his tone.

You freeze for just a second, caught between reacting and not reacting.

Before you can decide, he turns slightly toward Joshua again, still smiling. "I have so much to tell you," he adds. "She was so bubbly. Always made things more lively."

"Bubbly…" Joshua drags, his gaze shifting back to you with a playful look. "I see."

"Seok—" you start, stepping in again, fully prepared to shut this down before it gets any worse

But you're interrupted by one of the crew members calling Seokmin from across the room, waving him over urgently. He turns, blinking, then looks back at you with an apologetic expression.

"I'm so sorry," he says quickly. "I think I have to go for a bit."

You nod, still trying to steady yourself.

"But I want to catch up," he continues, already pulling out his phone and holding it out toward you. "Give me your number?"

There's a brief hesitation before you take it, your fingers brushing lightly against his as you input your number. It's a simple action, but your heartbeat feels just a little too loud in your chest.

'See you soon, sunshine," he smiles as you hand the phone back.

The nickname lands unexpectedly, and you feel the warmth rush to your face again as you bite the inside of your lip, managing only a small nod in response.

Then he's gone. The door closes softly behind him, and the room feels quieter in his absence.

"Wasn't that fun?" Joshua says from behind you, making your shoulders tense. "I can't wait to see him again," he adds as he gathers his things, movements unhurried.

"Don't," you warn.

Joshua hums softly, like he didn't hear the warning at all. As he passes by you, his hand reaches out, ruffling your hair in the exact same way Seokmin did just moments ago. The familiarity of the gesture hits differently this time, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

"Bye, sunshine," he says emulating Seokmin's voice.

He doesn't wait for a reaction. He just walks out, leaving you standing there.

You had gone to bed far too late that night, standing in front of your wardrobe longer than you'd like to admit, pulling out outfit after outfit only to reject each one for reasons that kept changing. Too plain. Too much. Too obvious. Not enough.

It had taken you nearly two hours to finally settle on something that felt right—something that didn't look like you were trying, even though you absolutely were.

And yet, despite the lack of sleep, you wake up ten minutes before your alarm.

Your morning moves with unusual precision. You take your time in the shower, letting the water run warmer than usual, going through every step like you're preparing for something far more important than just another workday.

Your cat greets you in the kitchen, already weaving around your legs before you've even poured your coffee. She's unusually affectionate today, tail brushing against you, lingering instead of darting away like she usually does. You crouch down, scratching lightly behind her ears as she leans into your hand.

"Wow," you murmur, narrowing your eyes at her. "You're being suspiciously nice today. Today must be a good day?"

She blinks up at you, entirely unbothered, before settling beside you as you eat.

By the time you leave, you feel put together.

The compliment comes from somewhere to your left as you walk down the hallway, followed quickly by another voice agreeing, then another.

Of course you look good. You didn't spend two hours the night before for nothing.

Still, there's a small, quiet satisfaction in the way heads turn just slightly as you pass, in the way people do double takes before catching themselves. Your hand tightens briefly around the strap of your bag as you approach the meeting room, your steps slowing just a fraction as your thoughts drift.

Seokmin.

You wonder if he'll notice. If he'll say something. If he'll smile the same way he did yesterday—

A burst of laughter from inside the room cuts the thought short. You pause for half a second, then push the door open. Both Joshua and Seokmin look up at the same time.

Seokmin's reaction is immediate. He straightens slightly in his seat, his expression lighting up in a way that feels almost automatic, like he didn't even have to think about it.

"Wow," he says, the word slipping out easily as his gaze lingers on you. "You look great."

The compliment lands softly but directly, and you feel your cheeks warm before you can stop it. You glance down briefly, biting your lip in a small, reflexive attempt to hide it, your fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of your dress as if suddenly aware of it.

"Thank—"

"Really?" Joshua cuts in, his voice calm, almost thoughtful. "I don't see any difference."

Your head snaps up, the warmth in your expression disappearing as quickly as it came, replaced by a sharp, unimpressed scowl. Your eyes lock onto his, narrowing slightly as you stare him down across the room.

Joshua meets your gaze without hesitation, completely unfazed. If anything, he looks mildly confused, his brows knitting just slightly as if he genuinely doesn't understand what he said wrong.

Seokmin lets out a small, awkward cough, the sound cutting through the moment as he glances between the two of you. You break eye contact first, exhaling quietly as you turn away and move toward your seat, setting your bag down with more force than necessary before sitting.

Seokmin clears his throat lightly, slipping back into a more professional tone as he gestures toward the crew behind him.

"So, like we discussed yesterday," he begins, his voice steadying as he shifts gears, "today we'll just be recording you guys working. We want everything to feel as natural as possible, so just… pretend we're not here. Think of it as a normal day in your lives."

You let out a quiet hum, leaning back slightly in your chair.

"If we do that," you mumble under your breath, "a war will break out any moment."

"Sorry, I didn't catch that." Seokmin says, blinking at you.

“We'll do our jobs ten times more efficiently today, bro.” Joshua cuts in smoothly, his tone bright and easy as he looks at Seokmin with a wide, almost charming smile—like he didn't just undermine you in the most deliberate way possible.

You turn your head slowly, fixing him with a flat look. "Bro?"

Joshua nods seriously, like this is a completely reasonable development.

"We're like real brothers now," he says, gesturing lightly between himself and Seokmin. "Right, bro?"

Seokmin laughs, a little surprised but clearly amused, nodding along. "Sure. If you say so."

You stare at Joshua for a second longer, your expression unimpressed, bordering on disbelief. Of course he's doing this. Of course he's inserting himself here too. It's not enough that he disrupts your rhythm, pokes at your patience, finds ways to get under your skin—now he has to compete in spaces that don't even belong to him.

You look away with a quiet scoff, crossing your arms as you settle back into your chair.

Joshua, meanwhile, looks entirely satisfied, leaning back like he's just won something no one else realized was a competition.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

The meeting dissolves into movement soon after, the crew quietly repositioning themselves around the room while you and Joshua settle into what is supposed to be a "normal work session." Laptops open, notes spread out, a half-finished outline of the next segment sitting between you like neutral ground that neither of you fully trusts.

You lean forward slightly, scanning the draft on your screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard before you begin typing. For a few minutes, it's almost peaceful. The faint hum of equipment, the soft clicks of keys, the occasional murmur from the crew trying to stay unobtrusive. If you ignore the cameras—and him—it almost feels like any other day.

"Don't you think that line's a bit too heavy?"

Joshua's voice cuts in, smooth and casual, like he's just making an observation and not deliberately interrupting your flow.

You don't look at him immediately. You finish typing the sentence, hit save, and only then turn your head slightly.

"It's supposed to be," you reply evenly. "That's the point."

He leans back in his chair, tilting his head as he looks at your screen from afar, like he doesn't even need to see it properly to disagree.

"Or," he says slowly, "it could just sound like you're trying too hard to be deep."

There it is. You feel it instantly—that small, sharp spark of irritation. Your fingers still against the keyboard as your eyes flick to him, narrowing just slightly.

"Or," you return, voice just as measured, "you could try understanding the tone before commenting on it."

"I understand it," he says. "I just don't think the listeners will."

Your jaw tightens. You're about to respond—already leaning forward slightly, words forming, ready to push back properly this time, when you catch his subtle gaze toward the camera—giving you a hint that everything is being recorded.

You sit back slowly instead, trying to ease out your expression into something softer.

"Well," you say, offering him a small, tight smile, "that's why we work together, right? Balance."

Joshua watches you for a second before smiling just as polite. "Exactly."

From the outside, it probably looks seamless. The kind of dynamic people would compliment. It makes your skin itch.

"Bitch." You grunt, deleting the words from the screen.

"Sorry what was that?" Joshua raises an eyebrow at you.

"Rich." You quickly correct yourself. "Your thought process is so…rich."

The rest of the session passes in that same rhythm—careful, controlled, every word filtered just enough to sound right without saying what you actually mean. By the time you're done, your patience feels thinner than it should be.

You close your laptop with a quiet exhale and stand, stretching slightly as you glance around the room.

Seokmin is across the space, speaking with one of the crew members, his back half-turned to you. You hesitate for only a second before making your way over.

"Seokmin," you call lightly.

He turns immediately, his expression brightening the moment he sees you. "Yeah?"

You slow to a stop in front of him, hands loosely clasped behind your back, the earlier tension easing just a fraction.

"Are you free for lunch?" you ask, tone casual, but just warm enough to feel intentional. "I was thinking we could—"

"Bro, we're still having lunch together, right?" Joshua’s voice slides in from behind you before you can finish.

Seokmin blinks, looking between the two of you. "Oh—uh—yeah, we did say—"

"Great," Joshua continues easily, stepping forward just enough to fall into your line of sight. "There's so much for us to catch up on."

Catch up on? They met two days ago. And suddenly it's catching up?

The thought flickers through your mind, sharp and immediate, irritation bubbling up before you can stop it. Because if anyone here has actual history (well not too much history) with him—if anyone should be the one catching up it's you.

You inhale slowly.

No. You're not doing this. That's exactly what he wants—to get a reaction, to pull you into something pointless, to make you slip in front of the cameras. You won't give him that.

You let the feeling pass as quickly as it came, your posture straightening slightly as you turn back to Seokmin with a small, easy smile.

"Eat well," you say, tone light, almost dismissive in its calm. "I've got some work to finish anyway. I would've joined you otherwise."

There's the faintest hint of hesitation in his expression, but he nods. "Ah… okay. Next time then?"

"Next time," you echo, still smiling.

Joshua raises an eyebrow at that, clearly amused, but you don't look at him. You just turn, already stepping away before the moment can stretch any further, before he can add anything else to it.

—

Lunch comes and goes without you noticing it at first.

The room empties gradually, chairs scraping back, quiet chatter filling the space as people start heading out in small groups. Someone asks if you're coming along, and you shake your head without looking up, mumbling something about finishing a draft. It's easy to make it sound believable when your eyes are already glued to your screen, fingers moving just enough to sell the act.

The truth settles in a little more quietly. You're not hungry.

Or maybe you were—before. But somewhere between that moment in the meeting room and now, the thought of food has dulled into something unappealing, something you don't feel like dealing with.

So you stay.

The office feels different when it's half-empty. Quieter. The distant hum of voices fades into the background, replaced by the steady tapping of your keyboard and the occasional rustle of papers. You lean into the silence, letting it fill the space instead of your thoughts.

At some point, one of the crew members lingers near your desk, glancing at you curiously.

"You're not going for lunch?" they ask.

You don't look up immediately, finishing the line you're typing before answering.

"I'll eat later," you say lightly. "Not really hungry right now."

You don't notice Joshua nearby. You keep your focus on the screen, on the words that blur together if you stare at them too long.

After a while, the stillness starts to feel heavy.

You push your chair back with a quiet sigh, rubbing your eyes briefly before standing. "Washroom," you murmur to no one in particular, more out of habit than necessity, and step out of the room.

The break is short. Just enough to clear your head, splash some water on your face. When you return, you expect the same quiet you left behind. Instead, you pause.

There's something on your desk.

A neatly wrapped sandwich. A tall milkshake beside it, condensation already forming along the sides of the cup. It looks fresh. Recently placed.

Your gaze shifts slightly to the small sticky note is tucked under the edge of the sandwich wrapper.Just a simple smiley face.

:)

Your lips part slightly in surprise, your steps slowing as you approach your desk. There's no name. No message. Just that. But you don't need one. A small, almost involuntary smile begins to form.

Seokmin.

It has to be.

You pick up the note, your thumb brushing lightly over the ink as if that might confirm it somehow. The thought settles in easily, naturally—him remembering, him noticing, him doing something like this without making a big deal out of it.

It fits.

You're still looking at it when the door opens again and Joshua walks in.

His steps slow almost immediately as his eyes land on your desk, taking in the sandwich, the milkshake, the note. There's a brief pause as he analyses your demeanor, before his expression shifts into something more casual.

"Whoa," he says, low and almost impressed as he walks closer. "Looks like you've got a secret admirer."

You glance up at him, your fingers still holding the edge of the note.

His gaze lingers on the food for a moment longer before he reaches over, picking up a few papers from the corner of your desk like that's the only reason he came back.

"Didn't think you were the type," he adds, tone light, almost teasing.

You narrow your eyes slightly at that, but don't bite. Instead, you just set the note down carefully and pull your chair out.

"Maybe I've got someone who really cares," you reply, your voice calm, a hint of something pointed beneath it.

Joshua lets out a soft hum at that, but doesn't respond. He gathers the rest of the papers he needs, tapping them lightly against the desk to straighten them.

"Clearly," he says, almost under his breath.

For a second, it feels like he might say something else. But he doesn't. He just turns and walks out, leaving as casually as he came.

The door clicks shut behind him.

You look back down at the sandwich, at the milkshake, at the small smiley face drawn on the note. The earlier heaviness in your chest feels lighter now, replaced with something softer, something easier to hold onto.

You reach for the sandwich.

Maybe you were a little hungry after all.

The next two weeks pass in a blur of cameras, scripts, and carefully manufactured normalcy.

At first, it feels unnatural—every movement slightly too deliberate, every word filtered through the quiet awareness that someone, somewhere, is watching. But slowly, the presence of the documentary crew fades into the background.

What doesn't fade is Joshua.

If anything, he becomes more present.

Every time you find a moment—any moment—with Seokmin, Joshua is there. It starts small. A passing comment when you're mid-conversation. A casual interruption masked as a joke. Then it becomes more frequent, more deliberate. He inserts himself into discussions, finishes your sentences, redirects conversations before they can settle into anything personal.

At first, you tell yourself it's coincidence. By the fourth day, it clearly isn't.

Seokmin, for his part, doesn't seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn't comment on it. He remains the same—warm, attentive, easy to talk to. He checks in on you during breaks, asks about things that have nothing to do with work, remembers details you don't recall mentioning twice. And every time you try to respond, to build on that familiarity, Joshua somehow finds his way into the space between you.

It's subtle enough that no one calls it out. But obvious enough that it drives you insane. By the end of the first week, you've stopped trying. By the end of the second, you're determined.

So when today comes—and Jeonghan, for reasons you don't question too deeply, drags Joshua away for some "special discussion"—you don't hesitate.

You don't ask what it means. You don't care.

All you know is that for the first time in two freaking weeks, you have a window. And you take it.

The restaurant is quieter than you expected, tucked just far enough away from the main street to feel removed from the usual rush. It's warm inside, soft lighting casting a comfortable glow over the tables, the low hum of conversation blending into something easy, something calm.

Seokmin pulls your chair out before you can reach for it, the gesture smooth and natural, like it's second nature to him.

"After you," he says lightly.

You smile murmuring a soft "thank you" as you sit. He moves around the table and takes the seat across from you, the distance just enough to feel proper, just enough to make the moment feel… intentional.

He reaches for the water jug without hesitation, pouring a glass for you first before filling his own.

"We finally get to eat together," he says with a small laugh, setting the jug aside.

You let out a quiet breath, something in your shoulders loosening for the first time all day.

"I was starting to think it would never happen," you admit, a faint smile tugging at your lips. "Every time I tried, something," or someone, you mutter under your breath. "Kept getting in the way."

Seokmin chuckles, resting his elbow lightly on the table. "Yeah, your co-host seems very… present."

"That's one way to put it," you mutter under your breath, earning another laugh from him.

For a while, it's easy. You talk about university—about things you barely remember until he brings them up. Late nights before events, the chaos of organizing, the way you used to run around like you had ten places to be at once. He fills in the gaps, adds details you’d forgotten, and you find yourself laughing more than you expected to.

"And you still haven't changed," he says at one point, smiling as he leans back slightly. "Still the same."

You raise a brow. "That's not always a good thing."

"It is in your case," he replies easily.

You don't respond to that but the warmth settles anyway.

Seokmin lifts his glass, taking a sip of water, and as he lowers it, his gaze shifts slightly past you. His expression brightens almost immediately, like he's just spotted something—someone—unexpected. He lifts his hand.

"Shua! Here!"

Your smile freezes.

For a split second, you don't turn around. You don't want to. Because there's no way—there's actually no way—

What the fuck.

But then you hear it.

"Hey, bro!"

Joshua's voice.

You close your eyes briefly before turning, already feeling the irritation rise as he approaches like he belongs here. He pulls out the chair beside you without hesitation and drops into it casually, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

You don't even try to hide the look you give him. Your side-eye could probably kill. Seokmin, completely oblivious to the shift in energy, smiles between the two of you.

"Let's order first, then we can all talk," he says, glancing around for the waiter.

The moment his attention shifts away, you act.

Your hand shoots out, pushing Joshua's arm—hard enough to get his attention, subtle enough to not cause a scene. When he turns to you, you're already glaring, your eyes sharp with a very clear message.

What are you doing here?

Joshua, on the other hand, looks like he's having the time of his life. His lips curl into a slow, amused smile, eyes glinting with something dangerously close to satisfaction. Instead of answering, he reaches out—completely unbothered—and ruffles your hair.

You swat his hand away immediately, your glare deepening. He doesn't even flinch. If anything, he looks more entertained.

Before you can escalate it further, the waiter arrives at the table, notepad in hand, politely asking for your orders.

The food arrives not long after, plates filling the table with just enough variety to keep the conversation flowing. For a brief moment, things almost settle. Almost.

You reach for a dumpling, lifting it carefully with your chopsticks, only to find it gone the second before it reaches your plate.

You pause. Then slowly you turn your head.

Joshua sits beside you, completely at ease, already chewing like nothing happened, his expression too neutral. You stare at him and he doesn't even look back.

You narrow your eyes slightly, then say nothing, simply reaching across the table toward his plate instead. Your chopsticks slide in smoothly, picking out a piece of meat without hesitation.

Joshua glances down this time, his gaze lingering for a moment before shifting back to yours. A beat passes in the quiet space between you, and then he reaches over again. With a practiced sort of ease, another dumpling disappears from your plate.

You don't even look surprised anymore. You just lean forward, this time taking a larger piece from his side, placing it onto your plate with deliberate calm.

Across from you, Seokmin watches the exchange unfold, his lips twitching before he lets out a soft chuckle. The sound makes both of you pause. Your chopsticks hover midair. Joshua's hand stills halfway back to his plate.

"You both are really close," Seokmin says, amusement clear in his voice as he glances between the two of you.

The words land heavier than they should. You freeze. Almost immediately, you shift your chair slightly away from Joshua, creating a visible gap between you, like distance alone can undo whatever that just looked like.

"Not really," you say quickly, your tone light but just a little too quick to be casual. You let out a small, awkward laugh, brushing it off as if it means nothing. "We just… work together."

Seokmin nods, but there's something knowing in his smile that makes you uneasy.

No. Absolutely not. The last thing you need is him getting the wrong idea.

"I'll just—" you start, already pushing your chair back slightly, "washroom."

You don't wait for a response. You stand, smoothing your outfit unnecessarily before turning and walking away, your pace just a little faster than it needs to be.

The moment you're out of sight, Seokmin's attention shifts. He leans forward slightly, resting his elbow on the table as he looks at Joshua, one brow lifting in quiet curiosity.

Joshua, meanwhile, has already picked up another dumpling, completely unbothered, popping it into his mouth as he glances back at him.

"What?" he asks around the bite, genuinely confused.

Seokmin smiles. "You have a crush on her."

It's not a question.

Joshua chokes. The dumpling goes down the wrong way, and he coughs immediately, reaching for the glass of water in front of him, grabbing it a little too quickly as he takes a hurried sip.

"Wha—what do you mean?" he manages between coughs, voice rougher than before.

"You've been following her around like a puppy for the past two weeks," he says, like he's just pointing out something obvious. "Interrupting conversations, sitting next to her, giving her food—"

"I—I don't—how did you," Joshua cuts in quickly, setting the glass down a little harder than necessary. "That's not—"

Seokmin just smiles wider. "Don't worry," he says lightly. "I'll help you."

"Help with what?" Your voice cuts in.

Seokmin doesn't even miss a beat. He leans back slightly, shaking his head with an easy smile, like nothing of importance was said at all.

"Oh, nothing much," he says casually.

[studiosvt]

Please validate your tag by reblogging this fic

Taglist:

@prettypinkpassport @bobathi @ts19009 @kiiimgyuuu @smiileflower

@kittylover-inbothways @codeinebelle @gyuhao365 @coupsv @zealouscookierebeltrash

@fancypeacepersona @wildcreature @Frayaatiny @Leigh-darling @Ashlinxloves 

@bubble-ten @missthang600 @jenowithjaem @watchanisworld @cheolamor

@haoluver @thestoryofana13 @orpheustae @peaceofni-ki @bramos91

@tranquillitysoul @erireadsstuff @libraryinkuniverse @uhdrienne @missingsarinha

@hongyinujiang @nekkiotine @baobaoexe @isabellah29 @hoshiskimchi

@orbitinghao @babilou-pov @parakissss

@severeanxietyissues @fairwanda @nahyuckism @hocidust @eyeshasimps